summaryrefslogtreecommitdiff
path: root/old/files/relative.htm
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      The English Spy by Bernard Blackmantle.
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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The English Spy, by Bernard Blackmantle

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org


Title: The English Spy
       An Original Work Characteristic, Satirical, And Humorous.
              Comprising Scenes And Sketches In Every Rank Of Society,
              Being Portraits Drawn From The Life

Author: Bernard Blackmantle

Illustrator: Robert Cruikshank

Release Date: December 3, 2006 [EBook #20001]
Last Updated: October 12, 2012

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE ENGLISH SPY ***




Produced by David Widger





</pre>
    <h1>
      <i>THE</i>
    </h1>
    <h1>
      <i>ENGLISH SPY</i>
    </h1>
    <blockquote>
      <p>An Original Work CHARACTERISTIC, SATIRICAL, AND HUMOROUS. COMPRISING
      SCENES AND SKETCHES IN EVERY RANK OF SOCIETY, BEING PORTRAITS DRAWN FROM
      THE LIFE</p>
    </blockquote>
    <h2>
      BY BERNARD BLACKMANTLE.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      THE ILLUSTRATIONS DESIGNED BY
    </h3>
    <h2>
      ROBERT CRUIKSHANK.
    </h2>
    <blockquote>
      <p>By Frolic, Mirth, and Fancy gay, Old Father Time is borne away. <br />LONDON:
      PUBLISHED BY SHERWOOD, JONES, AND CO. PATERNOSTER-BOW. 1825.</p></blockquote>

			 <p><a name="image-0001" id="image-0001">
      <!-- IMG --></a></p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/spy_spines.jpg" width="100%" alt="Spines" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br /> <a name="image-0002" id="image-0002">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/frontis.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/frontis-th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Frontispiece" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br /> <a name="image-0003" id="image-0003">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/titlepage.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/titlepage-th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Titlepage" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <blockquote>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0001"> BERNARD BLACKMANTLE{*} TO THE REVIEWERS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0002"> THE ENGLISH SPY. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE, IN IMITATION OF SATIRE OF PERSIUS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> A SHANDEAN SCENE, </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0006"> ETONIAN. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0007"> PORTRAITS IN MY DAME'S DINING-ROOM. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0008"> FIVE PRINCIPAL ORDERS OF ETON </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0009"> THE MONTEM ODE. May 20, 1823. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0010"> THE DOUBTFUL POINT. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0011"> RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD ETONIAN. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0012"> APOLLO'S VISIT TO ETON.{1} </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0013"> ETON MONTEM. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> FAREWELL TO ETON. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0015"> MY VALE. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0016"> FIVE CHARACTERISTIC ORDERS OF OXFORD. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0017"> THE FRESHMAN. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0018"> THE DINNER PARTY. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0019"> COLLEGE SERVANTS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> TAKING POSSESSION OF YOUR ROOMS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0021"> THE EXCURSION TO BAGLEY WOOD. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0022"> KENSINGTON GARDENS&mdash;SUNDAY EVENING. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0023"> THE OPERA. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> THE ROYAL SALOON. </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#spread"> THE SPREAD, OR WINE PARTY AT BRAZEN-NOSE. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Blink2H_4_0002"> THE OXFORD RAKE'S PROGRESS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Blink2H_4_0003"> TOWN AND GOWN, AN OXFORD ROW. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Blink2H_4_0004"> THE STAGE COACH, </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Blink2H_4_0005"> THE PROPOSITION. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Blink2H_4_0006"> SKETCHES AT BRIGHTON. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Blink2H_4_0007"> CHARACTERS ON THE BEACH AND STEYNE, BRIGHTON.
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Blink2H_4_0008"> METROPOLITAN SKETCHES. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Blink2H_4_0009"> VISIT TO WESTMINSTER HALL. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Blink2H_4_0010"> PROGRAMME. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Blink2H_CONC"> CONCLUSION OF VOLUME ONE. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0001"> THE ENGLISH SPY. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND VOLUME. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0003"> ODE, CONGRATULATORY AND ADVISIORY, </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0004"> CYTHEREAN BEAUTIES. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0005"> LADIES OF DISTINCTION, </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0006"> THE WAKE; </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0007"> THE CYPRIAN'S BALL, </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0008"> THE PHILOSOPHY OF LAUGHTER; </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0009"> THE WESTMINSTER SCHOLAR. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0010"> ON FEASTERS AND FEASTING. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0011"> A SUNDAY RAMBLE TO HIGHGATE, </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0012"> THE STOCK EXCHANGE. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0013"> THE LIFE, DEATH, BURIAL, AND RESURRECTION
        COMPANY. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0014"> THE ISLE OF WIGHT. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0015"> A CIRCULAR, </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Clink2H_4_0016"> PORTSMOUTH IN TIME OF PEACE. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0001"> CHELTONIAN CHARACTERS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0003"> A SECOND ODE TO BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ESQ.
        </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0004"> A TRIP TO THE SPAS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0006"> TRAVELLER'S HALL. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0007"> AN EPISTLE TO BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ESQ., </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0008"> A VISIT TO GLOUCESTER AND BERKELEY. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0009"> A DAY IN BRISTOL. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0010"> SKETCHES IN BATH. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0011"> SPORTSMAN'S HALL. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0012"> THE BATTLE OF THE CHAIRS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0013"> SKETCHES IN BATH&mdash;CHAPTER II. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0014"> WAGGERIES AT WORCESTER. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0015"> BERNARD BLACKMANTLE TO HIS READERS. </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dlink2H_4_0016"> A SHORT ODE AT PARTING, </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /> <br />
      </p>
      <hr />
      <p>
        <br /> <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>Illustrations</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <big><b>[Color Plates in Bold Print]</b></big>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0001"> Cover </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0002"> <b>Frontispiece</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0003"> Titlepage </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0004"> Page004 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0005"> Page007 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0006"> Page013 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0007"> Page018 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0008"> Page019 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0009"> Page021 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0010"> <b>Page025</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0011"> Page032 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0012"> Page 041 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0013"> Page042 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0014"> Page043 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0015"> Page048 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0016"> <b>Page049</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0017"> Page058 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0018"> Page059 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0019"> Page066 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0020"> Page088 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0021"> Page096 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0022"> Page096b </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0023"> <b>Page097</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0024"> Page105 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0025"> Page107 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0026"> Page109 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0027"> Page111 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0028"> <b>Page112</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#image-0029"> Page113 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0030"> Page128 </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#image-0031"> Page129 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0032"> <b>Page131</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0033"> Page136 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0034"> Page149 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0035"> <b>Page151</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0036"> <b>Page153</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0037"> Page156 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0038"> Page157 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0039"> Page162 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0040"> Page164 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0041"> <b>Page165</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0042"> Page184 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0043"> Page185 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0044"> Page197 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#page199"> <b>Page199</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0045"> <b>Page205</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#image-0046"> Page220 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0001"> Page233 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0002"> <b>Page 235</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0003"> Page240 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0004"> Pge243 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0005"> <b>Page244</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0006"> Page245 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0007"> <b>Page247</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0008"> Page262 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0009"> <b>Page269</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0010"> <b>Page272</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0011"> Page273b </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0012"> Page274 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0013"> Page286 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0014"> Page291 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0015"> <b>Page296</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0016"> <b>Page298</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0017"> <b>Page303</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0018"> Page304 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0019"> <b>Page308</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0020"> Page313 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0021"> <b>Page323</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0022"> Page325 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0023"> Page326 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0024"> <b>Page329</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0025"> <b>Page331</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0026"> <b>Page335</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0027"> <b>Page 339</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0028"> <b>Page343</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0029"> <b>Page345</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0030"> <b>Page354</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0031"> <b>Page361</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0032"> Page363 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0033"> <b>Page364</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0034"> <b>Page365</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0035"> <b>Page366</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0036"> <b>Page367</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0037"> <b>Page369a</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0038"> <b>Page369b</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Bimage-0039"> Page370 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Bimage-0040"> Page371 </a>
      </p>
      <p>
        <br /> <br />
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Cimage-0004"> <b>Page015</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Cimage-0005"> Page021 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Cimage-0006"> <b>Page029</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Cimage-0007"> <b>Page030</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Cimage-0008"> Page033 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Cimage-0009"> <b>Page042</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0010"> Page055 </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0011"> <b>Page056</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0012"> <b>Page062</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0013"> Page066 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Cimage-0014"> <b>Page067</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Cimage-0015"> <b>Page069</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Cimage-0016"> <b>Page73</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0017"> <b>Page081</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0018"> <b>Page089</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0019"> Page89b </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0020"> Page109 </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0021"> <b>Page125</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0022"> Page139 </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0023"> <b>Page163</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0024"> Page179 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Cimage-0025"> <b>Page184</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0026"> <b>Page189</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Cimage-0027"> Page 191 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0001"> <b>Page193</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#page203"> <b>Page203</b> </a>
      </p>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0002"> <b>Page207</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0003"> <b>Page210</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0004"> <b>Page214</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0005"> <b>Page217</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0006"> <b>Page219</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0008"> <b>Page223</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0009"> <b>Page226</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0010"> <b>Page245</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0011"> <b>Page249</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0012"> <b>Page268</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0013"> <b>Page271</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0014"> <b>Page289</b> </a>
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        <a href="#Dimage-0016"> Page292 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0017"> <b>Page293</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0018"> Page294 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0019"> Page295 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0020"> Page300 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0021"> <b>Page303</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0022"> <b>Page312</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0023"> <b>Page315</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0024"> <b>Page321</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0025"> <b>Page327</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0026"> <b>Page332</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0027"> <b>Page335</b> </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0028"> Page338 </a>
      </p>
      <p class="toc">
        <a href="#Dimage-0029"> Page343 </a>
      </p>
    </blockquote>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="page002 (26K)" src="images/page002.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="link2H_4_0001" id="link2H_4_0001">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      BERNARD BLACKMANTLE{*} TO THE REVIEWERS.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "But now, what Quixote of the age would care
     To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air?"
</pre>
    <p>
      Messieurs the Critics,
    </p>
    <p>
      After twelve months of agreeable toil, made easy by unprecedented success,
      the period has at length arrived when your high mightinesses will be able
      to indulge your voracious appetites by feeding and fattening on the work
      of death. Already does my prophetic spirit picture to itself the black
      cloud of cormorants, swelling and puffing in the fulness of their
      editorial pride, at the huge eccentric volume which has thus thrust itself
      into extensive circulation without the usual <i>cringings</i> and <i>cravings</i>
      to the <i>pick fault tribe</i>. But
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          I dare defy the venal crew that prates,
          From tailor Place* to fustian Herald Thwaites.{**}
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * The woolly editor of the Breeches Makers', alias the
     "Westminster Review."

     ** The thing who writes the leaden (leading) articles for
     the Morning Herald.
</pre>
    <p>
      Let me have good proof of your greediness to devour my labours, and I will
      dish up such a meal for you in my next volume, as shall go nigh to produce
      extermination by <i>surfeit</i>. One favour, alone, I crave&mdash;give me
      <i>abuse</i> enough; let no squeamish pretences of respect for my
      bookseller, or disguised qualms of apprehension for your own sacred
      persons, deter the <i>natural</i> inclination of your hearts. The
      slightest deviation from your <i>usual course</i> to independent writers&mdash;or
      one step towards commendation from your <i>gang</i>, might induce the
      public to believe I had <i>abandoned my character</i>, and become one of
      your <i>honourable fraternity</i>-the very <i>suspicion of which</i> would
      (to me) produce irretrievable ruin. <i>Your masters</i>, the <i>trading
      brotherhood</i>, will (as usual) direct you in the course you should
      pursue; whether to approve or condemn, as their <i>'peculiar interests</i>
      may dictate. Most <i>sapient</i> sirs of the secret <i>bandit'</i> of the
      screen, inquisitors of literature, raise all your <i>arms</i> and <i>heels</i>,
      your <i>daggers, masks</i>, and <i>hatchets</i>, to revenge the daring of
      an <i>open foe</i>, who thus boldly defies your <i>base</i> and <i>selfish
      views</i>; for, basking at his ease in the sunshine of public patronage,
      he feels that his heart is rendered invulnerable to your<i> poisoned
      shafts</i>. Read, and you shall find I have not been parsimonious of the
      means to grant you <i>food</i> and <i>pleasure</i>: errors there are, no
      doubt, and plenty of them, grammatical and typographical, all of which I
      might have corrected by an <i>errata</i> at the end of my volume; but I
      disdain the wish to rob you of your office, and have therefore left them
      just where I made them, without a single note to mark them out; for if all
      the <i>thistles were rooted up</i>, what would become of the <i>asses?</i>
      or of those
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "Who pin their easy faith on critic's sleeve,
     And, knowing nothing, ev'ry thing believe?"
</pre>
    <p>
      Fully satisfied that swarms of <i>literary blow flies</i> will pounce upon
      the errors with delight, and, buzzing with the ecstasy of infernal joy,
      endeavour to hum their readers into a belief of the profundity of their
      critic erudition;&mdash;I shall nevertheless, with Churchill, laughingly
      exclaim&mdash;"Perish my muse"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "If e'er her labours weaken to refine
     The generous roughness of a nervous line."
</pre>
    <p>
      Bernard Blackmantle.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Contents Page Images
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a href="images/contents-13.jpg"><big><b>[1]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/contents-14.jpg"><big><b>[2]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/contents-15.jpg"><big><b>[3]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/contents-16.jpg"><big><b>[4]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/contents-17.jpg"><big><b>[5]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/contents-18.jpg"><big><b>[6]</b></big></a> <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
CONTENTS.                                                         Page
     INTRODUCTION                                                    3

     PREFACE, IN IMITATION OF THE FIRST SATIRE OF
     PERSIUS                                                         5

     REFLECTIONS, ADDRESSED TO THOSE WHO CAN
     THINK.

     Reflections of an Author&mdash;Weighty Reasons for writing&mdash;
     Magister Artis Ingeniique Largitor Venter&mdash;Choice of Subject
     considered&mdash;Advice of Index, the Bookseller&mdash;Of the Nature
     of Prefaces&mdash;How to commence a new Work                         7

     A FEW THOUGHTS ON MYSELF                                       14

     A SHANDEAN SCENE, BETWEEN LADY MARY OLD&mdash;
     STYLE AND HORATIO HEARTLY                                      17

     SCHOOL&mdash;BOY REMINISCENCES. ON EARLY FRIEND&mdash;
     SHIP                                                           22

     CHARACTER OF BERNARD BLACKMANTLE. BY
     HORATIO HEARTLY                                                25

     ETON SKETCHES OF CHARACTER                                     32

     THE FIVE PRINCIPAL ORDERS OF ETON&mdash;DOCTOR,
     DAME, COLLEGER, OPPIDAN, AND CAD.       A
     Sketch taken opposite the Long Walk                            42

     ETON DAMES; AN ODE, NEITHER AMATORY, ILL&mdash;
     NATURED, NOR PATHETIC                                          43

     ELECTION SATURDAY.
     A Peep at the Long Chambers&mdash;The Banquet&mdash;Reflections
     on parting&mdash;Arrival of the Provost of King's College, Cam&mdash;
     bridge, and the Pozers&mdash;The Captain's Oration&mdash;Busy Monday
     &mdash;The Oppidan's Farewell&mdash;Examination and Election of the
     Collegers who stand for King's&mdash;The aquatic Gala and Fire&mdash;
     works&mdash;Oxonian Visitors&mdash;Night&mdash;Rambles in Eton&mdash;Transfor-
     mations of Signs and Names&mdash;The Feast at the Christopher,
     with a View of the Oppidan's Museum, and Eton Court of
     Claims                                                         58

     AN ETON ELECTION SCENE                                         59

     HERBERT STOCKHORE, THE MONTEM POET
     LAUREATE.

     A Sketch from the Life, as he appeared in the Montem
     Procession of May, 1823. By Bernard Blackmantle and
     Robert Transit                                                 67

     LIFE IN ETON;  A College Chaunt in praise of private
     Tutors                                                         68

     RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD ETONIAN                                78

     ETON MONTEM                                                    96

     FAREWELL TO ETON                                              105

     MY VALE                                                       108

     THE FRESHMAN.
     Reflections on leaving Eton University&mdash;A Whip&mdash;Sketches
     on the Road&mdash;The Joneses of Jesus&mdash;Picturesque Appearance
     of Oxford from the Distance&mdash;The Arrival&mdash;Welcome of an
     Old Etonian&mdash;Visit to Dr. Dingyman&mdash;A University Don&mdash;
     Presentation to the Big Wig&mdash;Ceremony of Matriculation        113

     CHRIST CHURCH COLLEGE.
     Architectural Reminiscences&mdash;Descriptive Remarks&mdash;Simi-
     litude between the Characters of Cardinal Wolsey and
     Napoleon                                                      129

     THE DINNER PARTY.
     Bernard Blackmantle's Visit to Tom Echo&mdash;Oxford Phrase-
     ology&mdash;Smuggled Dinners&mdash;A College Party described&mdash;
     Topography of a Man's Room&mdash;Portrait of a Bachelor of Arts
     &mdash;Hints to Freshmen&mdash;Customs of the University                 132

     COLLEGE SERVANTS.
     Descriptive Sketch of a College Scout&mdash;Biography of Mark
     Supple&mdash;Singular Invitation to a Spread                       146

     TAKING POSSESSION OF YOUR ROOMS.
     Topography of a vacant College Larium&mdash;Anecdotes and
     Propensities of Predecessors&mdash;A Long Shot&mdash;Scout's List of
     Necessaries&mdash;Condolence of University Friends                 151

     THE EXCURSION TO BAGLEY WOOD                                  157

     WESTERN ENTRANCE INTO THE METROPOLIS.
     A descriptive Sketch.
     General Views of the Author relative to Subject and Style
     &mdash;Time and Place&mdash;Perspective Glimpse of the great City&mdash;
     The Approach&mdash;Cockney Salutations&mdash;The Toll House&mdash;
     Western Entrance to Cockney Land&mdash;Hyde Park&mdash;Sunday
     Noon-Sketches of Character, Costume, and Scenery&mdash;The
     Ride and Drive&mdash;Kensington Gardens&mdash;Belles and Beaux-
     Stars and fallen Stars&mdash;Singularities of 1824-Tales of Ton-
     On Dits and Anecdotes&mdash;Sunday Evening&mdash;High Life and
     Low Life, the Contrast&mdash;Cockney Goths&mdash;Notes, Biographical,
     Amorous, and Exquisite                                        164

     THE OPERA.
     The Man of Fashion&mdash;Fop's Alley&mdash;Modern Roué and
     Frequenters&mdash;Characteristic Sketches in High Life&mdash;Blue
     Stocking Illuminati&mdash;Motives and Manners&mdash;Meeting with
     the Honourable Lillyman Lionise&mdash;Dinner at Long's&mdash;Visit
     to the Opera&mdash;Joined by Bob Transit&mdash;A Peep into the
     Green Room&mdash;Secrets behind the Curtain&mdash;Noble Amateurs
     and Foreign Curiosities&mdash;Notes and Anecdotes by Horatio
     Heartly                                                       198

     THE ROYAL SALOON.
     Visit of Heartly, Lionise, and Transit&mdash;Description of the
     Place&mdash;Sketches of Character&mdash;The Gambling Parsons&mdash;Horse
     Chaunting, a true Anecdote&mdash;Bang and her Friends&mdash;Moll
     Raffle and the Marquis W.&mdash;he Play Man&mdash;The Touter&mdash;
     The Half-pay Officer&mdash;Charles Rattle, Esq.&mdash;Life of a modern
     Roue&mdash;B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; the Tailor&mdash;The Subject&mdash;Jarvey and Brooks
     the Dissector&mdash;"Kill him when you want him"                   205

     THE SPREAD, OR WINE PARTY AT BRAZEN-NOSE.
     A College Wine Party described&mdash;Singular Whim of
     Horace Eglantine&mdash;Meeting of the Oxford Crackademonians
     &mdash;Sketches of Eccentric Characters, drawn from the Life&mdash;
     The Doctor's Daughter&mdash;an old Song&mdash;A Round of Sculls&mdash;
     Epitaphs on the Living and the Dead&mdash;Tom Tick, a College
     Tale&mdash;The Voyagers&mdash;Notes and Anecdotes                       221

     THE OXFORD RAKE'S PROGRESS                                    233

     TOWN AND GOWN, AN OXFORD ROW.

     Battle of the Togati and the Town&mdash;Raff&mdash;A Night&mdash;Scene in
     the High-Street, Oxford&mdash;Description of the Combatants&mdash;
     Attack of the Gownsmen upon the Mitre&mdash;Evolutions of the
     Assailants&mdash;Manoeuvres of the Proctors and Bull&mdash;Dogs&mdash;
     Perilous Condition of Blackmantle and his Associates, Eglan-
     tine, Echo, and Transit&mdash;Snug Retreat of Lionise&mdash;The High&mdash;
     Street after the Battle&mdash;Origin of the Argotiers, and Inven-
     tion of Cant&mdash;phrases&mdash;History of the Intestine Wars and
     Civil Broils of Oxford, from the Time of Alfred&mdash;Origin
     of the late Strife&mdash;Ancient Ballad&mdash;Retreat of the Togati&mdash;
     Reflections of a Freshman&mdash;Black Matins, or the Effect of
     late Drinking upon early Risers&mdash;Visit to Golgotha, or the
     Place of Sculls&mdash;Lecture from the Big&mdash;Wigs&mdash;Tom Echo
     receives Sentence of Rustication                              246

     TOWNE AND GOWNE                                               263

     THE STAGE COACH, OR THE TRIP TO BRIGHTON.
     Improvements in Travelling&mdash;Contrast of ancient and
     modern Conveyances and Coachmen&mdash;Project for a new Land
     Steam Carriage&mdash;The Inn&mdash;yard at the Golden Cross, Charing
     Cross&mdash;Mistakes of Passengers&mdash;Variety of Characters&mdash;Ad-
     vantages of the Box&mdash;seat&mdash;Obstructions on the Road&mdash;A
     Pull&mdash;up at the Elephant and Castle&mdash;Move on to Kennington
     Common&mdash;New Churches&mdash;Civic Villas at Brixton&mdash;Modern
     Taste in Architecture described&mdash;Arrival at Croydon; why
     not now the King's Road?&mdash;The Joliffe Hounds&mdash;A Hunting
     Leader&mdash;Anecdotes of the Horse, by Coachee&mdash;The new
     Tunnel at Reigate&mdash;The Baron's Chamber&mdash;The Golden Ball
     &mdash;the Silver Ball&mdash;and the Golden Calf&mdash;Entrance into
     Brighton                                                      274

     THE PROPOSITION.
     Family Secrets&mdash;Female Tactics&mdash;How to carry the Point        287

     SKETCHES AT BRIGHTON.
     The Pavilion Party&mdash;Interior described&mdash;Royal and Noble
     Anecdotes&mdash;The King and Mathews                               292

     CHARACTERS ON THE BEACH AND STEYNE,
     BRIGHTON.
     On Bathing and Bathers&mdash;Advantages of Shampooing&mdash;
     French Decency&mdash;Brighton Politeness&mdash;Sketches of Character
     &mdash;The Banker's Widow&mdash;Miss J&mdash;&mdash;s&mdash;Mrs. F&mdash;&mdash;1&mdash;Peter
     Paragraph, he London Correspondent&mdash;J&mdash;k S&mdash;&mdash;h&mdash;The
     French Consul&mdash;Paphian Divinities&mdash;C&mdash;&mdash; L&mdash;&mdash;,  Esq.
     Squeeze into the Libraries&mdash;The new Plunging Bath&mdash;
     Chain Pier&mdash;Cockney Comicalities&mdash;Royal Gardens&mdash;The
     Club House                                                    305

     METROPOLITAN SKETCHES.
     Heartly, Echo, and Transit start for a Spree&mdash;Scenes by
     Daylight, Starlight, and Gaslight&mdash;Black Monday at Tatter&mdash;
     sail's&mdash;The first Meeting after the Great St. Leger&mdash;Heroes of
     the Turf paying and receiving&mdash;Dinner at Fishmongers' Hall
     &mdash;Committee of Greeks&mdash;The Affair of the Cogged Dice&mdash;A
     Regular Break&mdash;down&mdash;Rules for the New Club&mdash;The Daffy
     Club, or a Musical Muster of the Fancy: striking Portraits&mdash;
     Counting the Stars&mdash;Covent Garden, what it was and what it
     is&mdash;The Finish&mdash;Anecdotes of Characters&mdash;The Hall of Infamy,
     alias the Covent Garden Hell                                  327

     VISIT TO WESTMINSTER HALL.
     Worthies thereof&mdash;Legal Sketches of the Long Robe&mdash;An
     Awkward Recognition&mdash;Visit to Banco Regis&mdash;Surrey Col&mdash;
     legians giving a Lift to a Limb of the Law&mdash;Out of Rule and in
     Rule&mdash;"Thus far shalt thou go, and no further"&mdash;Park
     Rangers personified&mdash;Visit to the Life Academy, Somerset
     House&mdash;R. A&mdash;ys of Genius reflecting on the true Line of
     Beauty&mdash;Peep into the Green Rooms of the two Theatres Royal,
     Drury Lane and Covent Garden&mdash;Bernard Blackmantle
     reading his new Play and Farce&mdash;The City Ball at the Mansion
     House&mdash;The Squeeze&mdash;Civic Characters&mdash;Return to Oxford&mdash;
     Invite to Cambridge&mdash;Jemmy Gordon's Frolic&mdash;Term ends         355
</pre>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      Illustration Listing Page Images
    </h2>
    <p>
      <a href="images/Illus-19.jpg"><big><b>[1]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/Illus-20.jpg"><big><b>[2]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/Illus-21.jpg"><big><b>[3]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/Illus-22.jpg"><big><b>[4]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/Illus-23.jpg"><big><b>[5]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/Illus-24.jpg"><big><b>[6]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/Illus-25.jpg"><big><b>[7]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/Illus-26.jpg"><big><b>[8]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/Illus-27.jpg"><big><b>[9]</b></big></a> &mdash; <a
      href="images/Illus-28.jpg"><big><b>[10]</b></big></a> <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h3>
      ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE ENGLISH SPY.
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     (By R. CRUIKSHANK unless otherwise attributed)

     We hope it will be generally admitted that few volumes have
     a more decided claim upon the public patronage, in respect
     to the novelty and variety of design, as well as the number
     of illustrations, than the one here presented to the reader.
     To speak of the choice humorous talent engaged in the work
     would only be to re-echo the applauding sentiments of the
     reviewers and admirers of rich graphic excellence.
     Cruikshank and Rowlandson are names not unworthy a space
     upon the same roll with Hogarth, Gilray, and Bunbury: to
     exhibit scenes of character in real life, sketched upon the
     spot, was an undertaking of no mean importance;
     particularly, when it is remembered how great the difficulty
     must have been in collecting together accurate portraits.
     The work, it will be perceived, contains thirty-six Copper-
     Plates, etched, aquainted, and coloured, by and under the
     direction of the respective artists whose names appear to
     the different subjects, the principal part of which are the
     sole production of Mr. Robert Cruikshank. The Wood
     Engravings, twenty-eight in number, besides the <i>Vignettes</i>,
     (which are numerous), are equally full of merit; and will be
     found, upon examination, to be every way worthy the superior
     style of typographical excellence which characterises the
     volume,

     I.

     THE FRONTISPIECE

     Is intended to convey a general idea of the nature of the
     work; combining, in rich classic taste, a variety of
     subjects illustrative of the polished as well as the more
     humble scenes of real life. It represents a Gothic Temple,
     into which the artist, Mr. Robert Cruikshank, has introduced
     a greater variety of characteristic subject than was ever
     before compressed into one design. In the centre
     compartment, at the top, we have a view of a Terrestrial
     Heaven, where Music, Love, and gay Delight are all united to
     lend additional grace to Fashion, and increase the splendour
     of the revels of Terpsichore. In the niches, on each side,
     are the twin genii, Poetry and Painting; while the
     pedestals, right and left, present the protectors of their
     country, the old Soldier and Sailor, retired upon pensions,
     enjoying and regaling themselves on the bounty of their
     King. In the centre of the Plate are three divisions
     representing the King, Lords, and Commons in the full
     exercise of their prerogatives. The figures on each side are
     portraits of Bernard Blackmantle (the English Spy), and his
     friend, Robert Transit (the artist), standing on projecting
     pedestals, and playing with the world as a ball; not
     doubting but for this piece of vanity, the world, or the
     reviewers for them, will knock them about in return. On the
     front of the pedestals are the arms of the Universities of
     Oxford and Cambridge; and in the centre armorial shields of
     the Cities of London and Westminster. The picture of a
     modern Hell, in the centre, between the pedestals, has the
     very appropriate emblems of Misery and Death, in the niches
     on each side. Crowning the whole, the Genius of Wit is seen
     astride of an eagle, demonstrative of strength, and wielding
     in his hand the lash of Satire; an instrument which, in the
     present work, has been used more as a corrective of we than
     personal ill-nature.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     II.

     THE FIVE PRINCIPAL ORDERS OF SOCIETY.
     The King-Corinthian; an elegant Female-Composite; the
     Nobleman-Doric; a Member of the University-Ionic; and the
     Buck of Fashion-Tuscan. On the left hand may be seen a
     specimen of the Exquisite, a new order in high estimation at
     the west end of the Town; and on the right hand stands an
     old order of some solidity in the eastern parts of the
     Metropolis. Fashion, Taste, and Fame, are emblematical of
     the varied pursuits of life; while the Army and Navy of the
     country are the capitals that crown the superstructure,
     combining the ornamental with the useful.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     III.

     FIRST ABSENCE, OR THE SONS OF OLD ETONA
     ANSWERING MORNING MUSTER-ROLL.                                 25
     A view of the school-yard, Eton, at the time first Absence
     is called, and just when the learned Doctor Keat is reviewing
     the upper school.    (Portraits.)
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     IV.

     THE OPPIDAN'S MUSEUM, OR ETON COURT OF
     CLAIMS AT THE CHRISTOPHER.                                     49
     Bernard Blackmantle and Robert Transit sitting in judge-
     ment after Election Saturday, apportioning the remuneration
     money to the different claimants of the surrounding trophies.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     V.

     ETON MONTEM, AND THE MOUNT, SALT HILL.                         96
     An accurate sketch of this ancient customary procession
     made upon the spot.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     VI.

     THE FIRST BOW TO ALMA MATER.                                  113
     Bernard Blackmantle's Introduction to the Big Wig on his
     Arrival at Oxford.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     VII.

     FLOORING OF MERCURY, OR BURNING THE OAKS.                     131
     A scene in Tom Quadrangle, Oxford.

          "If wits aright their tale of terror tell,
          A little after great Mercurius fell,

          ***

          Gownsmen and Townsmen throng'd the water's edge
          To gaze upon the dreadful sacrilege:

          ***

          &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;there with drooping mien a silent band
          Canons and Bedmaker together stand:&mdash;

          ***

          In equal horror all alike were seen,
          And shuddering scouts forgot to cap the Dean."
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     VIII.

     COLLEGE COMFORTS.                                             151
     Taking possession of your rooms. Bernard Blackmantle
     taking possession of his rooms in Brazennose. Scout's list of
     wants. Standing the quiz of the Togati Visible propensities
     of your predecessor. The day of purification.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     IX.

     CAP-ING A PROCTOR, OR OXFORD BULL-DOGS
     DETECTING BRAZENNOSE SMUGGLERS.                               152
     Tom Echo and Horace Eglantine lowering the plate-basket,
     after the College-gates are closed, to obtain a supply of fresh
     provision, are detected by the Proctor and Town Marshal with
     their Bull-Dogs: in their alarm the basket and its contents are
     suddenly let fall upon the Proctor, who is not able to under-
     stand the joke.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     X.

     THE ARRIVAL, OR WESTERN ENTRANCE INTO
     COCKNEY LAND.                                                 164
     Portrait of high and low life Dandies and Dandysettes.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XI.
     THE GREEN-ROOM OF THE KING'S THEATRE, R
     NOBLE   AMATEURS VIEWING FOREIGN CURIOSITIES.           198
     Portraits of ten noble and distinguished patrons of the
     opera, with those of certain daughters of Terpsichore.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XII.
     THE ROYAL SALOON IN PICCADILLY, OR AN HOUR
     AFTER THE OPERA.                                              205
     Heartly, Lionise, and Transit in search of Character&mdash;The
     gambling Parsons&mdash;Legs and Leg-ees-Tats men and touters&mdash;
     Moll Raffle and Bang.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XIII.

     OXFORD TRANSPORTS, OR UNIVERSITY EXILES.                      235
     Albanians doing penance for past offences. A Scene sketched
     from the Life. Horace Eglantine is proposing "the Study of
     the Fathers," a favourite College toast, while Tom Echo is
     enforcing Obedience to the President's proposition by finishing
     off a Shirker. Dick Gradus having been declared absent, is
     taking a cool nap with the Ice-pail in his arms and his head
     resting upon a Greek Lexicon: in the left hand corner may
     be seen a Scout bearing off a dead Man, (but not without hope
     of Resurrection). Bob Transit and Bernard Blackmantle
     occupy the situation on each side of Dick Gradus; in the
     right-hand corner, Horace's servant is drawing the last Cork
     from the parting bottle, which is to welcome in the peep o' day.
     Injustice to the present authorities it should be stated,
     that this is a Scene of other limes.&mdash;Vide A.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XIV.
     SHOW SUNDAY, A VIEW IN THE BROAD WALK,
     CHRIST CHURCH MEADOWS, OXFORD.                                244
     Portraits of the Togati and the town, including big wigs,
     nobs, and dons. Among the more conspicuous are Dr. Kett,
     Lord G. Grenville, Dr. Grovesnor, Alderman Fletcher, and
     Mr. Swan.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XV.
     TOWN AND GOWN.                                                246
     Battle of the Togati and Town Raff of Oxford, a night scene.
     &mdash;Bernard and his Friends, Horace and Tom, distributing
     among the Bargees of St. Clement's.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XVI.

     BLACK MATINS, OR THE EFFECTS OF LATE
     DRINKING UPON EARLY RISERS.                                   269
     A Most Imposing Scene.-Time seven o'clock in the Morn-
     ing, the last bell has just tolled, and the University Men have
     just turned out, while the hunting-frock, boots, and appear-
     ance of some of the party, proclaim that they have just turned
     in; all are eager to save fine and imposition, and not a few are
     religiously disturbed in their Dreams. The admirable disorder
     of the party is highly illustrative of the Effect produced by an
     Evening Wine Party in College Rooms.
</pre>
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     XVII.
     GOLGOTHA, OR THE PLACE OF SCULLS.                             272
     Tom Echo receiving sentence of Rustication. The Big Wigs
     in a Bustle. Lecture on disobedience and chorus of the
     Synod. Reports from the Isle of Bull dogs. Running foul
     of the Quicksands of Rustication after having passed Point
     Failure and The Long Hope. Nearly blown up at Point
     Nonplus, and obliged to lay by to refit.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XVIII.
     THE EVENING PARTY AT THE PAVILION,
     BRIGHTON. (BY O. M. BRIOHTY.)                                 296
     Interior of the Yellow Room&mdash;Portraits of His Majesty,
     the Duke of York, and Princess Augusta, Marquis and
     Marchioness of Conyngham, Earl of Arran, Lord Francis
     Conyngham, Lady Elizabeth and Sir H. Barnard, Sir H.
     Turner, Sir W. Knighton, Sir E. Nagle, and Sir C. Paget,
     sketched from the Life.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XIX.
     THE KING AT HOME, OR MATHEWS AT CARLTON
     HOUSE.                                                        298
     A scene founded on fact; including Portraits of the King,
     Mathews, and other celebrated persons.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XX.
     A FROLIC IN HIGH LIFE, OR, A VISIT TO BILLINGS-
     GATE.                                                         303
     A very extraordinary whim of two very distinguished
     females, whose Portraits will be easily recognised.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXI.
     CHARACTERS ON THE STEYNE, BRIGHTON.                           309
     Portraits of illustrious, noble, and wealthy Visitors&mdash;The
     Banker's Widow&mdash;A Bathing Group&mdash;The Chain Pier, &amp;c.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXII.
     TOM ECHO LAID UP WITH THE HEDDINGTON
     FEVER, OR AN OXONIAN VERY NEAR THE
     WALL.                                                         323
     Symptoms of having been engaged too deeply in the study
     of Hie fathers. Portrait of a well-known Esculapian chief.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXIII.

     MONDAY AFTER THE GREAT ST. LEGER, OR
     HEROES OF THE TURF PAYING AND RECEIVING
     AT TATTERSALL'S.                                              329
     This sketch was made upon the spot by my friend Transit,
     on the Monday following the result of the last Great St. Leger
     in 1823, when the Legs were, for the most part, in mourning
     from the loss of their favourite Sherwood. Some long faces
     will be easily recognized, and some few round ones, though
     Barefoots, not easily be forgotten. The Tinkers were many
     of them Levanters. Here may be seen the Peer and the Prig,
     the Wise one and the Green one, the Pigeon and the Rook
     amalgamated together. It is almost unnecessary to say, the
     greater part of the characters are portraits.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXIV.

     EXTERIOR OF FISHMONGERS'-HALL, ST. JAMES'S
     STREET, WITH A VIEW OF A REGULAR BREAKDOWN.                   331
     Portraits of the Master Fishmonger, and many well-
     known Greeks and Pigeons.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXV.

     INTERIOR OF A MODERN HELL.    (Vide the affair of
     the cogged dice.)                                             334
     Portraits of upwards of twenty well-known Punters and
     Frequenters&mdash;Greeks and Pigeons, noble and ignoble&mdash;The
     Fishmonger in a fright, or the gudgeon turned shark&mdash;Expose
     of Saint Hugh's Bones&mdash;Secrets worth knowing.    (See work.)
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXVI.
     THE DAFFY CLUB,   OR A   MUSICAL MUSTER OF
     THE FANCY.                                                    339
     Interior of Tom Belcher's Parlour. Heartly and Bob in
     search of Character. Striking likenesses of Boxers, Betters,
     &amp;c.&mdash;with a pen and ink Sketch of a Noted&mdash;one&mdash;a fine
     School for Practical Experience. (For key to Portraits-
     see work.)
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXVII.

     PEEP 0' DAYS AND FAMILY MEN AT THE FINISH.                    342
     A Night Scene near Covent Garden&mdash;Coffee and comical
     company.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXVIII.
     FAMILY MEN AT FAULT, OR AN UNEXPECTED
     VISIT FROM THE BISHOP AND HIS CHAPLAINS.                      345
     A Scene near Covent Garden, in which are introduced
     certain well-known Characters and Bow-street Officers: in-
     cluding Messrs. Bishop, Smith, Ruthven, and Townshend.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXIX.

     THE HALL OF INFAMY, ALIAS OYSTER SALOON,
     IN BRYDGES-STREET, OR NEW COVENT GARDEN HELL.                 354
     Portraits of the old Harridan and her Flask man Tom.
     Sketches of Sharps and Flats, Green ones and Impures.
     Done from the Life.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXX.

     WESTMINSTER HALL.                                             361
     Portraits of well-known Worthies of the Bar.&mdash;The Maiden
     Brief.&mdash;Dick Gradus examining a Witness.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXXI.

     SURREY COLLEGIANS GIVING A LIFT TO A LIMB
     OF THE LAW.                                                   364
     Interior of the King's Bench Prison&mdash;Rough-drying a Lawyer.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXXII.
     R-A-YS OF GENIUS REFLECTING ON THE TRUE
     LINE OF BEAUTY AT THE LIFE ACADEMY,
     SOMERSET HOUSE. (BY T.   ROWLANDSON.)                        365
     Bob Transit's first appearance as a student. Sketching
     from the Life. Outlines of character. How to grow rich but
     not great. Secrets worth knowing, and Portraits of all the
     Well-known.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXXIII.

     BERNARD BLACKMANTLE READING HIS PLAY IN
     THE GREEN-ROOM OF COVENT GARDEN THEATRE.                      366
     Portraits of Messrs. C. Kemble, Fawcett, Farley, Jones,
     Farren, Grimaldi, Macready, Young, T. P. Cooke, Chapman,
     Blanchard, Abbott, Cooper, Yates, and the English Spy;
     Mrs. Davenport, Miss Chester, Miss M. Tree, Miss Love, and
     Mrs. Davison.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXXIV.

     BERNARD BLACKMANTLE READING HIS FARCE IN
     THE GREEN ROOM OF THE THEATRE ROYAL,
     DRURY LANE.  (by T. Wageman.)                                 367
     Portraits of Elliston, Dowton, Harley, Munden, Knight,
     Liston, Oxberry, Sherwin, Gattie, Wallack, Terry, G. Smith,
     and Barnard, Miss Stephens, Mrs. Orger, Madame Vestris,
     Mrs. Harlowe, and the English Spy. The Likenesses are all
     studies from the life.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXXV.
     THE CITY BALL AT THE MANSION HOUSE.                           368
     Portraits of the Duke of Sussex, the Lord Mayor (Waith-
     man) and Lady Mayoress, the Sheriffs Laurie and Whittaker,
     Aldermen Wood and Curtis, Sir Richard Phillips, Messrs.
     Hone, Patten, with other well-known Characters.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     XXXVI.
     JEMMY GORDON'S FROLIC.                           369
     A Cambridge tale. Vide Peter House.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     ILLUSTRATIONS ON WOOD

     FROM ORIGINAL DESIGNS BY CRUIKSHANK, ROWLANDSON,
     GILRAY, AND FINLAY, ENGRAVED BY BONNER AND HUGHES.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     VIGNETTE ON TITLE PAGE.
     Old Father Time borne away on the shoulders of the Genii,
     Frolic, Mirth, and Fancy.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1.   The Author's Chamber&mdash;Index, the bookseller, and Ber-
     nard Blackmantle, projecting a new work

     2.   Horatio Heartly reading the "English Spy" to Lady
     Mary Oldstyle                                                  17

     3.   A correct view of Eton College from the playing-fields    32

     4.  The five principal orders of Eton&mdash;Doctor, Dame,
     Colleger, Oppidan, and Cad. A Sketch taken opposite the
     Long Walk                                                      42

     5.  The Cloisters, Eton College                                58

     6.   Herbert Stockhore, the Montem Poet Laureate, a Sketch
     from the Life as he appeared in the Montem Procession of
     May, 1823                                                      59

     7.   Accurate View of the Interior of Eton College Hall        96

     8.   Interior of Eton School Room                             105

     9.   The Oxonian reclining, an emblematical design            111

     10.  Five characteristic orders of Oxford                     113

     11.  Portrait of Mr. B&mdash;the classical Alma Mater Coachman
     of Oxford                                                     128

     12.  View of Christchurch College                             129

     13.  A Bachelor of Arts drinking of the Pierian Spring        136

     14.  View of Bagley Wood with the Gipsy party. An
     extraordinary fine specimen of art, by Bonner.                157

     15.   Mother Goose, a portrait                                162

     16.   Kensington Gardons, Sunday Evening. Portraits of
     well-known fashionable eccentricities                         164

     17.   Vignette.&mdash;he Subject and the Resurrection Jarvey,
     or "Kill him when you want him"                               220

     18.   Albanians starting for a spree, or Tom Tick on the road
     to Jericho                                                    233

     19.  Waiting for bail                                         240

     20.  The Don and the fair of St. Clement's. An Oxford
     scene                                                         243

     21.   The University Rake's Progress                          273

     22.   The newly invented Steam Coach                          274

     23.   View of the Pavilion, Brighton, from the London Road    286

     24.  A Night Scene, or, a rum start near B&mdash;&mdash; H&mdash;&mdash;l         304

     25.   The Widow's ultimatum. A cutting joke, with a most
     affecting catastrophe                                         313

     26.   College Frolics, or catching Urals at Ch. Ch.           325

     27.   Roues rusticating in Surrey, or, the first glimpse of
     Banco Regis                                                   363

     28.   Term, ends&mdash;Adieu to fagging&mdash;The High-street, Oxford
     &mdash;The Togati in a bustle&mdash;The merry good bye                  370
</pre>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE ENGLISH SPY.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Nor rank, nor order, nor condition,
     Imperial, lowly, or patrician,
     Shall, when they see this volume, cry,
     "The satirist has pass'd us by:"
     But, with good humour, view our page
     Depict the manners of the age.
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR">
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
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    <h2>
      INTRODUCTION.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "The proper study of mankind is man."
</pre>
    <p>
      A RHAPSODY.
    </p>
    <p>
      Life's busy scene I sing! Its countenance, and form, and varied hue, drawn
      within the compass of the eye. No tedious voyage, or weary pilgrimage o'er
      burning deserts, or tempestuous seas, my progress marks, to trace great
      nature's sources to the fount, and bare her secrets to the common view.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     In search of wonders, let the learn'd embark,
     From lordly Elgin, to lamented Park,
     To find out what I perhaps some river's course,
     Or antique fragments of a marble horse;
     While I, more humble, local scenes portray,
     And paint the men and manners of the day.
</pre>
    <p>
      Life's a theatre, man the chief actor, and the source from which the
      dramatist must cull his choicest beauties, painting up to nature the
      varied scenes which mark the changeful courses of her motley groups. Here
      she opes her volume to the view of contemplative minds, and spreads her
      treasures forth, decked in all the variegated tints that Flora, goddess of
      the flowery mead and silvery dell, with many coloured hue, besprinkles the
      luxuriant land.
    </p>
    <p>
      Here, reader, will we travel forth, and in our journey make survey of all
      that's interesting and instructive. Man's but the creature of a little
      hour, the phantom of a transitory life; prone to every ill, subject to
      every woe; and oft the more eccentric in his sphere, as rare abilities may
      gild his brow, setting form, law, and order at defiance. His glass a third
      decayed 'fore reason shines, and ere perfection crowns maturity, he sinks
      forgotten in his parent dust. Such then is man, uncertain as the wind, by
      nature formed the creature of caprice, and as Atropos wills, day by day,
      we number to our loss some mirth-enlivening soul, whose talents gave a
      lustre to the scene.-Serious and solemn, thoughts be hence away!
      imagination wills that playful satire reign:&mdash;by sportive fancy led,
      we take the field.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page004.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page004 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[4]</span> <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PREFACE, IN IMITATION OF THE FIRST SATIRE OF PERSIUS.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE AUTHOR AND HIS FRIEND.
    </h3>
    <p>
      Author. However dangerous, or however vain, I am resolved.
    </p>
    <p>
      Friend. You'll not offend again?
    </p>
    <p>
      Author. I will, by Jove!
    </p>
    <p>
      Friend. Take my advice, reflect; Who'll buy your sketches?
    </p>
    <p>
      Author. Many, I expect.
    </p>
    <p>
      Friend. I fear but few, unless, Munchausen-like, You've something strange,
      that will the public strike: Men with six heads, or monsters with twelve
      tails, Who patter flash, for nothing else prevails In this dull age.
    </p>
    <p>
      Author. Then my success is certain; I think you'll say so when I draw the
      curtain, And, presto! place before your wond'ring eyes A race of beings
      that must 'cite surprise; The strangest compound truth and contradiction
      Owe to dame Nature, or the pen of Action; Where wit and folly, pride and
      modest worth, Go hand in hand, or jostle at a birth; Where prince, peer,
      peasant, politician meet, And beard each other in the public street; <span
      class="pagenum">[6]</span> Where ancient forms, though still admired, Are
      phantoms that have long expired; Where science droops 'fore sovereign
      folly, And arts are sick with melancholy; Where knaves gain wealth, and
      honest fellows, By hunger pinch'd, blow knav'ry's bellows; Where wonder
      rises upon wonder&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Friend. Hold! Or you may leave no wonders to be told. Your book, to sell,
      must have a subtle plot&mdash;Mark the Great Unknown, wily ***** ****:
      Print in America, publish at Milan; There's nothing like this
      Scotch-Athenian plan, To hoax the cockney lack-brains.
    </p>
    <p>
      Author. It shall be: Books, like Madeira, much improve at sea; 'Tis said
      it clears them from the mist and smell Of modern Athens, so says sage
      Cadell, Whose dismal tales of shipwreck, stress of weather, Sets all
      divine <i>Nonsensia</i> mad together; And, when they get the dear-bought
      novel home, "They love it for the dangers it has overcome."
    </p>
    <p>
      Friend. I like your plan: "art sure there's no offence?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Author. None that's intended to wound common-sense. For your uncommon
      knaves who rule the town, Your M.P.'s, M.D.'s, R.A.'s and silk gown,
      Empirics in all arts, every degree, Just Satire whispers are fair game for
      me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Friend. The critic host beware!
    </p>
    <p>
      Author. Wherefore, I pray? "The cat will mew, the dog will have his day."
      Let them bark on! who heeds their currish note Knows not the world&mdash;they
      howl, for food, by rote.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
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    </div>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[7]</span> REFLECTIONS, ADDRESSED TO THOSE WHO CAN
      THINK.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Reflections of an Author&mdash;Weighty Reasons for writing&mdash;
     Magister artis ingeniique largitor Venter&mdash;Choice of Subject
     considered&mdash;Advice of Index, the Book-seller&mdash;Of the Nature
     of Prefaces&mdash;How to commence a new Work.
</pre>
    <p>
      Author (solus). I must write&mdash;my last sovereign has long since been
      transferred to the safe keeping of mine hostess, to whom I have the honor
      to be obliged. I just caught a glance of her inflexible countenance this
      morning in passing the parlour door; and methought I could perceive the
      demon aspect of suspicion again spreading his corrosive murky hue over her
      furrowed front. The enlivening appearance of my golden ambassador had for
      a few days procured me a faint smile of complacency; but the spell is
      past, and I shall again be doomed to the humiliation <span class="pagenum">[8]</span>
      of hearing Mrs Martha Bridget's morning lectures on the necessity of
      punctuality. Well, she must be quieted, (i.e.) promise crammed,
      (satisfied, under existing circumstances, is impossible): I know it will
      require no little skill to obtain fresh supplies from her stores, without
      the master-key which unlocks the flinty heart; but <i>nil desperandum</i>,
      he who can brave a formidable army of critics, in pursuit of the bubble
      fame, may at least hope to find wit enough to quiet the interested
      apprehensions of an old woman. And yet how mortifying is the very
      suspicion of inattention and disrespect. I have rung six times for my
      breakfast, and as many more for my boots, before either have made their
      appearance; the first has indeed just arrived, with a lame apology from
      mine hostess, that the gentleman on the first floor is a very impetuous
      fellow, requires prompt attention, gives a great deal of trouble&mdash;but&mdash;then
      he pays a great deal of money, and above all, is very punctual: here is my
      <i>quietus</i> at once; the last sentence admits of no reply from a
      pennyless author. My breakfast table is but the spectre of former times;&mdash;no
      eggs on each side of my cup, or a plate of fresh Lynn shrimps, with an
      inviting salt odour, that would create an appetite in the stomach of an
      invalid; a choice bit of dried salmon, or a fresh cut off the roll of some
      violet-scented Epping butter;&mdash;all have disappeared; nay, even the
      usual allowance of cream has degenerated into skimmed milk, and that is
      supplied in such cautious quantities, that I can scarce eke it out to
      colour my three cups of inspiring bohea.
    </p>
    <p>
      (A knock at the door.) That single rap at the street door is very like the
      loud determined knock of a dun. The servant is ascending the stairs&mdash;it
      must be so&mdash;she advances upon the second flight;&mdash;good heavens,
      how stupid!&mdash;I particularly told her I should not be in town to any
      of these people for a month. The inattention of servants is unbearable;
      they can tell fibs <span class="pagenum">[9]</span> enough to suit their
      own purposes, but a little white one to serve a gentleman lodger, to put
      off an impertinent tradesman, or save him from the toils of a sheriffs
      officer, is sure to be marred in the relation, or altogether forgotten.
      I'll lock my chamber door, however, by way of precaution. (Servant
      knocking.) "What do you want?" "Mr. Index, sir, the little gentleman in
      black." "Show him up, Betty, directly." The key is instantly turned; the
      door set wide open; and I am again seated in comfort at my table: the
      solicitude, fear, and anxiety, attendant upon the apprehensions of
      surprise, a bailiff, and a prison, all vanish in a moment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My dear Index, you are welcome; the last person I expected, although the
      first I could have wished to have seen: to what fortunate circumstance am
      I to attribute the honor of this friendly visit?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Business, sir; I am a man of business: your last publication has sold
      pretty well, considering how dreadfully it was cut up in the reviews; I
      have some intention of reprinting a short edition, if you are not too
      exorbitant in your demands; not that I think the whole number will be
      sold, but there is a chance of clearing the expenses. A portrait by
      Wageman, the announcement of a second edition, with additions, may help it
      off; but then these additional costs will prevent my rewarding your merits
      to the extent I am sensible you deserve."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Name your own terms, Index, for after all you know it must come to that,
      and I am satisfied you will be as liberal as you can afford." Put in this
      way, the most penurious of the speculating tribe in paper and print would
      have strained a point, to overcome their natural infirmity: with Index it
      was otherwise; nature had formed him with a truly liberal heart: the
      practice of the trade, and the necessary caution attendant upon
      bookselling speculations, only operated as a check to the noble-minded
      generosity of the <span class="pagenum">[10]</span> man, without
      implanting in his bosom the avarice and extortion generally pursued by his
      brethren.
    </p>
    <p>
      The immediate subject of his visit arranged to our mutual satisfaction, I
      ventured to inquire what style of work was most likely to interest the
      taste of the town. 'The town itself&mdash;satire, sir, fashionable satire.
      If you mean to grow rich by writing in the present day, you must first
      learn to be satirical; use the lash, sir, as all the great men have done
      before you, and then, like Canning in the Cabinet, or Gifford and Jeffery
      as reviewers, or Byron and Southey as poets, you will be followed more
      from the fear of your pen than from the splendour of your talents, the
      consistency of your conduct, or the morality of your principles. Sir, if
      you can but use the tomahawk skilfully, your fortune is certain. '<i>Sic
      itur ad astra</i>.' Read Blackwood's Noctea Ambrosiance. Take the town by
      surprise, folly by the ears; 'the glory, jest, and riddle of the world' is
      man; use your knowledge of this ancient volume rightly, and you may soon
      mount the car of fortune, and drive at random wherever your fancy
      dictates. Bear in mind the Greek proverb, '<i>Mega biblion, mega kakon</i>.'
      In your remarks, select such persons who, from their elevated situations
      in society, ought to be above reproof, and whose vices are, therefore,
      more worthy of public condemnation:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     '&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;Ridiculum acri
     Fortius ac melius magnas plerumque secat res.'
</pre>
    <p>
      By this means you will benefit the state, and improve the morals of
      society. The most wholesome truths may be told with pleasantry. Satire, to
      be severe, needs not to be scurrilous. The approval of the judicious will
      always follow the ridicule which is directed against error, ignorance, and
      folly."
    </p>
    <p>
      How long little Index might have continued in this strain I know not, if I
      had not ventured to suggest <span class="pagenum">[11]</span> that the
      course he pointed out was one of great difficulty, and considerable
      personal hazard; that to arrive at fortune by such means, an author must
      risk the sacrifice of many old connexions, and incur no inconsiderable
      dangers; that great caution would be necessary to escape the fangs of the
      forensic tribe, and that in voluntarily thrusting his nose into such a
      nest of hornets, it would be hardly possible to escape being severely
      stung in retaliation. "<i>Pulchrum est accusari ah accusandis</i>," said
      my friend, the bookseller, "who has suffered more by the fashionable world
      than yourself? Have you not dissipated a splendid patrimony in a series of
      the most liberal entertainments? Has not your generous board been graced
      with the presence of royalty? and the banquet enriched by the attendant
      stars of nobility, from the duke to the right honorable knight commander.
      And have you not since felt the most cruel neglect from these your early
      associates, and much obliged friends, with no crime but poverty, with no
      reproach but the want of prudence? Have you not experienced ingratitude
      and persecution in every shape that human baseness could find ingenuity to
      inflict? And can you hesitate to avail yourself of the noble revenge in
      your power, when it combines the advantages of being morally profitable
      both to yourself and society?
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     '&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;Velat materna tempora myrto.'
     Virg.

     'When Vice the shelter of a mask disdain'd,
     When Folly triumph'd, and a Nero reign'd,
     Petronius rose satiric, yet polite,
     And show'd the glaring monster full in sight;
     To public mirth exposed the imperial beast,
     And made his wanton court the common jest.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      With this quotation, delivered with good emphasis, little Index bade me
      good morning, and left me impressed with no mean opinion of his
      friendship, <span class="pagenum">[12]</span> and with an increased
      admiration of his knowledge of the world.
    </p>
    <p>
      But how (thought I) am I to profit by his advice? In what shape shall I
      commence my eccentric course? A good general at the head of a large army,
      on the eve of a general battle, with the enemy full in view, feels less
      embarrassment than a young author finds in marshalling his crude ideas,
      and placing the raw recruits of the brain in any thing like respectable
      order. For the title, that is quite a matter of business, and depends more
      upon the bookseller's opinion of what may be thought attractive than any
      affinity it may possess to the work itself. Dedications are, thanks to the
      economy of fashion, out of date: great men have long since been laughed
      into good sense in that particular. A preface (if there be one) should
      partake something of the spirit of the work; for if it be not brief,
      lively, and humorous, it is ten to one but your reader falls asleep before
      he enters upon chapter the first, and when he wakes, fears to renew his
      application, lest he should be again caught napping. Long introductions
      are like lengthy prayers before meals to hungry men, they are mumbled over
      with unintelligible rapidity, or altogether omitted, for the more solid
      gratifications of the stomach, or the enjoyments of the mind. In what
      fantastic shape and countenance then shall an author appear to obtain
      general approbation? or in what costume is he most likely to insure
      success?
    </p>
    <p>
      If he assumes a fierce and haughty front, his readers are perhaps offended
      with his temerity, and the critics enraged at his assurance. If he affects
      a modest sneaking posture, and humbly implores their high mightinesses to
      grant him one poor sprig of laurel, he is treated slightingly, and
      despised, as a pitiful fellow who wants that essential ingredient in the
      composition of a man of talent and good breeding, ycleped by the moderns
      confidence. If he speaks of <span class="pagenum">[13]</span> the
      excellence of his subject, he creates doubts both with his readers and
      reviewers, who will use their endeavours to convince him he has not a
      correct knowledge of his own abilities. But if, like a well bred man at
      court, he enters the drawing-room of literature in good taste, neither too
      mean nor too gaudy, too bold or too formal, makes his bow with the air and
      finish of a scholar and a gentleman, and passes on to his place, unheedful
      of remark (because unconscious of offence), he is sure to command respect,
      if he does not excite admiration.
    </p>
    <p>
      Accept then, reader, this colloquial chapter, as the author's apology for
      a preface, an imaginary short conference, or letter of introduction, which
      brings you acquainted with the eccentric writer of this volume; and as in
      all well regulated society a person is expected to give some account of
      himself before he is placed upon terms of intimacy with the family, you
      shall in the next page receive a brief sketch of the characteristics of
      the author.
    </p>
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    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[13]</span> A FEW THOUGHTS ON MYSELF.
    </p>
    <p>
      The early biography of a man of genius is seldom, if ever, accurately
      given to the public eye, unless, indeed, he is one of those <i>rara avis</i>
      who, with the advantages of great qualifications, inherits high ancestral
      distinctions. But if, as is generally the case, from obscurity of birth
      and humble life he rises into notice by the force and exertion of his
      talents, the associates of his brighter fortunes know but little of the
      difficulties which have obstructed his progress, or the toils and fatigues
      he has endured, to arrive at that enviable point from which the temple of
      Fame, and the road to fortune, may be contemplated with some chance of
      enjoyment and success. Unwilling to speak of himself, lest he should incur
      the charge of vanity or egotism, he modestly trusts to the partial pen of
      friendship, or the conjectural pen of the commentator, to do justice to
      events which no quill could relate so well as his own, and which, if
      impartially and sensibly written, must advance him in the estimation of
      society, and convince the world that with the mastery of the great secret
      in his power, he was not more capable of appreciating the characters of
      the age than familiar with the lights and shadows of his own.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
    "Honour and shame from no condition rise;
    Act well your part, there all the honour lies."
</pre>
    <p>
      The reader will, no doubt, anticipate that the name of Bernard Blackmantle
      is an assumed quaint cognomen, and perhaps be not less suspicious of the
      author's right and title to the honorary distinction annexed: <span
      class="pagenum">[14]</span> let him beware how he indulges in such
      chimeras, before he has fully entered into the spirit of the volume before
      him, lest, on perusal, conviction should compel him to retract the
      ungracious thought. To be plain, he is not desirous of any higher honorary
      distinction than the good opinion of his readers. And now, sons and
      daughters of Fashion! ye cameleon race of giddy elves, who flutter on the
      margin of the whirlpool, or float upon the surface of the silvery stream,
      and, hurried forwards by the impetus of the current, leave yourselves but
      little time for reflection, one glance will convince you that you are
      addressed by an old acquaintance, and, heretofore, constant attendant upon
      all the gay varieties of life; of this be assured, that, although retired
      from the fascinating scene, where gay Delight her portal open throws to
      Folly's throng, he is no surly misanthrope, or gloomy seceder, whose
      jaundiced mind, or clouded imagination, is a prey to disappointment, envy,
      or to care. In retracing the brighter moments of life, the festive scenes
      of past times, the never to be forgotten pleasures of his halcyon days,
      when youth, and health, and fortune, blest his lot, he has no tongue for
      scandal&mdash;no pen for malice&mdash;no revenge to gratify, but is only
      desirous of attempting a true portraiture of men and manners, in the
      higher and more polished scenes of life. If, in the journey through these
      hitherto unexplored regions of fancy, ought should cross his path that
      might give pain to worthy bosoms, he would sooner turn aside than be
      compelled to embody the uncandid thought.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "Unknowing and unknown, the hardy Muse
     "Boldly defies all mean and partial views;
     "With honest freedom plays the critic's part,
     "And praises, as she censures, from the heart."
</pre>
    <p>
      And now, having said nearly as much as I think prudent of myself, and
      considerably more than my <span class="pagenum">[17]</span> bookseller
      usually allows by way of prefatory matter, I shall conclude this chapter
      by informing the reader of some facts, with which I ought to have
      commenced it, namely&mdash;For my parents, it must suffice that my father
      was a man of talent, my mother accomplished and esteemed, and, what is
      more to their honour, they were affectionate and kind: peace to their
      manes! I was very early in life bereft of both; educated at one of the
      public schools, I was, in due time, sent to matriculate at Oxford, where,
      reader, I propose to commence my Eccentric Tour.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      A SHANDEAN SCENE,
    </h2>
    <h3>
      BETWEEN LADY MARY OLDSTYLE AND HORATIO HEARTLY.
    </h3>
    <p>
      "I know him well," said Horatio, with a half-suppressed sigh, as he
      finished the introductory chapter to the first volume of the English Spy,
      or Colloquial Sketches of Men and Manners. "He is no misanthrope," said my
      aunt, taking off her spectacles to wipe away the pearly drop which
      meek-eyed pity gave to the recollection of scenes long passed. Horatio
      paused&mdash;the book dropped instinctively upon his knee, as his raised
      eye involuntarily caught the benign aspect of virtue and intelligence,
      softened by the crystal gems of feeling. "I wish I knew where he lived,"
      said my aunt. "I'll find him out," said Horatio;-"Do," said my aunt, "and
      tell him an old friend of his father's, on whom fortune has deigned to
      smile in the winter of her days, would feign extend to him as much of
      worldly happiness as can be derived from the enjoyment of worldly
      treasure." <span class="pagenum">[18]</span> By that sort of magical
      attraction which imperceptibly links together the souls of kindred
      spirits, Horatio's chair had made an angular movement, of at least six
      degrees, in a direction nearer to his venerable relation: no lover ever
      pressed with more fervency of affection the yielding hand of his soul's
      deity, than did the grateful nephew, at this moment, clasp within his
      eager grasp the aged palm of bounteous charity. "I wish he may accept your
      kind offer," said Horatio. "And why should he not?" said my aunt, with a
      half inclination of extricating her hand, and a penetrating glance of
      doubt, directed full in the face of the speaker: "I know not," said
      Horatio, (hesitating, as if fearful of giving offence), "but,"-"But what?"
      said my aunt;-"But I fear his natural love of independence, and
      eccentricity of mind, will admit of no constraint, which his high sense of
      honor will anticipate must be partially the case whenever he submits
      himself to accept the favors of even such generous hearts as yours." "He
      would feel no such thing," said my aunt. "He could not resist the
      impression," said Horatio; "your liberality would, I know, be calculated
      to dispossess him of the painful sensation; but if the inherent pride of
      the man could be subdued, or calmed into acquiescence, by breathing the
      enchanting air of friendship, the weight of gratitude, the secret monitor
      of fine-wrought minds, would overpower his tongue, and leave him, in his
      own estimation, a pauper of the poorest class." "Then I'll adopt another
      mode," said my aunt; "and though I hate the affectation of secret
      charities, because I think the donor of a generous action is well entitled
      to his reward, both here and hereafter,&mdash;I'll hand out some way,
      anonymously or otherwise, to indulge my humour of serving him." "You are
      an angel!" said Horatio, with his eyes fixed on the ground&mdash;(the
      spirit of the angel of benevolence,&mdash;quoth Reason, whispering in his
      ear, would have been <span class="pagenum">[19]</span> a better metaphor,&mdash;certainly
      inhabits the aged bosom of your father's sister). Horatio's upraised eye
      rested on the wrinkled front of his antique relative, just as the
      corrective thought gleamed in visionary brightness o'er his brain; the
      poetic inspiration of the moment fled like the passing meteor, but the
      feeling which excited it remained engrafted on his memory for ever. "How
      shall we find him out, my dear Horatio?" said my aunt, her whole
      countenance animated with delight at the last flattering ejaculation of
      her nephew-"where shall we seek him?&mdash;I'll order the carriage
      directly." The glow of pleasure and anticipatory gratification, which at
      this moment beamed in the countenance of the old lady, brought back the
      circling current of health to the cheeks of age, and, with the blush of
      honest feeling, dispelled the stains of time; the furrowed streaks of care
      vanished from her front, and left her whole frame proportionably
      invigorated.
    </p>
    <p>
      If the mere contemplation of a generous action can thus inspire the young,
      and give new life to age, what a load of misery and deformity might not
      the sons and daughters of nature divest themselves of, by following the
      inherent dictates of benevolence! Reflection, whenever he deigned to
      penetrate the pericranium of my cousin Horatio, took entire possession of
      the citadel, and left him not even the smallest loophole for the
      observation of any passing event. He was just fixed in one of these
      abstracted reveries of the mind, traversing over the halcyon scenes of his
      collegiate days, and re-associating himself with his early friend, the
      author of the eccentric volume then in his hand, when the above monition
      sprung from his heart, like the crystal stream that sparkles in the air,
      when first it bursts through the mineral bondage of the womb of nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You are right," said my aunt. Horatio started with surprise, almost
      unconscious of her presence, or <span class="pagenum">[20]</span> what he
      had said to deserve her approbation. "True happiness," she continued, "is
      the offspring of generosity and virtue, and never inhabits a bosom where
      worldly interest and selfish principles are allowed to predominate. There
      are many who possess all the requisites for the enjoyment of true
      happiness, who, from the prejudices of education, or the mistaken pride of
      ancestry, have never experienced the celestial rapture: they have never
      been amalgamated with society, are strangers to poverty themselves, and
      cannot comprehend its operation upon others; born and moving in a sphere
      where the chilling blasts of indigence never penetrate, or the clouds of
      adversity appal, they have no conception of the more delightful
      gratification which springs from the source of all earthly happiness, the
      pleasure and ability of administering to the wants and comforts of our
      fellow creatures."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yours is the true philosophy of nature, aunt," said Horatio, "where
      principle and practice may be seen, arm in arm, like the twin sisters,
      Charity and Virtue,&mdash;a pair of antique curiosities much sought after,
      but rarely found amid the assemblage of <i>virtu</i> in the collections of
      your modern people of fashion."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I'll alter my will to-morrow morning," thought my aunt; "this boy
      deserves to be as rich in acres as he already is in benevolence: he shall
      have the Leicestershire estate added to what I have already bequeathed
      him, by way of codicil."
    </p>
    <p>
      "You would be delighted with my friend Bernard, aunt," said Horatio, "that
      is, when he is in good spirits; but you must not judge of him by the
      common standard of estimation: if, on the first introduction, he should
      happen to be in one of those lively humours when his whole countenance is
      lighted up with the brilliancy of genius, you would be enraptured by the
      sallies of his wit, and the solidity of his reasoning; but if, on the
      contrary, he should unfortunately <span class="pagenum">[21]</span> be in
      one of those abstracted moods when all terrestrial objects are equally
      indifferent, you will, I fear, form no very favourable opinion of his
      merit. He is an eccentric in every respect, and must not be judged of by
      the acquaintance of an hour. We were boys together at Eton, and the
      associations of youth ripened with maturity into the most sincere friendly
      attachment, which was materially assisted by the similarity of our
      dispositions and pursuits, during our residence at college. Your kind
      notice of my poor friend, aunt, has revived the fondest recollections of
      my life&mdash;the joyous scenes of infancy, when the young heart, free
      from the trammels of the world, and buoyant as the bird of spring, wings
      along the flowery path of pleasure, plucking at will the sweets of nature,
      and decking his infant brow with wreaths of fresh gathered wild flowers."
      Horatio paused, not for want of subject, but a train of recollections
      overpowered his memory, producing an unspeakable sensation, which for a
      moment choked his utterance.
    </p>
    <p>
      "There is a blank in this work, which you shall fill up," said my aunt;
      "you must perform the office of an impartial historian for your friend,
      and before we proceed farther with this volume, give me the history of
      your school-boy days."
    </p>
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    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[22]</span> SCHOOL-BOY REMINISCENCES.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     ON EARLY FRIENDSHIP.

     In many a strain of grief and joy
     My youthful spirit sung to thee;
     But I am now no more a boy,
     And there's a gulf 'twixt thee and me.
     Time on my brow has set his seal;
     I start to find myself a man,
     And know that I no more shall feel
     As only boyhood's spirit can.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      ETONIAN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      There is an imperceptible but powerfully connecting link in our early
      associations and school-boy friendships, which is very difficult to
      describe, but exceedingly grateful to reflect on; particularly when the
      retrospective affords a view of early attachments ripened into perfection
      with maturity, and cementing firmly with increasing years. Youth is the
      period of frankness and of zeal, when the young heart, buoyant with hope
      and cheering prospects, fills with joy, and expands in all the brightness
      of fancy's variety. The ambition, lures, and conflicting interests of the
      world, have as yet made no inroad upon the mind; the bosom is a stranger
      to misery, the tongue to deceit, the eye glows with all the luxuriance of
      pleasure, and the whole countenance presents an animated picture of health
      and intelligence illumined with delight. The playfulness or incaution of
      youth may demand correction, or produce momentary pain; but the tears of
      <span class="pagenum">[23]</span> infancy fall like the summer dew upon
      the verdant slope, which the first gleam of the returning sun kisses away,
      and leaves the face of nature tinged with a blush of exquisite brilliancy,
      but with no trace of the sparkling moisture which lately veiled its
      beauty. This is the glittering period of life, when the gay perspective of
      the future seems clothed in every attractive hue, and the objects of this
      world assume a grace divine: then it is that happiness, borne on the wings
      of innocence and light-hearted mirth, attends our every step, and seems to
      wait obedient to our will.
    </p>
    <p>
      What a painful reverse may not the retrospective view afford! how unlike
      is the finished picture to the inspiring sketch. The one breathing the
      soft air of nature, and sparkling in brilliant tints of variegated hues,
      serene, clear, and transparent, like the magic pencilling of the heavenly
      Claude, shedding ambrosial sweets around. The reverse indistinct, and
      overpowered with gloomy shadows, a mixture of the terrific and the
      marvellous, like the stormy and convulsive scenes of the mighty genius of
      Salvator Rosa, with here and there a flash of wildest eccentricity, that
      only serves to render more visible the murky deformity of the whole.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horatio had just finished his introductory rhapsody, when the door opened,
      and my aunt's servant entered with tea and toast: the simmering of the
      water round the heated tube of the urn, tingling in the ears of Heartly,
      broke the thread of his narration. There was a pause of nearly a minute,
      while John was busy in arranging the equipage. "You should have waited
      till I had rung, John," said my aunt. "Please your ladyship," said John,
      "you directed me always to bring tea in at six precisely, without waiting
      for orders." My aunt looked puzzled: "You are right, John, I did; and
      (addressing Horatio) the fault of the interruption must therefore rest
      with me." Horatio bowed; the compliment was too flattering to be <span
      class="pagenum">[24]</span> misunderstood. "Draw the curtains, John," said
      my aunt, "and make up the fire: we can help ourselves to what we want&mdash;you
      need not wait; and do not interrupt us again until you are rung for."
      "This is very mysterious," thought John, as he closed to the drawing-room
      door; and he related what he thought to my lady's maid, when he returned
      to the servants' hall. "You are, no conjurer, John," said Mrs. Margaret,
      with an oblique inclination of the head, half amorous and half conceited&mdash;"the
      old lady's will has been signed and sealed these three years; I was
      present when it was made&mdash;ay, and I signed it too, and what's more, I
      knows all its contents; there are some people in the world (viewing
      herself in an opposite looking-glass) who may be very differently
      circumstanced some day or other." John's heart had long felt a sort of
      fluttering inclination to unburthen itself, by linking destinies with the
      merry Mrs. Margaret; the prospect of a handsome legacy, or perhaps an
      annuity, gave an additional spur to John's affectionate feelings, and that
      night he resolved to put the question. All this Mrs. Margaret had
      anticipated, and as she was now on the verge of forty, she very prudently
      thought there was no time to lose. "They are a pair of oddities,"
      continued the waiting-maid; "I have sometimes surprised them both crying,
      as if their hearts would break, over a new book: I suppose they have got
      something very interesting, as my lady calls it and Mr. Horatio is
      sermonizing as usual."&mdash;Mrs Margaret was not far wrong in her
      conjecture, for when my aunt and Horatio were again alone, she rallied him
      on the serious complexion of his style.
    </p>
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    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[25]</span> CHARACTER OF BERNARD BLACKMANTLE. BY
      HORATIO HEARTLY.
    </p>
    <p>
      You shall have it from his own pen, said Horatio. In my portfolio, I have
      preserved certain scraps of Bernard's that will best speak his character;
      prose and poetry, descriptive and colloquial, Hudibrastic and pastoral,
      trifles in every costume of literary fancy, according with the peculiar
      humour of the author at the time of their inditing, from these you shall
      judge my eccentric friend better than by any commendation of mine. I shall
      merely preface these early offerings of his genius with a simple narrative
      of our school-boy intimacy.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had been about three months at Eton, and had grown somewhat familiar
      with the characters of my associates, and the peculiarities of their
      phraseology and pursuits, when our dame's party was increased by the
      arrival of Bernard Blackmantle. It is usual with the sons of old Etona, on
      the arrival of a fresh subject, to play off a number of school-boy
      witticisms and practical jokes, which though they may produce a little
      mortification in the first instance, tend in no small degree to display
      the qualifications of mind possessed by their new associate, and give him
      a familiarity with his companions and their customs, which otherwise would
      take more time, and subject the stranger to much greater inconvenience.
      Bernard underwent all the initiatory school ceremonies and <span
      class="pagenum">[26]</span> humiliations with great coolness, but not
      without some display of that personal courage and true nobleness of mind,
      which advances the new comer in the estimation of his school-fellows.
      First impressions are almost always indelible: there was a frankness and
      sincerity in his manner, and an archness and vivacity in his countenance
      and conversation, that imperceptibly attached me to the young stranger. We
      were soon the most inseparable cons,{1} the depositors of each other's
      youthful secrets, and the mutual participators in every passing sport and
      pleasure.
    </p>
    <p>
      Naturally cheerful, Bernard became highly popular with our miniature
      world; there was however one subject which, whenever it was incautiously
      started by his companions, always excited a flood of tears, and for a time
      spread a gloomy abstraction over his mind. Bernard had from his very
      infancy been launched into the ocean of life without a knowledge of his
      admiral{2} but not without experiencing all that a mother's fondness could
      supply: when others recapitulated the enjoyments of their paternal home,
      and painted with all the glow of youthful ardour the anticipated pleasures
      of the holidays, the tear would trickle down his crimsoned cheek; and
      quickly stealing away to some sequestered spot, his throbbing bosom was
      relieved by many a flood of woe. That some protecting spirit watched over
      his actions, and directed his course, he was well assured, but as yet he
      had never been able to comprehend the mystery with which he was
      surrounded. His questions on this point to his mother it was evident gave
      her pain, and were always met by some evasive answer. He had been early
      taught to keep his own secret, but the prying curiosity of an Eton
      school-boy was not easily satisfied, and too often rendered the task one
      of great pain and difficulty. On these occasions I would seek
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 Friends.

     2 The Eton phrase for father.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[27]</span> him out, and as the subject was one of
      too tender a nature for the tongue of friendship to dwell upon, endeavour
      to divert his thoughts by engaging him in some enlivening sport. His
      amiable manners and generous heart had endeared him to all, and in a short
      time his delicate feelings were respected, and the slightest allusion to
      ambiguity of birth cautiously avoided by all his associates, who, whatever
      might be their suspicions, thought his brilliant qualifications more than
      compensated for any want of ancestral distinction.
    </p>
    <p>
      The following portrait of my friend is from the pen of our elegant con,
      Horace Eglantine.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     A PORTRAIT.

     A heart fill'd with friendship and love,
     A brain free from passion's excess,
     A mind a mean action above,
     A hand to relieve keen distress.
     Poverty smiled on his birth,
     And gave what all riches exceeds,
     Wit, honesty, wisdom, and worth;
     A soul to effect noble needs.
     Legitimates bow at his shrine;
     Unfetter'd he sprung into life;
     When vigour with love doth combine
     To free nature from priestcraft and strife.
     No ancient escutcheon he claim'd,
     Crimson'd with rapine and blood;
     He titles and baubles disdain'd,
     Yet his pedigree traced from the flood.
     Ennobled by all that is bright
     In the wreath of terrestrial fame,
     Genius her pure ray of light
     Spreads a halo to circle his name.
</pre>
    <p>
      The main-spring of all his actions was a social disposition, which
      embraced a most comprehensive view <span class="pagenum">[28]</span> of
      the duties of good fellowship. He was equally popular with all parties, by
      never declaring for any particular one: with the cricketers he was
      accounted a hard swipe{3} an active field{4} and a stout bowler;{5} in a
      water party he was a stroke{6} of the ten oar; at foot-ball, in the
      playing fields, or a leap across Chalvey ditch, he was not thought small
      beer{7} of; and he has been known to have bagged three sparrows after a
      toodle{8} of three miles. His equals loved him for his social qualities,
      and courted his acquaintance as the <i>sine qua non</i> of society; and
      the younger members of the school looked up to him for protection and
      assistance. If power was abused by the upper boys, Bernard was appealed to
      as the mediator between the fag{9} and his master. His grants of
      liberties{10} to the commonalty were indiscriminate and profuse, while his
      influence was always exerted to obtain the same privileges for his
      numerous proteges from the more close aristocrats.{11} He was always to be
      seen attended by a shoal of dependents of every form in the school, some
      to get their lessons construed, and others to further claims to their
      respective stations in
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     3 A good bat-man.

     4 To run well, or keep a good look out.

     5 Strong and expert.

     6 A first rate waterman.

     7  Not thought meanly of. Sometimes this phrase is used in
     derision, as, he does not think small beer of himself.

     8  A walk.

     9 Any sixth or fifth form boy can fag an Oppidan underling:
     the collegers are exempted from this custom.

     10 The liberties, or college bounds, are marked by stones
     placed in different situations; grants of liberties are
     licences given by the head boys to the juniors to break
     bounds, or rather to except them from the disagreeable
     necessity of shirking, (i. e.) hiding from fear of being
     reported to the masters.

     11 To that interesting original miscellany, the 'Etonian,' I
     am indebted for several valuable hints relative to early
     scenes. The characters are all drawn from observation, with
     here and there a slight deviation, or heightening touch, the
     rather to disguise and free them from aught of personal
     offence, than any intentional departure from truth and
     nature.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[29]</span> the next cricket match or water
      expedition. The duck and green pea suppers at Surley Hall would have lost
      half their relish without the enlivening smiles and smart repartees of
      Bernard Blackmantle. The preparations for the glorious fourth of June were
      always submitted to his superior skill and direction. His fiat could
      decide the claims of the rival boats, in their choice of jackets, hats,
      and favors; and the judicious arrangement of the fire-works was another
      proof of his taste. Let it not, however, be thought that his other
      avocations so entirely monopolized him as to preclude a due attention to
      study. Had it been so, his success with the [Greek phrase] would never
      have been so complete: his desire to be able to confer obligations on his
      schoolfellows induced Bernard to husband carefully every hour which he
      spent at home; a decent scholarship, and much general knowledge, was the
      reward of this plan. The treasure-house of his memory was well stored, and
      his reputation as an orator gave promise of future excellence. His
      classical attainments, if not florid, were liberal, and free from
      pedantry. His proficiency in English literature was universally
      acknowledged, and his love of the poets amounted to enthusiasm. He was
      formed for all the bustle of variegated life, and his conversation was
      crystallized with the sparkling attractions of wit and humour. Subject to
      the weakness to which genius is ever liable, he was both eccentric and
      wayward, but he had the good sense to guard his failing from general
      observation; and although he often shot his arrows anonymously, he never
      dipt them in the gall of prejudice or ill-nature. I have dwelt upon his
      character with pleasure, because there are very few who know him
      intimately. With a happy versatility of talents, he is neither lonesome in
      his solitude, nor over joyous in a crowd. For his literary attainments,
      they must be judged of by their fruits. I cannot better conclude my
      attempt <span class="pagenum">[30]</span> to describe his qualifications
      than by offering his first essay to your notice, a school-boy tribute to
      friendship.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     TRUE FRIENDSHIP.

     'Infido scurræ distabit amicus.'
     Horace.

     How very seldom do we find
     A relish in the human mind
     For friendship pure and real;
     How few its approbation seek,
     How oft we count its censures weak,
     Disguising what we feel.
     Adulation lives to please,
     Truth dies the victim of disease,
     Forgotten by the world:
     The flattery of the fool delights
     The wise, rebuke our pride affrights,
     And virtue's banner's furl'd.
     Wherefore do we censure fate,
     When she withholds the perfect state
     Of friendship from our grasp,
     If we ourselves have not the power,
     The mind to enjoy the blessed hour,
     The fleeting treasure clasp?
</pre>
    <p>
      This (I have reason to believe his first poetical essay) was presented me
      on my birthday, when we had been about two years together at Eton: a short
      time afterwards I surprised him one morning writing in his bedroom; my
      curiosity was not a little excited by the celerity with which I observed
      he endeavoured to conceal his papers. "I must see what you are about,
      Bernard," said I. "Treason, Horatio," replied the young author. "Would you
      wish to be implicated, or become a confederate? If so, take the oath of
      secrecy, and read." Judge of my surprise, when, on casting my eye over his
      lucubrations, I perceived he had been sketching the portraits of the
      group, with <span class="pagenum">[31]</span> whom we were in daily
      association at our dame's. As I perceive by a glance at his work that most
      of his early friends have parts assigned them in his colloquial scenes, I
      consider the preservation of this trifle important, as it will furnish a
      key to the characters.
    </p>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="page031 (23K)" src="images/page031.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="image-0011" id="image-0011">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page032.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page032 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[32]</span> ETON SKETCHES OF CHARACTER.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     '&mdash;&mdash;I'll paint for grown up people's knowledge,
     The manners, customs, and affairs of college.'
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0007" id="link2H_4_0007">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PORTRAITS IN MY DAME'S DINING-ROOM.
    </h2>
    <p>
      At the head of the large table on the right hand you will perceive the
      Honourable Lilyman Lionise, the second son of a nobleman, whose ancient
      patrimony has been nearly dissipated between his evening parties at the
      club-houses, in French hazard, or Rouge et noir, and his morning
      speculations with his betting book at Tattersall's, Newmarket, or the
      Fives-court; whose industry in getting into debt is only exceeded by his
      indifference about getting out; whose acquired property (during his
      minority) and personals have long since been knocked down by the hammer of
      the auctioneer, under direction of the sheriff, to pay off some gambling
      bond in preference to his honest creditor; yet who still flourishes a
      fashionable gem of the first water, and condescends to lend the lustre of
      <span class="pagenum">[33]</span> his name, when he has nothing else to
      lend, that he may secure the advantage of a real loan in return. His
      patrimonial acres and heirlooms remain indeed untouched, because the court
      of chancery have deemed it necessary to appoint a receiver to secure their
      faithful transmission to the next heir.
    </p>
    <p>
      The son has imbibed a smattering of all the bad qualities of his sire,
      without possessing one ray of the brilliant qualifications for which he is
      distinguished. Proud without property, and sarcastic without being witty,
      ill temper he mistakes for superior carriage, and haughtiness for dignity:
      his study is his toilet, and his mind, like his face, is a vacuity neither
      sensible, intelligent, nor agreeable. He has few associates, for few will
      accept him for a companion. With his superiors in rank, his precedent
      honorary distinction yields him no consideration; with his equals, it
      places him upon too familiar a footing; while with his inferiors, it
      renders him tyrannical and unbearable. His mornings, between school hours,
      are spent in frequent change of dress, and his afternoons in a lounge à la
      Bond-street, annoying the modest females and tradesmen's daughters of
      Eton; his evenings (after absence{1} is called) at home, in solitary
      dissipation over his box of liqueurs, or in making others uncomfortable by
      his rudeness and overbearing dictation. He is disliked by the dame,
      detested by the servants, and shunned by his schoolfellows, and yet he is
      our captain, a <i>Sextile, a Roue</i>, and above all, an honourable.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tom Echo. A little to the left of the Exquisite, you may perceive Tom's
      merry countenance shedding good-humour around him. He is the only one who
      can
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 <i>Absence</i> is called several times in the course of the
     day, to prevent the boys straying away to any great distance
     from the college, and at night to secure them in quarters at
     the dames' houses: if a boy neglects to answer to his name,
     or is too late for the call, inquiry is immediately made at
     his dame's, and a very satisfactory apology must be offered
     to prevent punishment.
</pre>
    <p>
      manage the <i>Sextile</i> with effect: Tom is always ready with a tart
      reply to his sarcasm, or a <i>cut</i> at his consequence. Tom is the
      eldest son of one of the most respectable whig families in the kingdom,
      whose ancestors have frequently refused a peerage, from an inherent
      democratical but constitutional jealousy of the crown. Independence and
      Tom were nursery friends, and his generous, noble-hearted conduct renders
      him an universal favorite with the school. Then, after holidays, Tom
      always returns with such a rich collection of fox-hunting stories and
      sporting anecdotes, and gives sock{2} so graciously, that he is the very
      life of dame &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;'s party. There is to be sure one
      drawback to Tom's good qualities, but it is the natural attendant upon a
      high flow of animal spirits: if any mischief is on foot, Tom is certain to
      be concerned, and ten to one but he is the chief contriver: to be seen in
      his company, either a short time previous to, or quickly afterwards,
      although perfectly innocent, is sure to create a suspicion of guilt with
      the masters, which not unusually involves his companions in trouble, and
      sometimes in unmerited punishment. Tom's philosophy is to live well, study
      little, drink hard, and laugh immoderately. He is not deficient in sense,
      but he wants application and excitement: he has been taught from infancy
      to feel himself perfectly independent of the world, and at home every
      where: nature has implanted in his bosom the characteristic benevolence of
      his ancestry, and he stands among us a being whom every one loves and
      admires, without any very distinguishing trait of learning, wit, or
      superior qualification, to command the respect he excites. If any one
      tells a good story or makes a laughable pun, Tom retails it for a week,
      and all the school have the advantage of hearing and enjoying it. Any
      proposition for a boat party, cricketing, or a toodle into Windsor, or
      along the banks of the Thames
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 Good cheer; any nicety, as pastry, &amp;c.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[35]</span> on a sporting excursion, is sure to meet
      a willing response from him. He is second to none in a charitable
      subscription for a poor <i>Cad</i>, or the widow of a drowned <i>Bargee</i>;
      his heart ever reverberates the echo of pleasure, and his tongue only
      falters to the echo of deceit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horace Eglantine is placed just opposite to Lily man Lionise, a
      calm-looking head, with blue eyes and brown hair, which flows in ringlets
      of curls over his shoulders. Horace is the son of a city banker, by the
      second daughter of an English earl, a young gentleman of considerable
      expectations, and very amusing qualifications. Horace is a strange
      composition of all the good-natured whimsicalities of human nature,
      happily blended together without any very conspicuous counteracting
      foible. Facetious, lively, and poetical, the cream of every thing that is
      agreeable, society cannot be dull if Horace lends his presence. His
      imitations of Anacreon, and the soft bard of Erin, have on many occasions
      puzzled the cognoscenti of Eton. Like Moore too, he both composes and
      performs his own songs. The following little specimen of his powers will
      record one of those pleasant impositions with which he sometimes enlivens
      a winter's evening:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     TO ELIZA.

     Oh think not the smile and the glow of delight,
     With youth's rosy hue, shall for ever be seen:

     Frosty age will o'ercloud, with his mantle of night,
     The brightest and fairest of nature's gay scene.

     Or think while you trip, like some aerial sprite,
     To pleasure's soft notes on the dew-spangled mead,

     That the rose of thy cheek, or thine eyes' starry light,
     Shall sink into earth, and thy spirit be freed.

     Then round the gay circle we'll frolic awhile,
     And the light of young love shall the fleet hour bless

     While the pure rays of friendship our eve-tide beguile,
     Above fortune's frowns and the chills of distress
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[36]</span> The most provoking punster and poet that
      ever turned the serious and sentimental into broad humour. Every quaint
      remark affords a pun or an epigram, and every serious sentence gives birth
      to some merry couplet. Such is the facility with which he strings together
      puns and rhyme, that in the course of half an hour he has been known to
      wager, and win it&mdash;that he made a couplet and a pun on every one
      present, to the number of fifty. Nothing annoys the exquisite <i>Sextile</i>
      so much as this tormenting talent of Horace; he is always shirking him,
      and yet continually falling in his way. For some time, while Horace was in
      the fourth form, these little <i>jeu-d'esprits</i> were circulated
      privately, and smuggled up in half suppressed laughs; but being now high
      on the fifth, Horace is no longer in fear of <i>fagging</i>, and therefore
      gives free license to his tongue in many a witty jest, which "sets the
      table in a roar."
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick Gradus. In a snug corner, at a side table, observe that
      shrewd-looking little fellow poring over his book; his features seem
      represented by acute angles, and his head, which appears too heavy for his
      body, represents all the thoughtfulness of age, like an ancient fragment
      of Phidias or Praxiteles placed upon new shoulders by some modern bust
      carver. Dick is the son of an eminent solicitor in a borough town, who has
      raised himself into wealth and consequence by a strict attention to the
      principles of interest: sharp practice, heavy mortgages, loans on annuity,
      and post obits, have strengthened his list of possessions till his
      influence is extended over half the county. The proprietor of the borough,
      a good humoured sporting extravagant, has been compelled to yield his
      influence in St. Stephen's to old Gradus, that he may preserve his
      character at Newmarket, and continue his pack and fox-hunting festivities
      at home. The representation of the place is now disposed of to the best
      bidder, but the ambition of the father has long since determined upon
      sending his son (when of age) <span class="pagenum">[37]</span> into
      parliament&mdash;a promising candidate for the "loaves and fishes."
      Richard Gradus, M.P.&mdash;you may almost perceive the senatorial honor
      stamped upon the brow of the young aspirant; he has been early initiated
      into the value of time and money; his lessons of thrift have been
      practically illustrated by watching the operations of the law in his
      father's office; his application to learning is not the result of an
      innate love of literature, or the ambition of excelling his compeers, but
      a cold, stiff, and formal desire to collect together materials for the
      storehouse of his memory, that will enable him to pursue his interested
      views and future operations on society with every prospect of success.
      Genius has no participation in his studies: his knowledge of Greek and
      Latin is grammatical and pedantic; he reads Livy, Tacitus, Sallust, Cæsar,
      Xenophon, Thucydides, in their original language; boasts of his learning
      with a haughty mien and scornful look of self-importance, and thinks this
      school-boy exercise of memory, this mechanism of the mind, is to determine
      the line between genius and stupidity; and has never taken into
      consideration that the mere linguist, destitute of native powers, with his
      absurd parade of scholastic knowledge, is a solitary barren plant, when
      opposed to the higher occupations of the mind, to the flights of fancy,
      the daring combinations of genius, and the sublime pictures of
      imagination. Dick is an isolated being, a book-worm, who never embarks in
      any party of pleasure, from the fear of expense; he has no talents for
      general conversation, while his ridiculous affectation of learning
      subjects him to a constant and annoying fire from the batteries of Etonian
      wit. Still, however, Dick perseveres in his course, till his blanched
      cheeks and cadaverous aspect, from close study and want of proper
      exercise, proclaim the loss of health, and the probable establishment of
      some pulmonary affection that may, before he scarcely reaches maturity,
      blight the ambitious hopes of his father, and consign <span class="pagenum">[38]</span>
      the son "to that bourne from whence no traveller returns."
    </p>
    <p>
      Horatio Heartly. At the lower end of the room, observe a serene-looking
      head displaying all the quiet character of a youthful portrait by the
      divine Raphael, joined to the inspiring sensibility which flashes from the
      almost breathing countenance and penetrating brilliancy of eye, that
      distinguishes a Guido. That is my bosom friend, my more than brother, my
      mentor and my guide. Horatio is an orphan, the son of a general officer,
      whose crimsoned stream of life was dried up by an eastern sun, while he
      was yet a lisping infant. His mother, lovely, young, and rich in conjugal
      attachment, fell a blighted corse in early widowhood, and left Horatio, an
      unprotected bud of virtuous love, to the fostering care of Lady Mary
      Oldstyle, a widowed sister of the general's, not less rich in worldly
      wealth than in true benevolence of heart, and the celestial glow of pure
      affection. Heartly is a happy combination of all the good-humoured
      particles of human nature blended together, with sense, feeling, and
      judgment. Learned without affectation, and liberal without being profuse,
      he has found out the secret of attaching all the school to himself,
      without exciting any sensation of envy, or supplanting prior friendships.
      Horatio is among the alumni of Eton the king of good fellows: there is not
      a boy in the school, colleger, or oppidan, but what would fight a long
      hour to defend him from insult; no&mdash;nor a sparkling eye among the
      enchanting daughters of old <i>Etona</i> that does not twinkle with
      pleasure at the elegant congée, and amiable attentions, which he always
      pays at the shrine of female accomplishment. Generous to a fault, his
      purse&mdash;which the bounty of his aunt keeps well supplied&mdash;is a
      public bank, <i>pro bono publico</i>. His parties to <i>sock</i> are
      always distinguished by an excellent selection, good taste, and superior
      style. In all the varied school sports and pastimes, his manly form and
      vigorous constitution gain him a superior <span class="pagenum">[39]</span>
      station among his compeers, which his cheerful disposition enables him to
      turn to general advantage. Nor is he in less estimation with the masters,
      who are loud in their praises of his assiduity and proficiency in school
      pursuits. Horatio is not exactly a genius: there is nothing of that wild
      eccentricity of thought and action which betokens the vivid flights of
      imagination, or the meteoric brightness of inspiration; his actions are
      distinguished by coolness, intrepidity, and good sense. He does not
      pretend to second sight, or a knowledge of futurity; but on the present
      and the past there are few who can reason with more cogency of remark, or
      with more classic elegance of diction: with such a concentration of
      qualities, it is not wonderful that his influence extends through every
      gradation of the juvenile band. His particular attachments are not
      numerous; but those who have experienced the sincerity of his private
      friendship must always remain his debtor&mdash;from deficiency of
      expression; among the most obliged of whom is&mdash;the author.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bob Transit. Bob has no fixed situation; therefore it would be in vain to
      attempt to say where he may be found: sometimes he is placed next to
      Bernard, and between him and Heartly, with whom he generally associates;
      at other times he takes his situation at the side table, or fills up a
      spare corner opposite to Dick Gradus, or the exquisite, either of whom he
      annoys, during dinner, by sketching their portraits in caricature upon the
      cover of his Latin Grammar, with their mouths crammed full of victuals, or
      in the act of swallowing hot pudding: nor does the dame sometimes escape
      him; the whole table have frequently been convulsed with laughter at Bob's
      comic representation of Miss &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;'s devout phiz,
      as exhibited during the preparatory ceremony of a dinner grace: the soul
      of whim, and source of fun and frolic, Bob is no mean auxiliary to a merry
      party, or the exhilarating pleasure of a broad grin. <span class="pagenum">[40]</span>
      Bob's <i>admiral</i> is an R.A. of very high repute; who, having
      surmounted all the difficulties of obscure origin and limited education,
      by the brilliancy of his talents, has determined to give his son the
      advantage of early instruction and liberal information, as a prelude to
      his advancement in the arts. Talent is not often hereditary (or at least
      in succession); but the facility of Transit's pencil is astonishing: with
      the rapidity of a Fuseli he sketches the human figure in all its various
      attitudes, and produces in his hasty drawings so much force of effect and
      truth of character, that the subject can never be mistaken. His humour is
      irresistible, and is strongly characterized by all the eccentricity and
      wit of a Gilhay, turning the most trifling incidents into laughable
      burlesque. Between him and Horace Eglantine there exists a sort of
      copartnership in the sister arts of poetry and painting: Horace rhymes,
      and Bob illustrates; and very few in the school of any note have at one
      time or other escaped this combination of epigram and caricature. Bob has
      an eye to real life, and is formed for all the bustle of the varied scene.
      Facetious, witty, and quaint, with all the singularity of genius in his
      composition, these juvenile <i>jeux d'esprits</i> of his pencil may be
      regarded as the rays of promise, which streak with golden tints the
      blushing horizon of the morn of youth.
    </p>
    <p>
      As Bob is not over studious, or attached to the Latin and Greek languages,
      he generally manages to get any difficult lesson construed by an agreement
      with some more learned and assiduous associate; the <i>quid pro quo</i> on
      these occasions being always punctually paid on his part by a humorous
      sketch of the head master calling first absence, taken from a snug,
      oblique view in the school-yard, or a burlesque on some of the fellows or
      inhabitants of Eton. In this way Bob contrives to pass school muster,
      although these specimens of talent have, on more than one occasion,
      brought him to the block. It must however <span class="pagenum">[41]</span>
      be admitted, that in all these flights of fancy his pencil is never
      disgraced by any malignancy of motive, or the slightest exhibition of
      personal spleen. Good humour is his motto; pleasure his pursuit: and if he
      should not prove a Porson or an Elmsley, he gives every promise of being
      equally eminent with a Bunbury, Gillray, or a Rowlandson.
    </p>
    <p>
      Varied groups are disposed around the room, and make up the back ground of
      my picture. Many of these are yet too young to particularize, and others
      have nothing sufficiently characteristic to deserve it; some who have not
      yet committed their first fault, and many who are continually in error;
      others who pursue the straight beaten track to scholastic knowledge, and
      trudge on like learned dromedaries. Two or three there are who follow in
      no sphere-eccentric stars, shooting from space to space; some few
      mischievous wags, who delight in a good joke, and will run the risk of
      punishment at any time to enjoy it; with here and there a little twinkling
      gem, like twilight planets, just emerging from the misty veil of nature.
    </p>
    <p>
      These form my dame's dinner party. Reader, do not judge them harshly from
      this hasty sketch: take into your consideration their youth and
      inexperience; and if they do not improve upon acquaintance, and increase
      in estimation with their years, the fault must in justice rather be
      attributed to the author than to any deficiency in their respective
      merits.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <img src="images/page041.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page 041 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[42]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      THE FIVE PRINCIPAL ORDERS OF ETON, DOCTOR, DAME, COLLEGER, OPPIDAN, AND
      CAD. A SKETCH TAKEN OPPOSITE THE LONG WALK.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="image-0013" id="image-0013">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page042.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page042 " />
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          ETON DAMES*; AN ODE, NEITHER AMATORY,
          ILL-NATURED, NOR PATHETIC.

          Let Oxford beaux, to am'rous belles,
          Love's warm epistles write;
          Or Cambridge youths, in classic dells,
          Invoke the shadowy night.

     * The above <i>jeu-d'esprit</i> made its appearance on one of
     those joyous occasions, when the sons of old Etona return
     from Oxford and Cambridge, filled with filial regard for
     early scenes and school-boy friendships, to commemorate a
     college election. It was, at the time, purposely attributed
     to some of these waggish visitors, a sort of privileged
     race, who never fail of indulging in numerous good-humoured
     freaks with the inhabitants of Eton, to show off to the
     rising generation the pleasantries, whims, and improvements
     of a college life. The subject is one of great delicacy, but
     it will, I hope, be admitted by the merry dames themselves,
     that my friend Bernard has in this, as in every other
     instance, endeavoured to preserve the strongest traits of
     truth and character, without indulging in offensive satire,
     or departing from propriety and decorum.&mdash;Horatio Heartly.
<span class="pagenum">[44]</span>

          Let Cockney poets boast their flames,
          Of ' Vicked Cupit' patter:
          Be mine a verse on Eton Dames&mdash;
          A more substantial matter.
          I care not if the Graces three
          Have here withheld perfection:
          Brown, black, or fair, the same to me,&mdash;
          E'en age is no objection.
          A pleasing squint, or but one eye,
          Will do as well as any;
          A mouth between a laugh and cry,
          Or wrinkled, as my granny.
          A hobbling gait, or a wooden leg,
          Or locks of silvery gray;
          Or name her Madge, or Poll, or Peg,
          She still shall have my lay.
          Perfection centres in the mind,
          The gen'rous must acknowledge:
          Then, Muse, be candid, just, and kind,
          To Dames of Eton College.*

     * The independent students, commonly called <i>Oppidans</i>, are
     very numerous: they are boarded at private houses in the
     environs of the college; the presiding masters and
     mistresses of which have from time immemorial enjoyed the
     title of <i>Domine</i> and <i>Dame</i>: the average number of
     <i>Oppidans</i> is from three hundred to three hundred and fifty.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      FIVE PRINCIPAL ORDERS OF ETON
    </h2>
    <h3>
      <span class="pagenum">[45]</span>
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     PROEM.

     Said Truth to the Muse, as they wander'd along,
     "Prithee, Muse, spur your Pegasus into a song;
     Let the subject be lively,&mdash;how like you the Belles?"
     Said the Muse, "he's no sportsman that kisses and tells.

     But in females delighting, suppose we stop here,
     And do you bid the Dames of old Eton appear;
     In your mirror their merits, with candour, survey,
     And I'll sing their worth in my very best Lay."
     No sooner 'twas said, than agreed:&mdash;it was done,
     Wing'd Mercury summon'd them every one.

     MISS A***LO.

     First, deck'd in the height of the fashion, a belle,
     An angel, ere Chronos had tipt her with snow,
     Advanced to the goddess, and said, "you may tell,
     That in Eton, there's no better table, you know;"
     And by Truth 'twas admitted, "her generous board
     Is rich, in whatever the seasons afford."

</pre>
    <hr />
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Of ancients, a pair next presented themselves,
     When in popp'd some waggish Oxonian elves,
     Who spoke of times past, of short commons, and cheese,
     And told tales, which did much the old ladies displease.
     "Good morning,"  said Truth, as the dames pass'd him by:
     Young stomachs, if stinted, are sure to outcry.

     MRS. R******U.

     On her <i>Domine</i> leaning came dame B******u,
     The oldest in college, deck'd in rich furbelow.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[46]</span>
    </p>
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     She curtsied around to the <i>Oppidan</i> band,
     But not one said a word, and but few gave a hand.
     Truth whisper'd the Muse,, who, as sly, shook her head,
     Saying,  "where little's told,  'tis soon mended, it's
     said."

     MRS. G******E.

     When S******e appear'd, what a shout rent the air!
     The spruce widow affords the most excellent cheer;
     For comfort in quarters there's nothing can beat her,
     So up rose the lads with a welcome to greet her:
     The muse with true gallantry led her to place,
     And Truth said good humour was writ in her face.

     MRS. D****N.
     With a face (once divine), and a figure still smart,
     And a grace that defies even Time's fatal dart,
     Dame D****n advanced, made her curtsy, and smiled:
     Truth welcomed the fair, the grave, witty, and wild;
     All, all gave their votes, and some said they knew
     That her numbers by no measure equall'd her due.

     MISS S******S.

     "By my hopes," said the Muse, "here's a rare jolly pair,
     A right merry frontispiece, comely and fair,
     To good living and quarters."   "You're right," nodded Truth.
     A welcome approval was mark'd in each youth.
     And 'twas no little praise among numbers like theirs,
     To meet a unanimous welcome up stairs.

     Miss L******d.
     Lavater, though sometimes in error, you'll find
     May be here quoted safely; the face tells the mind.
     Good humour and happiness live in her eye.
     Her motto's contentment you'll easily spy.
     five principal orders of eton
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[47]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     A chair for Miss L******d Truth placed near the Muse;
     For beauty to rhyme can fresh spirit infuse.

     MRS. V******Y.

     V******y, in weeds led and angel along,
     Accomplish'd and pretty, who blush'd at the throng.
     The old dame seem'd to say, and i'faith she might well,
     "Sons of Eton, when saw you a handsomer belle?"
     If any intended the widow to sneer,
     Miss A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;won their favor, and banish'd the jeer.

     Three sisters, famed for various parts,
     One clerks, and one makes savoury tarts;
     While t'other, bless her dinner face,
     Cuts up the viands with a grace,
     Advanced, and met a cheerful greeting
     From all who glorify good eating.

     MRS. W. H****R.

     With a smile, <i>à la confident</i>, came Mrs. H,
     Whose Domine writing to Eton's sons teach:
     In college, the handiest man you can find
     For improvements of all sorts, both building and mind:
     He seem'd on good terms with himself, but the Muse
     Said, "the Dame claim'd a welcome which none could refuse."

     DAME A****S.

     Dame A****s, respected by all, made her way
     Through the throng that assembled at Eton that day.
     Old Chronos had wrinkled her forehead, 'tis true;
     Yet her countenance beam'd in a rich, mellow hue
     Of good humour and worth; 'twas a pleasure to mark
     How the dame was applauded by each Eton spark.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[48]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     MISS b*******K.

     Long and loud were the plaudits the lady to cheer,
     Whom the doctor had treated somewhat cavalier:
     "Too young," said the ancient, "the proverb is trite;
     Age and wisdom, good doctor, not always unite."
     "For prudence and worth," said Truth, "I'll be bound
     She may challenge the Dames of old Eton around."

     A crowd pressing forward, the day growing late,
     Truth whisper'd the Muse, "we had better retreat;
     For though 'mong the dames we are free from disasters,
     I know not how well we may fare with the masters.
     There's Carter, and Yonge, Knapp, Green, and Dupuis,*
     All coming this way with their ladies, I see.
     Our visit, you know, was alone to the belles;
     The masters may sing, if they please, of themselves.
     Truth mounted a cloud, and the Poet his nag,
     And these whims sent next day by the post-office bag.

     * Lower, and assistant masters, who keep boarding-houses.
     Until lately this practice was not permitted; but it must be
     confessed that it is a salutary arrangement, as it not only
     tends to keep the youth in a better state of subjection, but
     in many instances is calculated to increase their progress
     in study, by enabling them to receive private instruction.
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    <p>
      <br /><br /> <span class="pagenum">[50]</span> ELECTION SATURDAY.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     A Peep at the Long Chambers&mdash;The Banquet&mdash;Reflections on
     parting&mdash;Arrival of the Provost of King's College,
     Cambridge, and the Pozers&mdash;The Captain's Oration&mdash;Busy
     Monday&mdash;The Oppidan's Farewell&mdash;Examination and Election of
     the Collegers who stand for King's&mdash;The aquatic Gala and
     Fireworks&mdash;Oxonian Visitors&mdash;Night&mdash;Rambles in Eton&mdash;
     Transformations of Signs and Names&mdash;The Feast at the
     Christopher, with a View of THE OPPIDAN'S MUSEUM, AND ETON
     COURT OF CLAIMS.

          Now from the schools pour forth a num'rous train,
          Light-hearted, buoyant as the summer breeze,
          To deck thy bosom, Eton: now each face
          Anticipation brightens with delight,
          While many a fancied bliss floats gaily
          O'er the ardent mind, chaste as the Nautilus,
          Spreading her pearly spangles to the sun:
          The joyous welcome of parental love,
          The heart-inspiring kiss a sister yields,
          A brother's greeting, and the cheering smiles
          Of relatives and friends, and aged domestics,
          Time-honor'd for their probity and zeal,
          Whose silvery locks recall to mem'ry's view
          Some playful scene of earliest childhood,
          When frolic, mirth, and gambol led the way,
          Ere reason gave sobriety of thought.-
          Now bear the busy <i>Cads</i> the new-lopt bough
          Of beech-tree to the dormitories,
          While active Collegers the foliage raise
          Against the chamber walls. A classic grove
          Springs as by magic art, cool and refreshing,
          A luxury by nature's self supply'd,
          Delicious shelter from the dog-star's ray.
          In thought profound the studious <i>Sextile</i> mark
          In learned converse with some ancient sage,
          Whose aid he seeks to meet the dread Provost.
          The captain fearless seeks the ancient stand,
          Where old Etona's sons, beneath time's altar-piece,*
          Have immemorial welcomed <i>Granta's</i> chief.
          In College-hall the merry cook prepares
          The choicest viands for the master's banquet:
          A graceful, healthy throng surround the board,
          And temp'rance, love, and harmony, prevail.
          Now busy dames are in high bustle caught,
          Preparing for each oppidan's departure;
          And servants, like wing'd Mercury, must fly
          O'er Windsor bridge to hail the London coach.
          Adieus on ev'ry side, farewell, farewell,
          Rings in each passing ear; yet, nor regret
          Nor sorrow marks the face, but all elate
          With cheerful tongue and brighten'd eye, unite
          To hail with joy Etona's holiday.
          Now comes the trial of who stands for King's,
          Examinations difficult and deep
          The Provost and his pozers to o'ercome.
          To this succeeds the grand aquatic gala,
          A spectacle of most imposing import,
          Where, robed in every costume of the world,
          The gay youth direct the glittering prow;
          A fleet of well-trimm'd barks upon the bosom
          Of old father Thames, glide on to pleasure's note:
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[51]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          The expert victors are received with cheers,
          And the dark canopy of night's illumin'd
          With a grand display of brilliant fires.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Shortly after the arrival of the Provost, he proceeds
     through the cloisters, where he is met by the captain, or
     head boy of the school, who speaks a long Latin oration
     before him, standing under the clock.
</pre>
    <p>
      To an old Etonian the last week in July brings with it recollections of
      delight that time and circumstances can never wholly efface. If, beneath
      the broad umbrage of the refreshing grove, he seeks relief from care and
      sultry heat, memory recalls to his imagination the scenes of his boyhood,
      the ever pleasing recollections of infancy, when he reclined upon the
      flowery bosom of old father Thames, or sought amusement in the healthful
      exercise of bathing, or calmly listened to the murmuring ripple of the
      waters, or joined the merry group in gently plying of the splashing oar.
      With what eager delight are these reminiscences of youth dwelt on! With
      what mingled sensations of hope, fear, and regret, do we revert to the
      happy period of life when, like the favorite flower of the month, our
      minds and actions rivalled the lily in her purity! Who, that has ever
      tasted of the inspiring delight which springs from associations of
      scholastic friendships and amusements, but would eagerly quit the bustle
      of the great world to indulge in the enjoyment of the pure and unalloyed
      felicity which is yet to be found among the alumni of Eton?&mdash;Election
      Saturday&mdash;the very sound reverberates the echo of pleasure, and in a
      moment places me (in imagination) in the centre of the long chambers of
      Eton, walking beneath the grateful foliage of the beech-tree, with which
      those dormitories are always decorated previous to election Saturday. I
      can almost fancy that I hear the rattle of the carriage wheels, and see
      the four horses smoking beneath the lodge-window of Eton college, that
      conveys the provost of King's to attend examination and election. Then too
      I can figure the classic band who wait to <span class="pagenum">[52]</span>
      receive him; the dignified little doctor leading the way, followed by the
      steady, calm-visaged lower master, Carter; then comes benedict Yonge, and
      after him a space intervenes, where one should have been of rare
      qualities, but he is absent; then follows good-humoured Heath, and Knapp,
      who loves the rattle of a coach, and pleasant, clever Hawtry, and careful
      Okes, and that shrewd sapper, Green, followed by medium Dupuis, and the
      intelligent Chapman: these form his classic escort to the cloisters. But
      who shall paint the captain's envied feelings, the proud triumph of his
      assiduity and skill? To him the honourable office of public orator is
      assigned; with modest reverence he speaks the Latin oration, standing, as
      is the custom from time immemorial, under the clock. There too he receives
      the bright reward, the approbation of the Provost of King's college, and
      the procession moves forward to the College-hall to partake of the
      generous banquet. On Sunday the Provost of King's remains a guest with his
      compeer of Eton. But busy Monday arrives, and hundreds of Oxonians and
      Cantabs pour in to witness the speeches of the boys, and pay a tribute of
      respect to their former masters. The exhibition this day takes place in
      the upper school, and consists of sixth form oppidans and collegers. How
      well can I remember the animated picture Eton presents on such occasions:
      shoals of juvenile oppidans, who are not yet of an age to have been
      elected of any particular school-party, marching forth from their dames'
      houses, linked arm in arm, parading down the street with an air and gaiety
      that implies some newly acquired consequence, or liberty of conduct. Every
      where a holiday face presents itself, and good humour lisps upon every
      tongue. Here may be seen a youthful group, all anxiety and bustle,
      trudging after some well-known <i>Cad</i>, who creeps along towards the
      Windsor coach-office, loaded with portmanteaus, carpet bags, and <span
      class="pagenum">[53]</span> boxes, like a Norfolk caravan at Christmas
      time; while the youthful proprietors of the bulky stock, all anxiety and
      desire to reach their relatives and friends, are hurrying him on, and do
      not fail to spur the <i>elephant</i> with many a cutting gibe, at his slow
      progression. Within doors the dames are all bustle, collecting, arranging,
      and packing up the wardrobes of their respective boarders; servants flying
      from the hall to the attic, and endangering their necks in their passage
      down again, from anxiety to meet the breathless impetuosity of their
      parting guests. Books of all classes, huddled into a heap, may be seen in
      the corner of each bedroom, making <i>sock</i> for the mice till the
      return of their purveyors with lots of plum-cake and savoury tarts. The
      more mature are now busily engaged in settling the fashion of their
      costume for the approaching gala; in receiving a visit from an elder
      brother, or a young Oxonian, formerly of Eton, who has arrived post to
      take <i>sock</i> with him, and enjoy the approaching festivities. Here a
      venerable domestic, whose silver locks are the truest emblem of his trusty
      services, arrives with the favorite pony to convey home the infant heir
      and hope of some noble house.
    </p>
    <p>
      Now is Garraway as lively as my lord mayor's steward at a Guildhall
      feast-day; and the active note of preparation for the good things of this
      world rings through the oaken chambers of the Christopher. Not even the <i>sanctum
      sanctorum</i> is forgotten, where, in times long past, I have quaffed my
      jug of Bulstrode, "in cool grot," removed from the scorching heat of a
      July day, and enjoyed many a good joke, secure from the prying
      observations of the <i>domine</i>. One, and one only, class of persons
      wear a sorrowful face upon these joyous occasions, and these are the
      confectioners and fruitresses of Eton; with them, election Saturday and
      busy Monday are like the herald to a Jewish black fast, or a stock
      exchange holiday: they may as well <i>sport their oaks</i> (to use an
      Oxford phrase) till the <span class="pagenum">[54]</span> return of the
      oppidans to school, for they seldom see the colour of a customer's cash
      till the, to them, happy period arrives.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the succeeding days the examinations of the collegers proceed
      regularly; then follows the election of new candidates, and the severe
      trial of those who stand for King's. These scholastic arrangements
      generally conclude on the Wednesday night, or Thursday morning, and then
      Pleasure mounts her variegated car, and drives wherever Fancy may direct.
      Formerly I find seven or eight scholars went to King's;{*} but in
      consequence of the fellows of Eton holding pluralities, the means are
      impoverished, and the number consequently reduced to two or three: this is
      the more to be regretted, on account of the very severe and irrecoverable
      disappointment the scholars experience in losing their election, merely on
      account of age; as at nineteen they are superannuated, and cannot
      afterwards receive any essential benefit from the college.
    </p>
    <p>
      Not the blue waves of the Engia, covered with the gay feluccas of the
      Greeks, and spreading their glittering streamers in the sun; nor the more
      lovely
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * This noble seminary of learning was founded by Hen. VI. in
     1440. Its establishment was then on a limited scale; it has
     long since been enlarged, and now consists of a provost,
     vice-provost, six fellows, two schoolmasters, with their
     assistants, seventy scholars, seven clerks, and ten
     choristers, besides various inferior officers and servants.
     The annual election of scholars to King's College,
     Cambridge, takes place about the end of July, or the
     beginning of August, when the twelve senior scholars are put
     on the roll to succeed, but they are not removed till
     vacancies occur; the average number of which is about nine
     in two years. At nineteen years of age the scholars are
     superannuated. Eton sends, also, two scholars to Merton
     College, Oxford, where they are denominated post-masters,
     and has likewise a few exhibitions of twenty-one guineas
     each for its superannuated scholars. The scholars elected to
     King's succeed to fellowships at three years' standing.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[55]</span> Adriatic, swelling her translucent bosom
      to the gentle motion of the gondolier, and bearing on her surface the
      splendid cars and magnificent pageant of the Doge of Venice, marrying her
      waters to the sea, can to an English bosom yield half the delight the
      grand aquatic Eton gala affords; where, decked in every costume fancy can
      devise, may be seen the noble youth of Britain, her rising statesmen,
      warriors, and judges, the future guardians of her liberties, wealth, and
      commerce, all vying with each other in loyal devotion to celebrate the
      sovereign's natal day.{*} Then doth thy silvery bosom, father Thames,
      present a spectacle truly delightful; a transparent mirror, studded with
      gems and stars and splendid pageantry, reflecting a thousand brilliant
      variegated hues; while, upon thy flowery margin, the loveliest daughters
      of the land press the green velvet of luxuriant nature, outrivalling in
      charms of colour, form, and beauty, the rose, the lily, and the graceful
      pine. There too may be seen the accomplished and the gay youth labouring
      for pleasure at the healthful oar, while with experienced skill the expert
      helmsman directs through all thy fragrant windings the trim bark to
      victory. The race determined, the bright star of eve, outrivalled by the
      pyrotechnic <i>artiste</i>, hides his diminished head. Now sallies forth
      the gay Oxonian from the Christopher, ripe with the rare Falernian of mine
      host, to have his frolic gambol with old friends. Pale Luna, through her
      misty veil, smiles at these harmless pleasantries, and lends the merry
      group her aid to smuggle signs, alter names, and play off a thousand
      fantastic vagaries; while the Eton Townsman, robed in
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * The grand aquatic gala, which terminates the week's festi-
     vities at Eton, and concludes the water excursions for the
     season, was originally fixed in honour of his late majesty's
     birthday, and would have been altered to the period of his
     successor's, but the time would not accord, the twelfth day
     of August being vacation.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[50]</span> peaceful slumber, dreams not of the
      change his house has undergone, and wakes to find a double transformation;
      his <i>Angel</i> vanished, or exchanged for the rude semblance of an
      Oxford <i>Bear</i>, with a cognomen thereto appended, as foreign to his
      family nomenclature "as he to Hercules." In the morning the dames are
      wailing the loss of their polished knockers; and the barber-surgeon mourns
      the absence of his obtrusive pole. The optician's glasses have been
      removed to the door of some prying <i>domine</i>; and the large tin cocked
      hat has been seized by some midnight giant, who has also claimed old
      Crispin's three-leagued boot. The golden fish has leaped into the Thames.
      The landlord of the Lamb bleats loudly for his fleece. The grocer cares
      not a fig for the loss of his sugar-loaves, but laughs, and takes it as a
      currant joke. Old Duplicate is resolved to have his balls restored with
      interest; and the lady mother of the black doll is quite pale in the face
      with sorrow for the loss of her child. Mine host of the vine looks as sour
      as his own grapes, before they were fresh gilded; and spruce master
      Pigtail, the tobacconist, complains that his large roll of real Virginia
      has been chopped into short cut. But these are by far the least tormenting
      jokes. That good-humoured Cad, Jem Miller, finds the honorary distinction
      of private tutor added to his name. Dame &mdash;&mdash;s, an
      irreproachable spinster of forty, discovers that of Mr. Probe,
      man-midwife, appended to her own. Mr. Primefit, the Eton Stultz, is
      changed into Botch, the cobbler. Diodorus Drowsy, D.D., of Windsor, is
      re-christened Diggory Drenchall, common brewer; and the amiable Mrs.
      Margaret Sweet, the Eton pastry-cook and confectioner, finds her name
      united in bands of brass with Mr. Benjamin Bittertart, the baker. The
      celebrated Christopher Caustic, Esq., surgeon, has the mortification to
      find his Esculapian dormitory decorated with the sign-board of Mr.
      Slaughtercalf, a German butcher; while his handsome brass pestle <span
      class="pagenum">[57]</span> and mortar, with the gilt Galen's head
      annexed, have been waggishly transferred to the house of some Eton Dickey
      Gossip, barber and dentist. Mr. Index, the bookseller, changes names with
      old Frank Finis, the sexton. The elegant door plate of Miss Caroline
      Cypher, spinster, is placed on the right side of Nicodemus
    </p>
    <p>
      Number, B.A., and fellow of Eton, with this note annexed: "New rule of
      Addition, according to Cocker." Old Amen, the parish clerk, is united to
      Miss Bridget Silence, the pew opener; and Theophilus White, M.D. changes
      place with Mr. Sable, the undertaker. But we shall become too grave if we
      proceed deeper with this subject. There is no end to the whimsical
      alterations and ludicrous changes that take place upon these occasions,
      when scarce a sign or door plate in Eton escapes some pantomimic
      transformation.*
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     * Representations to the masters or authorities are scarcely
     ever necessary to redress these whimsical grievances, as the
     injured parties are always remunerated. The next day the
     spoils and trophies are arranged in due form in a certain
     snug sanctum sanctorum, the cellar of a favorite inn, well
     known by the name of the <i>Oppidan's</i> Museum; for a view of
     which see the sketch made on the spot by my friend Bob
     Transit. Here the merry wags are to be found in council,
     holding a court of claims, to which all the tradesmen who
     have suffered any loss are successively summoned; and after
     pointing out from among the motley collection the article
     they claim, and the price it originally cost, they are
     handsomely remunerated, or the sign replaced. The good
     people of Eton generally choose the former, as it not only
     enable them to sport a new sign, but to put a little profit
     upon the cost price of the old one. The trophies thus
     acquired are then packed up in hampers, and despatched to
     Oxford, where they are on similar occasions not unfrequently
     displayed, or hung up, in lieu of some well-known sign, such
     as the Mitre, &amp;c. which has been removed during the night.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[58]</span> <a name="image-0017" id="image-0017">
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    <p>
      The following jeu-d'esprits issued upon the interference of the
      authorities at the conclusion of the last Election. The "dance of thirty
      sovereigns" is an allusion to the fine imposed, which was given to the
      poor.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          A Ladder Dance.
          A moving golden Fish.
          The Fall of Grapes, during a heavy storm.
          The Cock'd Hat Combat.
          A March to the Workhouse.
          Bird-cage Duett, by Messrs. C***** and B****.
          A public Breakfast, with a dance by thirty sovereigns.
          Glee&mdash;"When shall we three meet again."
          The Barber's Hornpipe, by the learned D****.
          The Turk's Head Revel.
          Saint Christopher's March.
          The Committee in Danger.
          The Cloisters, Eton
</pre>
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    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[59]</span> HERBERT STOCKHORE, THE MONTEM POET
      LAUREATE. A SKETCH FROM THE LIFE,
    </p>
    <p>
      As he appeared in the Montent Procession of May, 1823.
    </p>
    <p>
      BY BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, AND ROBERT TRANSIT
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Bending beneath a weight of time,
          And crippled as his Montem ode,
          We found the humble son of rhyme

          Busy beside the public road.
          Nor laurel'd wreath or harp had he,

          To deck his brow or touch the note
          That wakes the soul to sympathy.

          His face was piteous as his coat,
          'Twas motley strange; e'en nature's self,

          In wild, eccentric, playful mood,
          Had, for her pastime, form'd the elf,

          A being scarcely understood&mdash;
          Half idiot, harmless; yet a gleam

          Of sense, and whim, and shrewdness, broke
          The current of his wildest stream;

          And pity sigh'd as madness spoke.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[60]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Lavater, Lawrence, Camper, here

          Philosophy new light had caught:
          Judged by your doctrines 'twould appear

          The facial line denoted thought.{1}
          But say, what system e'er shall trace

          By scalp or visage mental worth?
          The ideot's form, the maniac's face,

          Are shared alike by all on earth.
          "Comparative Anatomy&mdash;"

          If, Stockhore, 'twas to thee apply'd,
          'Twould set the doubting Gallist free,

          And Spurzheim's idle tales deride.
          But hence with visionary scheme,

          Though Bell, or Abernethy, write;
          Be Herbert Stockhore all my theme,

          The laureate's praises I indite;
          He erst who sung in Montem's praise,

          And, Thespis like, from out his cart
          Recited his extempore lays,

          On Eton's sons, in costume smart,
          Who told of captains bold and grand,

          Lieutenants, marshals, seeking <i>salt</i>;
          Of colonels, majors, cap in hand,

          Who bade e'en majesty to halt;

     1 It is hardly possible to conceive a more intelligent,
     venerable looking head, than poor Herbert Stockhore
     presents; a fine capacious forehead, rising like a
     promontory of knowledge, from a bold outline of countenance,
     every feature decisive, breathing serenity and
     thoughtfulness, with here and there a few straggling locks
     of silvery gray, which, like the time-discoloured moss upon
     some ancient battlements, are the true emblems of antiquity:
     the eye alone is generally dull and sunken in the visage,
     but during his temporary gleams of sanity, or fancied
     flights of poetical inspiration, it is unusually bright and
     animated. According to professor Camper, I should think the
     facial line would make an angle of eighty or ninety degrees;
     and, judging upon the principles laid down by Lavater, poor
     Herbert might pass for a Solon. Of his bumps, or
     phrenological protuberances, I did not take particular
     notice, but I have no doubt they would be found, upon
     examination, equally illustrative of such visionary systems.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[61]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Told how the ensign nobly waved

          The colours on the famous hill;
          And names from dull oblivion saved,

          Who ne'er the niche of fame can fill:
          Who, like to Campbell, lends his name.{2}

          To many a whim he ne'er did write;
          When witty scholars, to their shame,

          'Gainst masters hurl a satire trite.{3}
          But fare thee well, Ad Montem's bard,{4}

          Farewell, my mem'ry's early friend

     2 The author of "the Pleasures of Hope," and the editor of
     the New Monthly; but-"<i>Tardè, quo credita lodunt,
     credimus</i>."

     3  It has long been the custom at Eton, particularly during
     Montem, to give Herbert Stockhore the credit of many a
     satirical whim, which he, poor fellow, could as easily have
     penned as to have written a Greek ode. These squibs are
     sometimes very humorous, and are purposely written in
     doggrel verse to escape detection by the masters, who are
     not unfrequently the principal porsons alluded to.

     4 The following laughable production was sold by poor
     Herbert Stockhore during the last Montem: we hardly think we
     need apologise for introducing this specimen of his muse:
     any account of Eton characteristics must have been held
     deficient without it.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      THE MONTEM ODE. May 20, 1823.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Muses attend! the British channel flock o'er,
          Call'd by your most obedient servant, Stockhore.
          Aid me, O, aid me, while I touch the string;
          Montem and Captain Barnard's praise I sing;
          Captain Barnard, the youth so noble and bright,
          That none dare dispute his worthy right
          To that gay laurel which his brother wore,
          In times that 1 remember long before.
          What are Olympic honours compared to thine,
          0 Captain, when Majesty does combine
          With heroes, their wives, sons and daughters great,
          To visit this extremely splendid fête.
          Enough! I feel a sudden inspiration fill
          My bowels; just as if the tolling bell
          Had sent forth sounds a floating all along the air
          Just such Parnassian sounds, though deaf, I'm sure I hear.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[62]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          May misery never press thee hard,
          Ne'er may disease thy steps attend:
          Listen, ye gents; rude Boreas hold your tongue!
          The pomp advances, and my lyre is strung.
          First comes Marshal Thackeray,
          Dress'd out in crack array;
          Ar'nt he a whacker, eh?
          His way he picks,
          Follow'd by six,
          Like a hen by her chicks:

          Enough! he's gone.
          As this martial Marshall
          Is to music partial,
          The bandsmen march all

          His heels upon.
          He who hits the balls such thumps,
          King of cricket-bats and stumps,&mdash;
          Barnard comes;
          Sound the drums&mdash;

          Silence! he's past.
          Eight fair pages,
          Of different ages,

          Follow fast.
          Next comes the Serjeant-Major,
          Who, like an old stager,

          Without need of bridle
          Walks steadily; the same
          Dolphin Major by name,

          Major Dolphin by title.
          Next struts Serjeant Brown,
          Very gay you must own;
          With gallant Mr. Hughes,
          In well-polish'd shoes;
          Then Sampson, who tramps on,
          Strong as his namesake.
          Then comes Webb, who don't dread
          To die for his fame's sake.
          Next shall I sing
          Of Serjeant King,
          And Horace Walpole,
          Holding a tall pole,
          Who follows King and Antrobus,
          Though he's "pulchrior ambobus."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[63]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Be all thy wants by those supply'd,
          Whom charity ne'er fail'd to move{5}:

     5 This eccentric creature has for many years subsisted
     entirely upon the bounty of the Etonians, and the
     inhabitants of Windsor and Eton, who never fail to
     administer to his wants, and liberally supply him with many
     little comforts in return for his harmless pleasantries.

          Then to Salthill speed on,
          While the troops they lead on;
          Both Mr. Beadon,
          And Serjeant Mitford,
          Who's ready to fi't for't.
          Then Mr. Carter follows a'ter;
          And Denman,
          Worth ten men,
          Like a Knight of the Garter;
          And Cumberbatch,
          Without a match,
          Tell me, who can be smarter?
          Then Colonel Hand,
          Monstrous grand,
          Closes the band.
          Pass on, you nameless crowd,
          Pass on. The Ensign proud
          Comes near. Let all that can see
          Behold the Ensign Dansey;
          See with what elegance he
          Waves the flag&mdash;to please the fancy.
          Pass on, gay crowd; Le Mann, the big,
          Bright with gold as a guinea-pig,
          The big, the stout, the fierce Le Mann,
          Walks like a valiant gentleman.
          But take care of your pockets,
          Here's Salt-bearer Platt,
          With a bag in his hand,
          And a plume in his hat;
          A handsomer youth, sure small-clothes ne'er put on,
          Though very near rival'd by elegant Sutton.

          Thus then has pass'd this grand procession,
          In most magnificent progression.
          Farewell you gay and happy throng!
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[64]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Etona's motto, crest, and pride,
          Is feeling, courage, friendship, love.

          Farewell my Muse! farewell my song'
          Farewell Salthill! farewell brave Captain;
          As ever uniform was clapt in;
          Since Fortune's kind, pray do not mock her;
          Your humble poet,

          HERBERT STOCKHORE.
</pre>
    <p>
      Herbert Stockhore was originally a bricklayer, and now resides at a little
      house which he has built for himself, and called Mount Pleasant, in a lane
      leading from Windsor to the Meadows. He has a wife and daughter, honest,
      industrious people, who reside with him, and are by no means displeased at
      the visit of a stranger to their eccentric relative. Some idea of the old
      man's amusing qualifications may be conceived from the following
      description, to which I have added the account he gives of his heraldic
      bearings. It must be recollected that the Etonians encourage these whims
      in the poor old man, and never lose an opportunity of impressing Stockhore
      with a belief in the magnificent powers of his genius.&mdash;After we had
      heard him recite several of his unconnected extempore rhapsodies, we were
      to be indulged with the Montem ode; this the old man insisted should be
      spoken in his gala dress; nor could all the entreaties of his wife and
      daughter, joined to those of myself and friend (fearful of appearing
      obtrusive), dissuade old Herbert from his design. He appeared quite
      frantic with joy when the dame brought forth from an upper apartment these
      insignia of his laureateship; the careful manner in which they were folded
      up and kept clean gave us to understand that the good woman herself set
      some store by them. The wife and daughter now proceeded to robe the
      laureate bard: the first garment which was placed over his shoulders, and
      came below his waist, was a species of tunic made out of patches of
      bed-furniture, trimmed in the most fantastic manner with fragments of
      worsted fringe of all colors. Over this he wore an old military jacket, of
      a very ancient date in respect to costume, and trimmed like the robe with
      fringe of every variety. A pair of loose trowsers of the same materials as
      the tunic were also displayed; but the fashion of the poet's head-dress
      exceeded all the rest for whimsicality: round an old soldier's cap a sheet
      of pasteboard was bent to a spiral form, rising about fourteen inches, and
      covered with some pieces of chintz bed-furniture of a very rich pattern;
      in five separate circles, was disposed as many different colors of
      fringes; some worsted twisted, to resemble feathers, was suspended from
      the side; and the whole had the most grotesque appearance, more nearly
      resembling the papal crown in similitude than any thing else I can
      conceive. <span class="pagenum">[65]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Poor harmless soul, thy merry stave
     Shall live when nobler poets bend;
</pre>
    <p>
      The poor old fellow seemed elated to a degree. We had sent for a little
      ale for him, but were informed he was not accustomed to drink much of any
      strong liquor. After a glass, Herbert recited with great gesture and
      action, but in a very imperfect manner, the Montem ode; and then for a few
      minutes seemed quite exhausted. During this exhibition my friend Transit
      was engaged in sketching his portrait, a circumstance that appeared to
      give great pleasure to the wife and daughter, who earnestly requested, if
      it was published, to be favored with a copy. We had now become quite
      familiar with the old man, and went with him to view his Montem car and
      Arabian pony, as he called them, in a stable adjoining the house. On our
      return, my friend Transit observed that his cart required painting, and
      should be decorated with some appropriate emblem. Herbert appeared to
      understand the idea, and immediately proceeded to give us a history of his
      heraldic bearings, or, as he said, what his coat of arms should be, which,
      he assured us, the gentlemen of Eton had subscribed for, and were having
      prepared at the Heralds' College in London, on purpose for him to display
      next Montem. "My grand-father," said Stockhore, "was a hatter, therefore I
      am entitled to the beaver in the first quarter of my shield. My
      grandfather by my mother's side was a farmer, therefore I should have the
      wheat-sheaf on the other part. My own father was a pipe-maker, and that
      gives me a noble ornament, the cross pipes and glasses, the emblems of
      good fellowship. Now my wife's father was a tailor, and that yields me a
      goose: those are the bearings of the four quarters of my shield. Now, sir,
      I am a poet&mdash;ay, the poet laureate of Montem; and that gives me a
      right to the winged horse for my crest. There's a coat of arms for you,"
      said poor Herbert; "why, it would beat every thing but the king's; ay, and
      his too, if it wasn't for the lion and crown." The attention we paid to
      this whim pleased the poor creature mightily; he was all animation and
      delight. But the day was fast declining: so, after making the poor people
      a trifling present for the trouble we had given them, my friend Transit
      and myself took our farewell of poor Herbert, not, I confess, without
      regret; for I think the reader will perceive by this brief sketch thero is
      great character and amusement in his harmless whims. I have been thus
      particular in my description of him, because he is always at Montem time
      an object of much curiosity; and to every Etonian of the last thirty
      years, his peculiarities must have frequently afforded amusement. <span
      class="pagenum">[66]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          And when Atropos to the grave
          Thy silvery locks of gray shall send,

          Etona's sons shall sing thy fame,
          <i>Ad Montem</i> still thy verse resound,

          Still live an ever cherish'd name,
          As long as <i>salt</i>{2} and sock abound.

     2 Salt is the name given to the money collected at Montem.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      THE DOUBTFUL POINT.
    </h2>
    <p>
      "Why should I not read it," thought Horatio, hesitating, with the MSS. of
      Life in Eton half opened in his hand. A little Chesterfield deity, called
      Prudence, whispered&mdash;"Caution." "Well, Miss Hypocrisy," quoth the
      Student, "what serious offence shall I commit against propriety or
      morality by reading a whimsical jeu-d'esprit, penned to explain the
      peculiar lingual localisms of Eton, and display her chief characteristic
      follies." "It is slang," said Prudence. "Granted," said Horatio: "but he
      who undertakes to depict real life must not expect to make a pleasing or a
      correct picture, without the due proportions of light and shade. 'Vice to
      be hated needs but to be seen.' Playful satire may do more towards
      correcting the evil than all the dull lessons of sober-tongued morality
      can ever hope to effect." Candour, who just then happened to make a
      passing call, was appointed referee; and, without hesitation, agreed
      decidedly with Horatio.{1}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 Life at Eton will not, I hope, be construed into any
     intention of the author's to follow in the track of any
     previous publication: his object is faithfully to delineate
     character, not to encourage vulgar phraseology, or
     promulgate immoral sentiment.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[67]</span> LIFE IN ETON;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          A COLLEGE CHAUNT IN PRAISE OF PRIVATE
          TUTORS.{1}

          Time hallowed shades, and noble names,
          Etonian classic bowers;
          Pros,{2} masters, fellows, and good dames,{3}
          Where pass'd my school-boy hours;

     1 Private tutor, in the Eton school phrase, is another term
     for a <i>Cad</i>, a fellow who lurks about college, and assists
     in all <i>sprees</i> and sports by providing dogs, fishing
     tackle, guns, horses, bulls for baiting, a badger, or in
     promoting any other interdicted, or un-lawful pastime. A
     dozen or more of these well known characters may be seen
     loitering in front of the college every morning, making
     their arrangement with their pupils, the <i>Oppidans</i>, for a
     day's sport, to commence the moment school is over. They
     formerly used to occupy a seat on the low wall, in front of
     the college, but the present headmaster has recently
     interfered to expel this assemblage; they still, however,
     carry on their destructive intercourse with youth, by
     walking about, and watching their opportunity for
     communication. The merits of these worthies are here
     faithfully related, and will be instantly recognised by any
     Etonian of the last thirty years.

     2 <i>PROS</i>. Eton college is governed by a provost, vice-
     provost, six fellows, a steward of the courts, head-master,
     and a lower, or second master; to which is added, nine
     assistant masters, and five extra ones, appointed to teach
     French, writing, drawing, fencing, and dancing. The school
     has materially increased in numbers within the last few
     years, and now contains nearly five hundred scholars, sons
     of noblemen and gentlemen, and may be truly said to be the
     chief nursery for the culture of the flower of the British
     nation.&mdash;See note to page 54.

     3 <i>DAMES</i>. The appellation given to the females who keep
     boarding-houses in Eton. These houses, although out of the
     college walls, are subject to the surveillance of the head
     master and fellows, to whom all references and complaints
     are made.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
<span class="pagenum">[69]</span>
          Come list', while I with con,{4} and sock{5}
          And chaunt,{6} both ripe and mellow,
          Tell how you knowledge stores unlock,

          To make a clever fellow.{7}
          For Greek and Latin, classic stuff,

          Let tug muttons{8}compose it;
          Give oppidans{9} but blunt{10 }enough,

          What odds to them who knows it.
          A dapper dog,{11} a right coolfish,{12}

          Who snugly dines on pewter;
          Quaffs Bulstrode ale,{13} and takes his dish.

     4  CON. A con is a companion, or friend; as, "you are
     cons of late."

     5  SOCK signifies eating or drinking niceties; as, pastry,
     jellies, Bishop, &amp;c.

     6  CHAUNT, a good song; to versify.

     7  This is not intended as an imputation on the learned
     fellows of Eton college, but must be taken in the vulgar
     acceptation&mdash;you're a clever fellow, &amp;c.

     8  TUG MUTTONS, or Tugs, collegers, foundation scholars; an
     appellation given to them by the oppidans, in derision of
     the custom which has prevailed from the earliest period, and
     is still continued, of living entirely on roast mutton; from
     January to December no other description of meat is ever
     served up at College table in the hall. There are seventy of
     these young gentlemen on the foundation who, if they miss
     their election when they are nineteen, lose all the benefits
     of a fellowship.

     9  OPPIDANS, independent scholars not on the foundation.

     10 BLUNT, London slang (for money), in use here.

     11 A DAPPER DOC, any thing smart, or pleasing, as, "Ay,
     that's dapper," or, "you are a dapper dog."

     12 A RIGHT COOL FISH, one who is not particular what he says
     or does.

     13 BULSTRODE ALE, a beverage in great request at the
     Christopher. When the effects were sold at Bulstrode,
     Garraway purchased a small stock of this famous old ale,
     which by some miraculous process he has continued to serve
     out in plentiful quantities ever since. The joke has of late
     been rather against mine host of the Christopher, who,
     however, to do him justice, has an excellent tap, which is
     now called the queen's, from some since purchased at
     Windsor: this is sold in small quarts, at one shilling per
     jug.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
<span class="pagenum">[70]</span>
          In private with his tutor.{14}
          In lieu of ancient learned lore,

          Which might his brain bewilder,
          Rum college slang he patters o'er,

          With cads{15 }who chouse{16} the guilder.
          Who's truly learn'd must read mankind,

          Truth's axiom inculcates:
          The world's a volume to the mind,

          Instructive more than pulpits.{17}
          Come fill the bowl with <i>Bishop</i> up,

          <i>Clods,{18} Fags,{19} and Skugs{20} and Muttons{21}</i>;
          When <i>absence</i>{22} calls ye into sup,

          Drink, drink to me, ye gluttons.
          I'll teach ye how to kill dull care,

          Improve your box of knowledge,{23}

     14 Many of the young noblemen and gentlemen at Eton are
     accompanied by private tutors, who live with them to
     expedite their studies; they are generally of the College,
     and recommended by the head master for their superior
     endowments.

     15  CAD, a man of all work, for dirty purposes, yclept
     private tutor. See note 1, page 68.

     16  CHOUSE the GUILDER. Chouse or chousing is generally
     applied to any transaction in which they think they may have
     been cheated or overcharged.

     Guilder is a cant term for gold.

     17  Nothing in the slightest degree unorthodox is meant to
     be inferred from this reasoning, but simply the sentiment
     of this quotation-'The proper study of mankind is man.'

     18  CLODS, as, "you clod," a town boy, or any one not an
     Etonian, no matter how respectable.

     19 FAGS, boys in the lower classes. Every fifth form boy has
     his fag.

     20 SCUG or SKUG, a lower boy in the school, relating to

     sluggish. 21 MUTTONS. See note 8.

     22 ABSENCE. At three-quarters past eight in summer, and
     earlier in winter, several of the masters proceed to the
     different dames' houses, and call absence, when every boy is
     compelled to be instantly in quarters for the night, on pain
     of the most severe punishment.

     23 BOX of KNOWLEDGE, the pericranium.

          With all that's witty, choice, and rare,

          'Fore all the <i>Slugs</i>{24} of college.
          Of private tutors, vulgo Cads,

          A list I mean to tender;
          The qualities of all the lads,

          Their prices to a <i>bender</i>.{25}
          First, Shampo Carter{26} doffs his <i>tile</i>,

          To dive, to fish, or fire;
          There's few can better time beguile,

          And none in sporting higher.

     24 SLUGS of College, an offensive appellation applied to the
     fellows of Eton by the townsmen.

     25 BENDER, a sixpence.

     26 Note from Bernard Blackmantle, M.A. to Shampo Carter and
     Co. P.T.'s:&mdash;

     MESSIEURS THE CADS OF ETON, In handing down to posterity
     your multifarious merits and brilliant qualifications, you
     will perceive I have not forgotten the signal services and
     delightful gratifications so often afforded me in the days
     of my youth. Be assured, most assiduous worthies, that I am
     fully sensible of all your merits, and can appreciate justly
     your great usefulness to the rising generation. You are the
     sappers and miners of knowledge, who attack and destroy the
     citadel of sense before it is scarcely defensible. It is no
     fault of yours if the stripling of Eton is not, at eighteen,
     well initiated into all the mysteries of life, excepting
     only the, to him, mysterious volumes of the classics. To do
     justice to all was not within the limits of my work; I have
     therefore selected from among you the most distinguished
     names, and I flatter myself, in so doing, I have omitted
     very few of any note; if, however, any efficient member of
     your brotherhood should have been unintentionally passed by,
     he has only to forward an authenticated copy of his
     biography and peculiar merits to the publisher, to meet with
     insertion in a second edition.

     Bernard Blackmantle.

     Bill Carter is, after all, a very useful fellow, if it was
     only in teaching the young Etonians to swim, which he does,
     by permission of the head master.

     Tile, a hat.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
<span class="pagenum">[72]</span>
          Joe Cannon, or my lord's a gun,{27}
          A regular nine pounder;
          To man a boat, stands number one,

          And ne'er was known to flounder.
          There's Foxey Hall{28} can throw the line
          With any Walton angler;
          To tell his worth would task the Nine,

          Or pose a Cambridge wrangler.
          Next, Pickey Powell{29} at a ball

          Is master of the wicket;
          Can well deliver at a call

          A trite essay on cricket.
          Jem Flowers {30} baits a badger well,

          For a bull <i>hank, or tyke</i>, sir;
          And as an out and out bred <i>swell</i>,{31}

          Was never seen his like.

     27 A GUN&mdash;"He's a great gun," a good fellow, a knowing one.
     Joe is a first rate waterman, and by the Etonians styled
     "Admiral of the fleet."

     28 "Not a better fellow than Jack Hall among the Cads," said
     an old Etonian, "or a more expert angler." Barb, Gudgeon,
     Dace, and Chub, seem to bite at his bidding; and if they
     should be a little shy, why Jack knows how to "go to work
     with the net."

     29 Who, that has been at Eton, and enjoyed the manly and
     invigorating exercise of cricket, has not repeatedly heard
     Jem Powell in tones of exultation say, "Only see me '<i>liver
     thin here</i> ball, my young master?" And, in good truth, Jem
     is right, for very few can excel him in that particular: and
     then (when Jem is <i>Bacchi plenis</i>,) who can withstand his
     <i>quart of sovereigns</i>. On such occasions Jem is seen
     marching up and down before the door of his house, with a
     silver quart tankard filled with gold&mdash;the savings of many
     years of industry.

     30 Jem Flowers is an old soldier; and, in marshalling the
     forces for a bull or a badger-bait, displays all the tactics
     of an experienced general officer. Caleb Baldwin would no
     more bear comparison with Jem than a flea does to an
     elephant.

     31 When it is remembered how near Eton is to London, and how
     frequent the communication, it will appear astonishing, but
     highly creditable to the authorities, that so little of the
     current slang of the day is to be met with here.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[73]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          There's Jolly Jem,{32} who keeps his punt,

          And dogs to raise the siller;
          Of <i>cads</i>, the captain of the hunt,

          A right and tight good miller.
          Next Barney Groves,{33} a learned wight,

          The impounder of cattle,
          Dilates on birth and common right,

          And threats <i>black slugs</i> with battle.
          Big George {34} can teach the use of fives,

          Or pick up a prime terrier;
          Or <i>spar</i>, or keep the game alive,

          With beagle, bull, or harrier.
          Savager{35} keeps a decent nag,
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     32 Jem Miller was originally a tailor; but having dropt a
     stitch or two in early life, <i>listed</i> into a sporting
     regiment of Cads some years since; and being a better shot
     at hares and partridges than he was considered at the <i>heavy
     goose</i>, has been promoted to the rank of captain of the
     private tutors. Jem is a true jolly fellow; his house
     exhibits a fine picture of what a sportsman's hall should
     be, decorated with all the emblems of fishing, fowling, and
     hunting, disposed around in great taste.

     33  Barney Groves, the haughward, or impounder of stray
     cattle at Eton, is one of the most singular characters I
     have ever met with. Among the ignorant Barney is looked up
     to as the fountain of local and legal information; and it is
     highly ludicrous to hear him expatiate on his favourite
     theme of "our birthrights and common rights;" tracing the
     first from the creation, and deducing argument in favor of
     his opinions on the second from doomsday book, through all
     the intricate windings of the modern inclosure acts. Barney
     is a great stickler for reform in College, and does not
     hesitate to attack the fellows of Eton (whom he denominates
     black slugs), on holding pluralities, and keeping the good
     things to themselves. As Barney's avocation compels him to
     travel wide, he is never interrupted by water; for in summer
     or winter he readily wades through the deepest places; he is
     consequently a very efficient person in a sporting party.

     34 George Williams, a well-known dog fancier, who also
     teaches the art and science of pugilism.

     35 Savager, a livery-stable keeper, who formerly used to
     keep a good tandem or two for hire, but on the interference
     of the head master, who interdicted such amusements as
     dangerous, they have been put down in Eton.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[74]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          But's very shy of lending,
          Since she put down her tandem <i>drag</i>,{36}

          For fear of Keates offending.
          But if you want to splash along

          In glory with a <i>ginger</i>,{37}
          Or in a Stanhope come it strong,

          Try Isaac Clegg,{38} of Windsor.
          If o'er old father Thames you'd glide,

          And cut the silvery stream;
          With Hester's{39} eight oars mock the tide,

          He well deserves a <i>theme</i>.
          There's Charley Miller, and George Hall,{40}

          Can beasts and birds restore, sir;
          And though they cannot bark or squall,

          Look livelier than before, sir.
          Handy Jack's {41} a general blade,

          There's none like Garraway, sir;
          Boats, ducks, or dogs, are all his trade,

          He'll fit you to a say, sir.

     36  DR A G, London slang for tilbury, dennet, Stanhope, &amp;c.

     37  A GINGER, a showy, fast horse.

     38  Isaac Clegg is in great repute for his excellent turn
     outs, and prime nags; and, living in Windsor, he is out of
     the jurisdiction of the head master.

     39  Hester's boats are always kept in excellent trim. At
     Eton exercise on the water is much practised, and many of
     the scholars are very expert watermen: they have recently
     taken to boats of an amazing length, forty feet and upwards,
     which, manned with eight oars, move with great celerity.
     Every Saturday evening the scholars are permitted to assume
     fancy dresses; but the practice is now principally confined
     to the steersman; the rest simply adopting sailors' costume,
     except on the fourth of June, or election Saturday, when
     there is always a grand gala, a band of music, and
     fireworks, on the island in the Thames.

     40  Miller and Hall, two famous preservers of birds and
     animals; an art in high repute among the Etonians.

     41  A famous boatman, duck-hunter, dog-fighter; or,
     according to the London phrase&mdash;good at everything.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[75]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Tom New {42} in manly sports is old,

          A tailor, and a trump, sir;
          And <i>odd Fish Bill</i>,{43} at sight of gold,

          Will steer clear of the bump,"{44} sir.
          A list of <i>worthies</i>, learn'd and great

          In every art and science,
          That noble youths should emulate,

          To set laws at defiance:
          The church, the senate, and the bar,

          By these in ethics grounded,
          Must prove a meteoric star,

          Of brilliancy compounded.
          Ye lights of Eton, rising suns,

          Of all that's great and godly;
          The nation's hope, and dread of <i>duns</i>,

          Let all your acts be <i>motley</i>.
          Learn arts like these, ye oppidan,

          If you'd astonish greatly
          The senate, or the great divan,

          With classics pure, and stately.
          Give Greek and Latin to the wind,

          Bid pedagogues defiance:
          These are the rules to grace the mind

          With the true gems of science.

     42  Tom New, a great cricketer.

     43  Bill Fish, a waterman who attends the youngest boys in
     their excursions.

     44  The BUMP, to run against each other in the race.
</pre>
    <p>
      APOLLO'S VISIT TO ETON.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[76]</span> This whimsical production appeared
      originally in 1819, in an Eton miscellany entitled the College Magazine;
      the poetry of which was afterwards selected, and only fifty copies struck
      off: these have been carefully suppressed, principally we believe on
      account of this article, as it contains nothing that we conceive can be
      deemed offensive, and has allusions to almost all the distinguished
      scholars of that period, besides including the principal contributors to
      the Etonian, a recent popular work: we have with some difficulty filled up
      the blanks with real names; and, at the suggestion of several old
      Etonians, incorporated it with the present work, as a fair criterion of
      the promising character of the school at this particular period.
    </p>
    <p>
      The practice of thus distinguishing the rising talents of Eton is somewhat
      ancient. We have before us a copy of verses dated 1620, in which Waller,
      the poet, and other celebrated characters of his time, are particularised.
      At a still more recent period, during the mastership of the celebrated
      Doctor Barnard, the present earl of Carlisle, whose classical taste is
      universally admitted, distinguished himself not less than his compeers, by
      some very elegant lines: those on the late Right Hon. C. J. Fox we are
      induced to extract as a strong proof of the noble earl's early penetration
      and foresight.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "How will my Fox, alone, by strength of parts.
     Shake the loud senate, animate the hearts
     Of fearful statesmen? while around you stand
     Both Peers and Commons listening your command.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[77]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     While <i>Tully's</i> sense its weight to you affords,
     His nervous sweetness shall adorn your words.
     What praise to Pitt,{1} to Townshend, e'er was due,
     In future times, my Pox, shall wait on you."
</pre>
    <p>
      At a subsequent period, the leading characters of the school were
      spiritedly drawn in a periodical newspaper, called the World, then edited
      by Major Topham, and the Rev. Mr. East, who is still, I believe, living,
      and preaches occasionally at Whitehall. From that publication, now very
      scarce, I have selected the following as the most amusing, and relating to
      distinguished persons.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 The great Earl of Chatham.
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0011" id="link2H_4_0011">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      RECOLLECTIONS OF AN OLD ETONIAN.
    </h2>
    <p>
      The Lords Littleton&mdash;father and son, formed two opposite characters
      in their times. The former had a distinguished turn for pastoral poetry,
      and wrote some things at Eton with all the enthusiasm of early years, and
      yet with all the judgment of advanced life. The latter showed there, in
      some traits of disposition, what was to be expected from him; but he too
      loved the Muses, and cultivated them.
    </p>
    <p>
      He there too displayed the strange contraries of being an ardent admirer
      of the virtues of classic times, while he was cheating at chuck and
      all-fours; and though he affected every species of irreligion, was, in
      fact, afraid of his own shadow.
    </p>
    <p>
      The whole North Family have, in succession, adorned this school with their
      talents&mdash;which in the different branches were various, but all of
      mark and vivacity. To the younger part, Dampier was the tutor; who, having
      a little disagreement with Frank North on the hundred steps coming down
      from the terrace, at Windsor, they adjusted it, by Frank North's rolling
      his tutor very quickly down the whole of them. The tutor has since risen
      to some eminence in the church.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Cholmondeley was early in life a boy of great parts, and they have
      continued so ever since, though not lively ones. Earl of Buckingham was a
      plain good scholar, but <span class="pagenum">[79]</span> would have been
      better at any other school, for he was no poet, and verse is here one of
      the first requisites; besides, he had an impediment in his speech, which,
      in the hurry of repeating a lesson before a number of boys, was always
      increased. It was inculcated to him by his dame&mdash;that he must look
      upon himself as the reverse of a woman in every thing, and not hold&mdash;that
      whoever "<i>deliberates is lost</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Harrington was a boy of much natural spirit. In the great rebellion,
      under <i>Forster</i>, when all the boys threw their books into the Thames,
      and marched to Salt Hill, he was amongst the foremost. At that place each
      took an oath, or rather swore, he would be d&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;d if ever
      he returned to school again.
    </p>
    <p>
      When, therefore, he came to London to the old Lord Harrington's, and sent
      up his name, his father would only speak to him at the door, insisting, at
      the same time, on his immediate return. "Sir," said the son, "consider I
      shall be d&mdash;d if I do!" "And I" answered the father, "will be d&mdash;d
      if you don't!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, my lord," replied the son, "but you will be d&mdash;d together I do
      or no!"
    </p>
    <p>
      The Storers. Anthony and Tom, for West Indians, were better scholars than
      usually fell to the share of those <i>children of the sun</i>, who were,
      in general, too gay to be great. The name of the elder stands to this day
      at the head of many good exercises; from which succeeding genius has
      stolen, and been praised for it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tom had an odd capability of running round a room on the edge of the
      wainscot, a strange power of holding by the foot: an art which, in lower
      life, might have been serviceable to him in the showing it. And Anthony,
      likewise, amongst better and more brilliant qualifications, had the
      reputation of being amongst the best dancers of the age. In a political
      line, perhaps, he did not <i>dance attendance</i> to much purpose.
    </p>
    <p>
      Harry Conway, brother to the present Marquis of <span class="pagenum">[80]</span>
      Hertford, though younger in point of learning, was older than his brother,
      Lord Beauchamp; but he was not so forward as to show this preeminence: a
      somewhat of modesty, a consciousness of being younger, always kept him
      back from displaying it. In fact, they were perfectly unlike two Irish
      boys&mdash;the Wades, who followed them, and who, because the younger was
      taller, used to fight about which was the eldest.
    </p>
    <p>
      Pepys. A name well known for Barnard's commendation of it, and for his
      exercises in the <i>Musæ Etonenses</i>. He was amongst the best poets that
      Eton ever produced.
    </p>
    <p>
      Kirkshaw, son to the late doctor, of Leeds, and since fellow of Trinity
      College. When his father would have taken him away, he made a singular
      request that he might stay a year longer, not wishing to be made a man so
      early.
    </p>
    <p>
      Many satiric Latin poems bear his name at Eton, and he continued that turn
      afterwards at Cambridge. He was remarkable for a very large head; but it
      should likewise be added, there was a good deal in it.
    </p>
    <p>
      On this head, his father used to hold forth in the country. He was,
      without a figure, the head of the school, and was afterwards in the caput
      at the university.
    </p>
    <p>
      Wyndham, under Barnard, distinguished himself very early as a scholar, and
      for a logical acuteness, which does not often fall to the share of a boy.
      He was distinguished too both by land and by water; for while he was
      amongst the most informed of his time, in school hours, in the playing
      fields, on the water, with the celebrated boatman, my guinea piper at
      cricket, or in rowing, he was always the foremost. He used to boast, that
      he should in time be as good a boxer as his father was, though he used to
      add, that never could be exactly known, as he could not decently have a <i>set-to</i>
      with him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[81]</span> Fawkener, the major, was captain of the
      school; and in those days was famed for the "<i>suaviter in modo</i>," and
      for a turn for gallantry with the Windsor milliners, which he pursued up
      the hundred steps, and over the terrace there. As this turn frequently
      made him overrun the hours of absence, on his return he was found out, and
      flogged the next morning; but this abated not his zeal in the cause of
      gallantry, as he held it to be, like <i>Ovid</i>, whom he was always
      reading, suffering in a fair cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      Fawkener, Everard, minor, with the same turn for pleasure as his brother,
      but more open and ingenuous in his manner, more unreserved in his
      behaviour, then manifested, what he has since been, the bon vivant of
      every society, and was then as since, the admired companion in every
      party.
    </p>
    <p>
      Prideaux was remarkable for being the gravest boy of his time, and for
      having the longest chin. Had he followed the ancient "<i>Sapientem pascere
      Barbam</i>," there would in fact have been no end of it. With this turn,
      however, his time was not quite thrown away, nor his gravity. In
      conjunction with Dampier, Langley, and Serjeant, who were styled the
      learned Cons, he composed a very long English poem, in the same metre as
      the Bath Guide, and of which it was then held a favour to get a copy. He
      had so much of advanced life about him, that the masters always looked
      upon him as a man; and this serious manner followed him through his
      pastimes. He was fond of billiards; but he was so long in making his
      stroke, that no boy could bear to play with him: when the game, therefore,
      went against him, like Fabius-<i>Cunctando restituit rem</i>; and they
      gave it up rather than beat him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hulse. Amongst the best tennis-players that Eton ever sent up to Windsor,
      where he always was. As a poet he distinguished himself greatly, by
      winning one of the medals given by Sir John Dalrymple. His <span
      class="pagenum">[82]</span> exercise on this occasion was the subject of
      much praise to Doctor Forster, then master, and of much envy to his
      contemporaries in the sixth form, who said it was given to him because he
      was head boy.
    </p>
    <p>
      These were his arts; besides which he had as many tricks as any boy ever
      had. He had nothing when præpositer, and of course ruling under boys, of
      dignity about him, or of what might enforce his authority. When he ought
      to have been angry, some monkey trick always came across him, and he would
      make a serious complaint against a little boy, in a hop, step, and a jump.
    </p>
    <p>
      Montague. Having a great predecessor before him under the appellation of "<i>Mad
      Montague</i>" had always a consolatory comparison in this way in his
      favor. In truth, at times he wanted it, for he was what has been termed a
      genius: but he was likewise so in talent. He was an admirable poet, and
      had a neatness of expression seldom discoverable at such early years. In
      proof, may be brought a line from a Latin poem on Cricket:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "<i>Clavigeri fallit verbera&mdash;virga cadit</i>."
</pre>
    <p>
      And another on scraping a man down at the <i>Robin Hood</i>:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "<i>Radit arenosam pes inimicus humum</i>."
</pre>
    <p>
      The scratching of the foot on the sandy floor is admirable.
    </p>
    <p>
      During a vacation, Lord Sandwich took him to Holland; and he sported on
      his return a Dutch-built coat for many weeks. The boys used to call him <i>Mynheer
      Montague</i>; but his common habit of oddity soon got the better of his
      coat.
    </p>
    <p>
      He rose to be a young man of great promise, as to abilities; and died too
      immaturely for his fame.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tickell, the elder. <i>Manu magis quam capite</i> should have been his
      motto. By natural instinct he loved <span class="pagenum">[83]</span>
      fighting, and knew not what fear was. He went amongst his school-fellows
      by the name of Hannibal, and Old Tough. A brother school-fellow of his, no
      less a man than the Marquis of Buckingham, met, and recognised him again
      in Ireland, and with the most marked solicitude of friendship, did every
      thing but assist him, in obtaining a troop of dragoons, which he had much
      at heart.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tickell, minor, should then have had the eulogy of how much elder art thou
      than thy years! In those early days his exercises, read publicly in
      school, gave the anticipation of what time and advancing years have
      brought forth. He was an admirable scholar, and a poet from nature;
      forcible, neat, and discriminating. The fame of his grandsire, the Tickell
      of Addison, was not hurt by the descent to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      His sister, who was the beauty of Windsor castle, and the admiration of
      all, early excited a passion in a boy then at school, who afterwards
      married her. Of this sister he was very fond; but he was not less so of
      another female at Windsor, a regard since terminated in a better way with
      his present wife.
    </p>
    <p>
      His pamphlet of <i>Anticipation</i>, it is said, placed him where he since
      was, under the auspices of Lord North; but his abilities were of better
      quality, and deserved a better situation for their employment.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Plymouth, then Lord Windsor, had to boast some distinctions, which
      kept him aloof from the boys of his time. He was of that inordinate size
      that, like Falstaff, four square yards on even ground were so many miles
      to him; and the struggles which he underwent to raise himself when down
      might have been matter of instruction to a minority member. In the
      entrance to his Dame's gate much circumspection was necessary; for, like
      some good men out of power, he found it difficult to get in.
    </p>
    <p>
      When in school, or otherwise, he was not undeserving of praise, either as
      to temper or <span class="pagenum">[84]</span> scholarship; and whether
      out of the excellence of his Christianity, or that of good humour, he was
      not very adverse to good living; and he continued so ever after.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Leicester had the reputation of good scholarship, and not
      undeservedly. In regard to poetry, however, he was sometimes apt to break
      the eighth commandment, and prove lie read more the Musee Etonenses than
      his prayer-book. Inheriting it from Lord Townshend, the father of
      caricaturists, he there pursued, with nearly equal ability, that turn for
      satiric drawing. The master, the tutors, slender Prior, and fat Roberts,&mdash;all
      felt in rotation the effects of his pencil.
    </p>
    <p>
      There too, as well as since, he had a most venerable affection for
      heraldry, and the same love of collecting together old titles, and
      obsolete mottos. Once in the military, he had, it may be said, a turn for
      arms. In a zeal of this kind he once got over the natural mildness of his
      temper, and was heard to exclaim&mdash;"There are two griffins in my
      family that have been missing these three centuries, and by G-, I'll have
      iliem back again!"-This passion was afterwards improved into so perfect a
      knowledge, that in the creation of peers he was applied to, that every due
      ceremonial might be observed; and he never failed in his recollection on
      these antiquated subjects.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tom Plummer gave then a specimen of that quickness and vivacity of parts
      for which he was afterwards famed. But not as a scholar, not as a poet,
      was he quick alone; he was quick too in the wrong ends of things, as well
      as the right, with a plausible account to follow it.
    </p>
    <p>
      In fact, he was born for the law; clear, discriminating, judicious, alive,
      and with a noble impartiality to all sides of questions, and which none
      could defend better. This goes, however, only to the powers of his head;
      in those of the heart no one, and in the best <span class="pagenum">[85]</span>
      and tenderest qualities of it, ever stood better. He was liked
      universally, and should be so; for no man was ever more meritorious for
      being good, as he who had all the abilities which sometimes make a man
      otherwise.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the progress of life mind changes often, and body almost always. Both
      these rules, however, he lived to contradict; for his talents and his
      qualities retained their virtue; and when a boy he was as tall as when a
      man, and apparently the same.
    </p>
    <p>
      Capel Loft. In the language of Eton the word gig comprehended all that was
      ridiculous, all that was to be laughed at, and plagued to death; and of
      all gigs that was, or ever will be, this gentleman, while a boy, was the
      greatest.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was like nothing, "in the heavens above, or the waters under the
      earth;" and therefore he was surrounded by a mob of boys whenever he
      appeared. These days of popularity were not pleasant. Luckily, however,
      for himself, he found some refuge from persecution in his scholarship.
      This scholarship was much above the rate, and out of the manner of common
      boys.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a poet, he possessed fluency and facility, but not the strongest
      imagination. As a classic, he was admirable; and his prose themes upon
      different subjects displayed an acquaintance with the Latin idiom and
      phraseology seldom acquired even by scholastic life, and the practice of
      later years. Beyond this, he read much of everything that appeared, knew
      every thing, and was acquainted with every better publication of the
      times.
    </p>
    <p>
      Even then he studied law, politics, divinity; and could have written well
      upon those subjects.
    </p>
    <p>
      These talents have served him since more effectually than they did then;
      more as man than boy:
    </p>
    <p>
      For at school he was a kind of Gray Beard: he neither ran, played, jumped,
      swam, or fought, as <span class="pagenum">[86]</span> other boys do. The
      descriptions of puerile years, so beautifully given by <i>Gray</i>, in his
      ode:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "Who, foremost, now delight to cleave,
     With pliant arm, thy glassy wave?
     The captive linnet which enthrall?
     What idle progeny succeed,
     To chase the rolling circle's speed,
     Or urge the flying ball?"
</pre>
    <p>
      All these would have been, and were, as non-descriptive of him as they
      would have been of the lord chancellor of England, with a dark brow and
      commanding mien, determining a cause of the first interest to this
      country. Added to this, in personal appearance he was most unfavored; and
      exemplified the Irish definition of an open countenance&mdash;a mouth from
      ear to ear.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Hinchinbroke, from the earliest period of infancy, had all the marks
      of the Montagu family. He had a good head, and a red head, and a Roman
      nose, and a turn to the <i>ars amatoria</i> of Ovid, and all the writers
      who may have written on love. As it was in the beginning&mdash;may be said
      now.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though in point of scholarship he was not in the very first line, the
      descendant of Lord Sandwich could not but have ability, and he had it; but
      this was so mixed with the wanderings of the heart, the vivacity of
      youthful imagination, and a turn to pleasure, that a steady pursuit of any
      one object of a literary turn could not be expected.
    </p>
    <p>
      But it was his praise that he went far in a short time; sometimes too far;
      for Barnard had to exercise himself, and his red right arm, as the
      vengeful poet expresses it, very frequently on the latter end of his
      lordship's excursions.
    </p>
    <p>
      In one of these excursions to Windsor, he had the good or ill fortune to
      engage in a little amorous amement with a young lady, the consequence of
      <span class="pagenum">[87]</span> which was an application to Lucina for
      assistance. Of this doctor Barnard was informed, and though the remedy did
      not seem tending towards a cure, he was brought up immediately to be
      flogged.
    </p>
    <p>
      He bore this better than his master, who cried out, after some few lashes&mdash;"Psha!
      what signifies my flogging him for being like his father? What's bred in
      the bone will never get out of the flesh."
    </p>
    <p>
      Gibbs. Some men are overtaken by the law, and some few overtake it
      themselves. In this small, but happy number, may be placed the name in
      question; and a name of better promise, whether of man or boy, can
      scarcely be found any where.
    </p>
    <p>
      At school he was on the foundation; and though amongst the Collegers,
      where the views of future life, and hope of better days, arising from
      their own industry, make learning a necessity, yet to that he added the
      better qualities of genius and talent.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a classical scholar, he was admirable in both languages. As a poet, he
      was natural, ready, and yet distinguished. Amongst the best exercises of
      the time, his were to be reckoned, and are yet remembered with praise. For
      the medals given by Sir John Dalrymple for the best Latin poem, he was a
      candidate; but though his production was publicly read by doctor Forster,
      and well spoken of, he was obliged to give way to the superiority of
      another on that occasion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Describing the winding of the Thames through its banks, it had this
      beautiful line:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "<i>Rodit arundineas facili sinuamine ripas&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;</i>"
</pre>
    <p>
      Perfect as to the picture, and beautiful as to the flowing of the poetry.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had the good fortune and the good temper to be liked by every body of
      his own age; and he was not enough found out of bounds, or trespassing
      against "sacred order," to be disliked by those of greater age who were
      set over him.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[88]</span> After passing through all the different
      forms at Eton, he was removed to Cambridge; where he distinguished himself
      not less than at school in trials for different literary honors.
    </p>
    <p>
      There he became assistant tutor to Sir Peter Burrell, who then listened to
      his instructions, and has not since forgotten them.
    </p>
    <p>
      As a tutor, he was somewhat young; but the suavity of his manners took
      away the comparison of equality; and his real knowledge rendered him
      capable of instructing those who might be even older than himself.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      APOLLO'S VISIT TO ETON.{1}
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          T'other night, as Apollo was quaffing a gill
          With his pupils, the Muses, from Helicon's rill,
          (For all circles of rank in Parnassus agree
          In preferring cold water to coffee or tea)
          The discourse turned as usual on critical matters,
          And the last stirring news from the kingdom of letters.
          But when poets, and critics, and wits, and what not,
          From Jeffery and Byron, to Stoddart and Stott,{2}
          Had received their due portion of consideration,
          Cried Apollo, "Pray, ladies, how goes education?
          For I own my poor brain's been so muddled of late,
          In transacting the greater affairs of the state;
          And so long every day in the courts I've been stewing,
          I've had no time to think what the children were doing.
          There's my favorite Byron my presence inviting,
          And Milman, and Coleridge, and Moore, have been writing;
          And my ears at this moment confoundedly tingle,
          From the squabbling of Blackwood with Cleghorn and Pringle:
          But as all their disputes seem at length at an end,
          And the poets my levee have ceased to attend;
          Since the weather's improving, and lengthen'd the days,
          For a visit to Eton I'll order my chaise:

     1  This poem, the reader will perceive, is an humble
     imitation of Leigh Hunt's "Feast of the Poets;" and the
     lines distinguished by asterisks are borrowed or altered
     from the original.

     2  A writer in "The Morning Post," mentioned by Lord Byron,
     in his "English Bards and Scotch Reviewers."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[90]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          There's my sister Diana my day coach to drive,
          And I'll send the new Canto to keep you alive.
          So my business all settled, and absence supply'd,
          For an earthly excursion to-morrow I'll ride."
          Thus spoke king Apollo; the Muses assented;
          And the god went to bed most bepraised and contented.
          'Twas on Saturday morning, near half past eleven,
          When a god, like a devil,4 came driving from heaven,
          And with postboys, and footmen, and liveries blazing,
          Soon set half the country a gaping and gazing.
          When the carriage drove into the Christopher yard,
          How the waiters all bustled, and Garraway stared;
          And the hostlers and boot-catchers wonder'd, and swore
          "They'd ne'er seen such a start in their lifetime before!"
          I could tell how, as soon as his chariot drew nigh,
          Every cloud disappear'd from the face of the sky;
          And the birds in the hedges more tunefully sung,
          And the bells in St. George's spontaneously rung;
          And the people, all seized with divine inspiration,
          Couldn't talk without rhyming and versification.
          But such matters, though vastly important, I ween,
          Are too long for the limits of your magazine.

          Now it soon got abroad that Apollo was come,
          And intended to be, for that evening, "at home;"
          And that cards would be issued, and tickets be given,
          To all scholars and wits, for a dinner at seven.
          So he'd scarcely sat clown, when a legion came pouring
          Of would-be-thought scholars, his favor imploring.
          First, Buller stept in, with a lengthy oration
          About "scandalous usage," and "hard situation:"
          And such treatment as never, since Eton was started,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[91]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Had been shown to a genius, like him, "broken-hearted."
          He'd " no doubt but his friends in Parnassus must know
          How his fine declamation was laugh'd at below;
          And how Keate, like a blockhead ungifted with brains,
          Had neglected to grant him a prize for his pains.
          He was sure, if such conduct continued much longer,
          The school must grow weaker, and indolence stronger;
          That the rights of sixth form would be laid in the dust,
          And the school after that, he thought, tumble it must.
          But he knew that Apollo was learned and wise,
          And he hoped that his godship would give him a prize;
          Or, at least, to make up for his mortification,
          Would invite him to dinner without hesitation."
          Now Apollo, it seems, had some little pretence
          To a trifling proportion of wisdom and sense:
          So without ever asking the spark to be seated,
          He thus cut short his hopes, and his projects defeated.
          "After all, Mr. Buller, you've deign'd to repeat,
          I'm afraid that you'll think me as stupid as Keate:
          But to wave all disputes on your talents and knowledge,
          Pray what have you done as the captain of college?
          Have you patronized learning, or sapping commended?
          Have you e'er to your fags, or their studies, attended?
          To the school have you given of merit a sample,
          And directed by precept, or led by example?"

</pre>
    <hr />
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          What Apollo said more I'm forbidden to say,
          But Buller dined not at his table that day.
          Next, a smart little gentleman march'd with a stare up,
          A smoothing his neckcloth, and patting his hair up;
          And with bows and grimaces quadrillers might follow,
          Said, " he own'd that his face was unknown to Apollo;
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[92]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          But he held in hand what must be his apology,
          A short treatise he'd written on <i>British Geology</i>;
          And this journal, he hoped, of his studies last week,
          In philosophy, chemistry, logic, and Greek,
          Might appear on perusal: but not to go far
          In proclaiming his merits&mdash;his name was Tom Carr:
          And for proofs of his talents, deserts, and what not,
          He appeal'd to Miss Baillie, Lord Byron, and Scott."
          Here his speech was cut short by a hubbub below,
          And in walk'd Messrs. Maturin, Cookesly, and Co.,
          And begg'd leave to present to his majesty's finger&mdash;
          If he'd please to accept&mdash;No. 5 of the Linger.{5}
          Mr. Maturin "hoped he the columns would view
          With unprejudiced judgment, and give them their due,
          Nor believe all the lies, which perhaps he had seen,
          In that vile publication, that base magazine,{6}
          Which had dared to impeach his most chaste lucubrations,
          Of obscenity, nonsense, and such accusations.
          Nay, that impudent work had asserted downright,
          That chalk differ'd from cheese, and that black wasn't white;
          But he hoped he might meet with his majesty's favor;"
          And thus, hemming and hawing, he closed his palaver.

          Now the god condescended to look at the papers,
          But the first word he found in them gave him the vapours:
          For the eyes of Apollo, ye gods! 'twas a word
          Quite unfit to be written, and more to be heard;
          'Twas a word which a bargeman would tremble to utter,
          And it put his poor majesty all in a flutter;
          But collecting his courage, his laurels he shook,
          And around on the company cast such a look,
          That e'en Turin and Dumpling slank off to the door,
          And the Lion was far too much frighten'd to roar;

     5 An Eton periodical of the time.

     6 The College Magazine.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[93]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          While poor Carr was attack'd with such qualms at the breast,
          That he took up his journal, and fled with the rest.

          When the tumult subsided, and peace 'gan to follow,
          Goddard enter'd the room, with three cards for Apollo,
          And some papers which, hardly five minutes before,
          Three respectable gownsmen had left at the door.
          With a smile of good humour the god look'd at each,
          For he found that they came from Blunt, Chapman, and Neech.{7}
          Blunt sent him a treatise of science profound,
          Showing how rotten eggs were distinguish'd from sound;
          Some "Remarks on Debates," and some long-winded stories,
          Of society Whigs, and society Tories;
          And six sheets and a half of a sage dissertation,
          On the present most wicked and dull generation.
          From Chapman came lectures on Monk, and on piety;
          On Simeon, and learning, and plays, and sobriety;
          With most clear illustrations, and critical notes,
          On his own right exclusive of canvassing votes.
          From Neech came a medley of prose and of rhyme,
          Satires, epigrams, sonnets, and sermons sublime;
          But he'd chosen all customs and rules to reverse,
          For his satires were prose, and las sermons were verse.
          Phoebus look'd at the papers, commended all three,
          And sent word he'd be happy to see them to tea.

          The affairs of the morning thus happily o'er,
          Phoebus pull'd from his pocket twelve tickets or more,
          Which the waiters were ordered forthwith to disperse
          'Mongst the most approved scribblers in prose and in verse:
          'Mongst the gentlemen honor'd with cards, let me see,
          There was Howard, and Coleridge, and Wood, and Lavie,
          The society's props; Curzon, major and minor,

     7 Principal contributors to the Etonian.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[94]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Bowen, Hennicker, Webbe, were invited to dinner:
          The theologist Buxton, and Petit, were seen,
          And philosopher Jenyns, and Donald Maclean;
          Bulteel too, and Dykes; but it happen'd (oh shame!)
          That, though many were ask'd, very few of them came.
          As for Coleridge, he "knew not what right Phobus had,
          d&mdash;n me, To set up for a judge in a christian academy;
          And he'd not condescend to submit his Latinity,
          Nor his verses, nor Greek, to a heathen divinity.
          For his part, he should think his advice an affront,
          Full as bad as the libels of Chapman and Blunt.
          He'd no doubt but his dinner might be very good,
          But he'd not go and taste it&mdash;be d&mdash;d if he would."

          Dean fear'd that his pupils their minds should defile,
          And Maclean was engaged to the duke of Argyll;
          In a deep fit of lethargy Petit had sunk,
          And theologist Buxton with <i>Bishop</i> was drunk;
          Bulteel too, and Dykes, much against their own will,
          Had been both pre-engaged to a party to mill;
          And philosopher Jenyns was bent on his knees,
          To electrify spiders, and galvanize fleas.
          But the rest all accepted the god's invitation,
          And made haste to prepare for this jollification.

          Now the dinner was handsome as dinner could be,
          But to tell every dish is too tedious for me;
          Such a task, at the best, would be irksome and long,
          And, besides, I must haste to the end of my song.
          'Tis enough to relate that, the better to dine,
          Jove sent them some nectar, and Bacchus some wine.
          From Minerva came olives to crown the dessert,
          And from Helicon water was sent most alert,
          Of which Howard, 'tis said, drank so long and so deep,
          That he almost fell into poetical sleep.{8}

          When the cloth was removed, and the bottle went round,

          "Nec fonte labra prolui C'aballino,
          Nec in bicipiti sommasse Parnasso."
          Persius.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[95]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Wit, glee, and good humour, began to abound,
          Though Lord Chesterfield would not have call'd them polite,
          For they all often burst into laughter outright.

</pre>
    <hr />
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          But swift flew the moments of rapture and glee,
          And too early, alas! they were summon'd to tea.
          With looks most demure, each prepared with a speech,
          At the table were seated Blunt, Chapman, and Neech.
          Phobus stopt their orations, with dignity free,
          And with easy politeness shook hands with all three;
          And the party proceeded, increased to a host,
          To discuss bread and butter, tea, coffee, and toast.
          As their numbers grew larger, more loud grew their mirth,
          And Apollo from heav'n drew its raptures to earth:
          With divine inspiration he kindled each mind,
          Till their wit, like their sugar, grew double refined;
          And an evening, enliven'd by conviviality,
          Proved how much they were pleased by the god's hospitality.

          Thalia.{9}

     9 This poem is attributed to J. Moultrie, Esq. of Trinity
     college, Cambridge.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      ETON MONTEM.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Stand by, old Cant, while I admire
          The young and gay, with souls of fire,
          Unloose the cheerful heart.
          Hence with thy puritanic zeal;
          True virtue is to grant and feel&mdash;
          A bliss thou'lt ne'er impart.
</pre>
    <p>
      I love thee, Montem,&mdash;love thee, by all the brightest recollections
      of my youth, for the inspiring pleasures which thy triennial pageant
      revives in my heart: joined with thy merry throng, I can forget the cares
      and disappointments of the world; and, tripping gaily with the
      light-hearted, youthful band, cast off the gloom of envy and of worldly
      pursuit, reassociating myself with the joyous scenes of my boyhood. Nay,
      more, I hold thee in higher veneration than ever did antiquarian worship
      the relics of <i>virtu</i>.
    </p>
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    <p>
      <br /><br /> <span class="pagenum">[97]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      Destruction light upon the impious hand that would abridge thy ancient
      charter;&mdash;be all thy children, father Etona, doubly-armed to defend
      thy ancient honors;&mdash;let no modern Goth presume to violate thy sacred
      rights; but to the end of time may future generations retain the spirit of
      thy present race; and often as the happy period comes, new pleasures wait
      upon the Eton Montem.{1}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 The ancient custom, celebrated at Eton every third year,
     on Whit-Tuesday, and which bears the title of The Montem,
     appears to have defied antiquarian research, as far as
     relates to its original institution. It consiste of a
     procession to a small tumulus on the southern side of the
     Bath road, which has given the name of Salt-Hill to the
     spot, now better known by the splendid inns that are
     established there. The chief object of this celebration,
     however, is to collect money for salt, according to the
     language of the day, from all persons who assemble to see
     the show, nor does it fail to be exacted from travellers on
     the road, and even at the private residences within a
     certain, but no inconsiderable, range of the spot. The
     scholars appointed to collect the money are called <i>salt-
     bearers</i>; they are arrayed in fancy dresses, and are
     attended by others called scouts, of a similar, but less
     showy appearance. Tickets are given to such persons as have
     paid their contributions, to secure them from any further
     demand. This ceremony is always very numerously attended by
     Etonians, and has frequently been honored with the presence
     of his late Majesty, and the different branches of the Royal
     Family. The sum collected on the occasion has sometimes
     exceeded 800L., and is given to the senior scholar, who is
     called Captain of the School. This procession appears to be
     coeval with the foundation; and it is the opinion of Mr.
     Lysons, that it was a ceremonial of the Bairn, or Boy-
     Bishop. He states, that it originally took place on the 6th
     of December, the festival of St. Nicholas, the patron of
     children; being the day on which it was customary at
     Salisbury, and in other places where the ceremony was
     observed, to elect the Boy-Bishop from among the children
     belonging to the cathedral. This mock dignity lasted till
     Innocents' day; and, during the intermediate time, the boy
     performed various episcopal functions. If it happened that
     he died before the allotted period of this extraordinary
     mummery had expired, he was buried with all the ceremonials
     which were used at the funerals of prelates. In the
     voluminous collections relating to antiquities, bequeathed
     by Mr. Cole, who was himself of Eton and King's colleges, to
     the British Museum, is a note which
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[98]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     mentions that the ceremony of the Bairn or Boy-Bishop was to
     be observed by charter, and that Geoffry Blythe, Bishop of
     Lichfield, who died in 1530, bequeathed several ornaments
     to those colleges, for the dress of the bairn-bishop. But on
     what authority this industrious antiquary gives the
     information, which, if correct, would put an end to all
     doubt on the subject, does not appear. But, after all, why
     may not this custom be supposed to have originated in a
     procession to perform an annual mass at the altar of some
     saint, to whom a small chapel might have been dedicated on
     the mount called Salt-Hill; a ceremony very common in
     Catholic countries, as such an altar is a frequent appendage
     to their towns and populous villages? As for the selling of
     salt, it may be considered as a natural accompaniment, when
     its emblematical character, as to its use in the ceremonies
     of the Roman Church, is contemplated. Till the time of
     Doctor Barnard, the procession of the Montem was every two
     years, and on the first or second Tuesday in February. It
     consisted of something of a military array. The boys in the
     remove, fourth, and inferior forms, marched in a long file
     of two and two, with white poles in their hands, while the
     sixth and fifth form boys walked on their flanks as
     officers, and habited in all the variety of dress, each of
     them having a boy of the inferior forms, smartly equipped,
     attending on him as a footman. The second boy in the school
     led the procession in a military dress, with a truncheon in
     his hand, and bore for the day the title of Marshal: then
     followed the Captain, supported by his Chaplain, the head
     scholar of the fifth form, dressed in a suit of black, with
     a large bushy wig, and a broad beaver decorated with a
     twisted silk hatband and rose, the fashionable distinction
     of the dignified clergy of that day. It was his office to
     read certain Latin prayers on the mount at Salt-Hill The
     third boy of the school brought up the rear as Lieutenant.
     One of the higher classes, whose qualification was his
     activity, was chosen Ensign, and carried the colours, which
     were emblazoned with the college arms, and the motto, <i>Pro
     mort el monte</i>. This flag, before the procession left the
     college, he flourished in the school-yard with all the
     dexterity displayed at Astley's and places of similar
     exhibition. The same ceremony was repeated after prayers, on
     the mount. The regiment dined in the inns at Salt-Hill, and
     then returned to the college; and its dismission in the
     school-yard was announced by the universal drawing of all
     the swords. Those who bore the title of commissioned
     officers were exclusively on the foundation, and carried
     spontoons; the rest were considered as Serjeants and
     corporals, and a most curious assemblage of figures they
     exhibited. The two principal salt-bearers consisted of an
     oppidan and a colleger: the former was generally some
     nobleman, whose figure and personal connexions might advance
     the interests of the collections. They were dressed like
     running footmen, and carried, each of them, a silk bag to
     receive the contributions, in which was a small quantity of
     salt. During Doctor Barnard's mastership, the ceremony was
     made triennial, the time changed from February to Whit-
     Tuesday, and several of its absurdities retrenched. An
     ancient and savage custom of hunting a ram by the foundation
     scholars, on Saturday in the election week, was abolished in
     the earlier part of the last century. The curious twisted
     clubs with which these collegiate hunters were armed on the
     occasion are still to be seen in antiquarian collections.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[99]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      What coronation, tournament, or courtly pageant, can outshine thy splendid
      innocence and delightful gaiety? what regal banquet yields half the pure
      enjoyment the sons of old Etona experience, when, after months of busy
      preparation, the happy morn arrives ushered in with the inspiring notes of
      "<i>Auld lang syne</i>" from the well-chosen band in the college
      breakfast-room? Then, too, the crowds of admiring spectators, the angel
      host of captivating beauties with their starry orbs of light, and
      luxuriant tresses, curling in playful elegance around a face beaming with
      divinity, or falling in admired negligence over bosoms of alabastrine
      whiteness and unspotted purity within! Grey-bearded wisdom and the
      peerless great, the stars of honor in the field and state, the pulpit and
      the bar, send forth their brightest ornaments to grace Etona's holiday.
      Oxford and Cambridge, too, lend their classic aid, and many a grateful son
      of <i>Alma Mater</i> returns to acknowledge his obligations to his early
      tutors and swell the number of the mirthful host. Here may be seen,
      concentrated in the quadrangle, the costume of every nation, in all the
      gay variety that fancy can devise: the Persian spangled robe, and the
      embroidered Greek vest; the graceful Spanish, and the picturesque Italian,
      the Roman toga and the tunic, and the rich old English suit. Pages in red
      frocks, and marshals in their satin <span class="pagenum">[100]</span>
      doublets; white wands and splendid turbans, plumes, and velvet hats, all
      hastening with a ready zeal to obey the call of the muster-roll. The
      captain with his retinue retires to pay his court to the provost; while,
      in the doctor's study, may be seen, gathered around the dignitary, a few
      of those great names who honor Eton and owe their honor to her classic
      tutors. Twelve o'clock strikes, and the procession is now marshalled in
      the quadrangle in sight of the privileged circle, princes, dukes, peers,
      and doctors with their ladies. Here does the ensign first display his
      skill in public, and the Montem banner is flourished in horizontal
      revolutions about the head and waist with every grace of elegance and ease
      which the result of three months' practice and no little strength can
      accomplish.
    </p>
    <p>
      Twelve o'clock strikes, and the procession moves forward to the playing
      fields on its route to Salt-Hill. Now look the venerable spires and
      antique towers of Eton like to some chieftain's baronial castle in the
      feudal times, and the proud captain represents the hero marching forth at
      the head of his parti-coloured vassals!
    </p>
    <p>
      The gallant display of rank and fashion and beauty follow in their
      splendid equipages by slow progressive movement, like the delightful
      lingering, inch by inch approach to St. James's palace on a full
      court-day. The place itself is calculated to impress the mind with
      sentiments of veneration and of heart-moving reminiscences; seated in the
      bosom of one of the richest landscapes in the kingdom, where on the height
      majestic Windsor lifts its royal brow; calmly magnificent, over-looking,
      from his round tower, the surrounding country, and waving his kingly
      banner in the air: 'tis the high court of English chivalry, the
      birth-place, the residence, and the mausoleum of her kings, and "i' the
      olden time," the prison of her captured monarchs. "At once, the
      sovereign's and <span class="pagenum">[101]</span> the muses' seat," rich
      beyond almost any other district in palaces, and fanes, and villas, in all
      the "pomp of patriarchal forests," and gently-swelling hills, and noble
      streams, and waving harvests; there Denham wrote, and Pope breathed the
      soft note of pastoral inspiration; and there too the immortal bard of Avon
      chose the scene in which to wind the snares of love around his
      fat-encumbered knight. Who can visit the spot without thinking of Datchet
      mead and the buck-basket of sweet Anne Page and Master Slender, and mine
      host of the Garter, and all the rest of that merry, intriguing crew? And
      now having reached the foot of the mount and old druidical barrow, the
      flag is again waved amid the cheers of the surrounding thousands who line
      its sides, and in their carriages environ its ancient base.{2} Now the
      salt-bearers and the pages bank their collections in one common stock, and
      the juvenile band partake of the captain's banquet, and drink success to
      his future prospects in Botham's port. Then, too, old Herbertus Stockhore&mdash;he
      must not be forgotten; I have already introduced him to your notice in p.
      59, and my friend Bob Transit has illustrated the sketch with his
      portrait; yet here he demands notice in his official character, and
      perhaps I cannot do better than quote the humorous account given of him by
      the elegant pen of an old Etonian {3}
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who is that buffoon that travesties the travesty? Who is that old cripple
      alighted from his donkey-cart, who dispenses doggrel and grimaces in all
      the glory of plush and printed calico?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That, my most noble cynic, is a prodigious personage. Shall birth-days
      and coronations be recorded in immortal odes, and Montem not have its
      minstrel 1 He, sir, is Herbertus Stockhore; who first called upon his muse
      in the good old days of Paul Whitehead,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 See plate of the Montem, sketched on the spot.

     3 See Knight's Quarterly Magazine, No. II.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[102]</span> run a race with Pye through all the
      sublimities of lyres and fires,&mdash;and is now hobbling to his grave,
      after having sung fourteen Montems, the only existing example of a
      legitimate laureate.
    </p>
    <p>
      "He ascended his heaven of invention, before the vulgar arts of reading
      and writing, which are banishing all poetry from the world, could clip his
      wings. He was an adventurous soldier in his boyhood; but, having addicted
      himself to matrimony and the muses, settled as a bricklayer's labourer at
      Windsor. His meditations on the house-tops soon grew into form and
      substance; and, about the year 1780, he aspired, with all the impudence of
      Shad well, and a little of the pride of Petrarch, to the laurel-crown of
      Eton. From that day he has worn his honors on his 'Cibberian forehead'
      without a rival."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what is his style of composition?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Vastly naïve and original;&mdash;though the character of the age is
      sometimes impressed upon his productions. For the first three odes, ere
      the school of Pope was extinct, he was a compiler of regular couplets such
      as&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Ye dames of honor and lords of high renown,
          Who come to visit us at Eton town.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      During the next nine years, when the remembrance of Collins and Gray was
      working a glorious change in the popular mind, he ascended to Pindarics,
      and closed his lyrics with some such pious invocation as this:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'And now we'll sing
          God save the king,

          And send him long to reign,
          That he may come
          To have some fun
          At Montem once again. '
</pre>
    <p>
      During the first twelve years of the present century, the influence of the
      Lake school was visible in his <span class="pagenum">[103]</span>
      productions. In my great work I shall give an elaborate dissertation on
      his imitations of the high-priests of that worship; but I must now content
      myself with a single illustration:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'There's ensign Ronnell, tall and proud,
          Doth stand upon the hill,
          And waves the flag to all the crowd,
          Who much admire his skill.
          And here I sit upon my ass,
          Who lops his shaggy ears;
          Mild thing! he lets the gentry pass,
          Nor heeds the carriages and peel's.'
</pre>
    <p>
      He was once infected (but it was a venial sin) by the heresies of the
      cockney school; and was betrayed, by the contagion of evil example, into
      the following conceits:
    </p>
    <p>
      'Behold admiral Keato of the terrestrial crew, Who teaches Greek, Latin,
      and likewise Hebrew; He has taught Captain Dampier, the first in the race,
      Swirling his hat with a feathery grace, Cookson the marshal, and
      Willoughby, of size, Making minor serjeant-majors in looking-glass eyes.'
    </p>
    <p>
      But he at length returned to his own pure and original style; and, like
      the dying swan, he sings the sweeter as he is approaching the land where
      the voice of his minstrelsy shall no more be heard. There is a calm
      melancholy in the close of his present ode which is very pathetic, and
      almost Shakspearian:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         'Farewell you gay and happy throng!
          Farewell my muse! farewell my song!
          Farewell Salt-hill! farewell brave captain.'
</pre>
    <p>
      Yet, may it be long before he goes hence and is no more seen! May he limp,
      like his rhymes, for at least a dozen years; for National schools have
      utterly annihilated our hopes of a successor!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "I will not attempt to reason with you," said the inquirer, "about the
      pleasures of Montem;&mdash;but to an <span class="pagenum">[104]</span>
      Etonian it is enough that it brings pure and ennobling recollections&mdash;calls
      up associations of hope and happiness&mdash;and makes even the wise feel
      that there is something better than wisdom, and the great that there is
      something nobler than greatness. And then the faces that come about us at
      such a time, with their tales of old friendships or generous rivalries. I
      have seen to-day fifty fellows of whom I remember only the nick-names;&mdash;they
      are now degenerated into scheming M.P.'s, or clever lawyers, or portly
      doctors; -but at Montera they leave the plodding world of reality for one
      day, and regain the dignities of sixth-form Etonians." {4}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     4 To enumerate all the distinguished persons educated at
     Eton would be no easy task; many of the greatest ornaments
     of our country have laid the foundation of all their
     literary and scientific wealth within the towers of this
     venerable edifice. Bishops Fleetwood and Pearson, the
     learned John Hales, Dr. Stanhope, Sir Robert Walpole, the
     great Earl Camden, Outred the mathematician, Boyle the
     philosopher, Waller the poet, the illustrious Earl of
     Chatham, Lord Lyttelton, Gray the poet, and an endless list
     of shining characters have owned Eton for their scholastic
     nursery: not to mention the various existing literati who
     have received their education at this celebrated college.
     The local situation of Eton is romantic and pleasing; there
     is a monastic gloom about the building, finely contrasting
     with the beauty of the surrounding scenery, which
     irresistibly enchains the eye and heart.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      FAREWELL TO ETON.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Horatio had just concluded the last sentence of the description of the
      Eton Montem, when my aunt, who had now exceeded her usual retiring time by
      at least half an hour, made a sudden start, upon hearing the chimes of the
      old castle clock proclaim a notice of the midnight hour. "Heavens! boy,"
      said Lady Mary Oldstyle, "what rakes we are! I believe we must abandon all
      intention of inviting your friend Bernard here; for should his
      conversation prove half as entertaining as these miscellaneous whims and
      scraps of his early years, we should, I fear, often encroach upon the
      midnight lamp." "You forget, aunt," replied Horatio, "that the swallow has
      already commenced his spring habitation beneath the housings of our
      bed-room window, that the long summer evenings will soon be here, and then
      how delightful would be the society of an intelligent friend to accompany
      us in our evening perambulations through the park, to chat away half an
      hour with in the hermitage, or to hold converse on your favourite subject
      botany, and run through all the varieties of the <i>camelia japonica</i>,
      or the <i>magnolia fuscata</i>; then too, I will confess, my own
      selfishness in the proposition, the pleasure of my friend's company in my
      fishing excursions, would divest my favourite amusement of its solitary
      character." <span class="pagenum">[106]</span> My aunt nodded assent, drew
      the cowl of her ancient silk cloak over the back part of her head, and,
      with a half-closed eye, muttered out, in tones of sympathy, her fullest
      accordance in the proposed arrangement. "I have only one more trifle to
      read," said Horatio, "before I conclude the history of our school-boy
      days." "We had better have the bed-candles," said my aunt. "You had better
      hear the conclusion, aunt," said Horatio, "and then we can commence the
      English Spy with the evening of to-morrow." My aunt wanted but little
      excitement to accede to the request, and that little was much exceeded in
      the promise of Horatio's reading Bernard's new work on the succeeding
      evening, when she had calculated on being left in solitary singleness by
      her nephew's visit to the county ball. "You must know, aunt," said
      Horatio, "that it has been a custom, from time immemorial at Eton, for
      every scholar to write a farewell ode on his leaving, which is presented
      to the head master, and is called a Vale; in addition, some of the most
      distinguished characters employ first-rate artists to paint their
      portraits, which, as a tribute of respect, they present to the principal.
      Dr. Barnard had nearly a hundred of these grateful faces hanging in his
      sanctum sanctorum, and the present master bids fair to rival his learned
      and respected predecessor. <span class="pagenum">[107]</span> My friend's
      Vale, like every other production of his pen, is marked by the
      distinguishing characteristic eccentricity of his mind. The idea, I
      suspect, was suggested by the Earl of Carlisle's elegant verses, to which
      he has previously alluded; you will perceive he has again touched upon the
      peculiarities of his associates, the <i>dramatis persono</i> of 'the
      English Spy,' and endeavoured, in prophetic verse, to unfold the secrets
      of futurity, as it relates to their dispositions, prospects, and pursuits
      in life."
    </p>
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    <h2>
      MY VALE.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          In infancy oft' by observance we trace
          What life's future page may unfold;
          Who the senate, the bar, or the pulpit may grace,

          Who'll obtain wreathe of fame or of gold.
          My Vale, should my muse prove but willing and free,

          Parting sorrows to chase from my brain,
          Shall in metre prophetic, on some two or three,

          Indulge in her whimsical vein.
          First Keate let me give to thy talents and worth,

          A tribute that all will approve;
          When Atropos shall sever thy life's thread on earth

          Thou shalt fall rich in honor and love.
          Revered as respected thy memory last,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[108]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Long, long, as Etona is known,
          Engraved on the hearts of thy scholars, the blast

          Of detraction ne'er sully thy stone.
          Others too I could name and as worthy of note,

          But my Vale 'twould too lengthy extend:
          Sage <i>Domine</i> all,&mdash;all deserving my vote,
          Who the tutor combine with the friend.
          But a truce with these ancients, the young I must seek,

          The juvenile friends of my heart,
          Of secrets hid in futurity speak,

          And tell how they'll each play their part.
          First Heartly, the warmth of thy generous heart

          Shall expand with maturity's years;
          New joys to the ag'd and the poor thou'lt impart,

          And dry up pale Misery's tears.
          Next honest Tom Echo, the giddy and gay,

          In sports shall all others excel;
          And the sound of his horn, with "Ho! boys, hark&mdash;away!"
          Re-echo his worth through life's dell.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[109]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Horace Eglantine deep at Pierian spring
          Inspiration poetic shall quaff,
          In numbers majestic with Shakespeare to sing,

          Or in Lyrics with Pindar to laugh.
          Little Gradus, sage Dick, you'll a senator see,

          But a lawyer in every sense,
          Whose personal interest must paramount be,

          No matter whate'er his pretence.
          The exquisite Lilyman Lionise mark,

          Of fashion the fool and the sport;
          With the gamesters a dupe, he shall drop like a spark,

          Forgot by the blaze of the court.
          Bob Transit,&mdash;if prudent, respected and rich

          By his talent shall rise into note;
          And in Fame's honor'd temple be sure of a niche,

          By each R.A.'s unanimous vote.
          Bernard Blackmantle's fortune alone is in doubt,

          For prophets ne'er tell of themselves;
          But one thing his heart has a long time found out,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[110]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Tis his love for Etonian elves.
          For the college, and dames, and the dear playing fields

          Where science and friendship preside,
          For the spot which the balm of true happiness yields,

          As each day by its fellow doth glide.
          Adieu, honor'd masters! kind dames, fare thee well!

          Ye light-hearted spirits adieu!
          How feeble my Vale&mdash;my griev'd feelings to tell
          As Etona declines from my view.
</pre>
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      <span class="pagenum">[112]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Men are my subject, and not fictions vain;
          Oxford my chaunt, and satire is my strain."
</pre>
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    <h2>
      FIVE CHARACTERISTIC ORDERS OF OXFORD.
    </h2>
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    <h2>
      THE FRESHMAN.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Reflections on leaving Eton&mdash;A University Whip&mdash;Sketches on
     the Road&mdash;The Joneses of Jesus&mdash;Picturesque Appearance of
     Oxford from the Distance&mdash;The Arrival&mdash;Welcome of an Old
     Etonian&mdash;Visit to Dr. Dingyman&mdash;A University Don&mdash;
     Presentation to the Big Wig&mdash;Ceremony of Matriculation.

          "Yes; if there be one sacred scene of ease,
          Where reason yet may dawn, and virtue please;
          Where ancient science bursts again to view
          With mightier truths, which Athens never knew,
          One spot to order, peace, religion dear;
          Rise, honest pride, nor blush to claim it here."
</pre>
    <p>
      Who shall attempt to describe the sensations of a young and ardent mind
      just bursting from the trammels of scholastic discipline to breathe the
      purer air of classic freedom&mdash;to leap at once from <span
      class="pagenum">[114]</span> boyhood and subjection into maturity and
      unrestricted liberty of conduct; or who can paint the heart's agitation,
      the conflicting passions which prevail when the important moment arrives
      that is to separate him from the associates of his infancy; from the
      endearing friendships of his earliest years; from his schoolboy sports and
      pastimes (often the most grateful recollections of a riper period); or
      from those ancient spires and familiar scenes to which his heart is wedded
      in its purest and earliest love.
    </p>
    <p>
      Reader, if you have ever tasted of the delightful cup of youthful
      friendship, and pressed with all the glow of early and sincere attachment
      the venerable hand of a kind instructor, or met the wistful eye and hearty
      grasp of parting schoolfellows, and ancient dames, and obliging servants,
      you will easily discover how embarrassing a task it must be to depict in
      words the agitating sensations which at such a moment spread their varied
      influence over the mind. I had taken care to secure the box seat of the
      old Oxford, that on my approach I might enjoy an uninterrupted view of the
      classic turrets and lofty spires of sacred {Academus}. Contemplation had
      fixed his seal upon my young lips for the first ten miles of my journey.
      Abstracted and thoughtful, I had scarce turned my eye to admire the
      beauties of the surrounding scenery, or lent my ear to the busy hum of my
      fellow passengers' conversation, when a sudden action of the coach, which
      produced a sensation of alarm, first broke the gloomy mist that had
      encompassed me. After my fears had subsided, I inquired of the coachman
      what was the name of the place we had arrived at, and was answered
      Henley.-"Stony Henley, sir," said our driver: "you might have discovered
      that by the <i>bit of a shake</i> we just now experienced. I'll bet a <i>bullfinch</i>{1}
      that you know the place well enough, my young master, before you've been
      two terms at Oxford."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 A sovereign.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[115]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      This familiarity of style struck me as deserving reprehension; but I
      reflected this classic Jehu was perhaps licensed by the light-hearted sons
      of <i>Alma Mater</i> in these liberties of speech. Suspending therefore my
      indignation, I proceeded,&mdash;"And why so?" said I inquisitively:&mdash;"Why
      I know when I was an under graduate{2} of &mdash;&mdash;, where my father
      was principal, I used to keep a good <i>prad</i> here for a bolt to the
      village,{3} and then I had a fresh hack always on the road to help me back
      to chapel prayers."{4} The nonchalance of the speaker, and the easy
      indifference with which he alluded to his former situation in life, struck
      me with astonishment, and created a curiosity to know more of his
      adventures; he had, I found, brought himself to his present degradation by
      a passion for gaming and driving, which had usurped every just and moral
      feeling. His father, I have since learned, felt his conduct deeply, and
      had been dead some time. His venerable mother having advanced him all her
      remaining property, was now reduced to a dependence upon the benevolence
      of a few liberal-minded Oxford friends, and this son of the once
      celebrated head of&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;college was now so lost to
      every sense of shame that he preferred the Oxford road to exhibit himself
      on in his new character of a {university whip}.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2  The circumstances here narrated are unfortunately too
     notorious to require further explanation: the character,
     drawn from the life, forms the vignette to this chapter.

     3  A cant phrase for a stolen run to the metropolis. No
     unusual circumstance with a gay Oxonian, some of whom have
     been known to ride the same horse the whole distance and
     back again after prayers, and before daylight the next
     morning.

     4  When (to use the Oxford phrase) a man is confined to
     chapel, or compelled to attend chapel prayers, it is a
     dangerous risk to be missing,&mdash;a severe imposition and
     sometimes rustication is sure to be the penalty.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[116]</span> Immediately behind me on the roof of
      the vehicle sat a rosy-looking little gentleman, the rotundity of whose
      figure proclaimed him a man of some substance; he was habited in a suit of
      clerical mixture, with the true orthodox hat and rosette in front, the
      broadness of its brim serving to throw a fine mellow shadow over the upper
      part of a countenance, which would have formed a choice study for the
      luxuriant pencil of some modern Rubens; the eyes were partially obscured
      in the deep recesses of an overhanging brow, and a high fat cheek, and the
      whole figure brought to my recollection a representation I had somewhere
      seen of Silenus reproving his Bacchanals: the picture was the more
      striking by the contrasted subjects it was opposed to: on one side was a
      spare-looking stripling, of about the age of eighteen, with lank hair
      brushed smoothly over his forehead, and a demure, half-idiot-looking
      countenance, that seemed to catch what little expression it had from the
      reflection of its sire, for such I discovered was the ancient's affinity
      to this cadaverous importation from North Wales. The father, a Welsh
      rector of at least one hundred and fifty pounds per annum, was conveying
      his eldest born to the care of the principal of Jesus, of which college
      the family of the Joneses{5} had been a leading name since the time of
      their great ancestor Hugh ap Price, son of Rees ap Rees, a wealthy burgess
      of Brecknock, who founded this college for the sole use of the sons of
      Cambria, in 1571.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     5 DAVID JONES OR, WINE AND WORSTED.

          Hugh Morgan, cousin of that Hugh
          Whose cousin was, the Lord knows who,
          Was likewise, as the story runs,
          Tenth cousin of one David Jones.
          David, well stored with classic knowledge,
          Was sent betimes to Jesus College;
          Paternal bounty left him clear
          For life one hundred pounds a year;
          And Jones was deem'd another Croesus
          Among the Commoners of Jesus.
          It boots not here to quote tradition,
          In proof of David's erudition;&mdash;
          He could unfold the mystery high,
          Of Paulo-posts, and verbs in u;
          Scan Virgil, and, in mathematics,
          Prove that straight lines were not quadratics.
          All Oxford hail'd the youth's <i>ingressus</i>,
          And wond'ring Welshmen cried "Cot pless us!"
          It happen'd that his cousin Hugh
          Through Oxford pass'd, to Cambria due,
          And from his erudite relation
          Receiv'd a written invitation.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[117]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Hugh to the college gate repair'd,
          And ask'd for Jones;&mdash;the porter stared!
          "Jones! Sir," quoth he, "discriminate:
          Of Mr. Joneses there be eight."
          "Ay, but 'tis David Jones," quoth Hugh;
          Quoth porter, "We've six Davids too."
          "Cot's flesh!" cries Morgan, "cease your mockings,
          My David Jones wears worsted stockings!"
          Quoth porter, "Which it is, Heaven knows,
          For all the eight wear worsted hose."
          "My Cot!" says Hugh, "I'm ask'd to dine
          With cousin Jones, and quaff his wine."
          "That one word 'wine' is worth a dozen,"
          Quoth porter, "now I know your cousin;
          The wine has stood you, sir, in more stead
          Than David, or the hose of worsted;
          You'll find your friend at number nine&mdash;
          We've but one Jones that quaffs his wine."
</pre>
    <p>
      All these particulars I gleaned from the rapid delivery of the Welsh
      rector, who betrayed no little anxiety to discover if I was of the
      university; how long I had been matriculated; what was my opinion of the
      schools, and above all, if the same system of extravagance was pursued by
      the students, and under-graduates. Too cautious to confess myself a
      freshman, I was therefore compelled to close the inquiry with a simple
      negative to his early questions, and an avowal of my ignorance in the last
      particular. The deficiency was, however, readily supplied by an old
      gentleman, who sat on the other side of the reverend Mr. Jones. I had
      taken <span class="pagenum">[118]</span> him, in the first instance, for a
      doctor of laws, physic, or divinity, by the studied neatness of his dress,
      the powdered head, and ancient appendage of a <i>queue</i>; with a
      measured manner of delivery, joined to an affected solemnity of carriage,
      and authoritative style. He knew every body, from the Vice-Chancellor to
      the scout; ran through a long tirade against driving and drinking, which
      he described as the capital sins of the sons of <i>Alma Mater</i>,
      complimented the old rector on his choice of a college for his son, and
      concluded with lamenting the great extravagance of the young men of the
      present day, whose affection for long credit compelled honest tradesmen to
      make out long bills to meet the loss of interest they sustain by dunning
      and delay. "Observe, sir," said he,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "The youth of England in our happy age!
          See, to their view what varied pleasure springs,
          Cards, tennis, hilliards, and ten thousand things;
          'Tis theirs the coat with neater grace to wear,
          Or tie the neckcloth with a royal air:
          The rapid race of wild expense to run;
          To drive the tandem or the chaise and one;
          To float along the Isis, or to fly
          In haste to Abingdon,&mdash;who knows not why?
          To gaze in shops, and saunter hours away
          In raising bills, they never think to pay:
          Then deep carouse, and raise their glee the more,
          While angry duns assault th' unheeding door,
          And feed the best old man that ever trod,
          The merry poacher who defies his God."
</pre>
    <p>
      "You forget the long purses, Sir E&mdash;," said our classical Jehu,
      "which some of the Oxford tradesmen have acquired by these long practices
      of the university, Sir E&mdash;." The little Welsh rector bowed with
      astonishment, while his rustic scion stared with wild alarm to find
      himself for the first time in his life in company with a man of title. A
      wink from coachee accompanied with an action of his <i>rein angle</i>
      against my side, followed by a suppressed laugh, prepared me <span
      class="pagenum">[119]</span> for some important communications relative to
      my fellow traveller. "An old <i>snyder</i>,"{6} whispered Jehu, "who was
      once mayor of Oxford, and they do say was knighted by mistake,&mdash;' a
      thing of shreds and patches,'
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Who, by short skirts and little capes,
          Items for buckram, twist, and tapes, '
</pre>
    <p>
      has, in his time, fine drawn half the university; but having retired from
      the seat of trade, now seeks the seat of the Muses, and writes fustian
      rhymes and bell-men's odes at Christmas time: a mere clod, but a great man
      with the corporation."
    </p>
    <p>
      We had now arrived on the heights within a short distance of the city of
      Oxford, and I had the gratification for the first time to obtain a glance
      of sacred <i>Academus</i> peeping from between the elm groves in which she
      is embowered, to view those turrets which were to be the future scene of
      all my hopes and fears. Never shall I forget the sensations,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "&mdash;&mdash;When first these glistening eyes survey'd
          Majestic Oxford's hundred towers display'd;
          And silver Isis rolling at her feet
          Adorn the sage's and the poet's seat:
          Saw Radcliffe's dome in classic beauty rear'd,
          And learning's stores in Bodley's pile revered;
          First view'd, with humble awe, the steps that stray'd
          Slow in the gloom of academic shade,
          Or framed in thought, with fancy's magic wand,
          Wise Bacon's arch; thy bower, fair Rosamond."
</pre>
    <p>
      In the bosom of a delightful valley, surrounded by the most luxuriant
      meadows, and environed by gently swelling hills, smiling in all the pride
      of cultivated beauty, on every side diversified by hanging wood, stands
      the fair city of learning and the arts. The two great roads from the
      capital converge upon the small church of St. Clement, in the eastern
      suburb, from whence, advancing in a westerly direction, you <span
      class="pagenum">[120]</span> arrive at Magdalen bridge, so named from the
      college adjoining, whose lofty graceful tower is considered a fine
      specimen of architecture. The prospect of the city from this point is
      singularly grand and captivating; on the left, the botanical garden, with
      its handsome portal; beyond, steeples and towers of every varied form
      shooting up in different degrees of elevation. The view of the High-street
      is magnificent, and must impress the youthful mind with sentiments of awe
      and veneration. Its picturesque curve and expansive width, the noble
      assemblage of public and private edifices in all the pride of varied art,
      not rising in splendid uniformity, but producing an enchantingly varied
      whole, the entire perspective of which admits of no European rival&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "The awful tow'rs which seem for science made;
          The solemn chapels, which to prayer invite,
          Whose storied windows shed a holy light&mdash;"
</pre>
    <p>
      the colleges of Queen's and All Souls', with the churches of St. Mary and
      All Saints' on the northern side of the street, and the venerable front of
      University College on the south, present at every step objects for
      contemplation and delight. Whirling up this graceful curvature, we
      alighted at the Mitre, an inn in the front of the High-street, inclining
      towards Carfax. A number of under graduates in their academicals were
      posted round the door, or lounging on the opposite side, to watch the
      arrival of the coach, and amuse themselves with quizzing the passengers.
      Among the foremost of the group, and not the least active, was my old
      schoolfellow and con, Tom Echo, now of Christ Church. The recognition was
      instantaneous; the welcome a hearty one, in the true Etonian style; and
      the first connected sentence an invitation to dinner. "I shall make a
      party on purpose to introduce you, old chap," said Tom, "that is, <span
      class="pagenum">[121]</span> as soon as you have made your bow to the <i>big
      wig</i>:{7} but I say, old fellow, where are you entered 1 we are most of
      us overflowingly full here." I quickly satisfied his curiosity upon that
      point, by informing him I had been for some time enrolled upon the list of
      the foundation of Brazennose, and had received orders to come up and enter
      myself. Our conversation now turned upon the necessary ceremonies of
      matriculation.
    </p>
    <p>
      Tom's face was enlivened to a degree when I showed him my letter of
      introduction to Dr. Dingyman, of L-n college. "What, the opposition
      member, the Oxford Palladio? Why, you might just as well expect to move
      the Temple of the Winds from Athens to Oxford, without displacing a
      fragment, as to hope the doctor will present you to the vice-chancellor.&mdash;It
      won't do. We must find you some more tractable personage; some
      good-humoured nob that stands well with the principals, tells funny
      stories to their ladies, and drinks his three bottles like a true son of
      orthodoxy." "For Heaven's sake! my dear fellow, if you do not wish to be
      pointed at, booked for an eccentric, or suspected of being profound,
      abandon all intention of being introduced through that medium. A first
      interview with that singular man will produce an examination that would
      far exceed the perils of the <i>great go</i>{8}-he will try your
      proficiency by the chart and scale of truth." "Be that as it may, Tom,"
      said I, not a little alarmed by the account I had heard of the person to
      whom I was to owe my first introduction to alma mater, "I shall make the
      attempt; and should I fail, I shall yet hope to avail myself of your
      proffered kindness."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     7  A BIG WIG. Head of a college.
        A DON. A learned man.
        A NOB. A fellow of a college.

     8  The principal examining school.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[122]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      After partaking of some refreshment, and adjusting my dress, we sallied
      forth to lionise, as Tom called it, which is the Oxford term for gazing
      about, usually applied to strangers. Proceeding a little way along the
      high street from the Mitre, and turning up the first opening on our left
      hand, we stood before the gateway of Lincoln college. Here Tom shook
      hands, wished me a safe passport through what he was pleased to term the "<i>Oxonia
      purgata</i>" and left me, after receiving my promise to join the dinner
      party at Christ Church.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had never felt so awkwardly in my life before: the apprehensions I was
      under of a severe examination; the difficulty of encountering a man whose
      superior learning and endowments of mind had rendered him the envy of the
      University, and above all, his reputed eccentricity of manners, created
      fears that almost palsied my tongue when I approached the hall to announce
      my arrival. If my ideas of the person had thus confounded me, my terrors
      were doubly increased upon entering his chamber: shelves groaning with
      ponderous folios and quartos of the most esteemed Latin and Greek authors,
      fragments of Grecian and Roman architecture, were disposed around the
      room; on the table lay a copy of Stuart's Athens, with a portfolio of
      drawings from Palladio and Vitruvius, and Pozzo's perspective. In a moment
      the doctor entered, and, advancing towards me, seized my hand before I
      could scarcely articulate my respects. "I am glad to see you&mdash;be
      seated&mdash;you are of Eton, I read, an ancient name and highly respected
      here&mdash;what works have you been lately reading?" I immediately ran
      through the list of our best school classics, at which I perceived the
      doctor smiled. "You have been treated, I perceive, like all who have
      preceded you: the bigotry of scholastic prejudices is intolerable. I have
      been for fifty years labouring to remove the veil, and have yet contrived
      <span class="pagenum">[123]</span> to raise only one corner of it.
      Nothing," continued the doctor, "has stinted the growth and hindered the
      improvement of sound learning more than a superstitious reverence for the
      ancients; by which it is presumed that their works form the summit of all
      learning, and that nothing can be added to their discoveries. Under this
      absurd and ridiculous prejudice, all the universities of Europe have
      laboured for many years, and are only just beginning to see their error,
      by the encouragement of natural philosophy. Experimental learning is the
      only mode by which the juvenile mind should be trained and exercised, in
      order to bring all its faculties to their proper action: instead of being
      involved in the mists of antiquity." Can it be possible, thought I, this
      is the person of whom my friend Tom gave such a curious account? Can this
      be the man who is described as a being always buried in abstracted
      thoughtfulness on the architer cural remains of antiquity, whose opinions
      are said never to harmonize with those of other heads of colleges; who is
      described as eccentric, because he has a singular veneration for truth,
      and an utter abhorrence of the dogmas of scholastic prejudice 1 There are
      some few characters in the most elevated situations of life, who possess
      the amiable secret of attaching every one to them who have the honour of
      being admitted into their presence, without losing one particle of
      dignity, by their courteous manner. This agreeable qualification the
      doctor appeared to possess in an eminent degree. I had not been five
      minutes in his company before I felt as perfectly unembarrassed as if I
      had known him intimately for twelve months. It could not be the result of
      confidence on my part, for no poor fellow ever felt more abashed upon a
      first entrance; and must therefore only be attributable to that
      indescribable condescension of easy intercourse which is the sure
      characteristic of a superior mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[124]</span> After inquiring who was to be my tutor,
      and finding I was not yet fixed in that particular, I was requested to
      construe one of the easiest passages in the Æneid; my next task was to
      read a few paragraphs of monkish Latin from a little white book, which I
      found contained the university statutes: having acquitted myself in this
      to the apparent satisfaction of the doctor, he next proceeded to give me
      his advice upon my future conduct and pursuits in the university; remarked
      that his old friend, my father, could not have selected a more unfortunate
      person to usher me into notice: that his habits were those of a recluse,
      and his associations confined almost within the walls of his own college;
      but that his good wishes for the son of an old friend and schoolfellow
      would, on this occasion, induce him to present me, in person, to the
      principal of Brazennose, of whom he took occasion to speak in the highest
      possible terms. Having ordered me a sandwich and a glass of wine for my
      refreshment, he left me to adjust his dress, preparatory to our visit to
      the dignitary. During his absence I employed the interval in amusing
      myself with a small octavo volume, entitled the "Oxford Spy:" the singular
      coincidence of the following extract according so completely with the
      previous remarks of the doctor, induced me to believe it was his
      production; but in this suspicion, I have since been informed, I was in
      error, the work being written by Shergold Boone, Esq. a young member of
      the university.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Thus I remember, ere these scenes I saw,
          But hope had drawn them, such as hope will draw,
          A shrewd old man, on Isis' margin bred,
          Smiled at my warmth, and shook his wig, and said:
          'Youth will be sanguine, but before you go,
          Learn these plain rules, and treasure, when you know.
          Wisdom is innate in the gown and band;
          Their wearers are the wisest of the land.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[125]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Science, except in Oxford, is a dream;
          In all things heads of houses are supreme {9}
          Proctors are perfect whosoe'er they be;
          Logic is reason in epitome:
          Examiners, like kings, can do no wrong;
          All modern learning is not worth a song:
          Passive obedience is the rule of right;
          To argue or oppose is treason quite:{10}
          Mere common sense would make the system fall:
          Things are worth nothing; words are all in all."
</pre>
    <p>
      On his return, the ancient glanced at the work I had been reading, and
      observing the passage I have just quoted, continued his remarks upon the
      discipline of the schools.&mdash;"In the new formed system of which we
      boast," said the master, "the philosophy which has enlightened the world
      is omitted or passed over in a superficial way, and the student is
      exercised in narrow and contracted rounds of education, in which his whole
      labour is consumed, and his whole time employed, with little improvement
      or useful knowledge. He has neither time nor inclination to attend the
      public lectures in the several departments of philosophy; nor is he
      qualified for that attendance. All that he does, or is required to do, is
      to prepare himself to pass through these contracted rounds; to write a
      theme, or point an epigram; but when he enters upon life, action, or
      profession, both the little go, and the great go, he will find to be a by
      go; for he will find that he has gone by the best part of useful and
      substantial learning;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     9 Know all men by these presents, that children in the uni-
     versities eat pap and go in leading strings till they are
     fourscore. &mdash;Terro Filius.

     10  In a work quaintly entitled "Phantasm of an University,"
     there occurs this sweeping paragraph, written in the true
     spirit of radical reform: "Great advantages might be
     obtained by gradually transforming Christ Church into a
     college of civil polity and languages; Magdalen, Queen's,
     University, into colleges of moral philosophy; New and
     Trinity into colleges of fine arts; and the five halls into
     colleges of agriculture and manufactures."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[126]</span> or that it has gone by him: to recover
      which he must repair from this famous seat of learning to the institutions
      of the metropolis, or in the provincial towns. I have just given you these
      hints, that you may escape the errors of our system, and be enabled to
      avoid the pomp of learning which is without the power, and acquire the
      power of knowledge without the pomp." Here ended the lecture, and my
      venerable conductor and myself made the best of our way to pay our
      respects to the principal of my future residence.
    </p>
    <p>
      Arrived here&mdash;the principal, a man of great dignity, received us with
      all due form, and appeared exceedingly pleased with the visit of my
      conductor; my introduction was much improved by a letter from the head
      master of Eton, who, I have no doubt, said more in my favour than I
      deserved. The appointment of a tutor was the next step, and for this
      purpose I was introduced to Mr. Jay, a smart-looking little man, very
      polite and very portly, with whom I retired to display my proficiency in
      classical knowledge, by a repetition of nearly the same passages in Homer
      and Virgil I had construed previously with the learned doctor; the next
      arrangement was the sending for a tailor, who quickly produced my
      academical robes and cap, in the which, I must confess, I at first felt
      rather awkward. I was now hurried to the vice-chancellor's house adjoining
      Pembroke college, where I had the honour of a presentation to that
      dignitary; a mild-looking man of small stature, with the most affable and
      graceful manners, dignified, and yet free from the slightest tinge of <i>hauteur</i>.
      His reception of my tutor was friendly and unembarrassing; his inquiries
      relative to myself directed solely to my proficiency in the classics, of
      which I had again to give some specimens; I was then directed to subscribe
      my name in a large folio album, which proved to contain the thirty-nine
      articles, not one <span class="pagenum">[127]</span> sentence of which I
      had ever read; but it was too late for hesitation, and I remembered Tom
      Echo had informed me I should have to attest to a great deal of nonsense,
      which no one ever took the pains to understand. The remainder of this
      formal initiation was soon despatched: I separately abjured the damnable
      doctrines of the pope, swore allegiance to the king, and vowed to preserve
      the statutes and privileges of the society I was then admitted into; paid
      my appointed fees, made my bow to the vice-chancellor, and now concluded
      that the ceremony of the <i>togati</i> was all over: in this, however, I
      was mistaken; my tutor requesting some conference with me at his rooms,
      thither we proceeded, and arranged the plan of my future studies; then
      followed a few general hints relative to conduct, the most important of
      which was my obeisance to the dignitaries, by capping{11} whenever I met
      them; the importance of a strict attendance to the lectures of logic,
      mathematics, and divinity, to the certain number of twenty in each term; a
      regular list of the tradesmen whom I was requested to patronize; and,
      lastly, the entry of my name upon the college books and payment of the
      necessary <i>caution money</i>.{12} <i>Entering</i> keeps one term; but as
      rooms were vacant, I was fortunate in obtaining an immediate appointment.
      As the day was now far advanced, I deemed it better to return to my inn
      and dress for the dinner party at Christ Church.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     11   Capping&mdash;by the students and under graduates is touching
     the cap to the vice-chancollor, proctors, fellows, &amp;c. when
     passing. At Christ Church tradesmen and servants must walk
     bareheaded through the quadrangle when the dean, canons,
     censors, or tutors are present. At Pembroke this order is
     rigidly enforced, even in wet weather. At Brazennose neither
     servants nor tradesmen connected with the college are
     allowed to enter it otherwise. It is not long since a
     certain bookseller was discommoned for wearing his hat in B-
     n-e quadrangle, and literally ruined in consequence.

     12  Caution money&mdash;a sum of money deposited in the hands of
     the treasurer or bursar by every member on his name being
     entered upon the college books, as a security for the
     payment of all bills and expenses contracted by him within
     the walls of the college. This money is returned when the
     party takes his degree or name off the books; and no man can
     do either of these without receipts in full from the butler,
     manciple, and cook of their respective colleges.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[128]</span> <a name="image-0030" id="image-0030">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page128.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page128 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a name="image-0031" id="image-0031">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page129.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page129 " />
    </div>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
<span class="pagenum">[129]</span>     Architectural Reminiscences&mdash;Descriptive Remarks&mdash;Similitude
     between the Characters of Cardinal Wolsey and Napoleon.
</pre>
    <p>
      It was past five o'clock when I arrived before the majestic towers of
      Christ Church.&mdash;The retiring sun brightening the horizon with streaks
      of gold at parting, shed a rich glow over the scene that could not fail to
      rivet my attention to the spot. Not all the fatigues of the day, nor the
      peculiarities of my new situation, had, in the least, abated my admiration
      of architectural beauties. The noble octagonal tower in the enriched
      Gothic style, rising like a colossal <span class="pagenum">[130]</span>
      monument of art among the varied groups of spires, domes, and turrets,
      which from a distance impress the traveller with favourable ideas of the
      magnificence of Oxford, first attracted my notice, and recalled to my
      memory two names that to me appear to be nearly associated (by comparison)
      with each other, Wolsey and Napoleon; both gifted by nature with almost
      all the brightest qualifications of great minds; both arriving at the
      highest point of human grandeur from the most humble situations; equally
      the patrons of learning, science, and the arts; and both equally
      unfortunate, the victims of ambition: both persecuted exiles; yet, further
      I may add, that both have left behind them a fame which brightens with
      increasing years, and must continue to do as every passing day removes the
      mist of prejudice from the eyes of man. Such were the thoughts that rushed
      upon my mind as I stood gazing on the splendid fabric before me, from the
      western side of St. Aidates, unheedful of the merry laughter-loving group
      of students and under-graduates, who, lounging under the vaulted gateway,
      were amusing themselves at my expense in quizzing a freshman in the act of
      lionising. The tower contains the celebrated <i>Magnus Thomas</i>, recast
      from the great bell of Osney abbey, by whose deep note at the hour of nine
      in the evening the students are summoned to their respective colleges. The
      upper part of the tower displays in the bracketed canopies and carved
      enrichments the skilful hand of Sir Christopher Wren, whose fame was much
      enhanced by the erection of the gorgeous turrets which project on each
      side of the gateway.{1} Not caring to endure a closer attack of the <i>togati</i>,
      who had now approached me, I crossed and entered the great quadrangle, or,
      according to Oxford phraseology, <i>Tom Quad</i>. The irregular nature of
      the buildings here by no means assimilate with the elegance of the
      exterior entrance.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 It was here, in Lord Orford's opinion, that he "caught the
     graces of the true Gothic taste."
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="image-0032" id="image-0032">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/page131.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page131-th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page131" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[131]</span> The eastern, northern, and part of the
      southern sides of the quadrangle are, I have been since informed,
      inhabited by the dean and canons; the western by students. The broad
      terrace in front of the buildings, the extent of the arena, and the
      circular basin of water in the centre, render this an agreeable promenade.&mdash;I
      had almost forgotten the deity of the place (I hope not symbolical), a
      leaden Mercury{2}; the gift of Dr. John Radcliffe, which rises from the
      centre of the basin, on the spot where once stood the sacred cross of St.
      Frideswide, and the pulpit of the reformer, Wickliffe.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 Since pulled down and destroyed.
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="link2H_4_0018" id="link2H_4_0018">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE DINNER PARTY.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Bernard Blackmantles Visit to Tom Echo&mdash;-Oxford Phraseology-
     Smuggled Dinners&mdash;A College Party described&mdash;Topography of a
     Man's Boom&mdash;Portrait of a Bachelor of Arts&mdash;Hints to
     Freshmen&mdash;Customs of the University.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[132]</span> "When first the freshman, bashful,
      blooming, young, Blessings which here attend not handmaids long, Assumes
      that cap, which franchises the man, And feels beneath the gown dilate his
      span; When he has stood with modest glance, shy fear, And stiff-starch'd
      band before our prime vizier, And sworn to articles he scarcely knew, And
      forsworn doctrines to his creed all new: Through fancy's painted glass he
      fondly sees Monastic turrets, patriarchal trees, The cloist'ral arches'
      awe-inspiring shade, The High-street sonnetized by Wordsworth's jade, His
      raptured view a paradise regards, Nurseling of hope! he builds on paper
      cards."
    </p>
    <p>
      On the western side of Tom Quad, up one flight of stairs, by the porter's
      aid I discovered the battered oaken door which led to the <i>larium</i> of
      my friend Echo: that this venerable bulwark had sustained many a brave
      attack from besiegers was visible in the numerous bruises and imprints of
      hammers, crowbars, and other weapons, which had covered its surface with
      many an indented scar. The utmost caution was apparent in the wary
      scout,{1}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 A Scout, at Christ Church, performs the same duties for
     ten or twelve students as a butler and valet in a
     gentleman's family. There are no women bedmakers at any
     college except Christ Church, that duty being performed by
     the scout.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[133]</span> who admitted me; a necessary
      precaution, as I afterwards found, to prevent the prying eye of some
      inquisitive domine, whose nose has a sort of instinctive attraction in the
      discovery of smuggled dinners.{2}
    </p>
    <p>
      Within I found assembled half a dozen good-humoured faces, all young, and
      all evidently partaking of the high flow of spirits and animated vivacity
      of the generous hearted Tom Echo. A college introduction is one of little
      ceremony, the surname alone being used,&mdash;a practice, which, to escape
      quizzing, must also be followed on your card. "Here, old fellows," said
      Tom, taking me by the hand, and leading me forwards to his companions,
      "allow me to introduce an ex{3}-college man,&mdash;Blackmantle of
      Brazennose, a freshman{4} and an Etonian: so, lay to him, boys; he's just
      broke loose from the Land of Sheepishness,{5} passed Pupils Straits{6} and
      the Isle of Matriculation{7} to follow Dads Will,{8} in the Port of
      Stuffs{9}; from which, if he can steer clear of the Fields of
      Temptation{10}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2  Smuggled dinners are private parties in a student's room,
     when the dinner is brought into college from a tavern:
     various are the ingenious stratagems of the togati to elude
     the vigilance of the authorities: trunks, packing-boxes,
     violoncello-cases, and hampers are not unfrequently directed
     as if from a waggon or coach-office, and brought into
     college on the shoulders of some porter. Tin cans of soup
     are drawn up by means of a string from the back windows in
     the adjoining street. It is not long since Mr. C- of Christ
     Church was expelled for having a dinner smuggled into
     college precisely in the manner adopted by Tom Echo.

     3  A University man who is visiting in a college of which he
     is

     not a member.

     4  The usual phrase for initiating a freshman on his first
     appearance in a party or frisk.

     5  Land of Sheepishness&mdash;School-boy's bondage.

     6 Pupil's Straits&mdash;Interval between restraint and liberty.

     7  Isle of Matriculation&mdash;First entrance into the University.

     8  Dad's Will&mdash;Parental authority.

     9  Port for Stay's&mdash;Assumption of commoner's gown.

     10  Fields of Temptation&mdash;The attractions held out to him.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[134]</span> he hopes to make the <i>Land of Promise</i>,{11}
      anchor his bark in the <i>Isthmus of Grace</i>,{12} and lay up snugly for
      life on the <i>Land of Incumbents</i>."{13} "For heaven's sake, Tom," said
      I," speak in some intelligible language; it's hardly fair to fire off your
      battery of Oxonian wit upon a poor freshman at first sight." At this
      moment a rap at the <i>oak</i> announced an addition to our party, and in
      bounded that light-hearted child of whim, Horace Eglantine:&mdash;"What,
      Blackmantle here? Why then, Tom, we can form as complete a trio as ever
      got <i>bosky</i>{14} with <i>bishop</i>{15} in <i>the province of Bacchus</i>,{16}!
      Why, what a plague, my old fellow, has given you that rueful-looking
      countenance? I am sure you was not plucked upon <i>Maro Common</i> or <i>Homer
      Downs</i>{17} in passing examination with the big wig this morning; or has
      Tom been frisking{18} you already with some of his jokes about the <i>straits
      of independency</i>{19}; the <i>waste of ready</i>{20}; the dynasty of
      Venus,{21} or the quicksands of rustication{22}.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     11  Land of Promise&mdash;The fair expectations of a steady novice
     in Oxford.

     12  Isthmus of Grace&mdash;Obtainment of the grace of one's
     college.

     13  Land of Incumbents&mdash;Good livings.

     14  Bosky is the term used in Oxford to express the style of
     being "half seas over."

     15  Bishop&mdash;A good orthodox mead composed of port wine and
     roasted oranges or lemons.

     16  Province of Bacchus&mdash;Inebriety.

     17  Maro Common and Homer Downs allude to the Æneid of
     Virgil and the Iliad of Homer&mdash;two books chiefly studied for
     the little-go or responsions.

     18 Frisking&mdash;Hoaxing.

     19  Straits of Independency&mdash;Frontiers of extravagance.

     20   Waste of Ready, including in it Hoyle's Dominions&mdash;
     Course of gambling, including Loo tables.

     21  Dynasty of Venus&mdash;Indiscriminate love and misguided
     affections.

     22  Quicksands of Rustication&mdash;On which our hero may at any
     time run foul when inclined to visit a new county.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[135]</span> Cheer up, old fellow! you are not half
      way through the ceremony of initiation yet. We must brighten up that
      solemn phiz of yours, and give you a lesson or two on college principles?
      If I had been thrown upon some newly-discovered country, among a race of
      wild Indians, I could not have been more perplexed and confounded than I
      now felt in endeavouring to rally, and appear to comprehend this peculiar
      phraseology.
    </p>
    <p>
      A conversation now ensuing between a gentleman commoner, whom the party
      designated Pontius Pilate{23} and Tom Echo, relative to the comparative
      merits of their hunters, afforded me an opportunity of surveying the <i>larium</i>
      of my friend; the entrance to which was through a short passage, that
      served the varied purposes of an ante-room or vestibule, and a scout's
      pantry and boot-closet. On the right was the sleeping-room, and at the
      foot of a neat French bed I could perceive the wine bin, surrounded by a
      regiment of <i>dead men</i>{24} who had, no doubt, departed this life like
      heroes in some battle of Bacchanalian sculls. The principal chamber, the
      very <i>penetrale</i> of the Muses, was about six yards square, and low,
      with a rich carved oaken wainscoting, reaching to the ceiling; the
      monastic gloom being materially increased by two narrow loopholes,
      intended for windows, but scarcely yielding sufficient light to enable the
      student to read his <i>Scapula or Lexicon</i>{25} with the advantage of a
      meridian sun: the fire-place was immensely wide, emblematical, no doubt,
      of the capacious stomachs of the good fathers and fellows, the ancient
      inhabitants of this <i>sanctum</i>; but the most singularly-striking
      characteristic was the modern decorations, introduced by the present
      occupant.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     23  A quaint cognomen applied to him from the rapidity with
     which he boasted of repeating the Nicene Creed,&mdash;i.e.
     offering a bet that no would give any man as far as "Pontius
     Pilate," and beat him before he got to the "resurrection of
     the dead."

     24  Dead Men&mdash;Empty bottles.

     25  Scapula, Hederic, and Lexicon, the principal
     Dictionaries in use for studying Greek.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[136]</span> Over the fire-place hung a caricature
      portrait of a well-known Bachelor of Arts, drinking at the <i>Pierian
      spring, versus</i> gulping down the contents of a Pembroke <i>overman</i>,{26}
      sketched by the facetious pencil of the humorist, Rowlandson.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="image-0033" id="image-0033">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page136.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page136 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      ECCÈ SIGNUM.
    </p>
    <p>
      I could not help laughing to observe on the one side of this jolly
      personage a portrait of the little female Giovanni Vestris, under which
      some wag had inscribed, "<i>A Mistress of Hearts</i>," and on the other a
      full-length of Jackson the pugilist, with this motto&mdash;"A striking
      likeness of a fancy lecturer."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     26 An Herman&mdash;At Pembroke, a large silver tankard, holding
     two quarts and half a pint, so called from the donor, Mr.
     George Overman. The late John Hudson, the college tonsor
     and <i>common room man</i>,{*} was famous for having several
     times, for trifling wagers, drank a full overman of strong
     beer off at a draught. A Tun, another vessel in use at
     Pembroke, is a half pint silver cup. A Whistler, a silver
     pint tankard also in use there, was the gift of Mr. Anthony
     Whistler, a cotemporary with Shenstone.

     * Common room man, a servant who is entirely employed in
     attending upon the members of the common room.

     Junior common room, a room in every college, except Christ
     Church, set apart for the junior members to drink wine in
     and read the newspapers.

     N.B. There is but one common room at Christ Church; none but
     masters of arts and noblemen can be members of it,&mdash;the
     latter but seldom attend. The last who attended was the late
     Duke of Dorset. All common rooms are regularly furnished
     with newspapers and magazines.

     <i>Curator of the common rooms</i>.-A senior master of arts, who
     buys the wine and inspects the accounts.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[137]</span> In the centre of the opposite side hung
      the portrait of an old <i>scout</i>, formerly of Brazennose, whose head
      now forms the admission ticket to the college club. Right and left were
      disposed the plaster busts of Aristotle and Cicero; the former noseless,
      and the latter with his eyes painted black, and a huge pair of mustachios
      annexed. A few volumes of the Latin and Greek classics were thrown into a
      heap in one corner of the room, while numerous modern sporting
      publications usurped their places on the book shelves, richly gilt and
      bound in calf, but not lettered. The hunting cap, whip, and red coat were
      hung up like a trophy between two foxes' tails, which served the purpose
      of bell pulls. At this moment, my topographical observations were
      disturbed by the arrival of the scout with candles, and two
      strange-looking fellows in smock frocks, bringing in, as I supposed, a
      piano forte, but which, upon being placed on the table, proved to be a
      mere case: the top being taken off, the sides and ends let down in
      opposite directions, and the cloth pulled out straight, displayed an
      elegant dinner, smoking hot, and arranged in as much form as if the
      college butler had superintended the feast. "Come, old fellow," said Tom,
      "turn to&mdash;no ceremony. I hope, Jem," addressing his scout, "you took
      care that no <span class="pagenum">[138]</span> college telegraph{27} was
      at work while you were smuggling the dinner in." "I made certain sure of
      that, sir," said Jem; "for I placed Captain Cook{28} sentinel at one
      corner of the quadrangle, and old Brady at the other, with directions to
      whistle, as a signal, if they saw any of the <i>dons</i> upon the look
      out."
    </p>
    <p>
      Finding we were not likely to be interrupted by the <i>domine</i>, Tom
      took the chair. The fellows in the smock frocks threw off their disguises,
      and proved to be two genteelly dressed waiters from one of the inns.
      "Close the oak, Jem," said Horace Eglantine, "and take care no one knocks
      in{29} before we have knocked down the contents of your master's musical
      melange." "<i>Punning</i> as usual, Eglantine," said the Honourable Mr.
      Sparkle, a gentleman commoner. "Yes; and <i>pun</i>-ishing too, old
      fellow!" said Horace. "Where's the <i>cold tankard</i>,{30} Echo?
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     27  A college telegraph&mdash;A servant of a college, who carries
     an account of every trifling offence committed, either by
     gentlemen or servants, to the college officers.

     28 Well-known characters in Christ Church.

     29 Knocking in&mdash;Going into college after half-past ten at
     night. The names of the gentlemen who knock in are entered
     by the porter in a book kept for that purpose, and the next
     morning it is carried to the dean and censors, who generally
     call upon the parties so offending to account for being out
     of college at so late an hour. A frequent recurrence of this
     practice will sometimes draw from the dean a very severe
     reprimand.

     Knocking in money&mdash;Fines levied for knocking into college at
     improper hours: the first fine is fixed at half-past ten,
     and increased every half hour afterwards. These fines are
     entered on the batter book, and charged among the battels
     and decrements,* a portion of which is paid to the porter
     quarterly, for being knocked up.

     30  Cold tankard&mdash;A summer beverage, used at dinner, made of
     brandy, cider, or perry, lemons cut in slices, cold water,
     sugar, nutmeg, cinnamon, and the herbs balm and burridge.
     Sometimes sherry or port wine is substituted for cider. The
     tankard is put into a pitcher, which is iced in a tub,
     procured from the confectioners.

     * Decrements.&mdash;The use of knives, folks, spoons, and other
     necessaries, with the firing, &amp;c. for the hall and chapel.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[139]</span> We must give our old <i>con</i>,
      Blackmantle, a warm reception." "Sure, that's a Paddyism"{31} said a young
      Irish student. "Nothing of the sort," replied Horace: "are we not all here
      the sons of Isis (Ices)? and tell me where will you find a group of warmer
      hearted souls?" "Bravo! bravo!" shouted the party. "That fellow Eglantine
      will create another <i>Pun</i>-ic war," said Sparkle. "I move that we have
      him crossed in the buttery{32} for making us laugh during dinner, to the
      great injury of our digestive organs, and the danger of suffocation."
      "What! deprive an Englishman of his right to battel{33}" said Echo: "No; I
      would sooner inflict the orthodox fine of a double bumper of <i>bishop</i>."
      "Bravo!" said Horace: "then I plead guilty, and swallow the imposition."
      "I'll thank you for a cut out of the back of that <i>lion</i>,"{34}
      tittered a man opposite. With all the natural timidity of the hare whom he
      thus particularised, I was proceeding to help him, when Echo inquired if
      he should send me the breast of a swiss {35} and the facetious Eglantine,
      to increase my confusion, requested to be allowed to cut me a slice off
      the wing of a wool bird.{36}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     31 A Paddyism is called in this university a "Thorpism" from
     Mr. Thorp, formerly a hosier of some note in the city. He
     was famous for making blunders and coining new words, was
     very fond of making long speeches, and when upon <i>the toe</i>,
     never failed to convulse his hearers with laughter.

     32 Crossed in the buttery&mdash;not allowed to battel, a
     punishment for missing lecture. By being frequently crossed,
     a man will lose his term.

     33 Battels&mdash;Bread, butter, cheese, salt, eggs, &amp;c.

     34 A lion&mdash;a hare.

     35 Siciss&mdash;a pheasant.

     36 Wing of a wool bird&mdash;Shoulder of lamb.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[140]</span> To have remonstrated against this
      species of persecution would, I knew, only increase my difficulties;
      summoning, therefore, all the gaiety I was master of to my aid, I appeared
      to participate in the joke, like many a modern <i>roué</i>, laughing in
      unison without comprehending the essence of the whim, merely because it
      was the fashion. What a helpless race, old father Etona, are thine
      (thought I), when first they assume the Oxford man; spite of thy fostering
      care and classic skill, thy offspring are here little better than
      cawkers{37} or wild Indians. "Is there no glossary of university wit,"
      said I, "to be purchased here, by which the fresh may be instructed in the
      art of conversation; no <i>Lexicon Balatronicum</i> of college eloquence,
      by which the ignorant may be enlightened?" "Plenty, old fellow," said
      Echo: "old Grose is exploded; but, never fear, I will introduce you to the
      <i>Dictionnaire Universel</i>,{38} which may always be consulted, at our
      <i>old grandmammas</i>' in St. Clement's, or Eglantine can introduce you
      at Vincent's,{39} where better known as the poor curate of H&mdash;&mdash;,
      crossed the channel.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     37  Cawker&mdash;an Eton phrase for a stranger or novice.

     38  Dictionnaire Universel&mdash;a standing toast in the common
     room at&mdash;&mdash;-College.

     The origin of the toast is as follows: When Buonaparte was
     at Elba, Dr. E-, one of the wealthy senior Fellows of &mdash;&mdash;
     College.
</pre>
    <p>
      Soon after his arrival at Paris, as he was walking through the streets of
      that city, he was accosted by an elegantly dressed Cyprian, to whom he
      made a profound bow, and told her (in English), that he was not
      sufficiently acquainted with the French language to comprehend what she
      had said to him, expressing his regret that he had not his French and
      English dictionary with him. Scarcely had he pronounced the word
      dictionary, when the lady, by a most astonishing display, which in England
      would have disgraced the lowest of the frail sisterhood, exclaimed,
      "Behold the Dictionnaire Universel, which has been opened by the learned
      of all nations."{39} Dr. E&mdash;, on his return from France, related this
      anecdote in the common room at &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-, and the
      Dictionnaire universel has ever since been a standing toast there.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     39  A well known respectable bookseller near Brazennose, who
     has published a whimsical trifle under the title of "Oxford
     in Epitome" very serviceable to freshmen. You may purchase
     "Oxford in Epitome," with a Key accompaniment explaining the
     whole art and mystery of the <i>finished style</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[141]</span> After a dissertation upon <i>new
      college puddings</i>,{40} rather a choice dish, an elegant dessert and
      ices was introduced from Jubbers.{41} The glass now circulated freely, and
      the open-hearted mirth of my companions gave me a tolerable idea of many
      of the leading eccentricities of a collegian's life. The Oxford toast, the
      college divinity, was, I found, a Miss W-, whose father is a wealthy
      horse-dealer, and whom all agreed was a very amiable and beautiful girl. I
      discovered that Sadler, Randal, and Crabbe were rum ones for prime hacks&mdash;that
      the <i>Esculapii dii</i> of the university, the demi-gods of medicine and
      surgery, were Messrs. Wall and Tuckwell&mdash;that all proctors were
      tyrants, and their men savage bull dogs&mdash;that good wine was seldom to
      be bought in Oxford by students&mdash;and pretty girls were always to be
      met at Bagley Wood&mdash;that rowing a fellow{42} was considered good
      sport, and an idle master{43} a jolly dog&mdash;that all tradesmen were
      duns, and all gownsmen suffering innocents&mdash;and lastly.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     40  New College puddings&mdash;a favourite dish with freshmen,
     made of grated biscuit, eggs, suet, moist sugar, currants
     and lemon-peel, rolled into balls of an oblong shape, fried
     in boiling fat, and moistened with brandy.

     41  A celebrated Oxford pastry-cook.

     42  Rowing a fellow&mdash;going with a party in the dead of the
     night to a man's room, nailing or screwing his oak up, so as
     it cannot be opened on the inside, knocking at his door,
     calling out fire, and when he comes to the door, burning a
     quantity of shavings, taken from halfpenny faggots dipped in
     oil from the staircase lamps, so as to impress him with an
     idea that the staircase, in which his rooms are, is on fire.
     And when he is frightened almost out of his senses, setting
     up a most hideous horse-laugh and running away. This joke
     is practised chiefly upon quiet timid men.

     43 An idle master&mdash;a Master of Arts on the foundation, who
     does not take pupils.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[142]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      I was informed that a freshman was a scamp without seasoning&mdash;and a
      fellow of no spirit till he had been pulled up before the big wig and
      suffered imposition{44} fine, and rustication.{45}
    </p>
    <p>
      It was now half an hour since old <i>Magnus Thomas</i> had tolled his
      heavy note, most of the party were a little cut,{46} and the salt pits of
      attic wit had long since been drained to the very bottom&mdash;Sparkle
      proposed an adjournment to the Temple of Bacchus,{47} while Echo and a man
      of Trinity set forth for the plains of Betteris.{48} Pleading the fatigues
      of the day, and promising to attend a spread{49} on the morrow to be given
      by Horace Eglantine, I was permitted to depart to my inn, having first
      received a caution from Echo to steer clear of the Don Peninsula{50} and
      the seat of magistracy.{51}
    </p>
    <p>
      On regaining my inn, I was not a little surprised to hear the smirking
      barmaid announce me by my christian and surname, directing the waiter to
      place candles for Mr. Bernard Blackmantle in the <i>sanctum</i>. How the
      deuce, thought I, have these people discovered my family nomenclature, or
      are we here under the same system of <i>espionage</i> as the puerile
      inhabitants of France, where every hotel-keeper, waiter, and servant, down
      to the very shoe-black, is a spy upon your actions, and a creature in the
      pay of the police{52} "Pray, waiter," said I, "why is this snug little
      _larium__ designated the sanctum_?"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     44 Imposition&mdash;translations set by the Principal for absence
     and other errors.

     45 Rustication is the term applied to temporary dismissal
     for non-observance of college discipline.

     46 A little cut&mdash;half seas over.

     47  Temple of Bacchus&mdash;some favourite inn.

     48  Plains of Betteris&mdash;the diversion of billiards.

     49  A spread&mdash;a wine party.

     50  The Don Peninsula&mdash;the range of all who wear long black
     hanging sleeves, and bear the name of Domini.

     51  Seat of magistracy&mdash;proctor's authority.

     52  The tact of the Oxford tradesmen in this particular is
     very ingenious.&mdash;The strength of a man's account is always
     regulated by the report they receive on his entering, from
     some college friend, respecting the wealth of his relations,
     or the weight of his expectancies.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[143]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      "Because it's extra-proctorial, sir: none of the town <i>raff</i> are ever
      admitted into it, and the marshal and his bull dogs never think of
      intruding here. With your leave, sir, I'll send in master&mdash;he will
      explain things better; and mayhap, sir, as you are fresh, he may give you
      a little useful information." "Do so,&mdash;send me in a bottle of old
      Madeira and two glasses, and tell your master I shall be happy to see
      him." In a few moments I was honoured with the company of mine host of the
      Mitre, who, to do him justice, was a more humorous fellow than I had
      anticipated. Not quite so ceremonious as he of the Christopher at Eton, or
      the superlative of a Bond-street <i>restaurateur</i>; but with an
      unembarrassed roughness, yet respectful demeanour, that partook more of
      the sturdy English farmer, or an old weather-beaten sportsman, than the
      picture I had figured to myself of the polished landlord of the principal
      inn in the sacred city of learning. We are too much the creatures of
      prejudice in this life, and first impressions are not unfrequently the
      first faults which we unthinkingly commit against the reputation of a new
      acquaintance. Master Peake was, I discovered, a fellow of infinite jest,
      an old fox-hunter, and a true sportsman; and supposing me, from my
      introduction by Tom Echo to his house, to be as fond of a good horse, a
      hard run, and a black bottle, as my friend, he had eagerly sought an
      opportunity for this early introduction. "No man in the country, sir,"
      said Peake, "can boast of a better horse or a better wife: I always leave
      the management of the bishop's cap to the petticoat; for look ye, sir,
      gown against gown is the true orthodox system, I believe.&mdash;When I
      kept the Blue Pig{53} by the Town Hall, the big wigs used to grunt a
      little now and then about the gemmen of the university getting <i>bosky</i>
      in a <i>pig-sty</i>; so, egad, I thought I would fix them at last, and
      removed here; for I knew it would be deemed sacrilegious to attack the
      mitre, or hazard a pun upon the head of the church.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
      53 The Blue Boar, since shut up.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[144]</span> If ever you should be <i>tiled</i> up
      in <i>Eager heaven</i>,{54} there's not a kinder hearted soul in
      Christendom than Mrs. Peake: Dr. Wall says that he thinks she has saved
      more gentlemen's lives in this university by good nursing and sending them
      niceties, than all the material medicals put together. You'll excuse me,
      sir, but as you are fresh, take care to avoid the <i>gulls</i>{55}; they
      fly about here in large flocks, I assure you, and do no little mischief at
      times." "I never understood that gulls were birds of prey," said I.&mdash;"Only
      in Oxford, sir; and here, I assure you, they bite like hawks, and pick
      many a poor young gentleman as bare before his three years are expired, as
      the crows would a dead sheep upon a common. Every thing depends upon your
      obtaining an honest scout, and that's a sort of <i>haro ravis</i> (I think
      they call the bird) here." Suppressing my laughter at my host's Latinity,
      I thought this a fair opportunity to make some inquiries relative to this
      important officer in a college establishment.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I suppose you know most of these ambassadors of the togati belonging to
      the different colleges'?" "I think I do, sir," said Peake, "if you mean
      the scouts; but I never heard them called by that name before. If you are
      of Christ Church, I should recommend Dick Cook, or, as he is generally
      called, Gentleman Cook, as the most finished, spritely, honest fellow of
      the whole. Dick's a trump, and no telegraph,&mdash;up to every frisk, and
      down to every move of the domini, thorough bred, and no want of courage?"
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     54  Æager haven&mdash;laid up in the depot of invalids.

     55  Gulls&mdash;knowing ones who are always on the look out for
     freshmen.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[145]</span> "But not having the honour of being
      entered there, I cannot avail myself of Dick's services: pray tell me, who
      is there at Brazennose that a young fellow can make a confidant of?" "Why,
      the very best old fellow in the world,&mdash;nothing like him in Oxford,&mdash;rather
      aged, to be sure, but a good one to go, and a rum one to look at;&mdash;I
      have known Mark Supple these fifty years, and never heard a gentleman give
      him a bad word: shall I send for him, sir? he's the very man to put you <i>up
      to a thing or two</i>, and finish you off in prime style." "In the
      morning, I'll see him, and if he answers your recommendation, engage with
      him: "for, thought I, such a man will be very essential, if it is only to
      act as interpreter to a young novice like myself.
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation now turned to sporting varieties, by which I discovered
      mine host was a leading character in the neighbouring hunts; knew every
      sportsman in the field, and in the course of half an hour, carried me over
      Godrington's manors, Moystoris district, and Somerset range,{56} taking
      many a bold leap in his progress, and never losing <i>sight of the dogs</i>.
      "We shall try your mettle, sir," said he, "if we catch you out for a day's
      sport; and if you are not quite mounted at present to your mind, I have
      always a spare nag in the stable for the use of a freshman."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     56 The three packs of hounds contiguous to Oxford.
</pre>
    <p>
      Though I did not relish the concluding appellation, coming from a
      tavern-keeper, I could not help thanking Peake for his liberal offer; yet
      without any intention of risking my neck in a steeple chase. The interview
      had, however, been productive of some amusement and considerable
      information. The bottle was now nearly finished; filling my last glass, I
      drank success to the Mitre, promised to patronise the landlord, praise the
      hostess, coquet with the little cherry-cheek, chirping lass in the bar,
      and kiss as many of the chamber-maids as I could persuade to let me.
      Wishing mine host a good night, and ringing for my bed-candle, I proceeded
      to put the last part of my promise into immediate execution.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      COLLEGE SERVANTS.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Descriptive Sketch of a College Scout&mdash;Biography of Mark
     Supple&mdash;Singular Invitation to a Spread.
</pre>
    <p>
      The next morning, early, while at breakfast, I received a visit from Mr.
      Mark Supple, the <i>scout</i>, of whom mine host of the Mitre had on the
      preceding night spoken so highly. There was nothing certainly very
      prepossessing in his exterior appearance; and if he had not previously
      been eulogised as the most estimable of college servants, I should not
      have caught the impression from a first glance. He was somewhere about
      sixty years of age, of diminutive stature and spare habit, a lean brother
      with a scarlet countenance, impregnated with tints of many a varied hue,
      in which however the richness of the ruby and the soft purple of the
      ultramarine evidently predominated. His forehead was nearly flat; upon his
      eyebrows and over his <i>os frontis</i> and scalp, a few straggling
      straight hairs were extended as an apology for a wig, but which was much
      more like a discarded crow's nest turned upside down. Immense black bushy
      eyebrows overhung a pair of the queerest looking oculars I had ever seen;
      below which sprung forth what had once been, no doubt, a nose, and perhaps
      in youth an elegant feature; but, Heaven help the wearer! it was now grown
      into such a strange form, and presented so many choice exuberances, that
      one might have supposed it was the original Bardolph's, and charged with
      the additional sins of every succeeding generation. The loss of his <span
      class="pagenum">[146]</span> teeth had caused the other lip to retire
      inwards, and consequently the lower one projected forth, supported by a
      huge chin, like the basin or receiver round the crater of a volcano.
    </p>
    <p>
      His costume was of a fashion admirably corresponding with his person. It
      might once have graced a dean, or, perhaps, a bishop, but it was evident
      the present wearer was not by when the <i>artiste</i> of the needle took
      his measure or instructions. Three men of Mark's bulk might very well have
      been buttoned up in the upper habiliment; and as for the <i>inexpressibles</i>,
      they hung round his <i>ultimatum</i> like the petticoat trowsers of a
      Dutch smuggler: then for the colour, it might once have been sable or a
      clerical mixture; but what with the powder which the collar bore evidence
      it had once been accustomed to, and the weather-beaten trials it had since
      undergone, it was quite impossible to specify. The <i>beaver</i> was in
      excellent keeping, <i>en suite</i>, except, perhaps, from the constant
      application of the hand to pay due respect to the dignitaries, it was here
      and there enriched with some more shining qualities. I at first suspected
      this ancient visitor was a hoax of my friend Tom Echo's, who had concerted
      the scheme with the landlord; but a little conversation with the object of
      my surprise soon convinced me it was the genuine Mark Supple, the true
      college <i>scout</i>, and no counterfeit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The welcome of Isis to you, sir," said the old man. "The domini of the
      bishops cap here gave me a hint you wished to see me.&mdash;I have the
      honour to be Mark Supple, sir, senior scout of Brazennose, and as well
      known to all the members of the university for the last fifty years, as
      Magdalen bridge, or old Magnus Thomas. The first of your name, sir, I
      think, who have been of Oxford&mdash;don't trace any of the Blackmantles
      here antecedent&mdash;turned over my list this morning before I came&mdash;got
      them all arranged, sir, take notice, in chronological order, from the
      friars of <span class="pagenum">[148]</span> Oseny abbey down to the
      university of bucks of 1824&mdash;very entertaining, sir, take notice&mdash;many
      a glorious name peeping out here and there&mdash;very happy to enrol the
      first of the Blackmantles in my remembrancer, and hope to add M. A. and M.
      S. S. which signifies honour to you, as master of arts, and glory to your
      humble servant, Mark Supple Scout&mdash;always put my own initials against
      the gentleman's names whom I have attended, take notice." The singularity
      of the ancient's climax amused me exceedingly&mdash;there was something
      truly original in the phrase: the person and manners of the man were in
      perfect keeping. "You must have seen great changes here, Mark," said I;
      "were you always of Brazennose?" "I was born of Christ Church, sir, take
      notice, where my father was college barber, and my mother a bed-maker; but
      the students of that period insisted upon it that I was so like to a
      certain old big wig, whose Christian name was Mark, that I most
      censoriously obtained the appellation from at least a hundred godfathers,
      to the no small annoyance of the dignitary, take notice. My first
      occupation, when a child, was carrying billet doux from the students of
      Christ Church to the tradesmen's daughters of Oxford, or the nuns of St.
      Clement's, where a less important personage might have excited suspicion
      and lost his situation. From a college Mercury, I became a college devil,
      and was promoted to the chief situation in <i>glorio</i>,{1} alias <i>hell</i>,
      where I continued for some time a shining character, and sharpened the
      edge of many a cutting thing, take notice. Here, some wag having a design
      upon my reputation, put a large piece of cobbler's wax into the dean's
      boots one morning, which so irritated the <i>big wig</i> that I was
      instantly expelled college, discommoned, and blown up at point non plus,
      take notice.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 Glorio.&mdash;A place in Christ Church called the scout's
     pantry, where the boots and shoes and knives are cleaned,
     and a small quantity of Geneva, or Bill Holland's double, is
     daily consumed during term time.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[149]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      Having saved a trifle, I now commenced stable-keeper, bought a few prime
      hacks, and mounted some of the best tandem turn outs in Oxford, take
      notice: but not having wherewithal to stand tick, and being much averse to
      dunning, I was soon sold up, and got a birth in Brazennose as college
      scout, where I have now been upwards of forty years, take notice. No
      gentleman could ever say old Mark Supple deceived him. I have run many
      risks for the gown; never cared for the town; always stuck up for my
      college, and never telegraphed the big wigs in my life, take notice."&mdash;"Is
      your name Blackmantle?" said a sharp-looking little fellow, in a grey
      frock livery, advancing up to me with as much <i>sang froid</i> as if I
      had been one of the honest fraternity of college servants. Being answered
      in the affirmative, and receiving at the same time a look that convinced
      him I was not pleased with his boldness, he placed the following note in
      my hand and retired.{2}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 The usual style of invitation to a college wine party or
     spread.
</pre>
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<pre xml:space="preserve">
     The above is an exact copy of a note received from a man of
     Brazennose.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[159]</span> Handing the note to old Mark&mdash;"Pray,"
      said I, not a little confused by the elegance of the composition, "is this
      the usual style of college invitations?" Mark mounted his spectacles, and
      having deciphered the contents, assured me with great gravity that it was
      very polite indeed, and considering where it came from, unusually civil.
    </p>
    <p>
      Another specimen of college ceremony, thought I;&mdash;"But come, Mark,
      let us forth and survey my rooms." We were soon within-side the gates of
      Brazennose; and Mark having obtained the key, we proceeded to explore the
      forsaken chamber of the Muses.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      TAKING POSSESSION OF YOUR ROOMS.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Topography of a vacant College Larium&mdash;Anecdotes and
     Propensities of Predecessors&mdash;A long Shot&mdash;Scout's List of
     Necessaries&mdash;Condolence of University Friends.
</pre>
    <p>
      Ascending a dark stone staircase till the oaken beams of the roof
      proclaimed we had reached the domiciliary abode of genius, I found myself
      in the centre of my future habitation, an attic on the third floor: I much
      doubt if poor Belzoni, when he discovered the Egyptian sepulchre, could
      have exhibited more astonishment. The old bed-maker, and the scout of my
      predecessor, had prepared the apartment for my reception by gutting it of
      every thing useful to the value of a cloak pin: the former was engaged in
      sweeping up the dust, which, from the clouds that surrounded us, would not
      appear to have been disturbed for six months before at least. I had nearly
      broken my shins, on my first entrance, over the fire-shovel and bucket,
      and I was now in more danger of being choked with filth. "Who inhabited
      this delightful place before, Mark?" "A mad wag, but a generous gentleman,
      Sir, take notice, one Charles Rattle, Esq., who was expelled college for
      smuggling, take notice: the proctor, with the town marshal and his bull
      dogs, detected him and two others one night drawing up some fresh
      provision in the college plate-basket. Mr. Rattle, in his fright, dropped
      the fair nun of St. Clement's plump upon the proctor, who could not
      understand the joke; but, having recovered <span class="pagenum">[152]</span>
      his legs, entered the college, and found one of the fair sisters concealed
      in Mr. Rattle's room, take notice. In consequence he was next day pulled
      up before the big wigs, when, refusing to make a suitable apology, he
      received sentence of expulsion, take notice." "He must have been a
      genius," quoth I, "and a very eccentric one too, from the relics he has
      left behind of his favourite propensities." In one corner of the room lay
      deposited a heap of lumber, thrown together, as a printer would say, in <i>pie</i>,
      composed of broken tables, broken bottles, trunks, noseless bellows, books
      of all descriptions, a pair of <i>muffles</i>, and the cap of sacred
      academus with a hole through the crown (emblematical, I should think, of
      the pericranium it had once covered), and stuck upon the leg of a broken
      chair. The rats, those very agreeable visitors of ancient habitations,
      were seen scampering away upon our entrance, and the ceiling was elegantly
      decorated with the smoke of a candle in a great variety of ornamented
      designs, consisting of caricatures of dignitaries and the Christian names
      of favourite damsels. There was poor Cicero, with a smashed crown, turned
      upside down in the fire-place, and a map of Oxford hanging in tatters
      above it; a portrait of Tom Crib was in the space adjoining the window,
      not one whole pane of which had survived the general wreck; but what most
      puzzled me was the appearance of the cupboard door: the bottom hinge had
      given way, and it hung suspended by one joint in an oblique direction,
      exhibiting, on an inside face, a circle chalked for a target and
      perforated with numerous holes This door was in a right line with the
      bedroom, and, when thrown open, covered a loop-hole of a window that
      looked across the quadrangle directly into the principal's apartments.{1}
    </p>
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    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[153]</span> It was in this way (as Mark informed
      me) my predecessor amused himself in a morning by lying in bed and firing
      at the target, till, unhappily, on one occasion the ball passed through a
      hole in the door, the loop-hole window, and, crossing the quadrangle,
      entered whizzing past the dignitary's ear and that of his family who were
      at breakfast with him into the back of the chair he had but a moment
      before providentially quitted to take a book from his library shelves.1
      The affair occasioned a strict search, and the door in question bore too
      strong an evidence to escape detection; Rattle was rusticated for a term,
      but, returning the same singular character, was always in some scrape or
      other till his final expulsion. Having given the necessary orders for
      repairs, Mark made one of his best bows, and produced a long scroll of
      paper, on which was written a list of necessaries?{2} "which," said the
      ancient, "take notice, every gentleman provides on his taking possession
      of his rooms." "And every gentleman's scout claims upon his leaving, take
      notice" said I. Mark bowed assent.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had now both seen and heard enough of college comforts to wish myself
      safe back again at Eton in the snug, clean, sanded dormitory of my old
      dame. Looking first at my purse and then at the list of necessaries, I
      could not resist a sigh on perceiving my <i>new guinea</i>{3} to be
      already in danger, that it would require some caution to steer clear of
      the forest of debt,{4} and keep out of <i>south jeopardy</i>,{5} and some
      talent to gain the <i>new settlements</i>{6} or prevent my being
      ultimately laid up in the <i>river tick</i>{7} condemned in the <i>Vice-Chancellor's
      court</i>,{8} and consigned, for the benefit of the captors, to <i>fort
      marshal</i>.{9}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1  The circumstance here alluded to actually occurred some
     time since, when G- C-n and Lord C-e nearly shot Dr.
     Capplestone of Oriel and his predecessor, Dr. Eveleigh: the
     former was expelled in consequence.

     2  A list of necessaries consists of all the necessary
     culinary articles, tea equipage, brooms, brushes, pails, &amp;c.
     &amp;c. &amp;c.

     3  New guinea&mdash;First possession of income.

     4  Forest of debt&mdash;payment of debts.

     5 South jeopardy&mdash;terrors of insolvency.

     6  Next settlements&mdash;final reckoning.

     7  River tick&mdash;springing out of standing debts, which only==>
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     8  Vice-Chancellor's court&mdash;creditor's last shift.

     9  Fort marshal&mdash;university marshal's post, charge themselves
     at the expiration of three years by leaving the lake of
     credit, and meandering through the haunts of a hundred
     creditors.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[154]</span> "Rather romantic, but not elegant,"
      said some voices at the door, which, on turning my head, I discovered to
      be my two friends, Echo and Eglantine, who, suspecting the state of the
      rooms, from the known character of the previous occupier, had followed me
      up stairs to enjoy the pleasure of quizzing a novice. "A snug appointment
      this, old fellow," said Echo. "Very airy and contemplative" rejoined
      Eglantine, pointing first to the broken window, and after to the mutilated
      remains of books and furniture. "Quite the larium of a man of genius,"
      continued the former, "and very fine scope for the exhibition of improved
      taste." "And an excellent opportunity for raillery," quoth I. "Well, old
      fellow," said Tom, "I wish you safe through <i>dun territory</i>{10} and
      the <i>preserve of long bills</i>{11}: if you are not pretty well <i>blunted</i>,{12}
      the first start will try <i>your wind.</i>" "Courage, Blackmantle," said
      Eglantine, "we must not have you laid up here in the <i>marshes of
      impediment</i>{13} with all the horrors of <i>east jeopardy</i>,{14} as if
      you was lost in the <i>cave of antiquity</i>{15}: rally, my old fellow,
      for <i>the long hope</i>,{16}shoot past <i>mounts</i>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     10  Dun territory&mdash;circle of creditors to be paid.

     11 Preserve of long bills&mdash;stock of debts to be discharged.

     12 Blunted&mdash;London slang for plenty of money.

     13 Marshes of impediment&mdash;troublesome preparation for the
     schools.

     14  East jeopardy&mdash;terrors of anticipation.

     15  Cave of antiquity&mdash;depot of old authors.

     16  The long hope&mdash;Johnson defines "a Hope" to be any sloping
     plain between two ridges of mountains. Here it is the symbol
     of long expectations in studying for a degree.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[155]</span> <i>Aldrich and Euclid</i>,{17} the <i>Roman
      tumuli</i>{18} and <i>Point Failure</i>{19} and then, having gained <i>Fount
      Stagira</i>{20} pass easily through <i>Littlego Vale</i>,{21} reach the
      summit of the <i>Pindaric heights</i>{22} and set yourself down easy in
      the <i>temple of Bacchus</i>{23} and the <i>region of rejoicing"{24} "Or
      if you should fall a sacrifice in the district of {sappers</i>,{25} old
      fellow!" said Echo, "or founder in <i>Dodd's sound</i>,{26} why, you can
      retreat to <i>Cam Roads</i>,{27} or lay up for life in the <i>Bay of
      Condolence</i>."{28} "For heaven's sake, let us leave the <i>Gulf of
      Misery</i>," said I, alluding to the state of my rooms, "and bend our
      course where some more amusing novelty presents itself." "To Bagley wood,"
      said Echo, "to break cover and introduce you to the Egyptians; only I must
      give my scout directions first to see the old bookseller{29} and have my
      <i>imposition</i>{30} ready for being absent from chapel this morning, or
      else I shall be favoured with another
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     17  Mount Aldrich, mount Euclid&mdash;logic and mathematics.

     18  Tumuli raised by the Romans&mdash;difficulties offered by Livy
     and Tacitus in the studies for first class honours.

     19 Point Failure&mdash;catastrophe of plucking.

     20 Fount Stagira&mdash;fount named after the birth-place of Aris-
     totle.

     21  Littlego Vale&mdash;orderly step to the first examination.

     22 Pindaric heights&mdash;study of Pindar's odes.

     23  Temple of Bacchus&mdash;merry-making after getting a liceat.

     24 Region of rejoicing&mdash;joy attendant on success in the
     schools.

     25 District of sabers&mdash;track of those who sap at their quarto
     and folio volumes.

     26  Dodd's sound&mdash;where the candidate will have to
     acknowledge the receipt of a certificate empowering him to
     float down Bachelor Creek.

     27  Cam Roads&mdash;retreat to Cambridge by way of a change.

     28 Bay of Condolence&mdash;where we console our friends, if
     plucked, and left at a nonplus.

     29 A well-known bookseller in Oxford generally called
     imposition G-, from his preparing translations for the
     members of the university.

     30 Imposition&mdash;see prick bill.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[156]</span> visit from the <i>prick bill</i>."{31}
      "Agreed," said Eglantine, "and Blackmantle and myself will, in the
      meantime, visit Sadler, and engage a couple of his prime hacks to
      accompany you."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     31 Prick bills&mdash;at Christ Church, junior students who prick
     with a pin the names of those gentlemen who are at chapel.
     Immediately after the service, the bills, with the noblemen
     and gentlemen commoners' names, are taken to the dean; those
     with the students and commoners' names, to the acting censor
     for the week; and the bachelors' bills to the sub-dean, who
     generally inform the prick bills what impositions shall be
     set those gentlemen who absented themselves from chapel:
     these are written upon strips of paper and carried to the
     gentlemen by the prick bill's scouts.

     Copy of an original imposition.

     "Sp 259 particular M M C. P. B."&mdash;Signifies translate No. 259
     Spectator to the word "particular" by Monday morning at
     chapel time.&mdash;Prick bill.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      THE EXCURSION TO BAGLEY WOOD.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Oxford Scholars and Oxford Livery Men&mdash;How to insure a good
     Horse and prevent Accidents&mdash;Description of Bagley Wood&mdash;A
     Freshman breaking cover&mdash;Interview with the Egyptian&mdash;
     Secrets of Futurity unveiled&mdash;Abingdon Beauties&mdash;Singular
     Anecdote and History of Mother Goose.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[157]</span> The ride to Bagley Wood introduced me
      to some new features of a college life, not the least entertaining of
      which was the dialogue before starting between my friend Eglantine, the
      livery-stable keeper, and his man, where we went to engage the horses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eglan. (to the ostler) Well, Dick, what sort of a stud, hey? any thing
      rum, a ginger or a miller, three legs or five, got by Whirlwind out of
      Skyscraper? Come, fig out two lively ones.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick. I mun see measter first, zur, before I lets any gentleman take a nag
      out o' yard. It's more as my place is worth to act otherwise.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eglan. What coming Tip-street over us, hey, Dick? <span class="pagenum">[158]</span>
      <i>frisking the freshman</i> here, old fellow? (pointing to me). It won't
      do&mdash;no go, Dick&mdash;he's my friend, a <i>cawker</i> to be sure, but
      must not <i>stand Sam</i> to an <i>Oxford raff</i>, or a Yorkshire <i>Johnny
      Raw</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick. I axes pardon, zur. I didna mean any such thing, but ever since you
      rode the grey tit last, she's never been out o' stall.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eglan. Not surprised at that, Dick. Never crossed a greater slug in my
      life&mdash;She's only fit to carry a dean or a bishop&mdash;No go in her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick. No, zur, measter zays as how you took it all out on her.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eglan. Why, I did give her a winder, Dick, to be sure, only one day's
      hunting, though, a good hard run over Somerset range, not above sixty
      miles out and home.
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick. Ay, I thought as how you'd been in some break-neck tumble-down
      country, zur, for Tit's knuckels showed she'd had a somerset or two.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eglan. Well, blister the mare, Dick! there's <i>half a bull</i> for your
      trouble: now put us on the right scent for a good one: any thing young and
      fresh, sprightly and shewy?
    </p>
    <p>
      Dick. Why, there be such a one to be zure, zur, but you munna split on me,
      or I shall get the zack for telling on ye. If you'll sken yon stable at
      end o' the yard, there be two prime tits just com'd in from Abingdon fair,
      thorough-bred and devils to go, but measter won't let 'em out.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eglan. Won't he? here he comes, and we'll try what a little persuasion
      will do. (Enter Livery Man.) Well, old fellow, I've brought you a new
      friend, Blackmantle of Brazennose: what sort of <i>praxis</i> can you give
      us for a trot to Bagley Wood, a short ride for something shewy to <i>lionise</i>
      a bit?
    </p>
    <p>
      Livery M. Nothing new, sir, and you know all the stud pretty well
      (knowingly). Suppose you try the grey mare you rode t'other day, and I'll
      find a quiet one for your friend.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[159]</span> Eglan. If I do, I am a <i>black horse</i>.
      She's no paces, nothing <i>but a shuffle</i>, not a <i>leg to stand on</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      Livery M. Every one as good as the principal of All-Souls. Not a better
      bred thing in Oxford, and all horses here gallop by instinct, as every
      body knows, but they can't go for ever, and when gentlemen ride steeple
      chases of sixty miles or more right a-head, they ought to find their own
      horse-flesh.
    </p>
    <p>
      Eglan. What coming <i>crabb</i> over us, old fellow, hey 1 Very well, I
      shall bolt and try Randall, and that's all about it. Come along,
      Blackmantle.
    </p>
    <p>
      My friend's threat of withdrawing his patronage had immediately the
      desired effect. Horace's judgment in horse-flesh was universally admitted,
      and the knowing dealer, although he had suffered in one instance by hard
      riding, yet deeply calculated on retrieving his loss by some unsuspecting
      Freshman, or other university Nimrod in the circle of Eglantine's
      acquaintance. By this time Echo had arrived, and we were soon mounted on
      the two fresh purchases which the honest Yorkshireman had so
      disinterestedly pointed out; and which, to do him justice, deserved the
      eulogium he had given us on their merits. One circumstance must not
      however be forgotten, which was the following notice posted at the end of
      the yard. "To prevent accidents, gentlemen pay <i>before mounting</i>."
      "How the deuce can this practice of paying beforehand prevent accidents?"
      said I. "You're fresh, old fellow," said Echo, "or you'd understand after
      a man breaks his neck he fears no duns. Now you know by accident what old
      Humanity there means."
    </p>
    <p>
      Bagley is about two miles and a half from Oxford on the Abingdon road, an
      exceedingly pleasant ride, leaving the sacred city and passing over the
      old bridge where formerly was situated the study or observatory of the
      celebrated Friar Bacon. Not an object in the shape of a petticoat escaped
      some raillery, and scarcely <span class="pagenum">[160]</span> a town <i>raff</i>
      but what met with a corresponding display of university wit, and called
      forth many a cutting joke: the place itself is an extensive wood on the
      summit of a hill, which commands a glorious panoramic view of Oxford and
      the surrounding country richly diversified in hill and dale, and sacred
      spires shooting their varied forms on high above the domes, and minarets,
      and towers of Rhedycina. This spot, the favourite haunt of the Oxonians,
      is covered for many miles with the most luxuriant foliage, affording the
      cool retreat, the love embowered shades, over which Prudence spreads the
      friendly veil. Here many an amorous couple have in softest dalliance met,
      and sighed, and frolicked, free from suspicion's eye beneath the broad
      umbrageous canopy of Nature; here too is the favourite retreat of the
      devotees of Cypriani, the spicy grove of assignations where the velvet
      sleeves of the Proctor never shake with terror in the wind, and the savage
      form of the university <i>bull dog</i> is unknown.
    </p>
    <p>
      A party of wandering English Arabs had pitched their tents on the brow of
      the hill just under the first cluster of trees, and materially increased
      the romantic appearance of the scene. The group consisted of men, women,
      and children, a tilted cart with two or three asses, and a lurcher who
      announced our approach. My companions were, I soon found, well known to
      the females, who familiarly approached our party, while the male animals
      as condescendingly betook themselves into the recesses of the wood. "Black
      Nan," said Echo, "and her daughter, the gypsy beauty, the Bagley
      brunette."&mdash;"Shall I tell your honour's fortune?" said the elder of
      the two, approaching me; while Eglantine, who had already dismounted and
      given his horse to one of the brown urchins of the party, had encircled
      the waist of the younger sibyl, and was tickling her into a trot in an
      opposite direction. "Ay do, Nan," <span class="pagenum">[161]</span> said
      Echo, "cast his nativity, open the book of fate, and tell the boy his
      future destiny." It would be the height of absurdity to repeat half the
      nonsense this oracle of Bagley uttered relative to my future fortunes; but
      with the cunning peculiar to her cast, she discovered I was fresh, and
      what tormented me more, (although on her part it was no doubt accidental)
      alluded to an amour in which my heart was much interested with a little
      divinity in the neighbourhood of Eton. This hint was sufficient to give
      Tom his cue, and I was doomed to be pestered for the remainder of the day
      with questions and raillery on my progress in the court of Love. On our
      quitting the old gypsy woman, a pair of buxom damsels came in sight,
      advancing from the Abingdon road; they were no doubt like ourselves, I
      thought, come to consult the oracle of Bagley, or, perhaps, were the
      daughters of some respectable farmer who owned the adjoining land. All
      these doubts were, however, of short duration; for Tom Echo no sooner
      caught sight of their faces, than away he bounded towards them like a
      young colt in all the frolic of untamed playfulness, and before I could
      reach him, one of the ladies was rolling on the green carpet of luxuriant
      Nature. In the deep bosom of Bagley Wood, impervious to the eye of
      authority, many a sportive scene occurs which would alarm the ethics of
      the solemn sages of the cloistered college. They were, I discovered,
      sisters, too early abandoned by an unfeeling parent to poverty, and thus
      became an easy prey to the licentious and the giddy, who, in the pursuit
      of pleasure, never contemplate the attendant misery which is sure to
      follow the victim of seduction. There was something romantic in their
      story: they were daughters of the celebrated Mother Goose, whose person
      must have been familiar to every Oxonian for the last sixty years prior to
      her decease, which occurred but a short time since Of <span class="pagenum">[162]</span>
      this woman's history I have since gleaned some curious particulars, the
      most remarkable of which (contained in the annexed note) have been
      authenticated by living witnesses.{1} Her portrait, by a member of All
      Souls, is admirable, and is here faithfully copied.
    </p>
    <p>
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<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 "<i>Mother Goose</i>," formerly a procuress, and one of the
     most abandoned of her profession. When from her advanced
     age, and the loss of her eye-sight, she could no longer
     obtain money by seducing females from the path of virtue,
     she married a man of the name of H., (commonly called
     Gentleman H.) and for years was led by him to the students'
     apartments in the different colleges with baskets of the
     choicest flowers. Her ancient, clean, and neat appearance,
     her singular address, and, above all, the circumstance of
     her being blind, never failed of procuring her at least ten
     times the price of her posy, and which was frequently
     doubled when she informed the young gentlemen of the
     generosity, benevolence, and charity of their grandfathers,
     fathers, or uncles whom she knew when they were at college.
     She had several illegitimate children, all females, and all
     were sacrificed by their unnatural mother, except one, who
     was taken away from her at a very tender age by the child's
     father's parents. When of age, this child inherited her
     father's property, and is now (I believe) the wife of an
     Irish nobleman, and to this time is unconscious that Mother
     Goose, of Oxford, gave her birth. The person who was
     instrumental in removing the child is still living in
     Oxford, and will testify to the authenticity of the fact
     here related. His present majesty never passed through
     Oxford without presenting Mother Goose with a donation, but
     of course without knowing her early history.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[163]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      Having, as Echo expressed it, now broke cover, and being advanced one step
      in the study of the fathers, we prepared to quit the Abingdon fair and
      rural shades of Bagley on our return to Oxford, something lighter in
      pocket, and a little too in morality. We raced the whole of the distance
      home, to the great peril of several groups of town raff whom we passed in
      our way. On our arrival my friends had each certain lectures to attend, or
      college duties to perform. An idle Freshman, there was yet three hours
      good before the invitation to the spread, and as kind fortune willed it to
      amuse the time, a packet arrived from Horatio Heartley. He had been
      spending the winter in town with his aunt, Lady Mary Oldstyle, and had,
      with his usual tact, been sketching the varied groups which form the
      circle of fashionable life. It was part of the agreement between us, when
      leaving each other at Eton, that we should thus communicate the
      characteristic traits of the society we were about to amalgamate with. He
      has, in the phraseology of the day, just come out, and certainly appears
      to have made the best use of his time.
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      KENSINGTON GARDENS&mdash;SUNDAY EVENING.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      Singularities of 1824.
    </h3>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[164]</span> WESTERN ENTRANCE INTO THE METROPOLIS; A
      DESCRIPTIVE SKETCH.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     General Views of the Author relative to Subject and Style&mdash;
     Time and Place&mdash;Perspective Glimpse of the great City&mdash;The
     Approach&mdash;Cockney Salutations&mdash;The Toll House&mdash;Western
     Entrance to Cockney Land&mdash;Hyde Park&mdash;Sunday Noon&mdash;
     Sketches of Character, Costume, and Scenery&mdash;The Ride and
     Drive&mdash;Kensington Gardens&mdash;Belles and Beaux&mdash;Stars and
     Fallen Stars&mdash;Singularities of 1824&mdash;Tales of Ton&mdash;On Dits
     and Anecdotes&mdash;Sunday Evening&mdash;High Life and Low Life, the
     Contrast&mdash;Cockney Goths&mdash;Notes, Biographical, Amorous, and
     Exquisite.
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="image-0041" id="image-0041">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/page165.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
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    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Its wealth and fashion, wit and folly,
          Pleasures, whims, and melancholy:
          Of all the charming belles and beaux
          Who line the parks, in double rows;
          Of princes, peers, their equipage,
          The splendour of the present age;
          Of west-end fops, and crusty cits,
          Who drive their gigs, or sport their tits;
          With all the groups we mean to dash on
          Who form the busy world of fashion:
          Proceeding onwards to the city,
          With sketches, humorous and witty.
          The man of business, and the Change,
          Will come within our satire's range:
          Nor rank, nor order, nor condition,
          Imperial, lowly, or patrician,
          Shall, when they see this volume, cry&mdash;
          "The satirist has pass'd us by,"
          But with good humour view our page
          Depict the manners of the age.
          Our style shall, like our subject, be
          Distinguished by variety;
          Familiar, brief we could say too&mdash;
          (It shall be whimsical and new),
          But reader that we leave to you.

          'Twas morn, the genial sun of May
          O'er nature spread a cheerful ray,
          When Cockney Land, clothed in her best,
          We saw, approaching from the west,
          And 'mid her steeples straight and tall
          Espied the dome of famed St. Paul,
          Surrounded with a cloud of smoke
          From many a kitchen chimney broke;
          A nuisance since consumed below
          By bill of Michael Angelo.{1}
          The coach o'er stones was heard to rattle,

     1 M. A. Taylor's act for compelling all large factories,
     which have steam and other apparatus, to consume their own
     smoke.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[166]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          The guard his bugle tuned for battle,
          The horses snorted with delight,
          As Piccadilly came in sight.
          On either side the road was lined
          With vehicles of ev'ry kind,
          And as the rapid wheel went round,
          There seem'd scarce room to clear the ground.
          "Gate-gate-push on&mdash;how do&mdash;well met&mdash;
          Pull up&mdash;my tits are on the fret&mdash;
          The number&mdash;lost it&mdash;tip then straight,
          That covey vants to bilk the gate."
          The toll-house welcome this to town.
          Your prime, flash, bang up, fly, or down,
          A tidy team of prads,&mdash;your castor's
          Quite a Joliffe tile,&mdash;my master.
          Thus buck and coachee greet each other,
          And seem familiar as a brother.
          No Chinese wall, or rude barrier,
          Obstructs the view, or entrance here;
          Nor fee or passport,&mdash;save the warder,
          Who draws to keep the roads in order;
          No questions ask'd, but all that please
          May pass and repass at their ease.

          In cockney land, the seventh day
          Is famous for a grand display
          Of modes, of finery, and dress,
          Of cit, west-ender, and noblesse,
          Who in Hyde Park crowd like a fair
          To stare, and lounge, and take the air,
          Or ride or drive, or walk, and chat
          On fashions, scandal, and all that.&mdash;
          Here, reader, with your leave, will we
          Commence our London history.
          'Twas Sunday, and the park was full
          With Mistress, John, and Master Bull,
          And all their little fry.
          The crowd pour in from all approaches,
          Tilb'ries, dennets, gigs, and coaches;
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[167]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          The bells rung merrily.
          Old dowagers, their fubsy faces{2}
          Painted to eclipse the Graces,
          Pop their noddles out
          Of some old family affair
          That's neither chariot, coach, or chair,
          Well known at ev'ry rout.
          But bless me, who's that coach and six?
          "That, sir, is Mister Billy Wicks,
          A great light o' the city,
          Tallow-chandler, and lord mayor{3};
          Miss Flambeau Wicks's are the fair,
          Who're drest so very pretty.
          It's only for a year you know
          He keeps up such a flashy show;
          And then he's melted down.
          The man upon that half-starved nag{4}
          Is an Ex-S&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;ff, a strange wag,
          Half flash, and half a clown.
          But see with artful lures and wiles
          The Paphian goddess, Mrs. G***s,{5}

     2 There are from twenty to thirty of these well known relics
     of antiquity who regularly frequent the park, and attend all
     the fashionable routs,&mdash;perfumed and painted with the
     utmost extravagance: if the wind sets in your face, they may
     be scented at least a dozen carriages off.

     3 It is really ludicrous to observe the ridiculous pride of
     some of these ephemeral things;&mdash;during their mayoralty, the
     gaudy city vehicle with four richly caparisoned horses is
     constantly in the drive, with six or eight persons crammed
     into it like a family waggon, and bedizened out in all the
     colours of the rainbow;&mdash;ask for them six months after, and
     you shall find them more suitably employed, packing rags,
     oranges, or red herrings.

     4 This man is such a strange compound of folly and
     eccentricity, that he is eternally in hot water with some
     one or other.

     5  Mrs. Fanny G-1-s, the ci-devant wife of a corn merchant,
     a celebrated courtezan, who sports a splendid equipage, and
     has long figured upon town as a star of the first order in
     the Cyprian hemisphere. She has some excellent qualities,
     as poor M&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-n can vouch; for when the fickle goddess
     Fortune left him in the lurch, she has a handsome annuity
     from a sporting peer, who was once the favoured swain.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[168]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          From out her carriage peeps;
          She nods to am'rous Mrs. D&mdash;&mdash;-,{6}
          Who bends with most sublime congee,
          While ruin'd&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-sleeps.
          Who follows 1 'tis the hopeful son
          Of the proud Earl of H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-n,
          Who stole the parson's wife.{7}
          The Earl of H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-and flame,
          For cabriolets she's the dame,{8}
          A dasher, on my life.
          Jack T&mdash;&mdash;-1 shows his pleasant face{9};
          A royal likeness here you'll trace,
          You'd swear he was a Guelph.
          See Lady Mary's U&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;walk,{10}
          And though but aide-de-camp to York,
          An Adonis with himself,

     6  Mrs. D&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-, alias Mrs. B-k-y, alias Miss Montague,
     the wife of poor Jem B-k-y, the greater his misfortune,&mdash;a
     well known Paphian queen, one of five sisters, who are all
     equally notorious, and whose history is well known. She is
     now the favoured sultana of a ci-devant banker, whose name
     she assumes, to the disgrace of himself and family.

     7  The clerical cornuto recovered, in a crim. con. action,
     four thousand pounds for the loss of his frail rib, from
     this hopeful sprig of nobility.

     8  Mrs. S&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, a most voluptuous lady, the discarded chère
     amie of the late Lord F-1-d, said to be the best carriage
     woman in the park: she lies in the Earl of H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-
     &mdash;'s cabriolet most delightfully stretched out at full
     length, and in this elegant posture is driven through the
     park.

     9  Captain T&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;l of the guards, whose powerful similitude
     to the reigning family of England is not more generally
     admitted than his good-humoured qualities are universally
     admired.

     10 The Hon. General U&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-, aide-de-camp to the Duke of
     York, whose intrigue with Lady Mary&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;was, we have
     heard, a planned affair to entrap a very different person.
     Be that as it may, it answered the purpose, and did not
     disturb the friendship of the parties. The honourable
     general has obtained the appellation of the Park Adonis,
     from his attractive figure and known gallantries.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[169]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-y mark, a batter'd beau,{11}
          Who'll still the fatal dice-box throw
          Till not a guinea's left.
          Beyond's the brothers B&mdash;&mdash;-e,{12}
          Of gold and acres quite as free,
          By gaming too bereft.
          Here trips commercial dandy Ra-k-s,{13}

     11   Lord A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;y, the babe of honour&mdash;once the gayest of
     the gay, where fashion holds her bright enchanting court;
     now wrinkled and depressed, and plucked of every feather, by
     merciless Greek banditti. Such is the infatuation of play,
     that he still continues to linger round the fatal table, and
     finds a pleasure in recounting his enormous losses. A&mdash;-y,
     who is certainly one of the most polished men in the
     world, was the leader of the dandy club, or the unique four,
     composed of Beau Brummell, Sir Henry Mildmay, and Henry
     Pierrepoint, the Ambassador, as he is generally termed. When
     the celebrated dandy ball was given to his Majesty (then
     Prince of Wales), on that occasion the prince seemed
     disposed to cut Brummell, who, in revenge, coolly
     observed to A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;y, when he was gone,&mdash;"Big Ben was vulgar
     as usual." This was reported at Carlton House, and led to
     the disgrace of the exquisite.&mdash;Shortly afterwards he met the
     Prince and A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;y in public, arm in arm, when the former,
     desirous of avoiding him, quitted the baron: Brummell, who
     observed his motive, said loud enough to be heard by the
     prince,&mdash;"Who is that fat friend of yours?" This expression
     sealed his doom; he was never afterwards permitted the
     honour of meeting the parties at the palace. The story of
     "George, ring the bell," and the reported conduct of the
     prince, who is said to have obeyed the request and ordered
     Mr. Brummell's carriage, is, we have strong reasons for
     thinking, altogether a fiction: Brummell knew the dignity of
     his host too well to have dared such an insult. The king
     since generously sent him 300L. when he heard of his
     distress at Calais. Brummell was the son of a tavern-keeper
     in St. James's, and is still living at Calais.

     12 The brothers are part of a flock of R&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;r geese, who
     have afforded fine plucking for the Greeks. Parson Ambrose,
     the high priest of Pandemonium, had a leg of one and a wing
     of the other devilled for supper one night at the Gothic
     Hall. They have cut but a lame figure ever since.

     13 A quaint cognomen given to the city banker by the west-
     end beaux;&mdash;he is a very amiable man.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[170]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Who never plays for heavy stakes,
          But looks to the main chance.
          There's Georgy W-b-ll, all the go,{14}
          The mould of fashion,&mdash;the court beau,
          Since Brummell fled to France:
          His bright brass harness, and the gray,
          The well known black cabriolet,
          Is always latest there;
          The reason,&mdash;George, with Captain P&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
          The lady-killing coterie,
          Come late&mdash;to catch the fair.
          See W-s-r, who with pious love,{15}
          For her, who's sainted now above,
          A sister kindly takes;
          So, as the ancient proverb tells,
          "The best of husbands, modern belles,
          Are your reformed rakes."
          In splendid mis'ry down the ride
          Alone,&mdash;see ****** lady glide,{16}
          Neglected for a&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;.
          What's fame, or titles, wealth's increase,
          Compared unto the bosom's peace?
          They're bubbles,&mdash;nothing more.

     14 George, although a <i>roué</i> of the most superlative order,
     is not deficient in good sense and agreeable qualifications.
     Since poor Beau Brummell's removal from the hemisphere of
     fashion, George has certainly shone a planet of the first
     magnitude: among the fair he is also considered like his
     friend, Captain P-r-y, a perfect lady-killer:&mdash;many a little
     milliner's girl has had cause to regret the seductive notes
     of A.Z.B. Limmer's Hotel.

     15 The Marquis of W-c-t-r has, since his first wife's death,
     married her sister.&mdash;Reformation, we are happy to perceive,
     is the order of the day. The failure of Howard and Gibbs
     involved more than one noble family in embarrassments.

     16 The amours of this child of fortune are notorious both on
     the continent and in this country. It is very often the
     misfortune of great men to be degraded by great profligacy
     of conduct: the poor lady is a suffering angel.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[171]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Observe yon graceful modest group{17}
          Who look like chaste Diana's troop,
          The Ladies Molineaux;
          With Sefton, the Nimrod of peers,
          As old in honesty,&mdash;as years,
          A stanch true buff' and blue.
          "What portly looking man is that
          In plain blue coat,&mdash;to whom each hat
          Is moved in ride and walk!"
          That pleasant fellow, be it known,
          Is heir presumptive to the throne,
          'Tis Frederick of York.{18}
          A better, kinder hearted soul
          You will not And, upon the whole,
          Within the British isle.
          But see where P-t's wife appears,{19}
          Who changed, though rather late in years,
          For honest George Ar-le.
          Now by my faith it gives me pain

     17  The female branches of the Sefton family are superior to
     the slightest breath of calumny, and present an example to
     the peerage worthy of more general imitation.

     18  No member of the present royal family displays more
     agreeable qualifications in society than the heir
     presumptive.&mdash;Un-affected, affable, and free, the duke may be
     seen daily pacing St. James's-street, Pall-mall, or the
     Park, very often wholly un-attended: as his person is
     familiar to the public, he never experiences the slightest
     inconvenience from curiosity, and he is so generally
     beloved, that none pass him who know him without paying
     their tribute of respect. In all the private relations of
     life he is a most estimable man,&mdash;in his public situation
     indefatigable, prompt, and attentive to the meanest applica-
     tion.

     19  A more lamentable instance of the profligacy of the age
     cannot be found than in the history of the transaction which
     produced this exchange of wives and persons. A wag of the
     day published a new list of promotions headed as follows,&mdash;
     Lady B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;n to be Lady A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;r P-t,&mdash;by exchange&mdash;Lady P-t
     to be Duchess of A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;e,&mdash;by promotion&mdash;Lady Charlotte W&mdash;y
     to be Lady P-t, vice Lady P-t, promoted.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[172]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          To see thee, cruel Lady J-,{20}
          Regret the golden Ball.
          Tis useless now:&mdash;"the fox and grapes"
          Remember, and avoid the apes
          Which wait an old maid's fall.
          Gay lady H&mdash;&mdash;-e's twinkling star{21}

     20  It is not long since that, inspired by love or ambition,
     a wealthy commoner sought the promise of the fair hand of
     Lady J-, nor was the consent of her noble father (influenced
     by certain weighty reasons*) wanting to complete the
     anticipated happiness of the suitor.&mdash;All the preliminary
     forms were arranged,&mdash;jointure and pin money liberally
     fixed,&mdash;some legal objections as to a covenant of forfeiture
     overcame, a suitable establishment provided. The happy day
     was fixed, when&mdash;"mark inconstant fickle woman"&mdash;the evening
     previous to completion (to the surprise of all the town),
     she changed her mind; she had reconsidered the subject!&mdash;The
     man was wealthy, and attractive in person; but then&mdash;
     insupportable objection&mdash;he was a mere plebeian, a common
     esquire, and his name was odious,&mdash;Lady J- B-1,&mdash;she could
     never endure it: the degrading thought produced a fainting
     fit,&mdash;the recovery a positive refusal,&mdash;the circumstance a
     week's amusement to the fashionable world. Reflection and
     disappointment succeeded, and a revival was more than once
     spoken of; but the recent marriage of the bachelor put an
     end to all conjecture, and the poor lady was for some time
     left to bewail in secret her single destiny. Who can say,
     when a lady has the golden ball at her foot, where she may
     kick it? Circumstances which have occurred since the above
     was written prove that the lady has anticipated our advice.

     21  Her ladyship's crimson vis-à-vis and her tall footman
     are both highly attractive&mdash;there are no seats in the
     vehicle&mdash;the fair owner reclines on a splendid crimson velvet
     divan or cushion. She must now be considered a beauty of the
     last century, being already turned of fifty: still she
     continued to flourish in the annals of&mdash;fashion, until
     within the last few years; when she ceased to go abroad for
     amusement, finding it more convenient to purchase it at
     home. As her parties in Grosvenor-square are of the most
     splendid description, and her dinners (where she is the
     presiding deity, and the only one) are frequent, and
     unrivalled for a display of the "savoir vivre," her ladyship
     can always draw on the gratitude of her guests for that
     homage to hospitality which she must cease to expect to her
     charms, "now in the sear and yellow leaf:"&mdash;she is a M-nn-
     rs-"verbum sal." Speaking of M-nn-ra, where is the portly
     John (the Regent's double, as he was called some few years
     since), and the amiable duchess, who bestowed her hand and
     fortune upon him?&mdash;but, n'importe.

     * The marquis is said to have shown some aversion in the
     first instance, till H-s B-1 sent his rent roll for his
     inspection: this was immediately returned with a very
     satisfactory reply, but accompanied with a more embarrassing
     request, namely, a sight of his pedigree.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[173]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Glimmers in eclipse,&mdash;afar's
          The light of former time.
          In gorgeous pride and vis-à-vis,{22}
          A-b-y's orange livry see,
          The gayest in the clime.
          Camac and wife, in chariot green,
          Constant as turtle-doves are seen,
          With two bronze slaves behind;
          Next H-tf-d's comely, widow'd dame,{23}
          With am'rous G&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, a favourite name,
          When G&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;was true and kind.

     22   "The gorgeous A-b-y in the sun-flower's pride." This
     lady's vis-à-vis by far the most splendidly rich on town.
     Her footmen (of which there are four on drawing-room days)
     are a proper emblem of that gaudy flower&mdash;bright yellow
     liveries, black lower garments, spangled and studded. There
     is a general keeping in this gorgeous equipage, which is
     highly creditable to the taste of the marchioness, for the
     marquis, "good easy man," (though a Bruce), he is too much
     engaged preserving his game at Ro-er-n park, and keeping up
     the game in St. Stephen's (where his influence is
     represented by no less than eight "sound men and true"), to
     attend to these trifling circumstances. This, with a well
     paid rental of upwards of £100,000 per annum, makes the life
     of this happy pair pass in an uninterrupted stream of
     fashionable felicity.

     23  The marchioness is said to bear the neglect of a certain
     capricious friend with much cool philosophy. Soon after the
     intimacy had ceased, they met by accident. On the sofa, by
     the side of the inconstant, sat the reigning favourite; the
     marchioness placed herself (uninvited) on the opposite side:
     astonishment seized the ****; he rose, made a very graceful
     bow to one of the ladies, and coolly observed to the
     marchesa&mdash;"If this conduct is repeated, I must decline
     meeting you in public."   This was the cut royal.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[174]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          See S-b-y's peeress, whom each fool
          Of fashion meets in Sunday school,{24}
          To chat in learned lore;
          Where rhyming peers, and letter'd beaus,
          Blue stocking belles to love dispose,
          And wit is deem'd a bore.
          With brave Sir Ronald, toe to toe,
          See Mrs. M-h-l A-g-lo,{25}
          Superb equestriana.
          Next&mdash;that voluptuous little dame,{26}
          Who sets the dandy world in flame,
          The female Giovanni.
          Erin's sprightly beauteous belle,
          Gay Lady G-t-m, and her swell
          The Yorkshire Whiskerandoes.{27}

     24 The dulness of the marchioness's Sunday evening conver-
     saziones have obtained them the fashionable appellation of
     the Sunday-school. Lord Byron thought it highly dangerous
     for any wit to accept a second invitation, lest he should be
     inoculated with ennui.

     23 Mrs. M- A-g-e, a very amiable and accomplished woman,
     sister to Sir H-y V-ne T-p-t. She is considered the best
     female equestrian in the ride.

     26  A consideration for the delicacy of our fair readers
     will not allow us to enter upon the numerous amours of this
     favourite of Apollo and the Muses, and not less celebrated
     intriguant. She may, however, have ample justice entailed
     upon her under another head. Latterly, since the police have
     been so active in suppressing the gaming houses, a small
     party have met with security and profit for a little chicken
     hazard in Curzon-street, at which Mr. C-t has occasionally
     acted as croupier and banker. Elliston used to say, when
     informed of the sudden indisposition or absence of a certain
     little actress and singer-"Ay, I understand; she has a more
     profitable engagement than mine this evening." The amorous
     trio, Cl-g-t, Charles H-r-s, and the exquisite Master G-e,
     may not have cause to complain of neglect. The first of
     these gentlemen has lately, we understand, been very
     successful at play; we trust experience will teach him
     prudence.

     27  His lordship commands the York hussars, in defence of
     whose whiskers he sometime since made a Quixotic attack upon
     a public writer. As he is full six feet high, and we are not
     quite five, prudence bids us place our finger on our lip.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[175]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Pale Lambton, he who loves and hates
          By turns, what Pitts, or Pit, creates,
          Led by the Whig fandangoes.
          Sound folly's trumpet, fashion's drums,&mdash;
          Here great A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;y W&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;ce comes,{28}
          'Mong tailors, a red button.
          With luminarious nose and cheeks,
          Which love of much good living speaks,
          Observe the city glutton:
          Sir W-m, admiral of yachts,
          Of turtles, capons, port, and pots,
          In curricle so big.
          Jack F-r follows;&mdash;Jack's a wag,{29}

     28  A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;y W&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;o, Esq. otherwise the renowned Billy
     Button, the son and heir to the honours, fortune, and
     shopboard of the late Billy Button of Bedford-street, Covent
     Garden. The latter property he appears to have transferred
     to the front of the old brown landau, where the aged
     coachman, with nose as flat as the ace of clubs, sits,
     transfixed and rigid as the curls of his caxon, from three
     till six every Sunday evening, urging on a cabbage-fed pair
     of ancient prods, which no exertion of the venerable Jehu
     has been able for the last seven years to provoke into a
     trot from Hyde park gate to that of Cumberland and back
     again. The contents of the vehicle are equally an
     exhibition. Billy, with two watches hung by one chain,
     undergoing the revolutionary movements of buckets in a
     well, and his eye-glass set round with false pearls, are
     admirably "en suite" with his bugle optics. The frowsy
     madam in faded finery, with all the little Buttons, attended
     by a red-haired poor relation from Inverness (who is at once
     their governess and their victim), form the happy tenantry
     of this moving closet. No less than three, crests surmount
     the arms of this descendant of Wallace the Great. A waggish
     Hibernian, some few months since, added a fourth, by
     chalking a goose proper, crested with a cabbage, which was
     observed and laughed at by every one in the park except the
     purblind possessor of the vehicle, who was too busy in
     looking at himself.

     29  Honest Jack is no longer an M.P., to the great regret of
     the admirers of senatorial humours. Some few years since,
     being Btuehi plenus, he reeled into St. Stephen's chapel a
     little out of a perpendicular; when the then dignified Abbot
     having called him to order, he boldly and vociferously
     asserted that "Jack F-r of Rose-Hill was not to be set down
     by any little fellow in a wig. "This offence against the
     person and high office of the Abbot of St. Stephen's brought
     honest Jack upon his knees, to get relieved from a
     troublesome serjeant attendant of the chapel. Knowing his
     own infirmities, and fearing perhaps that he might be com-
     pelled to make another compulsory prayer, Jack resigned his
     pretensions to senatorial honors at the last general
     election. His chief amusement, when in town, is the watching
     and tormenting the little marchandes des modes who cross
     over or pass in the neighbourhood of Regent-street&mdash;he is,
     however, perfectly harmless. 30 An unlucky accident,
     occasioned by little Th-d the wine merchant overturning F-z-y
     in his tandem, compelled the latter to sell out of the
     army, but not without having lost a leg in the service. A
     determined patriot, he was still resolved to serve his
     country. A barrister on one leg might be thought ominous of
     his client's cause, or afford food for the raillery of his
     opponent. The bar was therefore rejected. But the church
     opened her arms to receive the dismembered son of Mars (a
     parson with a cork leg, or two wooden ones, or indeed
     without a leg to stand on, was not un-orthodox), and F-z-y
     was soon inducted to a valuable benefice. He is now, we
     believe, a pluralist, and, if report be true, has shown
     something of the old soldier in his method of retaining
     them. F-y married Miss Wy-d-m, the daughter of Mrs. H-s, who
     was the admired of his brother, L-d P-. He is generally
     termed the fighting parson, and considered one of the best
     judges of a horse in town: he sometimes does a little
     business in that way among the young ones.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[176]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          A jolly dog, who sports his nag,
          Or queers the Speaker's wig:
          To Venus, Jack is stanch and true;
          To Bacchus pays devotion too,
          But likes not bully Mars.
          Next him, some guardsmen, exquisite,-
          A well-dress'd troop;&mdash;but as to fight,
          It may leave ugly scars.
          Here a church militant is seen,{30}
          Who'd rather fight than preach I ween,
          Once major, now a parson;
          With one leg in the grave, he'll laugh,
          Chant up a pard, or quaintly chaff,
          To keep life's pleasant farce on.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[177]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Lord Arthur Hill his Arab sports,
          And gentle-usher to the courts:
          See Horace and Kang C-k,{31}
          Who, with the modern Mokamna
          C-m-e, must ever bear the sway
          For ugliness of look.
          A pair of ancients you may spy,{32}
          Sir Edward and Sir Carnaby,
          From Brighton just set free;
          The jesters of our lord the king,
          Who loves a joke, and aids the thing
          In many a sportive way.
          A motley group come rattling on,{33}

     31 Horace S-y-r, gentleman usher to the king, and K-g C-k,
     said to be the ugliest man in the British army: in the park
     he is rivalled only by C-c. For the benefit of all the
     married ladies, we would recommend both of these
     singularities to wear the veil in public.

     32 Sir Ed-d N-g-e. His present majesty is not less fond of a
     pleasant joke than his laughter-loving predecessor, Charles
     II. The Puke of Clarence, while at the Pavilion (a short
     time since), admired a favourite grey pony of Sir E-d N-e's;
     in praise of whose qualities the baronet was justly liberal.
     After the party had returned to the palace, the duke, in
     concert with the k-g, slily gave directions to have the pony
     painted and disfigured (by spotting him with water colour
     and attaching a long tail), and then brought on the lawn. In
     this state he was shown to Sir E&mdash;, as one every way
     superior to his own. After examining him minutely, the old
     baronet found great fault with the pony; and being, at the
     duke's request, induced to mount him, objected to all his
     paces, observing that he was not half equal to his grey. The
     king was amazingly amused with the sagacity of the good-
     humoured baronet, and laughed heartily at the astonishment
     he expressed when convinced of the deception practised upon
     him. Sir C-n-y H-s-ne, although a constant visitor at the
     Pavilion, is not particularly celebrated for any attractive
     qualification, unless it be his unlimited love of little
     ladies. He is known to all the horse dealers round London,
     from his constant inquiries for a "nice quiet little horse
     to carry a lady;" but we never heard of his making a
     purchase.

     33 The middle order of society was formerly in England the
     most virtuous of the three&mdash;folly and vice reared their
     standard and recruited their ranks in the highest and the
     lowest; but the medium being now lost, all is in the
     extreme. The superlative dandy inhabitant of a first floor
     from the ground in Bond-street, and the finished inhabitant
     of a first floor from heaven (who lives by diving) in Fleet-
     street, are in kindness and habits precisely the same.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[178]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Who ape the style and dress of ton,
          And Scarce are worth review;
          Yet forced to note the silly elves,
          Who take such pains to note themselves,
          We'll take a name or two.
          H-s-ly, a thing of shreds and patches,{34}
          Whose manners with his calling matches,
          That is, he's a mere goose.
          Old St-z of France, a worthy peer,
          From shopboard rais'd him to a sphere
          Of ornament and use.
          The double dandy, fashion's fool,
          The lubin log of Liverpool,
          Fat Mister A-p-ll,
          Upon his cob, just twelve hands high,
          A mountain on a mouse you'll spy
          Trotting towards the Mall.
          Sir *&mdash;&mdash;-*-, the chicken man,{35}

     34 Young Priment, as he is generally termed, the once
     dashing foreman and cutter out, now co-partner of the
     renowned Baron St-z, recently made a peer of France. Who
     would not be a tailor (St-z has retired with a fortune of
     £100,000. )! Lord de C-ff-d, some time since objecting to
     certain items in his son's bill from St-z, as being too
     highly charged, said, "Tell Mr. S- I will not pay him, if it
     costs me a thousand pounds to resist it. " St-z, on hearing
     this, said, "Tell his lordship that he shall pay the
     charge, if it costs me ten thousand to make him." H-s-ly
     with some little satisfaction was displaying to a customer
     the Prince of C-b-g's bill for three months (on the occasion
     of his Highness's new field-marshal's suit, we suppose):
     "Here," said he, "see what we have done for him: his
     quarter's tailor's bill now comes to more than his annual
     income formerly amounted to." Mr. H-s-ly sports a bit of
     blood, a dennet, and a filly; and, for a tailor, is a
     superfine sort of dandy, but with a strong scent of the shop
     about him.

     35 The redoubtable general's penchant for little girls has
     obtained him the tender appellation of the chicken man.
     Many of these <i>petits amours</i> are carried on in the assumed
     name of Sir Lewis N-t-n, aided by the skill and ingenuity
     of Captain *-.    Youth may plead whim and novelty for low
     intrigue; but the aged beau can only resort to it from
     vitiated habit.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[179]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          With pimp *-a-t in the van,
          The Spy of an old Spy;
          Who beat up for recruits in town,
          Mong little girls, in chequer'd gown,
          Of ages rather shy.
          That mild, complacent-looking face,{36}
          Who sits his bit of blood with grace,
          Is tragic Charley Young:
          With dowager savant a beau,
          Who'll spout, or tales relate, you know,
          Nobility among.
          "Sure such a pair was never seen"
          By nature form'd so sharp and keen
          As H-ds-n and Jack L-g;
          Or two who've play'd their cards so well,
          As many a pluck'd roué can tell,
          Whose purses once were strong:
          Both deal in pipes&mdash;and by the nose
          Have led to many a green horn's woes
          A few gay bucks to Surrey,
          Where Marshal Jones commands in chief
          A squadron, who to find relief
          Are always in a hurry.
          They're folloiv'd by a merry set&mdash;
          Cl-m-ris, L-n-x, young B-d-t,
          Whom they may shortly follow.
          That tall dismember'd dandy mark,
          Who strolls dejected through the park,
          With cheeks so lank and hollow;
          That's Badger B-t-e, poet A&mdash;
          The mighty author of "To-day,"

     36 This truly respectable actor is highly estimated among a
     large circle of polished society; where his amusing talents
     and gentlemanly demeanour render him a most entertaining
     and agreeable companion.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[180]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Forgotten of "To-morrow;"
          A superficial wit, who 'll write
          For Shandy little books of spite,
          When cash he wants to borrow.
          The pious soul who 's driving by,
          And at the poet looks so shy,
          Is parson A- the gambler;{37}
          His deaf-lugg'd daddy a known blade
          In Pandemonium's fruitful trade,
          'Mong Paphians a rambler.
          Augusta H-ke (or C-i) moves
          Along the path&mdash;her little doves&mdash;
          Decoys, upon each arm.
          Where 's Jehu Martin, four-in-hand,
          An exile in a foreign land
          From fear of legal charm.
          A pensioner of Cyprian queen,
          The Bond-street tailor here is seen,
          The tally-ho so gay.
          Next P&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;s,{38} who by little goes,

     37 The parson is so well known, and has been so plentifully
     be-spattered on all sides, that we shall, with true orthodox
     charity, leave him with a strong recommendation to the
     notice of the society for the suppression of vice, with this
     trite remark, "<i>Vide hic et ubique</i>."

     38 This man, who is now reported to be worth three hundred
     thousand pounds, was originally a piece-broker in Bedford-
     bury, and afterwards kept a low public house in Vinegar-
     yard, Drury-lane; from whence he merged into an illegal
     lottery speculation in Northumberland-street, Strand, where
     he realized a considerable sum by insurances and little
     goes; from this spot he was transplanted to Norris-street,
     in the Haymarket, managing partner in a gaming-house, when,
     after a run of ill luck, an affair occurred that would have
     occasioned some legal difficulty but for the oath of a
     pastry-cook's wife, who proved an alibi, in return for which
     act of kindness he afterwards made her his wife. Obtaining
     possession of the rooms in Pall-Mall (then the celebrated
     E. O. tables, and the property of W-, the husband, by a sham
     warrant), the latter became extremely jealous; and, to make
     all comfortable, our hero, to use his own phrase, generously
     bought the mure and coll.&mdash;Mrs. W&mdash;and her son&mdash;both since
     dead: the latter rose to very high rank in an honourable
     profession. The old campaigner has now turned pious, and
     recently erected and endowed a chapel. He used to boast he
     had more promissory notes of gambling dupes than would be
     sufficient to cover the whole of Pall-Mall; he may with
     justice add, that he can command bank notes enough to cover
     Cavendish-square.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[181]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          And west-end hells, to fortune rose
          By many a subtle way.
          Patron of bull-baits, racings, fights,
          A chief of black-legg'd low delights&mdash;
          'Tis the new m&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;s, F-k;
          Time was, his heavy vulgar gait,
          With one of highest regal state
          Took precedence of rank:
          But now, a little in disgrace
          Since J-e usurp'd his m&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;'s place,
          A stranger he's at court;
          Unlike the greatest and the best
          Who went before, his feather'd nest
          Is well enrich'd by sport.
          F-1-y disastrous, honour's child;
          L-t-he the giddy, gay, and wild,
          And sportive little Jack;
          The prince of dandies join the throng,
          Where Gwydir spanks his fours along,
          The silvery grays or black.
          The charming F-te, and Colonel B-,{39}
          Snugly in close carriage see
          With crimson coats behind:
          And Mrs. C&mdash;, the Christmas belle,

     39 We shall not follow the colonel's example, or we could
     give some extracts from the letters of a. female
     corespondent of his that would be both curious and
     interesting; but <i>n'importe</i>, consideration for the lady
     alone prevents the publication. In town he is always
     discovered by a group of would-be exquisites, the satellites
     of the Jupiter of B-k-y C-t-e at Gl-r; or at Ch&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-m
     they have some name; but here they are more fortunate, for
     o'er them oblivion throws the friendly veil.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[182]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          With banker's clerk, a tale must tell
          To all who are not blind.
          Ah! Poodle Byng appears in view,{40}
          Who gives at whist a point or two
          To dowagers in years.
          And see where ev'ry body notes
          The star of fashion, Romeo Coates{41}
          The amateur appears:
          But where! ah! where, say, shall I tell
          Are the brass cocks and cockle shell?
          Ill hazard, rouge et noir
          If it but speak, can tales relate
          Of many an equipage's fate,
          And may of many more.
          Ye rude canaille, make way, make way,
          The Countess and the Count&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,{42}

     40 This gentleman is generally designated by the name of
     "the whist man:" he holds a situation in the secretary of
     state's office, and is in particular favour with all the old
     dowagers, at whose card parties it is said he is generally
     fortunate. He has recently been honoured with the situation
     of grand chamberlain to their black majesties of the
     Sandwich isles.

     41  Poor Borneo's brilliancy is somewhat in eclipse, and
     though not quite a fallen star, he must not run on black too
     long,&mdash;lest his diamond-hilted sword should be the price of
     his folly.

     42 The Countess of &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-is the daughter of
     Governor J&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-; her mother's name was Patty F-d, the
     daughter of an auctioneer who was the predecessor of the
     present Mr. Christie's father. Patty, then a very beautiful
     woman, went with him to India, and was a most faithfull and
     attentive companion.&mdash;On the voyage home with J&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-
     &mdash;&mdash;-and her three children, by him, the present countess,
     and her brothers James and George, they touched at the Cape,
     where the old governor most ungratefully fell in love with a
     young Portuguese lady, whom he married and brought to
     England in the same ship with his former associate, whom he
     soon after completely abandoned, settling 500L. a year upon
     her for the support of herself and daughter; his two sons,
     James and George, he provided with writerships in the
     company's service, and sent to India. James died young, and
     George returned to England in a few years, worth 180,000
     pounds.&mdash;He lingered in a very infirm state of health, the
     effects of the climate and Mrs. M-, alias Madame Haut Gout;
     and at his death, being a bachelor, he left the present
     countess, his sister who lived with him, the whole of his
     property. There are various tales circulated in the
     fashionable world relative to the origin and family of the
     count, who has certainly been a most fortunate man: he is
     chiefly indebted for success with the countess to his skill
     as an amateur on the flute, rather than to his paternal
     estates. The patron of foreigners, he takes an active part
     in the affairs of the Opera-house.&mdash;Poor Tori having given
     some offence in this quarter, was by his influence kept out
     of an engagement; but it would appear he received some
     amends, by the following extract from a fashionable paper of
     the day.

     A certain fashionable&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;l, who was thought to be <i>au
     comble de bonheur</i>, has lately been much tormented with that
     green-eyed monster, Jealousy, in the shape of an opera
     singer. <i>Plutôt mourir que changer</i>, was thought to be the
     motto of the pretty round-faced English&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;s;  but,
     alas! like the original, it was written on the sands of
     disappointment, and was scarcely read by the admiring
     husband, before his joy was dashed by the prophetic wave,
     and the inscription erased by a favoured son of Apollo.
     <i>L'oreille est le chemin du cour</i>: so thought the &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;l,
     and forbade the &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;s to hold converse with Monsieur
     T.; but <i>les femmes peuvent tout, parce-qu'elles gouvernent
     ceux qui gouvernent tous</i>.    A meeting took place in
     Grosvenor-square, and, amid the interchange of doux yeux,
     the &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-l arrived: a desperate scuffle ensued; the
     intruder was banished the house, and, as he left the door,
     is said to have whistled the old French proverb of <i>Le bon
     temps viendra</i>. This affair has created no little amusement
     among the <i>beau monde</i>. All the dowagers are fully agreed on
     one point, that <i>l'amour est une passion qui vient souvent
     sans qu'on s'en apperçoîve, et, qui s'en va aussi de même</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[183]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Who play <i>de prettee</i> flute,
          Who charm <i>une petit</i> English ninnie,
          Till all the Joueur J&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;'s guinea
          Him <i>pochée en culotte</i>.
          Who follows? 'tis the Signor Tori,
          'Bout whom the gossips tell a story,
          With some who've gone before:
          "The bird in yonder cage confined
          Can sing of lovers young and kind,"
          But there, he'll sing no more.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[184]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Lord L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;looks disconsolate,{}43
          No news from Spain I think of late,
          Per favour M&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;i.
          Ne'er heed, my lord, you still may find
          Some opera damsel true and kind,
          Who'll prove less coy and naughty.
          "Now by the pricking of my thumbs,
          There's something wicked this way comes,"
          'Tis A-'s false dame,{44}
          Who at Almack's, or in the park,
          With whispers charms a clucal spark,
          To blight his wreath of fame.
          Observe, where princely Devonshire,{45}

     43 His lordship, though not quite so deeply smitten as the
     now happy swain, had, we believe, a little __penchant for
     the charming little daughter of Terpsichore.     "What news
     from Spain, my lord, this morning?" said Sir C. A. to Lord
     L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;"I have no connexion with the foreign office,"
     replied his lordship.&mdash;"I beg pardon, my lord, but I am sure
     I met a Spanish messenger quitting your house as I entered
     it." On the turf, his lordship's four year old (versus five)
     speculations with Cove B-n have given him a notoriety that
     will, we think, prevent his ruining himself at Newmarket.
     Like the immortal F-e, he is one of the opera directors, and
     has a great inclination for foreign curiosities. Vide the
     following extract.&mdash;

     "The New Corps de Ballot at the Opera this season, 1823, is
     entirely composed of Parisian elegantes, selected with great
     taste by Lord L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-, whose judgment in these matters is
     perfectly con amore. In a letter to a noble friend on
     this subject, Lord L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;says that he has seen, felt, and
     (ap-) proved them all&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;to be excellent artistes with
     very finished movements."
		 </pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[185]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Certain ridiculous reports have long been current in the
     fashionable world, relative to a mysterious family affair,
     which would preclude the noble duke's entering into the
     state of matrimony: it is hardly necessary to say they have
     no foundation in truth. The duke was certainly born in the
     same house and at nearly the same time (in Florence) when
     Lady E. F-st-r, since Duchess of D-, was delivered of a
     child&mdash;but that offspring is living, and, much to the present
     duke's honour, affectionately regarded by him. The duke was
     for some years abroad after coming to his title, owing, it
     is said, to an unpleasant affair arising out of a whist
     party at a great house, which was composed of a Prince,
     Lords L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;and Y&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;th, another foreign Prince, and a
     Colonel B-, of whom no one has heard much since.&mdash;A noble
     mansion in Piccadilly was there and then assigned to the
     colonel, who at the request of the -e, who had long wished
     to possess it as a temporary residence, during some
     intended repairs at the great house, re-conveyed it to
     the&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;. On the receipt of a note from Y- the next
     morning, claiming the amount of the duke's losses, he
     started with surprise at the immense sums, and being now
     perfectly recovered from the overpowering effects of the
     bottle, hastened with all speed to take the opinions of two
     well-known sporting peers, whose honour has never been
     questioned, Lords F-y and S-n; they, upon a review of the
     circumstances, advised that the money should not be paid,
     but that all matters in dispute should be referred to a
     third peer, Earl G-y, who was not a sporting man: to this
     effect a note was written to the applicant, but not before
     some communication had taken place with a very high
     personage; the consequence was that no demand was ever
     afterwards made to the referee. Lord G- C- afterwards re-
     purchased the great house with the consent of the duke from
     the fortunate holder, as he did not like it to be
     dismembered from the family. We believe this circumstance
     had a most salutary effect in preventing any return of a
     propensity for play.

     44 Charley loves good place and wine,
        And Charley loves good brandy,
        And Charley's wife is thought divine,
        By many a Jack a dandy.
        PARODY ON AN OLD NURSERY RHYME.

     {45} A CHARACTER OF DEVONSHIRE.
</pre>
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    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[186]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          In action, heart, and mind, a peer,
          Avoids the public gaze;
          Graceful, yet simple in attire,
          You'd take him for a plain esquire;
          "His acts best speak his praise."
          That queer, plain, yellow chariot, mark,
          Which drives so rapid through the park,
          The servants clothed in gray&mdash;
          That's George, incog.&mdash;George who? George-king,{46}
          Of whom near treason 'tis to sing,
          In this our sportive lay.
          Kings like their subjects should have air
          And exercise, without the stare
          Which the state show attends;
          I love to see in public place
          The monarch, who'll his people face,
          And meet like private friends.
          So may the crown of this our isle
          Re ever welcomed with a smile,
          And, George, that smile be thine!
          Then when the time,&mdash;and come it must,
          That crowns and sceptres shall be dust,
          Thou shalt thy race outshine,
          Shalt live in good men's hearts, and tears,
          From age to age, while mem'ry rears
          The proud historic shrine.

     46   FROM THE DIARY OF A POLITICIAN.
     "Through Manchester-square took a canter just now,
     Met the old yellow chariot, and made a low bow;
     This did of course, thinking 'twas loyal and civil,
     But got such a look,&mdash;oh! 'twas black as the devil.
     How unlucky!&mdash;incog, he was traveling about,
     And I like a noodle must go find him out!
     Mem. When next by the old yellow chariot I ride,
     To remember there is nothing princely inside."
     Tom Moore,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[187]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          What rueful-looking knight is that,{47}
          With sunken eye and silken hat,

     47 Lord P-r-m, the delicate dandy.

          Laced up in stays to show his waist,
          And highly rouged to show his taste,
          His whiskers meeting 'neath his chin,
          With gooseberry eye and ghastly grin,
          With mincing steps, conceited phrase,
          Such as insipid P- displays:
          These are the requisites to shine
          A dandy, exquisite, divine.

          Ancient Dandies.&mdash;A Confession.
          The Doctor{*}, as we learn, once said,
          To Mistress Thrale&mdash;
          Howe'er a man be stoutly made,
          And free from ail,
          In flesh and bone, and colour thrive,
          "He's going down at 35."
          Yet Horace could his vigour muster
          And would not till a later lustre f
          One single inch of ground surrender
          To any swain in Cupid's calendar.
          But one I think a jot too low,
          And t'other is too high, I know.
          Yet, what I've found, I'll freely state&mdash;
          The thing may do till.&mdash;
          But that's a job&mdash;for then, in truth,
          One's but a clumsy sort of youth:
          And maugre looks, some evil tongue
          Will say the Dandy is not young:&mdash;
          For 'mid the yellow and the sear, {**}
          Though here and there a leaf be green
          No more the summer of the year
          It is, than when one swallow's seen.

     * Johnson.
     t&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-fuge suspicari
     Cujus octavum trepidavit otas
     Claudere lustrum.&mdash;Od. 4.1. ii.
     Now tottering on to forty years,
     My age forbids all jealous fears.

     **  "My May of life is fallen into
     the sear and yellow leaf."&mdash;Macbeth.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[188]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Pinch'd in behind and 'fore?
          Whose visage, like La Mancha's chief,
          Seems the pale frontispiece to grief,
          As if 'twould ne'er laugh more:
          Whose dress and person both defy
          The poet's pen, the painter's eye,
          'Tis <i>outre tout nature</i>.
          His Arab charger swings his tail,
          Curvets and prances to the gale
          Like Death's pale horse,&mdash;
          And neighing proudly seems to say,
          Here Fashion's vot'ries must pay
          Homage of course:
          Tis P-h-m, whom Mrs. H-g-s
          At opera and play-house dodges
          Since he gain'd Josephine;
          Tailors adorn a thousand ways,
          And (though Time won't) men may make Slays;
          The dentist, barber, make repairs,
          New teeth supply, and colour hairs;
          But art can ne'er return the Spring&mdash;
          And spite of all that she can do,
          <i>A Beau's</i> a very wretched thing
          At 42!

     The late Princess Charlotte issued an order, interdicting
     any one of her household appearing before her with frightful
     fringes to their leaden heads. In consequence of this cruel
     command, P-r-m, being one of the lords of the bed-chamber,
     was compelled to curtail his immense whiskers. A very
     feeling ode appeared upon the occasion, entitled My
     Whiskers, dedicated to the princess; it was never printed,
     but attributed to Thomas Moore. The Kiss, or Lady Francis W-
     W-'s Frolic, had nearly produced a fatal catastrophe. How
     would poor Lady Anne W-m have borne such a misfortune? or
     what purling stream would have received the divine form of
     the charming Mrs. H-d-s? But alas! he escaped little W-'s
     ball, only to prove man's base ingratitude, for he has
     since cut with both these beauties for the interesting
     little Josephine, the protégée of T&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;y B-t, and the
     sister of the female Giovanni.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[189]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Ye madly vicious, can it be!
          A mother sunk in infamy,
          To sell her child is seen.
          Let Bow-street annals, and Tom B-t,{48}
          Who paid the mill'ner, tell the rest,
          It suits not with our page;
          Just satire while she censures,&mdash;feels,&mdash;
          Verse spreads the vice when it reveals
          The foulness of the age.
          'Tis half-past five, and fashion's train
          No longer in Hyde Park remain,
          Bon ton cries hence, away;
          The low-bred, vulgar, Sunday throng,
          Who dine at two, are ranged along
          On both sides of the way;
          With various views, these honest folk
          Descant on fashions, quiz and joke,
          Or mark a shy cock down{49};
          For many a star in fashion's sphere
          Can only once a week appear
          In public haunts of town,
          Lest those two ever watchful friends,
          The step-brothers, whom sheriff sends,
          John Doe and Richard Roe,
          A taking pair should deign to borrow,
          To wit, until All Souls, the morrow,
          The body of a beau;

     48  Poor Tom B-t has paid dear for his protection of
     the Josephine: fifteen hundred pounds for millinery in
     twelve months is a very moderate expenditure for so young a
     lady of fashion. It is, to be sure, rather provoking that
     such an ape as Lord &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;should take command of the
     frigate, and sail away in defiance of the chartered party,
     the moment she was well found and rigged for a cruize. See
     Common Plea Reports, 1823

     49  The Sunday men, as they are facetiously called in the
     fashionable world, are not now so numerous as formerly: the
     facility of a trip across the Channel enables many a shy
     cock to evade the scrutinizing eye and affectionate
     attachment of the law.

          But Sunday sets the pris'ner free,
          He shows in Park, and laughs with glee
          At creditors and Bum.
          Then who of any taste can bear
          The coarse, low jest and vulgar stare
          Of all the city scum,
          Of fat Sir Gobble, Mistress Fig,
          In buggy, sulky, coach, or gig,
          With Dobbin in the shay?
          At ev'ry step some odious face,
          Of true mechanic cut, will place
          Themselves plump in your way.
          Now onward to the Serpentine,
          A river straight as any line,
          Near Kensington, let's walk;
          Or through her palace gardens stray,
          Where elegantes of the day
          Ogle, congee, and talk.
          Here imperial fashion reigns,
          Here high bred belles meet courtly swains
          By assignation.
          Made at Almack's, Argyle, or rout,
          While Lady Mother walks about
          In perturbation,
          Watching her false peer, or to make
          A Benedict of some high rake,
          To miss a titled prize.
          Here, cameleon-colour'd, see
          Beauty in bright variety,
          Such as a god might prize.
          Here, too, like the bird of Juno,
          Fancy's a gaudy group, that you know,
          Of gay <i>marchands des modes</i>.
          Haberdashers, milliners, fops
          From city desks, or Bond-street shops,
          And belles from Oxford-road,
          Crowds here, commingled, pass and gaze,
          And please themselves a thousand ways;
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[191]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           Some read the naughty rhymes
           Which are on ev'ry alcove writ,
           Immodest, lewd attempt at wit,
           Disgraceful to the times.
           Here Scotland's dandy Irish Earl,{50}
           With Noblet on his arm would whirl,
           And frolic in this sphere;
           With mulberry coat, and pink cossacks,
           The red-hair'd Thane the fair attacks,
           F-'s ever on the leer;
           And when alone, to every belle
           The am'rous beau love's tale will tell,
           Intent upon their ruin.
           Beware, Macduff, the fallen stars!
           Venus aggrieved will fly to Mars;
           There's mischief brewing.
           What mountain of a fair is that,
           Whose jewels, lace, and Spanish hat,
           Proclaim her high degree,
           With a tall, meagre-looking man,
           Who bears her reticule and fan?
           That was Maria D-,
           Now the first favourite at court,

     50 His lordship is equally celebrated in the wars of Mars
     and Venus, as a general in the service of Spain. When Lord
     M-d-ff, in the desperate bombardment of Matagorda (an old
     fort in the Bay of Cadiz), the falling of a fragment of the
     rock, struck by a shell, broke, his great toe; in this
     wounded state he was carried about the alameda in a cherubim
     chair by two bare-legged gallegos, to receive the
     condolations of the grandees, and, we regret to add, the
     unfeeling jeers of the British, who made no scruple to
     assert that his lordship had, as usual, "put his foot in
     it." The noble general would no doubt have added another
     leaf to bis laurel under the auspices of the ex-smuggler,
     late illustrissimo general Ballasteros, had not he suddenly
     become a willing captive to the soul-subduing charms of the
     beauteous Antonia of Terrifa, of whose history and
     melancholy death we may speak hereafter. On a late occasion,
     he has been honoured with the star of the Guelphic order
     (when, for the first time in his life, he went on his
     knees), as some amends for his sudden dismissal from the
     bed-chamber. Noblet, who has long since been placed upon the
     pension list, has recently retired, and is succeeded by a
     charming little Parisian actress who lives in the New Road,
     and plays with the French company now at Tottenham-street
     theatre. Lord L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-has also a little interest in the
     same concern. His lordship's  <i>affaires des cour</i> with
     Antonia, Noblet, and M&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-,  though perfectly
     platonic, have proved more expensive than the most
     determined votary to female attractions ever endured: for
     the gratification of this innocent passion, Marr's{*} mighty
     pines have bit the dust, and friendly purses bled.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[192]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          And, if we may believe report,
          She holds the golden key
          Of the backstairs, and can command
          A potent influence in the land,
          But K&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;N best can tell;
          Tis most clear, no ill betide us,
          Near the Georgium sidus
          This planet likes to dwell.
          Lovely as light, when morning breaks{51}
          Above the hills in golden streaks,
          Observe yon blushing rose,
          Uxbridge, the theme of ev'ry tongue,
          The sylph that charms the ag'd and young,
          Where grace and virtue glows.
          Gay Lady H-e her lounge may take,{52}
          Reclining near the Indian lake.,
          And think she's quite secure;

     51  The beautiful little countess, the charming goddess of
     the golden locks, was a Miss Campbell, a near relation of
     the Duke of Argyll. She is a most amiable and interesting
     elegante.

     52 Although Lord L-e is the constant attendant of Lady H-,
     report says the attachment is merely platonic. His lordship
     was once smitten with her sister; and having thero suffered
     the most cruel disappointment, consoles himself for his loss
     in the sympathizing society of Lady H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;.

     * Marr Forest, belonging to his lordship, producing the
     finest mast pines in the empire; the noble earl has lately
     cut many scores of them ami some old friends, rather than
     balk his fancy.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[193]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          As well might C-1-ft hope to pass
          Upon the town his C&mdash;&mdash;-r lass
          For genuine and pure.
          See Warwick's charming countess glide,{53}
          With constant Harry by her side,
          Along the gay <i>parterre</i>;
          And look where the loud laugh proclaims
          The cits and their cameleon dames,
          The gaudy Cheapside fair,
          Drest in all colours o' the shop,
          Fashion'd for the Easter hop,
          To grace the civic feast,
          Where the great Lord Mayor presides
          O'er tallow, ribands, rags, and hides,
          The sultan o' the east.
          The would-be poet, Ch-s L-h,{54}
          Comes saunt'ring with his graces three,
          The little gay coquettes.
          After, view the Cyprian corps
          Of well-known traders, many score,
          From Bang to Angel M-tz,
          A heedless, giddy, laughing crew,
          Who'd seem as if they never knew
          Of want or fell despair;
          Yet if unveil'd the heart might be,
          You'd find the demon, Misery,
          Had ta'en possession there.
          Think not that satire will excuse,
          Ye frail, though fair; or that the muse
          Will silent pass ye by:
          To you a chapter she'll devote,
          Where all of fashionable note

     53 Lady Sarah Saville, afterwards Lady Monson, now Countess
     of Warwick, a most beautiful, amiable, and accomplished
     woman. By constant "Harry" is meant her present earl.

     54 See Amatory Poems by Ch-os L-h. We could indulge our
     readers with a curious account of the demolition of the
     Paphian car at Covent Garden theatre, but the story is
     somewhat musty.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[194]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Shall find their history.
          "Vice to be hated, needs but be seen;"
          And thus shall ev'ry Paphian queen
          Be held to public view;
          And though protected by a throne,
          The gallant and his Miss be shown
          In colours just and true.
          The countess of ten thousand see,{55}
          The dear delightful Savante B-,
          Who once was sold and bought:
          The magic-lantern well displays
          The scenes of long forgotten days,
          And gives new birth to thought.
          Nay, start not, here we'll not relate
          The break-neck story gossips prate
          Within the Em'rald Isle:
          No spirit gray, or black, or brown,
          We'll conjure up, with hideous frown,
          To chase the dimpled smile.
          In fleeting numbers, as we pass,
          We find these shadows in our glass,
          We move, and they're no more.
          But see where chief of folly's train,

     55 The beautiful and accomplished countess is a lovely
     daughter of Hibernia; her maiden name was P-r, and her
     father an Irish magistrate of high respectability. Her first
     matrimonial alliance with Captain F-r proved unfortunate; an
     early separation was the consequence, which was effected
     through the intervention of a kind friend, Captain J-s of
     the 11th. Shortly afterwards her fine person and superior
     endowments of mind made an impression upon the earl that
     nothing but the entire possession of the lady could allay.
     The affair of Lord A- and Mrs. B- is too well known to need
     repetition&mdash;it could not succeed a second time. Abelard F-
     having paid the debt of nature, there was no impediment but
     a visit to the temple of Hymen, on which point the lady was
     determined; and the yielding suitor, wounded to the vital
     part, most readily complied. It is due to the countess to
     admit, that since her present elevation, her conduct has
     been exemplary and highly praiseworthy.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[195]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Conceited, simple, rash, and vain,
          Comes lib'ral master G-e,{56}
          A dandy, half-fledged exquisite,
          Who paid nine thousand pounds a night
          To female Giovanni.
          Reader, I think I hear you say,
          "What pleasure had he for his pay?"
          Upon my word, not any;
          For soon as V-t-s got the cash,
          She set off with a splendid dash
          From Op'ra to Paris;
          Left Cl-t and this simple fool,{67}
          Who no doubt's been an easy tool,
          To spend it with Charles H-s.
          See, Carolina comes in view,
          A Lamb, from merry Melbourne's ewe,
          Who scaped the fatal knife.
          H-ll-d's blue stocking rib appears,
          Who makes amends in latter years
          For early cause of strife.
          Catullus George, the red-hair'd bard,
          Whose rhymes, pedantic, crude, and hard,
          He calls translations,
          Follows the fair; a nibbling mouse
          From Westminster, by Cam Hobhouse
          Expell'd his station.
          Now twilight, with his veil of gray,
          The stars of fashion frights away
          The carriage homeward rolls along
          To music-party, cards and song,

     56  A very singular adventure, which occurred in 1823. The
     enamoured swain, after settling an annuity of seven hundred
     pounds per annum upon the fair inconstant, had the
     mortification to find himself abandoned on the very night
     the deeds were completed, the lady having made a precipitate
     retreat, with a more favoured lover, to Paris. The affair
     soon became known, and some friends interfered, when the
     deeds were cancelled.

     57  Captain citizen Cl-t, an exquisite of the first order,
     for a long time the favourite of the reigning sultana.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[196]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          And many a gay delight.
          The Goths of Essex-street may groan,{58}
          Turn up their eyes, and inward moan,
          They dare not here intrude;
          Dare not attack the rich and great,
          The titled vicious of the state,
          The dissolute and lewd.
          Vice only is, in some folks' eyes,
          Immoral, when in rags she lies,
          By poverty subdued;
          But deck her forth in gaudy vest,
          With courtly state and titled crest,
          She's every thing that's good.
          "Doth Kalpho break the Sabbath-day?
          Why, Kalpho hath no funds to pay;
          How dare he trespass then?
          How dare he eat, or drink, or sleep,
          Or shave, or wash, or laugh, or weep,
          Or look like other men?"
          My lord his concerts gives, 'tis true,
          The Speaker holds his levee too,
          And Fashion cards and dices;
          But these are trifles to the sin
          Of selling apples, joints, or gin&mdash;

     58 The present times have very properly been stigmatized as
     the age of cant. The increase of the puritans, the
     smooth-faced evangelical, and the lank-haired sectarian,
     with their pious love-meetings and bible associations, have
     at last roused the slumbering spirit of the constituted
     authorities, who are now making the most vigorous efforts to
     impede the progress of these anti-national and hypocritical
     fanatics, who, mistaking the true dictates of religion and
     benevolence, have, in their inflamed zeal, endeavoured to
     extirpate every species of innocent recreation, and have
     laid formidable siege to honest-hearted mirth and rustic
     revelry. "I am no prophet, nor the son of one; "but if
     ever the noble institutions of my country suffer any
     revolutionary change, it is my humble opinion it will result
     from these sainted associations, from these pious opposers
     of our national characteristics, and the noblest institution
     of our country, the foundation stone of our honour and
     glory, the established church of England. There is (in my
     opinion) more mischief to be apprehended to the state from
     the humbug of piety than from all the violence of froth,
     political demagogues, or the open-mouthed howl of the most
     hungry radicals. Let it be understood I speak not against
     toleration in its most extended sense, but war only with
     hypocrisy and fanaticism, with those of whom Juvenal has
     written&mdash;"<i>Qui aurios simulant el baechemalia vivinit</i>."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[197]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Low, execrable vices.
          Cease, persecutors, mock reclaimers,
          Ye jaundiced few, ye legal maimers
          Of the lone, poor, and meek;
          Ye moral fishers for stray gudgeons,
          Ye sainted host of old curmudgeons,
          Who ne'er the wealthy seek!
          If moralists ye would appear,
          Attack vice in its highest sphere,
          The cause of all the strife;
          The spring and source from whence does flow
          Pollution o'er the plains below,
          Through all degrees of life.
</pre>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      THE OPERA.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     The Man of Fashion&mdash;Fop's Alley&mdash;Modern roué and
     Frequenters&mdash;Characteristic Sketches in High Life&mdash;Blue
     Stocking Illuminati&mdash;Motives and Mariners&mdash;Meeting with the
     Honourable Lillyman Lionise&mdash;Dinner at Long's&mdash;Visit to the
     Opera&mdash;Joined by Bob Transit&mdash;A Peep into the Green Room&mdash;
     Secrets behind the Curtain&mdash;Noble Amateurs and Foreign
     Curiosities&mdash;Notes and Anecdotes by Horatio Heartly.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[198]</span> The Opera, to the man of fashion, is
      the only tolerable place of public amusement in which the varied orders of
      society are permitted to participate. Here, lolling at his ease, in a snug
      box on the first circle, in dignified security from the vulgar gaze, he
      surveys the congregated mass who fill the arena of the house, deigns
      occasionally a condescending nod of recognition to some less fortunate <i>roué</i>,
      or younger brother of a titled family, who is forcing his way through the
      well-united phalanx of vulgar faces that guard the entrance to <i>Fop's
      Alley</i>; or, if he should be in a state of single blessedness, inclines
      his head a little forward to cast round an inquiring glance, a sort of
      preliminary overture, to some fascinating daughter of fashion, whose
      attention he wishes to engage for an amorous interchange of significant
      looks and melting expressions during the last act of the opera. For the
      first, he would not be thought so <i>outré</i> as to witness it&mdash;the
      attempt would require a sacrifice of the dessert and Madeira, and
      completely revolutionize <span class="pagenum">[199]</span> the regularity
      of his dinner arrangement. The divertissement he surveys from the side
      wings of the stage, to which privilege he is entitled as an annual
      subscriber; trifles a little badinage with some well-known operatic
      intriguant, or favourite danseusej approves the finished movements of the
      male artistes, inquires of the manager or committee the forthcoming
      novelties, strolls into the green room to make his selection of a
      well-turned ankle or a graceful shape, and, having made an appointment for
      some non play night, makes one of the distinguished group of operatic
      cognoscenti who form the circle of taste in the centre of the stage on the
      fall of the curtain.
    </p>
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    <p>
      This is one, and, perhaps, the most conspicuous portrait of an opera
      frequenter; but there are a variety of characters in the same school all
      equally worthy of a descriptive notice, and each differing in contour and
      force of chiaroscuro as much as the one thousand and one family maps which
      annually cover the walls of the Royal Academy, to the exclusion of
      meritorious performances in a more elevated branch of art. The Dowager
      Duchess of A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; retains her box to dispose of her
      unmarried daughters, and enjoy the gratification of meeting in public the
      once flattering groups of noble expectants who formerly paid their ready
      homage to her charms and courted her approving smile; but then her ducal
      spouse was high in favour, and in office, and now these "summer flies o'
      the court" are equally steady in their devotion to his successor, and can
      scarcely find memory or opportunity to recognise the relict of their late
      ministerial patron. Lord E&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; and the Marchioness of R.&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
      subscribe for a box between them, enjoying the proprietorship in alternate
      weeks. During the Marchesa's periods of occupation you will perceive Lady
      H., and the whole of the blue stocking illuminati, irradiating from this
      point, like the tributary stars round some major planet, forming <span
      class="pagenum">[200]</span> a grand constellation of attraction. Here new
      novels, juvenile poets, and romantic tourists receive their fiat, and here
      too the characters of one half the fashionable world undergo the fiery
      ordeal of scrutinization, and are censured or applauded more in accordance
      with the prevailing on dits of the day, or the fabrications of the club,
      than with any regard to feeling, truth, or decorum. The following week-,
      how changed the scene!&mdash;the venerable head of the highly-respected
      Lord E&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; graces the corner, like a Corinthian capital
      finely chiseled by the divine hand of Praxiteles; the busy tongue of
      scandal is dormant for a term, and in her place the Solons of the land, in
      solemn thoughtfulness, attend the sage injunctions of their learned chief.
      Too enfeebled by age and previous exertion to undergo the fatigues of
      parliamentary duty, the baron here receives the visits of his former
      colleagues, and snatching half an hour from his favourite recreation,
      gives a decided turn to the politics of a party by the cogency of his
      reasoning and the brilliancy of his arguments. The Earl of F&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;has
      a grand box on the ground tier, for the double purpose of admiring the
      chaste evolutions of the sylphic daughters of Terpsichore, and of being
      observed himself by all the followers of the cameleon-like, capricious
      goddess, Fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      The G&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;B&mdash;&mdash;-, the wealthy commoner,
      Fortune's favoured child, retains a box in the best situation, if not on
      purpose, yet in fact, to annoy all those within hearing, by the noisy
      humour of his Bacchanalian friends, who reel in at the end of the first
      act of the opera, full primed with the choicest treasures of his well
      stocked bins, to quiz the young and modest, insult the aged and
      respectable, and annihilate the anticipated pleasures of the scientific
      and devotees of harmony, by the coarseness of their attempts at wit, the
      overpowering clamour of their conversation, and <span class="pagenum">[201]</span>
      the loud laugh and vain pretence to taste and critic skill.
    </p>
    <p>
      The ministerialists may be easily traced by their affectation of
      consequence, and a certain air of authority joined to a demi-official
      royal livery, which always distinguishes the corps politique, and is
      equally shared by their highly plumed female partners. The opposition are
      equally discernible by outward and visible signs, such as an assumed
      nonchalance, or apparent independence of carriage, that but ill suits the
      ambitious views of the wearer, and sits as uneasily upon them as their
      measures would do upon the shoulders of the nation. Added to which, you
      will never see them alone; never view them enjoying the passing scene,
      happy in the society of their accomplished wives and daughters, but
      always, like restless and perturbed spirits, congregating together in
      conclave, upon some new measure wherewith to sow division in the nation,
      and shake the council of the state. And yet to both these parties a box at
      the opera is as indispensable as to the finished courtezan, who here
      spreads her seductive lures to catch the eye, and inveigle the heart of
      the inexperienced and unwary.
    </p>
    <p>
      But what has all this to do with the opera? or where will this romantic
      correspondent of mine terminate his satirical sketch? I think I hear you
      exclaim. A great deal more, Mr. Collegian, than your philosophy can
      imagine: you know, I am nothing if not characteristic; and this, I assure
      you, is a true portrait of the place and its frequenters. I dare say, you
      would have expected my young imagination to have been encompassed with
      delight, amid the mirth-inspiring compositions of Corelli, Mozart, or
      Rossini, warbled forth by that enchanting siren, De Begnis, the scientific
      Pasta, the modest Caradori, or the astonishing Catalani:&mdash;Heaven
      enlighten your unsuspicious mind! Attention to the merits of the <span
      class="pagenum">[202]</span> performance is the last thing any fashionable
      of the present day would think of devoting his time to. No, no, my dear
      Bernard, the opera is a sort of high 'Change, where the court circle and
      people of ton meet to speculate in various ways, and often drive as hard a
      bargain for some purpose of interest or aggrandisement, as the plebeian
      host of all nations, who form the busy group in the grand civic temple of
      commerce on Cornbill. You know, I have (as the phrase is), just come out,
      and of course am led about like a university lion, by the more experienced
      votaries of ton. An accident threw the honourable Lillyman Lionise into my
      way the other morning; it was the first time we had met since we were at
      Eton: he was sauntering away the tedious hour in the Arcade, in search of
      a specific for ennui, was pleased to compliment me on possessing the
      universal panacea, linked arms immediately, complained of being devilishly
      cut over night, proposed an adjournment to Long's&mdash;a light dinner&mdash;maintenon
      cutlets&mdash;some of the Queensberry hock{1} (a century and a half old)&mdash;ice-punch-six
      whin's from an odoriferous hookah&mdash;one cup of renovating fluid
      (impregnated with the Parisian aromatic {2}); and then, having
      reembellished our persons, sported{3} a figure at the opera. In the grand
      entrance, we enlisted Bob Transit, between whom and the honourable, I
      congratulated myself on being in a fair way to be enlightened. Bob knows
      every body&mdash;the exquisite was not so general in his information; but
      then he occasionally furnished some little anecdote of the surrounding
      elegantes, relative to affairs de l'amour, or pointed out the superlative
      of the haut class, without which much of the interesting would have
      escaped my notice.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 The late Duke of Queensberry's famous old hock, which
     since his decease was sold by auction.

     2 A Parisian preparation, which gives a peculiar high
     flavour and sparkling effect to coffee.

     3 An Oxford phrase.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[203]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      In this society, I made my first appearance in the green room; a little,
      narrow, pink saloon at the back of the stage, where the dancers congregate
      and practise before an immense looking-glass previous to their appearance
      in public.
    </p>
    <p>
      To a fellow of warm imagination and vigorous constitution, such a scene is
      calculated to create sensations that must send the circling current into
      rapid motion, and animate the heart with thrilling raptures of delight.
      Before the mirror, in all the grace of youthful loveliness and perfect
      symmetry of form, the divine little fairy sprite, the all-conquering
      Andalusian Venus, Mercandotti, was exhibiting her soft, plump,
      love-inspiring person in pirouétte: before her stood the now happy swain,
      the elegant H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; B-, on whose shoulder rested the Earl
      of Fe-, admiring with equal ecstasy the finished movements of his
      accomplished protégée{4}; on the right hand of the earl stood the single
      duke of D&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;e, quizzing the
      little daughter of Terpsichore through his eye-glass; on the opposite of
      the circle was seen the noble
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     4 It was very generally circulated, and for some time
     believed, that the charming little Andalusian Venus was the
     natural daughter of the Earl of F-e: a report which had not
     a shadow of truth in its foundation, but arose entirely out
     of the continued interest the earl took in the welfare of
     the lady from the time of her infancy, at which early period
     she was exhibited on the stage of the principal theatre in
     Cadiz as an infant prodigy; and being afterwards carried
     round (as is the custom in Spain) to receive the personal
     approval and trifling presents of the grandees, excited such
     general admiration as a beautiful child, that the Earl of F-
     e, then Lord M- and a general officer in the service of
     Spain, adopted the child, and liberally advanced funds for
     her future maintenance and instruction, extending his bounty
     and protection up to the moment of her fortunate marriage
     with her present husband. It is due to the lady to add, that
     in every instance her conduct has been marked by the
     strictest sense of propriety, and that too in situations
     where, it is said, every attraction was offered to have
     induced a very opposite course.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[204]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      musical amateur B&mdash;&mdash;-h, supported by the director De R-s on one
      hand, and the communicative manager, John Ebers, of Bond-street, on the
      other; in a snug corner on the right hand of the mirror was seated one of
      his majesty's most honourable privy council, the Earl of W&mdash;&mdash;-d,
      with a double Dollond's operatic magnifier in his hand, studying nature
      from this most delightful of all miniature models. "A most perfect
      divinity," whispered the exquisite. "A glorious fine study," said Transit,&mdash;and,
      pulling out his card-case and pencil, retired to one corner of the room,
      to make a mem., as he called it, of the scene. (See Plate.) "Who the deuce
      is that eccentric-looking creature with the Marquis of Hertford?" said I.
      "Hush," replied the exquisite, "for heaven's sake, don't expose yourself!
      Not to know the superlative roué of the age, the all-accomplished
      Petersham, would set you down for a barbarian at once." "And who," said I,
      "is the amiable fair bending before the admiring Worter?" "An old and very
      dear acquaintance of the Earl of F-e, Mademoiselle Noblet, who, it is
      said, displays much cool philosophy at the inconstancy of her once
      enamoured swain, consoling herself for his loss, in the enjoyment of a
      splendid annuity." A host of other bewitching forms led my young fancy
      captive by turns, as my eye travelled round the magic circle of delight:
      some were, I found, of that yielding spirit, which can pity the young
      heart's fond desire; with others had secured honourable protection: and if
      his companion's report was to be credited, there were very few among the
      enchanting spirits before yet with whom that happiness which springs from
      virtuous pure affection was to be anticipated. If was no place to
      moralize, but, to you who know my buoyancy of spirit, and susceptibility
      of mind, I must confess, the reflection produced a momentary pang of the
      keenest misery.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      THE ROYAL SALOON.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Visit of Heartly, Lionise, and Transit&mdash;Description of the
     Place&mdash;Sketches of Character&mdash;The Gambling Parsons&mdash;Horse
     Chaunting, a true Anecdote&mdash;Bang and her Friends&mdash;Moll Raffle
     and the Marquis W.&mdash;The Play Man&mdash;The Touter&mdash;The Half-pay
     Officer&mdash;Charles Rattle, Esq.&mdash;Life of a modern Roué-B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
     the Tailor&mdash;The Subject&mdash;Jarvey and Brooks the Dissector&mdash;
     "Kill him when you want him"
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[205]</span> After the opera, Bob Transit proposed
      an adjournment to the Royal Saloon, in Piccadilly, a place of fashionable
      resort (said Bob) for shell-fish and sharks, Greeks and pigeons, Cyprians
      and citizens, noble and ignoble&mdash;in short, a mighty rendezvous, where
      every variety of character is to be found, from the finished sharper to
      the finished gentleman; a scene pregnant with subject for the pencil of
      the humorist, and full of the richest materials for the close observer of
      men and manners. Hither we retired to make a night of it, or rather to
      consume the hours between midnight and morning's dawn. The place itself is
      fitted up in a very novel and attractive style of decoration, admirably
      calculated for a saloon of pleasure and refreshment; but more resembling a
      Turkish kiosk than an English tavern. On the ground floor, which is of an
      oblong form and very spacious, are a number of divisions enclosed on each
      side with rich damask curtains, having each a table and seats for the
      reception of supper or drinking parties; at the extreme end, and <span
      class="pagenum">[206]</span> on each side, mirrors of unusual large
      dimensions give an infinity of perspective, which greatly increases the
      magnificence of the place. In the centre of the room are pedestals
      supporting elegant vases filled with choice exotics. A light and tasteful
      trellis-work surrounds a gallery above, which forms a promenade round the
      room, the walls being painted to resemble a conservatory, in which the
      most luxuriant shrubs are seen spreading their delightful foliage over a
      spacious dome, from the centre of which is suspended a magnificent
      chandelier. Here are placed, at stated distances, rustic tables, for the
      accommodation of those who choose coffee and tea; and leading from this,
      on each side, are several little snug private boudoirs for select parties,
      perfectly secure from the prying eye of vulgar curiosity, and where only
      the privileged few are ever permitted to enter. It was in this place,
      surrounded by well-known Greeks, with whom he appeared to be on the most
      intimate terms, that Transit pointed out to my notice the eccentric Vicar
      of K**, the now invisible author of L****, whose aphorisms and conduct
      bear not the slightest affinity to each other&mdash;nor was he the only
      clerical present; at the head of a jolly party, at an adjoining table, sat
      the ruby-faced Parson John A&mdash;&mdash;-e, late proprietor of the
      notorious Gothic Hall, in Pall Mall, a man of first rate wit and talent,
      but of the lowest and most depraved habits. "The Divine is a character"
      said Bob, "who, according to the phraseology of the ring, is 'good at
      every thing:' as he came into the world without being duly licensed, so he
      thinks himself privileged to pursue the most unlicensed conduct in his
      passage through it. As a specimen of his ingenuity in horse-dealing, I'll
      give you an anecdote.&mdash;It is not long since that the parson invited a
      party of bucks to dinner, at his snug little villa on the banks of the
      Thames, near Richmond, in Surrey. Previous to the repast, the reverend
      <span class="pagenum">[207]</span> led his visitors forth to admire the
      gardens and surrounding scenery, when just at the moment they had reached
      the outer gate, a fine noble-looking horse was driven past in a tilbury by
      a servant in a smart livery.&mdash;'What a magnificent animal!' said the
      parson; 'the finest action I ever beheld in my life: there's a horse to
      make a man's fortune in the park, and excite the envy and notice of all
      the town.' 'Who does he belong to?' said a young baronet of the party, who
      had just come out. 'I'll inquire,' said the parson: 'the very thing for
      you, Sir John.' Away posts the reverend, bawling after the servant, 'Will
      your master sell that horse, my man?' 'I can't say, sir,' said the fellow,
      'but I can inquire, and let you know.' 'Do, my lad, and tell him a
      gentleman here will give a handsome price for him.' Away trots the
      servant, and the party proceed to dinner. As soon as the dessert is
      brought in, and the third glass circulated, the conversation is renewed
      relative to the horse&mdash;the whole party agree in extolling his
      qualities; when, just in the nick of time, the servant arrives to say his
      master being aged and infirm, the animal is somewhat too spirited for him,
      and if the gentleman likes, he may have him for one hundred guineas. 'A
      mere trifle,' vociferates the company. 'Cheap as Rivington's second-hand
      sermons,' said the parson. The baronet writes a check for the money, and
      generously gives the groom a guinea for his trouble&mdash;drives home in
      high glee&mdash;and sends his servant down next morning to the parson's
      for his new purchase&mdash;orders the horse to be put into his splendid
      new tilbury, built under the direction of Sir John Lade&mdash;just reaches
      Grosvenor-gate from Hamilton-place in safety, when the horse shows
      symptoms of being a miller. Baronet, nothing daunted, touches him smartly
      under the flank, when up he goes on his fore-quarters, smashes the tilbury
      into ten thousand pieces, bolts away with the traces and shafts, and
      leaves the baronet with a broken head <span class="pagenum">[208]</span>
      on one side of the road, and his servant with a broken arm on the other.
      'Where the devil did you get that quiet one from, Sir John!' said the
      Honourable Fitzroy St&mdash;&mdash;-e, whom the accident had brought to
      the spot.
    </p>
    <p>
      'The parson bought him of an old gentleman at Richmond yesterday for me.'
      'Done, brown as a berry,' said Fitzroy: 'I sold him only on Saturday last
      to the reverend myself for twenty pounds as an incurable miller. Why the
      old clerical's turned coper{1}&mdash;;a new way of raising the wind&mdash;letting
      his friends down easy&mdash;gave you a good dinner, I suppose, Sir John,
      and took this method of drawing the bustle{2} for it: an old trick of the
      reverend's.' After this it is hardly necessary to say, the servant was a
      confederate, and the whole affair nothing more or less than a true
      orthodox farce of horse chaunting,{3} got up for the express purpose of
      raising a temporary supply."{4}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1  A horse-dealer.

     2  Money.

     3 Tricking persons into the purchase of unsound or vicious
     horses.

     4 A practice by no means uncommon among a certain
     description of dashing characters, who find chaunting a
     horse to a green one, a snug accidental party at chicken
     hazard, or a confederacy to entrap some inexperienced bird
     of fashion, where he may be plucked by Greek banditti, pay
     exceedingly well for these occasional dinner parties.
</pre>
    <p>
      At this moment our attention was engaged by the entrance of a party of
      exquisites and elegantes, dressed in the very extreme of opera costume,
      who directed their steps to the regions above us. "I'll bet a hundred,"
      said the honourable, "I know that leg," eyeing a divine little foot and a
      finely turned ankle that was just then discernible from beneath a rich
      pink drapery, as the possessor ascended the gallery of the conservatory,
      lounging on the arm of the Irish Earl of C&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;; " the
      best leg in England, and not a bad figure for an ancient," continued
      Lionise: "that is the celebrated Mrs. Bertram, alias Bang&mdash;everybody
      <span class="pagenum">[209]</span> knows Bang; that is, every body in the
      fashionable world. She must have been a most delightful creature when she
      first came out, and has continued longer in bloom than any of the present
      houris of the west; but I forgot you were fresh, and only in training,
      Heartly&mdash;I must introduce you to Bang: you will never arrive at any
      eminence among the haut classe unless you can call these beauties by
      name." "And who the deuce is Bang?" said I: "not that elegantly-dressed
      female whom I see tripping up the gallery stairs yonder, preceded by
      several other delightful faces." "The same, my dear fellow: a fallen star,
      to be sure, but yet a planet round whose orbit move certain other little
      twinkling luminaries whose attractive glimmerings are very likely to
      enlighten your obscure sentimentality. Bang was the daughter of a
      bathing-woman at Brighton, from whence she eloped early in life with a
      navy lieutenant-has since been well known as a dasher of the first water
      upon the pave&mdash;regularly sports her carriage in the drive&mdash;and
      has numbered among her protectors, at various times, the Marquis W&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,
      Lord A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, Colonel C&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, and, lastly,
      a descendant of the mighty Wallace, who, in an auto-biographical sketch,
      boasts of his intimacy with this fascinating cyprian. She has, however,
      one qualification, which is not usually found among those of her class&mdash;she
      has had the prudence to preserve a great portion of her liberal
      allowances, and is now perfectly independent of the world. We must visit
      one of her evening parties in the neighbourhood of Euston-square, when she
      invites a select circle of her professional sisters to a ball and supper,
      to which entertainment her male visitors are expected to contribute
      liberally. She has fixed upon the earl, I should think, more for the
      honour of the title than with any pecuniary hopes, his dissipation having
      left him scarce enough to keep up appearances." "The amiable who precedes
      her," said I, "is of the same class, I <span class="pagenum">[210]</span>
      presume&mdash;precisely, and equally notorious." "That is the celebrated
      Mrs. L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, better known as Moll Raffle, from the
      circumstance of her being actually raffled for, some years since, by the
      officers of the seventh dragoons, when they were quartered at Rochester:
      like her female friend, she is a woman of fortune, said to be worth
      eighteen hundred per annum, with which she has recently purchased herself
      a Spanish cavalier for a husband. A curious anecdote is related of Moll
      and her once kind friend, the Marquis of W&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,
      who is said to have given her a bond for seven thousand pounds, on a
      certain great house, not a mile from Hyde-park corner, which he has since
      assigned to a fortunate general, the present possessor; who, thinking his
      title complete, proceeded to take possession, but found his entry disputed
      by the lady, to whom he was eventually compelled to pay the forfeiture of
      the bond. Come along, my boy," said Lionise; "I'll introduce you at once
      to the whole party, and then you can make your own selection." "Not at
      present: I came here for general observation, not private intrigue, and
      must confess I have seldom found a more diversified scene."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I beg pardon, gentlemen," said an easy good-looking fellow, with
      something rather imposing in his manner&mdash;"Shall I intrude here?&mdash;will
      'you permit me to take a seat in your box?" "By all means," replied I;
      Bob, at the same moment, pressing his elbow into my side, and the
      exquisite raising his glass very significantly to his eye, the stranger
      continued&mdash;"A very charming saloon this, gentlemen, and the company
      very superior to the general assemblage at such places: my friend, the
      Earl of C&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, yonder, I perceive, amorously engaged;
      Lord P&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, too, graces the upper regions with the
      delightful Josephine: really this is quite the café royal of London; the
      accommodation, too, admirable&mdash;not merely confined to refreshments; I
      am told there are excellent billiard <span class="pagenum">[211]</span>
      tables, and snug little private rooms for a quiet rubber, or a little
      chicken hazard. Do you play, gentlemen? very happy to set you for a main
      or two, by way of killing time." That one word, play, let me at once into
      the secret of our new acquaintance's character, and fully explained the
      distant reception and cautious bearing of my associates. My positive
      refusal to accommodate produced a very polite bow, and the party
      immediately retired to reconnoitre among some less suspicious visitants.
      "A nibble," said Transit, "from an ivory turner."{5} "By the honour of my
      ancestry," said Lionise, "a very finished sharper; I remember Lord F&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
      pointing him out to me at the last Newmarket spring meeting, when we met
      him, arm in arm, with a sporting baronet. What the fellow was, nobody
      knows; but he claims a military title&mdash;captain, of course&mdash;perhaps
      has formerly held a lieutenancy in a militia regiment: he now commands a
      corps of sappers on the Greek staff, and when he honoured us with a call
      just now was on the recruiting service, I should think; but our friend,
      Heartly, here, would not stand drill, so he has marched off on the forlorn
      hope, and is now, you may perceive, concerting some new scheme with a
      worthy brother touter,{6} who is on the half pay of the British army, and
      receives full pay in the service of the Greeks. We must make a descent
      into hell some night," said Transit, "and sport a few crowns at roulette
      or rouge et noir, to give Heartly his degree. We shall proceed regularly
      upon college principles, old fellow: first, we will visit the Little Go in
      King-street, and then drop into the Great Go, alias Watiers, in
      Piccadilly; after which we can sup in Crockford's pandemonium among
      parliamentary pigeons, unfledged
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     5 A tats man, a proficient with the bones, one who knows
     every chance upon the dice.

     6 A decoy, who seduces the young or inexperienced to the
     gaming table, and receives a per centage upon their losses.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[212]</span> ensigns of the guards, broken down
      titled legs, and ci-devant bankers, fishmongers, and lightermen; and here
      comes the very fellow to introduce us&mdash;an old college chum, Charles
      Rattle, who was expelled Brazennose for smuggling, and who has since been
      pretty well plucked by merciless Greek banditti and Newmarket jockeys, but
      who bears his losses with the temper of a philosopher, and still pursues
      the destructive vice with all the infatuation of the most ardent devotee."
      "How d'ye do, old fellows?&mdash;how d'ye do? Who would have thought to
      have met the philosopher (pointing to me) at such a place as this, among
      the impures of both sexes, legs and leg-ees? Come to sport a little blunt
      with the table or the traders, hey! Heartly? Always suspected you was no
      puritan, although you wear such a sentimental visage. Well, old fellows, I
      am glad to see you, however,&mdash;come, a bottle of Champagne, for I have
      just cast off all my real troubles&mdash;had a fine run of luck to-night&mdash;broke
      the bank, and bolted with all the cash. Just in the nick of time-off for
      Epsom to-morrow&mdash;double my bets upon the Derby, and if the thing
      comes off right, I'll give somebody a thousand or two to tie me up from
      playing again above five pounds stakes as long as I live. The best thing
      you ever heard in your life&mdash;a double to do. Ned C&mdash;&mdash;-d
      having heard I had just received a few thousands, by the sale of the
      Yorkshire acres, planned it with Colonel T&mdash;&mdash;- to introduce me
      to the new club, where a regular plant was to be made, by some of his
      myrmidons, to clear me out, by first letting me win a few thousands, when
      they were to pounce upon me, double the stakes, and finish me off in prime
      style, fleecing me out of every guinea&mdash;very good-trick and tie, you
      know, is fair play&mdash;and for this very honest service, my friend, the
      colonel, was to receive a commission, or per centage, in proportion to my
      losses: the very last man in the world that the old pike could <span
      class="pagenum">[213]</span> have baited for in that way&mdash;the
      colonel's down a little, to be sure, but not so low as to turn confederate
      to a leg&mdash;so suppressed his indignation at the proposition, and lent
      himself to the scheme, informing me of the whole circumstances&mdash;well,
      all right&mdash;we determined to give the old one a benefit&mdash;dined
      with him to-day&mdash;a very snug party&mdash;devilish good dinner&mdash;superb
      wines&mdash;drank freely&mdash;punished his claret&mdash;and having
      knocked about Saint Hugh's bones{7} until I was five thousand in pocket,
      politely took my leave, without giving the parties their revenge. Never
      saw a finer scene in the course of my life-such queer looks, and long
      faces, and smothered wailings when they found themselves done by a brace
      of gudgeons, whom they had calculated upon picking to the very bones!
      Come, old fellows, a toast: Here's Fishmonger's Hall, and may every
      suspected gudgeon prove a shark."
    </p>
    <p>
      The bottle now circulated freely, and the open-hearted Rattle delighted us
      with the relation of some college anecdotes, which I shall reserve for a
      hearty laugh when we meet. The company continued to increase with the
      appearance of morning; and here might be seen the abandoned profligate,
      with his licentious female companion, completing the night's debauch by
      the free use of intoxicating liquors&mdash;the ruined spendthrift, fresh
      from the gaming-table, loudly calling for wine, to drown the remembrance
      of his folly, and abusing the drowsy waiter only to give utterance to his
      irritated feelings. In a snug corner might be seen a party of sober,
      quiet-looking gentlemen, taking their lobster and bucellas, whose first
      appearance would impress you with the belief of their respectability, but
      whom, upon inquiry, you would discover to be Greek banditti, retired
      hither to divide their ill gotten spoils. It was among a party of this
      description that Rattle pointed out a celebrated writer, whose lively
      style and accurate description of
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     7 Saint Hugh's bones, a cant phrase for dice.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[214]</span> men and manners display no common mind.
      Yet here he was seen associated with the most depraved of the human
      species&mdash;the gambler by profession, the common cheat! What wonder
      that such connexions should have compelled him for a time to become an
      exile to his country, and on his return involved him in a transaction that
      has ended in irretrievable ruin and disgrace? "By the honour of my
      ancestry," said Lionise, "yonder is that delectable creature, old Crony,
      the dinner many that is the most surprising animal we have yet found among
      the modern discoveries&mdash;polite to and point&mdash;always well dressed&mdash;keeps
      the best society&mdash;or, I should say, the best society keeps him: to an
      amazing fund of the newest on dits and anecdotes of ton, always ready cut
      and dried, he joins a smattering of the classics, and chops logic with the
      learned that he may carve their more substantial fare gratis; has a memory
      tenacious as a chief judge on matter of invitation, and a stomach
      capacious as a city alderman in doing honour to the feast; pretends to be
      a connoisseur in wines, although he never possessed above one bottle at a
      time in his cellaret, I should think, in the whole course of his life;
      talks about works of art and virtu as if Sir Joshua Reynolds had been his
      nurse&mdash;Claude his intimate acquaintance&mdash;or Praxiteles his great
      great grandfather. The fellow affects a most dignified contempt for the
      canaille, because, in truth, they never invite him to dinner&mdash;is on
      the free list of all the theatres, from having formerly been freely hiss'd
      upon their boards&mdash;a retired tragedy king on a small pension, with a
      republican stomach, who still enacts the starved apothecary at home, from
      penury, and liberally crams his voracious paunch, stuffing like Father
      Paul, when at the table of others. With these habits, he has just managed
      to scrape together some sixty pounds per annum, upon which, by good
      management, he contrives to live like an emperor; for instance, he keeps a
      regular book of <span class="pagenum">[215]</span> invitations, numbers
      his friends according to the days of the year, and divides and subdivides
      them in accordance with their habits and pursuits, so that an unexpected
      invitation requires a reference to his journal: if you invite him for
      Saturday next, he will turn to his tablets, apologise for a previous
      engagement, run his eye eagerly down the column for an occasional
      absentee, and then invite himself for some day in the ensuing week, to
      which your politeness cannot fail to accede. You will meet him in London,
      Brighton, Bath, Cheltenham, and Margate during the fashionable periods; at
      all of which places he has his stated number of dinner friends, where his
      presence is as regularly looked for as the appearance of the swallow.
      Among the play men he is useful as a looker on, to make one at the table
      when they are thin of customers, or to drink a young one into a proper
      state for plucking: in other society he coins compliments for the fair
      lady of the mansion, extols his host's taste and good fellowship at table,
      tells a smutty story to amuse the <i>bon vivants</i> in their cups, or
      recites a nursery rhyme to send the children quietly to bed; and in this
      manner Crony manages to come in for a good dinner every day of his life.
      Call on him for a song, and he'll give you, what he calls, a free
      translation of a Latin ode, by old Walter de Mapes, Archdeacon of Oxford
      in the eleventh century, a true <i>gourmands</i> prayer&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 Mihi est propositum in tabernâ mon.'
     I'll try and hum you Crony's English version of the
     CANTILENA.

     'I'll in a tavern end my days, midst boon companions merry,
     Place at my lips a lusty flask replete with sparkling sherry,
     That angels, hov'ring round, may cry, when I lie dead as door-nail,
     'Rise, genial deacon, rise, and drink of the well of life eternal.'

</pre>
    <hr />
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <span class="pagenum">[216]</span>
     'Various implements belong to ev'ry occupation;
     Give me an haunch of venison&mdash;and a fig for inspiration!
     Verses and odes without good cheer, I never could indite 'em;
     Sure he who meagre, days devised is d&mdash;&mdash;-d ad infinitum!

</pre>
    <hr />
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     'Mysteries and prophetic truths, I never could unfold 'em
     Without a flagon of good wine and a slice of cold ham;
     But when I've drained my liquor out, and eat what's in the dish up,
     Though I am but an arch-deacon, I can preach like an arch-
     bishop.'"
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
"A good orthodox ode," said Transit, "and admirably suited to the
performer, who, after all, it must be allowed, is a very entertaining
fellow, and well worthy of his dinner, from the additional amusement he
affords. I remember meeting him in company with the late Lord Coleraine,
the once celebrated Colonel George Hanger, when he related an anecdote
of the humorist, which his lordship freely admitted to be founded on
fact. As I have never seen it in print, or heard it related by any one
since, you shall have it instanter: It is well known that our present
laughter-loving monarch was, in earlier years, often surrounded, when in
private, by a coruscation of wit and talent, which included not only the
most distinguished persons in the state, but also some celebrated bon
vivants and amateur vocalists, among whom the names of the Duke of
Orleans, Earl of Derby, Charles James Fox, Richard Brinsley Sheridan,
the facetious poet lauréat to the celebrated Beefsteak club, Tom
Hewardine, Sir John Moore, Mr Brownlow, Captain Thompson, Bate Dudley,
Captain Morris, and Colonel George Hanger, formed the most conspicuous
characters at the princely anacreontic board. But

    'Who would be grave&mdash;when wine can save
     The heaviest soul from thinking,
     And magic grapes give angel's shapes
     To every girl we're drinking!'
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[217]</span> It was on one of these festive
      occasions, when whim, and wit, and sparkling wine combined to render the
      festive scene the 'Feast of reason and the flow of soul,' that the Prince
      of Wales invited himself and his brother, the Duke of York, to dine with
      George Hanger. An honour so unlooked for, and one for which George was so
      little prepared (as he then resided in obscure lodgings near Soho-square),
      quite overpowered the Colonel, who, however, quickly recovering his
      surprise, assured his royal highness of the very high sense he entertained
      of the honour intended him, but lamented it was not in his power to
      receive him, and his illustrious brother, in a manner suitable to their
      royal dignity. 'You only wish to save your viands, George,' said the
      prince: 'we shall certainly dine with you on the day appointed; and
      whether you reside on the first floor or the third, never mind&mdash;the
      feast will not be the less agreeable from the altitude of the apartment,
      or the plainness of the repast.' Thus encouraged, George was determined to
      indulge in a joke with his royal visitors. On the appointed day, the
      prince and duke arrived, and were shown up stairs to George's apartments,
      on the second floor, where a very tasteful banquet was set out, but more
      distinguished by neatness than splendour: after keeping his illustrious
      guests waiting a considerable period beyond the time agreed on, by way of
      sharpening their appetites, the prince good-humouredly inquired what he
      meant to give them for dinner?' Only one dish,' said George; 'but that one
      will, I flatter myself, be a novelty to my royal guests, and prove highly
      palatable.' 'And what may that be?' said the prince. 'The wing of a
      wool-bird,' replied the facetious colonel. It was in vain the prince and
      duke conjectured what this strange title could import, when George
      appeared before them with a tremendous large red baking dish, <span
      class="pagenum">[218]</span> smoking hot, in which was supported a fine
      well-browned shoulder of mutton, dropping its rich gravy over some crisp
      potatoes. The prince and his brother enjoyed the joke amazingly, and they
      have since been heard to declare, they never ate a heartier meal in their
      life, or one (from its novelty to them in the state in which it was served
      up), which they have relished more. George had, however, reserved a <i>bonne
      bouche</i>, in a superb dessert and most exquisite wines, for which the
      prince had heard he was famous, and which was, perhaps, the principal
      incitement to the honour conferred."
    </p>
    <p>
      After a night spent in the utmost hilarity, heightened by the vivacity and
      good-humour of my associates, to which might be added, the full
      gratification of my prevailing <i>penchant</i> for the observance of
      character, we were on the point of departing, when Transit, ever on the
      alert in search of variety, observed a figure whom (in his phrase) he had
      long wished to book; in a few moments a sketch of this eccentric personage
      was before us. "That is the greatest original we have yet seen," said our
      friend Bob: "he is now in the honourable situation of croupier to one of
      the most notorious hells in the metropolis. This poor devil was once a
      master tailor of some respectability, until getting connected with a gang
      of sharpers, he was eventually fleeced of all his little property: his
      good-natured qualifications, and the harmless pleasantries with which he
      abounds, pointed him out as a very proper person to act as a confederate
      to the more wealthy legs; from a pigeon he became a bird of prey, was
      enlisted into the corps, and regularly initiated into all the diabolical
      mysteries of the black art. For some time he figured as a decoy upon the
      town, dressed in the first style of fashion, and driving an unusually fine
      horse and elegant Stanhope, until a circumstance, arising out of a <span
      class="pagenum">[219]</span> joke played off upon him by his companions,
      when in a state of intoxication, made him so notorious, that his
      usefulness in that situation was entirely frustrated, and, consequently,
      he has since been employed within doors, in the more sacred mysteries of
      the Greek temple. The gentleman I mean is yonder, with the Joliffe tile
      and sharp indented countenance: his real name is B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;;
      but he has now obtained the humorous cognomen of 'The subject' from having
      been, while in a state of inebriety, half stripped, put into a sack, and
      in this manner conveyed to the door of Mr. Brooks, the celebrated
      anatomist in Blenheim-street, by a hackney night-coachman, who was known
      to the party as the resurrection Jarvey. On his being deposited in this
      state at the lecturer's door, by honest Jehu, who offered him for sale,
      the surgeon proceeded to examine his subject, when, untying the sack, he
      discovered the man was breathing: 'Why, you scoundrel,' said the irritable
      anatomist, 'the man's not dead.' 'Not dead!' re-echoed coachee, laughing
      at the joke, 'Why, then, kill him when you want him!' The consequence of
      this frolic had, however, nearly proved more serious than the projectors
      anticipated: the anatomist, suspecting it was some trick to enter his
      house for burglarious purposes, gave the alarm, when Jarvey made his
      escape; but poor B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;was secured, and conveyed the next
      morning to Marlborough-street, where it required all the ingenuity of a
      celebrated Old Bailey solicitor to prevent his being committed for the
      attempt to rob a bonehouse."
    </p>
    <p>
      After this anecdote, we all agreed to separate. Transit would fain have
      led us to the Covent-garden finish, which he describes as being unusually
      rich in character; but this was deferred until another night, when I shall
      introduce you to some new acquaintances.&mdash;Adieu. Lady Mary Oldstyle
      and the D'Almaine family are off to-morrow for Brighton, from which place
      expect some few descriptive sketches.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horatio Heartly.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="image-0046" id="image-0046">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page220.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page220 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br /> <a name="spread" id="spread"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img alt="page221 (157K)" src="images/page221.jpg" width="100%" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br />
    </p>
    <h2>
      THE SPREAD,{1} OR WINE PARTY AT BRAZEN-NOSE.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         "Hear, Momus, hoar! blithe sprite, whose dimpling cheek
          Of quips, and cranks ironic, seems to speak,
          Who lovest learned victims, and whose shrine
          Groans with the weight of victims asinine.
          Nod with assent! thy lemon juice infuse!
          Though of male sex, I woo thee for a Muse."

     <i>A College Wine Party described&mdash;Singular Whim of Horace
     Eglantine&mdash;Meeting of the Oxford Crackademonians&mdash;Sketches
     of eccentric Characters, drawn from the Life&mdash;The Doctor's
     Daughter&mdash;An old Song&mdash;A Round of Sculls&mdash;Epitaphs on the
     Living and the Dead&mdash;Tom Tick, a College Tale&mdash;The Voyagers
     &mdash;Notes and Anecdotes.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      A college wine party I could very well conceive from the specimen I had
      already of my companion's frolicsome humours, was not unlikely to produce
      some departure from college rules which might eventually involve me in <i>rustication,
      fine</i>, or <i>imposition</i>. To avoid it was impossible; it was the
      first invitation of an early friend, and must be obeyed. The anticipation
      of a bilious head-ache on the morrow, or perhaps a first appearance
      before, or lecture from, the vice-chancellor, principal, or proctor, made
      me somewhat tardy in my appearance at the <i>spread</i>. The butler was
      just marching a second
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 A spread. A wine party of from thirty to one hundred and
     twenty persons. The party who gives the spread generally
     invites all the under-graduates he is acquainted with; a
     dessert is ordered either from Jubber's, or Sadler's, for
     the number invited, for which he is charged at per head.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[221]</span> reinforcement of <i>black men, or heavy
      artillery</i> from the college magazine, across the quadrangle, for the
      use of the dignitaries' table; when I, a poor solitary <i>freshman</i>,
      advanced with sentimental awe and fearful stride beneath the arched
      entrance of Brazen-nose. Where Eglantine's rooms were situated I had no
      means of knowing, his card supplying only the name of his college; to make
      some inquiry would be necessary, but of whom, not a creature but what
      appeared much too busily employed, as they ran to and fro laden with wine
      and viands, to answer the interrogatories of a stranger. I was on the
      point of retreating to obtain the requisite information from the waiter at
      the Mitre, when old Mark Supple made his appearance, with "Your servant,
      sir: I have been in search of you at your inn, by command of Mr.
      Eglantine, <i>take notice</i>&mdash;who with a large party of friends are
      waiting your company to a <i>spread</i>." "A large party, Mark?" said I,
      suspecting there was some secret drama in rehearsal, in which I was to
      play a principal part. "A very large party, sir, and a very extraordinary
      one too, <i>take notice</i>&mdash;such a collection as I never saw before
      within the walls of a college&mdash;living curiosities, <i>take notice</i>&mdash;all
      the <i>comicals</i> of Oxford brought together,{2} and this 2 This
      adventure, strange as it may appear, actually occurred a short time since,
      when Mr. J*****n of Brazen-nose invited the characters here named to an
      entertainment in the College. Sir Richard Steele, when on a visit to
      Edinburgh, indulged in a similar freak: he made a splendid feast, and
      whilst the servants were wondering for what great personages it was
      intended, he sent them into the streets, to collect all the eccentrics,
      beggars, and poor people, that chance might throw in their way, and invite
      them to his house. A pretty large party being mustered, they were well
      plied with whiskey-punch and wine; when, forgetting their cares, and free
      from all restraint, they gave loose to every peculiarity of their
      respective characters. When the entertainment was over, Sir Richard
      declared, that besides the pleasure of filling so many hungry bellies, and
      enjoying an hour of rich amusement, he had gleaned from them humour enough
      to form a good comedy, or at least a farce.
    </p>
    <p>
      THE SPREAD, OR WINE PARTY AT BRAZEN-NOSE 223
    </p>
    <p>
      is what Mr. Eglantine calls his <i>museum of character</i>, but which I
      should call a <i>regiment of caricatures, take notice</i>&mdash;but I
      heard him say, that he had invited them on purpose to surprise you; that
      he knew you was fond of eccentricity, and that he thought he had prepared
      a great treat. I only wish he may get rid of them as easily as he brought
      them there, for if the bull-dogs should gain scent of them there would be
      a pretty row, <i>take notice</i>." Mark's information, instead of
      producing the alarm he evidently anticipated, had completely dispelled all
      previous fears, and operated like the prologue to a rich comedy, from
      which I expected to derive considerable merriment: following, therefore,
      my conductor up one flight of stairs on the opposite side of the space
      from which I had entered, I found myself at the closed <i>oak</i> of my
      friend. "Mr. Eglantine is giving them a <i>chaunt</i>" said Mark, who had
      applied his ear to the key-hole of the door: "we must wait till the song
      is over, or you will be fined in a double bumper of <i>bishop</i>, for
      interrupting the <i>stave, take notice</i>." Curiosity prompted me to
      follow Mark's example, when I overheard Horace chanting part of an old
      satirical ballad on John Wilkes, to the tune of the Dragon of Wantley;
      commencing with&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      And ballads I have heard rehearsed By harmonists itinerant, Who modern
      worthies celebrate, Yet scarcely make a dinner on't. Some of whom sprang
      from noble race, And some were in a pig-sty born, Dependent upon royal
      grace Or triple tree of Tyburn.
    </p>
    <p>
      CHORUS. John Wilkes he was for Middlesex, They chose him knight of the
      shire: He made a fool of alderman Bull, And call'd parson Home a liar.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[224]</span> The moment silence was obtained, old
      Mark gave three distinct knocks at the door, when Horace himself appeared,
      and we were immediately admitted to the temple of the Muses; where, seated
      round a long table, appeared a variety of characters that would have
      rivalled (from description) the Beggars' Club in St. Giles's&mdash;the
      Covent-Garden Finish&mdash;or the once celebrated Peep o' day boys in
      Fleet-lane. At the upper end of the table were Tom Echo and Bob Transit,
      the first smoking his cigar, the second sketching the portraits of the
      motley group around him on the back of his address cards; at the lower end
      of the room, on each side of the chair from which Eglantine had just risen
      to welcome me, sat little Dick Gradus, looking as knowing as an Old Bailey
      counsel dissecting a burglary case, and the honourable Lillyman Lionise,
      the Eton <i>exquisite</i>, looking as delicate and frightened as if his
      whole system of ethics was likely to be revolutionized by this night's
      entertainment. To such a society a formal introduction was of course
      deemed essential; and this favour Horace undertook by recommending me to
      the particular notice of the <i>crackademonians</i> (as he was pleased to
      designate the elegant assemblage by whom we were then surrounded), in the
      following oration: "Most noble <i>cracks</i>, and worthy cousin <i>trumps</i>&mdash;permit
      me to introduce a brother of the <i>togati, fresh</i> as a new-blown rose,
      and innocent as the lilies of St. Clement's. Be unto him, as ye have been
      to all gownsmen from the beginning, ever ready to promote his wishes,
      whether for spree or sport, in term or out of term&mdash;against the <i>Inquisition</i>
      and their <i>bull-dogs</i>&mdash;the town <i>raff</i> and the <i>bargees</i>&mdash;well
      <i>blunted or stiver cramped</i>&mdash;against <i>dun or don&mdash;nob or
      big wig</i>&mdash;so may you never want a bumper of <i>bishop</i>: and
      thus do I commend him to your merry keeping." "Full charges, boys," said
      Echo, "fill up their glasses, Count Dennett{3}; 3 Count Dennett,
      hair-dresser at Corpus and Oriel Colleges, a very eccentric man, who has
      saved considerable property; celebrated for making bishops' wigs, playing
      at cribbage, and psalm-singing.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[225]</span>Here's Brother Blackmantle of
      Brazen-nose." "A speech, a speech!" vociferated all the party. "Yes,
      worthy brother <i>cracks</i>," replied I, "you shall have a speech, the
      very acme of oratory; a brief speech, composed by no less a personage than
      the great Lexicographer himself, and always used by him on such occasions
      at the club in Ivy-lane. Here's all your healths, and <i>Esto perpétua</i>."
      "Bravo!" said Eglantine;" the boy improves. Now a toast, a university lass&mdash;come,
      boys, The Doctor's Daughter; and then a song from Crotchet C&mdash;ss."{4}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          BURTON ALE.
          AN ANCIENT OXFORD DITTY.

          Of all the belles who Christ Church bless,
          None's like the doctor's daughter{5};
          Who hates affected squeamishness
          Almost as much as water.
          Unlike your modern dames, afraid
          Of Bacchus's caresses;
          She far exceeds the stoutest maid
          Of excellent queen Bess's.

          Hers were the days, says she, good lack,
          The days to drink and munch in;
          When butts of Burton, tuns of sack,
          Wash'd down an ox for luncheon.
          Confound your <i>nimpy-pimpy</i> lass,
          Who faints and fumes at liquor;
          Give me the girl that takes her glass
          Like Moses and the vicar.

     4 Mr. C&mdash;ss, otherwise Crotchet C&mdash;ss, bachelor of music,
     and organist of Christ Church College, St. John's College,
     and St. Mary's Church. An excellent musician, and a jolly
     companion: he published, some time since, a volume of
     chants.

     5 A once celebrated university toast, with whose
     eccentricities we could fill a volume; but having received
     an intimation that it would be unpleasant to the lady's
     feelings, we gallantly forbear.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[226]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          True emblem of immortal ale,
          So famed in British lingo;
          Stout, beady, and a little <i>stale</i>&mdash;
          Long live the Burton stingo!
</pre>
    <p>
      "A vulgar ditty, by my faith," said the exquisite, "in the true English
      style, all <i>fol de rol</i>, and a vile chorus to split the tympanum of
      one's auricular organs: do, for heaven's sake, Echo, let us have some <i>divertissement</i>
      of a less boisterous character." "Agreed," said Eglantine, winking at
      Echo; "we'll have a <i>round of sculls</i>. Every man shall sing a song,
      write a poetical epitaph on his right hand companion, or drink off a
      double dose of rum booze."{6} "Then I shall be confoundedly <i>cut</i>,"
      said Dick Gradus, "for I never yet could chant a stave or make a couplet
      in my life." "And I protest against a practice," said Lionise, "that has a
      tendency to trifle with one's <i>transitory tortures</i>." "No appeal from
      the chair," said Eglantine: "another bumper, boys; here's The Fair <i>Nuns
      of St. Clement's</i>." "To which I beg leave to add," said Echo, "by way
      of rider, their favourite pursuit, <i>The Study of the Fathers</i>." By
      the time these toasts had been duly honoured, some of the party displayed
      symptoms of being <i>moderately cut</i>, when Echo commenced by reciting
      his epitaph on his next friend, Bob Transit:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Here rests a wag, whose pencil drew
          Life's characters of varied hue,
          Bob Transit&mdash;famed in humour's sphere
          For many a transitory year.
          Though dead, still in the "English Spy"
          He'll live for ever to the eye.
          Here uncle White{7} reclines in peace,
          Secure from nephew and from niece.

     6 Rum booze&mdash;Flip made of white or port wine, the yolks of
     eggs, sugar and nutmeg.

     7  Uncle White, a venerable bed-maker of All Souls' College,
     eighty-three years of age; has been in the service of the
     college nearly seventy years: is always dressed in black,
     and wears very largo silver knee and shoe-buckles; his hair,
     which is milk-white, is in general tastefully curled: he is
     known "to, and called uncle by, every inhabitant of the
     university, and obtained the cog-nomen from his having an
     incredible number of nephews and nieces in Oxford. In
     appearance he somewhat resembles a clergyman of the old
     school.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[227]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Of All-Souls' he, alive or dead;
          Of milk-white name, the milk-white head.
          By Uncle White.
          Here lies Billy Chadwell,{8}
          Who perform'd the duties of a dad well.

               BY BILLY CHADWELL.
          Ye maggots, now's your time to crow:
          Old Boggy Hastings{9} rests below.

               BY BOGGY HASTINGS.
          A grosser man ne'er mix'd with stones
          Than lies beneath&mdash;'Tis Figgy Jones.{10}

               BY FIGGY JONES.
          Here Marquis Wickens{11} lies incrust,
          In clay-cold consecrated dust:
          No more he'll brew, or pastry bake;
          His sun is set&mdash;himself a cake.

     8 Billy Chadwell, of psalm-singing notoriety, since dead;
     would imitate syncope so admirably, as to deceive a whole
     room full of company&mdash;in an instant he would become pale,
     motionless, and ghastly as death; the action of his heart
     has even appeared to be diminished: his sham fits, if
     possible, exceeded his fainting. He was very quarrelsome
     when in his cups; and when he had aggravated any one to the
     utmost, to save himself from a severe beating would
     apparently fall into a most dreadful fit, which never failed
     to disarm his adversary of his rage, and to excite the
     compassion of every by-stander.

     9  Old Boggy Hastings supplies members of the university and
     college servants who are anglers with worms and maggots.

     10  Tommy J***s, alias Figgy Jones, an opulent grocer in the
     High-street, and a common-councilman in high favour with the
     lower orders of the freemen; a sporting character.

     11  Marquis Wickens  formerly a confectioner, and now a
     common brewer. He accumulated considerable property as a
     confectioner, from placing his daughters, who were pretty
     genteel girls, behind his counter, where they attracted a
     great many gownsmen to the shop. No tradesman ever gained a
     fortune more rapidly than this man: as soon as he found
     himself inde-pendent of the university, he gave up his shop,
     bought the Sun Inn, built a brewhouse, and is now gaining as
     much money by selling beer as he formerly did by
     confectionery.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[228]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               BY MARQUIS WICKENS.
          Ye <i>roués</i> all, be sad and mute;
          Who now shall cut the stylish suit?
          <i>Buck</i> Sheffield's{12 }gone&mdash;Ye Oxford men,
          Where shall ye meet his like again?

               BY BUCK SHEFFIELD.
          MacLean{13} or <i>Tackle</i>, which you will,
          In quiet sleeps beneath this hill.
          Ye anglers, bend with one accord;
          The stranger is no more abroad.

               BY MACLEAN.
          Here rests a punster, Jemmy Wheeler{14}
          In wit and whim a wholesale dealer;
          Unbound by care, he others bound,
          And now lies gathered underground.

     12  Sheffield, better known by the name of Buck Sheffield, a
     master tailor and a member of the common council.

     13  MacLean, an old bacchanalian Scotchman, better known by
     the name of Tackle: a tall thin man, who speaks the broad
     Scotch dialect; makes and mends fishing-tackle for members
     of the university; makes bows and arrows for those who
     belong to the Archery Society; is an indifferent musician,
     occasionally amuses under-graduates in their apartments by
     playing to them country dances and marches on the flute or
     violin. He published his Life a short time since, in a thin
     octavo pamphlet, entitled "The Stranger Abroad, or The
     History of Myself," by MacLean.

     14 Jemmy Wheeler of Magpie-lane, a bookbinder, of punning
     celebrity; has published two or three excellent versified
     puns in the Oxford Herald. He is a young man of good natural
     abilities,
but unfortunately applies them occasionally to a loose purpose.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[229]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               BY JEMMY WHEELER.
          A speedy-man, by nimble foe,
          Lies buried in the earth below:
          The Baron Perkins,{15} Mercury
          To all the university.
          Men of New College, mourn his fate,
          Who <i>early</i> died by drinking <i>late</i>.

               BY BARON PERKINS.
          Ye Oxford <i>duns</i>, you're done at last;
          Here Smiler W&mdash;&mdash;d{16} is laid fast.
          No more his <i>oak</i> ye need assail;
          He's book'd inside a wooden jail.

               BY SMILER W&mdash;&mdash; OF C&mdash;&mdash; COLLEGE.
          A thing called exquisite rests here:
          For human nature's sake I hope,
          Without uncharitable trope,
          'Twill ne'er among us more appear.

     15  William Perkins, alias Baron Perkins, alias the Baron, a
     very jovial watchman of Holywell, the New College speedy-
     man,{*} and factotum to New College.

     16  Mr. W&mdash;&mdash;d, alias   Smiler  W&mdash;&mdash;d, a commoner   of
     &mdash;&mdash;.   This gentleman is always laughing or smiling; is
     long-winded, and consequently pestered with <i>duns</i>, who are
     sometimes much chagrined by repeated disappointments; but
     let them be ever so crusty, he never fails in laughing them
     into a good humour before they leave his room.

     It was over Smiler's oak in&mdash;&mdash;, that some wag had printed
     and stuck up the following notice:

          Men traps and spring guns
          Set here to catch <i>duns</i>.

     * A <i>speedy-man</i> at New College is a person employed to take
     a letter to the master of Winchester school from the warden
     of New College, acquaint-ing him that a fellowship or
     scholarship is become vacant in the college, and requiring
     him to send forthwith the next senior boy. The speedy-man
     always performs his journey on foot, and within a given
     time.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[230]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               BY LILLYMAN LIONISE.
          Here rests a poet&mdash;heaven keep him quiet,
          For when above he lived a life of riot;
          Enjoy'd his joke, and drank his share of wine&mdash;
          A mad wag he, one Horace Eglantine.{17}
</pre>
    <p>
      The good old orthodox beverage now began to display its potent effects
      upon the heads and understandings of the party. All restraint being
      completely banished by the effect of the liquor, every one indulged in
      their characteristic eccentricities. Dick Gradus pleaded his utter
      incapability to sing or produce an impromptu rhyme, but was allowed to
      substitute a prose epitaph on the renowned school-master of Magdalen
      parish, Fatty T&mdash;b,{18} who lay snoring under the table. "It shall be
      read over him in lieu of burial service," said Echo. "Agreed, agreed,"
      vociferated all the party; and Jemmy
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     17 This whim of tagging rhymes and epitaphs, adopted by
     Horace Eglantine, is of no mean authority. During the
     convivial administration of Lord North, when the ministerial
     dinners were composed of such men as the Lords Sandwich,
     Weymouth, Thurlow, Richard Rigby, &amp;c, various pleasantries
     passed current for which the present time would be deemed
     too refined. Among others, it was the whim of the day to
     call upon each member, after the cloth was drawn, to tag a
     rhyme to the name of his left hand neighbour. It was first
     proposed by Lord Sandwich, to raise a laugh against the
     facetious Lord North, who happened to sit next to a Mr.
     Mellagen, a name deemed incapable of a rhyme. Luckily,
     however, for Lord North, that gentleman had just informed
     him of an accident that had befallen him near the pump in
     Pall Mall; when, therefore, it came to his turn, he wrote
     the following distich:&mdash;

          Oh! pity poor Mr. Mellagen,
          Who walking along Pall Mall,
          Hurt his foot when down he fell,
          And fears he won't get well again.

     18 Fatty T&mdash;&mdash;, better known as the sixpenny schoolmaster:
     a little fat man, remarkable for his love of good living.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[231]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      Jumps,{19} the parish clerk of Saint Peter's, was instantly mounted on a
      chair, at the head of the defunct schoolmaster, to recite the following
      whim:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
               Epitaph on a Glutton.

          Beneath this table lie the remains of Fatty T***;
          Who more than performed the duties of
          An excellent eater, an unparalleled drinker, and
          A truly admirable sleeper.
          His stomach was as disinterested
          As his appetite was good; so that
          His impartial tooth alike chewed
          The mutton of the poor,and
          The turtle of the rich.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     19 James James, alias Jemmy Jumps, alias the Oxford Caleb
     Quotum, a stay-maker, and parish-clerk of Saint Peter le
     Bailey&mdash;plays the violin to parties on water excursions,
     attends public-house balls&mdash;is bellows-blower and factotum
     at the music-room&mdash;attends as porter to the Philharmonic and
     Oxford Choral Societies&mdash;is constable of the race-course
     and race balls&mdash;a bill distributor and a deputy collector of
     poor rates&mdash;calls his wife his <i>solio</i>. He often amuses his
     companions at public-houses by reciting comic tales in
     verse. A woman who had lost a relative desired Jemmy
     Jumps to get a brick grave built. On digging up a piece
     of ground which had not been opened for many years, he
     discovered a very good brick grave, and, to his great joy,
     also discovered that its occupant had long since mouldered
     into dust. He cleaned the grave out, procured some reddle
     and water, brushed the bricks over with it, and informed
     the person that he had a most excellent <i>second-hand grave
     to sell as good as  new</i>, and if she thought it would suit
     her poor departed friend, would let her have it at half the
     price of a new one: this was too good an offer to be
     rejected; but Jemmy found, on measuring the coffin, that his
     second-hand grave was too short, and consequently was
     obliged to dig the earth away from the end of the grave and
     beat the bricks in with a beetle, before it would admit its
     new tenant.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[232]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          He was a zealous opposer of the Aqua-<i>arian</i> heresy,
          A steady devourer of beef-steaks,
          A stanch and devout advocate for <i>spiced bishop</i>,
          A firm friend to Bill Holland's <i>double X</i>, and
          An active disseminator of the bottle,
          He was ever uneasy unless employed upon
          The good things of this world; and
          The interment of a <i>swiss</i> or lion,
          Or the dissolution of a pasty,
          Was his great delight.
          He died
          Full of drink and victuals,
          In the undiminished enjoyment of his digestive faculties,
          In the forty-fifth year of his appetite.
          The collegians inscribed this memento,
          In perpetual remembrance of
          His <i>pieous</i> knife and fork.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Very well for a <i>trencher</i> man," said Horace; "now we must have a
      recitation from Strasburg.{20} Come, you jolly old teacher of Hebrew,
      mount the rostrum, and "give us a taste of your quality." "Ay, or by
      heavens we'll baptize him with a bumper of bishop," said Echo. "For
      conscience sake, mishter Echo, conshider vat it is you're about; I can no
      more shpeek in English than I can turn Christian&mdash;I've drank so much
      of your red port to-day as voud make anoder Red Sea." "Ay, and you shall
      be drowned in it, you old <i>Sheenie</i>," said Tom, "if you don't give us
      a speech." "A speech, a speech!" resounded from all
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     {20} Strasburg, an eccentric Jew, who gave lessons in Hebrew
     to members of the university.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[233]</span>the yet living subjects of the party.
      "Veil, if I musht, I musht; but I musht do it by shubstitute then; my old
      friend, Mark Supple here, vill give you the history of Tom Tick." To this
      Echo assented, on account of the allusions it bore to the Albanians, some
      of whom were of the party. Old Mark, mounted on the chair at the upper end
      of the table, proceeded with the tale.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      THE OXFORD RAKE'S PROGRESS.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Tom was a tailor's heir,
          A dashing blade,
          Whose sire in trade
          Enough had made,
          By cribbage, short skirts, and little capes,
          Long bills, and items for buckram, tapes,
          Buttons, twist, and small ware;
          Which swell a bill out so delightfully,
          Or perhaps I should say frightfully,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[234]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          That is, if it related to myself.
          Suffice it to be told
          In wealth he roll'd,
          And being a fellow of some spirit,
          Set up his coach;
          To 'scape reproach,
          He put the tailor on the shelf,
          And thought to make his boy a man of merit.
          On old Etona's classic ground,
          Tom's infant years in circling round
          Were spent 'mid Greek and Latin;
          The boy had parts both gay and bright,
          A merry, mad, facetious sprite,
          With heart as soft as satin.
          For sport or spree Tom never lack'd;
          A <i>con</i>{21} with all, his sock he crack'd
          With <i>oppidan</i> or gownsman:
          Could <i>smug</i> a sign, or quiz the <i>dame</i>,
          Or row, or ride, or poach for game,
          With <i>cads</i>, or Eton townsmen.
          Tom's <i>admiral</i> design'd,
          Most dads are blind
          To youthful folly,
          That Tom should be a man of learning,
          To show his parent's great discerning,
          A parson rich and jolly.
          To Oxford Tom in due time went,
          Upon degree D.D. intent,
          But more intent on ruin:
          <i>A Freshman</i>, steering for the <i>Port of Stuff's</i>,{22}
          Round <i>Isle Matricula</i>, and <i>Isthmus of Grace</i>,
          Intent on living well and little doing.
          Here Tom came out a dashing blood,
          Kept Doll at Woodstock, and a stud
          For hunting, race, or tandem;
          Could <i>bag</i> a proctor, <i>floor a raff</i>,
          Or stifle e'en a <i>hull-dog's gaff</i>,
          Get <i>bosky</i>, drive at random.

     21 Eton phraseology&mdash;A friend.

     22  Oxford phraseology&mdash;All these terms have been explained
     in an earlier part of the work.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[235]</span> <a name="Bimage-0002" id="Bimage-0002">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/page235.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
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<pre xml:space="preserve">
          But long before the first term ended,
          Tom was inform'd, unless he mended,
          He'd better change his college.
          Which said, the <i>Don</i> was hobbling to the shelf
          Where college butler keeps his book of <i>Battell</i>;
          Tom nimbly ran, erased his name himself,
          To save the scandal of the students' prattle.
          In Oxford, be it known, there is a place
          Where all the mad wags in disgrace
          Retire to improve their knowledge;
          The town <i>raff</i> call it <i>Botany Bay</i>,
          Its inmates <i>exiles, convicts</i>, and they say
          Saint Alban takes the student refugees:
          Here Tom, to 'scape <i>Point Non plus</i>, took his seat
          After a <i>waste of ready</i>&mdash;found his feet
          Safe on the shores of indolence and ease;
          Here, 'mid choice spirits, in the <i>Isle of Flip</i>,
          Dad's will, and <i>sapping</i>, valued not young <i>snip</i>;
          Scapula, Homer, Lexicon, laid by,
          Join'd the peep-of-day boys in full cry.{23}
          A saving sire a sad son makes
          This adage suits most modern rakes,

     23 It was in the actual participation of these bacchanalian
     orgies, during the latter days of Dr. W&mdash;&mdash;y, the former
     head of the Hall, when infirmities prevented his exercising
     the necessary watchful-ness over the buoyant spirits
     committed to his charge, that my friend Bob Transit and
     myself were initiated into the mysteries of the Albanians.
     The accompanying scene, so faithfully delineated by his
     humorous pencil, will be fresh in the recollection of the
     <i>choice spirits</i> who mingled in the joyous revelry. To
     particularise character would be to "betray the secrets of
     the prison-house," and is besides wholly unnecessary, every
     figure round the board being a portrait; kindred souls,
     whose merrie laughter-loving countenances and jovial
     propensities, will be readily recognised by every son of
     <i>Alma Mater</i> who was at Oxford during the last days of the
     <i>beaux esprits</i> of Alban Hall. (<i>See Plate</i>.) In justice to
     the learned Grecian who now presides, it should be told,
     that these scenes are altogether suppressed.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[236]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          And Tom above all others.
          I should have told before, he was an only child,
          And therefore privileged to be gay and wild,
          Having no brothers,
          Whom his example might mislead
          Into extravagance, or deed
          Ridiculous and foolish.
          Three tedious years in Oxford spent,
          In midnight brawl and merriment,
          Tom bid adieu to college,
          To cassock-robe of orthodox,
          To construe and decline&mdash;the box,
          Supreme in stable knowledge;
          To dash on all within the ring,
          Bet high, play deep, or rioting,
          At Long's to sport his figure
          In honour's cause, some small affair
          Give modern bucks a finish'd air,
          Tom pull'd the fatal trigger.
          He kill'd his friend&mdash;but then remark,
          His friend had kill'd another spark,
          So 'twas but trick and tie.
          The cause of quarrel no one knew,
          Not even Tom,&mdash;away he flew,
          Till time and forms of law,
          To fashionable vices blind,
          Excuses for the guilty find,
          Call murder a <i>faux pas</i>.
          The tinsell'd coat next struck his pride,
          How dashing in the Park to ride
          A cornet of dragoons;
          Upon a charger, thorough bred,
          To show off with a high plumed head,
          The gaze of Legs and Spoons;
          To rein him up in all his paces,
          Then splash the passing trav'lers' faces,
          And spur and caper by;
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[237]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Get drunk at mess, then sally out
          To Lisle-street fair, or beat a scout,
          Or black a waiter's eye.
          Of all the clubs,&mdash;the Clippers, Screws,
          The Fly-by-nights, Four Horse, and Blues,
          The Daffy, Snugs, and Peep-o-day,
          Tom's an elect; at all the Hells,
          At Bolton-Row, with tip-top swells,
          And Tat's men, deep he'd play.
          His debts oft paid by Snyder's{24} pelf,
          Who paid at last a debt himself,
          Which all that live must pay.
          Tom book'd{25} the old one snug inside,
          Wore sables, look'd demure and sigh'd
          Some few short hours away;
          Till from the funeral return'd,
          Then Tom with expectation burn'd
          To hear his father's will:&mdash;
          "Twice twenty thousand pounds in cash,"&mdash;
          "That's prime," quoth Tom, "to cut a dash
          "At races or a mill,"&mdash;
          "All my leaseholds, house and plate,
          My pictures and freehold estate,
          I give my darling heir;
          Not doubting but, as I in trade
          By careful means this sum have made,
          He'll double it with care."&mdash;
          "Ay, that I will, I'll hit the nick,
          Seven's the main,&mdash;here Ned and Dick
          Bring down my blue and buff;
          Take off the hatband, banish grief,
          'Tis time to turn o'er a new leaf,
          Sorrow's but idle stuff."
          Fame, trumpet-tongued, Tom's wealth reports,
          His name is blazon'd at the courts
          Of Carlton and the Fives.
          His equipage, his greys, his dress,
          His polish'd self, so like <i>noblesse</i>,
          "Is ruin's sure perquise."

     24 Flash for tailor.

     25 Screwed up in his coffin.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[238]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Beau Brummell's bow had not the grace,
          Alvanly stood eclipsed in face,
          The <i>Roués</i> all were mute,
          So exquisite, so chaste, unique,
          The mark for every Leg and Greek,
          Who play the concave suit.{26}
          At Almack's, paradise o' the West,
          Tom's hand by prince and peer is press'd,
          And fashion cries supreme.
          His Op'ra box, and little quean,
          To lounge, to see, and to be seen,
          Makes life a pleasant dream.
          Such dreams, alas! are transient light,
          A glow of brightness and delight,
          That wakes to years of pain.
          Tom's round of pleasure soon was o'er,
          And clam'rous <i>duns</i> assail the door
          When credit's on the wane.
          His riches pay his folly's price,
          And vanish soon a sacrifice,
          Then friendly comrades fly;
          His ev'ry foible dragg'd to light,
          And faults (unheeded) crowd in sight,
          Asham'd to show his face.
          Beset by tradesmen, lawyers, <i>bums</i>,{21}
          He sinks where fashion never comes,
          A wealthier takes his place.
          <i>Beat at all points, floor'd, and clean'd out</i>,
          Tom yet resolv'd to brave it out,

     36 Cards cut in a peculiar manner, to enable the Leg to
     fleece his Pigeon securely.

     27 "Persons employed by the sheriff to hunt and seize human
     prey: they are always bound in sureties for the due
     execution of their office, and thence are called <i>Bound
     Bailiff's</i>, which the common people have corrupted into a
     much more homely ex-pression&mdash;<i>to wit, Bum-Bailiffs or
     Bums</i>."&mdash;l <i>Black Com</i>. 346.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[239]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          If die he must, die game.
          Some few months o'er, again he strays
          'Midst scenes of former halcyon days,
          On other projects bent;
          No more ambitious of a name,
          Or mere unprofitable fame,
          On gain he's now intent,
          To deal a flush, or cog a die,
          Or plan a deep confed'racy
          To pluck a pigeon bare.
          Elected by the Legs a brother,
          His plan is to entrap some other
          In Greeting's fatal snare.
          Here for a time his arts succeed,
          But vice like his, it is decreed,
          Can never triumph long:
          A noble, who had been his prey,
          Convey'd the well cogg'd bones away,
          Exposed them to the throng.
          Now blown, "his occupation's" o'er,
          Indictments, actions, on him pour,
          His ill got wealth must fly;
          And faster than it came, the law
          Can fraud's last ill got shilling draw,
          Tom's pocket soon drain'd dry.
          Again at sea, a wreck, struck down,
          By fickle fortune and the town,
          Without the means to bolt.
          His days in bed, for fear of Bums,
          At night among the Legs he comes,
          Who gibe him for a dolt.
          He's cut, and comrades, one by one,
          Avoid him as they would a dun.
          Here finishes our tale&mdash;
          Tom Tick, the life, the soul, the whim
          Of courts and fashion when in trim,
          Is left&mdash;
          WAITING FOR BAIL.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[240]</span> <a name="Bimage-0003" id="Bimage-0003">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page240.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page240 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      By the time old Mark Supple had finished his somewhat lengthy tale, the
      major part of the motley group of eccentrics who surrounded us were
      terribly cut: the garrulous organ of Jack Milburn was unable to articulate
      a word; <i>Goose</i> B&mdash;&mdash;l, the gourmand, was crammed full, and
      looked, as he lay in the arms of Morpheus, like a fat citizen on the night
      of a lord mayor's dinner&mdash;a lump of inanimate mortality. In one
      corner lay a poor little Grecian, papa Chrysanthus Demetriades, whom Tom
      Echo had plied with bishop till he fell off his chair; Count Dennet was
      safely deposited beside him; and old Will Stewart,{28} the poacher, was
      just humming himself to sleep with the fag end of an old ballad as he sat
      upon the ground
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     28 Portraits of the three last-mentioned eccentrics will be
     found in page 245, sketched from the life.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[241]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      resting his back against the defunct Grecian. A diminutive little cripple,
      Johnny Holloway, was sleeping between his legs, upon whose head Tom had
      fixed a wig of immense size, crowned with an opera hat and a fox's tail
      for a feather. "Now to bury the dead," said Eglantine; "let in the lads,
      Mark." "Now we shall have a little sport, old fellows," said Echo: "come,
      Transit, where are your paints and brushes?" In a minute the whole party
      were most industriously engaged in disfiguring the objects around us by
      painting their faces, some to resemble tattooing, while others were
      decorated with black eyes, huge mustachios, and different embellishments,
      until it would have been impossible for friend or relation to have
      recognised any one of their visages. This ceremony being completed, old
      Mark introduced a new collection of worthies, who had been previously
      instructed for the sport; these were, I found, no other than the
      well-known Oxford <i>cads</i>, Marston Will, Tom Webb, Harry Bell, and
      Dick Rymal,{29} all out and outers, as Echo reported, for a spree with the
      gown, who had been regaled at some neighbouring public house by Eglantine,
      to be in readiness for the wind-up of his eccentric entertainment; to the
      pious care of these worthies were consigned the strange-looking mortals
      who surrounded us. The plan was, I found, to carry them out quietly
      between two men, deposit them in a cart which they had in waiting, and
      having taken them to the water-side, place them in a barge and send them
      drifting down the water in the night to Iffley, where their consternation
      on recovering the next morning and strange appearance would be sure to
      create a source of merriment both for the city and university. The
      instructions were most punctually obeyed, and the amusement the freak
      afterwards afforded the good people of Oxford will not very
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     29 Well-known sporting cads, who are always ready to do a
     good turn for the <i>togati</i>, either for sport or spree.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[242]</span>quickly be forgotten. Thus ended the
      spread&mdash;and now having taken more than my usual quantity of wine, and
      being withal fatigued by the varied amusements of the evening, I would
      fain have retired to rest: but this, I found, would be contrary to good
      fellowship, and not at all in accordance with <i>college principles</i>.
      "We must have a spree" said Echo, "by way of finish, the rum ones are all
      shipped off safely by this time&mdash;suppose we introduce Blackmantle to
      our <i>grandmamma</i>, and the pretty <i>Nuns</i> of St. Clement's."
      "Soho, my good fellows," said Transit; "we had better defer our visit in
      that direction until the night is more advanced. The old don{30} of&mdash;&mdash;,
      remember, celebrates the Paphian mysteries in that quarter occasionally,
      and we may not always be able to <i>shirk</i> him as effectually as on the
      other evening, when Echo and myself were snugly enjoying a <i>tête-a-tête</i>
      with Maria B&mdash;&mdash;and little Agnes S&mdash;&mdash;{31}; we
      accidentally caught a glimpse of <i>old Morality</i> cautiously toddling
      after the pious Mrs. A&mdash;ms, <i>vide-licet</i> of arts,{32} a lady who
      has been regularly matriculated at this university, and taken up her
      degrees some years since. It was too rich a bit to lose, and although at
      the risk of discovery, I booked it immediately <i>eo instunti. 'Exegi
      monumentum aere perennius</i>'&mdash;and here it is."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     30 We all must reverence dons; and I'm about
     To talk of dons&mdash;irreverently I doubt.
     For many a priest, when sombre evening gray
     Mantles the sky, o'er maudlin bridge will stray&mdash;
     Forget his oaths, his office, and his fame,
     And mix in company I will not name.

     <i>Aphrodisiacal Licenses</i>.
     31 Paphian divinities in high repute at Oxford.

     32 Pretty much in the same sense, probably, in which Moore's
     gifted leman Fanny is by him designated Mistress of Arts.

     And oh!&mdash;if a fellow like me
     May confer a diploma of hearts,
     With my lip thus I seal your degree,
     My divine little Mistress of Arts.

     For an account of Fan's proficiency in astronomy, ethics,
     (not the Nicomachean), and eloquence, see Moore's Epistles,
     vol. ii. p. 155.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[243]</span> <a name="Bimage-0004" id="Bimage-0004">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
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    </div>
    <p>
      "An excellent likeness, i'faith, is it," said Eglantine; whose eyes
      twinkled like stars amid the wind-driven clouds, and whose half clipped
      words and unsteady motion sufficiently evinced that he had paid due
      attention to the old laws of potation. "There's nothing like the <i>cloth</i>
      for comfort, old fellows; remember what a man of Christ Church wrote to
      George Colman when he was studying for the law.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Turn parson, Colman, that's the way to thrive;
          Your parsons are the happiest men alive.
          Judges, there are but twelve; and never more,
          But stalls untold, and Bishops twenty-four.
          Of pride and claret, sloth and venison full,
          Yon prelate mark, right reverend and dull!
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[244]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          He ne'er, good man, need pensive vigils keep
          To preach his audience once a week to sleep;
          On rich preferment battens at his ease,
          Nor sweats for tithes, as lawyers toil for fees.'
</pre>
    <p>
      If Colman had turned parson he would have had a bishoprick long since, and
      rivalled that jolly old ancient Walter de Mapes. Then what an honour he
      would have been to the church; no drowsy epistles spun out in lengthened
      phrase,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Like to the quondam student, named of yore,
          Who with Aristotle calmly choked a boar;'
</pre>
    <p>
      but true orthodox wit: the real light of grace would have fallen from his
      lips and charmed the crowded aisle; the rich epigrammatic style, the true
      creed of the churchman; no fear of canting innovations or evangelical
      sceptics; but all would have proceeded harmoniously, ay, and piously too&mdash;for
      true piety consists not in purgation of the body, but in purity of mind.
      Then if we could but have witnessed Colman filling the chair in one of our
      common rooms, enlivening with his genius, wit, and social conversation the
      learned <i>dromedaries</i> of the Sanctum, and dispelling the habitual
      gloom of a College Hospitium, what chance would the sectarians of Wesley,
      or the infatuated followers even of that arch rhapsodist, Irving, have
      with the attractive eloquence and sound reasoning of true wit?" "Bravo!
      bravo!"vociferated the party. "An excellent defence of the church," said
      Echo, "for which Eglantine deserves to be inducted to a valuable benefice;
      suppose we adjourn before the college gates are closed, and install him
      under the Mitre." A proposition that met with a ready acquiescence from
      all present.{33}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     33 The genius of wit, mirth, and social enjoyment, can never
     find more sincere worshippers than an Oxford wine-party
     seated round the festive board; here the sallies of youth,
     unchecked by care, the gaiety of hearts made glad with wine
     and revelry, the brilliant flashes of genius, and the eye
     beaming with delight, are found in the highest perfection.
     The merits of the society to which the youthful aspirant for
     fame and glory happens to belong often afford the embryo
     poet the theme of his song. Impromptu parodies on old and
     popular songs often add greatly to the enjoy-ment of the
     convivial party. The discipline of the university prohibits
     late hours; and the evenings devoted to enjoyment are not
     often disgraced by excess.
</pre>
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    <p>
      <br /><br /> <span class="pagenum">[245]</span> <a name="Bimage-0006"
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    </p>
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      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      TOWN AND GOWN, AN OXFORD ROW.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Battle of the Togati and the Town-Raff&mdash;A Night-Scene in the
     High-Street, Oxford&mdash;Description of the Combatants&mdash;Attack
     of the Gunsmen upon the Mitre&mdash;Evolutions of the
     Assailants&mdash;Manoeuvres of the Proctors and Bull Dogs&mdash;
     Perilous Condition of Blackmantle and his associates,
     Eglantine, Echo, and Transit&mdash;Snug Retreat of Lionise&mdash;The
     High-Street after the Battle&mdash;Origin of the Argotiers, and
     Invention of Cant-phrases&mdash;History of the Intestine Wars and
     Civil Broils of Oxford, from the Time of Alfred&mdash;Origin of
     the late Strife&mdash;Ancient Ballad&mdash;Retreat of the Togati&mdash;
     Reflections of a Freshman&mdash;Black Matins, or the Effect of
     late Drinking upon early Risers&mdash;Visit to Golgotha, or the
     Place of Sculls&mdash;Lecture from the Big-Wigs&mdash;Tom Echo
     receives Sentence of Rustication.
</pre>
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    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The clocks of Oxford were echoing each other in proclaiming the hour of
      midnight, when Eglantine led the way by opening the door of his <i>hospitium</i>
      to descend into the quadrangle of Brazen-nose. "Steady, steady, old
      fellows," said Horace; "remember the don on the first-floor&mdash;hush,
      all be silent as the grave till you pass his oak." "Let us <i>row</i> him&mdash;let
      us fumigate the old fellow," said Echo; "this is the night of
      purification, lads&mdash;bring some pipes, and a little frankincense,
      Mark." And in this laudable <span class="pagenum">[247]</span>enterprise
      of blowing asafoetida smoke through the don's key-hole the whole party
      were about to be instantly engaged, when an accidental slip of Eglantine's
      spoiled the joke. While in the act of remonstrating with his jovial
      companions on the dangerous consequences attending detection, the scholar
      sustained a fall which left him suddenly deposited against the oak of the
      crabbed old Master of Arts, who inhabited rooms on the top of the lower
      staircase; fortunately, the dignitary had on that evening carried home
      more <i>liquor</i> than <i>learning</i> from the common room, and was at
      the time of the accident almost as sound asleep as the original founder.
      "There lies the domini of the feast," said Echo, "knocked down in true
      orthodox style by the bishop&mdash;follow your leader, boys; and take care
      of your craniums, or you may chance to get a few phreno-lo-lo-logi-cal
      bu-lps&mdash;I begin to feel that hard study has somewhat impaired my
      artic-tic-u-u-la-tion, but then I can always raise a
      per-pendic-dic-u-u-lar, you see&mdash;always good at mathemat-tics. D&mdash;n
      Aristotle, and the rest of the saints! say I: you see what comes of being
      logical." All of which exultation over poor Eglantine's disaster, Echo had
      the caution to make while steadying himself by keeping fast hold of one of
      the balustrades on the landing; which that arch wag Transit perceiving,
      managed to cut nearly through with a knife, and then putting his foot
      against it sent Tom suddenly oft in a flying leap after his companion, to
      the uproarious mirth of the whole party. By the time our two friends had
      recovered their legs, we were all in marching order for the Mitre; working
      in sinuosities along, for not one of the party could have moved at right
      angles to any given point, or have counted six street lamps without at
      least multiplying them to a dozen. In a word, they were ripe for any
      spree, full of frolic, and bent on mischief; witness the piling a huge
      load of coals <span class="pagenum">[248]</span>against one man's door,
      screwing up the oak of another, and <i>milling the glaze</i> of a third,
      before we quitted the precincts of Brazen-nose, which we did separately,
      to escape observation from the Cerberus who guarded the portal.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is in a college wine-party that the true character of your early
      associates are easily discoverable: out of the excesses of the table very
      often spring the truest impressions, the first, but indelible affection
      which links kindred spirits together in after-time, and cements with
      increasing years into the most inviolable friendship. Here the sallies of
      youth, unchecked by care, or fettered by restraint, give loose to mirth
      and revelry; and the brilliancy of genius and the warm-hearted gaiety of
      pure delight are found in the highest perfection.
    </p>
    <p>
      The blue light of heaven illumined the magnificent square of Radcliffe,
      when we passed from beneath the porch of Brazen-nose, and tipping with her
      silvery light the surrounding architecture, lent additional beauty to the
      solemn splendour of the scene. Sophisticated as my faculties certainly
      were by the copious libations and occurrences of the day, I could yet
      admire with reverential awe the imposing grandeur by which I was
      surrounded.
    </p>
    <p>
      A wayward being from my infancy, not the least mark of my eccentricity is
      the peculiar humour in which I find myself when I have sacrificed too
      freely to the jolly god: unlike the major part of mankind, my temperament,
      instead of being invigorated and enlivened by the sparkling juice of the
      grape, loses its wonted nerve and elasticity; a sombre gloominess pervades
      the system, the pulse becomes nervous and languid, the spirits flagging
      and depressed, and the mind full of chimerical apprehensions and <i>ennui</i>.
      It was in this mood that Eglantine found me ruminating on the noble works
      before me, while resting against a part of the pile of Radcliffe library,
      contemplating <span class="pagenum">[249]</span>the elegant crocketed
      pinnacles of All Souls, the delicately taper spire of St. Mary's, and the
      clustered enrichments and imperial canopies of masonry, and splendid
      traceries which every where strike the eye: all of which objects were
      rendered trebly impressive from the stillness of the night, and the
      flittering light by which they were illumined. I had enough of wine and
      frolic, and had hoped to have <i>shirked</i> the party and stolen quietly
      to my lodgings, there to indulge in my lucubrations on the scene I had
      witnessed, and note in my journal, according to my usual practice, the
      more prominent events of the day, when Horace commenced with&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Where the devil, old fellow, have you been hiding yourself? I've been
      hunting you some time. A little <i>cut</i>, I suppose: never mind, my boy,
      you'll be better presently. Here's glorious sport on foot; don't you hear
      the war-cry?" At this moment a buzz of distant voices broke upon the ear
      like the mingled shouts of an election tumult. "There they are, old
      fellow: come, buckle on your armour&mdash;we must try your mettle
      to-night. All the university are out&mdash;a glorious row&mdash;come
      along, no shirking&mdash;-the <i>togati</i> against the town raff&mdash;remember
      the sacred cause, my boy." And in this way, spite of all remonstrance, was
      I dragged through the lane and enlisted with the rest of my companions
      into a corps of university men who were just forming themselves in the
      High-street to repel the daring attack of the very scum of the city, who
      had ill-treated and beaten some gownsmen in the neighbourhood of St.
      Thomas's, and had the temerity to follow and assail them in their retreat
      to the High-street with every description of villanous epithet, and still
      more offensive and destructive missiles. "Stand fast there, old fellows,"
      said Echo; who, although <i>devilishly cut</i>, seemed to be the leader of
      the division. "Where's old Mark Supple?" "Here I am sir, <i>take notice</i>"
      said the old scout, who appeared as active as <span class="pagenum">[250]</span>an
      American rifleman. "Will Peake send us the bludgeons?" "He won't open his
      doors, sir, for anybody, <i>take notice</i>." "Then down with the Mitre,
      my hearties;" and instantly a rope was thrown across the <i>bishop's cap</i>
      by old Mark, and the tin sign, lamp, and all came tumbling into the
      street, smashed into a thousand pieces.
    </p>
    <p>
      PEAKE (looking out of an upper window in his night-cap). Doey be quiet,
      and go along, for God's zake, gentlemen! I shall be <i>ruinated and
      discommoned</i> if I open my door to any body.
    </p>
    <p>
      TOM ECHO. You infernal old fox-hunter! if you don't doff your knowledge
      bag and come to the door, we'll mill all your glaze, burst open your
      gates, and hamstring all your horses.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. PEAKE (in her night-gown). Stand out of the way, Peake; let me speak
      to the gentlemen. Gentlemen, doey, gentlemen, consider my reputation, and
      the reputation of ray house. O dear, gentlemen, doey go somewhere else&mdash;we've
      no sticks here, I azzure ye, and we're all in bed. Doey go, gentlemen,
      pray do.
    </p>
    <p>
      TRANSIT. Dame Peake, if you don't open your doors directly, we'll break
      them open, and unkennel that old bagg'd fox, your husband, and drink all
      the black strap in your cellar, and&mdash;and play the devil with the
      maids.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. PEAKE. Don'te say so, don'te say so, Mr. Transit; I know you to be a
      quiet, peaceable gentleman, and I am zure you will befriend me: doey
      persuade 'em to go away, pray do,
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[251]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      MARK SUPPLE. Dame Peake
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. PEAKE. Oh, Mr. Mark Supple, are you there I talk to the gentlemen,
      Mr. Mark, pray do.
    </p>
    <p>
      MARK SUPPLE. It's no use, dame Peake; they won't be gammon'd, take notice.
      If you have any old broom-handles, throw 'em out directly, and if not,
      throw all the brooms you have in the house out of window&mdash;throw out
      all your sticks&mdash;throw Peake out. I'm for the gown, <i>take notice</i>.
      Down with the town! down with the town!
    </p>
    <p>
      BILL MAGS. (The waiter, at a lower window.) Hist, hist, Mr. Echo; Mr.
      Eglantine, hist, hist; master's gone to the back of the house with all the
      sticks he can muster; and here's an old kitchen-chair you can break up and
      make bludgeons of (throwing the chair out of window), and here's the
      cook's rolling-pin, and I'll go and forage for more ammunition.
    </p>
    <p>
      HORACE EGLANTINE. You're a right good fellow, Bill; and I'll pay you
      before I do your master; and the Brazen-nose men shall make your fortune.
    </p>
    <p>
      TOM ECHO. But where's the academicals I sent old Captain Cook for 1 We
      shall be beating one another in the dark without caps and gowns.
    </p>
    <p>
      CAPTAIN COOK. (A scout of Christ Church.) Here I be, zur. That old rogue,
      Dick Shirley, refuses to send any gowns; he says he has nothing but
      noblemen's gowns and gold tufts in his house.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[252]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      THE HON. LILLYMAN LIONISE. By the honour of my ancestry, that fellow shall
      never draw another stitch for Christ Church as long as he lives. Come
      along, captain: by the honour of my ancestry, we'll uncase the old <i>snyder</i>;
      we'll have gowns, I warrant me, noble or not noble, gold tufts or no
      tufts. Come along, Cook.
    </p>
    <p>
      In a few moments old Captain Cook and the exquisite returned loaded with
      gowns and caps, having got in at the window and completely cleared the
      tailor's shop of all his academicals, in spite of his threats or
      remonstrances. In the interim, old Mark Supple and Echo had succeeded in
      obtaining a supply of broom-handles and other weapons of defence; when the
      insignia of the university, the toga and cap, were soon distributed
      indiscriminately: the numbers of the university men increased every
      moment; and the yell of the town raff seemed to gain strength with every
      step as they approached the scene of action. Gown! gown! Town! town! were
      the only sounds heard in every direction; and the clamour and the tumult
      of voices were enough to shake the city with dismay. The authorities were
      by no means idle; but neither proctors or pro's, or marshal, or bull-dogs,
      or even deans, dons, and dignitaries, for such there were, who strained
      their every effort to quell the disturbance, were at all attended to, and
      many who came as peace-makers were compelled in their own defence to take
      an active part in the fray.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the bottom of the High-street to the end of the corn-market, and
      across again through St. Aldate's to the old bridge, every where the more
      peaceable and respectable citizens might be seen popping their noddles out
      of window, and rubbing their half-closed eyes with affright, to learn the
      cause of the alarming strife.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[253]</span>Of the strong band of university men who
      rushed on eager for the coming fray, a number of them were fresh
      light-hearted Etonians and old Westminsters, who having just arrived to
      place themselves under the sacred banners of Academus, thought their
      honour and their courage both concerned in defending the <i>togati</i>:
      most of these youthful zealots had as usual, at the beginning of a term,
      been lodged in the different inns and houses of the city, and from having
      drank somewhat freely of the welcome cup with old schoolfellows and new
      friends, were just ripe for mischief, unheedful of the consequences or the
      cause.
    </p>
    <p>
      On the other hand, the original fomenters of the strife had recruited
      their forces with herds of the lowest rabble gathered from the purlieus of
      their patron saints, St. Clement and St. Thomas, and the shores of the
      Charwell,&mdash;the bargees, and butchers, and labourers, and scum of the
      suburbians: a huge conglomerated mass of thick sculls, and broad backs,
      and strengthy arms, and sturdy legs, and throats bawling for revenge, and
      hearts bursting with wrathful ire, rendered still more frantic and
      desperate by the magic influence of their accustomed war-whoop. These
      formed the base barbarian race of Oxford truands,{1} including every vile
      thing that passes under the generic name of raff. From college to college
      the mania spread with the rapidity of an epidemic wind; and scholars,
      students, and fellows were every where in motion: here a stout bachelor of
      arts might be seen knocking down the ancient Cerberus who opposed his
      passage; there the iron-bound college gates were forced open by the united
      power of the youthful inmates. In another quarter might be seen the heir
      of some noble family risking his neck in the headlong leap {2}; and near
      him, a party of the <i>togati</i> scaling the sacred battlements with as
      much energetic zeal as the ancient crusaders would have displayed against
      the ferocious Saracens.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 The French <i>truands</i> were beggars, who under the pretence
     of asking alms committed the most atrocious crimes and
     excesses.

     2 It was on one of these occasions that the celebrated
     Charles James Fox made that illustrious leap from the window
     of Hertford College.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[254]</span>Scouts flying in every direction to
      procure caps and gowns, and scholars dropping from towers and windows by
      bell-ropes and <i>sheet-ladders</i>; every countenance exhibiting as much
      ardour and frenzied zeal, as if the consuming elements of earth and fire
      threatened the demolition of the sacred city of Rhedycina.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was on the spot where once stood the ancient conduit of Carfax, flanked
      on the one side by the venerable church of St. Martin and the colonnade of
      the old butter-market, and on the other by the town-hall, from the central
      point of which terminate, south, west, and north, St. Aldate's, the
      butcher-row, and the corn-market, that the scene exhibited its more
      substantial character. It was here the assailants first caught sight of
      each other; and the yell, and noise, and deafening shouts became terrific.
      In a moment all was fury and confusion: in the onset the gown, confident
      and daring, had evidently the advantage, and the retiring raff fell back
      in dismay; while the advancing and victorious party laid about them with
      their quarter-staves, and knuckles drawing blood, or teeth, or cracking
      crowns at every blow, until they had driven them back to the end of the
      corn-market. It was now that the strong arm and still stronger science of
      the sturdy bachelors of Brazen-nose, and the square-built, athletic sons
      of Cambria, the Jones's of Jesus, proved themselves of sterling mettle,
      and bore the brunt of the battle with unexampled courage: at this instant
      a second reinforcement arriving from the canals and wharfs on the banks of
      the Isis, having forced their way by George-lane, brought timely
      assistance to the town raff, and enabled them again to rally and present
      so formidable an appearance, <span class="pagenum">[255]</span>that the <i>togati</i>
      deemed it prudent to retreat upon their reserve, who were every moment
      accumulating in immense numbers in the High-street: to this spot the
      townsmen, exulting in their trifling advantage, had the temerity to follow
      and renew the conflict, and here they sustained the most signal defeat:
      for the men of Christ Church, and Pembroke, and St. Mary's Hall, and
      Oriel, and Corpus Christi, had united their forces in the rear; while the
      front of the gown had fallen back upon the effective Trinitarians, and
      Albanians, and Wadhamites, and men of Magdalen, who had by this time
      roused them from their monastic towers and cells to fight the holy war,
      and defend their classic brotherhood: nor was this all the advantages the
      gown had to boast of, for the <i>scouts</i>, ever true to their masters,
      had summoned the lads of the fancy, and Marston Will, and Harry Bell, and
      a host of out and outers, came up to the scratch, and floored many a <i>youkel</i>
      with their <i>bunch of fives</i>. It was at this period that the conflict
      assumed its most appalling feature, for the townsmen were completely
      hemmed into the centre, and fought with determined courage, presenting a
      hollow square, two fronts of which were fully engaged with the infuriated
      gown. Long and fearful was the struggle for mastery, and many and vain the
      attempts of the townsmen to retreat, until the old Oxford night coach, in
      its way up the High-street to the Star Inn in the corn-market, was
      compelled to force its passage through the conflicting parties; when the
      bull-dogs and the constables, headed by marshal Holliday and old Jack
      Smith, united their forces, and following the vehicle, opened a passage
      into the very centre of the battle, where they had for some time to
      sustain the perilous attacks of oaths, and blows, and kicks from both
      parties, until having fairly wedged themselves between the combatants,
      they succeeded by threats and entreaties, and seizing a few of the
      ringleaders on <span class="pagenum">[256]</span>both sides, to cause a
      dispersion, and restore by degrees the peace of the city.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was, however, some hours before the struggle had completely subsided, a
      running fight being kept up by the various straggling parties in their
      retreat; and at intervals the fearful cry of Town and Gown would resound
      from some plebeian alley or murky lane as an unfortunate wight of the
      adverse faction was discovered stealing homewards, covered with mud and
      scars. Of my college friends and merry companions in the fray, Tom Echo
      alone remained visible, and he had (in his own phraseology) <i>dropped his
      sash</i>: according to Hudibras, he looked
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "As men of inward light are wont
          To turn their opticks in upon't;"
</pre>
    <p>
      or, in plain English, had an <i>invisible</i> eye. The "<i>disjecta
      fragmenta</i>" of his academical robe presented a most pitiful appearance;
      it was of the ragged sort, like the <i>mendicula impluviata</i> of
      Plautus, and his under habiliments bore evident marks of his having bitten
      the dust (i.e. mud) beneath the ponderous arm of some heroic blacksmith or
      bargee; but yet he was lively, and what with blows and exertion, perfectly
      sobered. "What, Blackmantle? and alive, old fellow? Well clone, my hearty;
      I saw you set to with that fresh water devil from Charwell, the old
      Bargee, and a pretty milling you gave him. I had intended to have seconded
      you, but just as I was making up, a son of Vulcan let fly his
      sledge-hammer slap at my <i>smeller</i>, and stopped up one of my <i>oculars</i>,
      so I was obliged to turn to and finish him off; and when I had completed
      the job, you had bolted; not, however, without leaving your marks behind
      you. But where's Eglantine? where's Transit? where's the Honourable? By my
      soul the <i>roué</i> can handle his <i>mauleys</i> well; I saw him floor
      one of the raff in very prime style. But come along, my hearty; we must
      walk over the <span class="pagenum">[257]</span>field of battle and look
      after the wounded: I am desperately afraid that Eglantine is <i>booked
      inside</i>&mdash;saw him surrounded by the <i>bull-dogs</i>&mdash;made a
      desperate effort to rescue him&mdash;and had some difficulty to clear
      myself; but never mind, ''tis the fortune of war,' and there's very good
      lodging in the castle. Surely there's Mark Supple with some one on his
      back. What, Mark, is that you?" "No, sir&mdash;yes, sir&mdash;I mean, sir,
      it's a gentleman of our college&mdash;O dearey me, I thought it had been a
      proctor or a bull-dog&mdash;for Heaven's sake, help, sir! here's Mr.
      Transit quite senseless, <i>take notice</i>&mdash;picked him up in a
      doorway in Lincoln-lane, bleeding like a pig, <i>take notice</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      O dear, O dear, what a night this has been! We shall all be sent to the
      castle, and perhaps transported for manslaughter. For Heaven's sake, Mr.
      Echo, help! bear his head up&mdash;take hold of his feet, Mr. Blackmantle,
      and I'll go before, and ring at Dr. Tuckwell's bell, <i>take notice</i>."
      In this way poor Transit was conveyed to the surgery, where, after
      cleansing him from the blood and dirt, and the application of some
      aromatics, he soon recovered, and happily had not sustained any very
      serious injury. From old Mark we learned that Eglantine was a captive to
      the bull-dogs, and safely deposited in the castle along with Marston Will,
      who had fought nobly in his defence: of Lionise we could gain no other
      tidings than that Mark had seen him at the end of the fray climbing up to
      the first floor window of a tradesman's house in the High-street, whose
      daughter it was well known he had a little intrigue with, and where, as we
      concluded, he had found a balsam for his wounds, and shelter for the
      night. It was nearly three o'clock when I regained my lodging and found
      Mags, the waiter of the Mitre, on the look-out for me: Echo had
      accompanied me home, and in our way we had picked up a wounded man of
      University College, who had suffered severely in the contest. It was
      worthy <span class="pagenum">[258]</span>the pencil of a Hogarth to have
      depicted the appearance of the High-street after the contest, when we were
      cautiously perambulating from end to end in search of absent friends, and
      fearing at every step the approach of the proctors or their bull-dogs: the
      lamps were almost all smashed, and the burners dangling to and fro with
      the wind, the greater part extinguished, or just emitting sufficient light
      to make night horrible. On the lamp-irons might be seen what at first
      sight was most appalling, the figure of some hero of the <i>togati</i>
      dangling by the neck, but which, on nearer approach, proved to be only the
      dismembered academical of some gentleman-commoner hung up as a trophy by
      the town raff. Broken windows and shutters torn from their hinges, and
      missiles of every description covering the ground, from the terrific
      Scotch paving-pebble torn up from the roads, to the spokes of
      coach-wheels, and the oaken batons, and fragments of lanterns belonging to
      the town watch, skirts of coats, and caps, and remnants of <i>togas</i>
      both silken and worsted, bespoke the quality of the heroes of the fray;
      while here and there a poor terrified wretch was exposing his addle head
      to the mildews of the night-damp, fearing a revival of the contest, or
      anxiously watching the return of husband, brother, father, or son.{3}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     3 This picture of an Oxford row is not, as the general
     reader might imagine, the mere fiction of the novelist, but
     the true description of a contest which occurred some few
     years since; the leading features of which will be (although
     the names have been, except in one or two instances,
     studiously suppressed) easily recognised by many of the
     present sons of Alma Mater who shared in the perils and
     glory of the battle. To those who are strangers to the
     sacred city, and these casual effervescences of juvenile
     spirit, the admirable graphic view of the scene by my friend
     Bob Transit (see plate) will convey a very correct idea.

     To the credit of the more respectable and wealthy class of
     Oxford citizens it should be told, they are now too sensible
     of their own interest, and, besides, too well-informed to
     mix with these civil disturbances; the lower orders,
     therefore, finding themselves unequal to the contest without
     their support, submit to the <i>togati</i>; and thus the civil
     wars that have raged in Oxford with very little interruption
     from the days of Alfred seem for the present extinguished.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[259]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      On our arrival at the Mitre, poor Mrs. Peake, half frightened to death,
      was up and busy in administering to the sufferers various consolatory
      draughts composed of bishop, and flesh and blood{4} and <i>rumbooze</i>;
      while the chambermaids, and Peake, and the waiters were flying about the
      house with warm water, and basins, and towels, to the relief of the
      numerous applicants, who all seemed anxious to wash away the dirty
      remembrances of the disgusting scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hitherto I had been so busily engaged in defending myself and preserving
      my friends, that I had not a moment for reflection. It has been well
      observed, that "place an Englishman in the field of battle, no matter what
      his political feelings, he will fight like a lion, by instinct, or the
      mere force of example;" so with the narrator of this contest. I had not,
      up to this time, the least knowledge of the original cause of the row. I
      have naturally an aversion to pugilistic contests and tumultuous sports,
      and yet I found by certain bruises, and bumps, and stains of blood, and
      stiffness of joints, and exhaustion, and the loss of my upper garment,
      which I had then only just discovered, that I must have borne a <i>pretty
      considerable</i>{5} part in the contest, and carried away no small share
      of victorious laurels, since I had escaped without any very visible
      demonstration of my adversaries' prowess; but for this I must acknowledge
      myself indebted to my late private tutor the Eton cad, Joe Cannon, whose
      fancy lectures on noseology, and the science of the milling system, had
      enabled me to
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     4 Brandy and port wine, half and half.

     5  An Oxford phrase.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[260]</span>defend my bread-basket, cover up my
      peepers, and keep my nob out of chancery{6}: a merit that all
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     6 The use of a peculiar cant phraseology for different
     classes, it would appear, originated with the Argoliers, a
     species of French beggars or monkish impostors, who were
     notorious for every thing that was bad and infamous: these
     people assumed the form of a regular government, elected a
     king, established a fixed code of laws, and invented a
     language peculiar to themselves, constructed probably by
     some of the debauched and licentious youths, who, abandoning
     their scholastic studies, associated with these vagabonds.
     In the poetical life of the French robber Cartouche, a
     humorous account is given of the origin of the word <i>Argot</i>;
     and the same author has also compiled a dictionary of the
     language then in use by these people, which is annexed to
     the work. Hannan, in his very singular work, published in
     1566, entitled "A Caveat, or Warning for Common Cursitors
     (runners), vulgarly called Vagabones," has described a
     number of the words then in use, among what he humorously
     calls the "lued lousey language of these lewtering beskes
     and lasy lovrels." And it will be remembered that at that
     time many of the students of our universities were among
     these cursitors, as we find by an old statute of the xxii of
     Hen. VIII.; "that scholars at the universities begging
     without licence, were to be punished like common cursi-
     tors." The vagabonds of Spain are equally celebrated for
     their use of a peculiar slang or cant, as will be seen on
     reference to a very curious work of Rafael Frianoro,
     entitled" <i>Il Vagabondo, overo sferzo de bianti e
     Vagabondi</i>." <i>Viterbo</i>, 1620, 12mo. As also in those
     excellent novels, "Lazarillo do Tormes," and "Guzman de
     Alfarache." The <i>Romany</i> or gipsies' dialect is given with
     the history of that singular people by Mr. Grellman; an
     English translation of which was published in 1787, by
     Roper, in quarto: from those works, Grose principally
     compiled his "Lexicon Ballatronicum." In the present day we
     have many professors of slang, and in more ways than one,
     too many of cant; the greater part of whom are dull
     impostors, who rather invent strange terms to astonish the
     vulgar than adhere to the peculiar phrases of the persons
     they attempt to describe. It has long been matter of regret
     with the better order of English sporting men, that the
     pugilistic contests and turf events of the day are not
     written in plain English, "which all those who run might
     read," instead of being rendered almost unintelligible by
     being narrated in the language of beggars, thieves, and
     pickpockets&mdash;a jargon as free from true wit as it is full of
     obscenity.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[261]</span>Keate's{7} learning would not have
      compensated for under the peculiar circumstances in which I was placed.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was now that the mischief was done, and many a sound head was cracked,
      and many a courageous heart was smarting 'neath their wounds in the gloomy
      dungeons of the castle, or waiting in their rooms the probing instrument
      and plasters of Messrs. Wall, or Kidd, or Bourne, that a few of us, who
      had escaped tolerably well, and were seated round a bowl of bishop in the
      snug <i>sanctum sanctorum</i> of the Mitre, began to inquire of each other
      the origin of the fray. After a variety of conjectures and vague reports,
      each at variance with the other, and evidently deficient in the most
      remote connexion with the true cause of the strife, it was agreed to
      submit the question to the waiter, as a neutral observer, who assured us
      that the whole affair arose out of a trifling circumstance, originating
      with some mischievous boys, who, having watched two gownsmen into a
      cyprian temple in the neighbourhood of Saint Thomas, circulated a false
      report that they had carried thither the wives of two respectable
      mechanics. Without taking the trouble to inquire into the truth or
      falsehood of the accusation, the door was immediately beset; the old cry
      of Town and Gown vociferated in every direction; and the unfortunate
      wights compelled to seek their safety by an ignominious flight through a
      back door and over the meadows. The tumult once raised, it was not to be
      appeased without some victim, and for this purpose they thought proper to
      attack a party of the <i>togati</i>, who were returning home from a little
      private sport with a well-known fancy lecturer: the opportunity was a good
      one to show-off, a regular fight commenced, and the raff were floored in
      every direction, until their numbers increasing beyond all
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     7 The highly respected and learned head-master of Eton
     College.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[262]</span> comparison, the university men were
      compelled to raise the cry of Gown, and fly for succour and defence to the
      High-street: in this way had a few mischievous boys contrived to embroil
      the town and university in one of the most severe intestine struggles ever
      remembered.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0008" id="Bimage-0008">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page262.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page262 " />
    </div>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <i>A true chronicle of ye bloodie fighte betweene the Clerkes
     of and Scholairs of Oxenforde, and the Townsmen of the
     Citie, who were crowdinge rounde the Easterne Gaite to see
     the Kinge enter in his progresse wostwarde.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[263]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      Sir Gierke of Oxenforde, prepare Your robis riche, and noble cheere. Ye
      kinge with alle his courtlie trane Is spurring on your plaice to gane. And
      heere ye trumpet's merrie note, His neare approache proclaims, I wote; Ye
      doctors, proctors, scholairs, go, And fore youre sovereigne bend ye lowe.
      Now comes the kinge in grande arraie; And the scholairs presse alonge the
      waye, Till ye Easterne gaite was thronged so rounde, That passage coulde
      no where be founde. Then the sheriffe's men their upraised speares Did
      plye about the people's eares. And woe the day; the rabble route Their
      speares did breake like glasse aboute. Then the doctors, proctors, for the
      kinge, Most lustilie for roome did singe; But thoughe theye bawled out
      amaine, No passage throughe the crowde coulde gane. Ye Northern gownsmen,
      a bold race, Now swore they'd quicklie free the plaice; With stalwart
      gripe, and beadle's staffe Theye clefte the townsmen's sculls in half.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[264]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      And now the wrathful rabble rave, And quick returne withe club and stave;
      And heades righte learn'd in classic lore Felt as they'd never felt
      before. Now fierce and bloody growes the fraye: In vaine the mayore and
      sheriffe praye For peace&mdash;to cool the townsmens' ire, Intreatie but
      impelles the fire. Downe with the Towne! the scholairs cry; Downe with the
      Gowne! the towne reply. Loud rattle the caps of the clerkes in aire, And
      the citizens many a sortie beare; And many a churchman fought his waye,
      Like a heroe in the bloodie fraye. And one right portlie father slewe Of
      rabble townsmen not a fewe. And now 'mid the battle's strife and din There
      came to the Easterne gate, The heralde of our lorde the kinge, With his
      merrie men all in state. "God help us!" quoth the courtlie childe, "What
      means this noise within? With joye the people have run wilde." And so he
      peeped him in, And throughe the wicker-gate he spied, And marvelled much
      thereat, The streets withe crimson current dyed, And Towne and Gowne laide
      flat. Then he called his merrie men aloud, To bringe him a ladder
      straighte; The trumpet sounds&mdash;the warlike crowde In a moment forget
      theire hate. Up rise the wounded, down theire arms Both Towne and Gowne do
      lie; The kinge's approache ye people charmes, And alle looke merrilie. For
      howe'er Towne and Gowne may fighte, Yet bothe are true to ye kinge. So on
      bothe may learning and honour lighte, Let all men gailie singe.{1}
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[265]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 The above imitation of the style of the ancient ballad is
     founded on traditional circumstances said to have occurred
     when the pacific king James visited Oxford.&mdash;<i>Bernard
     Blackmantle</i>.

     <i>Intestine broils and civil wars of Oxford</i>.&mdash;Anthony Wood,
     the faithful historian of Oxford, gives an account of a
     quarrel between the partisans of St. Guinbald and the
     residents of Oxford, in the days of Alfred, on his
     refounding the university, A.D. 886. After his death the
     continual inroads of the Danes kept the Oxonians in
     perpetual alarm, and in the year 979 they destroyed the town
     by fire, and repeated their outrage upon the new built town
     in 1002. Seven years after, Swein, the Danish leader, was
     repulsed by the inhabitants in a similar attempt, who took
     vengeance on their im-placable enemy by a general massacre
     on the feast of St. Brice. In the civil commotions under the
     Saxon prince, Oxford had again its full share of the evils
     of war. After the death of Harold, William the Conqueror was
     bravely opposed by the citizens in his attempt to enter
     Oxford, which effecting by force, he was so much exas-
     perated at their attachment to Harold, that he bestowed the
     government of the town on Robert de Oilgo, a Norman, with
     permission to build a castle to keep his Oxford subjects in
     awe. The disturbances during the reign of Stephen and his
     successor were frequent, and in the reign of John, A. D.
     1209, an unfortunate occurrence threatened the entire
     destruction of Oxford as a seat of learning. A student,
     engaged in thoughtless diversion, killed a woman, and fled
     from justice. A band of citizens, with the mayor at their
     head, surrounded the hall to which he belonged, and demanded
     the offender; on being informed of his absence, the lawless
     multitude seized three of the students, who were entirely
     unconnected with the transaction, and ob-tained an order
     from the weak king (whose dislike to the clergy is known),
     to put the innocent persons to death&mdash;an order which was but
     too promptly obeyed. The scholars, justly en-raged by this
     treatment, quitted Oxford, some to Cambridge and Reading,
     and others to Maidstone, in Kent. The offended students also
     applied to the Pope, who laid the city under an interdict
     and discharged all professors from teaching in it. This step
     completely humbled the citizens, who sent a deputation of
     the most respectable to wait on the Pope's legate (then at
     Westminster) to acknowledge their rashness and request
     mercy; the legate (Nicholas, Bishop of Tusculum, ) granted
     their petition only on the most humiliating terms. The mayor
     and corporation were en-joined, by way of penance, to
     proceed annually, on the day dedicated to St. Nicholas, to
     all the parish churches bare-headed, with hempen halters
     round their necks, and whips in their hands, on their bare
     feet, and in their' shirts, and there pray the benefit of
     absolution from the priests, repeating the penitential
     psalms, and to pay a mark of silver per annum to the
     students of the hall peculiarly injured; in addition to
     which they were, on the recurrence of the same day, to
     entertain one hundred poor scholars "<i>honestis
     refectionibus</i>," the abbot of Evesham yearly paying sixteen
     shillings towards the festival expense A part of this
     ceremony, but without the degrading marks of it, is
     continued to this day. Henry III. occasionally resided at
     Oxford, and held there many parliaments and councils: in the
     reign of this king the university flourished to an
     unexampled degree, the number of students being estimated at
     fifteen thousand. Its popularity was about this time also
     greatly increased from the circumstance of not less than one
     thousand students quitting the learned institutions of
     Paris, and repairing to Oxford for instruction; but these
     foreigners introduced so dangerous a levity of manners, that
     the Pope deemed it necessary to send his legate for the
     purpose of reforming " certain flagrant corruptions of the
     place." The legate was at first treated with much affected
     civility, but an occasion for quarrel being soon found, he
     would, in all probability, have been sacrificed upon the
     spot, had he not hidden himself in a belfry from the fury of
     the assailants. This tumult was, by the exercise of some
     strong measures, speedily appeased; but the number of
     students was at this period infinitely too great to preserve
     due subordination. They divided themselves into parties,
     among which the north and south countrymen were the most
     violent, and their quarrels harassing and perpetual.
     According to the rude temper of the age, these disputes were
     not settled by argument, but by dint of blows; and the peace
     of the city was in this way so often endangered, that the
     king thought it expedient to add to the civil power two
     aldermen and eight burgesses assistant, together with two
     bailiffs. From petty and intestine broils, the students
     appear to have acquired a disposition for political inter-
     ference. When Prince Edward, returning from Paris, marched
     with an army towards Wales, coming to Oxford he was by the
     burghers refused admittance, "on occasion of the tumults now
     prevailing among the barons:" he quartered his soldiers in
     the adjacent villages, and "lodged himself that night in the
     royal palace of Magdalen," the next morning proceeding on
     his intended journey; but the scholars, who were shut in the
     town, being desirous to salute a prince whom they loved so
     much, first assembled round <i>Smith-gate</i>, and demanded to be
     let into the fields, which being refused by one of the
     bailiffs, they returned to their hostels for arms and broke
     open the gate, whereupon the mayor arrested many of them,
     and, on the chancellor's request, was so far from releasing
     them that he ordered the citizens to bring out their banners
     and display them in the midst of the street; and then
     embattling them, commanded a sudden onset on the rest of the
     scholars remaining in the town; and much blood-shed had been
     committed had not a scholar, by the sound of the school-bell
     in Saint Mary's church, given notice of the danger that
     threatened the students, then at dinner. On this alarm they
     straightways armed and went out, and in a tremendous
     conflict subdued and put the townsmen to flight. In
     consequence of this tumult, the king required the scholars
     to retire from the city during the time of holding his
     parliament; the chief part of the students accordingly
     repaired to Northampton, where, shortly after the insurgent
     barons had fortified themselves, on the king's laying siege
     to the place, the scholars, offended by their late removal,
     joined with the nobility, and repaired to arms under their
     own standard, behaving in the fight with conspicuous
     gallantry, and greatly increasing the wrath of the king;
     who, however, on the place being subdued, was restrained
     from pur-suing them to extremities, from prudential motives.
     As the kingdom became more settled, the disturbances were
     less frequent, and within the last century assumed the
     character of sportive rows rather than malicious feuds. On a
     recent lamentable occasion (now happily forgotten) the
     political feelings of the Gown and Town in some measure
     revived the spirit of the "olden time;" but since then Peace
     has waved her olive-branch over the city of Oxford, and
     perfect harmony, let us hope, will exist between Town and
     Gown for evermore.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[266]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      The veil of night was more than half drawn, ere the youthful inmates of
      the Mitre retired to rest; and many of the party were compelled to put up
      with sorry accommodation, such was the influx of <span class="pagenum">[267]</span>gownsmen
      who, shut out of lodging and college, had sought this refuge to wait the
      approaching morn;&mdash;a morn big with the fate of many a scholastic woe&mdash;of
      lectures and reprovals from tutors, and fines and impositions and
      denunciations from principals, of proctorial reports to the
      vice-chancellor, and examinations before the <i>big wigs</i>, and
      sentences of expulsion <span class="pagenum">[268]</span>and rustication:
      coming evils which, by anticipation, kept many a man awake upon his
      pillow, spite of the perilous fatigue which weighed so heavy upon the
      exhausted frame. The freshman had little to fear: he could plead his
      ignorance of college rules, or escape notice altogether, from not having
      yet domiciled within the walls of a college. Although I had little to
      expect from the apprehension of any of these troubles, as my person was,
      from my short residence, most likely unknown to any of the authorities&mdash;yet
      did Morpheus refuse his soporific balsam to the mind&mdash;I could not
      help thinking of my young and giddy companions, of the kind-hearted
      Eglantine, immured within the walls of a dungeon; of the noble-spirited
      Echo, maltreated and disfigured by the temporary loss of an eye; of the
      facetious Bob Transit, so bruised and exhausted, that a long illness might
      be expected; and, lastly, of our Eton sextile, the incomparable exquisite
      Lionise, who, if discovered in his dangerous frolic, would, perhaps, have
      to leap out of a first floor window at the risk of his neck, sustain an
      action for damages, and his expulsion from college at the same time.
      Little Dick Gradus, with his usual cunning, had shirked us at the
      commencement of hostilities; and the Honourable Mr. Sparkle had been
      carried home to his lodging, early in the fray, more overcome by hard
      drinking than hard fighting, and there safely put to bed by the
      indefatigable Mark Supple, to whose friendly zeal and more effective arm
      we were all much indebted. In this reflective mood, I had watched the
      retiring shadows of the night gradually disperse before the gray-eyed
      morn, and had just caught a glimpse of the golden streaks which illumine
      the face of day, when my o'er-wearied spirit sank to rest.
    </p>
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    <p>
      A little before seven o'clock I was awoke by Echo, who came into my room
      to borrow some clean linen, to enable him to attend chapel prayers at
      Christ Church. Judge my surprise when I perceived my one-eyed <span
      class="pagenum">[269]</span>warrior completely restored to his full sight,
      and not the least appearance of any participation in the affair of the
      previous night. "What? you can't comprehend how I managed my black optic?
      hey, old fellow," said Echo; "you shall hear: knocked up Transit, and made
      him send for his colours, and paint it over&mdash;looks quite natural,
      don't it?&mdash;defy the big wigs to find it out&mdash;and if I can but
      make all right by a sop to the old Cerberus at the gate, and <i>queer</i>
      the <i>prick bills</i> at chapel prayers, I hope to escape the <i>quick-sands
      of rustication</i>, and pass safely through the <i>creek of proctorial
      jeopardy</i>. If you're fond of fun, old fellow, jump up and view the
      Christ Church men proceeding to <i>black matins</i> this morning. After
      the Roysten hunt yesterday&mdash;the dinner at the Black Bear at Woodstock&mdash;and
      the <i>Town and Gown row</i> of last night, there will be a motley
      procession this morning, I'll bet a hundred." The opportunity was a rare
      one to view the effect of late drinking upon early risers (see Plate);
      slipping on my academicals, therefore, I accompanied my friend Tom to
      morning prayers,&mdash;a circumstance, as I have since been informed,
      which would have involved me in very serious disgrace, had the appearance
      of an <i>ex college</i> man at vespers attracted the notice of any of the
      big wigs. Fortunately, however, I escaped the prying eyes of authority,
      which, on these occasions, are sometimes as much under the dominion of
      Morpheus&mdash;and literally walk in their sleep from custom&mdash;as the
      young and inexperienced betray the influence of some more seductive charm.
      The very bell that called the drowsy student from his bed seemed to rise
      and fall in accordant sympathy with the lethargic humour that prevailed,
      tolling in slow and half-sounding notes scarcely audible beyond the
      college gates. The broken light, that shed its misty hue through the
      monastic aisle of painted windows and clustered columns, gave an increased
      appearance of drowsiness to the scene; while the chilling air of the <span
      class="pagenum">[270]</span>morning nipped the young and dissolute, as it
      fell in hazy dews upon the bare-headed sons of <i>alma mater</i>, within
      many of whose bosoms the fires of the previous night's debauch were but
      scarce extinguished. Then came the lazy unwashed <i>scout</i>, crawling
      along the quadrangle, rubbing his heavy eyes, and cursing his hard fate to
      be thus compelled to give early notice to some slumbering student of the
      hour of seven, waking him from dreams of bliss, by thundering at his <i>oak</i>
      the summons to <i>black matins</i>. Now crept the youthful band along the
      avenue, and one by one the drowsy congregation stole through the Gothic
      ante-chamber that leads to Christ Church chapel, like unwilling victims to
      some pious sacrifice. Here a lengthened yawn proclaimed the want of rest,
      and near a tremulous step and heavy half-closed eye was observed, pacing
      across the marble floor, with hand pressed to his <i>os frontis</i>, as if
      a thousand odd and sickly fantasies inhabited that chamber of the muses.
      Now two friends might be seen, supporting a third, whose ghastly aspect
      bespoke him fresh in the sacred mysteries of college parties and of
      Bacchus; but who had, nevertheless, undergone a tolerable seasoning on the
      previous night. There a jolly Nimrod, who had just cleared the college
      walls, and reached his rooms time enough to cover his hunting frock and
      boots with his academicals, was seen racing along, to 'scape the <i>prick
      bill's</i> report, with his round hunting cap in his hand, in lieu of the
      square tufted trencher of the schools. Night-caps thrown off in the entry&mdash;shoes
      and stockings tied in the aisle&mdash;a red slipper and the black jockey
      boot decorating one pair of legs was no uncommon sight; while on every
      side rushed forward the anxious group with gowns on one arm, or trailing
      after them, or loosely thrown around the shoulders to escape tribulation,
      with here and there a sentimental-looking personage of portly habit and
      solemn gait moving slowly on, filled up the motley picture. The prayers
      were, indeed, brief, and <span class="pagenum">[271]</span>hurried through
      with a rapidity that, I dare say, is never complained of by the <i>togati</i>;
      but is certainly little calculated to impress the youthful mind with any
      serious respect for these relics of monkish custom, which, after all, must
      be considered more in the light of a punishment for those who are
      compelled to attend than any necessary or instructive service connected
      with the true interests of orthodoxy. In a quarter of an hour the whole
      group had dispersed to their respective rooms, and within the five minutes
      next ensuing, I should suppose, the greater part were again comfortably
      deposited beneath their bedclothes, snoozing away the time till ten or
      twelve, to make up for these inroads on the slumbers of the previous
      night. A few hours spent in my friend's rooms, lolling on the sofa, while
      the scout prepared breakfast, and Tom decorated his person, brought the
      awful hour of the morning, when all who had taken any very conspicuous
      share in the events of the previous night were likely to hear of their
      misdoings, and receive a summons to appear before the vice-chancellor in
      the Divinity school, better known by the name of <i>Golgotha</i>, or the
      place of skulls, (see Plate); where, on this occasion, he was expected to
      meet the big wigs, to confer on some important measures necessary for the
      future peace and welfare of the university. The usual time had elapsed for
      these unpleasant visitations, and Echo was chuckling finely at his
      dexterity in evading the eye of authority, nor was I a little pleased to
      have escaped myself, when a single rap at the oak, not unlike the hard
      determined thump of an inflexible dun, in one moment revived all our worst
      apprehensions, and, unfortunately, with too much reason for the alarm. The
      proctors had marked poor Tom, and traced him out, and this visit was from
      one of their bull-dogs, bringing a summons for Echo to attend before the
      vice-chancellor and dignitaries. "What's to be done, old fellow?" said
      Echo; "I shall be <span class="pagenum">[272]</span>expelled to a
      certainty&mdash;and, if I don't strike my own name off the books at the
      buttery hatch, shall be prevented making a retreat to Cam roads.&mdash;You're
      out of the scrape, that's clear, and that affords me some hope; for as you
      are fresh, your word will pass for something in extenuation, or arrest of
      judgment." After some little time spent in anticipating the charges likely
      to be brought against him, and arranging the best mode of defence, it was
      agreed that Echo should proceed forthwith to <i>Golgotha</i>, and there,
      with undaunted front, meet his accusers; while I was to proceed to Transit
      and Lionise, and having instructed them in the story we had planned, meet
      him at the <i>place of skulls</i>, fully prepared to establish, by the
      most incontrovertible and consistent evidence, that we were not the
      aggressors in the row. A little persuasion was necessary to convince both
      our friends that their presence would be essential to Echo's acquittal;
      they had too many just qualms, and fears, and prejudices of this
      inquisitorial court not to dread perhaps detection, and a severe reprimand
      themselves: having, however, succeeded in this point, we all three
      compared notes, and proceeded to where the vice-chancellor and certain
      heads of houses sat in solemn judgment on the trembling <i>togati</i>.
      Echo was already under examination; one of the <i>bull-dogs</i> had sworn
      particularly to Tom's being a most active leader in the fray of the
      previous night; and having, in the contest, suffered a complete
      disorganization of his lower jaw, with the total loss of sundry of his <i>front
      rails</i>, he took this opportunity of affixing the honour of the deed to
      my unlucky friend, expecting, no doubt, a very handsome recompense would
      be awarded him by the court. Expostulation was in vain: Transit, Lionise,
      and myself were successively called in and examined very minutely, and
      although we all agreed to a letter in our story, and made a very clever
      <span class="pagenum">[273]</span>defence of the culprit, we yet had the
      mortification to hear from little Dodd, who kept the door, and who is
      always best pleased when he can convey unpleasant tidings to the Gown,
      that Echo had received sentence of rustication for the remainder of the
      term; and that Eglantine, in consideration of the imprisonment he had
      already undergone, and some favourable circumstances in his case, was let
      off with a fine and imposition.
    </p>
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    <p>
      Thus ended the row of the <i>Town and Gown</i>, as far as our party was
      personally concerned; but many of the members of the different colleges
      were equally unfortunate in meeting the heavy censures and judgments of
      authority. I have just taken possession of my <i>hospitium</i>, and set
      down with a determination <i>to fagg</i>; do, therefore, keep your
      promise, and enliven the dull routine of college studies with some account
      of the world at Brighton.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bernard Blackmantle.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          On what dread perils doth the youth adventure,
          Who dares within the Fellows' Bog to enter.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      THE STAGE COACH,
    </h2>
    <h3>
      OR THE TRIP TO BRIGHTON.
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <i>Improvements in Travelling&mdash;Contrast of ancient and modern
     Conveyances and Coachmen&mdash;Project for a new Land Steam
     Carriage&mdash;The Inn-yard at the Golden Cross, Charing Cross&mdash;
     Mistakes of Pas-sengers&mdash;Variety of Characters&mdash;Advantages
     of the Box-seat&mdash;Obstructions on the Road&mdash;A Pull-up at the
     Elephant and Castle&mdash;Move on to Kensington Common&mdash;Hew
     Churches&mdash;Civic Villas at Brixton&mdash;Modern Taste in
     Architecture described-Arrival at Croydon; why not now the
     King's Road?&mdash;The Joliffe Hounds&mdash;A Hunting Leader&mdash;
     Anecdotes of the Horse, by Coachee&mdash;The new Tunnel at
     Reigate&mdash;The Baron's Chamber&mdash;The Golden Ball&mdash;the Silver
     Ball&mdash;and the Golden Calf&mdash;Entrance into Brighton.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[275]</span> That every age is an improved edition
      of the former I am not (recollecting the splendid relics of antiquity)
      prepared to admit; but that the present is particularly distinguished for
      discoveries in science, and vast improvements in mechanical arts, every
      accurate observer must allow: the <i>prodigious</i> inventions of late
      years cannot fail in due time of producing that perfectibility, the great
      consummation denominated the Millennium. Of all other improvements,
      perhaps the most conspicuous are in the powers of motion as connected with
      the mode and means of travelling. With what astonishment, were it possible
      to reanimate the clay-cold relics, would our ancestors survey the
      accelerated perfection to which coaching is brought in the present day!
      The journey from London to Brighton, for instance, was, half-a-century
      since, completed at great risk in twenty-four hours, over a rough road
      that threatened destruction at every turn; and required the most laborious
      exertion to reach the summit of precipices that are now, like a ruined
      spendthrift, cut through and through: the declivities too have
      disappeared, and from its level face, the whole country would appear to
      have undergone another revolutionary change, even to the horses, harness,
      and the driver of the vehicle. In such a country as this, where a
      disposition to activity and a rambling propensity to seek their fortunes
      forms one of the most distinguishing characteristics, it was to be
      expected that travelling would be brought to great perfection; but the
      most sanguine in this particular could never have anticipated the rapidity
      with which we are now whirled from one end of the kingdom to the other;
      fifty-two miles in five hours and a quarter, five changes of horses, and
      the same coachman to whisk you back again to supper over the same ground,
      and within the limits of the same day. No <i>ruts or quarterings</i> now&mdash;all
      level as a bowling-green&mdash;half-bred blood cattle&mdash;bright brass
      harness&mdash;<i>minute and a half time</i> to change&mdash;and a
      well-bred gentlemanly fellow for a coachman, who amuses you <span
      class="pagenum">[276]</span>with a volume of anecdotes, if you are
      fortunate enough to secure the box-seat, or touches his hat with the <i>congee</i>
      of a courtier, as he pockets your tributary shilling at parting. No
      necessity either for settling your worldly affairs, or taking an
      affectionate farewell of a long string of relations before starting;
      travelling being now brought to a security unparalleled, and letters
      patent having passed the great seal of England to ensure, by means of <i>safety
      coaches</i>, the lives of her rambling subjects. There requires but one
      other invention to render the whole perfect, and that, if we may believe
      the newspapers, is very near completion&mdash;a coach to go without
      horses: to this I beg leave to propose, the steam apparatus might be made
      applicable to all the purposes of a portable kitchen. The coachman,
      instead of being a good judge of horse-flesh, to be selected from a first
      rate London tavern for his proficiency in cooking, a known prime hand at
      decomposing a turtle; instead of a book of roads, in the inside pocket
      should be placed a copy of Mrs. Glasse on Cookery, or Dr. Kitchener on
      Culinaries; where the fore-boot now is might be constructed a glazed
      larder, filled with all the good things in season: then too the
      accommodation to invalids, the back seat of the coach, might be made
      applicable to all the purposes of a shampooing or vapour bath&mdash;no
      occasion for Molineux or his black rival Mahomed; book your patients
      inside back seat in London, wrap them up in blankets, and give directions
      to the cook to keep up a good steam thermometer during the journey, 120°,
      and you may deliver them safe at Brighton, properly hashed and reduced for
      any further medical experiments. (See Engraving, p. 274.) The
      accommodation to fat citizens, and western <i>gourmands</i>, would be
      excellent, the very height of luxury and refinement&mdash;inhaling the
      salubrious breeze one moment, and gurgling down the glutinous calipash the
      next; no <span class="pagenum">[277]</span>exactions of impudent waiters,
      or imposing landlords, or complaints of dying from hunger, or choking from
      the want of time to masticate; but every wish gratified and every sense
      employed. Then how jovial and pleasant it would appear to see perched up
      in front a John Bull-looking fellow in a snow-white jacket, with a
      night-cap and apron of the same, a carving-knife in a case by his side,
      and a poker in his hand to stir up the steam-furnace, or singe a
      highwayman's wig, should any one attack the coach; this indeed would be an
      improvement worthy of the age, and call forth the warmest and most
      grateful tributes of applause from all ranks in society. For myself, I
      have always endeavoured to read "men more than books," and have ever found
      an endless diversity of character, a never-failing source of study and
      amusement in a trip to a watering-place: perched on the top in summer, or
      pinched inside in winter of a stage-coach, here, at leisure and unknown, I
      can watch the varied groups of all nations as they roam about for profit
      or for pleasure, and note their varieties as they pass away like the
      retiring landscape, never perhaps to meet the eye again.
    </p>
    <p>
      The excursion to Brighton was no sooner finally arranged, than declining
      the proffered seat in D'Almaine's travelling carriage, I packed up my
      portmanteau, and gave directions to my servant to book me outside at the
      Golden Cross, by the seven o'clock morning coach, for Brighton; taking
      care to secure the box-seat, by the payment of an extra shilling to the
      porter.
    </p>
    <p>
      An inn-yard, particularly such a well-frequented one as the Golden Cross,
      Charing Cross, affords the greatest variety of character and entertainment
      to a humorist. Vehicles to all parts of the kingdom, and from the
      inscription on the Dover coaches, I might add to all parts of the world,
      <i>via Paris</i>. "Does that coach go the whole way to France?" said an
      <span class="pagenum">[278]</span>unsuspecting little piece of female
      simplicity to me, as I stood lolling on the steps at the coach-office
      door. "Certainly," replied I, unthinkingly. "O, then I suppose," said the
      speaker, "they have finished the projected chain-pier from Dover to
      Calais." "France and England united? nothing more impossible," quoth I,
      correcting the impression I had unintentionally created. "Are you going by
      the Brighton, mam?" "Yes, I be." "Can't <i>take</i> all that luggage."
      "Then you sha'n't _take_ me." "Don't wish to be __taken for a waggon-man."
      "No, but by Jasus, friend, you are a wag-on-her," said a merry-faced
      Hibernian, standing by. "Have you paid down the <i>dust</i>, mam?"
      inquired the last speaker. "I have paid for my place, sir," said the lady;
      "and I shall lose two, if I don't go." "Then by the powers, cookey, you
      had better pay for one and a half, and that will include luggage, and then
      you'll be a half gainer by the bargain." "What a cursed narrow hole this
      is for a decent-sized man to cram himself in at?" muttered an enormous
      bulky citizen, sticking half-way in the coach-door, and panting for breath
      from the violence of his exertions to drag his hind-quarters after him.
      "Take these hampers on the top, Jack," said the porter below to the man
      loading the coach, and quietly rested the baskets across the projecting <i>ultimatum</i>
      of the fat citizen (to the no little amusement of the bystanders), who
      through his legs vociferated, "I'll indict you, fellows; I'll be&mdash;&mdash;if
      I don't, under Dick Martin's act." "It must be then, my jewel," said the
      waggish Hibernian, "for overloading a mule." "Do we take <i>the whole</i>
      of you to-day, sir?" said coachee, assisting to push him in. "What do you
      mean by <i>the whole</i>? I am only one man." "A master tailor," said
      coachee, aside, "he must be then, with the <i>pickings</i> of nine poor
      journeymen in his paunch." "Ish tere any room outshide te coach?" bawled
      out a black-headed little Israelite; "ve shall be all shmotered vithin,
      <span class="pagenum">[279]</span>tish hot day; here are too peepels
      inshite, vat each might fill a coach by temselves." "All right&mdash;all
      right; take care of your heads, gemmen, going under the gateway; give the
      bearing rein of the near leader one twist more, and pole up the off
      wheeler a link or two. All right, Tom&mdash;all right&mdash;stand away
      from the horses' heads, there&mdash;ehewt, fee'e't!"&mdash;smack goes the
      whip, and away goes the Brighton Times like a Congreve rocket, filled with
      all manner of combustibles.
    </p>
    <p>
      The box-seat has one considerable advantage&mdash;it exempts you from the
      inquisitive and oftentimes impertinent conversation of a mixed group of
      stage-coach passengers; in addition to which, if you are fond of driving,
      a foible of mine, I confess, it affords an opportunity for an extra lesson
      on the noble art of <i>handling the ribbons</i>, and at the same time puts
      you in possession of all the topographical, descriptive, and anecdotal
      matter relative to the resident gentry and the road.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first two miles from the place of starting is generally occupied in
      clearing obstructions on the road, taking up old maids at their own
      houses, with pug-dogs, pattens, and parrots, or pert young misses at their
      papas' shop-doors; whose mammas take this opportunity of delaying a
      coach-load of people to display their maternal tenderness at parting,
      while the junior branches of the family hover round the vehicle, and
      assail your ears with lisping out their eternal "good b'yes," and the old
      hairless head of the family is seen slyly <i>tipping</i> coachee an extra
      shilling to take care of his darling girl. The Elephant and Castle
      produces another <i>pull-up</i>, and here a branch-coach brings a load of
      lumber from the city, which, while the porter is stowing away, gives time
      to exhibit the <i>lions</i> who are leaving London in every direction.
      King's Bench rulers with needy habiliments, and lingering looks, sighing
      for term-time and <span class="pagenum">[280]</span>a <i>horse</i>,{1} on
      one side the road, and Jews, newsmen, and <i>touters</i>, on the other;
      who nearly <i>give away</i> their goods, if you believe them, for the good
      of the nation, or force you into a coach travelling in direct opposition
      to the road for which you have been booked, and in which your luggage may
      by such mischance happily precede you at least half a day. At length all
      again is declared right, the supervisor delivers his <i>way-bill</i>, and
      forward moves the coach, at a somewhat brisker pace, to Kennington Common.
      I shall not detain my readers here with a long dull account of the
      unfortunate rebels who suffered on this spot in 1745; but rather direct
      their attention to a neat Protestant church, which has recently been
      erected on the space between the two roads leading to Croydon and Sutton,
      the portico of which is in fine architectural taste, and the whole
      building a very great accommodation and distinguished ornament to the
      neighbourhood. About half a mile farther, on the rise of Brixton hill, is
      another newly erected church, the portico in the style of a Greek temple,
      and in an equally commanding situation: from this to Croydon, ten miles,
      you have a tolerable specimen of civic taste in rural architecture.
    </p>
    <p>
      On both sides of the road may be seen a variety of incongruous edifices,
      called villas and cottage <i>ornées</i>, peeping up in all the pride of a
      retired linen-draper, or the consequential authority of a man in office,
      in as many varied styles of architecture as of dispositions in the
      different proprietors, and all exhibiting (in their possessors' opinion)
      claims to the purest and most refined taste.
    </p>
    <p>
      For example, the basement story is in the Chinese or Venetian style, the
      first floor in that of the florid Gothic, with tiles and a pediment <i>à-la-Nash</i>,
      at the Bank; a doorway with inclined jambs, and a hieroglyphic <i>à-la-Greek</i>:
      a gable-ended glass <i>lean to</i> on
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 A day-rule, so called.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[281]</span>one side, about big enough for a
      dog-kennel, is called a green-house, while a similar erection on the other
      affords retirement for the <i>tit</i> and tilbury; the door of which is
      always set wide open in fine weather, to display to passers-by the
      splendid equipage of the occupier. The parterre in front (green as the
      jaundiced eye of their less fortunate brother tradesmen) is enriched with
      some dozens of vermilion-coloured flower-pots mounted on a japanned
      verdigris frame, sending forth odoriferous, balmy, and enchanting gales to
      the grateful olfactory organs, from the half-withered stems of pining and
      consumptive geraniums; to complete the picture, two unique plaster casts
      of naked figures, the Apollo Belvidere and the Venus de Medici, at most a
      foot in altitude, are placed on clumsy wooden pedestals of three times
      that height before the parlour-windows, painted in a chaste flesh-colour,
      and guarded by a Whitechapel bull-cdog, who, like another Cerberus, sits
      growling at the gate to fright away the child of poverty, and insult the
      less wealthy pedestrian.
    </p>
    <p>
      Happy country! where every man can consult his own taste, and build
      according to his own fancy, amalgamating in one structure all the known
      orders and varieties, Persian, Egyptian, Athenian, and European.
    </p>
    <p>
      Croydon in 1573 contained the <i>archiepiscopal palace</i> of the
      celebrated Archbishop Parker, who, as well as his successor Whitgift, here
      had frequently the honour to entertain Queen Elizabeth and her court: the
      manor since the reign of William the Conqueror has belonged to the
      Archbishops of Canterbury. The church is a venerable structure, and the
      stately tower, embowered with woods and flanked by the Surrey hills, a
      most picturesque and commanding object; the interior contains some
      monuments of antiquity well worthy the attention of the curious. The town
      itself has little worthy of note except the hospital, <span class="pagenum">[282]</span>founded
      by Archbishop Whitgift for a warder and twenty poor men and women, decayed
      housekeepers of Croyden and Lambeth: a very comfortable and well-endowed
      retirement.
    </p>
    <p>
      "This was formerly the King's road," said coachee, "but the radicals
      having thought proper to insult his majesty on his passing through to
      Brighton during the affair of the late Queen, he has ever since gone by
      the way of Sutton: a circumstance that has at least operated to produce
      one christian virtue among the inhabitants, namely, that of humility;
      before this there was no <i>getting change</i> for a civil sentence from
      them."
    </p>
    <p>
      To Merstham seven miles, the road winds through a bleak valley called
      Smithem Bottom, till recently the favourite resort of the cockney gunners
      for rabbit-shooting; but whether from the noise of their harmless
      double-barrel <i>Nocks</i>, or the more dreadful carnage of the Croydon
      poachers, these animals are now exceedingly scarce in this neighbourhood.
      Just as we came in sight of Merstham, the distant view halloo of the
      huntsman broke upon our ears, when the near-leader rising upon his
      haunches and neighing with delight at the inspiring sound, gave us to
      understand that he had not always been used to a life of drudgery, but in
      earlier times had most likely carried some daring Nimrod to the field, and
      bounded with fiery courage o'er hedge and gate, through dell and brake,
      outstripping the fleeting wind to gain the honour of <i>the brush</i>. Ere
      we had gained the village, reynard and the whole field broke over the road
      in their scarlet frocks, and dogs and horses made a dash away for a
      steeple chase across the country, led by the worthy-hearted owner of the
      pack, the jolly fox-hunting Colonel, Hilton Jolliffe, whose residence caps
      the summit of the hill. From hence to Reigate, four miles farther, there
      was no circumstance or object of interest, if I except a very romantic
      tale coachee <span class="pagenum">[283]</span>narrated of his hunting
      leader, who had of course been bred in the stud of royalty itself, and had
      since been the property of two or three sporting peers, when, having put
      out a _spavin_, during the last hunting season, he was sold for a
      __machiner; but being since fired and turned out, he had come up all
      right, and was now, according to coachee's disinterested opinion, one of
      the best hunters in the kingdom. As I was not exactly the customer coachee
      was looking for, being at the time pretty well mounted, I thought it
      better to indulge him in the joke, particularly as any doubt on my part
      might have soured the whip, and made him sullen for the rest of the
      journey.
    </p>
    <p>
      At Reigate a trifling accident happened to one of the springs of the
      coach, which detained us half an hour, and enabled me to pay a visit to
      the celebrated sand cavern, where, it is reported, the Barons met, during
      the reign of King John, to hold their councils and draw up that great <i>palladium</i>
      of English liberty, <i>Magna Charta</i>, which was afterwards signed at
      Runnymede.
    </p>
    <p>
      There was something awful about this stupendous excavation that impressed
      me with solemn thoughtfulness; it lies about sixty feet from the surface
      of the earth, and is divided into three apartments with arched roofs, the
      farthest of which is designated the Barons' Chamber. Time flowed back upon
      my memory as I sat in the niches hewn out in the sides of the cavern, and
      meditation deep usurped my mind as I dwelt on the recollections of
      history; on the
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Majestic forms, and men of other times,
          Retired to fan the patriotic fire,
          Which, bursting forth at Runnymede,
          With rays of glory lightened all the land!"
</pre>
    <p>
      Near to the mouth of this cavern stands the remains of Holms Castle,
      celebrated in the history of the civil wars between Charles the First and
      his parliament; and on the site of an ancient monastic establishment,
      <span class="pagenum">[284]</span>near to the spot, has been erected a
      handsome modern mansion called the Priory of Holmsdale, the name of the
      valley in which the town is situate. Returning to the inn I observed the
      new tunnel, which we had previously passed under, a recent work of great
      labour and expense, which saves a considerable distance in the approach to
      the town; it has been principally effected by a wealthy innkeeper, and
      certainly adds much to the advantage and beauty of the place. Coachee had
      now made all right, and his anxious passengers were again replaced in
      their former situations to proceed on our journey. The next stage, ten
      miles, to Crawley, a picturesque place, afforded little variety, if I
      except an immense elm which stands by the side of the road as you enter,
      and has a door in front to admit the curious into its hollow trunk. Our
      next post was Cuckfield, nine miles, where I did not discover any thing
      worthy of narration; from this to Brighton, twelve miles, coachee amused
      me with some anecdotes of persons whom we passed upon the road. A handsome
      chariot, with a most divine little creature in the inside, and a
      good-looking <i>roué</i>, with huge mustachios, first attracted my notice:
      "that is the golden Ball," said coachee, "and his new wife; he often <i>rolls
      down</i> this road for a day or two&mdash;spends his cash like an emperor&mdash;and
      before he was <i>tied up</i> used to tip pretty freely for <i>handling the
      ribbons</i>, but that's all up now, for <i>Mamsell</i> Mercandotti finds
      him better amusement. A gem-man who often comes down with me says his
      father was a slopseller in Ratcliffe Highway, and afterwards marrying the
      widow of Admiral Hughes, a rich old West India nabob, he left this young
      gemman the bulk of his property, and a very worthy fellow he is: but we've
      another rich fellow that's rather notorious at Brighton, which we
      distinguish by the name of the <i>silver Ball</i>, only he's a bit of a <i>screw</i>,
      and has lately <span class="pagenum">[285]</span>got himself into a scrape
      about a pretty actress, from which circumstance they have changed his name
      to the <i>Foote Ball</i>. I suppose you guess where I am now," said
      coachee, tipping me one of his knowing winks. "Do you see that machine
      before us, a sort of cabriolet, with two horses drove in a curricle bar?
      that is another <i>swell</i> who is very fond of Brighton, a Jew gentleman
      of the name of Solomon, whom the wags have made a Christian of by the new
      appellation of the <i>golden calf</i>; but his godfathers were never more
      out in their lives, for in <i>splitting a bob</i>, it's my opinion, he'd
      bother all Bevis Marks and the Stock Exchange into the bargain." In this
      way we trotted along, gathering good air and information at every step,
      until we were in sight of Brighton Downs, a long chain of hills, which
      appear on either side; with their undulating surfaces covered with the
      sweet herb wild thyme, and diversified by the numerous flocks of
      South-down sheep grazing on their loftiest summits. After winding through
      the romantic valley of Preston, the white-fronted houses and glazed bricks
      of Brighton break upon the sight, sparkling in the sun-beams, with a
      distant glimpse of the sea, appearing, at first sight, to rise above the
      town like a blue mountain in the distance: we entered the place along what
      is called the London Road, with a view of the Pavilion before us, the
      favourite abode of royalty, shooting its minaret towers and glass dome
      upwards in the most grotesque character, not unlike the representations of
      the Kremlin at Moscow; exciting, at the first glance, among the
      passengers, the most varied and amusing sallies of witticisms and
      conjectures.&mdash;Having procured a sketch of it from this view, I shall
      leave you to contemplate, while I retire to my inn and make the necessary
      arrangements for refreshment and future habitation.
    </p>
    <p>
      By way of postscript, I enclose you a very entertaining scene I witnessed
      between D'Almaine and <span class="pagenum">[286]</span>his wife the night
      previous to my journey: they are strange creatures; but you love
      eccentrics, and may be amused with this little drama, which formed the
      motive for my visit.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horatio Heartly.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      THE PROPOSITION.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <i>Family Secrets&mdash;Female Tactics&mdash;How to carry the Point.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[287]</span>"It was ever thus, D'Almaine," said Lady
      Mary; "always hesitating between a natural liberality of disposition, and
      a cold, calculating, acquired parsimony, that has never increased our
      fortune in the sum of sixpence, or added in the slightest degree to our
      domestic comforts." "All the <i>prejudice of education</i>" said
      D'Almaine, good-humouredly; "my old uncle, the banker, to whose bounty we
      are both much indebted, my dear, early inculcated these notions of thrift
      into the brain of a certain lighthearted young gentleman, whose buoyant
      spirits sometimes led him a little beyond the <i>barrier of prudence</i>,
      and too often left him environed with difficulties in the <i>marshes of
      impediment</i>. 'Look before you leap,' was a wise saw of the old
      gentleman's; and 'be just before you're generous,' a proverb that never
      failed to accompany a temporary supply, or an additional demand upon his
      generosity."&mdash;"Hang your old uncle!" replied Lady Mary, pouting and
      trying to look ill-tempered in the face of Lord Henry's good-natured
      remonstrance,&mdash;"I never ask a favour for myself, or solicit you to
      take the recreation necessary to your own health and that of your family,
      but I am pestered with the revised musty maxims of your dead old uncle. He
      has been consigned to the earth these ten years, and <span class="pagenum">[288]</span>if
      it were not for the ten thousand per annum he left us, ought long since to
      have shared the fate of his ancestry, whose names were never heard more of
      than the tributary tablet imparts to the eye of curiosity in a country
      church, and within whose limits all inquiry ends." "Gratitude, Lady Mary,
      if not respect for my feelings, should preserve that good man's name from
      reproach." Lord Henry's eye was unusually expressive&mdash;he continued:&mdash;"The
      coronet that graces your own soul-inspiring face would lack the lustre of
      its present brilliancy, but for the generous bequest of the old city
      banker, whose <i>plum</i> was the <i>sweetest windfall</i> that ever dropt
      into the empty purse of the poor possessor of an ancient baronial title.
      The old battlements of Crackenbury have stood many a siege, 'tis true; but
      that formidable engine of modern warfare, the <i>catapulta</i> of the
      auctioneer, had, but for him, proved more destructive to its walls than
      the battering-ram and hoarse cannonades of ancient rebels."
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[288]</span>When a woman is foiled at argument, she
      generally has recourse to finesse. Lady Mary had made up her mind to carry
      her point; finding therefore the right column of her vengeance turned by
      the smart attack of D'Almaine's raillery, she was determined to out-flank
      him with her whole park of well-appointed artillery, consisting of all
      those endearing, solicitous looks and expressions, that can melt the most
      obdurate heart, and command a victory over the most experienced general.
      It was in vain that Lord Henry urged the unusual heavy expenses of the
      season in town,&mdash;the four hundred paid for the box at the opera,&mdash;or
      the seven hundred for the greys and the new barouche,&mdash;the pending
      demand from Messrs. Rundell's for the new service of plate,&mdash;and the
      splendid alterations and additions just made to the old family hall,&mdash;with
      <span class="pagenum">[289]</span>numerous other most provoking items
      which the old steward had conjured up, as if on purpose, to abridge the
      pleasures of Lady Mary's intended tour. "It was very <i>distressing</i>&mdash;she
      heartily wished there was no such thing as money in the world&mdash;it
      made people very miserable&mdash;they were a much happier couple, she
      contended, when they were merely Honourables, and lived upon a paltry two
      thousand and the expectancy&mdash;there never was any difficulty then
      about money transactions, and a proposition for a trip to a watering-place
      was always hailed with pleasure."&mdash;"True, Lady Mary; but then you
      forget we travelled in a stage coach, with your maid on the outside, while
      my man servant, with a led-horse, followed or preceded us. Then, we were
      content with lodgings on the West-cliff, and the use of a kitchen: now, we
      require a splendid establishment, must travel in our own chariot, occupy
      half a mews with our horses, and fill half a good-sized barrack with our
      servants. Then, we could live snug, accept an invitation to dinner with a
      commoner, and walk or ride about as we pleased, without being pointed at
      as <i>lions</i> or <i>raro aves</i> just broke loose from the great state
      aviary at St. James's." "We shall scarcely be discovered," said Lady Mary,
      "among the stars that surround the regal planet."&mdash;"We shall be much
      mortified then," said Lord Henry, facetiously.&mdash;"You are very
      provoking, D'Almaine. I know your turf speculations have proved fortunate
      of late: I witnessed Sir Charles paying you a large sum the other morning;
      and I have good reason for thinking you have been successful at the club,
      for I have not heard your usual morning salutation to your valet, who
      generally on the occasion of your losses receives more checks than are
      payable at your bankers. You shall advance me a portion of your winnings,
      in return for which I promise you good health, good society, and, perhaps,
      if the stars <i>shoot <span class="pagenum">[290]</span>rightly</i>, a
      good place for our second son. In these days of peace, the distaff can
      effect more than the field-marshal's baton."&mdash;"Always provided," said
      my sire (clapping his hand upon his <i>os frontis</i>), "that nothing else
      <i>shoots out</i> of such condescensions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But why has Brighton the preference as a watering place?" said Lord
      Henry: "the Isle of Wight is, in my opinion, more retired; Southampton
      more select; Tunbridge Wells more rural; and Worthing more social."&mdash;"True,
      D'Almaine; but I am not yet so old and woe-begone, so out of conceit with
      myself, or misanthropic with the world, to choose either the retired, the
      select, the rural, or the social. I love the bustle of society, enjoy the
      promenade on the Steyne, and the varied character that nightly fills the
      libraries; I read men, not books, and above all I enjoy the world of
      fashion. Where the King is, there is concentrated all that is delightful
      in society. Your retired dowagers and Opposition peers may congregate in
      rural retirement, and sigh with envy at the enchanting splendour of the
      court circle; those only who have felt its cheering influence can speak of
      its inspiring pleasures; and all who have participated in the elegant
      scene will laugh at the whispers of malignity and the innuendoes of
      disappointment, which are ever pregnant with some newly invented <i>on dit</i>
      of scandalous tendency, to libel a circle of whom they know nothing but by
      report; and that report, in nine instances out of ten, 'the weak invention
      of the enemy.'" "Bravo, Lady Mary; your spirited defence of the Pavilion
      party does honour to your heart, and displays as much good sense as honest
      feeling; but a little interest, methinks, lurks about it for all that: I
      have not forgotten the honour we received on our last visit; and you, I
      can perceive, anticipate a renewal of the same gratifying condescension;
      so give James his instructions, and let him proceed to Brighton to-morrow
      to make the necessary arrangements for our arrival."
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[291]</span>Thus ended the colloquy in the usual
      family manner, when well-bred men entertain something more than mere
      respect for their elegant and accomplished partners.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      SKETCHES AT BRIGHTON.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <i>The  Pavilion Party&mdash;Interior described&mdash;Royal and Noble
     Anecdotes&mdash;King and Mathews</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[292]</span>I had preceded D'Almaine and the
      Countess only a few hours in my arrival at Brighton; you know the vivacity
      and enchanting humour which ever animates that little divinity, and will
      not therefore be surprised to hear, on her name being announced at the
      Pavilion, we were honoured with a royal invitation to an evening party. I
      had long sighed for an opportunity to view the interior of that eccentric
      building; but to have enjoyed such a treat, made doubly attractive by the
      presence of the King, reposing from the toils of state in his favourite
      retreat, and surrounded by the select circle of his private friends, was
      more than my most sanguine expectations could have led me to conjecture.
      Suspending, therefore, my curiosity until the morrow, relative to the
      Steyne, the beach, the libraries, and the characters, I made a desperate
      effort in embellishing, to look unusually stylish, and as usual, never
      succeeded so ill in my life. Our residence on the Grand Parade is scarcely
      a hundred yards from, and overlooks the Pavilion&mdash;a circumstance
      which had quite escaped my recollection; for with all the natural anxiety
      of a young and ardent mind, I had fully equipped myself before the Count
      had even thought of entering his dressing-room. Half-an-hour's lounge at
      the projecting window of our new habitation, on a tine summer's evening,
      gave me an opportunity of remarking the <span class="pagenum">[293]</span>singular
      appearance the front of this building presents:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "If minarets, rising together, provoke
          From the lips of the vulgar the old-fashioned joke&mdash;

          '<i>De gustibus non est</i> (I think) <i>disputandum</i>'
          The taste is plebeian that quizzes at random."
</pre>
    <p>
      There is really something very romantic in the style of its architecture,
      and by no means inelegant; perhaps it is better suited for the peculiar
      situation of this marine palace than a more classical or accredited order
      would be. It has been likened, on its first appearance, to a chess-board;
      but, in my thinking, it more nearly resembles that soul-inspiring scene,
      the splendid banquet table, decorated in the best style of modern
      grandeur, and covered with the usual plate and glass enrichments: for
      instance, the central dome represents the water magnum, the towers right
      and left, with their pointed spires, champagne bottles, the square
      compartments on each side are exactly like the form of our fashionable
      liqueur stands, the clock tower resembles the centre ornament of a
      plateau, the various small spires so many enriched <i>candelabra</i>, the
      glass dome a superb dessert dish; but
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         "Don't expect, my dear boy, I can similies find
          For a heap of similitudes so undefined.
          And why should I censure tastes not my concern?
         'Tis as well for the arts that all tastes have their turn."
</pre>
    <p>
      If I had written for three hours on the subject, I could not have been
      more explicit; you have only to arrange the articles in the order
      enumerated, and you have a model of the upper part of the building before
      you. At nine o'clock we made our <i>entré</i> into the Pavilion, westward,
      passing through the vestibule and hall, when we entered one of the most
      superb apartments that art or fancy can devise, whether for richness of
      effect, decoration, and design: this is <span class="pagenum">[294]</span>called
      the <i>Chinese Gallery</i>, one hundred and sixty-two feet in length by
      seventeen feet in breadth, and is divided into five compartments, the
      centre being illumined with a light of stained glass, on which is
      represented the God of Thunder, as described in the Chinese mythology,
      surrounded by the imperial five-clawed dragons, supporting pendent
      lanterns, ornamented with corresponding devices. The ceiling or cove is
      the colour of peach blossom; and a Chinese canopy is suspended round from
      the lower compartment with tassels, bells, &amp;c.: the furniture and
      other decorations, such as cabinets, chimney-piece, trophies, and banners,
      which are in the gallery, are all in strict accordance with the Chinese
      taste; while on every side the embellishments present twisted dragons,
      pagodas, and mythological devices of birds, flowers, insects, statues,
      formed from a yellow marble; and a rich collection of Oriental china. The
      extreme compartments north and south are occupied by chased brass
      staircases, the lateral ornaments of which are serpents, and the balusters
      resemble bamboo. In the north division is the <i>fum</i>{1} or Chinese
      bird of royalty: this gallery opens into the music room, an apartment
      forty-two feet square, with two recesses of ten feet each, and rising in
      height forty-one feet, to a dome thirty feet in diameter. The magnificence
      and imposing grandeur of effect surpasses all effort at detail. It
      presented a scene of enchantment which brought to recollection the florid
      descriptions, in the Persian Tales, of the palaces of the genii: the
      prevailing decoration is executed in green gold, and produces a most
      singularly splendid effect. On the walls are twelve highly finished
      paintings, views in China, principally near Pekin, imitative of the
      crimson japan.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 The fum is said to be found in no part of the world but
     China. It is described as of most admirable beauty; and
     their absence for any time from the imperial city regarded
     as an omen of misfortune to the royal family. The emperor
     and mandarins have the semblance of these birds embroidered
     on their vestments.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[295]</span>The dome appears to be excavated out of
      a rock of solid gold, and is supported by an octagonal base, ornamented
      with the richest Chinese devices; at each angle of the room is a
      pagoda-tower, formed of the most costly materials in glass and china, with
      lamps attached; beneath the dome and base is a splendid canopy, supported
      by columns of crimson and gold, with twisted serpents of enormous size,
      and terrific expression surrounding them. A magnificent organ, by
      Sinclair, the largest and best in the kingdom, occupies the north recess,
      twenty feet in width, length, and height: there are two entrances to this
      room, one from the <i>Egyptian gallery</i>, and another from the yellow
      drawing-room, each under a rich canopy, supported by gold columns. A
      beautiful chimney-piece of white statuary marble, and an immense mirror,
      with splendid draperies of blue, red, and yellow satin, rare china jars,
      and ornaments in ormolu, increase the dazzling brilliancy of the
      apartment. As this was my first appearance in the palace, the Countess,
      very considerately, proposed to Sir H&mdash;&mdash;T&mdash;&mdash;, who
      conducted us, that we should walk through the other public apartments,
      before we were ushered into the presence chamber&mdash;a proposition the
      good-natured equerry very readily complied with. Repassing, therefore, the
      whole length of the Chinese gallery, the southern extremity communicates
      with the <i>Royal Banqueting Room</i>, sixty feet in length, by forty-two
      in breadth: the walls are bounded at the height of twenty-three feet by a
      cornice, apparently inlaid with pearls and gold, from which spring four
      ecliptic arches, supported by golden columns, surmounted with a dome,
      rising to a height of forty-five feet, and constructed to represent an
      eastern sky; beneath which is seen spreading the broad umbrageous foliage
      of the luxuriant plantain, bearing its fruit and displaying, in all the
      progressive stages, <span class="pagenum">[296]</span>the different
      varieties, from the early blossom to maturity: curious Chinese symbols are
      suspended from the trunk, and connect themselves with a grand lustre,
      rising to a height of thirty feet, and reflecting the most varied and
      magical effect, being multiplied by other lustres, in the several angles
      adjoining. The walls are decorated with groups of figures, nearly the size
      of life, portraying the costume of the higher classes of the Chinese;
      domestic episodes, painted on a ground of imitative pearl, richly wrought,
      in all the varied designs of Chinese mythology. The furniture is of the
      most costly description&mdash;rose-wood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, and
      enriched with <i>or molu</i> chasings of the most elegant design; the
      effect of which is admirably contrasted with the rich glossy jars of blue
      porcelain, of English manufacture, and magnificent brilliancy. Centrally,
      between these magnificent apartments, is the Rotunda or Saloon; an oblong
      interior of fifty-five feet in length, the decoration chaste and classical
      in the extreme, being simply white and gold, the enriched cornice being
      supported by columns and pilasters, and the whole decoration uniting
      coolness with simplicity. The passages to some of the minor apartments are
      unique in their style of embellishment, which appears to be of polished
      white marble, but is, in fact, nothing but a superior Dutch tile, cemented
      smoothly, in plaster of Paris, and highly varnished. There are many other
      private and anterooms to the west of the Chinese gallery, the decorations
      of which are more simple, but in a corresponding style. We had now arrived
      at the <i>Yellow Room (see Plate</i>), where we understood his Majesty
      would receive his evening party.
    </p>
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    <p>
      The apartment is fifty-six feet in length, by twenty in breadth, and is
      hung round with a rich fluted drapery of yellow satin, suspended from the
      ceiling, and representing a magnificent Chinese tent, from the centre of
      which hangs a chandelier of <span class="pagenum">[237]</span>the most
      splendid design, the light of which is diffused through painted glasses,
      resembling in shape and colour every variety of the tulip, exciting the
      greatest admiration. The chimney-piece is Chinese, the stove formed by <i>chimera</i>
      chased in <i>or molu</i>, the figures above being models or automatons, of
      nearly the size of life, dressed in splendid costume, occasionally moving
      their heads and arms. The furniture of the room is of a similar character
      to those already described, except the seats, which are ottomans of yellow
      velvet, the window draperies being of the same splendid material. It was
      in this truly royal apartment we had the honour of waiting the approach of
      his Majesty, who entered, at about a quarter before ten, apparently in the
      enjoyment of the most excellent health and highest spirits. He was
      preceded by Sir A. F. Barnard and Lord Francis Conyngham, the grooms in
      waiting, and entered with the Princess Augusta leaning on his arm, the
      left of her royal highness being supported by the Duke of York; the
      Marquis of Conyngham followed, leading in his Marchioness; and the
      beautiful and accomplished Lady Elizabeth honoured Sir William Knighton as
      her conductor. The old Earl of Arran came hobbling on his crutches,
      dreadfully afflicted with the gout. Sir C. Paget, that merry son of
      Neptune, with Sir E. Nagle, followed; the rear being brought up by the
      fascinating Countess of Warwick and her ever constant earl. <i>(See
      Plate.)</i> Do not imagine, my dear Bernard, that I shall so far outrage
      the honourable feelings of a gentleman as to relate every word, look, or
      action, of this illustrious party, for the rude ear of eager curiosity.
      Those only who have witnessed the Monarch in private life, freed from the
      weight of state affairs, and necessary regal accompaniments, can form a
      correct judgment of the unaffected goodness of his heart; the easy
      affability, and pliant condescension, with which he can divest <span
      class="pagenum">[298]</span>every one around him of any feeling of
      restraint&mdash;the uncommon sprightliness and vivacity he displays in
      conversation&mdash;the life and soul of all that is elegant and classical,
      and the willing participator and promoter of a good joke. Suffice it to
      say, the reception was flattering in the extreme, the entertainment
      conversational and highly intellectual. The moments flew so quickly, that
      I could have wished the hour of eleven, the period of the King's retiring,
      had been extended to the noontide of the morrow. But is this all, I think
      I can hear you say, this friend of my heart dares to repose with me on a
      subject so agreeable? No&mdash;you shall have a few <i>on dits</i>, but
      nothing touching on the scandalous; gleanings, from Sir E&mdash;&mdash;
      and Sir C&mdash;&mdash;, the jesters of our sovereign lord the King; but
      nothing that might excite a blush in the cheek of the lovely Countess, to
      whom I was indebted for the honour and delight I on that occasion
      experienced. Imprimis:&mdash;I know you are intimate with that inimitable
      child of whim, Charles Mathews. He is in high estimation with royalty, I
      assure you; and annually receives the King's command to deliver a
      selection from his popular entertainments before him&mdash;an amusement of
      which his Majesty speaks in terms of the warmest admiration. On the last
      occasion, a little <i>scena</i> occurred that must have been highly
      amusing; as it displays at once the kind recollections of the King, and
      his amiable disposition. As I had it from Sir C&mdash;&mdash;, you may
      depend upon its authenticity. I shall denominate it the King at Home, or
      Mathews in Carlton Palace. <i>(See Plate.)</i>
    </p>
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    <p>
      Previous to Mathews leaving this country for America, he exhibited a
      selection from his popular entertainments, by command of his Majesty, at
      Carlton Palace.&mdash;A party of not more than six or eight persons were
      present, including the Princess Augusta and the Marchioness of Conyngham.
      During <span class="pagenum">[299]</span>the entertainment (with which the
      King appeared much delighted), Mathews introduced his imitations of
      various performers on the British stage, and was proceeding with John
      Kemble in the Stranger, when he was interrupted by the King, who, in the
      most affable manner, observed that his general imitations were excellent,
      and such as no one who had ever seen the characters could fail to
      recognise; but he thought the comedian's portrait of John Kemble somewhat
      too boisterous.&mdash;"He is an old friend, and I might add, tutor of
      mine," observed his Majesty: "when I was Prince of Wales he often favoured
      me with his company. I will give you an imitation of John Kemble," said
      the good-humoured monarch. Mathews was electrified. The lords of the
      bed-chamber eyed each other with surprise. The King rose and prefaced his
      imitations by observing, "I once requested John Kemble to take a pinch of
      snuff with me, and for this purpose placed my box on the table before him,
      saying 'Kemble, oblige (obleege) me by taking a pinch of snuff' He took a
      pinch, and then addressed me thus:&mdash;(Here his Majesty assumed the
      peculiar carriage of Mr. Kemble.) 'I thank your Royal Highness for your
      snuff, but, in future, do extend your royal jaws a little wider, and say
      Oblige.'" The anecdote was given with the most powerful similitude to the
      actor's voice and manners, and had an astonishing effect on the party
      present. It is a circumstance equally worthy of the King and the scholar.
      Mathews, at the conclusion, requested permission to offer an original
      anecdote of Kemble, which had some affinity to the foregoing. Kemble had
      been for many years the intimate friend of the Earl of Aberdeen. On one
      occasion he had called on that nobleman during his morning's ride, and
      left Mrs. Kemble in the carriage at the door. John and the noble earl were
      closely engaged on some literary subject a very long time, while Mrs.
      Kemble was <span class="pagenum">[300]</span>shivering in the carriage (it
      being very cold weather). At length her patience being exhausted, she
      directed her servant to inform his master that she was waiting, and feared
      the cold weather would bring on an attack of the rheumatism. The fellow
      proceeded to the door of the earl's study, and delivered his message,
      leaving out the final letter in rheumatism.&mdash;This he had repeated
      three several times, by direction of his mistress, before he could obtain
      an answer. At length, Kemble, roused from his subject by the importunities
      of the servant, replied, somewhat petulantly, "Tell your mistress I shall
      not come, and, fellow, do you in future say '<i>tism</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      Among the party assembled on this occasion was the favoured son of
      Esculapius, Sir W&mdash;&mdash; K&mdash;&mdash;, the secret of whose
      elevation to the highest confidence of royalty is one of those mysteries
      of the age which it is in vain to attempt to unravel, and which, perhaps,
      cannot be known to more than two persons in existence: great and
      irresistible, however, must that influence be, whether moral or physical,
      which could obtain such dominion over the mind as to throw into the shade
      the claims of rank and courtly <i>lions</i>, and place an humble disciple
      of Esculapius on the very summit of royal favour. Of his gentlemanly and
      amusing talents in society every one must speak in terms of the highest
      praise, and equally flattering are the reports of his medical skill; but
      many are the fleeting causes and conjectures assigned for his supremacy&mdash;reports
      which may not be written here, lest I assist in the courtly prattle of
      misrepresentation. Sir W&mdash;&mdash; was, I believe, the executor of an
      old and highly-favoured confidential secretary; might not <i>certain
      circumstances</i> arising out of that trust have paved the way to his
      elevation? If the intense merits of the individual have raised him to the
      dazzling <span class="pagenum">[301]</span>height, the world cannot value
      them too highly, and sufficiently extol the discrimination of the first
      sovereign and first gentleman of the age who could discover and reward
      desert with such distinguished honour. But if his elevation is the result
      of any sacrifice of principle, or of any courtly intrigue to remove a once
      equally fortunate rival, and pave his path with gold, there are few who
      would envy the favoured minion: against such suspicion, however, we have
      the evidence of a life of honour, and the general estimation of society.
      Of his predecessor, and the causes for his removal, I have heard some
      curious anecdotes, but these you shall have when we meet. A very good
      story is in circulation here among the court circle relative to the
      eccentric Lady C&mdash;&mdash; L&mdash;&mdash;, and a young marchioness,
      who, spite of the remonstrances of her friends and the general good taste
      of the ladies in that particular, recently selected an old man for a
      husband, in preference to a choice of at least twenty young and titled,
      dashing <i>roués</i>: the whim and caprice of the former is notorious,
      while the life and animation of the little marchioness renders her the
      brightest star of attraction in the hemisphere of fashion. "I should like
      to see Billingsgate, amazingly," said the marchioness to her eccentric
      friend, while reading a humorous article on the subject in the Morning
      Chronicle. "It must be entertaining to hear the peculiar phraseology and
      observe the humorous vulgarities of these <i>naiades</i>, if one could do
      so <i>incog</i>." "And why not, my dear?" said Lady C&mdash;&mdash;; "you
      know there never was a female Quixote in existence among the petticoat
      blue-stockings, from Lady Wortley Montague to Lady Morgan, who was more
      deeply affected with the Tom and Jerry <i>mania</i> than I am: leave all
      to me, and I'll answer for taking you there safely, enjoying the scene
      securely, and escaping without chance of detection." With Lady <span
      class="pagenum">[302]</span>C&mdash;&mdash; a whim of this description is
      by no means unusual, and the necessary attendance of a confidential
      servant to protect, in case of danger, a very essential personage. To this
      Mercury, Lady C&mdash;&mdash; confided her plan; giving directions for the
      completion of it on the morning of the morrow, and instructing him to
      obtain disguises from his wife, who is an upper servant in the family, for
      the use of the ladies. John, although perfectly free from any alarm on
      account of Lady C&mdash;&mdash;, should the whim become known, was not so
      easy in respect to the young and attractive marchioness, whose consort,
      should any thing unpleasant occur, John wisely calculated, might interfere
      to remove him from his situation. With this resolve he prudently
      communicated the ladies' intention to a confidential friend of the
      marquis, who, on receiving an intimation of their intentions, laughed at
      the whim, and determined to humour the joke, by attending the place,
      properly disguised, to watch at a distance the frolic of the ladies. The
      next morning, at the appointed hour, the footman brought a hackney-coach
      to the door, and the ladies were quickly conveyed to the scene of action,
      followed (unknowingly) by the marquis and his friend. Here they amused
      themselves for some time in walking about and observing the bustle and
      variety of the, to them, very novel scene; soon, however, fatigued with
      the mobbing, thrusting, and filthiness, which is characteristic of the
      place, the marchioness was for returning, remarking to her friend that she
      had as yet heard none of that singular broad humour for which these nymphs
      of the fish-market were so celebrated. "Then you shall have a specimen
      directly," said Lady C&mdash;&mdash;, "if I can provoke it; only prepare
      your ethics and your ears for a slight shock; "and immediately approaching
      an old fresh-water dragon, who sat behind an adjoining stall, with a
      countenance spirited in the <span class="pagenum">[303]</span>extreme, and
      glowing with all the beautiful varieties of the ultra-marine and
      vermilion, produced by the all-potent properties of Hodge's full-proof,
      she proceeded to cheapen the head and shoulders of a fine fish that lay in
      front of her, forcing her fingers under the gills, according to the
      approved custom of good housewives, to ascertain if it was fresh.
    </p>
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    <p>
      After a parley as to price, Lady C&mdash;&mdash; hinted that she doubted
      its being perfectly sweet: the very suspicion of vending an unsavoury
      article roused the old she-dragon at once into one of the most terrific
      passions imaginable, and directing all her ire against the ladies, she
      poured forth a volley of abuse fiery and appalling as the lava of a
      volcano, which concluded as follows.&mdash;"Not sweet, you &mdash;&mdash;,"
      said the offended deity; "how can I answer for its sweetness, when you
      have been tickling his gills with your stinking paws 1 " <i>(See Plate.)</i>
      The marchioness retreated at the first burst of the storm, but Lady C&mdash;&mdash;continued
      to provoke the old naiad of the shambles, till she had fully satisfied her
      humour. Again safely escorted home by the liveried Mercury, the ladies
      thought to have enjoyed their joke in perfect security; but what was their
      astonishment, when on meeting the marquis and a select party at dinner, to
      find the identical fish served up at their own table, and the marquis
      amusing his friends by relating the whole circumstances of the frolic, as
      having occurred to two ladies of distinction during the laughter-loving
      days of Charles the Second. I need not animadvert upon the peculiar
      situation of the ladies, who, blushing through a crimson veil of the
      deepest hue, bore the raillery of the party assembled with as much good
      sense as good nature; acknowledging the frolic, and joining in the laugh
      the joke produced. Beneath, you have one of our facetious friend Bob
      Transit's humorous sketches of an incident said to have occurred near B&mdash;&mdash;
      H&mdash;&mdash;: in which an eccentric <span class="pagenum">[304]</span>lady
      chose to call up the servants in the dead of the night, order out the
      carriage, and mounting the box herself, insisted upon giving the footman,
      who had been somewhat tardy in leaving his bed, a gentle airing in his
      shirt.
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    <h2>
      CHARACTERS ON THE BEACH AND STEYNE, BRIGHTON.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <i>On Bathing and Bathers&mdash;Advantages of Shampooing&mdash;French
     Decency&mdash;Brighton Politeness&mdash;Sketches of Character&mdash;The
     Banker's Widow&mdash;Miss Jefferies&mdash;Mrs. F&mdash;&mdash;l&mdash;Peter
     Paragraph, the London Correspondent&mdash;Jack Smith&mdash;The
     French Consul&mdash;Paphian Divinities&mdash;C&mdash;&mdash; L&mdash;&mdash;, Esq.&mdash;
     Squeeze into the Libraries&mdash;The new Plunging Bath&mdash;Chain
     Pier&mdash;Cockney Comicalities&mdash;Royal Gardens&mdash;The Club House.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[305]</span>The next morning early I proceeded to
      the beach to enjoy the delightful and invigorating pleasure of
      sea-bathing. The clean pebble shore extending, as it does here, for a long
      distance beneath the east cliff, is a great advantage to those who, from
      indisposition or luxury, seek a dip in the ocean. One practice struck me
      as being a little objectionable, namely, the machines of the males and
      females being placed not only within sight of each other, but actually
      close alongside; by which circumstance, the sportive nymphs sometimes
      display more of nature's charms to the eager gaze of her wanton sons than
      befits me to tell, or decency to dwell on. I could not, however, with all
      the purity of my ethics, help envying a robust fellow who was assisting in
      clucking the dear unencumbered creatures under the rising wave.{1}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 Some of the female bathers are very adventurous, and from
     the great drawback of water many accidents have occurred.
     I was much amused one morning with three sisters, in the
     machine adjoining mine, continually crying out to a male
     attendant "to push on, and not be afraid of the
     consequences; we can all swim well," said one of the Miss
     B&mdash;&mdash;'s (well known as the <i>marine graces</i>). "But my machine
     a'n't water-tight," replied the bathing-man, "and if I
     trust it any farther in, I shall never be able to get it out
     again." A Frenchman who came down to bathe with his wife and
     sister insisted upon using the same machine with the ladies;
     the bathing-women remonstrated, but <i>monsieur</i> retorted very
     fairly thus&mdash;"<i>Mon dieu I vat is dat vat you tell me about
     décence. Tromperie</i>&mdash;shall I no dip <i>mon femme a sour</i>
     myself vith quite as much <i>bienséance</i> as dat vulgar brute
     vat I see ducking de ladies yondere?"
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[306]</span>The naiads of the deep are a strange
      race of mortals, half fish and half human, with a masculine coarseness of
      manner that, I am told, has been faithfully copied from their great
      original, the once celebrated Martha Gun. It is not unusual for these
      women to continue in the water up to their waists for four hours at a
      time, without suffering the least affection of cold or rheumatism, and
      living to a great age. A dingy empiric has invented a new system of <i>humbug</i>
      which is in great repute here, and is called <i>shampooing</i>; a sort of
      stewing alive by steam, sweetened by being forced through odoriferous
      herbs, and undergoing the pleasant sensation of being dabbed all the while
      with pads of flannels through holes in the wet blankets that surround you,
      until the cartilaginous substances of your joints are made as pliable as
      the ligaments of boiled calves' feet, your whole system relaxed and
      unnerved, and your trembling legs as useless in supporting your body as a
      pair of boots would be without the usual quantity of flesh and bone within
      them. The Steyne affords excellent subject for the study of character, and
      the pencil of the humorist; the walks round are paved with brick, which,
      when the thermometer is something above eighty-six in the shade (the case
      just now), is very like pacing your parched feet over the pantiles of a
      Turkish stove. There is, indeed, a <span class="pagenum">[307]</span>grass-plot
      within the rails, but the luxury of walking upon it is reserved for the
      fishermen of the place exclusively, except on some extraordinary occasion,
      when the whole rabble of the town are let loose to annoy the visitants by
      puffing tobacco smoke in their faces, or jostling and insulting them with
      coarse ribaldry, until the genteel and decent are compelled to quit the
      promenade. I have had two or three such specimens of Brighton manners
      while staying here, and could only wish I had the assistance of about
      twenty of the <i>Oxford</i>togati<i>, Trinitarians, or Bachelors of
      Brazennose. I think we should hit upon some expedient to tame these
      brutes, and teach them civilized conduct&mdash;an Herculean labour which
      the town authorities seem afraid to attempt. The easy distance between
      this and the metropolis, with the great advantages of expeditious
      travelling, enable the multitudinous population of London to pour forth
      its motley groups, in greater variety than at any other watering place,
      Margate excepted, with, however, this difference in favour of the former,
      that the mixture had more of the sprinkling of fashion about them, here
      and there a name of note, a splendid equipage, or a dazzling star, to
      illumine the dull nomenclatures in the library books of the Johnson's, the
      Thomson's, the Brown's, and the Levi's. The last-mentioned fraternity
      congregate here in shoals, usurp all the best lodgings, at the windows of
      which they are to be seen soliciting notice, with their hooked noses,
      copper countenances, and inquisitive eyes, decked out in all the faded
      finery of Petticoat-lane, or Bevis Marks; while the heads of the houses of
      Israel run down on a Saturday, after the Stock Exchange closes, and often
      do as much business here on the Sabbath, in gambling speculations for the
      </i>account day<i>, as they have done all the week before in London. Here,
      too, you have the felicity to meet your tailor in his tandem, your <span
      class="pagenum">[308]</span>butcher on his </i>trotter<i>, your shoemaker
      in a </i>fly<i>, and your wine-merchant with his bit of blood, his girl,
      and tilbury, making a greater splash than yourself, and pleasantly
      pointing you out to observation as a long-winded one, a great gambler, or
      some other such gratuitous return for your ill-bestowed patronage. To
      amalgamate with such </i>canaille<i> is impossible&mdash;you are therefore
      driven into seclusion, or compelled to confine your visits and amusements
      to nearly the same circle you have just left London to be relieved from.
      Among the "observed" of the present time, the great star of attraction is
      the rich Banker's widow, who occupies the corner house of the Grand
      Parade, eclipsing in splendid equipages and attendants an Eastern nabob,
      or royalty itself. Good fortune threw old Crony in my way, just as I had
      caught a glimpse of the widow's cap: you know his dry sarcastic humour and
      tenacious memory, and perhaps I ought to add, my inquisitive disposition.
      From him I gleaned a sketch of the widow's history, adorned with a few
      comments, which gallantry to the fair sex will not allow me to repeat. She
      had just joined conversation with the Marquis of H&mdash;&mdash;, who was
      attended by Jackson, the pugilist; an illustrious personage and a noble
      earl were on her left; while behind the </i>jolie<i> dame, at a respectful
      distance, paced two liveried emblems of her deceased husband's bounty,
      clad in the sad habiliments of woe, and looking as merry as mutes at a
      rich man's funeral. </i>(See Plate.)
    </p>
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    <p>
      "She has the reputation of being very charitable," said I. "She has,"
      responded Crony; "but the total neglect of poor Wewitzer, in the hour of
      penury and sickness, is no proof of her feeling, much less of her
      generosity. I have known her long," continued Crony, "from her earliest
      days of obscurity and indigence to these of unexampled prosperity, and I
      never could agree with common report in that particular." I dare say I
      looked at this moment very <span class="pagenum">[309]</span>significantly;
      for Crony, without waiting my request, continued his history. "Her father
      was the gay and dissolute Jack Kinnear, well known in Dublin for his
      eccentricities about the time of the Rebellion, in which affair he made
      himself so conspicuous that he was compelled to expatriate, and fled to
      England by way of Liverpool; where his means soon failing, Jack, never at
      a loss, took up the profession of an actor, and succeeded admirably. His
      animated style and attractive person are still spoken of with delight by
      many of the old inhabitants of Carlisle, Rochdale, Kendal, and the
      neighbouring towns of Lancashire, where he first made his appearance in an
      itinerant company, then under the management of a man of the name of
      Bibby, and in whose house, under very peculiar circumstances, our heroine
      was born; but
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Merit and worth from no condition rise;
          Act well your part&mdash;there all the honour lies.'
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[309]</span>That little Harriet was a child of much
      promise there is no doubt, playing, in her mother's name, at a very early
      period, all the juvenile parts in Bibby's company with great <i>éclat</i>
      until she attained the age of eighteen, when her abilities procured her a
      situation to fill the first parts in genteel comedy in the theatres-royal
      Manchester and Liverpool. From this time her fame increased rapidly, which
      was not a little enhanced by her attractive person, and consequent number
      of admirers; for even among the cotton lords of Manchester a fine-grown,
      raven-locked, black-eyed brunette, arch, playful, and clever, could not
      fail to create sensations of desire: but at this time the affections of
      the lady were fixed on a son of Thespis, then a member of the same
      company, and to whom she was shortly afterwards betrothed; but the
      marriage, from some capricious cause or other, was never consummated: the
      actor, well-known as Scotch Grant, is now much reduced in life, and a
      member of <span class="pagenum">[310]</span>one of the minor companies of
      the metropolis. On her quitting Liverpool, in 1794, she played at the
      Stafford theatre during the election contest, where, having the
      good-fortune to form an intimacy with the Hortons, a highly-respectable
      family then resident there, and great friends of Sheridan, they succeeded,
      on the return of that gentleman to parliament for the borough of Stafford,
      to obtain from him an engagement for our heroine at the theatre-royal
      Drury Lane, of which he was at that time proprietor. 'Brevity is the soul
      of wit,'" said Crony: "I shall not attempt to enumerate all the parts she
      played there; suffice it to say, she was successful, and became a great
      favourite with the public. It was here she first attracted the notice of
      the rich old banker, who having just discarded another actress, Mrs. M&mdash;&mdash;r,
      whom he had kept some time, on account of an intimacy he discovered with
      the lady and P&mdash;&mdash;e, the oboe player, he made certain
      propositions, accompanied with such liberal presents, that the fair
      yielded to the all-powerful influence, not of love, but gold; and having,
      through the interference of poor W&mdash;&mdash;, secured to herself a
      settlement which made her independent for life, threw out the well-planned
      story of the lottery ticket, as a 'tub to the whale': a stratagem that,
      for some time, succeeded admirably, until a malicious wag belonging to the
      company undertook to solve the riddle of her prosperity, by pretending to
      bet a wager of one hundred, that the lady had actually gained twenty
      thousand pounds by the lottery, and he would name the ticket: with this
      excuse, for what otherwise might have been deemed impertinent, he put the
      question, and out of the reply developed the whole affair. All London now
      rung with the splendour of her equipage, the extent of her charities, and
      the liberality of her conduct to an old actor and a young female friend,
      Miss S&mdash;&mdash;n, who was invariably seen with <span class="pagenum">[311]</span>her
      in public. Such was the notoriety of the intimacy, that the three married
      daughters of the banker, all persons of title and the highest
      respectability, thought it right to question their father, relative to the
      truth of the reports in circulation. Whatever might have been their
      apprehensions, their fears were quieted by the information, that the lady
      in question was a natural daughter, born previous to the alliance to which
      they owed their birth: this assurance not only induced the parties to
      admit her to their presence, but she was also introduced to, and became
      intimate with, the wife of the man to whom she owes her present good
      fortune. It was now, that, feeling herself secure, she displayed that
      capricious feeling which has since marked her character: poor W&mdash;&mdash;r,
      her mentor and defender, was on some mere pretence abandoned, and a sturdy
      blustering fellow, in the same profession, substituted for the sincere
      adviser, the witty and agreeable companion: it was to R&mdash;&mdash;d she
      sent a present of one thousand pounds, for a single ticket, on his benefit
      night. But her ambition had not yet attained its highest point: the
      banker's wife died, and our fortunate heroine was elected to her place
      while yet the clay-cold corse of her predecessor remained above ground; a
      circumstance, which brought down a heavy calamity on the clerical who
      performed the marriage rites,{2} but which was remedied by an annuity from
      the banker. From this period, the haughty bearing of the lady exceeded all
      bounds; the splendour of her establishment, the extravagance of her
      parties, and the munificence of her charities, trumpeted forth by that
      many-tongued oracle, the public press, eclipsed the brilliancy of the
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 Saturnine B&mdash;&mdash;n, the author of 'the stage,' a Poem, on
     hearing the day after her marriage with the banker, a
     conversation relative to her age, said he was sure the
     party were all in error, as there could be no doubt the lady
     was on the previous night <i>under age</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[312]</span>royal banquets, and outshone the
      greatest and wealthiest of the stars of fashion. About this time, her
      hitherto inseparable companion made a slip with a certain amorous manager;
      and such was the indignation of our moral heroine on the discovery, that
      she spurned the unfortunate from her for ever, and actually turned the
      offending spark out of doors herself, accompanying the act with a very
      unladylike demonstration of her vengeance. B&mdash;&mdash;d, her most
      obsequious servant, died suddenly. Poor Dr. J&mdash;&mdash; A&mdash;&mdash;s,
      who gave up a highly respectable and increasing practice, in Greek-street,
      Soho, as a physician, to attend, exclusively, on the 'geud auld mon' and
      his rib, met such a return for his kindness and attention, that he
      committed suicide. Her next friend, a Mr. G&mdash;&mdash;n, a very
      handsome young man, who was induced to quit his situation in the bank for
      the office of private secretary, made a mistake one night, and eloped with
      the female confidante of the banker's wife, a crime for which the
      perpetrator could never hope to meet with forgiveness. It is not a little
      singular," said Crony, "that almost all her intimate acquaintances have,
      sooner or later, fallen into disrepute with their patroness, and felt how
      weak is the reliance upon the capricious and the wayward." On the death of
      the old banker, our heroine had so wheedled the dotard, that he left her,
      to the surprise of the world, the whole of his immense property,
      recommending only certain legacies, and leaving an honourable and
      high-minded family dependent upon her bountiful consideration. "I could
      relate some very extraordinary anecdotes arising out of that
      circumstance," said Crony; "but you must be content with one, farcical in
      the extreme, which fully displays the lady's affection for her former
      profession, and shows she is a perfect mistress of stage effect. On the
      removal of the shrivelled remains of the old dotard for interment, his
      affectionate rib accompanied the <span class="pagenum">[313]</span>procession,
      and when they rested for the night at an inn on the road, guarded them in
      death as she had done in the close of life, by sleeping on a sofa in the
      same room. Cruel, cruel separation! what a scene for the revival of 'grief
      à la mode!' "But she is unhappy with all her wealth," said the cynic.
      "Careless as some portion of our nobility are in their choice of
      companions for their sports or pleasures, they have yet too much
      consideration left of what is due to their rank, their wives, and
      daughters, not to hesitate before they receive&mdash;&mdash;. But never
      mind," said Crony; "you know the rest. You must have heard of a recent
      calamity which threatened the lady; and on which that mad wag, John Bull,
      let fly some cutting jokes. A very sagacious police magistrate,
      accompanied by one of his <i>indefatigables</i>, went to <i>inspect the
      premises</i>, accompanied by a gentleman of the faculty; but, after all
      their united efforts to unravel the mystery, it turned out a mere <i>scratch</i>,
      a very flat affair.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0020" id="Bimage-0020">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page313.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page313 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[314]</span>"I think," said Crony, "we have now
      arrived at the ultimatum of the widow's history, and may as well take a
      turn or two up the Steyne, to look out for other character. The ancient
      female you perceive yonder, leaning on her tall gold-headed cane, is Miss
      J&mdash;&mdash;s, a maid of honour to the late Queen Charlotte, and the
      particular friend of Mrs. F&mdash;&mdash;l: said to be the only one left
      out of eight persons, who accompanied two celebrated personages, many
      years since, in a stolen matrimonial speculation to Calais.
    </p>
    <p>
      She is as highly respected as her friend Mrs. F&mdash;&mdash;l is beloved
      here." "Who the deuce is that strange looking character yonder, enveloped
      in a boat-cloak, and muffled up to the eyes with a black handkerchief?"
      "That is a very important personage in a watering place, I assure you,"
      replied Crony; "being no other than the celebrated Peter Paragraph, the
      London correspondent to the Morning Post, who involves, to use his own
      phrase, the whole hemisphere of fashion in his mystifications and reports:
      informs the readers of that paper how many rays of sunshine have
      exhilarated the Brightonians during the week, furnishes a correct journal
      of fogs, rains, storms, shipwrecks, and hazy mists; and, above all,
      announces the arrivals and departures, mixing up royal and noble
      fashionables and <i>kitchen stuff'</i> in the same beautiful obscurity of
      diction. Peter was formerly a <i>friseur</i>; but has long since quitted
      the shaving and cutting profession for the more profitable calling of
      collector of <i>on dits</i> and <i>puffs extraordinaire</i>. The
      swaggering broad-shouldered blade who follows near him, with a
      frontispiece like the red lion, is the well-known radical, Jack S&mdash;&mdash;h,
      now agent to the French consul for this place, and the unsuccessful
      candidate for the <i>independent</i> borough of Shoreham." "A complete
      eccentric, by all my hopes of pleasure! Crony, who are those two dashing
      divinities, who come tripping along so lively yonder?" "Daughters of <span
      class="pagenum">[315]</span>pleasure," replied the cynic; "a pair of
      justly celebrated paphians, west-end comets, who have come here, no doubt,
      with the double view of profit and amusement. The plump looking dame on
      the right, is Aug&mdash;ta C&mdash;ri, (otherwise lady H&mdash;&mdash;e);
      so called after the P&mdash;n&mdash;ss A&mdash;&mdash;a, her godmamma. Her
      father, old Ab&mdash;t, one of Q&mdash;&mdash;n C&mdash;&mdash;te's <i>original</i>
      German pages, brought up a large family in respectability, under the
      fostering protection of his royal mistress. Aug&mdash;&mdash;ta, at the
      early age of fifteen, eloped from St. James's, on a matrimonial
      speculation with a young musician, Mr. An&mdash;&mdash;y C&mdash;&mdash;,
      (himself a boy of 18)! From such a union what could be expected? a mother
      at 16, and a neglected dishonoured wife, before she had counted many years
      of womanhood. If she fell an unresisting victim to the seduction which her
      youth, beauty, and musical talents attracted, '<i>her stars were more to
      blame than she.</i>' Let it be recorded, however, that her conduct as wife
      and mother was free from reproach, until a <i>depraved, unnatural</i> man
      (who by the way has since fled the country) set her the example of
      licentiousness.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Amongst her earliest admirers, was the wealthy citizen, Mr. S&mdash;&mdash;
      M&mdash;&mdash;, a bon vivant, a <i>five-bottle</i> man (who has, not
      unaptly, been since nominated a representative in p&mdash;&mdash;l for one
      of the <i>cinque ports</i>).
    </p>
    <p>
      To this witty man's generous care she is indebted for an annuity, which,
      with common prudence, ought to secure her from want during her own life.
      On her departure from this lover, which proceeded entirely from her own
      caprice and restless extravagance, the vain Aug&mdash;ta launched at once
      into all the dangerous pleasures of a cyprian life. The court, the city,
      and the <i>'change</i>, paid homage to her charms. One high in the r&mdash;&mdash;l
      h&mdash;&mdash;h&mdash;&mdash;id wore her chains for many months; and it
      was probably more in the spirit of revenge for open neglect, than
      admiration of such a <span class="pagenum">[316]</span>faded beau, that
      lady G&mdash;&mdash; B&mdash;&mdash; admitted the E&mdash;&mdash; of B&mdash;&mdash;e
      to usurp the husband's place and privilege.
    </p>
    <p>
      It is extraordinary that the circumstance just mentioned, which was
      notorious, was not brought forward in mitigation of the damages for the
      loss of conjugal joys; and which a jury of citizens, with a tender feeling
      for their own honour, valued at ten thousand pounds. My lord G&mdash;&mdash;
      B&mdash;&mdash; pocketed the injury and the ten thousand,; and his noble
      substitute has since made the 'amende honorable' to public morals, by
      uniting his destinies with an amiable woman, the daughter of a doctor of
      music, and a beauty of the sister country, who does honour to the rank to
      which she has been so unexpectedly elevated.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Mrs. C&mdash;&mdash;i had no acquaintance of her own sex in the world of
      gaiety but one; the beautiful, interesting, Mademoiselle St. M&mdash;g&mdash;te,
      then (1812 and 1813) in the zenith of her charms. The gentle Ad&mdash;l&mdash;de,
      whose sylph-like form, graceful movements, and highly polished manner,
      delighted all who knew her, formed a strange and striking contrast to the
      short, fat, bustling, salacious Aug&mdash;ta, whose boisterous bon-mots,
      and horse-laughical bursts, astonished rather than charmed. Both, however,
      found abundance of admirers to their several tastes. It was early in the
      spring of 1814 that the subject of this article had the good or evil
      fortune to attract the eye of a noble lord of some notoriety, who pounced
      on his plump prey with more of the amorous assurance of the bird of Jove
      than the cautious hoverings of the wary H&mdash;ke. Love like his admitted
      of no delay. Preliminaries were soon arranged, under the auspices of that
      experienced matron, Madame D'E&mdash;v&mdash;e, whose address, in this
      delicate negotiation, extorted from his lordship's generosity, besides a
      cheque on H&mdash;&mdash;d and
    </p>
    <p>
      G&mdash;bbs for a cool hundred, the payment of 'brother Martin's' old
      score, of long standing, for bed and board at Madame's house of business,
      little St. Martin's-<span class="pagenum">[317]</span>street. The public
      have been amused with the ridiculous story of the mock marriage; but
      whatever were his faults or follies, and he is since called to his
      account, his l&mdash;ds&mdash;p stands guiltless of this. 'Tis true, her
      'ladyship' asserted, nay, we believe, swore as much; but she is known to
      possess such boundless imaginative faculties, that her nearest and dearest
      friends have never yet been able to detect her in the weakness of uttering
      a palpable truth. The assumption of the name and title arose out of a
      circumstance so strange, so ridiculous, and so unsavoury, that, with all
      our 'gusto' for fun, we must omit it: suffice it to say, that it
      originated in&mdash;what?&mdash;gentle reader&mdash;in a dose of physic!!!
      For further particulars, apply to Mrs. C&mdash;&mdash;l, of the C&mdash;s&mdash;le
      S&mdash;t&mdash;h&mdash;ll. After this strange event, which imparted to
      her ladyship all the honours of the coronet, Mrs. C&mdash;&mdash;i was to
      be seen in the park, from day to day; the envy of every less fortunate
      Dolly, and the horror of the few friends which folly left her lordly dupe.
      In this state of doubtful felicity her ladyship rolled on (for she almost
      lived in her carriage) for three years; when, alas! by some cruel caprice
      of love, or some detected intrigue, or from the holy scruples of his
      lordship's Reverend adviser, Padre Ambrosio, this connexion was suddenly
      dissolved at Paris; when Mrs. C&mdash;&mdash;, no longer acknowledged as
      my lady, was at an hour's notice packed off in the Dilly for Dover, and
      her jewels, in half the time, packed up in their casket and despatched to
      Lafitte's, in order to raise the ways and means for the peer and his
      ghostly confessor!
    </p>
    <p>
      "Her ladyship's next attempt at notoriety was her grand masked ball at the
      Argyll rooms in 1818; an entertainment which, for elegant display and
      superior arrangement, did great credit to her taste, or to that of her
      broad-shouldered Milesian friend, to whom it is said the management of the
      whole was committed. The expense of this act of folly has been variously
      <span class="pagenum">[318]</span>estimated; and the honour of defraying
      it gratuitously allotted to an illustrious commander, whose former
      weakness and culpability has been amply redeemed by years of truly r&mdash;&mdash;l
      benevolence and public service. We can state, however, that neither the
      purse or person of the royal D&mdash;&mdash;contributed to the <i>éclat</i>
      of the <i>fête</i>. An amorous Hebrew city clerk, who had long '<i>looked
      and loved</i>' at humble distance, taking advantage of his uncle's absence
      on the continent in a <i>diamond hunting</i> speculation, having left the
      immediate jewel of His soul, his cash, at home, the enamoured youth seized
      the very 'nick o' time,' furnished half the funds for the night, for half
      a morning's conversation in Upper Y&mdash;street: her ladyship's
      indefatigable industry furnished the other moiety in a couple of days. A
      Mr. Z&mdash;ch&mdash;y contributed fifty, which coming to the ears of his
      sandy-haired lassie, his own paid forfeit of his folly, to their almost
      total abstraction from the thick head to which they project with asinine
      pride. Since this splash in the whirlpool of fashionable folly, her
      'ladyship,' for she clings to the rank with all the tenacity of a fencible
      field officer, has lived in comparative retirement near E&mdash;dg&mdash;e
      R&mdash;d, nursing a bantling of the new era, and singing '<i>John
      Anderson my Joe</i>' to her now 'gude man;' only occasionally relapsing
      into former gaieties by a sly trip to Box Hill or Virginia Water with the
      grandson of a barber, a flush but gawky boy, who, forgetting that it is to
      the talents and judicial virtues of his honoured sire he owes his
      elevation, rejects that proud and wholesome example; and, by his arrogance
      and vanity, excites pity for the father and contempt for the son. Her
      ladyship, who by her own confession has been 'just nine and twenty' for
      the last ten years, may still boast of her conquests. Her amour with the
      <i>yellow dwarf</i> of G&mdash;vs&mdash;r P&mdash;e is too good to be
      lost. They are followed by one, who, time was, would have chased them
      round the Steyne <span class="pagenum">[319]</span>and into cover with all
      the spirit of a true sportsman; but his days of revelry are past,&mdash;that
      is the celebrated <i>roué</i>, C&mdash;&mdash; L&mdash;&mdash;, a '<i>trifle
      light as air,</i>' yet in nature's spite a very ultra in the pursuit of
      gallantry. To record the number of frail fair ones to whose charms he
      owned ephemeral homage would fill a volume. The wantons wife whose vices
      sunk her from the drawing-room to the lobby; the{4} kitchen wench, whose
      pretty face and lewd ambition raised her to it; the romance bewildered{5}
      Miss, and the rude unlettered {6} villager, the hardened drunken
      profligate, and the timid half-ruined victim (the almost infant Jenny!)
      have all in turn tasted his bounty and his wine, have each been honoured
      with a page in his trifles: of his caresses he wisely was more chary.
      Which of the frail sisterhood has not had a ride in G&mdash;&mdash; L&mdash;&mdash;'s
      worn out in the service 1 and which in its day might be said to roll
      mechanically from C&mdash;&mdash;L&mdash;&mdash;to C&mdash;&mdash;s-s&mdash;t,
      with almost instinctive precision. But his days of poesy and nights of
      folly are now past!
    </p>
    <p>
      Honest C&mdash;&mdash;has taken the hint from nature, and retired, at
      once, from the republics of Venus and of letters. A kind, a generous, and
      a susceptible heart like his must long ere this have found, in the arms of
      an amiable wife, those unfading and honourable joys which, reflection must
      convince him, were not to be extracted from those foul and polluted
      sources from whence he sought and drew a short-lived pleasure."
    </p>
    <p>
      You know Crony's affection for a good dinner, and will not therefore be
      surprised that I had the honour of his company this day; but i'faith he
      deserved his reward for the cheerfulness and amusement with which he
      contrived to kill time.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     3 Lady B&mdash;&mdash;e.

     4 Mrs. H&mdash;&mdash;y.

     5 Louisa V&mdash;&mdash;e.

     6 Mrs. S&mdash;d&mdash;s.

     7 Mrs. S&mdash;mm&mdash;ns.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[320]</span>In the evening it was proposed to visit
      the libraries; but as these places of public resort are not always
      eligible for the appearance of a star, Crony and myself were despatched
      first to reconnoitre and report to the Countess our opinions of the
      assembled group. The association of society has perhaps undergone a
      greater change in England within the last thirty years than any other of
      our peculiar characteristics; at least, I should guess so from Crony's
      descriptions of the persons who formerly honoured the libraries with their
      presence; but whose names (if they now condescend to subscribe) are
      entered in a separate book, that they may not be defiled by appearing in
      the same column with the plebeian host of the three nations who form the
      united family of Great Britain. "Ay, sir," said Crony, with a sigh that
      bespoke the bitterness of reflection, "I remember when this spot
      (Luccombe's library) was the resort of all the beauty and brilliancy that
      once illumined the hemisphere of Calton palace,&mdash;the satellites of
      the heir apparent, the brave, the witty, and the gay,&mdash;the
      soul-inspiring, mirthful band, whose talents gave a splendid lustre to the
      orb of royalty, far surpassing the most costly jewel in his princely
      coronet. But they are gone, struck to the earth by the desolating hand of
      the avenger Death, and have left no traces of their genius upon the minds
      of their successors."
    </p>
    <p>
      Of the motley assemblage which now surrounds us it would be difficult to
      attempt a picture. The pencil of a Cruikshank or a Rowlandson might indeed
      convey some idea; but all weaker hands would find the subject
      overpowering. A mob of manufacturers, melting hot, elbowing one another
      into ill-humour, by their anxiety to teach their offspring the fashionable
      vice of gaming; giving the pretty innocents a taste for <i>loo</i>, which
      generally ends in <i>loo</i>-sening what little purity of principle the
      prejudice of education has left upon their intellect. In our more
      fashionable <i>hells</i>, wine and choice <i>liqueurs</i> are the
      stimulants <span class="pagenum">[321]</span>to vice; here, the seduction
      consists in the strumming of an ill-toned piano, to the squeaking of some
      poor discordant whom poverty compels to public exposure; and who,
      generally being of the softer sex, pity protects from the severity of
      critical remark. I need not say our report to the Dalmaines was
      unfavourable; and the divine little countess, frustrated in her intentions
      of honouring the libraries with her presence, determined upon promenading
      up the West Cliff, attended by old Crony and myself. The bright-eyed
      goddess of the night emitted a ray of more than usual brilliancy, and o'er
      the blue waters of the deep spread forth a silvery and refulgent lustre,
      that lent a charm of magical inspiration to the rippling waves. For what
      of nature's mighty works can more delight, than
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          '&mdash;&mdash;Circling ocean, when the swell
          By zephyrs borne from off the main,
          Heaves to the breeze, and sinks again?'
</pre>
    <p>
      The deep murmuring of the hollow surge as it rolls over the pebble beach,
      the fresh current of saline air that braces and invigorates, and the
      uninterrupted view of the watery expanse, are attractions of delight and
      contemplation which are nowhere to be enjoyed in greater perfection than
      at Brighton. The serenity of the evening induced us to pass the barrier of
      the chain-pier, and bend our steps towards the projecting extremity of
      that ingenious structure. An old Welsh harper was touching his instrument
      with more than usual skill for an itinerant professor, while the plaintive
      notes of the air he tuned accorded with the solemnity of the surrounding
      scene. "I could pass an evening here," said the countess, in a somewhat
      contemplative mood, "in the society of kindred spirits, with more
      delightful gratification than among the giddy throng who meet at
      Almack's." Crony bowed to the ground, overpowered by the <span
      class="pagenum">[322]</span>compliment; while your humble servant, less
      obsequious, but equally conscious of the flattering honour, advanced my
      left foot sideways, drew up my right longitudinally, and touched my beaver
      with a <i>congée</i>, that convinced me I had not forgotten the early
      instructions of our old Eton posture-master, the all-accomplished Signor
      Angelo. "A __wery hextonishing vurk, this here pier," said a fat, little
      squab of a citizen, sideling up to Crony like a full-grown porpoise; "<i>wery
      hexpensive</i>, and <i>wery huseless, I thinks</i>" continued the
      intruder. Crony reared his crest in silent indignation, while his visage
      betokened an approaching storm; but a significant look from the countess
      gave him the hint that some amusement might be derived from the <i>animal</i>;
      who, without understanding the contempt he excited, proceeded&mdash;"<i>Vun</i>
      of the new <i>bubble</i> companies' <i>specks, I supposes, vat old daddy
      Boreas vill blow avay sum night in a hurrikin</i>. It puts me <i>wery</i>
      much in mind of a two bottle man." "Why so?" said Crony. "Bekause it's
      only half seas <i>hover</i>." This little civic <i>jeu d'esprit</i> made
      his peace with us by producing a hearty laugh, in which he did not fail to
      join in unison. "But are you aware of the usefulness and national
      importance of the projector's plans? said Crony. "Not I," responded the
      citizen: "I hates all projections of breweries, bridges, buildings, and
      boring companies, from the Golden-lane speck to the Vaterloo; from thence
      up to the new street, and down to the tunnel under the Thames, vich my
      banker, Sir William Curtis, says, is the greatest bore in London." "But
      humanity, sir," said Crony, "has, I hope, some influence with you; and
      this undertaking is intended not only for the healthful pleasure of the
      Brighton visitors, but for the convenience of vessels in distress, and the
      landing of passengers in bad weather." "Ay, there it is,&mdash;that's
      hexactly vat I thought; to help our rich people more easily out of <span
      class="pagenum">[323]</span>the country, and bring a set of poor
      half-starved foreigners in: vy, I'm told it's to be carried right across
      the channel in time, and then the few good ones ve have left vill be
      marching off to the enemy." This conceit amused the countess exceedingly,
      and was followed by many other equally strange expressions and
      conjectures; among which, Crony contrived to persuade him that great
      amusement was to be derived in bobbing for mackerel and turbot with the
      line: a pleasure combining so much of profit in expectancy that the old
      citizen was, at last, induced to admit the utility of the chain-pier.
    </p>
    <p>
      Retracing our steps towards the Steyne, we had one more good laugh at our
      companion's credulity, who expressed great anxiety to know what the huge
      wheel was intended for, which is at the corner by the barrier, and throws
      up water for the use of the town; but which, Crony very promptly assured
      him, was the grand action of the improved roasting apparatus at the York
      hotel. We now bade farewell to our amusing companion, and proceeded to
      view the new plunging bath at the bottom of East-street, built in the form
      of an amphitheatre, and surrounded by dressing-rooms, with a fountain in
      the centre, from which a continued supply of salt-water is obtained. The
      advantages may be great in bad weather; but to my mind there is nothing
      like the open sea, particularly as confined water is always additionally
      cold. On our arrival at home, a parcel from London brought the enclosed
      from Tom Echo, upon whom the sentence of rustication has, I fear, been
      productive of fresh follies.
    </p>
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    <p>
      Dear Heartily,
    </p>
    <p>
      Having cut college for a <i>bolt</i> to the <i>village</i>,{8} I expected
      to have found you in the <i>bay of condolence</i>,{9} but hear you left
      your <i>moorings</i> lately
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     8 London, so called at Oxford.

     9 The consolation afforded by friends when <i>plucked</i> or
     rusticated.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[324]</span>to <i>waste the ready</i> among the <i>sharks</i>
      at Brighton. Though not quite at <i>point nonplus</i>, I am very near the
      <i>united kingdoms</i> of <i>Sans Souci and Sans Sixsous</i>,{10} and
      shall bring to, and wait for company, in the province of Bacchus. I have
      only just quitted <i>Æager Haven</i>, and been very near the <i>Wall</i>{11};
      have sustained another dreadful fire from <i>Convocation Castle,</i>{12}
      which had nigh shattered my <i>fore-lights</i>, and was very near being <i>blown
      up</i> in attempting to pass the <i>Long Hope</i>.{13} If you wish to save
      an old Etonian from <i>east jeopardy</i>,{14} set sail directly, and tow
      me out of the <i>river Tick</i> into the <i>region of rejoicing</i>; then
      will we get <i>bosky</i> together, sing old songs, tell merry tales, and
      <i>spree</i> and <i>sport</i> on the <i>states of Independency</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      Yours truly,
    </p>
    <p>
      The <i>Oxford rustic</i>,
    </p>
    <p>
      London.
    </p>
    <p>
      TOM ECHO.
    </p>
    <p>
      P. S. I should not have cut so suddenly, but joined Bob Transit and
      Eglantine in giving two of the old big wigs a flying leap t'other evening,
      as they left Christ Church Hall, in return for rusticating me:&mdash;to
      escape suspicion, broke away by the mail. I know your affection for a good
      joke, so induced Bob to book it, and let me have the sketch, which I here
      enclose.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     10  Riddance of cares, and, ultimately, of sixpences.

     11  The depot of invalids; Dr. Wall being a celebrated
     surgeon, whose skill is proverbial in the cure of the
     Headington or Bagley fever. For a view of poor Tom during
     his suffering&mdash;<i>(see plate by Bob Transit.)</i>

     12  The House of Convocation in Oxford, when the twenty-five
     heads of Colleges and the masters meet to transact and
     investigate university affairs.

     13  The symbol of long expectation in studying for a degree.

     14  Terrors of anticipation. The remaining phrases have all
     been explained in an earlier part of the Work.
</pre>
    <p>
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    <p>
      Mad as the D'Almaine's must think me for obeying such a summons, I have
      just bade them adieu, and am off to-morrow, by the earliest coach, for
      London. The only place I have omitted to notice, in my sketches of
      Brighton, is the Club House on the Steyne Parade, where a few <i>old rooks</i>
      congregate, to keep a sharp look-out for an unsuspecting <i>green one</i>,
      or a wealthy <i>pigeon</i>, who, if once <i>netted</i>, seldom succeeds in
      quitting the trap without being plucked of a few of his feathers. The
      greatest improvement to a place barren of foliage and the agreeable
      retirement of overshadowed walks, is the Royal Gardens, on the level at
      the extremity of the town, in a line with the Steyne enclosures as you
      enter from the London road. The taste, variety, and accommodation
      displayed in this elegant place of amusement, renders it certainly the
      most attractive of public gardens, while the arrangements are calculated
      to gratify all <span class="pagenum">[326]</span>classes of society
      without the danger of too crowded an assemblage. Let us see you when term
      ends; and in the interim expect a long account of sprees and sports in the
      village.
    </p>
    <p>
      Horatio Heartly.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      METROPOLITAN SKETCHES.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <i>Heartly, Echo, and Transit start for a Spree&mdash;Scenes by
     Daylight, Starlight, and Gaslight&mdash;Black Mon-day at
     Tattersall's&mdash;The first Meeting after the Great St. Leger&mdash;
     Heroes of the Turf paying and receiving&mdash;Dinner at
     Fishmongers' Hall&mdash;Com-mittee of Greeks&mdash;The Affair of the
     Cogged Dice&mdash;A regular Break-down&mdash;Rules for the New Club&mdash;
     The Daffy Club, or a musical Muster of the Fancy: striking
     Portraits&mdash;Counting the Stars&mdash;Covent Garden, what it was,
     and what it is&mdash;The Finish&mdash;Anecdotes of Characters&mdash;The
     Hall of Infamy, alias the Covent Garden Hell.</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      Of all the scenes where rich and varied character is to be found in the
      metropolis and its environs, none can exceed that emporium for sharps and
      flats, famed Tattersall's, whether for buying a good horse, betting a
      round sum, or, in the sporting phrase, learning how to make the best of
      every thing. "Shall we take a <i>tooddle</i> up to Hyde-park corner?" said
      Echo; "this is the settling day for all bets made upon the great Doncaster
      St. Léger, when the <i>swells book up</i>, and the knowing ones <i>draw</i>
      their <i>bussel</i>:&mdash;<i>Black</i> Monday, as Sir John Lade terms it,
      when the event has not come off right." "A noble opportunity," replied
      Transit, "for a picture of turf curiosities. Come, Heartly, throw
      philosophy aside, and let us set forth for a day's enjoyment, and then to
      finish with a night of frolic. An occasional spree is as necessary to the
      relaxation of the mind, as exercise is to <span class="pagenum">[328]</span>ensure
      health. The true secret to make life pleasant, and study profitable, is to
      be able to throw off our cares as we do our morning gowns, and, when we
      sally forth to the world, derive fresh spirit, vigour, and information
      from cheerful companions, good air, and new objects. High 'Change among
      the heroes of the turf presents ample food for the humorist; while the
      strange contrast of character and countenance affords the man of, feeling
      and discernment subject for amusement and future contemplation." It was in
      the midst of one of the most numerous meetings ever remembered at
      Tattersall's, when Barefoot won the race, contrary to the general
      expectation of the knowing ones, that we made our <i>entré</i>. With Echo
      every sporting character was better known than his college tutor, and not
      a few kept an eye upon the boy, with hopes, no doubt, of hereafter
      benefiting by his inexperience, when, having got the whip-hand of his
      juvenile restrictions, he starts forth to the world a man of fashion and
      consequence, with an unencumbered property of fifteen thousand per annum,
      besides expectancies. "Here's a game of chess for you, Transit," said
      Echo; "why, every move upon the board is a character, and not one but what
      is worth booking. Observe the arch slyness of the jockey yonder,
      ear-wigging his patron, a young blood of the fancy, into a <i>good thing</i>;
      particularising all the capabilities and qualities of the different horses
      named, and making the event (in his own estimation) as <i>sure as the Bank
      of England</i>:&mdash;how finely contrasted with the easy indifference of
      the dignified sportsman near him, who leaves all to chance, spite of the
      significant nods and winks from a regular <i>artiste</i> near him, who
      never suffers him to make a bet out of the ring, if it is possible to
      prevent him, by throwing in a little suspicion, in order that he and his
      friends may have the plucking of their victim exclusively. The
      portly-looking man in the left-hand corner <i>(see <span class="pagenum">[329]</span>plate)</i>
      is Mr. Tanfield, one of the greatest betting men on the turf; who can lose
      and pay twenty thousand without moving a muscle, and pocket the like sum
      without indulging in a smile; always steady as old Time, and never giving
      away a chance, but carefully keeping his eye upon Cocker (i. e. his book),
      to see how the odds stand, and working away by that system which is well
      understood under the term management. In front of him is the sporting Earl
      of Sefton, and that highly-esteemed son of Nimrod, Colonel Hilton Joliffe,&mdash;men
      of the strictest probity, and hence often appointed referees on matters in
      dispute.
    </p>
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    <p>
      Lawyer L&mdash;&mdash;, and little Wise-man, are settling their
      differences with <i>bluff</i> Bland, who carries all his bets in his
      memory till he reaches home, because a book upon the spot would be
      useless. In the right-hand corner, just in front of old General B&mdash;&mdash;n,
      is John Gully, once the pugilist, but now a man of considerable property,
      which has been principally acquired by his knowledge of calculation, and
      strict attention to honourable conduct: there are few men on the turf more
      respected, and very few among those who keep <i>betting</i> books whose
      conduct will command the same approbation. The old beau in the corner is
      Sir Lumley S&mdash;&mdash;n, who, without the means to bet much, still
      loves to linger near the scene of former extravagance." "A good disciple
      of Lavater," said Transit, "might tell the good or ill fortunes of those
      around him, by a slight observance of their countenances. See that
      merry-looking, ruby-faced fellow just leaving the door of the
      subscription-room: can any body doubt that he has <i>come off all right</i>?&mdash;or
      who would dispute that yon pallid-cheeked gentleman, with a long face and
      quivering lip, betrays, by the agitation of his nerves, the extent of his
      sufferings? The peer with a solemn visage tears out his last check, turns
      upon his heel, whistles a tune, and sets against the gross amount of his
      losses another mortgage of <span class="pagenum">[330]</span>the family
      acres, or a <i>post obit</i> upon some expectancy: the regular sporting
      man, the out and outer, turns to his book&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'For there he finds, <i>no matter who has won</i>,{1}
          Whichever animal, or mare, or colt;
          Nay, though each horse that started for't should bolt,
          Or all at once fall lame, or die, or stray,
          He yet must pocket hundreds by the day.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      Two or three amusing scenes took place among those who wanted, and those
      who had nothing to give, but yet were too honourable to <i>levant</i>:
      many exhibited outward and visible signs of inward grief. A man of metal
      dropped his last sovereign with a sigh, but chafed a little about false
      reports of chaunting up a losing horse, doing the <i>thing neatly</i>,
      keeping the secret, and other such like delicate innuendoes, which among
      sporting men pass current, provided the losers pay promptly. Several, who
      had gone beyond their depth, were recommended to the consideration of the
      humane, in hopes that time might yet bring them about. We had now passed
      more than two hours among the motley group, when Tom, having exchanged the
      time o'day with most of his sporting friends, proposed an adjournment to
      <i>Fishmongers' Hall</i>, or, as he prefaced it, with a visit to the New
      Club in St. James's-street; to which resort of Greeks and gudgeons we
      immediately proceeded.
    </p>
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    <p>
      We had just turned the corner of St. James's-street, and were preparing to
      ascend the steps which lead to the New Club, as Crockford's establishment
      is termed, when old Crony accosted me.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 To all but betting men, this must appear impossible; but
     management is every thing; and with a knowledge of the
     secret, according to turf logic, it is one hundred to one
     against calculation, and, by turf mathematics, five hundred
     to one against any event coming right upon the square. In
     the sporting phrase, 'turf men never back any thing to win;'
     they have no favourites, unless there is a X; and their
     common practice is to accommodate all, by taking the odds,
     till betting is reduced to a <i>certainty</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[331]</span>He had it seems come off by the Brighton
      ten o'clock coach, and was now, "according to his usual custom i' the
      afternoon," on the look-out for an <i>invite</i> to a good dinner and a
      bottle. As I knew he would prove an agreeable, if not a very useful
      companion in our present enterprise, I did not hesitate to present him to
      Echo and Transit, who, upon my very flattering introduction, received him
      graciously; although Bob hinted he was rather <i>too old</i> for a <i>play-fellow</i>,
      and Echo whispered me to keep a <i>sharp lookout</i>, as he strongly
      suspected he was a <i>staff officer</i> of the <i>new Greek corps of
      Sappers and Miners</i>. In London you can neither rob nor be robbed
      genteelly without a formal introduction: how Echo had contrived it I know
      not, but we were very politely ushered into the grand club-room, a
      splendid apartment of considerable extent, with a bow-window in front,
      exactly facing White's.
    </p>
    <p>
      To speak correctly of the elegance and taste displayed in the decorations
      and furniture, not omitting the costly sideboard of richly-chased plate, I
      can only say it rivalled any thing I had ever before witnessed, and was
      calculated to impress the young mind with the most extravagant ideas of
      the wealth and magnificence of the members or <i>committee</i>. The
      Honourable Mr. B&mdash;&mdash;, one of the brothers of the Earl of R&mdash;&mdash;,
      was the <i>procureur</i> to whom, I found, we were indebted, for the
      present <i>honour</i>&mdash;a gay man, of some fashionable notoriety,
      whose fortune is said to have suffered severely by his attachment to the
      <i>orthodox orgies</i> at the once celebrated Gothic Hall, when Parson
      John Ambrose used to officiate as the presiding minister. "Here he is a
      member of the committee," said Crony, "and, with his brother and the old
      Lord F&mdash;&mdash;, the Marquis H&mdash;&mdash;, Colonel C&mdash;&mdash;,
      and the Earl of G&mdash;&mdash;, forms the <i>secret directory</i> of the
      New Club, which is considered almost as good a thing as a Mexican mine;
      for, if report speaks truly, the amount <span class="pagenum">[332]</span>of
      the profits in the last season exceeded one hundred thousand pounds, after
      payment of expenses." A sudden crash in the street at this moment drew the
      attention of all to the window, where an accident presented a very ominous
      warning to those within <i>(see plate)</i>. "A regular break down," said
      Echo. "<i>Floored</i>" said Transit, "<i>but not much the matter</i>." "I
      beg your pardon, sir," said a wry-mouthed portly-looking gentleman, who
      stood next to Bob; "it is a very <i>awkward</i> circumstance to have
      occurred just here: I'll bet ten to one it spoils all the <i>play</i>
      to-night; and if any of those newspaper fellows get to hear of it, <i>Fishmongers'
      Hall</i> and its members will figure in print again to-morrow;" and with
      that he bustled off to the street to assist in re-producing a <i>move</i>
      with all possible celerity. "Who the deuce was the queer-looking <i>cawker</i>?"
      we all at once inquired of Crony. "What, gentlemen! not know the
      director-general, the accomplished commander-in-chief, the thrice-renowned
      Cocker Crockford? (so named from his admirable tact at calculation): why,
      I thought every one who had witnessed a horse-race, or a boxing-match, or
      betted a guinea at Tattersall's, must have known the <i>director</i>, who
      has been a notorious character among the sporting circles for the last
      thirty years: and, if truth be told, is not the worst of a bad lot. About
      five-and-twenty years since I remember him," said Crony, "keeping a snug
      little fishmonger's shop, at the corner of Essex-street, in the Strand,
      where I have often betted a guinea with him on a trotting match, for he
      was then fond of <i>the thing</i>, and attended the races and fights in
      company with old Jerry Cloves, the lighterman, who is now as well <i>breeched</i>
      as himself. It is a very extraordinary fact," continued Crony, "and one
      which certainly excites suspicion, that almost all those who have made
      large fortunes by the turf or play are men of obscure origin, who, but a
      few years since, were not worth a guinea, <span class="pagenum">[333]</span>while
      those by whom they have risen are now reduced to beggary." How many
      representatives of noble houses, and splendid patrimonies, handed down
      with increasing care from generation, to generation, have been ruined and
      dissipated by this pernicious vice! &mdash;the gay and inexperienced
      nipped in the very bud of life, and plunged into irretrievable misery&mdash;while
      the high-spirited and the noble-minded victims to false honour, too often
      seek a refuge from despair in the grave of the suicide! Such were the
      reflections that oppressed my mind while contemplating the scene before
      me: I was, however, roused from my reverie by Crony's continuation of the
      <i>director's</i> history. "He bears the character of an honourable man,"
      said our Mentor, "among the play world, and has the credit of being
      scrupulously particular in all matters of play and pay. For the fashion of
      his manners, they might be much improved, certainly; but for generosity
      and a kind action, there are very few among the <i>Greeks</i> who excel
      the old fishmonger. He was formerly associated with T&mdash;l-r and others
      in the French Hazard Bank, at Watier's Club House, corner of Bolton-row;
      but T&mdash;l-r, having purchased the house without the knowledge of his
      partners, wanted so many exclusive advantages for himself, that the
      director withdrew, just in time to save himself from the obloquy of an
      affair which occurred shortly afterwards, in which certain persons were
      charged with using false dice. The complainant, a young sprig of fashion,
      seized the <i>unhallowed bones</i>, and bore them off in triumph to a
      stick shop in the neighbourhood; where, for some time afterwards, they
      were exhibited to the gaze of many a fashionable dupe. The circumstance
      produced more than one good effect&mdash;it prevented a return of any
      disposition to play on the part of the detector, and closed the house for
      ever since." After the dinner, which was served up in a princely style, we
      were invited by the Honourable to <span class="pagenum">[334]</span>view
      the upper apartment, called the Grand Saloon, a true picture of which
      accompanies this, from the pencil of my friend, Bob Transit, and into
      which he has contrived to introduce the affair of the cogged dice <i>(see
      plate)</i>, a licence always allowable to poets and painters in the union
      of time and place. The characters here will speak for themselves.
    </p>
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    <p>
      They are all sketches from the life, and as like the originals as the
      reflection of their persons would be in a looking-glass. By the
      frequenters of such places they will be immediately recognised; while to
      the uninitiated the family cognomen is of little consequence, and is
      omitted, as it might give pain to worthy bosoms who are not yet
      irrecoverably lost. By the strict rules of <i>Fishmongers' Hall</i>, the
      members of Brookes', White's, Boodle's, the Cocoa Tree, Alfred and
      Travellers' clubs only are admissible; but this restriction is not always
      enforced, particularly where there is a chance of a <i>good bite</i>. The
      principal game played here is French Hazard, the director and friends
      supplying the bank, the premium for which, with what the box-money
      produces, forms no inconsiderable source of profit. It is ridiculous to
      suppose any unfair practices are ever resorted to in the general game; in
      a mixed company they would be easily detected, and must end in the ruin of
      the house: but the chances of the game, calculation, and superior play,
      give proficients every advantage, and should teach the inexperienced
      caution. "It is heart-rending," said Crony, whom I had smuggled into one
      corner of the room, for the purpose of enjoying his remarks free from
      observation, "to observe the progress of the unfortunate votaries to this
      destructive vice, as they gradually proceed through the various stages of
      its seductive influence. The young and thoughtless are delighted with the
      fascination of the scene: to the more profligate sensualist it affords an
      opportunity of enjoying the choicest <i>liqueurs</i>, coffee, and wines,
      <span class="pagenum">[335]</span>free of expense; and, although he may
      have no money to lose himself, he can do the house a <i>good turn</i>, by
      introducing some <i>pigeon</i> who has <i>just come out</i>; and he is
      therefore always a welcome visitor. At Crockford's, all games where the
      aid of mechanism would be necessary are cautiously avoided, not from any
      moral dislike to <i>Rouge et Noir or Roulette</i>, but from the
      apprehension of an occasional visit from the police, and the danger
      attending the discovery of such apparatus, which, from its bulk, cannot
      easily be concealed. In the space of an hour Echo had lost all the money
      he possessed, and had given his I O U for a very considerable sum;
      although frequently urged to desist by Transit, who, with all his love of
      life and frolic, is yet a decided enemy to gaming. One excess generally
      leads to another. From Tattersall's we had passed to Crockford's; and on
      quitting the latter it was proposed we should visit Tom Belcher's, the
      Castle Tavern, Holborn, particularly as on this night there was a weekly
      musical muster of the <i>fancy</i>, yclept the <i>Daffy Club</i>; a scene
      rich in promise for the pencil of our friend Bob, of sporting information
      to Echo, and full of characteristic subject for the observation of the
      English Spy&mdash;of that eccentric being, of whom, I hope, I may continue
      to sing '<i>esto perpétua</i>!'
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Life is, with him, a golden dream,
          A milky way, where all's serene.
          Wit's treasured stores his humour wait,&mdash;
          His volume, man in every state,&mdash;
          From grave to gay, from rich to poor,
          From gilded dome to rustic door.
          Through all degrees life's varied page,
          He shows the manners of the age.
</pre>
    <p>
      The Daffy Club presents to the eye of a calm observer a fund of
      entertainment; to the merry mad-wag who is fond of <i>life</i>, blowing
      his <i>steamer</i>, and drinking <i>blue ruin</i>, until all is blue
      before him, a <span class="pagenum">[336]</span>source of infinite
      amusement; the convivial finds his antidote to the rubs and jeers of this
      world in a rum chaunt; while the out and outer may here open his mag-azine
      of tooth-powder, cause a grand explosion, and never fear to meet a
      broadside in return. The knowing cove finds his account in looking out for
      the green ones, and the greens find their head sometimes a little heavier,
      and their pockets lighter, by an accidental rencontre with the fancy. To
      see the place in perfection, a stranger should choose the night previous
      to some important mill, when our host of the Castle plays second, and all
      the lads are mustered to <i>stump up</i> their blunt, or to catch the
      important <i>whisper</i> where the <i>scene of action</i> is likely to be
      (for there is always due caution used in the disclosure), to take a peep
      at the pugilists present, and trot off as well satisfied as if he had
      partaken of a splendid banquet with the Great Mogul.
    </p>
    <p>
      The long room is neatly fitted up, and lighted with gas; and the numerous
      sporting subjects, elegantly framed and glazed, have rather an imposing
      effect upon the entrance of the visitor, and among which may be recognised
      animated likenesses of the late renowned Jem Belcher, and his daring
      competitor (that inordinate glutton) Burke. The fine whole-length portrait
      of Mr. Jackson stands between those of the Champion and Tom Belcher; the
      father of the present race of boxers, old Joe Ward; the Jew phenomenon,
      Dutch Sam; Bob Gregson, in water colours, by the late John Emery, of
      Covent Garden theatre; the scientific contest between Humphreys and
      Mendoza; also the battle between Crib and Jem Belcher; a finely executed
      portrait of the late tremendous Molineux; portraits of Gulley, Randall,
      Harmer, Turner, Painter, Tom Owen, and Scroggins, with a variety of other
      subjects connected with the turf, chase, &amp;c, including a good likeness
      of the dog Trusty, the champion of the canine race in fifty battles, and
      the favourite <span class="pagenum">[337]</span>animal of Jem Belcher, the
      gift of Lord Camelford&mdash;the whole forming a characteristic trait of
      the sporting world. The long table, or the ring, as it is facetiously
      termed, is where the <i>old slanders</i> generally perch themselves to
      receive the visits of the swells, and give each other the office relative
      to passing events: and what set of men are better able to speak of society
      in all its various ramifications, from the cabinet-counsellor to the <i>cosey
      costermonger</i>? Jemmy Soares, the president, must be considered a <i>downy
      one</i>; having served five apprenticeships to the office of sheriffs
      representative, and is as good a fellow in his way as ever <i>tapped a shy
      one</i> upon the shoulder-joint, or let fly a <i>ca sa</i> at your goods
      and chattels. Lucky Bob is a fellow of another stamp, "a <i>nation good
      vice</i>" as ever was attached to the house of <i>Brunswick</i>. Then
      comes our host, a civil, well-behaved man, without any of the exterior
      appearance of the ruffian, or perhaps I should say of his profession, and
      with all the good-natured qualifications for a peaceable citizen, and an
      obliging, merry landlord: next to him you will perceive the <i>immortal
      typo</i>, the all-accomplished Pierce Egan; an eccentric in his way, both
      in manner and person, but not deficient in that peculiar species of wit
      which fits him for the high office of historian of the ring. The ironical
      praise of Blackwood he has the good sense to turn to a right account,
      laughs at their satire, and pretends to believe it is all meant in <i>right-down
      earnest</i> approbation of his extraordinary merits. For a long while
      after his great instructor's neglect of his friends, Pierce kept
      undisturbed possession of the throne; but recently competitors have shown
      themselves in the field <i>well found</i> in all particulars, and carrying
      such witty and weighty ammunition wherewithal, that they more than
      threaten "to push the hero from his stool."{1} Tom 1 The editors of the
      Annals of Sporting, and Bell's Life in London, are both fellows of
      infinite wit.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[338]</span>Spring, who is fond of <i>cocking</i> as
      well as fighting, is seen with his bag in the right-hand corner, chaffing
      with the Duck-lane doss man; while Lawyer L&mdash;&mdash;e, a true
      sportsman, whether for the turf or chase, is betting the odds with brother
      Adey, Greek against Greek. Behind them are seen the heroes Scroggins and
      Turner; and at the opposite end of the table, a Wake-ful one, but a
      grosser man than either, and something of the <i>levanter</i>: the
      bald-headed stag on his right goes by the quaint cognomen of the <i>Japan
      oracle</i>, from the retentive memory he possesses on all sporting and
      pugilistic events. The old waiter is a picture every frequenter will
      recognise, and the smoking a dozer no unusual bit of a spree. Here, my
      dear Bernard, you have before you a true portrait of the celebrated
      Daffy{2} Club, done from the life by our
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 The great lexicographer of the fancy gives the following
     definition of the word Daffy. The phrase was coined at
     the mint of the Fancy, and has since passed current without
     ever being overhauled as queer. The Colossus of
     Literature, after all his nous and acute researches to
     explain the synonyms of the English language, does not
     appear to have been down to the interpretation of Daffy; nor
     indeed does Bailey or Sheridan seem at all fly to it; and
     even slang Grose has no touch of its extensive
     signification. The squeamish Fair One who takes it on the
     sly, merely to cure the vapours, politely names it to her
     friends as White Wine. The Swell chaffs it as Blue Ruin,
     to elevate his notions. The Laundress loves dearly a drain
     of Ould Tom, from its strength to comfort her inside. The
     drag Fiddler can toss off a quartern of Max without making a
     wry mug. The Costermonger illumines his ideas with a
     flash of lightning.' The hoarse Cyprian owes her existence
     to copious draughts of Jacky. The Link-boy and Mud Larks,
     in joining their browns together, are for some Stark Naked.
     And the Out and Outers, from the addition of bitters to it,
     in order to sharpen up a dissipated and damaged Victualling
     Office, cannot take any thing but Fuller's Earth. Much it
     should seem, therefore, depends upon a name; and as a soft
     sound is at all times pleasing to the listener&mdash;to have
     denominated this Sporting Society the Gin Club would not
     only have proved barbarous to the ear, but the vulgarity of
     the chant might have deprived it of many of its elegant
     friends. It is a subject, however, which it must be
     admitted has a good deal of Taste belonging to it&mdash;and as a
     Sporting Man would be nothing if he was not flash, the Daffy
     Club meet under the above title.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[339]</span>mutual friend, Bob Transit (see plate),
      in closing my account of which I have only to say, we were not
      disappointed in our search after variety, and came away high in spirits,
      and perfectly satisfied with the good-humour and social intercourse of our
      eccentric associates.
    </p>
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      <br /><br />
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    <p>
      The sad, the sober, and the sentimental were all gone to roost, before our
      merry trio sallied forth from the Castle Tavern, ripe for any sport or
      spree. Of all the bucks in this buckish age, your London buck is the only
      true fellow of spirit; with him life never begins too early, or finishes
      too late; how many of the west-end <i>roués</i> ride twenty miles out, in
      a cold morning, to meet the hounds, and after a hard day's run mount their
      hack and ride twenty miles home to have the pleasure of enjoying their own
      fire-side, or of relating the hair-breadth perils and escapes they have
      encountered, to their less active associates at Long's or Stevens's, the
      Cider Cellar, or the Coal-hole! The general introduction of gas throws too
      clear a light upon many dark transactions and midnight frolics to allow
      the repetition of the scenes of former times: here and there to be sure an
      odd nook, or a dark cranny, is yet left unenlightened; but the leading
      streets of the metropolis are, for the most part, too well illuminated to
      allow the <i>spreeish</i> or the <i>sprightly</i> to carry on their jokes
      in security, or bolt away with safety when a charley thinks proper to set
      his <i>child a crying</i>.{3} We had crossed the road, in the direction of
      Chancery-lane, expecting to have met with a hackney <i>rattler</i>, but
      not one was to be found upon the stand, when Bob espied the broad <i>tilt</i>
      of a <i>jarvey perched</i> upon his <i>shop-board</i>, and impelling
      along, with no little labour of the whip, a pair of <i>anatomies</i>,
      whose external appearance showed they
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     3 Springing his rattle.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[340]</span>had benefited very little by the opening
      of the ports for oats, or the digestive operation of the new corn-bill.
      "Hired, old Jarvey?" said Echo, fixing himself in the road before the
      fiery charioteer. "No, but tired, young Davey," replied the dragsman.
      "Take a fare to Covent Garden?" "Not if I knows it," was the knowing
      reply; "so stir your stumps, my tight one, or I shall drive over you."
      "You had better take us," said Transit. "I tell you I won't; I am a day
      man, going home, and I don't take night jobs." "But I tell you, you must,"
      said Echo; "so round with your drag, and we'll make your last day a long
      day, and give you the benefit of resurrection into the bargain." "Why,
      look ye, my jolly masters, if you're up to a lark of that 'ere sort, take
      care you don't get a floorer; I've got a rum customer inside what I'm
      giving a lift to for love&mdash;only Josh Hudson, the miller; and if he
      should chance to wake, I think he'll be for dusting some of your jackets."
      "What, my friend Josh inside?" vociferated Echo, "then it's all right: go
      it, my hearties; mount the box one on each hand, and make him drive us to
      the Finish&mdash;while I settle the matter with the inside passenger."
      Josh, who had all this time been taking <i>forty winks</i>, while on his
      road to his crony Belcher's, soon recognised his patron, Echo; and jarvey,
      finding that all remonstrance was useless, thought it better to make a
      "virtue of necessity;" so turning his machine to the right about, he, in
      due time, deposited us in the purlieus of Covent Garden. The hoarse note
      of the drowsy night-guard reverberated through the long aisle of the
      now-forsaken piazzas, as the trembling flame of the parish lamp,
      flittering in its half-exhausted jet, proclaimed the approach of day; the
      heavy rumbling of the gardeners' carts, laden with vegetables for the
      ensuing market, alone disturbed the quiet of the adjoining streets. In a
      dark angle might be seen the houseless wanderer, or the abandoned
      profligate, <span class="pagenum">[341]</span>gathered up like a lump of
      rags in a corner, and shivering with the nipping air. The gloom which
      surrounded us had, for a moment, chilled the wild exuberance of my
      companions' mirth; and it is more than probable we should have suspended
      our visit to the <i>Finish</i>, at least for that night, had not the
      jocund note of some uproarious Bacchanalian assailed our ears with the
      well-known college chant of old Walter de Mapes, "<i>Mihi est propositum
      in tabernâ mori</i>," which being given in G major, was re-echoed from one
      end to the other of the arched piazza: at a little distance we perceived
      the jovial singer reeling forwards, or rather working his way, from right
      to left, in sinuosities, along, or according to nautical phrase, upon
      __tack and half tack, bearing up to windward, in habiliments black as a
      crow, with the exception of his neckcloth and under vest; but judge our
      surprise and delight, when, upon nearer approach, we discovered the <i>bon
      vivant</i> to be no other than our old friend Crony, who had been
      sacrificing to the jolly god with those choice spirits the members of the
      Beefsteak Club,{4} who meet in a room built expressly
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     4 This Club, which may boast among its members some of the
     most distinguished names of the age, including royalty
     itself, owed its origin to the talents of those celebrated
     artists Richards and Loutherbourg, whose scenic performances
     were in those days often exhibited to a select number of the
     nobility and gentry, patrons of the drama and the arts, in
     the painting-room of the theatre, previous to their being
     displayed to the public. It was on one of those occasions
     that some noblemen surprised the artist cooking his beef-
     steak for luncheon in his painting-room, and kindly
     partaking of the <i>déjeuné à la fourchette</i>, with him,
     suggested and established the Beef-steak Club, which was
     originally, and up to the time of the fire, held in an
     apart-ment over the old Theatre Royal, Covent Garden; but
     since that period the members have been accommodated by Mr.
     Arnold, who built the present room expressly for their use.
     In page 216 of this work, allusion will be found by name to
     some of the brilliant wits who graced this festive board,
     and gave a lustre to the feast. In the old place of
     meeting the identical gridiron on which Richards and
     Loutherbourg operated was to be seen attached to the
     ceiling, emblematical of the origin of the society, which
     may now be considered as the only relic left of that social
     intercourse which formerly existed in so many shapes between
     those who were distinguished for their noble birth and
     wealth, and the poorer, but equally illustrious, of the
     children of Genius. It would be an act of injustice to the
     present race of scenic artists to close this note without
     acknowledging their more than equal merits to their
     predecessors: the Grieves (father and sons), Phillips,
     Marinari, Wilson, Tomkins, and Stanfield, are all names of
     high talent; but the novelty of their art has, from its
     general cultivation, lost much of this peculiar attraction.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[342]</span>for them over the audience part of the
      English Opera House. The ruby glow of the old boy's countenance shone like
      an omen of the merry humour of his mind. "What, out for a spree, boys, or
      just bailed from the watch-house, which is it? the alpha or omega, for
      they generally follow one another?" "Then you are in time for the <i>equivoque</i>,
      Crony," said Echo; "so enlist him, Transit;" and without more ceremony,
      Crony was marched off, __vi et armis, to the _Finish_, a coffee-house in
      James-street, Covent Garden, where the <i>peep-o'-day boys</i> and <i>family
      men</i> meet to conclude the night's debauch <i>(see plate)</i>; "<i>Video
      meliora proboque, Détériora sequoi</i>;" you will exclaim, and 'tis
      granted; but
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "<i>Lusus animo debent aliquando dari,
          Ad cogitandum melior ut red eat sibi</i>,"
</pre>
    <p>
      says Phodrus, and be the poet's apology mine, for I am neither afraid or
      ashamed to confess myself an admirer of life in all its variegated lights
      and shadows, deriving my amusement from the great source of knowledge, the
      study of that eccentric volume&mdash;man. The new police act has, in some
      measure, abated the extent of these nuisances, the low coffee-shops of the
      metropolis, which were, for the greater part, little better than a
      rendezvous for thieves of every description, depots both for the <span
      class="pagenum">[343]</span>plunder and the plunderer; where, if an
      unthinking or profligate victim once entered, he seldom came out without
      experiencing treatment which operated like a severe lesson, that would
      leave its moral upon his mind as long as he continued an inhabitant of the
      terrestrial world.
    </p>
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      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The attempt to describe the party around us baffled even the descriptive
      powers of old Crony; some few, indeed, were known to the man of the world
      as reputed sharpers,&mdash;fellows who are always to be found lingering
      about houses of such resort, to catch the inexperienced; when, having
      sacrificed their victim either by gambling, cheating, or swindling, they
      divide the profits with the keeper of the house, without whose assistance
      they could not hope to arrive at the necessary information, or be enabled
      to continue their frauds with impunity; but, thus protected, they have a
      ready witness at hand to speak to their character, without the suspicion
      of his being a confederate in their villany. Here might be seen the woman
      of pleasure, lost to every sense of her sex's shame, consuming the
      remaining portion of the night by a wasteful expenditure of her
      ill-acquired gains upon some abandoned profligate, bearing, indeed, the
      outward form of man, but presenting a most degrading spectacle&mdash;a
      wretch so lost to all sense of honour and manhood as meanly to subsist on
      the wages of prostitution. One or two characters I must not omit: observe
      the fair Cyprian with the ermine tippet, seated on the right of a
      well-known <i>billiard sharp</i>, who made his escape from Dublin for
      having dived a little too deep into the pockets of his brother emeralders;
      here he passes for a swell, and has abandoned his former profession for
      the more honest union of callings, a pimp and playman, in other words, a
      finished <i>Greek</i>. The lady was the <i>chère amie</i> of the
      unfortunate youth Hayward (designated as the modern Macheath), who
      suffered an ignominious death. He was betrayed and sold to the <span
      class="pagenum">[344]</span>officers by this very woman, upon whom he had
      lavished the earnings of his infamy, when endeavouring to secrete himself
      from the searching eye of justice. The unhappy female on the other side
      was early in life seduced by the once celebrated Lord B&mdash;&mdash;, by
      whose title, to his lasting infamy, she is still known: what she might
      have been, but for his arts, reflection too often compels her to
      acknowledge, when sober and sinking under her load of misery; at other
      times she has recourse to liquor to drown her complicated misfortunes;
      when wild and infuriated, she more nearly resembles a demon than a woman,
      spreading forth terror and destruction upon all around; in this state she
      is often brought to the police-office, where the humanity of the
      magistrates, softened perhaps by a recollection of her wrongs, generally
      operates to procure for her some very trifling and lenient sentence.{5}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          5 THE LIFE OF A WOMAN OF THE TOWN.

          Ah! what avails how once appear'd the fair,
          When from gay equipage she falls obscure?

          In vain she moves her livid lips in prayer;
          What man so mean to recollect the poor?

          From place to place, by unfee'd bailiffs drove,
          As fainting fawns from thirsty bloodhounds fly;

          See the sad remnants of unhallow'd love
          In prisons perish, or on dunghills die.

          Pimps and dependents once her beauties praised,
          And on those beauties, vermin-like, they fed;

          From wretchedness the crew her bounty raised,
          When by her spoils enrich'd&mdash;deny her bread.

          Through street to street she wends, as want betides,
          Like Shore's sad wife, in winter's dismal hours;

          The bleak winds piercing her unnourish'd sides,
          Her houseless head dripping with drizzy showers.

          Sickly she strolls amidst the miry lane,
          While streaming spouts dash on her unclothed neck;

          By famine pinch'd, pinch'd by disease-bred pain,
          Contrition's portrait, and rash beauty's wreck.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[345]</span>We had now passed from the first
      receptacle to an inner and more elegant apartment, where we could be
      accommodated with suitable refreshments, wine, spirits, or, in fact, any
      thing we pleased to order and were disposed to pay for; a practice at most
      of these early coffee-houses, as they are denominated. The company in this
      room were, as far as appearances went, of rather a better order; but an
      event soon occurred which convinced us that their morality was perhaps
      more exceptionable than the motley group which filled the outer chamber. A
      bevy of damsels were singing, flirting, and drinking, to amuse their
      companions,&mdash;when all at once the doors were forced open, and in
      rushed three of the principal officers of Bow-street, the indefatigable
      Bishop, the determined Smith, and the resolute Ruthven (see plate), all
      armed and prepared for some dreadful encounter: in an instant their
      followers had possessed themselves of the doors&mdash;flight, therefore,
      was in vain; and Bob Transit, in attempting it, narrowly escaped an
      awkward crack on the crania from old Jack Townshend, who being past active
      service, was posted at the entrance with the beak himself, to do garrison
      duty.
    </p>
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    <p>
      "<i>The traps! the traps!</i>" vociferated some one in the adjoining room;
      "<i>Douse the glims! stash it&mdash;stash it!</i>" was the general
      exclamation in ours: but before the party could effect their purpose, the
      principals were in safe custody: and the reader (i.e. pocket-book)
      containing all the stolen property, preserved from the flames by the wary
      eye and prompt arm of the <i>indefatigable</i> Bishop. Before any one was
      allowed to depart the room, a general muster and search took place, in
      which poor Bob Transit felt most awkward, as some voluptuous sketches
      found in his pocket called forth
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          She dies; sad outcast! heart-broke by remorse;
          Pale, stretch'd against th' inhospitable doors;
          While gathering gossips taunt the flesh less corse,
          And thank their gods <i>that they were never w&mdash;res!</i>
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[346]</span>the severe animadversion of his worship,
      the beak, who lamented that such fine talent should be thus immorally
      applied: with this brief lecture, and a caution for the future, we were
      allowed to escape; while almost all the rest, male and female, were
      marched off to an adjoining watch-house, to abide the public examination
      and fiat of the morrow. Of all the party, old Crony was the most sensibly
      affected by the late rencontre; twenty bottles of soda-water could not
      have produced a more important change. His conversation and appearance
      had, in an instant, recovered their wonted steadiness; and before we were
      half across the market, Crony was moralizing upon the dangers of the scene
      from which we had so recently and fortunately escaped. But hearts young
      and buoyant as ours, when lighted up by the fire of enterprise, and
      provoked to action by potent charges of the grape, were not to be dashed
      by one repulse, or compelled to beat a retreat at the first brush with a
      reconnoitring party; we had sallied forth in pursuit of a spree, and
      frolic we were determined upon,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "While misty night, with silent pace,
          Steals gradual o'er the wanton chase."
</pre>
    <p>
      There is something very romantic in prowling the streets of the metropolis
      at midnight, in quest of adventure; at least, so my companions insisted,
      and I had embarked too deeply in the night's debauch to moralize upon its
      consequences. How many a sober-looking face demure when morning dawns
      would blush to meet the accusing spirit of the night, dressed out in all
      the fantasies of whim and eccentricity with which the rosy god of midnight
      revelry clothes his laughter-loving bacchanals&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "While sleep attendant at her drowsy fane,
          Parent of ease, envelopes all your train!"
</pre>
    <p>
      The lamentations of old Crony brought to mind the <span class="pagenum">[347]</span>complaints
      of honest Jack Falstaff against his associates. "There is no truth in
      villanous man!" said our monitor. "I remember when a gentleman might have
      reeled round the environs of Covent Garden, in and out of every
      establishment, from the Bedford to Mother Butlers, without having his
      pleasures broken in upon by the irruptions of Bow-street mohawks, or his
      person endangered by any association he chose to mix with; but we are
      returning to the times of the <i>Roundheads</i> and the <i>Puritans; cant,</i>
      vile hypocritical <i>cant</i>, has bitten the ear of authority, and the
      great officers of the state are infected with the Jesuitical mania.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Man is a ship that sails with adverse winds,
          And has no haven till he land at death.
          Then, when he thinks his hands fast grasp the bank,
          Conies a rude billow betwixt him and safety,
          And beats him back into the deep again.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      "I subscribe to none of their fooleries," said I; "for I am of the true
      orthodox&mdash;love my king, my girl, my friend, and my bottle: a truce
      with all their raven croakings; they would overload mortality, and press
      our shoulders with too great a weight of dismal miseries. But come, my
      boys, we who have free souls, let us to the banquet, while yet Sol's fiery
      charioteer lies sleeping at his eastern palace in the lap of Thetis&mdash;let
      us chant carols of mirth to old Jove or bully Mars; and, like chaste
      votaries, perform our orgies at the shrine of Venus, ere yet Aurora tears
      aside the curtain that conceals our revels." In this way we rallied our
      cameleon-selves, until we again found shelter from the dews of night in
      Carpenter's coffee-house; a small, but well-conducted place, standing at
      the east end of the market, which opens between two and three o'clock in
      the morning, for the accommodation of those who are hourly arriving with
      waggon loads of vegetable commodities. Here, over a bottle of mulled port,
      Crony gave us the history of <span class="pagenum">[348]</span>what Covent
      Garden used to be, when the eminent, the eccentric, and the notorious in
      every walk of life, were to be found nightly indulging their festivities
      within its famous precincts. "Covent Garden," said Crony, once so
      celebrated for its clubs of wits and convents of fine women, is grown as
      dull as <i>modern Athens</i>, and its ladies of pleasure almost as vulgar
      as Scotch landladies; formerly, the first beauties of the time assembled
      every evening under the Piazzas, and promenaded for hours to the soft
      notes of the dulcet lute, and the silver tongues of amorous and persuasive
      beaus; then the gay scene partook of the splendour of a Venetian carnival,
      and such beauties as the Kitten, Peggy Yates, Sally Hall the brunette,
      Betsy Careless, and the lively Mrs. Stewart, graced the merry throng, with
      a hundred more, equally famed, whose names are enrolled in the cabinet of
      Love's votaries. Then there was a celebrated house in Charles-street,
      called the <i>field of blood</i>, where the droll fellows of the time used
      nightly to resort, and throw down whole regiments of <i>black</i>
      artillery; and then at Tom or Moll King's, a coffee-house so called, which
      stood in the centre of Covent Garden market, at midnight might be found
      the bucks, bloods, demireps, and choice spirits of London, associated with
      the most elegant and fascinating Cyprians, congregated with every species
      of human kind that intemperance, idleness, necessity, or curiosity could
      assemble together. There you might see Tom King enter as rough as a
      Bridewell whipper, roaring down the long room and rousing all the
      sleepers, thrusting them and all who had empty glasses out of his house,
      setting everything to rights,&mdash;when in would roll three or four jolly
      fellows, claret-cosey, and in three minutes put it all into uproar again;
      playing all sorts of mad pranks, until the guests in the long room were at
      battle-royal together; for in those days pugilistic encounters were
      equally common as with the present <span class="pagenum">[349]</span>times,
      owing to the celebrity of Broughton and his amphitheatre, where the
      science of boxing was publicly taught. Then was the Spiller's Head in
      Clare-market, in great vogue for the nightly assemblage of the wits; there
      might be seen Hogarth, and Betterton the actor, and Dr. Garth, and Charles
      Churchill, the first of English satirists, and the arch politician,
      Wilkes, and the gay Duke of Wharton, and witty Morley, the author of Joe
      Miller, and Walker, the celebrated Macheath, and the well-known Bab Selby,
      the oyster-woman, and Fig, the boxer, and old Corins, the clerical
      attorney.&mdash;All "hail, fellow, well met."{6} And a friend of mine has
      in his possession a most extraordinary picture of Hogarth's, on this
      subject, which has never yet been engraved from. It is called St. James's
      Day, or the first day of oysters, and represents the interior of the
      Spiller's Head in Clare-market, as it then appeared. The principal figures
      are the gay and dissolute Duke of Wharton, for whom the well-known Bab
      Selby, the oyster-wench, is opening oysters; Spiller is standing at her
      back, patting her shoulder; the figure sitting smoking by the side of the
      duke is a portrait of Morley, the author of Joe Miller; and the man
      standing behind is a portrait of the well-known attendant on the duke's
      drunken frolics, Fig, the brother of Fig, the boxer: the person drinking
      at the bar is Corins, called the parson-attorney, from his habit of
      dressing in clerical attire; the two persons sitting at the table
      represent portraits of the celebrated Dr. Garth, and Betterton, the actor;
      the figures, also, of Walker, the celebrated Macheath, and Lavinia Fenton,
      the highly-reputed Polly, afterwards Duchess of Bolton, may be recognised
      in the back-ground.
    </p>
    <p>
      The circumstances of this picture having escaped the notice of the
      biographer of Hogarth is by no means singular. Mr. Halls, one of the
      magistrates at Bow-street, has, among other choice specimens by Hogarth,
      the lost picture of the Harlot's Progress; the subject telling her fortune
      by the tea-grounds in her cup, admirably characteristic of the artist and
      his story. In my own collection I have the original picture of the
      Fish-Women of Calais, with a view of the market-place, painted on the
      spot, and as little known as the others to which I have alluded. There
      are, no doubt, many other equally clever performances of Hogarth's
      prolific pencil which are not generally known to the public, or have not
      yet been engraved. <span class="pagenum">[350]</span>in the same
      neighbourhood, in Russel-court, at the old Cheshire Cheese, the inimitable
      but dissolute Tom Brown wrote many of his cleverest essays. Then too
      commenced the midnight revelries and notoriety of the Cider Cellar, in
      Maiden-lane, when Sim Sloper, Bob Washington, Jemmy Tas well, Totty
      Wright, and Harry Hatzell, led the way for a whole regiment more of
      frolic-making beings who, like Falstaff, were not only, witty themselves,
      but the cause of keeping it alive in others: to these succeeded Porson the
      Grecian, Captain Thompson, Tom Hewerdine, Sir John Moore, Mr. Edwin, Mr.
      Woodfall, Mr. Brownlow, Captain Morris, and a host of other highly-gifted
      men, the first lyrical and political writers of the day,&mdash;who
      frequented the Cider Cellar after the meetings of the <i>Anacreontic,
      beefsteak</i>, and <i>humbug</i> clubs then held in the neighbourhood, to
      taste the parting bowl and swear eternal friendship. In later times, Her
      Majesty the Queen of Bohemia{7} raised her standard in Tavistock-row,
      Covent Garden, where she held a midnight court for the wits; superintended
      by the renowned daughter of Hibernia, and maid of honour to her majesty,
      the facetious Mother Butler&mdash;the ever-constant supporter of Richard
      Brinsley Sheridan, esquire, and a leading feature in all the memorable
      Westminster elections of the last fifty years. How many jovial nights have
      I passed and jolly fellows have I met in the snug <i>sanctum sanctorum!</i>
      a little <i>crib</i>, as the <i>fishmongers</i> would call it, with an
      entrance through the bar, and into which none were ever permitted to enter
      without a formal introduction and the gracious permission of the hostess.
      Among those who were thus specially privileged, and had the honour of the
      <i>entré</i>, were the reporters for the morning papers, the leading
      members of the <i>eccentrics</i>, the actors and musicians of the two
      Theatres Royal, merry members of both Houses of
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     7 The sign of the house.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[351]</span>Parliament, and mad wags of every
      country who had any established claim to the kindred feelings of genius.
      Such were the frequenters of the Finish. Here, poor Tom Sheridan, with a
      comic gravity that set discretion at defiance, would let fly some of his
      brilliant drolleries at the <i>improvisatore</i>, Theodore Hook; who,
      lacking nothing of his opponent's wit, would quickly return his tire with
      the sharp encounter of a satiric epigram or a brace of puns, planted with
      the most happy effect upon the weak side of his adversary's merriment.
      There too might be seen the wayward and the talented George Cook,
      gentlemanly in conduct, and full of anecdote when sober, but ever captious
      and uproarious in his cups. Then might be heard a strange encounter of
      expressions between the queen of Covent Garden and the voluptuary, Lord
      Barrymore,{8} seconded by his brother, the pious Augustus. In one corner
      might be seen poor Dermody, the poet, shivering with wretchedness, and
      Mother Butler pleading his cause with a generous feeling that does honour
      to her heart, collecting for him a temporary supply which, alas! his
      imprudence generally dissipated with the morrow. Here, George Sutton
      Manners,{9} and Peter Finnerty,{10} and James Brownly,{11} inspired by
      frequent potations of the real
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     8  Designated Cripplegate and Newgate.

     9  The relative of the present Archbishop of Canterbury, and
     then editor of the Satirist magazine.

     10  Peter Finnerty was a reporter on the Chronicle. The his-
     tory of Finnerty's political persecutions in his own country
     (Ireland), and afterwards in this, are interwoven with our
     history. The firmness and honesty of his mind had endeared
     him to a very large circle of patriot friends. He was
     eloquent, but impetuous, his ideas appearing to flow too
     fast for delivery. With all the natural warmth of his
     country, he had a heart of sterling gold. Finnerty died
     in 1822, very shortly after his friend Perry.

     11   James Brownly, formerly a reporter on the Times; of
     whom Sheridan said, hearing him speak, that his situation
     ought to have been in the body of the House of Commons,
     instead of the gallery. Brownly possessed very rare
     natural talents, was originally an upholsterer in Catherine-
     street, Strand, and by dint of application acquired a very
     correct knowledge of the tine arts: he was particularly
     skilled  in architecture  and heraldry. In addition to
     his extraordinary powers as an orator, he was a most elegant
     critic, and a very amiable man. He died in 1822, much
     regretted by all who knew him.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[352]</span>Rocrea whiskey, would hold forth in
      powerful contention, until mine hostess of the <i>Finish</i>{12} would put
      an end to the debate; and the irritation it would sometimes engender, by
      disencumbering herself of a few of her Milesian monosyllables. Then would
      bounce into the room, Felix M'Carthy, the very cream of comicalities, and
      the warm-hearted James Hay ne, and Frank Phippen, and Michael Nugent, and
      the eloquent David Power, and memory Middleton, and father Proby, just to
      sip an emulsion after the close of their labours in reporting a long
      debate in the House of Commons. Here, too, I remember to have seen for the
      first time in my life, the wayward Byron, with the light of genius beaming
      in his noble countenance, and an eye brilliant and expressive as the
      evening star; the rich juice of the Tuscan grape had diffused an unusual
      glow over his features, and inspired him with a playful animation, that
      but rarely illumined the misanthropic gloominess of his too sensitive
      mind. An histrionic star alike distinguished for talent and eccentricity
      accompanied him&mdash;the gallant, gay Lothario, Kean. But I should
      consume the remnant of the night to retrace more of the fading
      recollections of the <i>Finish</i>. That it was a scene where prudence did
      not always preside, is true; but there was a rich union of talent and
      character always to be found within its circle, that
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     12 Mother Butler, the queen of Covent-garden, for many years
     kept the celebrated Finish, where, if shut out of your
     lodging, you might take shelter till morning, very often in
     the very best of company. The house has, since she left it,
     been shut up through the suspension of its licence. Mother
     Butler was a witty, generous-hearted, and very extraordinary
     woman. She is, I believe, still living, and in good
     circumstances.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[353]</span>prevented any very violent outrage upon
      propriety or decorum. In the present day, there is nothing like it&mdash;the
      Phoenix,{13} Offley's,{14} the Coal-hole,{15} and what yet remains of the
      dismembered Eccentrics,{16} bears no comparison to the ripe drolleries and
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     13 A society established at the Wrekin tavern in Broad-
     court, in imitation of the celebrated club at Brazennose
     College, Oxford, and of whom I purpose to take some notice
     hereafter.

     14 The Burton ale rooms; frequented by baby bucks, black-
     legs and half-pay officers.

     15 A tavern in Fountain-court, Strand, kept by the poet
     Rhodes; celebrated for the Saturday ordinary.

     16 In the room, where of old the Eccentrics {*} met; When
     mortals were Brilliants, and fond of a whet, And <i>Hecate</i>
     environ'd all London in jet. Where Adolphus, and
     Shorri',{**} and famed Charley Fox, With a hundred good
     whigs led by Alderman Cox, Put their names in the books, and
     their cash in the box; Where perpetual Whittle,{***}
     facetiously grand, On the president's throne each night took
     his stand, With his three-curly wig, and his hammer in hand:
     Then Brownly, with eloquence florid and clear, Pour'd a
     torrent of metaphor into the ear, With well-rounded periods,
     and satire severe. Here too Peter Finnerty, Erin's own
     child, Impetuous, frolicsome, witty, and wild, With many a
     tale has our reason beguiled: Then wit was triumphant, and
     night after night Was the morn usher'd in with a flood of
     delight.

     * The Eccentrics, a club principally composed of persons
     connected with the press or the drama, originally
     established at the Swan, in Chandos-street, Covent-garden,
     under the name of the Brilliants, and afterwards removed to
     the Sutherland Arms, in May's-buildings, St. Martin's-lane;
     &mdash;here, for many years, it continued the resort of some of
     the first wits of the time; the chair was seldom taken till
     the theatres were over, and rarely vacated till between four
     and five in the morning.

     ** Sheridan, Charles Fox, Adolphus, and many of the most
     eminent men now at the bar, were members or occasional
     frequenters.

     *** James Whittle, Esq., of Fleet-street, (or, as he was
     more generally denominated, the facetious Jemmy Whittle, of
     the respectable firm of Laurie and Whittle, booksellers and
     publishers) was for some years perpetual president of the
     society, and by his quaint manners, and good-humoured
     sociality, added much to the felicity of the scene&mdash;he is
     but recently dead.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[354]</span>pleasant witticisms which sparkled forth
      in endless variety among the choice spirits who frequented the <i>sanctum
      sanctorum</i> of the <i>old Finish</i>. "There is yet, however, one more
      place worthy of notice," said Crony; "not for any amusement we shall
      derive from its frequenters, but, simply, that it is the most notorious
      place in London." Thither it was agreed we should adjourn; for Crony's
      description of <i>Madame and Messieurs</i> the <i>Conducteurs</i> was
      quite sufficient to produce excitement in the young and ardent minds by
      which he was then surrounded. I shall not pollute this work by a
      repetition of the circumstances connected with this place, as detailed by
      old Crony, lest humanity should start back with horror and disgust at the
      bare mention, and charity endeavour to throw discredit on the true, but
      black recital. The specious pretence of selling shell-fish and oysters is
      a mere trap for the inexperienced, as every description of expensive
      wines, liqueurs, coffee, and costly suppers are in more general request,
      and the wanton extravagance exhibited within its vortex is enough to
      strike the uninitiated and the moralist with the most appalling sentiments
      of horror and dismay. Yet within this <i>saloon (see plate)</i> did we
      enter, at four o'clock in the morning, to view the depravity of human
      nature, and watch the operation of licentiousness upon the young and
      thoughtless.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0030" id="Bimage-0030">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/page354.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page354th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page354" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      A Newgate turnkey would, no doubt, recognize many old acquaintances; in
      the special hope of which, Bob Transit has faithfully delineated some of
      the most conspicuous characters, as they appeared on that occasion,
      lending their hearty assistance in the general scene of maddening uproar.
      It was past five o'clock in the morning ere we quitted this den of
      dreadful depravity, heartily tired out by the night's adventures, yet
      solacing ourselves with the reflection that we had seen much and suffered
      little either in respect to our purses or our persons.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Blink2H_4_0009" id="Blink2H_4_0009">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      VISIT TO WESTMINSTER HALL.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     <i>Worthies thereof&mdash;Legal Sketches of the Long Robe&mdash;The
     Maiden Brief&mdash;An awkward Recognition&mdash;Visit to Banco Regis&mdash;
     Surrey Collegians giving a Lift to a Limb of the Late,
     "Thus far shalt thou go and no farther"&mdash;Park Rangers&mdash;Visit
     to the Life Academy&mdash;R&mdash;A&mdash;ys of Genius reflecting on the
     true line of Beauty&mdash;Arrival of Bernard Black-mantle in
     London&mdash;Reads his Play and Farce in the Green Rooms of the
     two Theatres Royal, Drury Lane and Covent Garden&mdash;Sketches
     of Theatrical Character&mdash;The City Ball at the Mansion House&mdash;
     The Squeeze&mdash;Civic Characters&mdash;Return to Alma Mater&mdash;The
     Wind-up&mdash;Term ends</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[355]</span>A note from Dick Gradus invited Echo and
      myself to hear his opening speech in Westminster Hall. "I have received my
      <i>maiden brief</i>" writes the young counsel, "and shall be happy if you
      will be present at my first attempt, when, like a true <i>amicus curio</i>,
      the presence of an old school-fellow will inspire confidence, and point
      out what may strike him as defective in my style." "We will all go," said
      Transit; "Echo will be amused by the oratory of the bar, and I shall
      employ my pencil to advantage in taking notes, not of <i>short hand</i>,
      but of <i>long heads</i>, and still <i>longer faces</i>." The confusion
      created by the building of the new courts at Westminster has literally
      choked up, for a time, that noble specimen of Gothic architecture&mdash;the
      ancient hall; the King's Bench sittings are therefore temporarily held in
      the Sessions House, a small, but <span class="pagenum">[356]</span>rather
      compact octangular building, on the right of Parliament-street. Hither we
      hasted, at nine o'clock in the morning, to take a view of the court,
      judges, and counsel, and congratulate our friend Gradus on his <i>entrée</i>.
      It has been said, that the only profession in this country where talents
      can insure success, is the law. If by this is meant talents of a popular
      kind, the power of giving effect to comprehensive views of justice and the
      bonds of society, a command of language, and a faculty of bringing to bear
      upon one point all the resources of intellect and knowledge, they are
      mistaken; they speak from former experience, and not from present
      observation: they are thinking of the days of a Mingay or an Erskine, not
      of those of a Marryat or a Scarlett; of the time when juries were wrought
      upon by the united influence of zeal and talent, not when they are
      governed by <i>precedents and practice</i>; when men were allowed to feel
      a little, as well as think a great deal; when the now common phrase of
      possessing the <i>ear of the court</i> was not understood, and the
      tactician and the bully were unknown to the bar. It is asserted, that
      one-fifth of the causes that come before our courts are decided upon mere
      matters of form, without the slightest reference to their merits. Every
      student for the bar must now place himself under some special pleader, and
      go through all the complicated drudgery of the office of one of these
      underlings, before he can hope to fill a higher walk; general principles,
      and enlarged notions of law and justice, are smothered in laborious and
      absurd technicalities; the enervated mind becomes shackled, until the
      natural vigour of the intellect is so reduced, as to make its bondage
      cease to seem burdensome. Dick, with a confidence in his own powers, has
      avoided this degrading preparation; it is only two months since he was
      first called to the bar, and with a knowledge of his father's influence
      and property added to his own talents, he hopes to make a <span
      class="pagenum">[357]</span>stand in court, previous to his being
      transplanted to the Commons House of Parliament.
    </p>
    <p>
      A tolerable correct estimate may be formed of the popularity of the
      judges, by observing the varied bearings of respect evinced towards them
      upon their entrance into court. Mr. Justice Best came first, bending
      nearly double under a painful infirmity, and was received by a cold and
      ceremonious rising of the bar. To him succeeded his brother Holroyd, a
      learned but not a very brilliant lawyer, and another partial
      acknowledgment of the counsel was observable. Then entered the Chief
      Justice, Sir Charles Abbot, with more of dignity in his carriage than
      either of the preceding, and a countenance finely expressive of serenity
      and comprehensive faculties: his welcome was of a more general, and, I may
      add, genial nature; for his judicial virtues have much endeared him to the
      profession and the public. But the universal acknowledgment of the bar,
      the jury, and the reporters for the public press, who generally occupy the
      students' box, was reserved for Mr. Justice Bayley; upon whose entrance,
      all in court appeared to rise with one accord to pay a tribute of respect
      to this very distinguished, just, and learned man. All this might have
      been accidental, you will say; but it was in such strict accordance with
      my own feelings and popular opinion besides, that, however invidious it
      may appear, I cannot resist the placing it upon record. To return to the
      Chief Justice: he is considered a man of strong and piercing intellect,
      penetrating at once to the bottom of a cause, when others, even the
      counsel, are very often only upon the surface; his intuition in this
      respect is proverbial, and hence much of the valuable time of the court is
      saved upon preliminary or immaterial points. Added to which, he is an
      excellent lawyer, shrewd, clear, and forcible in his delivery, very firm
      in his judgments, and mild in his <span class="pagenum">[358]</span>language;
      with a patient command of temper, and continued appearance of good-humour,
      that adds much to his dignity, and increases public veneration. That he
      has been the architect of his own elevation is much to be applauded; and
      it is equally honourable to the state to acknowledge, that he is more
      indebted to his great talents and his legal knowledge for his present
      situation than to any personal influence of great interest{1}: of him it
      may be justly said, he hath
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "A piercing wit quite void of ostentation; high-erected
     thoughts seated in a heart of courtesy; an eloquence as sweet
     in the uttering, as slow to come to the uttering."

     <i>Sir P. Sidney's Arcadia</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      It was Dick Gradus's good-luck to be opposed to Scarlett in a case of
      libel, where the latter was for the defendant. "Of all men else at the
      bar, I know of no one whom I so much wish to encounter," said Gradus. His
      irritable temper, negligence in reading his briefs, and consummate
      ignorance{2} in any thing beyond term-reports, renders him an easy
      conquest to a quiet, learned, and comprehensive mind. The two former are
      qualifications Gradus possesses in a very superior degree, and he proved
      he was in no wise deficient in his opponent's great requisite; I suppose
      we must call it confidence; but another phrase would be more significant.
      Scarlett is a great tactician; and in defending his client, never
      hesitates to take
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1  We hear that an allusion in page 359 of this work has
     been supposed to relate to a near relative of the respected
     Chief Justice: if it bears any similitude, it is the effect
     of accident alone; the portrait being drawn for another and
     a very different person, as the reference to altitude might
     have shown.

     2 See the castigation he received in the Courier of Friday.
     Dec. 10, 1824, for his total ignorance of the common terms
     of art.

          "&mdash;&mdash;that trick of courts to wear
          Silk at the cost of flattery."

          <i>James Shirley's Poems</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[359]</span>what I should consider the most unfair,
      as they are ungentlemanly advantages. But there
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "be they that use men's writings like brute beasts, to make
     them draw which way they list."

     <i>T. Nash's Lenten Stuff</i>, 1599.
</pre>
    <p>
      His great success and immense practice at the bar is more owing to the
      scarcity of silk-gowns{3} than the profundity of his talents. The
      perpetual simper that plays upon his ruby countenance, when finessing with
      a jury, has, no doubt, its artful effect; although it is as foreign to the
      true feelings of the man, as the malicious grin of the malignant satirist
      would be to generosity and true genius. Of his oratory, the <i>aureum
      flumen orationis</i> is certainly not his; and, if he begins a sentence
      well, he seldom arrives at the conclusion on the same level: he is always
      most happy in a reply, when he can trick his adversary by making an
      abusive speech, and calling no witnesses to prove his assertions. Our
      friend Gradus obtained a verdict, and after it the congratulations of the
      court and bar, with whom Scarlett is, from his superciliousness, no great
      favourite. Owen Feltham, in his Resolves, well says, that "arrogance is a
      weed that ever grows upon a dunghill."{4} The contrast between Scarlett
      and his great opponent, Mr. Serjeant Copley,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     3 Generally speaking, the management of two-thirds of the
     business of the court is entrusted to <i>four silk-gowns</i>, and
     about twice as many <i>worsted</i> robes behind the bar.

     4 An Impromptu written in the Court of King's Bench during a
     recent trial for libel.

          The Learned Pig.

          "My learned Friend," the showman cries;
          The pig assents&mdash;the showman lies;
          So counsel oft address a brother
          In flattering lie to one another;
          Calling their friend some legal varlet,
          Who lies, and bullies, till he's Scarlett.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[360]</span>the present Attorney-General, is a
      strong proof of the truth of this quotation. To a systematic and profound
      knowledge of the law, this gentleman unites a mind richly stored with all
      the advantages of a liberal education and extensive reading, not merely
      confined to the dry pursuit in which he is engaged, but branching forth
      into the most luxuriant and highly-cultivated fields of science and the
      arts. On this account, he shines with peculiar brightness at <i>Nisi Prius</i>;
      and is as much above the former in the powers of his mind and splendour of
      his oratory, as he is superior to the presumptuousness of Scarlett's
      vulgarity. Mr. Marryat is said to possess an excellent knowledge of the
      heavy business of his profession; and it must be admitted, that his full,
      round, heavy-looking countenance, and still heavier attempts at wit and
      humour, admirably suit the man to his peculiar manner: after all, he is a
      most persevering counsel; not deficient in good sense, and always
      distinguished by great zeal for his client's interests. Mr. Gurney is a
      steady, pains-taking advocate, considered by the profession as a tolerable
      criminal lawyer, but never affecting any very learned arguments in affairs
      of principles or precedents. In addressing a jury, he is both perspicuous
      and convincing; but far too candid and gentlemanly in his practice to
      contend with the trickery of Scarlett.&mdash;Mr. Common-Serjeant Denman is
      a man fitted by nature for the law. I never saw a more judicial-looking
      countenance in my life; there is a sedate gravity about it, both "stern
      and mild," firm without fierceness, and severe without austerity:&mdash;he
      appears thoughtful, penetrating, and serene, yet not by any means devoid
      of feeling and expression:&mdash;deeply read in the learning of his
      profession, he is yet much better than a mere lawyer; for his speeches and
      manners must convince his hearers that he is an accomplished gentleman. Of
      Brougham, it may be justly said,<span class="pagenum">[361]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &mdash;&mdash;" his delights
          Are dolphin-like; they show his back above
          The elements he lives in:"
</pre>
    <p>
      his voice, manner, and personal appearance, are not the happiest; but the
      gigantic powers of his mind, and the energy of his unconquerable spirit,
      rise superior to these defects. His style of speaking is marked by a
      nervous freedom of the most convincing character; he aims little at
      refinement, and labours more to make himself intelligible than elegant. In
      zeal for his clients, no man is more indefatigable; and he always appears
      to dart forward with an undaunted resolution to overcome and accomplish.
      But here I must stop sketching characters, and refer you to a very able
      representation of the court, the bar, and jury, by our friend Transit, in
      which are accurate likenesses of all I have previously named, and also of
      the following worthies, Messrs. Raine, Pollock, Ashworth, Courtney,
      Starkie, Williams, Parke, Rotch, Piatt, Patterson, Raper, Browne,
      Lawrence, and Whately, to which are added some whom&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "God forbid me if I slander them with the title of learned,
     for generally they are not."&mdash;Nash's Lenten Stuff, 1599.
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0031" id="Bimage-0031">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/page361.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page361th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page361" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      We were just clearing the steps of the court house, when a jolly-looking,
      knowing sort of fellow, begged permission to speak to Echo. A crimson
      flush o'erspread Tom's countenance in a moment. Transit, who was down, as
      he phrased it, tipped me a wink; and although I had never before seen
      either of the professional brothers-in-law, John Doe and Richard Roe, the
      smart jockey-boots, short stick, sturdy appearance, and taking manners of
      the worthy, convinced me at once, that our new acquaintance was one or
      other of those well-known personages: to be brief, poor Tom was arrested
      for a large sum by a Bond-street hotel-keeper, who had trusted him
      somewhat too long.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[362]</span>Arrangement by bail was impossible: this
      was a proceeding on a judgment; and with as little ceremony, and as much
      <i>sang froid</i> as he would have entered a theatre, poor Tom was placed
      inside a hackney coach, accompanied by the aforesaid personage and his
      man, and drove off in apparent good spirits for the King's Bench Prison,
      where Transit and myself promised to attend him on the morrow, employing
      the mean time in attempting to free him from durance vile. It was about
      twelve at noon of the next day, when Transit and myself, accompanied by
      Tom's creditor and his solicitor, traversed over Waterloo Bridge, and bent
      our steps towards the abode of our incarcerated friend.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "The winds of March, with many a sudden gust,
          About Saint George's Fields had raised the dust;
          And stirr'd the massive bars that stand beneath
          The spikes, that wags call <i>Justice Abbot's teeth</i>."
</pre>
    <p>
      The first glimpse of the Obelisk convinced us we had entered the confines
      of <i>Abbot's Park</i>, as the rules are generally termed, for here Bob
      recognised two or three among the sauntering rangers, whose habiliments
      bore evidence of their once fashionable notoriety;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "And still they seem'd, though shorn of many a ray,
          Not less than some arch dandy in decay."
</pre>
    <p>
      "A very pretty <i>bit of true life</i>," said Bob; and out came the sketch
      book to note them down, which, as we loitered forward, was effected in his
      usual rapid manner, portraying one or two well-known characters; but for
      their cognomens, misfortune claims exemption:&mdash;to them we say,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Thou seest thou neither art mark'd out or named,
          And therefore only to thyself art shamed."
          <i>J. Withers's Abuses strict and whipt</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[363]</span> <a name="Bimage-0032" id="Bimage-0032">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page363.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page363 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      To be brief, we found Echo, by the aid of the crier, safely tiled in at
      ten in twelve, happy to all appearance, and perfectly domiciled, with two
      other equally fresh associates. The creditor and his solicitor chose to
      wait the issue of our proposition in the lobby; a precaution, as I
      afterwards found, to be essentially necessary to their own safety; for,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "He whom just laws imprison still is free
          Beyond the proudest slaves of tyranny."
</pre>
    <p>
      Although I must confess the exhibition we had of <i>freedom in Banco Regis</i>
      was rather a rough specimen; a poor little limb of the law, who had
      formerly been a leg himself, had, like other great lawyers, ratted, and
      commenced a furious warfare upon some old cronies, for divers penalties
      and perjuries, arising out of Greek prosecutions: too eager to draw the
      blunt, he had been inveigled into the interior of the prison, and there,
      after undergoing a most delightful pumping upon, <span class="pagenum">[364]</span>was
      <i>rough-dried</i> by being tossed in a blanket (see plate).
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0033" id="Bimage-0033">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/page364.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page364th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page364" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      This entertainment we had the honour of witnessing from Echo's room
      window; and unless the Marshal and his officers had interfered, I know not
      what might have been the result. A very few words sufficed to convince Tom
      of the necessity of yielding to his creditor's wishes. A letter of licence
      was immediately produced and signed, and the gay-hearted Echo left once
      more at liberty to wing his flight wherever his fancy might direct. On our
      road home, it was no trifling amusement to hear him relate
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "The customs of the place,
          The manners of its mingled populace,
          The lavish waste, the riot, and excess,
          Neighbour'd by famine, and the worst distress;
          The decent few, that keep their own respect,
          And the contagion of the place reject;
          The many, who, when once the lobby's pass'd,
          Away for ever all decorum cast,
          And think the walls too solid and too high,
          To let the world behold their infamy."
</pre>
    <p>
      Ever on the alert for novelty, we hopped into and dined at the Coal Hole
      Tavern in the Strand, certainly one of the best and cheapest ordinaries in
      London, and the society not of the meanest. Rhodes himself is a punster
      and a poet, sings a good song, and sells the best of wine; and what
      renders mine host more estimable, is the superior manners of the man. Here
      was congregated together a mixed, but truly merry company, composed of
      actors, authors, reporters, clerks in public departments, and half-pay
      officers, full of whim, wit, and eccentricity, which, when the mantling
      bowl had circulated, did often "set the table in a roar." In the evening,
      Transit proposed to us a visit to the Life Academy, Somerset House, where
      he was an admitted student; but on trying the experiment, was not able to
      effect our introduction: you must therefore be content with <span
      class="pagenum">[365]</span>his sketch of the <i>true sublime</i>, in
      which he has contrived to introduce the portraits of several well-known
      academicians <i>(see plate)</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0034" id="Bimage-0034">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/page365.jpg"></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page365th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page365 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      Thus far Horatio Heartly had written, when the unexpected appearance of
      Bernard Blackmantle in London cut short the thread of his narrative.
      "Where now, mad-cap?" said the sincere friend of his heart: "what
      unaccountable circumstance can have brought you to the village in term and
      out of vacation?" "A very uncommon affair, indeed, for a young author, I
      assure you: I have had the good fortune to receive a notice from the
      managers of the two Theatres Royal, that my play is accepted at Covent
      Garden, and my farce at Drury Lane, and am come up post-haste to read them
      in the green rooms to-morrow, and take the town by storm before the end of
      the next month." "It is a dangerous experiment," said Horatio. "I know
      it," replied the fearless Bernard; "but he who fears danger will never
      march on to fortune or to victory. I am sure I have a sincere friend in
      Charles Kemble, if managerial influence can ensure the success of my play;
      and I have cast my farce so strong, that even with all Elliston's
      mismanagement, it cannot well fail of making a hit. <i>Nil desperandum</i>
      is my motto; so a truce with your friendly forebodings of doubts, and
      fears, and critics' <i>scratches</i>; for I am determined 'to seek the
      bubble reputation even in the cannon's mouth.'" Thus ended the colloquy,
      and on the morning of the morrow Bernard was introduced, in due form, to
      the <i>dramatis personæ</i> of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden (see
      plate).
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0035" id="Bimage-0035">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/page366.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page366th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page366" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      There is as much difference between the rival companies of the two patent
      theatres as there is between the habits and conduct of the managers: in
      Covent Garden, the gentlemanly manners of Charles Kemble, and his amiable
      desire to make all happy around him, has imparted something of a kindred
      feeling to the <span class="pagenum">[366]</span>performers; and hence,
      assisted by the friendly ancient Fawcett, the whole of the establishment
      has all the united family feeling of a little commonwealth, struggling to
      secure its independence and popularity. Here Bernard's reception was every
      thing a young author could wish: kind attention from the company, and
      considerative hints for the improvement of his play, accompanied with the
      good wishes of all for its success, left an impression of gratitude upon
      the mind of the young author, that gave fresh inspiration to his talents,
      and increased his confidence in his own abilities. At Drury Lane the case
      was far otherwise; and the want of that friendly attention which
      distinguished the rival company proved very embarrassing to the early
      buddings of dramatic genius. Perhaps a slight sketch of the scene might
      not prove uninstructive to young authors, or fail in its intended effect
      upon old actors. Reader, imagine Bernard Blackmantle, an enthusiastic and
      eccentric child of Genius, seated at the green-room table, reading his
      musical farce to the surrounding company, and then judge what must be the
      effect of the following little scene.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Blink2H_4_0010" id="Blink2H_4_0010">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      PROGRAMME.
    </h2>
    <p>
      Bernard Blackmantle reading; Mr. Elliston speaking to Spring, the
      box-office keeper; and Mr. Winston in a passion, at the door, with the
      master carpenter; Mr. Knight favouring the Author with a few new ideas;
      and the whole company engaged in the most amusing way, making side
      speeches to one another (see plate).
    </p>
    <p>
      DOWTON. 'Gad, renounce me&mdash;little valorous&mdash;d&mdash;&mdash;d
      annoying, (<i>looking at his watch</i>)&mdash;these long rehearsals always
      spoil my Vauxhall dinner&mdash;More hints to the Author&mdash;better keep
      them for his next piece.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[367]</span>MUNDEN (sputtering). My wigs and eyes&mdash;Dowton's
      a better part than mine; I'll have a fit of the gout, on purpose to get
      out of it&mdash;that's what I will.
    </p>
    <p>
      KNIGHT (to the Author). My dear boy, it strikes me that it might be much
      improved. (Aside) Got an idea; but can't let him have it for nothing.
    </p>
    <p>
      HARLEY (to Elliston). If this piece succeeds, it can't be played every
      night&mdash;let Fitz. understudy it&mdash;don't breakfast on beef-steaks,
      now. If you wish to enjoy health&mdash;live at Pimlico&mdash;take a run in
      the parks&mdash;and read Abernethy on constitutional origin.
    </p>
    <p>
      TERRY (to Mrs. Orger). It's a remarkable thing that the manager should
      allow these d&mdash;&mdash;d interruptions. If it was my piece, I would
      not suffer it&mdash;that's my opinion.
    </p>
    <p>
      WALLACE (to himself). What a little discontented mortal that is!&mdash;it's
      the best part in the piece, and he wishes it made still better.
    </p>
    <p>
      ELLISTON (awakening). Silence there, gentlemen, or it will be impossible
      to settle this important point&mdash;and my property will, in consequence,
      be much deteriorated. (Enter Boy with brandy and water.) Proceed, sir&mdash;(to
      Author, after a sip)&mdash;Very spirited indeed.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0036" id="Bimage-0036">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images/page367.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page367th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page367" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Enter Sam. Spring, touching his hat.
    </p>
    <p>
      SPRING. Underline a special desire, sir, next week? Elliston. No, Sam., I
      fear our special desires are nearly threadbare.
    </p>
    <p>
      Prompter's boy calling in at the door. Mr. Octavius Clarke would be glad
      to speak with Mr. Elliston.
    </p>
    <p>
      ELLISTON. He be d&mdash;&mdash;d! Silence that noise between Messrs.
      Winston and Bunn&mdash;and turn out Waterloo Tom.
    </p>
    <p>
      MADAME VESTRIS. My dear Elliston, do you mean to keep us here all day?
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[368]</span>ELLISTON (whispering). I had rather keep
      you all night, madame.
    </p>
    <p>
      SHERWIN (to G. Smith). I wish it may be true that one of our comedians is
      going to the other house; I shall then stand some chance for a little good
      business&mdash;at present I have only two decent parts to my back.
    </p>
    <p>
      LISTON (as stiff as a poker). If I pass an opinion, I must have an
      increase of salary; I never unbend on these occasions.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. ORGER (to the author). This part is not so good as Sally Mags. I must
      take my friend's opinion in the city.
    </p>
    <p>
      MISS STEPHENS (laughing). I shall only sing one stanza of this ballad&mdash;it's
      too sentimental.
    </p>
    <p>
      MISS SMITHSON (aside, but loud enough for the manager to hear). Ton my
      honour, Mr. Elliston never casts me any thing but the sentimental dolls
      and <i>la la</i> ladies.
    </p>
    <p>
      G&mdash; SMITH (in a full bass voice). Nor me any thing but the rough
      cottagers and banditti men; but, never mind, my bass solo will do the
      trick.
    </p>
    <p>
      GATTIE (yawning). I wish it was twelve o'clock, for I'm half asleep, and
      I've made a vow never to take snuff before twelve; if you don't believe
      me, ask Mrs. G. After the hit I made in Monsieur Tonson, it's d&mdash;d
      hard they don't write more Frenchmen.
    </p>
    <p>
      MADAME VESTRIS. Mr. Author, can't you make this a breeches part?&mdash;I
      shall be <i>all abroad</i> in petticoats.
    </p>
    <p>
      BERNARD BLACKMANTLE. I should wish to be <i>at home</i> with Madame
      Vestris.
    </p>
    <p>
      MRS. HARLOWE. Really, Mr. Author, this part of mine is a mere clod's wife&mdash;nothing
      like so good as Dame Ashfield. Could not you introduce a supper-scene?
    </p>
    <p>
      At length silence is once more obtained; the author finishes his task, and
      retires from the <i>Green-room</i> <span class="pagenum">[369]</span>looking
      as blue as Megrim, and feeling as fretful as the renowned Sir Plagiary. Of
      the success or failure of the two productions, I shall speak in the next
      volume; when I propose to give the first night of a new play, with
      sketches of some of the critical characters who usually attend. In the
      evening, Transit, Echo, and Heartly enlisted me for the Lord Mayor's ball
      at the Mansion House&mdash;a most delightful squeeze; and, it being during
      Waithman's mayoralty, abounding with lots of character for my friend Bob;
      to whose facetious pencil, I must at present leave the scene (see plate);
      intending to be more particular in my civic descriptions, should I have
      the honour of dining with the Corporation next year in their Guildhall.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0037" id="Bimage-0037">
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    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page369ath.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page369a" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The wind-up of the term rendered it essentially necessary that I should
      return to Oxford with all possible expedition, as my absence at such a
      time, if discovered, might involve me in some unpleasant feeling with the
      big wigs. Hither I arrived, in due time to save a lecture, and receive an
      invitation to spend a few weeks in the ensuing year at Cambridge, where my
      kind friend Horace Eglantine has entered himself of Trinity; and by the
      way of inducement, has transmitted the characteristic sketch of the
      notorious Jemmy Gordon playing off one of his mad pranks upon the big wigs
      of Peter-House, (see plate) the particulars of which, will, with more
      propriety, come into my sketches at Cambridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0038" id="Bimage-0038">
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      <img src="images/page369bth.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page369b" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      We are here all bustle&mdash;Scouts packing up and posting off to the
      coach-offices with luggage&mdash;securing places for students, and
      afterwards clearing places for themselves&mdash;Oxford Duns on the sharp
      look-out for shy-ones, and pretty girls whimpering at the loss of their
      lovers&mdash;Dons and Big wigs promising themselves temporal pleasures,
      and their ladies reviling the mantua-makers for not having used sufficient
      expedition&mdash;some taking their last farewell of <i>alma mater</i>, and
      others sighing to behold the joyous faces of affectionate kindred and
      early friends. Long <span class="pagenum">[370]</span>bills, and still <i>longer</i>
      promises passing currently&mdash;and the High-street exhibiting a scene of
      general confusion, until the last coach rattles over Magdalen bridge, and
      Oxford tradesmen close their <i>oaks</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bernard Blackmantle.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0039" id="Bimage-0039">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page370.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page370 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      TERM ENDS. <a name="Blink2H_CONC" id="Blink2H_CONC">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a name="Bimage-0040" id="Bimage-0040">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images/page371.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page371 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     ILLUSTRATIONS IN THE  ENGLISH  SPY.

                                                         to face page
     I.

     A  SHORT SET-TO AT  LONG'S HOTEL;   OR,
     STOPFORD NOT GETTING THE BEST OF IT.                          14

     II.

     COURTIERS CAROUSING IN A CADGER'S KEN.                        28

     III.

     THE    WAKE;     OR,    TEDDY    O'RAFFERTY'S    LAST

     APPEARANCE.    A Scene in the Holy Land.                      30

     IV.
     THE CYPRIAN'S BALL AT THE ARGYLL ROOM.                        42

     V.

     JOHN   LISTON AND THE LAMBKINS;  OR, THE

     CITIZEN'S TREAT.                                              57

     VI.

     THE GREAT ACTOR;   OR,  MR PUNCH IN ALL HIS

     GLORY.                                                        62

     Amusements of the lower orders.    Scene in Leicester-fields.

     VII.

     COLLEGE GHOSTS.                                               66

     A Frolic of the Westminster Blacks.   A Scene in Dean's
     Yard.

     VIII.

     THE MARIGOLD FAMILY ON A PARTY OF PLEA-
     SURE; OR, THE EFFECT OF A STORM IN THE
     LITTLE BAY OF BISCAY, otherwise, CHELSEA
     REACH.                                                        68

     Hints to Fresh Water Sailors, the Alderman and family
     running foul of the Safety. A bit of Fun for the Westminster
     Scholars. How to make Ducks and Geese swim after they
     are cooked.    Calamities of a Cit's Water Party to Richmond.

     IX.
     THE   EPPING   HUNT   ON   EASTER   MONDAY;    OR,
     COCKNEY COMICALITIES IN FULL CHASE.                           73

     Lots of Characters and Lots of Accidents, Runaways and
     Fly-aways, No Goes and Out and Outers, the Flask and the
     Foolish, Gibs, Spavins, Millers and Trumpeters. The Stag
     against the Field. Bob Transit's Excursion with the Nacker
     man.

     X.

     THE TEA-POT ROW AT HARROW; OR, THE BATTLE

     OF HOG LANE.                                                  81

     Harrow boys making a smash among the Crockery, a Scene
     Sketched from the Life, dedicated to the Sons of Noblemen
     and Gentlemen participators in the Sport.

     XI.

     THE CIT'S SUNDAY ORDINARY AT THE GATE
     HOUSE, HIGHGATE; OR, EVERY HOG TO HIS
     OWN APPLE.                                                    89

     Another Trip with the Marigold Family. Specimens of
     Gormandizing. Inhabitants of Cockayne ruralizing. Cits and
     their Cubs.    Cutting Capers, a scramble for a Dinner.

     XII.
     BULLS AND  BEARS IN  HIGH  BUSTLE; OR,   BILLY
     WRIGHT'S   PONY   MADE   A   MEMBER   OF   THE
     STOCK EXCHANGE.                                              124

     Interior view of the Money Market. Portraits of well-known
     Stock Brokers.    A Scene Sketched from the Life.

     XIII.

     THE PROMENADE AT COWES.                                      162

     With Portraits of noble Commanders and Members of the
     Royal Yacht Club.

     XIV.

     THE RETURN TO PORT.                                          184

     Sailors Carousing, or a Jollification on board the Piranga.

     XV.

     POINT STREET,  PORTSMOUTH.                                   188

     Chairing the Cockswain. British Tars and their Girls in
     high Glee.

     XVI.

     EVENING    AND   IN   HIGH   SPIRITS,   A   SCENE  AT

     LONG'S HOTEL, BOND-STREET.                                   192

     Well-known Roués and their Satellites. Portraits from the
     Life, including the Pea Green Hayne, Tom Best, Lord W.
     Lennox, Colonel Berkeley, Mr. Jackson, White Headed Bob,
     Hudson the Tobacconist, John Long, &amp;c. &amp;c.

     XVII.

     MORNING, AND IN LOW SPIRITS, A LOCK UP
     SCENE IN A SPONGING HOUSE, CAREY STREET.&mdash;
     A BIT OF GOOD TRUTH.                                         206

     For Particulars, see Work; or inquire of Fat Radford, the
     Domini of the Domxts.

     XVIII.

     THE HOUSE OF LORDS IN HIGH DEBATE.                           210

     Sketched at the time when II. R. H. the Duke of York was
     making his celebrated Speech upon the Catholic Question.
     Portraits of the Dukes of York, Gloucester, Wellington, De-
     vonshire, Marquesses of Anglesea and Hertford, Earls of Liver-
     pool, Grey, Westmorland, Bathurst, Eldon, and Pomfret,
     Lords Holland, King, Ellenborough, &amp;c. &amp;c. and the whole
     Bench of Bishops.

     XIX.

     THE POINT OF HONOUR DECIDED; OR, THE LEADEN

     ARGUMENTS OF A LOVE AFFAIR.                                  214

     View in Hyde Park. Tom Echo engaged in an affair of
     honour.    A Chapter on Duelling.

     XX.
     THE GREAT SUBSCRIPTION ROOM AT BROOKES'S.                    217

     Opposition Members engaged upon Hazardous Points. Por-
     traits of the Great and the Little well-known Parliamentary
     Characters.

     XXI.

     THE EVENING  IN   THE   CIRCULAR ROOM;   OR,   A

     SQUEEZE AT CARLTON PALACE.                                   219

     Exquisites and Elegantes making their way to the Presence
     Chamber. Portraits of Stars of Note and Ton, Blue Ribands
     and Red Ribands, Army and Navy.

     XXII.
     THE HIGH STREET, CHELTENHAM.                                 222

     Well-known characters among the Chelts.

     XXIII.
     GOING OUT.                                                   226

     A View of Berkeley Hunt Kennel.

     XXIV.
     THE ROYAL WELLS  AT  CHELTENHAM;  OR, SPAS-
     MODIC AFFECTIONS FROM SPA WATERS.                            245
     Chronic Affections and Cramp Comicalities.

     XXV.

     THE BAG-MEN'S BANQUET.                                       248

     A View of the Commercial Room at the Bell Inn, Chelten-
     ham.    Portraits of well-known Travellers.

     XXVI.

     THE OAKLAND COTTAGES, CHELTENHAM; OR, FOX
     HUNTERS AND THEIR FAVOURITES, A TIT BIT,
     DONE FROM THE LIFE.                                          268

     Dedicated to the Members of the Berkeley Hunt.

     XXVII.

     DONCASTER  RACE   COURSE   DURING  THE  GREAT

     ST. LEGER RACE, 1825.                                        269

     Well-known Heroes of the Turf.    Legs and Loungers.

     XXVIII.

     THE COMICAL PROCESSION FROM GLOUCESTER

     TO BERKELEY.                                                 288

     XXIX.

     THE POST OFFICE, BRISTOL.                                    293

     Arrival of the London Mail. Lots of News, and New
     Characters.    Portraits of well-known Bristolians.

     XXX.
     FANCY BALL AT THE UPPER ROOMS, BATH.                         302

     XXXI.
     THE PUMP ROOM, BATH.                                         311

     Visitors taking a sip with King Bladud.

     XXXII.

     THE  OLD  BEAU  AND  FALSE  BELLE;  OR,   MR.   B.

     AND MISS L.                                                  316

     A Bath Story.

     XXXIII.
     THE   PUBLIC   BATHS   AT   BATH;    OR,    STEWING

     ALIVE.                                                       320

     Bernard BlackmantlE and Bob Transit taking a Dip with
     King Bladud. Union of the Sexes. Welsh Wigs and
     Decency.    No Swimming or Plunging allowed.

     XXXIV.

     MILSOM   STREET   AND   BOND   STREET,   OR   BATH

     SWELLS.                                                      326

     Well-known Characters at the Court of King Bladud.

     XXXV.

     THE   BUFF   CLUB   AT   THE   PIG   AND   WHISTLE,

     AVON STREET, BATH.                                           332

     A Bit of Real Life in the Territories of old King Bladud.

     XXXVI.

     THE BOWLING ALLEY AT WORCESTER; OR, THE
     WELL-KNOWN CHARACTERS OF THE HAND AND
     GLOVE CLUB.                                                  335
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD.

     1.  The Gate House, Highgate, Citizens toiling up the Hill
         to the Sunday Ordinary                                   109

     2.   A Lame Duck waddling out of the Stock Exchange          139

     3.   The Dandy Candy Man, a Cheltenham Vignette              283

     4.   The Floating Harbour and Welsh Back, Bristol.           292

     5.  Bath  Market-place,   with Portraits of the celebrated
     Orange Women                                                 295

     6.  The Sporting Club at the Castle Tavern.    Portraits of
     Choice Spirits                                               300

     7.  The Battle of the Chairs                                 306

     8.  Vignette.    Portraits of Blackmantle the English Spy,
     and Transit                                                  343
</pre>
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    <h2>
      THE ENGLISH SPY.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Nor rank, nor order, nor condition,
          Imperial, lowly, or patrician,
          Shall, when they see this volume, cry,
          "The satirist has pass'd us by:"
          But, with good humour, view our page
          Depict the manners of the age.
          Vide Work.
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    <h2>
      INTRODUCTION TO THE SECOND VOLUME.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      BERNARD BLACKMANTLE TO THE PUBLIC.
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "The Muse's office was by Heaven design'd
          To please, improve, instruct, reform mankind."
          &mdash;Churchill.
</pre>
    <p>
      Readers!&mdash;friends, I may say, for your flattering support has enabled
      me to continue my Sketches of Society to a second volume with that
      prospect of advantage to all concerned which makes labour delightful&mdash;accept
      this fresh offering of an eccentric, but grateful mind, to that shrine
      where alone he feels he owes any submission&mdash;the tribunal of Public
      Opinion. In starting for the goal of my ambition, the prize of your
      approbation, I have purposely avoided the beaten track of other periodical
      writers, choosing for my subjects scenes and characters of real life,
      transactions of our own times, <i>characteristic, satirical, and humorous</i>,
      confined to no particular place, and carefully avoiding every thing like
      personal ill-nature or party feeling. My associates, the Artists and
      Publishers, are not less anxious than myself to acknowledge their
      gratitude; and we intend to prove, by our united endeavours, how highly we
      appreciate the extensive patronage we have already obtained.
    </p>
    <p>
      BERNARD BLACKMANTLE,
    </p>
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    <h2>
      ODE, CONGRATULATORY AND ADVISIORY,
    </h2>
    <h3>
      TO BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ESQ.
    </h3>
    <p>
      ON THE COMPLETION OF HIS FIRST VOLUME OF THE SPY.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "I smell a rat."&mdash;Book of Common Parlance.

     "More sinned against than sinning."&mdash;William Shakspeare.

     "The very <i>Spy</i> o' the time."&mdash;Ibid.

          Well done, my lad, you've run on strong
          Amidst the bustle of life's throng,
          Nor thrown a <i>spavin</i> yet;
          You've gone at score, your pace has told;
          I hope, my boy, your wind will hold&mdash;
          You've others yet to fret.

          You've told the town that you are <i>fly</i>
          To cant, and rant, and trickery;
          And that whene'er you doze,
          Like Bristol men, you never keep
          But one eye closed&mdash;so you can tweak
          E'en then a scoundrel's nose.

          Pull up, and rinse your mouth a bit;
          It is hot work, this race of wit,
          And sets the bellows piping;
          Next Vol. you'll grind <i>the flats</i> again,
          And file the <i>sharps</i> unto the grain,
          Their very stomachs griping.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[6]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          But why, good Bernard, do you dream
          That we Reviewers scorn the cream{1}
          Arising from your jokes?
          Upon my soul, we love some fun
          As well as any 'neath the sun,
          Although we fight in cloaks.

          Heav'n help thee, boy, we are not they
          Who only go to damn a play,
          And cackle in the pit;
          Like good Sir William Curtis{2} we
          Can laugh at <i>nous</i> and drollery,
          Though of ourselves 'twere writ.

          Was yours but sky blue milk and water,
          We'd hand you over to the slaughter
          Of cow committee-men{3};
          For butterflies, and "such small deer,"
          Are much beneath our potent spear&mdash;
          The sharp gray goose-wing'd pen.

     1 See my friend Bernard's <i>cracker</i> to the reviewers in No.
     12, a perfect fifth of November bit of <i>firework</i>, I can
     assure you, good people. But it won't go off with me without
     a brand from the bonfire in return.    "Bear this bear all."

     2 Have you ever dared the "salt sea ocean," my readers, with
     the alderman admiral? If not, know that he has as pretty a
     collection of caricatures in his cabin, and all against his
     own sweet self, as need be wished to heal sea-sickness. Is
     not this magnanimity? I think so. The baronet is really "a
     worthy gentleman."

     3 Vide advertisements of "Alderney Milk Company." What
     company shall we keep next, my masters? Mining companies, or
     steam brick companies, or washing companies? How many of
     them will be in the suds anon? Pshaw! throw physic to the
     projectors&mdash;I prefer strong beer well hopped.

          But yours we feel is sterner stuff,
          And though perchance <i>too much in huff</i>,
          <i>More natural</i> you will swear;
          It really shows such game and pluck,
          That we could take with you "pot luck,"
          And deem it decent fare.

          But, 'pon our <i>conscience</i>, bonny lad,
          (We've got <i>some</i>, boy), it is too bad
          So fiercely to show fight;
          Gadzooks, 'tis time when comes the foe
          To strip and sport a word and blow,
          My dear pugnacious wight!

          'Tis very wise, T own, to pull
          Fast by the horns some butting bull,
          When 'gainst yourself he flies;
          But to attack that sturdy beast,
          When he's no thoughts on you to feast,
          Is very <i>otherwise</i>.

          But we'll forgive your paper balls,
          Which on our jackets hurtless falls,

          Like hail upon a tower:
          Pray put wet blankets on your ire;
          Really, good sir, we've no desire
          To blight so smart a flower.

          Well, then, I see no reason why
          There should be war, good Mister Spy
          So, faith! we'll be allies;
          And if we must have fights and frays,
          We'll shoot at pride and poppinjays,

          And folly as it flies.
          There's field enough for both to <i>beat</i>
          Employment for our hands, eyes, feet,
          To mark the quarry down,
          <i>Black game</i> and white game a full crop,
          Fine birds, fine feathers for to lop,
          In country and in town.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[8]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          New city <i>specs</i>, new west-end rigs,
          New gas-blown boots, new steam-curl'd wigs,
          New fashionable schools,
          New dandies, and new Bond-street dons,
          And new intrigues, and new crim cons,
          New companies of fools.{4}

          Maria Foote and Edmund Kean,
          The "lions" just now of the scene,
          Shall yield to newer fun;
          For all our wonders at the best
          Are cast off for a newer vest,
          After a nine days' run.

          Old beaux at Bath, manoeuvring belles,
          And pump-room puppies, Melsom swells,
          And Mr. <i>Heaviside</i>,{5}
          And Cheltenham carders,{6} every <i>runt</i>,

     4 See note 3, page 6.

     5 Mr. Heaviside, the polite M. C. of Bath. He has the finest
     cauliflower head of hair I over remember; but it covers a
     world of wit, for all that, and therefore however it may
     appear, it certainly is not the heavy side of him.

     6 Cards, cards, cards, nothing but cards from "rosy morn to
     dewy eve" at the town of Cheltenham. Whist, with the sun
     shining upon their sovereigns, one would think a sovereign
     remedy for their waste of the blessed day&mdash;<i>écarte</i>, whilst
     the blue sky is mocking the blue countenances of your thirty
     pound losers in as many seconds. Is it not marvellous?
     Fathers, husbands, men who profess to belong to the Church.
     By Jupiter! instead of founding the new university they talk
     about, they had better make it for the pupilage of perpetual
     card-players, and let them take their degrees by the
     cleverness in odd tricks, or their ability in shuffling. "No
     offence, Gregory." "No wonder they have their decrepit ones,
     their ranters."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[9]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          The playhouse, Berkeley, and "the hunt,"
          With Marshall{7} by their side.

          All these and more I should be loth
          To let escape from one or both,
          So saddle for next heat:
          The bell is rung, the course is cleared,
          Mount on your hobby, "nought afear'd,"
          <i>Black-jacket</i> can't be beat.

          "Dum <i>spiro</i> spero" shout, and ride
          Till you have 'scalp'd old Folly's hide,
          And none a kiss will waft her;
          Bind all the fools in your new book,
          That "I spy!" may lay my hook,
          And d&mdash;n them nicely after.

          An Honest Reviewer.{8}

          Given at my friend, "Sir John Barleycorn's"
          Chambers, Tavistock, Covent Garden, this the
          19th, day of February, 1825, "almost at odds
          with morning."

     7 Mr. Marshall, the M. C. of Cheltenham. "Wear him in your
     heart's core, Horatio." I knew him well, a "fellow of
     infinite jest."    A long reign and a merry one to him.

     8 My anonymous friend will perceive that I estimate his wit
     and talent quite as much as his honesty: had he not been
     such a <i>rara avis</i> he would have been consigned to the "tomb
     of all the Capulets."
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    <h2>
      CYTHEREAN BEAUTIES.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "The trav'ller, if he chance to stray,
          May turn uncensured to his way;
          Polluted streams again are pure,
          And deepest wounds admit a cure;
          But woman no redemption knows&mdash;
          The wounds of honour never close."
          &mdash;Moore.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[10]</span>Tremble not, ye fair daughters of
      chastity! frown not, ye moralists! as your eyes rest upon the significant
      title to our chapter, lest we should sacrifice to curiosity the blush of
      virtue. We are painters of real life in all its varieties, but our
      colouring shall not be over-charged, or our characters out of keeping. The
      glare of profligacy shall be softened down or so neutralized as not to
      offend the most delicate feelings. In sketching the reigning beauties of
      the time, we shall endeavour to indulge the lovers of variety without
      sacrificing the fair fame of individuals, or attempting to make vice
      respectable. Pleasure is our pursuit, but we are accompanied up the
      flowery ascent by Contemplation and Reflection, two monitors that shrink
      back, like sensitive plants, as the thorns press upon them through the
      ambrosial beds of new-blown roses. In our record of the daughters of
      Pleasure, we shall only notice those who are distinguished as <i>belles of
      ton&mdash;stars</i> of the first magnitude in the hemisphere of Fashion;
      and of these the reader may say, with one or two exceptions, they "come
      like shadows, so depart." We would rather excite sympathy and pity for the
      <span class="pagenum">[11]</span>unfortunate, than by detailing all we
      know produce the opposite feelings of obloquy and detestation.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Unhappy sex! when beauty is your snare,
          Exposed to trials, made too frail to bear."
</pre>
    <p>
      Then, oh! ye daughters of celestial Virtue, point not the scoffing glance
      at these, her truant children, as ye pass them by&mdash;but pity, and
      afford them a gleam of cheerful hope: so shall ye merit the protection of
      Him whose chief attribute is charity and universal benevolence. And ye,
      lords of the creation! commiserate their misfortunes, which owe their
      origin to the baseness of the seducer, and the natural depravity of your
      own sex.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      LADIES OF DISTINCTION,
    </h2>
    <h3>
      "DANS LE PARTERRE DES IMPURES."
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Simplex sigillum veri."

          "Nought is there under heav'n's wide hollowness
          That moves more dear, compassion of the mind,
          Than beauty brought t' unworthy wretchedness."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[12]</span>If ever there was a fellow formed by
      nature to captivate and conquer the heart of lovely woman, it is that
      arch-looking, light-hearted Apollo, Horace Eglantine, with his
      soul-enlivening conversational talents, his scraps of poetry, and puns,
      and fashionable anecdote; his chivalrous form and noble carriage, joined
      to a mirth-inspiring countenance and soft languishing blue eye, which sets
      half the delicate bosoms that surround him palpitating between hope and
      fear; then a glance at his well-shaped leg, or the fascination of an
      elegant compliment, smilingly overleaping a pearly fence of more than
      usual whiteness and regularity, fixes the fair one's doom; while the young
      rogue, triumphing in his success, turns on his heel and plays off another
      battery on the next pretty susceptible piece of enchanting simplicity that
      accident may throw into his way. "Who is that attractive star before whose
      influential light he at present seems to bow with adoration?" "A <i>fallen
      one</i>," said Crony, to whom the question was addressed, as he rode up
      the drive in Hyde Park, towards Cumberland-gate, accompanied by Bernard
      Blackmantle. "A <i>fallen one</i>" reiterated the Oxonian&mdash;"Impossible!"
      "Why, I have marked the fair daughter of Fashion myself for the last
      fortnight constantly in the drive with one of the most superb <span
      class="pagenum">[13]</span>equipages among the <i>ton</i> of the day."
      "True," responded Crony, "and might have done so for any time these three
      years." In London these daughters of Pleasure are like physicians
      travelling about to destroy in all sorts of ways, some on foot, others on
      horseback, and the more finished lolling in their carriages, ogling and
      attracting by the witchery of bright eyes; the latter may, however, very
      easily be known, by the usual absence of all armorial bearings upon the
      panel, the chariot elegant and in the newest fashion, generally
      dark-coloured, and lined with crimson to cast a rich glow upon the
      occupant, and the servants in plain frock liveries, with a cockade, of
      course, to imply their mistresses have <i>seen service</i>. I know but of
      one who sports any heraldic ornament, and that is the female Giovanni, who
      has the very appropriate crest of a serpent coiled, and preparing to
      spring upon its prey, <i>à la Cavendish</i>. The <i>elegante</i> in the
      dark <i>vis</i>, to whom our friend Horace is paying court, is the <i>ci-devant</i>
      Lady Ros&mdash;b&mdash;y, otherwise Clara W&mdash;&mdash;.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the peer she has a son, and from the plebeian a pension of two hundred
      pounds per annum: her origin, like most of the frail sisterhood, is very
      obscure; but Clara certainly possesses talents of the first order, and
      evinces a generosity of disposition to her sisters and family that is
      deserving of commendation. In person, she is plump and well-shaped, but of
      short stature, with a fine dark eye and raven locks that give considerable
      effect to an otherwise interesting countenance. A few years since she had
      a penchant for the stage, and played repeatedly at one of the minor
      theatres, under the name of "The Lady;" a character Clara can, when she
      pleases, support with unusual <i>gaieté</i>: instance her splendid parties
      in Manchester-street, Manchester-square, where I have seen a coruscation
      of beauties assembled together that must have made great havoc in their
      time among the hearts of the young, the gay, and the generous. Like <span
      class="pagenum">[14]</span>most of her society, Clara has no idea of
      prudence, and hence to escape some pressing importunities, she levanted
      for a short time to Scotland, but has since, by the liberal advances of
      her present delusive, been enabled to quit the interested apprehensions of
      the <i>Dun</i> family. The swaggering belle in the green pelisse yonder,
      on the <i>pavé</i>, is the celebrated courtezan, Mrs. St*pf**d, of
      Curzon-street, May-fair. How she acquired her present cognomen I know not,
      unless it was for her <i>stopping</i> accomplishment in the polite science
      of pugilism and modern patter, in both of which she is a finished
      proficient, as poor John D&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, a dashing savoury
      chemist, can vouch for.
    </p>
    <p>
      On a certain night, she followed this unfaithful swain, placing herself
      (unknown to him) behind his carriage, to the house of a rival sister of
      Cytherea, Mrs. St**h**e, and there enforced, by divers potent means, due
      submission to the laws of Constancy and Love; but as such compulsory
      measures were not in <i>good taste</i> with the <i>protector's</i>
      feelings, the contract was soon void, and the lady once more liberated to
      choose another and another swain, with a pension of two hundred pounds per
      annum, and a well-furnished house into the bargain. She was formerly, and
      when first she came out, the <i>chère amie</i> of Tom B&mdash;&mdash;-,
      who had, in spite of his science recently, in a short affair at Long's
      hotel, not much the Best of it. (See plate).
    </p>
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      From him she bolted, and enlisted with an officer of the nineteenth
      Lancers; but not liking the house of Montague, she obtained the Grant of a
      furlough, and has since indulged in a plurality of lovers, without much
      attention to size, age, persons, or professions. Of her talent in love
      affairs, we have given some specimens; and her courage in war can never be
      doubted after the formidable attack she recently made upon General Sir
      John D***e, returning through Hounslow from a review, from which <i>rencontre</i>
      she has obtained the appropriate appellation of the <i>Brazen <span
      class="pagenum">[15]</span> Bellona</i>. A pretty round face, dark hair,
      and fine bushy eyebrows, are no mean attractions; independent of which the
      lady is always upon good terms with herself. The <i>belle whip</i> driving
      the cabriolet, with a chestnut horse and four white legs, is the <i>Edgeware
      Diana</i> Mrs. S***h, at present engaged in a partnership affair, in the
      foreign line, with two citizens, Messrs O. R. and S.; the peepholes at the
      side of her machine imply more than mere curiosity, and are said to have
      been invented by General Ogle, for the use of the ladies when on active
      service. The beautiful little Water Lily in the chocolate-coloured
      chariot, with a languishing blue eye and alabaster skin, is Mrs. Ha****y,
      otherwise K**d***k, of Gr&mdash;n-street, a great favourite with all who
      know her, from the elegance of her manners and the attractions of her
      person (being perfect symmetry); at present she is under the <i>special
      protection</i> of a city stave merchant, and has the <i>reputation</i> of
      being very sincere in her attachments.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You must have been a desperate fellow in your time, Crony," said I,
      "among the belles of this class, or you could never have become so
      familiar with their history." "It is the fashion," replied the veteran,
      "to understand these matters; among the <i>bons vivants</i> of the present
      day a fellow would be suspected of <i>chastity</i>, or regarded as <i>uncivilized</i>,
      who could not run through the history of the reigning beauties of the
      times, descanting upon their various charms with poetical fervor, or
      illuminating, as he proceeds, with some choice anecdotes of the <i>Paphian
      divinities</i>, their protectors and propensities; and to do the fair <i>Citherians</i>
      justice, they are not much behindhand with us in that respect, for the
      whole conversation of the sisterhood turns upon the figure, fortune,
      genius, or generosity of the admiring beaux. To a young and ardent mind,
      just emerging from scholastic discipline, with feelings uncontaminated by
      <span class="pagenum">[16]</span>fashionable levities, and a purse equal
      to all pleasurable purposes, a correct knowledge of the mysteries of the
      <i>Citherian principles of astronomy</i> may be of the most essential
      consequence, not less in protecting his <i>morals and health</i> than in
      the preservation of life and fortune. One half the duels, suicides, and <i>fashionable
      bankruptcies</i> spring from this polluted source. The stars of this order
      rise and fall in estimation, become fixed planets or meteors of the most
      enchanting brilliancy, in proportion not to the grace of modesty, or the
      fascination of personal beauty, but to the notoriety and number of their
      amours, and the peerless dignity of their plurality of lovers.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Place the goddess of Love on the pedestal of Chastity, in the sacred
      recesses of the grove of Health, veiled by virgin Innocence, and robed in
      celestial Purity, and who among the <i>cameleon</i> race of fashionable <i>roués</i>
      would incur the charge of <i>Vandalism</i>, or turn aside to pay devotion
      at her shrine? but let the salacious deity of Impurity mount the car of
      Profligacy, and drive forth in all the glare of crimson and gold, and a
      thousand devotees are ready to sacrifice their honour upon her profligate
      altars, or chain themselves to her chariot wheels as willing slaves to
      worship and adore."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Let us take another turn up the drive," said I, "for I am willing to
      confess myself much interested in this <i>new system of astronomy</i>, and
      perhaps we may discover a few more of the <i>terrestrial planets</i>, and
      observe the <i>stars</i> that move around their frail orbits." "I must
      first make you acquainted with the signs of the <i>Paphian zodiac</i>,"
      said Crony; "for every one of these attractions have their peculiar and
      appropriate fashionable appellations. I have already introduced you to the
      <i>Bang Bantum</i>, Mrs Bertram; the <i>London Leda</i>, Moll Raffles; the
      <i>Spanish Nun</i>, St. Margurite; the <i>Sparrow Hawk</i>, Augusta
      C****e{1}; the <i>Golden</i>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 See vol. i.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[17]</span><i>Pippin</i>, Mrs. C.; the <i>White Crow</i>,
      Clara W****; the <i>Brazen Bellona</i>, Mrs. St**f**d; the <i>Edgeware
      Diana</i>, Mrs. S**th; and the <i>Water Lily Symmeterian</i>, Ha**l*y&mdash;<i>all
      planets</i> of the first order, carriage curiosities. Let us now proceed
      to make further observations. The <i>jolie</i> dame yonder, in the
      phaeton, drawn by two fine bays, is called the <i>White Doe</i>, from her
      first deer protector; and although somewhat on the decline, she is yet an
      exhibit of no mean attraction, and a lady of fortune. Thanks to the
      liberality of an old hewer of stone, and the talismanic powers of the <i>golden
      Ball</i>, deserted by her last swain since his marriage, she now reclines
      upon the velvet cushion of Independence, enjoying in the Kilburn retreat,
      her <i>otium cum dignitate</i>, secure from the rude winds of adversity,
      and in the occasional society of a few old friends. The lovely Thais in
      the brown chariot, with a fine Roman countenance, dark hair, and sparkling
      eyes, is the favourite elect of a well-known whig member; here she passes
      by the name of the <i>Comic Muse</i>, the first letter of which will also
      answer for the leading initial of her theatrical cognomen. Her, private
      history is well-known to every son of <i>old Etona</i> who has taken a <i>toodle</i>
      over Windsor-bridge on a market-day within the last fifteen years, her
      parents being market gardeners in the neighbourhood; and her two unmarried
      sisters, both fine girls, are equally celebrated with the Bath
      orange-women for the neatness of their dress and comeliness of their
      persons. There is a sprightliness and good-humour about the <i>Comic Muse</i>
      that turns aside the shafts of ill-nature; and had she made her selection
      more in accordance with propriety, and her own age, she might have escaped
      our notice; but, alas!" said Crony, "she forgets that
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'The rose's age is but a day;
          Its bloom, the pledge of its decay,
          Sweet in scent, in colour bright,
          It blooms at morn and fades at night.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[18]</span>At this moment a dashing little
      horsewoman trotted by in great style, followed by a servant in blue and
      gold livery; her bust was perfection itself, but studded with the oddest
      pair of <i>ogles</i> in the world, and Crony assured me (report said) her
      person was supported by the shortest pair of legs, for an adult, in
      Christendom. "That is the <i>queen</i> of the <i>dandysettes</i>," said my
      old friend, "Sophia, Selina, or, as she is more generally denominated, <i>Galloping</i>
      W****y, from a <i>long Pole</i>, who settled the interest of five thousand
      upon her for her natural life; she is since said to have married her
      groom, with, however, this prudent stipulation, that he is still to ride
      behind her in public, and answer all demands in <i>propria persona</i>.
      She is constantly to be seen at all masquerades, and may be easily known
      by her utter contempt for the incumbrance of decent costume." "How d'ye
      do? How d'ye do?" said a most elegant creature, stretching forth her
      delicate white kid-covered arm over the <i>fenêtre</i> of Lord
      Hxxxxxxx*h's <i>vis à vis</i>. "Ah! <i>bon jour, ma chère amie</i>," said
      old Crony, waving his hand and making one of his best bows in return. "You
      are a happy dog," said I, "old fellow, to be upon such pleasant terms with
      that divinity. No plebeian blood there, I should think: a peeress, I
      perceive, by the coronet on the panels." "<i>A peine cognoist, ou la femme
      et le melon</i>," responded Crony, "you shall hear. Among the <i>ton</i>
      she passes by the name of Vestina the Titan, from her being such a
      finished tactician in the campaigns of Venus;. her ordinary appellation is
      Mrs. St&mdash;h&mdash;pe: whether this be a <i>nom de guerre or a nom de
      terre</i>, I shall not pretend to decide; if we admit that <i>la chose est
      toute</i>, <i>et que la nom n'y fait rien</i>, the rest is of no
      consequence. It would be an intricate task to unravel the family web of
      our fashionable frail ones, although that of many frail fashionables
      stands high in heraldry. The lady in question, although in 'the sear o'
      the leaf,' is yet in high request; 'fat, fair, and forty' shall I say?
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[19]</span>Alas! that would have been more suitable
      ten years since; but, <i>n'importe</i>, she has the science to conceal the
      ravages of time, and is yet considered attractive. No one better
      understands the art of intrigue; and she is, moreover, a travelled dame,
      not deficient in intellect, full of anecdote; and as <i>conjugation and
      declension</i> go hand in hand with some men of taste, she has risen into
      notice when others usually decline. A sporting colonel is said to have
      formerly contributed largely to her comforts, and her tact in matters of
      business is notorious; about two hundred per annum she derived from the
      Stock Exchange, and her present <i>peerless protector</i> no doubt
      subscribes liberally. To be brief, Laura has money in the funds, a
      splendid house, carriage, gives her grand parties, and lives
      proportionably expensive and elegant; yet with all this she has taken care
      that the age of gold may succeed to the age of brass, that the retirement
      of her latter days may not be overclouded by the storms of adversity. She
      had two sisters, both gay, who formerly figured on the <i>pavé</i>, Sarah
      and Louisa; but of late they have disappeared, report says, to <i>conjugate</i>
      in private. Turn your eyes towards the promenade," said Crony, "and
      observe that constellation of beauties, three in number, who move along <i>le
      verd gazon</i>: they are denominated the <i>Red Rose</i>, the <i>Moss Rose</i>,
      and the <i>Cabbage Rose</i>. The first is Rose Co*l**d, a dashing belle,
      who has long figured in high life; her first appearance was in company
      with Lord William F***g***ld, by whom she has a child living; from thence
      we trace her to the protection of another peer, Lord Ty*****], and from
      him gradually declining to the rich relative of a northern baronet,
      sportive little Jack R*****n, whose favourite <i>lauda finem</i> she
      continued for some time; but as the law engrossed rather too much of her
      protector's affairs, so the fair engrossed rather too much of the law;
      whether she has yet given up <span class="pagenum">[20]</span>practice in
      the King's Bench I cannot determine, but her appearance here signifies
      that she will accept a fee from any side; Rose has long since lost every
      tint of the maiden's blush, and is now in the full blow of her beauty and
      maturity, but certainly not without considerable personal attractions;
      with some her <i>nom de guerre</i> is <i>Rosa longa</i>, and a wag of the
      day says, that Rose is a beauty in <i>spite of her teeth</i>. The <i>Moss
      Rose</i> has recently changed her cognomen with her residence, and is now
      Mrs. F**, of Beaumout-street; she was never esteemed a <i>planet</i>, and
      may be now said to have sunk into a star of the second order, a little <i>twinkling
      light</i>, useful to assist elderly gentlemen in finding their way to the
      Paphian temple. The <i>Cabbage Rose</i> is one of your vulgar beauties,
      ripe as a peach, and rich in countenance as the ruby: if she has never
      figured away with the peerage, she has yet the credit of being entitled to
      <i>three balls</i> on her coronet, and an <i>old uncle</i> to support
      them: she has lately taken a snug box in Park-place, Regent's-park, and
      lives in very good style. The belle in the brown chariot, gray horses, and
      blue liveries is now the lady of a baronet, and one of three <i>graceless
      graces</i>, the Elxxxxx's, who, because their father kept a livery stable,
      must needs all go to <i>rack</i>: she has a large family living by Mr.
      V*l*b***s, whom she left for the honour of her present connexion. That she
      is married to the baronet, there is no doubt; and it is but justice to
      add, she is one among the many instances of such compromises in
      fashionable life who are admitted into society upon sufferance, and falls
      into the class of demi-respectables. Among the park beaux she is known by
      the appellation of the <i>Doldrums</i> her two sisters have been missing
      some time, and it is said are now rusticating in Paris." My friend
      Eglantine had evidently fled away with the white crow, and the
      fashionables were rapidly decreasing in the drive, when Crony, whose scent
      of <span class="pagenum">[21]</span>dinner hour is as staunch as that of
      an old pointer at game, gave evident symptoms of his inclination to
      masticate. "We must take another opportunity to finish our lecture on the
      principles of <i>Citherian astronomy</i>," said the old beau, "for as yet
      we are not half through the list of constellations. I have a great desire
      to introduce you to Harriette Wilson and her sisters, whose true history
      will prove very entertaining, particularly as the fair writer has
      altogether omitted the genuine anecdotes of herself and family in her
      recently published memoirs." At dinner we were joined by Horace Eglantine
      and Bob Transit, from the first of whom we learned, that a grand fancy
      ball was to take place at the Argyll Rooms in the course of the ensuing
      week, under the immediate direction of four fashionable impures, and at
      the expense of General Trinket, a broad-shouldered Milesian, who having
      made a considerable sum by the commissariat service, had returned home to
      spend his Peninsular pennies among the Paphian dames of the metropolis.
      For this entertainment we resolved to obtain tickets, and as the ci-devant
      lady H***e was to be patroness, Crony assured us there would be no
      difficulty in that respect, added to which, he there promised to finish
      his sketches of the Citherian beauties of the metropolis, and afford my
      friend Transit an opportunity of sketching certain portraits both of
      Paphians and their paramours.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Cimage-0005" id="Cimage-0005">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images2/page021.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page021 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      <a name="Clink2H_4_0006" id="Clink2H_4_0006">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE WAKE;
    </h2>
    <h3>
      OR,
    </h3>
    <p>
      TEDDY O'RAFFERTY'S LAST APPEARANCE. A SCENE IN THE HOLY LAND. <span
      class="pagenum">[22]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         'Twas at Teddy O'Rafferty's wake,
          Just to comfort ould Judy, his wife,
          The lads of the hod had a frake.
          And kept the thing up to the life.
          There was Father O'Donahoo, Mr. Delany,
          Pat Murphy the doctor, that rebel O'Shaney,
          Young Terence, a nate little knight o' the hod,
          And that great dust O'Sullivan just out o' quod;
          Then Florence the piper, no music is riper,
          To all the sweet cratures with emerald fatures
          Who came to drink health to the dead.
          Not Bryan Baroo had a louder shaloo
          When he gave up his breath, to that tythe hunter death,
          Than the howl over Teddy's cowld head:
          'Twas enough to have rais'd up a saint.
          All the darlings with whiskey so faint,
          And the lads full of fight, had a glorious night,
          When ould Teddy was wak'd in his shed.
          &mdash;Original.
</pre>
    <p>
      He who has not travelled in Ireland should never presume to offer an
      opinion upon its natives. It is not from the wealthy absentees, who since
      the union have abandoned their countrymen to wretchedness, for the
      advancement of their own ambitious views, that we can form a judgment of
      the exalted Irish: nor is it from the lowly race, who driven forth by
      starving penury, crowd our more prosperous shores, <span class="pagenum">[23]</span>that
      we can justly estimate the true character of the peasantry of that unhappy
      country. The Memoirs of Captain Rock may have done something towards
      removing the national prejudices of Englishmen; while the frequent and
      continued agitation of that important question, the Emancipation of the
      Catholics, has roused a spirit of inquiry in every worthy bosom that will
      much advantage the oppressed, and, eventually, diffuse a more general and
      generous feeling towards the Irish throughout civilized Europe. I have
      been led into this strain of contemplation, by observing the ridiculous
      folly and wasteful expenditure of the nobility and fashionables of Great
      Britain; who, neglecting their starving tenantry and kindred friends,
      crowd to the shores of France and Italy in search of scenery and variety,
      without having the slightest knowledge of the romantic beauties and
      delightful landscapes, which abound in the three kingdoms of the Rose, the
      Shamrock, and the Thistle. How much good might be done by the examples of
      a few illustrious, noble, and wealthy individuals, making annual visits to
      Ireland and Scotland! what a field does it afford for true enjoyment! how
      superior, in most instances, the accommodations and security; and how
      little, if at all inferior, to the scenic attractions of foreign
      countries. Then too the gratification of observing the progress of
      improvement in the lower classes, of administering to their wants, and
      consoling with them under their patient sufferings from oppressive laws,
      rendered perhaps painfully necessary by the political temperature of the
      times or the unforgiving suspicions of the past. But I am becoming
      sentimental when I ought to be humorous, contemplative when I should be
      characteristic, and seriously sententious when I ought to be playfully
      satirical. Forgive me, gentle reader, if from the collapse of the spirit,
      I have for a moment turned aside from the natural gaiety of my <span
      class="pagenum">[24]</span>style, to give utterance to the warm feelings
      of an eccentric but generous heart. But, <i>allons</i> to the wake.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Plaze ye'r honor," said Barney O'Finn (my groom of the chambers), "may I
      be <i>axing</i> a holiday to-night?" "It will be very inconvenient,
      Barney; but&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;" "But, your honor's not the jontleman to
      refuse a small trate o' the sort," said Barney, anticipating the
      conclusion of my objection. There was some thing unusually anxious about
      the style of the poor fellow's request that made me hesitate in the
      refusal. "It's not myself that would be craving the favor, but a poor dead
      cousin o' mine, heaven rest his sowl!" "And how can the granting of such a
      request benefit your departed relation, Barney?" quoth I, not a little
      puzzled by the strangeness of the application. "Sure, that's mighty <i>dare</i>
      of comprehension, your honor. Teddy O'Rafferty was my own mother's
      brother's son, and devil o' like o' him there was in all Kilgobbin: we
      went to ould Father O'Rourke's school together when we were spalpeens, and
      ate our <i>paraters</i> and butter-milk out o' the same platter; many's
      the scrape we've been in together: bad luck to the ould schoolmaster, for
      he flogged all the <i>larning</i> out o' poor Teddy, and all the liking
      for't out of Barney O'Finn, that's myself, your honor&mdash;so one dark
      night we took advantage of the moon, and having joined partnership in
      property put it all into a Limerick silk handkerchief, with which we made
      the best of our way to Dublin, travelling stage arter stage by the
      ould-fashioned conveyance, Pat Adam's ten-toed machine. Many's the drap we
      got on the road to drive away care. All the wide world before us, and all
      the fine family estate behind,&mdash;pigs, poultry, and relations,&mdash;divil
      a tenpenny did we ever touch since. It's not your honor that will be angry
      to hear a few family misfortins," said Barney, hesitating to proceed with
      his narration, "Give me my hat, fellow," said <span class="pagenum">[25]</span>I,
      "and don't torture me with your nonsense."&mdash; "May be it an't nonsense
      your honor means?" "And why not, sirrah?"&mdash;"Bekase it's not in your
      nature to spake light o' the dead." Up to this point, my attention had
      been divided between the Morning Chronicle which lay upon my breakfast
      table, and Barney's comical relation; a glance at the narrator, however,
      as he finished the last sentence, convinced me that I ought to have
      treated him with more feeling. He was holding my hat towards me, when the
      pearly drop of affliction burst uncontrollably forth, and hung on the side
      of the beaver, like a sparkling crystal gem loosed from the cavern's roof,
      to rest upon the jasper stone beneath. I would have given up my Mastership
      of Arts to have recalled that word nonsense: I was so touched with the
      poor fellow's pathos.&mdash;" Shall I tell your onor the <i>partikilars</i>?"
      "Ay, do, Barney, proceed."&mdash;"Well, your onor, we worked our way to
      London togither&mdash;haymaking and harvesting: 'Taste fashions the man'
      was a saw of ould Father O'Rourke's; 'though divil a taste had he, but for
      draining the whiskey bottle and bating the boys, bad luck to his mimory!
      'Is it yourself?' said I, to young squire O'Sullivan, from Scullanabogue,
      whom good fortune threw in my way the very first day I was in London.&mdash;'Troth,
      and it is, Barney,' said he: 'What brings you to the sate of government?'
      'I'm seeking sarvice and fortune, your onor,' said I. 'Come your ways,
      then, my darling,' said he; and, without more to do, he made me his <i>locum
      tenens</i>, first clerk, messenger, and man of all work to a Maynooth
      Milesian. There was onor enough in all conscience for me, only it was not
      vary profitable. For, altho' my master followed the law, the law wouldn't
      follow him, and he'd rather more bags than briefs:&mdash;the consequence
      was, I had more banyan days than the man in the wilderness. Divil a'care,
      I got a character by my conduct, and a good place when I left him, as your
      <span class="pagenum">[26]</span>govonor can testify. As for poor Teddy,
      divil a partikle of taste had he for fashionable life, but a mighty pratty
      notion of the arts, so he turned operative arkitekt; engaged himself to a
      layer of bricks, and skipped nimbly up and down a five story ladder with a
      long-tailed box upon his shoulder&mdash;pace be to his ashes! He was
      rather too fond of the <i>crature</i>&mdash;many's the slip he had for his
      life&mdash;one minute breaking a jest, and the next breaking a joint; till
      there wasn't a sound limb to his body. Arrah, sure, it was all the same to
      Teddy&mdash;only last Monday, he was more elevated than usual, for he had
      just reached the top of the steeple of one of the new churches with a
      three gallon can of beer upon his <i>knowledge-box</i>, and, perhaps a
      little too much of the <i>crature</i> inside o! it. 'Shout, Teddy, to the
      honour of the saint,' said the foreman of the works (for they had just
      completed the job). Poor Teddy's religion got the better of his
      understanding, for in shouting long life to the dedicatory saint, he lost
      his own&mdash;missed his footing, and pitched over the scaffold like an
      odd chimney-pot in a high wind, and came down smash to the bottom with a
      head as flat as a bump. Divil a word has he ever spake since; for when
      they picked him up, he was dead as a Dublin bay herring&mdash;and now he
      lies in his cabin in Dyot-street, St. Giles, as stiff as a poker,&mdash;and
      to-night, your onor, we are going to <i>wake</i> him, poor sowl! to smoke
      a pipe, and spake an <i>horashon</i> over his corpse before we put him
      dacently to bed with the shovel. Then, there's his poor widow left
      childless, and divil a rap to buy paraters wid&mdash;bad luck to the eye
      that wouldn't drap a tear to his mimory, and cowld be the heart that
      refuses to comfort his widow!" Here poor Barney could no longer restrain
      his feelings, and having concluded the family history, blubbered outright.
      It was a strange mixture of the ludicrous and the sorrowful; but told with
      such an artless simplicity and genuine traits of feeling, that I would
      have defied the most <span class="pagenum">[27]</span>volatile to have
      felt uninterested with the speaker. "You shall go, by all means, Barney,"
      said I: "and here is a trifle to comfort the poor widow with." "The
      blessings of the whole calendar full on your onor!" responded the grateful
      Irishman. What a scene, thought I, for the pencil of my friend Bob
      Transit!"Could a stranger visit the place," I inquired, without
      molestation or the charge of impertinence, Barney?" "Divil a charge, your
      onor; and as to impertinence, a wake's like a house-warming, where every
      guest is welcome." With this assurance, I apprised Barney of my intention
      to gratify curiosity, and to bring a friend with me; carefully noted down
      the direction, and left the grateful fellow to pursue his course.
    </p>
    <p>
      The absurdities of funeral ceremonies have hitherto triumphed over the
      advances of civilization, and in many countries are still continued with
      almost as much affected solemnity and ridiculous parade as distinguished
      the early processions of the Pagans, Heathens, and Druids. The honours
      bestowed upon the dead may inculcate a good moral lesson upon the minds of
      the living, and teach them so to act in this life that their cold remains
      may deserve the after-exordium of their friends; but, in most instances,
      funeral pomp has more of worldly vanity in it than true respect, and it is
      no unusual circumstance in the meaner ranks of life, for the survivors to
      abridge their own comforts by a wasteful expenditure and useless parade,
      with which they think to honour the memory of the dead. The Egyptians
      carry this folly perhaps to the most absurd degree; their catacombs and
      splendid tombs far outrivalling the habitations of their princes, together
      with their expensive mode of embalming, are with us matters of curiosity,
      and often induce a sacrilegious transfer of some distinguished mummy to
      the museums of the connoisseur. The Athenians, Greeks, and Romans, had
      each their peculiar funeral ceremonies in the exhumation, <span
      class="pagenum">[28]</span>sacrifices, and orations performed on such
      occasions; and much of the present customs of the Romish church are, no
      doubt, derivable from and to be traced to these last-mentioned nations. In
      the present times, no race of people are more superstitious in their
      veneration for the ancient customs of their country and funeral rites,
      than the lower orders of the Irish, and that folly is often carried to a
      greater height during their domicile in this country than when residing at
      home.
    </p>
    <p>
      It was about nine o'clock at night when Eglantine, Transit, and myself
      sallied forth to St. Giles's in search of the wake, or, as Bob called it,
      on a crusade to the holy land. Formerly, such a visit would have been
      attended with great danger to the parties making the attempt, from the
      number of desperate characters who inhabited the back-slums lying in the
      rear of Broad-street: where used to be congregated together, the most
      notorious thieves, beggars, and bunters of the metropolis, amalgamated
      with the poverty and wretchedness of every country, but more particularly
      the lower classes of Irish, who still continue to exist in great numbers
      in the neighbourhood. Here was formerly held in a night-cellar, the
      celebrated Beggars' Club, at which the dissolute Lord Barrymore and
      Colonel George Hanger, afterwards Lord Coleraine, are said to have often
      officiated as president and vice-president, attended by their profligate
      companions, and surrounded by the most extraordinary characters of the
      times; the portraits and biography of whom may be seen in Smith's
      'Vagabondiana,' a very clever and highly entertaining work. It was on this
      spot that George Parker collected his materials for 'Life's Painter of
      Variegated Characters,' and among its varieties, that Grose and others
      obtained the flash and patter which form the cream of their humorous
      works. Formerly, the Beggars' ordinary, held in a cellar was a scene
      worthy <span class="pagenum">[29]</span>of the pencil of a Hogarth or a
      Cruikshank; notorious impostors, professional paupers, ballad-singers, and
      blind fiddlers might here be witnessed carousing on the profits of
      mistaken charity, and laughing in their cups at the credulity of mankind;
      but the police have now disturbed their nightly orgies, and the Mendicant
      Society ruined their lucrative calling. The long table, where the
      trenchers consisted of so many round holes turned out in the plank, and
      the knives, forks, spoons, candle-sticks, and fire-irons all chained to
      their separate places, is no longer to be seen. The night-cellar yet
      exists, where the wretched obtain a temporary lodging and straw bed at
      twopence per head; but the Augean stable has been cleansed of much of its
      former impurities, and scarce a vestige remains of the disgusting
      depravity of former times.
    </p>
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    </p>
    <p>
      A little way up Dyot-street, on the right hand from Holborn, we perceived
      the gateway to which Barney had directed me, and passing under it into a
      court filled with tottering tenements of the most wretched appearance, we
      were soon attracted to the spot we sought, by the clamour of voices
      apparently singing and vociferating together. The faithful Barney was
      ready posted at the door to receive us, and had evidently prepared the
      company to show more than usual respect. An old building or shed adjoining
      the deceased's residence, which had been used for a carpenter's shop, was
      converted for the occasion from its general purpose to a melancholy hall
      of mourning. At one end of this place was the corpse of the deceased,
      visible to every person from its being placed on a bed in a sitting
      posture, beneath a tester of ragged check-furniture; large sheets of white
      linen were spread around the walls in lieu of tapestries, and covered with
      various devices wrought into fantastic images of flowers, angels, and
      seraphim. A large, fresh-gathered posy in the bosom of the deceased had a
      most striking effect, when contrasted <span class="pagenum">[30]</span>with
      the pallidness of death; over the lower parts of the corpse was spread a
      counterpane, covered with roses, marigolds, and sweet-smelling flowers;
      whilst on his breast reposed the cross, emblematical of the dead man's
      faith; and on a table opposite, at the extreme end, stood an image of our
      Redeemer, before which burned four tall lights in massive candlesticks,
      lent by the priest upon such occasions to give additional solemnity to the
      scene. There is something very awful in the contemplation of death, from
      which not even the strongest mind can altogether divest itself. But at a
      <i>wake</i> the solemn gloom which generally pervades the chamber of a
      lifeless corpse is partially removed by the appearance of the friends of
      the deceased arranged around, drinking, singing, and smoking tobacco in
      profusion. Still there was something unusually impressive in observing the
      poor widow of O'Rafferty, seated at the feet of her deceased lord with an
      infant in her arms, and all the appearance of a heart heavily charged with
      despondency and grief. An old Irishwoman, seated at the side of the bed,
      was making the most violent gesticulations, and audibly calling upon the
      spirit of the departed "to see how they onor'd his mimory," raising the
      cross before her, while two or three others came up to the head, uttered a
      short prayer, and then sat down to drink his sowl out of purgation. (See
      Plate.)
    </p>
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    </p>
    <p>
      But the most extraordinary part of the ceremony was the <i>howl</i>, or
      oration spoken over the dead man by a rough-looking, broad-shouldered
      Emeralder, who descanted upon his virtues as if he had been an hero of the
      first magnitude, and invoked every saint in the calendar to free the
      departed from perdition. For some time decorum was pretty well preserved;
      but on my friends Bob Transit and Horace Eglantine sending Barney out for
      a whole gallon of whiskey, and a proportionate quantity of pipes and
      tobacco, the dull scene of silent meditation <span class="pagenum">[31]</span>gave
      way to sports and spree, more accordant with their feelings; and the
      kindred of the deceased were too familiar with such amusements to consider
      them in any degree disrespectful. There is a volatile something in the
      Irish character that strongly partakes of the frivolity of our Gallic
      neighbours; and it is from this feature that we often find them gay amidst
      the most appalling wants, and humorous even in the sight of cold
      mortality. A song was soon proposed, and many a ludicrous stave sung, as
      the inspiring cup made the circle of the company. "Luke Caffary's
      Kilmainham Minit," an old flash chant, and "The Night before Larry was
      stretched," were among the most favourite ditties of the night. A verse
      from the last may serve to show their <i>peculiar</i> character.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "The night before Larry was stretch'd,

          The boys they all paid him a visit;
          And bit in their sacks too they fetch'd,

          They sweated their duds till they riz it.
          For Larry was always the lad,

          When a friend was condemn'd to the squeezer.
          But he'd fence all the foss that he had

          To help a poor friend to a sneezer,
          And moisten his sowl before he died."
</pre>
    <p>
      Ere eleven o'clock had arrived, the copious potations of whiskey and
      strong beer, joined to the fumes of the tobacco, had caused a powerful
      alteration in the demeanor of the assembled group, who now became most
      indecorously vociferous. "By the powers of Poll Kelly!" said the raw-boned
      fellow who had howled the lament over the corpse, "I'd be arter making
      love to the widow mysel', only it mightn't be altogether dacent before
      Teddy's put out o' the way." "You make love to the widow!" responded the
      smart-looking Florence M'Carthy; "to the divil I pitch you, you bouncing
      bogtrotter! it's myself alone that will have that onor, bekase Teddy
      O'Rafferty wished me to take his wife as a legacy. 'It's all I've got, Mr.
      Florence,' <span class="pagenum">[32]</span>said he to me one day, 'to
      lave behind for the redemption of the small trifle I owe you.'" "It aint
      the like o' either of you that will be arter bamboozling my cousin, Mrs.
      Judy O'Rafferty, into a blind bargain," said Barney O'Finn; in whose
      noddle the whiskey began to fumigate with the most valorous effect.
      "You're a noble-spirited fellow, Barney," said Horace Eglantine, who was
      using his best exertions to produce a <i>row</i>. "At them again, Barney,
      and tell them their conduct is most indecent." Thus stimulated and
      prompted, Barney was not tardy in re-echoing the charge; which, as might
      have been expected, produced an instantaneous explosion and general
      battle. In two minutes the company were thrown into the most appalling
      scene of confusion&mdash;chairs and tables upset, bludgeons, pewter pots,
      pipes, glasses, and other missiles flying about in all directions, until
      broken heads and shins were as plentiful as black eyes, and there was no
      lack of either&mdash;women screaming and children crying, making distress
      more horrible. In this state of affairs, Bob Transit had climbed up and
      perched himself upon a beam to make observations; while the original
      fomenter of the strife, that mad wag Eglantine, had with myself made our
      escape through an aperture into the next house, and having secured our
      persons from violence were enabled to become calm observers of the affray,
      by peeping through the breach by which we had entered. In the violence of
      the struggle, poor Teddy O'Rafferty was doomed to experience another upset
      before his remains were consigned to the tomb; for just at the moment that
      a posse of watchmen and night-constables arrived to put an end to the
      broil, such was the panic of the assailants that in rushing towards the
      bed to conceal themselves from the <i>charlies</i>, they tumbled poor
      Teddy head over heels to the floor of his shed, leaving his head's
      antipodes sticking up where his head should have been; a <span
      class="pagenum">[33]</span>circumstance that more than any thing else
      contributed to appease the inflamed passions of the group, who, shocked at
      the sacrilegious insult they had committed, immediately sounded a parley,
      and united to reinstate poor Teddy O'Rafferty in his former situation.
      This was the signal for Horace and myself to proceed round to the front
      door, and pretending we were strangers excited by curiosity, succeeded, by
      a little well-timed flattery and a small trifle to drink our good healths,
      in freeing the assailants from all the horrors of a watch-house, and
      eventually of restoring peace and unanimity. It was now past midnight;
      leaving therefore poor Barney O'Finn to attend mass, and pay the last sad
      tribute to his departed relative, on the morning of the morrow we once
      more bent our steps towards home, laughing as we went at the strange
      recollections of the wake, the row, and last appearance of Teddy
      O'Rafferty.{1}
    </p>
    <p>
      REQUIESCAT IN PACE.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 As the reader might not think this story complete without
     gome account of the concluding ceremonies, I have
     ascertained from Barney that his cousin Teddy was quietly
     borne on the shoulders of his friends to the church of St.
     Paneras, where he was safely deposited with his mother-
     earth, a bit of a bull, by the by; and after the mourners
     had made three circles round his ashes, and finished the
     ceremony by a most delightful howl and prayers said over the
     crossed spades, they all retired peaceably home, moderately
     laden with the juice of the <i>crature</i>.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      THE CYPRIAN'S BALL,
    </h2>
    <h3>
      OR
    </h3>
    <p>
      Sketches of Characters
    </p>
    <p>
      AT THE VENETIAN CARNIVAL.
    </p>
    <p>
      Scene.&mdash;Argyll Rooms.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[34]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hymen ushers the lady Astrea,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          The jest took hold of Latona the cold,
          Ceres the brown, with bright Cytherea,
          Thetis the wanton, Bellona the bold;
          Shame-faced Aurora
          With witty Pandora,
          And Maia with Flora did company bear;"
          (And many 'tis stated
          Went there to be mated,
          Who all their lives have been hunting the fair. )

     Blackmantle, Transit, Eglantine, and Crony's Visit to the
     Venetian Carnival&mdash;Exhibits&mdash;Their Char-acters drawn from
     the Life&mdash;General Trinket, the M.C.&mdash;Crony's singidar
     Anecdote of the great Earl of Chesterfield, and Origin of
     the Debouchettes&mdash;The Omissions in the Wilson Memoirs
     supplied&mdash;Biographical Reminiscences of the Amiable Mrs.
     Debouchette&mdash;Harriette and lier Sisters&mdash;Amy&mdash;Mary&mdash;Fanny&mdash;
     Julia&mdash;Sophia&mdash;Charlotte and Louisa&mdash;Paphians and their
     Paramours&mdash;Peers and Plebeians&mdash;The Bang Bantam&mdash;London Leda
     &mdash;Spanish Nun&mdash;Sparrow Hawk&mdash;Golden Pippin&mdash;White Crow&mdash;
     Brazen Bellona&mdash;Edgeware Diana
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[35]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Water Lily&mdash;White Doe&mdash;Comic Muse&mdash;Queen of the
     Dansysettes&mdash;Vestina the Titan&mdash;The Red Rose&mdash;Moss Rose and
     Cabbage Rose&mdash;The Doldrum Stars of Erin&mdash;Wren of Paradise&mdash;
     Queen of the Amazons&mdash;Old Pomona&mdash;Venus Mendicant&mdash;Venus
     Callypiga&mdash;Goddess of the Golden Locks&mdash;Mocking Bird&mdash;Net
     Perdita&mdash;Napoleon Venus&mdash;Red Swan&mdash;Black Swan&mdash;Blue-eyed
     Luna&mdash;Tartar Sultana The Bit of Rue&mdash;Brompton Ceres&mdash;
     Celestina Conway&mdash;Lucy Bertram&mdash;Water Wagtail&mdash;Tops and
     Bottoms&mdash;The Pretenders&mdash;The Old Story&mdash;Lady of the Priory&mdash;
     Little White Morose&mdash;Queen of Trumps&mdash;Giovanni the Syren,
     with Ileal Names "unexed&mdash;Original Portraits and Anecdotes
     of the Dukes of M&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;and D&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, Marquisses II&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; and
     II &mdash;&mdash;, Earls   W&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,   F&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,  and  C&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,   Lords
     P&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,   A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,   M&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,   and N&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,   llonourables
     B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;c,  L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;s, and F&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;s&mdash;General Trinket&mdash;Colonel
     Caxon&mdash;Messrs.  II&mdash;b&mdash;h,  R&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, D&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, and B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,
     and other Innumerables.
</pre>
    <p>
      It was during the fashionable season of the year 1818, when Augusta Corri,
      <i>ci-devant</i> Lady Hawke,{1} shone forth under her newly-acquired title
      a planet of the first order, that a few amorous noblemen and wealthy
      dissolutes, ever on the <i>qui vive</i> for novelty, projected and
      sanctioned the celebrated Venetian carnival given at the Argyll-rooms
      under the patronage of her ladyship and four other equally celebrated
      courtezans. Of course, the female invitations were confined exclusively to
      the sisterhood, but restricted to the planets and stars of Cytherea, the
      carriage curiosities, and fair impures of the most dashing order and
      notoriety; and never were the revels of Terpsichore kept up with more
      spirit, or graced with a more choice collection of beautiful, ripe, and
      wanton fair ones.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 In page 315 of our first volume we have given a brief
     biographical sketch of her ladyship and her amours.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[36]</span>Nor was there any lack of distinguished
      personages of the other sex; almost all the leading <i>roués</i> of the
      day being present, from Lord p******** Tom B***, including many of the
      highest note in the peerage, court calendar, and army list. The elegance
      and superior arrangement of this Cytherean <i>fête</i> was in the most
      exquisite taste; and such was the number of applications for admissions,
      and the reported splendour of the preparations, that great influence in a
      certain court was necessary to insure a safe passport into the territories
      of the Paphian goddess. The enormous expense of this act of folly has been
      estimated at upwards of two thousand pounds; and many are the dupes who
      have been named as bearing proportions of the same, from a royal duke to a
      Hebrew star of some magnitude in the city; but truth will out, and the
      ingenuity of her ladyship in raising the wind has never been disputed, if
      it has ever been equalled, by any of her fair associates. The honour of
      the arrangement and a good portion of the expense were, undoubtedly, borne
      by a broad-shouldered Milesian commissary-general, who has since figured
      among the ton under the quaint cognomen of General Trinket, from his
      penchant for filling his pockets with a variety of cheap baubles, for the
      purpose of making presents to his numerous Dulcineas; a trifling
      extravagance, which joined to his attachment to <i>rouge et noir</i> has
      since consigned him to durance vile. The general is, however, certainly a
      fellow of some address, and, as a master of the ceremonies, deserves due
      credit for the superior genius he on that occasion displayed.
    </p>
    <p>
      During dinner, Crony had been telling us a curious anecdote of the great
      Earl of Chesterfield and Miss Debouchette, the grandmother of the
      celebrated courtezans, Harriette Wilson and sisters. "At one of the places
      of public entertainment at the Hague, a very beautiful girl of the name of
      Debouchette, who <span class="pagenum">[37]</span>acted as <i>limonadière</i>,
      had attracted the notice of a party of English noblemen, who were all
      equally anxious to obtain so fair a prize. Intreaties, promises of large
      settlements, and every species of lure that the intriguers could invent,
      had been attempted and played off without the slightest success; the fair
      <i>limonadière</i> was proof against all their arts. In this state of
      affairs arrived the then elegant and accomplished Earl of Chesterfield,
      certainly one of the most attractive and finished men of his time, but,
      without doubt, equally dissipated, and notorious for the number of his
      amours. Whenever a charming girl in the humbler walks of life becomes the
      star of noble attraction and the reigning toast among the <i>roués</i> of
      the day, her destruction may be considered almost inevitable. The amorous
      beaux naturally inflame the ardour of each other's desires by their
      admiration of the general object of excitement; until the honour of
      possessing such a treasure becomes a matter of heroism, a prize for which
      the young and gay will perform the most unaccountable prodigies, and, like
      the chivalrous knights of old, sacrifice health, fortune, and eventually
      life, to bear away in triumph the fair conqueror of hearts. Such was the
      situation of Miss Debouchette, when the Earl of Chesterfield, whose
      passions had been unusually inflamed by the current reports of the lady's
      beauty, found himself upon inspection that her attractions were
      irresistible, but that it would require no unusual skill to break down and
      conquer the prudence and good sense with which superior education had
      guarded the mind of the fair <i>limonadière</i>. To a man of gallantry,
      obstacles of the most imposing import are mere chimeras, and readily fall
      before the ardour of his impetuosity; 'faint heart never won fair lady,'
      is an ancient but trite proverb, that always encourages the devotee. The
      earl had made a large bet that he would carry off the lady. In <span
      class="pagenum">[38]</span>England, among the retiring and the most modest
      of creation's lovely daughters, his success in intrigues had become
      proverbial; yet, for a long time, was he completely foiled by the fair
      Debouchette. No specious pretences, nor the flattering attentions of the
      most polished man in Europe, could induce the lady to depart from the
      paths of prudence and of virtue; every artifice to lure her into the snare
      of the seducer had been tried and found ineffectual, and his lordship was
      about to retire discomfited and disgraced from the scene of his amorous
      follies, with a loss of some thousands, the result of his rashness and
      impetuosity, when an artifice suggested itself to the fertile brain of his
      foreign valet, who was an experienced tactician in the wars of Venus. This
      was to ascertain, if possible, in what part of the mansion the lady slept;
      to be provided with a carriage and four horses, and in the dead of the
      night, with the assistance of two ruffians, to raise a large sheet before
      her window dipt in spirits, which being lighted would burn furiously, and
      then raising the cry of fire, the fair occupant would, of course,
      endeavour to escape; when the lover would have nothing more to do than
      watch his opportunity, seize her person, and conveying it to the carriage
      in waiting, drive off secure in his victory. The scheme was put in
      practice, and succeeded to the full extent of the projector's wishes; but
      the affair, which made considerable noise at the time, and was the subject
      of some official remonstrances, had nearly ended in a more serious manner.
      The brother of the lady was an officer in the army, and both the
      descendants of a poor but ancient family; the indignity offered to his
      name, and the seduction of his sister, called forth the retributive
      feelings of a just revenge; he sought out the offender, challenged him,
      but gave him the option of redeeming his sister's honour and his own by
      marriage. Alas! that was impossible; the earl was already engaged. A
      meeting took place, <span class="pagenum">[39]</span>when, reflection and
      good sense having recovered their influence over the mind of the
      dissipated lover, he offered every atonement in his power, professed a
      most unlimited regard for the lady, suggested that his destruction would
      leave her, in her then peculiar state, exposed to indigence, proposed to
      protect her, and settle an annuity of two hundred pounds per annum upon
      her for her life; and thus circumstanced the brother acceded, and the
      affair was, by this interposition of the seconds, amicably arranged. There
      are those yet living who remember the fair <i>limonadière</i> first coming
      to this country, and they bear testimony to her superior attractions. The
      lady lived for some years in a state of close retirement, under the
      protection of the noble earl, in the neighbourhood of Chelsea, and the
      issue of that connexion was a natural son, Mr. Debouchette, whom report
      states to be the father of Harriette Wilson and her sisters.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Ere man's corruptions made him wretched, he
          Was born most noble, who was born most free.'
          &mdash;Otway.
</pre>
    <p>
      So thought young Debouchette; for a more wild and giddy fellow.in early
      life has seldom figured among the medium order of society. Whether the
      mother of the Cyprians was really honoured with the ceremony of the
      ritual, I have no means of knowing," said Crony; "but I well remember the
      lady, before these her beauteous daughters had trodden the slippery paths
      of pleasure: there was a something about her that is undefinable in
      language, but conveys to the mind impressions of no very pure principles
      of morality; a roving eye, salacious person, and swaggering carriage, with
      a most inviting condescension, always particularized the elder
      silk-stocking grafter of Chelsea, while yet the fair offspring of her
      house were lisping infants, innocent and beautiful as playful lambs.
      Debouchette himself was a right jolly fellow, careless of domestic <span
      class="pagenum">[40]</span>happiness, and very fond of his bottle; and
      indeed that was excusable, as during a long period of his life he was
      concerned in the wine trade. To the conduct and instructions of the mother
      the daughters are indebted for their present share of notoriety, with all
      the attendant infamy that attaches itself to Harriette and her sisters:&mdash;and
      this perhaps is the reason why Mrs. Rochford, alias Harriette Wilson, so
      liberally eulogises, in her Memoirs, a parent whose purity of principle is
      so much in accordance with the exquisite delicacy of her accomplished
      daughter. As the girls grew up, they were employed, Amy and Harriette, at
      their mother's occupation, the grafting of silk stockings, while the
      junior branches of the family were operative clear starchers, as the old
      board over the parlour window used to signify, which Brummel would
      facetiously translate into getters up of fine linen, when Petersham did
      him the honour of driving him past the door, that he might give his
      opinion upon the rising merits of the family, who, like fragrant exotics,
      were always placed at the window by their judicious parent, to excite the
      attention of the curious. But, allons" said Crony, "we shall be late at
      the carnival, and I would not miss the treat of such an assemblage for the
      honour of knighthood."
    </p>
    <p>
      A very few minutes brought Transit, Eglantine, Crony, and myself, within
      the vortex of this most seductive scene. Waltzing was the order of the
      night&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Endearing waltz! to thy more melting tune
          Bow Irish jig and ancient rigadoon;
          Scotch reels avaunt! and country dance forego
          Your future claims to each fantastic toe.
          Waltz&mdash;Waltz alone both legs and arms demands,
          Liberal of feet and lavish of her hands.
          Hands, which may freely range in public sight,
          Where ne'er before&mdash;but&mdash;pray 'put out the light.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      A coruscation of bright eyes and beauteous forms shed a halo of delight
      around, that must have warmed the cyprian's ball <span class="pagenum">[41]</span>the
      heart and animated the pulse of the coldest stoic in Christendom. The
      specious M. C, General O'M***a, introduced us in his best style, quickly
      bowing each of us into the graces of some fascinating fair, than whom
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Not Cleopatra on her galley's deck
          Display'd so much of leg or more of neck."
</pre>
    <p>
      For myself, I had the special honour of being engaged to the Honourable
      Mrs. J&mdash; C******y, otherwise Padden, who, whatever may have been her
      origin,{2} has certainly acquired the ease and elegance of
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 Mrs. Padden is said to have been originally a servant-maid
     at Plymouth, and the victim of early seduction.    When very
     young,
</pre>
    <p>
      coming to London with her infant in search of a Captain D&mdash;&mdash;-
      in the D&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;e Militia, her first but inconstant
      swain, chance threw her in her abandoned condition into the way of Colonel
      C&mdash;&mdash;-, who was much interested by her tale of sorrow, and more
      perhaps by her then lovely person, to obtain possession of which, he took
      a house for her, furnished it, and (as the phrase is) <i>set her up</i>.
      How long the duke's <i>aide-de-camp</i> continued the favourite lover is
      not of any consequence; but both parties are known to have been capricious
      in <i>affaires de cour</i>. Her next acknowledged protector was the
      light-hearted George D&mdash;&mdash;-d, then a great gun in the
      fashionable world: to him succeeded an <i>amorous thane</i>, the Irish
      Earl of F&mdash;&mdash;-e; and when his lordship, satiated by possession,
      withdrew his eccentric countenance, Lord Mo&mdash;f&mdash;d succeeded to
      the vacant couch. The Venetian masquerade is said to have produced a long
      carnival to this <i>belle brunette</i>, who seldom kept <i>Lent</i>; and
      who hero met, for the first time, a now noble Marquess, then Lord Y&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,
      to whose liberality she was for some time indebted for a very splendid
      establishment; but the precarious existence of such connexions is
      proverbial, and Mrs. Padden has certainly had her share of fatal
      experience. Her next paramour was a diamond of the first water, but no
      star, a certain dashing jeweller, Mr. C&mdash;&mdash;-, whose charmer she
      continued only until kind fortune threw in her way her present constant
      Jack. With the hoy-day of the blood, the fickleness of the heart ceases;
      and Mrs. Padden is now in the "sear o' the leaf," and somewhat <i>passée</i>
      with the town. It does therefore display good judgment in the lady to
      endeavour, by every attention and correct conduct, to preserve an
      attachment that has now existed for some considerable time. <span
      class="pagenum">[42]</span>Indeed it is hardly possible to find a more
      conversational or attractive woman, or one less free from the vulgarity
      which usually accompanies ladies of her caste. With this fair I danced a
      waltz, and then danced off to my friend Crony, who had been excused a
      display of agility on the score of age, and from whom I anticipated some
      interesting anecdotes of the surrounding stars. (See Plate.)
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Cimage-0009" id="Cimage-0009">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images2/page042.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images2/page042th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page042" />
    </div>
    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The Montagues, five sisters, all fine women, and celebrated as the stars
      of Erin, shone forth on this occasion with no diminished ray of their
      accustomed brilliancy; Mrs. Drummond, otherwise H&mdash;n Dr&mdash;y Ba&mdash;y,
      Me&mdash;t&mdash;o, or Bulkly, the last being the only legal <i>cognomen</i>
      of the fair, led the way, followed by Maria Cross, otherwise Latouche,
      Matilda Chatterton, Isabella Cummins, and Amelia Hamilton, all ladies of
      high character in the court of Cytherea, whose amours, were I to attempt
      them, would exceed in volumes, if not in interest, the chronicles of their
      native isle. Among the most interesting of the fairy group was the
      beautiful Louisa Rowley, since married to Lord L**c**les, and that
      charming little rosebud, the captivating Josephine, who, although a mere
      child, was introduced under the special protection of the celebrated Mr.
      B***, who has since been completely duped by the little <i>intriguante</i>,
      as also was hep second lover Lord p********? who succeeded in the lady's
      favour afterwards; but from whom she fled to Lord H****t, since whose
      death, an event which occurred in Paris, I hear she has reformed, and is
      now following the example of an elder sister, by preparing herself for the
      stage. "Who is that dashing looking brunette in the turban, that is just
      entering the room?" inquired Transit, who appeared to be mightily taken
      with the fair incognita. "That lady, with the mahogany skin and <i>piquant</i>
      appearance, is the favourite mistress of the poor Duke of Ma**b****h,"
      responded Crony, "and is no other than <span class="pagenum">[43]</span>the
      celebrated Poll&mdash;&mdash;-Pshaw! everybody has heard of the Queen of
      the Amazons, a title given to the lady, in honour, as I suppose, of his
      grace's fighting ancestor. Poll is said to be a great voluptuary; but at
      any rate she cannot be very extravagant, that is, if she draws all her
      resources from her protector's present purse. Do you observe that <i>jolie
      dame</i> yonder sitting under the orchestra? that is the well-known Nelly
      Mansell, of Crawford-street, called the <i>old Pomona</i>, from the
      richness of her <i>first fruits</i>. Nelly has managed her affairs with no
      trifling share of prudence, and although in the decline of life, she is by
      no means in declining circumstances. H**re the banker married her niece,
      and the aunt's cash-account is said to be a very comfortable expectancy.
    </p>
    <p>
      The <i>elegante</i> waltzing so <i>luxuriantly</i> with H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
      B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; is the lovely Emma
      Richardson, sometime since called Standish or Davison, a Cytherean of the
      very first order, and the sister planet to the equally charming Ellen
      Hanbury, otherwise Bl&mdash;&mdash;-g&mdash;&mdash;-ve, constellations of
      the utmost brilliancy, very uncertain in their appearance, and equally so,
      if report speaks truth, in their attachment to either Jupiter, Mars,
      Vulcan, or Apollo. The first is denominated <i>Venus Mendicant</i>, from
      her always pleading poverty to her suitors, and thus artfully increasing
      their generosity towards her. Sister Ellen has obtained the appellation of
      <i>Venus Callipyga</i>, from her elegant form and generally half-draped
      appearance in public. Do you perceive the swarthy amazon waddling along
      yonder, whom the old Earl of W&mdash;&mdash;-d appears to be eyeing with
      no little anticipation of delight? that is a lady with a very ancient and
      most fish-like flavor, odoriferous in person as the oily female Esquimaux,
      or the more <i>fragrant</i> feminine inhabitants of Russian Tartary and
      the Crimea; she has with some of her admirers obtained the name of <i>Dolly
      Drinkwater</i>, from her known dislike to any <span class="pagenum">[44]</span>thing
      <i>stronger</i> than pure French Brandy. Her present travelling cognomen
      is Mrs. Sp**c*r, otherwise <i>Black Moll</i>; and a wag of the day, who is
      rather notorious for the variety of his taste, has recently insisted upon
      re-christening her by the <i>attractive nom de guerre</i> of <i>Nux Vomica</i>.
      The little goddess of the golden locks, dancing with a well-known <i>roué</i>,
      is Fanny My*rs, a very efficient partner in the dance, and if report be
      true not less engaging in the sacred mysteries of Cytherea." It would fill
      the ample page to relate the varied anecdote with which Crony illustrated,
      as he proceeded to describe the Scyllo and Charybdes of the unwary and the
      gay; who in their voyage through life are lured by the syrens of sweet
      voice, and the Pyrrhas of sweet lip, the Cleopatras of modern times, the
      conquerors of hearts, and the voluptuous rioters in pleasurable excesses,
      of those of whom Byron has sung,&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         "Round all the confines of the yielding waist,
         The strangest hand may wander undisplaced.
                  *   *   *
         Till some might marvel with the modest Turk,
         If 'nothing follows all this palming work.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      To draw all the portraits who figured in the fascinating scene of gay
      delight would be a task of almost equal magnitude with the Herculean
      labours, and one which in attempting, I fear some of my readers may
      censure me for already dwelling too long upon: but let them remember, I am
      a professed painter of real life, not the inventor or promoter of these
      delectable <i>nocte Attici</i> and depraved orgies; that in faithfully
      narrating scenes and describing character, the object of the author and
      artist is to show up vice in all its native deformity; that being known,
      it may be avoided, and being exposed, despised. But I must crave
      permission to extend my notice of the Cythereans to a few more characters,
      ere yet the mirth-inspiring notes of the band have ceased to vibrate, or
      the graceful <span class="pagenum">[45]</span>fair ones to trip it lightly
      on fantastic toe; this done, I shall perhaps take a peep into the
      supper-room, drink Champagne, and pick the wing of a chicken while I
      whisper a few soft syllables into the ear of the nearest <i>elegante</i>;
      and then&mdash;gentle reader, start not&mdash;then&mdash;&mdash;-
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "The breast thus <i>publicly</i> resign'd to man
          In <i>private</i> may resist him&mdash;if it can."
</pre>
    <p>
      But here the curtain shall drop upon all the fairy sirens who lead the
      young heart captive in their silken chains; and the <i>daughters of
      pleasure</i> and the <i>sons of profligacy</i> may practise the mysteries
      of Cytherea in private, undisturbed by the pen of the satirist or the
      pencil of the humorist.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The scandalizing group in close conference in the left-hand corner,
      behind Lord William Lenox and another dashing ensign in the guards, is
      composed," said Crony, "of Mrs. Nixon, the <i>ci-devant</i> Mrs. Baring,
      Nugent's old.flame, Mrs. Christopher Harrison, the two sisters, Mesdames
      Gardner and Peters, and the well-known Kitty Stock, all minor
      constellations, mostly on the decline, and hence full of envious jealousy
      at the attention paid by the beaux to the more attractive charms of the
      newly discovered planets, the younger sisterhood of the convent." "If we
      could but get near enough to overhear their conversation," said Transit,
      "we should, no doubt, obtain possession of a few rich anecdotes of the
      Paphians and their paramours." "I have already enough of the latter," said
      I, "to fill a dozen albums, without descending to the meanness of becoming
      a listener. Amorous follies are the least censurable of the sins of men,
      when they are confined to professed courtezans. The heartless conduct of
      the systematic seducer demands indignation; but the trifling peccadillos
      of the sons of fortune and the stars of fashion may be passed by, without
      any serious personal exposure, since <i>time, <span class="pagenum">[46]</span>cash,
      and constitution are the three practising physicians</i> who generally
      effect a radical cure, without the aid of the satirist. But come, Crony,
      you must give us the <i>nom de guerre</i> of the last-mentioned belles:
      you have hitherto distinguished all the Cythereans by some eccentric
      appellation; let us therefore have the list complete." "By all means,
      gentlemen," replied the old beau: "if I must stand godfather to the whole
      fraternity of Cyprians, I think I ought, at least, to have free access to
      every convent in Christendom; but I must refer to my tablets, for I keep a
      regular entry of all the new appearances, or I should never remember half
      their designations. Mrs. N&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;has the harmonious
      appellation of the <i>mocking bird</i>, from her silly habit of repeating
      every word you address to her. Mrs. B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;is called the <i>New
      Perdita</i>, from a royal conquest she once made, but which we have only
      her own authority for believing; at any rate, she is known to be fond of a
      <i>New-gent</i>, and the title may on that account be fairly her own. Mrs.
      C&mdash;&mdash;-H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; has the honour of being
      distinguished by the appropriate name of the <i>Napoleon Venus</i>, from
      the similarity of her contour with the countenance of that great man.
    </p>
    <p>
      The two sisters, Mesdames G&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;and P&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,
      are well known by the flattering distinctions of the red and the black
      Swan, from the colour of their hair and the stateliness of their carriage;
      and Kitty Stock has the poetical cognomen of <i>blue-eyed Lima</i>. Now,
      you have nearly the whole vocabulary of love's votaries," said old Crony;
      "and be sure, young gentlemen, you profit by the precepts of experience;
      for not one of these frail fair ones but in her time has made as many
      conquests as Wellington, and caused perhaps as much devastation among the
      sons of men as any hero in the world. But a new light breaks in upon us,"
      said Crony, "in the person of Mrs. Simmons, the <i>Tartar sultana</i>,
      whom you may observe conversing with Lords H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;d and P&mdash;&mdash;-m
      in the centre of the room. Poor N&mdash;g&mdash;nt the cyprian's ball
      <span class="pagenum">[47]</span>will long remember her prowess in battle,
      when the strength of her passion had nearly brought matters to a point,
      and that not a very tender one; but the swain cut the affair in good time,
      or might have been cruelly cut himself. Messrs. H&mdash;h and R&mdash;s&mdash;w
      could also give some affecting descriptions of the Tartar sultana's rage
      when armed with jealousy or resentment. Her residence, No. 30, B&mdash;k&mdash;r-street,
      has long been celebrated as the three x x x; a name probably given to it
      by some spark who found the sultana three times more cross than even
      common report had stated her to be." The night was now fast wearing away,
      when Crony again directed our attention to the right-hand corner of the
      room, where, just under the orchestra, appeared the elder sister of the
      notorious Harriette Wilson seated, and in close conversation with the
      Milesian M. C, O'M&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;a, who, according to his
      usual custom, was dispensing his entertaining anecdotes of all his
      acquaintance who graced the present scene. "That is Amy Campbell,
      otherwise Sydenham, &amp;e., &amp;c, but now legally Bochsa, of whom
      Harriette has since told so many agreeable stories relative to the black
      puddings and Argyle; however, considerable suspicion attaches itself to
      Harriette's anecdotes of her elder sister, particularly as she herself
      admits they were not very good friends, and Harriette never would forgive
      Amy for seducing the Duke of Argyle from his allegiance to her. Mrs.
      Campbell was for some years the favourite sultana of his grace, and has a
      son by him, a fine boy, now about twelve years of age, who goes by the
      family name, and for whose support the kind-hearted duke allows the mother
      a very handsome annuity. Amy is certainly a woman of considerable talent;
      a good musician, as might have been expected from her attachment to the
      harpist, and an excellent linguist, speaking the French, Spanish, and
      Italian languages with the greatest fluency. In her person she begins to
      exhibit the ravages of time, is somewhat <i>embonpoint</i>, with <span
      class="pagenum">[48]</span>dark hair and fine eyes, but rather of the keen
      order of countenance than the agreeable; and report says, that the Signior
      composer, amid his plurality of wives, never found a more difficult task
      to preserve the equilibrium of domestic harmony.
    </p>
    <p>
      By the side of this fair one, arm in arm with a well-known bookseller, you
      may perceive Harriette Kochforte, alias Wilson, who, according to her own
      account, has had as many amours as the Grand Seignor can boast wives, and
      with just as little of affection in the <i>affaires de cour</i> as his
      sublime highness, only with something more of publicity. Harriette gives
      the honour of her introduction into the mysteries of Cytherea to the Earl
      of Craven; but it is well known that a certain dashing solicitor's clerk
      then living in the neighbourhood of Chelsea, and near her amiable mamma's
      residence, first engrossed, her attention, and by whom she exhibited
      increasing symptoms of affection, which being properly engrafted on the
      person of the fair stockinger, in due time required a release from a
      practitioner of another profession; an innocent affair that now lies
      buried deep in an odd corner at the old churchyard at Chelsea, without a
      monumental stone or epitaph to point out the early virtues of the fair
      Cytherean. To this limb of the law succeeded the Honourable Be&mdash;1&mdash;y
      C&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;n, who was then too volatile and capricious to pay
      his devotions at any particular shrine for more than a week together. It
      was this cold neglect of the honourable's that has, perhaps, secured him
      from mention in her Memoirs; since Harriette never speaks of her beaux
      without giving the reader to suppose they were desperately in love with
      herself: then there was more of the dignified in an affair with an earl,
      and Madame Harriette has a great notion of preserving her consequence,
      although, it must be confessed, she has latterly shown the most perfect
      indifference to the preservation of character. The the cyprian's ball
      <span class="pagenum">[49]</span>circumstance which first gave Miss Wilson
      her great notoriety was the affair with the young Marquis of Worcester,
      then just <i>come out</i>, and a willing captive to her artful wiles. So
      successfully did she inveigle her noble swain, and so completely environ
      his heart, that in the fulness of his boyish adoration of the fair
      Cytherean, he executed in her favour a certain promise in writing, not a
      promise to pay, for that might have been of no consequence, nor a promise
      of settlement, nor a promise to protect, nothing so unsettled,&mdash;nothing
      less did the fair intriguante obtain than a full, clear, and definite
      promise of marriage, with a sufficient penalty thereunto attached to make
      the matter alarming and complete, with every appearance on his part to
      ratify the contract. In this state of things, information reached his
      Grace of B&mdash;f&mdash;t of his noble heir's intention, who not much
      relishing the intended honour, or perhaps doubting the permanency of his
      son's passion (for to question the purity of the lady was impossible),
      entered into a negotiation with Harriette, by which, on condition of her
      resigning the promise and pledging herself never to see the Marquis more
      on familiar terms, this disinterested woman was to receive eight hundred
      pounds per annum&mdash;so anxious was his grace to prevent a mes-alliance
      in his family. But, alas for Harriette! jealousy for once got the better
      of her love of gain; her pride was wounded to see a sister flirting with
      her affianced lord, and in a moment of irritation, she in a most
      unequivocal manner publicly asserted her right to his person: the gallant
      yielded, the bond was __null and void, the <i>promise burnt</i>, his grace
      relieved from the payment of eight hundred pounds per annum, and his son
      the Marquis, profiting by past experience, not so green as to renew the
      former obligation.
    </p>
    <p>
      "My intention is not to pirate the lady's memoirs, and so rob her of the
      fair gain of her professional <span class="pagenum">[50]</span>experience,"
      said Crony, when I mentioned these circumstances to him afterwards; "I
      only mean to supply certain trifling omissions in the biography of
      Harriette and her family, which the fair narrator has very modestly
      suppressed. It is but a few months since, that passing accidentally into
      Warwick-court, Holborn, to call upon an old friend, a navy lieutenant on
      half-pay, I thought I recognised the well-known superlative wig of the
      dandy Rochforte, thrust longitudinally forward from beneath the sash of a
      two pair of stairs window.&mdash;Can it be possible? thought I: and then
      again, I asked myself, why not? for the last time I saw him he was
      rusticating in Surrey, beating the balls about in <i>Banco Regis</i>; from
      which black place he did not escape without a little white-washing:
      however, he's a full Colonel of some unknown corps of South American
      Independents for all that, and was once in his life, although for a very
      short time, a full Cornet, in Lincoln Stanhope's regiment, the 17th
      dragoons, I think it was, and has never clipped his mustachios since, one
      would imagine, by their length and ferocious appearance. To be brief, I
      had scarcely placed my glass into the orifice before my imperfect vision,
      when Harriette appeared at the adjoining window, and instantly recognizing
      an old acquaintance, invited me up stairs. 'Times are a little changed,'
      said she, 'Mr. Crony, since last we met:' 'True, madam,' I responded; and
      then to cheer the belle a little, I added, 'but not persons, I perceive,
      for you are looking as young and as attractive as ever.' The compliment
      did not seem to please the Colonel in the wig, who turned round, looked
      frowningly, and then twirled the dexter side of his lip wing into a
      perfect circle. It is not possible that this thing can affect jealousy of
      such a woman as Harriette? thought I: so proceeded with our conversation:
      and he shortly resumed his polite amusement of spitting upon the children
      who were <span class="pagenum">[51]</span>playing marbles beneath his
      window. 'I am really married to that monster, yonder,' said she, in an
      under tone: 'How do you like my choice?' 'I am not old enough in the
      gentleman's acquaintance to hazard an opinion on his merits,' quoth I;
      'but you are a woman of experience, belle Harriette, and should be a good
      judge of male bipeds, although I cannot say much in favour of your
      military taste.' 'And you was always a <i>quiz</i>, Crony,' retorted belle
      Harriette: 'remember my sister Mary, who is now Mrs. Bochsa,{3} how you
      used to annoy her about her gaudy style of dressing, when we used to foot
      it at Chelsea:&mdash;but I 3 There were in all eight sisters of the
      Debouchettes, and three brothers; but only one of the latter is living. Of
      the girls, Amy is now Mrs. Bochsa; Mary, married to a nephew of Sir
      Richard Bo****hs, a great Irish contractor; Harriette, actually married to
      Cornet Rochforte; Fanny expired in the <i>holy keeping</i> of the present
      Marquis of H&mdash;&mdash;-; Sophia has been raised to the peerage, by the
      style and title of Lady B&mdash;&mdash;-k, and by her subsequent conduct
      well deserves her elevation; Julia, an affectionate girl, clung to the
      house of Coventry through poor Tom's days of adversity, and died early,
      leaving some unprotected orphans; Charlotte and Louisa, younger sisters,
      the first now about eighteen and very beautiful, although a little lame,
      have been educated and brought up by their elder sister, the Baroness, and
      are by her intended for the church&mdash;vestals for Hymen's altar: at any
      rate, I hope they will escape the <i>sacrifices of Cytherea</i>. Harriette
      is now about forty years of age: she was, when at her zenith, always
      celebrated rather for her tact in love affairs, and her talent at
      invention, than the soft engaging qualifications of the frail fair, which
      fascinate the eye and lead the heart captive with delight: her
      conversational powers were admirable; but her temper was outrageous, with
      a natural inclination to the satirical:&mdash;to sum up her merits at
      once, she was what a <i>connoisseur</i> would have called a bold fine
      woman, rather than an engaging handsome one&mdash;more of the English
      Bellona than the <i>Venus de Medici</i>. Crony's account of the Round Room
      and belle Harriette's first views of publishing are, I have since learned,
      strictly correct. There is not a person mentioned in her Memoirs, or
      scarcely one of any note in the Court-guide, of whom she has at any time
      had the slightest knowledge, that have not been applied to repeatedly
      within the last three years, and received threats of exposure to compel
      them to submit to extortion. <span class="pagenum">[52]</span>want your
      assistance.' Egad, I dare say, I looked rather comical at this moment, for
      in truth I was somewhat alarmed at the last phrase. Harriette burst into a
      loud fit of laughter; the Colonel drew in his elegant wig, and deigned a
      smile; while I, involuntarily forcing my hand into the pocket of my
      inexpressibles, carefully drove the few sovereigns I had up into one
      corner, fearing the belle Harriette had a mighty notion of laying strong
      siege to them: in this, however, I was agreeably disappointed; for
      recovering herself, she acknowledged she had perceived my embarrassment,
      but assured me I need be under no alarm on this occasion, as, at present,
      she only wanted to borrow a few&mdash;ideas: what a relief the last short
      word afforded! 'I have been writing some sketches of my life,' said she,
      'and am going to publish: give me your opinion, Crony, upon its merits;'
      and without more ceremony, she thrust a little packet of papers into my
      hand, headed 'Sketches in the Round Room at the Opera House;' in which all
      the characters of the Opera frequenters were tolerably well drawn, nor was
      the dialogue deficient in spirit; but the titles were all fictitious&mdash;such
      as my Lord Red Head, for the Marquess of H&mdash;&mdash;-d, Lord
      Pensiveham, for P&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;m, and so on to the end of the
      chapter. Having glanced through the contents, I recommended her to
      Colburn, as the universal speculator in paper and print; but his highness
      is playing <i>magnifico</i>, à la Murray, in his new mansion, it would
      seem; for he, as I have since learned, refused to publish. At length,
      after trying Allman and others, belle Harriette hit upon Stockdale, who
      having made some bad hits in his time, thought a little <i>courtesanish</i>
      scandal could not make bad worse. Under his superintendence real names
      were substituted for the fictitious; and it is said, that the choice notes
      of the lady are interwoven and extended, connected and illustrated, by the
      same elegant Apollo who used to write love letters for Mary Ann, and <span
      class="pagenum">[58]</span>love epistles to half a thousand, including
      Bang and the Bantum, in the dark refectory of the celebrated mother Wood,
      the Lady of the Priory, or Lisle-street Convent." "If such is the case,
      'how are the mighty fallen!'" said I.&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;But let us
      return to the ball-room. As the night advanced, a few more stars made
      their appearance in the firmament of beauty; among these, Crony pointed
      out some of the demirespectables, attracted thither either by curiosity or
      the force of old habit: among these was Charles Wy&mdash;h&mdash;m's bit
      of rue, that herb of grace, the once beautiful Mrs. Ho&mdash;g&mdash;s,
      since closely connected with the whiskered Lord P&mdash;&mdash;-, to whose
      brother, the Honourable F&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;g, her daughter, the elegant
      Miss W&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;n, had the good fortune to be early
      married. In the same group appeared another star of no mean attraction,
      the Honourable Mrs. L&mdash;&mdash;-g, whose present husband underwent the
      ordeal of a crim. con. trial to obtain her person. 'Par nobile fratum,'
      the world may well say of the brothers, P&mdash;&mdash;&mdash; and L&mdash;&mdash;-g;
      while F&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;y, with all his eccentricities, has the
      credit of being a very good husband. Three little affected mortals, the
      Misses St&mdash;ts, Crony introduced by the name of the pretenders, from
      the assumed modesty and great secrecy with which they carry on their
      amours. '<i>Pas à pas on va bien loin</i>,' says the old French proverb,
      and rightly too," remarked our ancient; "for if you boys had not brought
      me here, I should never have known the extent of my experience, or have
      attempted to calculate the number of my female acquaintances." In the
      supper-room, which opened at four o'clock in the morning, Waud had spread
      forth a banquet every way worthy the occasion: a profuse display of the
      choicest viands of the season and delicacies of the most costly character
      graced the splendid board, where the rich juice of the grape, and the
      inviting ripeness of the dessert, were only equalled by the voluptuous
      votaries who <span class="pagenum">[54]</span>surrounded the repast. It
      was now that ceremony and the cold restraint of well regulated society
      were banished, by the free circulation of the glass. The eye of love shot
      forth the electric flash which animates the heart of young desire, lip met
      lip, and the soft cheek of violet beauty pressed the stubble down of
      manliness. Then, while the snowy orbs of nature undisguised heaved like
      old ocean with a circling swell, the amorous lover palmed the melting
      fair, and led her forth to where shame-faced Aurora, with her virgin gray,
      the blue-eyed herald of the golden morn, might hope in vain to draw aside
      the curtain and penetrate the mysteries of Cytherea. And now, gentle
      reader, be ye of the hardy sex, who dare the glories of the healthful
      chase and haunt the peopled stream of gay delight&mdash;or of that lovely
      race, from which alone man's earthly joys arise, the soft-skinned
      conquerors of hearts&mdash;be ye prudes or stoics, chaste as virgin gold,
      or cold as alpine snow&mdash;confess that I have strictly kept my promise
      here, nor strayed aside in all my wanderings among the daughters of
      pleasure, to give pain to worthy bosoms or offend the ear of nicest
      modesty. Pity for the unfortunate, and respect for the feelings of the
      relatives of the vicious and the dissolute, has prevented the insertion of
      many anecdotes, with which Crony illustrated his sketches of character.
      Enough, it is presumed, has been done to show vice in all its native
      deformity, without wounding the ear by one immoral or indelicate
      expression. For the unhappy fair ones who form the principal portraits, it
      should be remembered they have been selected from those only who are
      notorious, as belles of the first order, stars of fashion, and if not
      something indebted to fortune they would have escaped enrolment here. When
      beauty and poverty are allied, it must too often fall a victim to the
      eager eye of roving lust; for, even to the titled <span class="pagenum">[55]</span>profligate,
      beauty, when arrayed in a simple garb of spotless chastity, seems
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "&mdash;&mdash;Fairer she
          In innocence and homespun vestments spread,
          Than if cerulean sapphires at her ears
          Shone pendent, or a precious diamond cross
          Heaved gently on her panting bosom white.
</pre>
    <p>
      But let the frail remember, that the allurements of wealth and the
      blandishments of equipage fall off with possession and satiety; to the
      force of novelty succeeds the baseness of desertion. For a short time, the
      fallen one is fed like the silk-worm upon the fragrant mulberry leaf, and
      when she has spun her yellow web of silken attraction, sinks into decay, a
      common chrysalis, shakes her trembling and emaciated wings in hopeless
      agony, and then flutters and droops, till death steps in and relieves her
      from an accumulation of miseries, ere yet the transient summer of youth
      has passed over her devoted head.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bernard Blackmantle.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      THE PHILOSOPHY OF LAUGHTER;
    </h2>
    <h3>
      OR, MR PUNCH IN ALL HIS GLORY.
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Thoughts on the Philosophy of Laughter&mdash;Bernard Blackmantle
     in Search of a Wife&mdash;First Visit to the Marigold Family&mdash;
     Sketches of the Alderman, his Lady, and Daughter&mdash;Anecdote
     of John Liston, and the Citizen's Dinner Party&mdash;Of the
     Immortal Mr. Punch&mdash;Some Account of the Great Actor&mdash;A
     Street Scene, sketched from the Life&mdash;The Wooden Drama&mdash;The
     True Sublime.
</pre>
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    <p>
      <br /><br /> <span class="pagenum">[56]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          You may sing of old Thespis, who first in a cart,
          To the jolly god Bacchus enacted a part;
          Miss Thalia, or Mrs. Melpomene praise,
          Or to light-heel'd Terpsichore offer your lays.
          But pray what are these, bind them all in a bunch,
          Compared to the acting of Signor Punch?
          Of Garrick, or Palmer, or Kemble, or Cooke,
          Your moderns may whine, or on each write a book;
          Or Mathews, or Munden, or Fawcett, suppose
          They could once lead the town as they pleased by the nose;
          A fig for such actors! tied all in a bunch,
          Mere mortals compared to old deified Punch.
          Not Chester can charm us, nor Foote with her smile,
          Like the first blush of summer, our bosoms beguile,
          Half so well, or so merrily drive caro away,
          As old Punch with his Judy in amorous play.
          Kean, Young, and Macready, though thought very good,
          Have heads, it is true, but then they're not of wood.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[57]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Be ye ever so dull, full of spleen or ennui,
          Mighty Punch can enliven your spirits with glee.
          Not honest Jack Harley, or Liston's rum mug
          Can produce half the fun of his juggity-jug:
          For a right hearty laugh, tie thorn all in a bunch,
          Not an actor among them like Signor Punch.

          &mdash;Bernard Blackmantle.
</pre>
    <p>
      It was the advice of the prophet Tiresias to Menippus, who had travelled
      over the terrestrial globe fend descended into the infernal regions in
      search of content, to be merry and wise;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "To laugh at all the busy farce of state,
          Employ the vacant hour in mirth and jest."
</pre>
    <p>
      "The merrier the heart the longer the life," says Burton in his Anatomy of
      Melancholy. Mirth is the principal of the three Salernitan doctors, Dr.
      Merryman, Dr. Diet, and Dr. Quiet. The nepenthes of Homer, the bowl of
      Retenus, and the girdle of Venus, are only the ancient types of liveliness
      and mirth, by the free use of which the mind is dispossessed of dulness,
      and the cankerworm of care destroyed. Seneca calls the happiness of wealth
      bracteata félicitas, tinfoiled happiness, and infelix félicitas, an
      unhappy felicity. A poor man drinks out of a wooden dish, and eats his
      hearty meal with a wooden spoon; while the rich man, with a languid
      appetite, picks his dainties with a silver fork from plates of gold&mdash;but,
      in auro bibitur venenum; the one rinds health and happiness in his
      pottered jug, while the other sips disease and poison from his jewelled
      cup. A good laugh is worth a guinea, (to him who can afford to pay for it)
      at any time; but it is best enjoyed when it comes gratuitously and
      unexpectedly, and breaks in upon us like the radiant beams of a summer sun
      forcing its way through the misty veil of an inland fog.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had been paying a morning visit to a wealthy <span class="pagenum">[58]</span>citizen,
      Mr. Alderman Marigold, and family, at the express desire of my father, who
      had previously introduced me for the purpose of fixing my&mdash;affection
      &mdash;tush&mdash;no, my attention, to the very weighty merits of Miss
      Biddy Marigold, spinster; a spoiled child, without personal, but with very
      powerful attractions to a poor Colebs. Two hours' hard fighting with the
      alderman had just enabled me to retreat from the persecution of being
      compelled to give an opinion upon the numerous bubble companies of the
      time, without understanding more than the title of either; to this
      succeeded the tiresome pertinacity of Mrs. Marigold's questions relative
      to the movements, ondits, and fashionable frivolities westward, until,
      fairly wearied out and disgusted, I sat down a lion exhausted, in the
      window seat, heartily wishing myself like Liston{1} safe out of purgatory;
      when the sound
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 John Liston, the comedian, is in private life not less
     conspicuous for finished pleasantry and superior manners
     than he is on the stage for broad humour; but nothing can
     offend the actor more than an invitation given merely in the
     expectation of his displaying at table some of his
     professional excellences. John had, on one occasion,
     accepted an invitation to dine with a wealthy citizen en
     famille; the repast over&mdash;the wine had circulated&mdash;a snug
     friend proposed the health of Mr. Liston; and John returned
     thanks with as much dignity as a minister of state eating
     white bait at Blackwall with the worshipful company of
     fishmongers. Then came the amiable civilities of the lady of
     the mansion, evidently intended to ingratiate herself with
     the actor, the better to secure his assent to her request,
     but not a muscle of the comedian gave the least
     encouragement. The little citizens, who were huddled round
     their mamma, and had been staring at the actor in anxious
     expectation, were growing very impatient. The eldest boy had
     already recited young Norval's speech to Lady Douglas, by
     way of prologue; but the actor still continued mute, never
     for a moment unbending to the smirking encourage-ment of his
     hostess, or the jolly laugh-exciting reminiscences of his
     ruby-faced host; as, for instance, "Lord, Mr. Liston, what a
     funny figure you looked t'other night in Moll Flaggon!" or,
     "How you made thorn laugh in Tony Lumpkin! and then what a
     fright you was in Mrs. Cheshire. Couldn't you give us a
     touch just now?" "Ay, do, Mr. Liston, pray do," vociferated
     a dozen tongues at once, including mamma, the little misses
     and mastery. "The children have been kept up two hours later
     than usual on purpose," said the lady mother. "Ay, come, my
     good fellow," reiterated the cit, "take another glass, and
     then give us some-thing funny to amuse the young ones." This
     was the finishing blow to Liston's offended dignity&mdash;to be
     invited to dinner by a fat fleshmonger, merely to amuse his
     uncultivated cubs, was too much for the nervous system of
     the comedian to bear; but how to retreat?" I have it,"
     thought John, "by the cut direct;" rising and bowing,
     therefore, to the company, as if intending to yield to their
     entreaties, he begged permission to retire to make some
     little arrangement in his dress, to personate Vanish; when,
     leaving them in the most anxious expectation for more than
     half an hour, on ringing the bell, they learned from the
     servant that Mr. Liston had suddenly Vanished by the street-
     door, and was, of course, never seen in that direction more.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[59]</span>of a cracked trumpet in the street
      arrested my attention. "I vonder vat that ere hinstrument can mean, my
      dear!" said Mrs. Alderman Marigold, (advancing to the window with eager
      curiosity). "It's wery likely some fire company's men marching to a
      bean-feast, or a freemason's funeral obscenities," replied the alderman.
      When another blast greeted our ears with a few notes of "See the
      Conquering Hero comes," "La, mamma," whined out Miss Biddy Marigold, "I
      declare, it's that filthy fellow Punch coming afore our vindow vith his
      imperence; I prognosticated how it voud be, ven the alderman patronised
      him last veek by throwing avay a whole shilling upon his fooleries."
      "You've no taste for fun, Biddy," replied the alderman; at the same time
      making his daughter and myself a substitute for crutches, by resting a
      hand upon each shoulder. "I never laid out a shilling better in the whole
      course of my life. A good laugh beats all the French medicine, and drives
      the gout out at the great toe. I mean to pension Mr. Punch at a shilling a
      veek to squeak before my vindow of a Saturday, in preference to paying six
      guineas for a <span class="pagenum">[60]</span>box to hear all that
      outlandish squeaking at the hopera." "La, pa, how ungenteel!" said Miss
      Biddy; "I declare you're bringing quite a new-sense to all the square, vat
      vith your hurdy-gurdy vonien, French true-baw-dears, and barrel
      organ-grinders, nobody has no peace not at all in the neighbourhood."
      During this elegant colloquy, the immortal Mr. Punch had reared his
      chequered theatre upon the pavement opposite, the confederate showman had
      concealed himself beneath the woollen drapery, and the Italian comedian
      had just commenced his merry note of preparation by squeaking some of
      those little snatches of tunes, which act with talismanic power upon the
      locomotive faculties of all the peripatetics within hearing, attracting
      everybody to the travelling stage, young and old, gentle and simple; all
      the crowd seem as if magic chained them to the spot, and each face
      exhibits as much anxiety, and the mind, no doubt, anticipates as much or
      more delight, than if they were assembled to see Charles Kemble, Young,
      and Macready, all three acting in one fine tragedy. There is something so
      indescribably odd and ridiculous about the whole paraphernalia of Mr.
      Punch, that we are irresistibly compelled to acknowledge the superiority
      of the lignum vito Roscius over the histrionic corps of mere flesh and
      blood. The eccentricity of this immortal personage, his foreign, funny
      dialogue, the whim and strange conceit exhibited in his wooden drama, the
      gratuitous display, and the unrestricted laugh he affords&mdash;all
      combine to make Mr. Punch the most popular performer in the world. Of
      Italian origin, he has been so long domiciled in England, that he may now
      be considered naturalized by common consent. Indeed, I much question, if a
      greater misfortune could befall the country, than the removal or
      suppression of Mr. Punch and his laugh-provoking drolleries:&mdash;it
      would be considered a national calamity; but Mirth protect <span
      class="pagenum">[61]</span>us from such a terrible mishap! Another sound
      from an old cracked trumpet, something resembling a few notes of "Arm,
      Arm, ye Brave," and an accompaniment by the great actor himself of a few
      more "tut, tut, tutura, lura, lu's," in his own original style, have now
      raised excitement to the highest pitch of expectation. The half inflated
      lungs of the alderman expand by anticipation, and his full foggy
      breathings upon the window-glass have already compelled me more than once
      to use my handkerchief to clear away the mist. The assembled group waiting
      the commencement of his adventures, now demands my notice. What a scene
      for my friend Transit! I shall endeavour to depict it for him. The steady
      looking old gentleman in the fire-shovel clerical castor, how sagaciously
      he leers round about him to see if he is likely to be recognised! not a
      countenance to whom he is known; he smiles with self-complacency at the
      treat he is about to enjoy; plants himself in a respectable doorway, for
      three reasons; first, the advantage from the rise of the step increasing
      his altitude; second, the security of his pockets from attacks behind; and
      third, the pretence, should any Goth to whom he is known, observe him
      enjoying the scene, that he is just about to enter the house, and has
      merely been detained there by accident. Excellent apologist!&mdash;how
      ridiculous!&mdash;Excessive delicacy, avaunt! give me a glorious laugh,
      and "throw (affectation) to the dogs; I'll have none of it." Now the farce
      begins: up starts the immortal hero himself, and makes his bow; a
      simultaneous display of "broad grins" welcomes his felicitous entrée; and
      for a few seconds the scene resembles the appearance of a popular election
      candidate, Sir Francis Burdett, or his colleague, little Cam Hobhouse, on
      the hustings in Covent Garden; nothing is heard but one deafening shout of
      clamorous approbation. Observe the butcher's boy has stopped his <span
      class="pagenum">[62]</span>horse to witness the fun, spite of the
      despairing cook who waits the promised joint; and the jolly lamp-lighter,
      laughing hysterically on the top of his ladder, is pouring the oil from
      his can down the backs and into the pockets of the passengers beneath,
      instead of recruiting the parish-lamp, while the sufferers are too much
      interested in the exhibition to feel the trickling of the greasy fluid.
      The baker, careless of the expectant owner's hot dinner, laughs away the
      time until the pie is quite cold; and the blushing little servant-maid is
      exercising two faculties at once, enjoying the frolics of Signor Punch,
      and inventing some plausible excuse for her delay upon an expeditious
      errand. How closely the weather-beaten tar yonder clasps his girl's waist!
      every amorous joke of Signor Punch tells admirably with him; till, between
      laughing and pressing, Poll is at last compelled to cry out for breath,
      when Jack only squeezes her the closer, and with a roaring laugh
      vociferates, "My toplights! what the devil will that fellow Punch do next,
      Poll?" The milkman grins unheedful of the cur who is helping himself from
      out his pail; and even the heavy-laden porter, sweating under a load of
      merchandise, heaves up his shoulders with laughter, until the ponderous
      bale of goods shakes in the air like a rocking-stone. (See Plate.)
      Inimitable actor! glorious Signor Punch! show me among the whole of the
      dramatis persona in the patent or provincial theatres, a single performer
      who can compete with the mighty wooden Roscius.
    </p>
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      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The alderman's eulogium on Mr. Punch was superlatively good. "I love a
      comedy, Mr. Blackmantle," said he, "better than a tragedy, because it
      makes one laugh; and next to good eating, a hearty laugh is most
      desirable. Then I love a farce still better than a comedy, because that is
      more provokingly merry, or broader as the critics have it; then, sir, a
      pantomime beats both comedy and <span class="pagenum">[63]</span>farce
      hollow; there's such lots of fun and shouts of laughter to be enjoyed in
      that from the beginning to the end. But, sir, there's one performance that
      eclipses all these, tragedy, comedy, farce, and pantomime put together,
      and that is Mister Punch&mdash;for a right-down, jolly, split-my-side
      burst of laughter, he's the fellow; name me any actor or author that can
      excite the risibilities of the multitude, or please all ages, orders, and
      conditions, like the squeaking pipe and mad waggeries of that immortal,
      merry-faced itinerant. If any man will tell me that he possesses genius,
      or the mellow affections, and that he can pass Punch,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind;'
</pre>
    <p>
      then, I say, that man's made of 'impenetrable stuff;' and, being too wise
      for whimsicality, is too phlegmatic for genius, and too crabbed for
      mellowness." Mark, what a set of merry open-faced rogues surround Punch,
      who peeps down at them as cunningly as "a magpie peeping into a marrow
      bone; "&mdash;how luxuriantly they laugh, or stand with their eyes and
      mouths equally distended, staring at the minikin effigy of fun and
      phantasy; thinking, no doubt,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "He bin the greatest wight on earth."
</pre>
    <p>
      And, certainly, he has not his equal, as a positive, dogmatic,
      knock-me-down argument-monger; a dare devil; an embodied phantasmagoria,
      or frisky infatuation. I have often thought that Punch might be converted
      to profitable use, by being made a speaking Pasquin; and, properly
      instructed, might hold up his restless quarter staff, in terrorem, over
      the heads of all public outragers of decency; and by opening the eyes of
      the million, who flock to his orations, enlighten them, at least, as much
      as many greater folks, who make more noise than he, and who, <span
      class="pagenum">[64]</span>like him, often get laughed at, without being
      conscious that they are the subjects of merriment. The very name of our
      old friend Punch inspires us in our social moments. What other actor has
      been commemorated by the potential cup? is not the sacred bowl of
      friendship dedicated to the wooden hero? would you forget the world, its
      cares, vexations, and anxieties, sip of the mantling, mirth-inspiring
      cordial, and all within is jollity and gay delight.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "For Punch cures the gout, the cholic, and the phthisic,
          And it is to every man the very best of physic."
</pre>
    <p>
      Honest, kind-hearted Punch! I could write a volume in thy praise, and
      then, I fear, I should leave half thy merits untold. Thou art worth a
      hundred of the fashionable kickshaws that are daily palmed upon us to be
      admired; and thy good-humoured efforts to please at the expense of a
      broken pate can never be sufficiently praised.
    </p>
    <p>
      But now the curtain rises, and Mr. Punch steals from behind his two-foot
      drapery: the very tip of his arched nose is the prologue to a merry play;
      he makes his bow to the multitude, and salutes them with all the
      familiarity of an old acquaintance. What a glorious reception does he meet
      with from an admiring audience! And now his adventures commence&mdash;his
      "dear Judy," the partner of his life, by turns experiences all the
      capricious effects of love and war. What a true picture of the storms of
      life!&mdash;how admirable an essay on matrimonial felicity! Then his
      alternate uxoriousness to the lady, and his fondlings of that pretty
      "kretur" with the family countenance; his chivalrous exploits on
      horseback, and mimic capering round the lists of his chequered tilt-yard;
      his unhappy differences with the partner of his bosom, and her lamentable
      catastrophe; the fracas with the sheriff's substitute; and his interview
      with that incomprehensible personage, <span class="pagenum">[65]</span>the
      knight of the sable countenance, who salutes him with the portentous
      address of "schalabala! schalabala! schalabala!" his successive perils and
      encounters with the ghost of the martyred Judy; and, after his combat with
      the great enemy of mankind, the devil himself, "propria Marte" his
      temporary triumph; and, finally, his defeat by a greater man than old
      Lucifer, the renowned Mr. John Ketch. Talk of modern dramas, indeed!&mdash;show
      me any of your Dimonds, Reynolds, Dibdins, or Crolys that can compare with
      Punchiana, in the unities of time, place, costume, and action, intricate
      and interesting plot, situations provokingly comical and effective, and a
      catastrophe the most appallingly surprising and agreeable. Then his
      combats aux batons are superior even to Bradley and Blanchard; but the ne
      plus ultra of his exploits, the cream of all his comicalities, the grand
      event, is the ingenious trick by which Mr. Punch, when about to suffer on
      the scaffold, disposes of the executioner, and frees himself from
      purgatory, by persuading the unsuspecting hangman, merely for the sake of
      instruction to an uninitiated culprit, to try his own head in the noose:
      Punch, of course, seizes the perilous moment&mdash;runs him up to the top
      of the fatal beam&mdash;Mr. John Ketch hangs suspended in the air&mdash;Punch
      shouts a glorious triumph&mdash;all the world backs him in his conquest&mdash;the
      old cracked trumpet sounds to victory&mdash;the showman's hat has made the
      transit of the circle, and returns half-filled with the voluntary copper
      contributions of the happy audience. The alderman drops his tributary
      shilling, while his fat sides shake with laughter; even Mrs. Marigold and
      the amiable Miss Biddy have become victims to the vulgar inspiration, and
      are laughing as heartily as if they were enjoying the grimaces of the
      first of buffos, Signor Ambrogetti. And now the curtain falls, and the
      busy group disperse their several ways, chuckling with delight over the
      <span class="pagenum">[66]</span>recollections of the mad waggeries of
      immortal Mr. Punch.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          All hail! thou first great mimic chief,
          Physician to the mind's relief;
          Thrice hail! most potent Punch.
          Not Momus' self, should he appear,
          Could dim the lustre of thy sphere;
          So hail! all hail! great Punch.
</pre>
    <p>
      Bernard Blackmantle.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      THE WESTMINSTER SCHOLAR.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Reminiscences of former Times&mdash;Lamentations of Old Crony&mdash;
     Ancient Sports and Sprees&mdash;Modern Im-provements&mdash;Hints to
     Builders and Buyers&mdash;Some Account of the School and its
     Worthies&mdash;Recollections of old Schoolfellows&mdash;Sketches of
     Character&mdash;The Living and the Dead.

          "Fast by, an old but noble fabric stands,
          No vulgar work, but raised by princely hands;
          Which, grateful to Eliza's memory, pays,
          In living monuments, an endless praise."
</pre>
    <p>
      From a poem by a Westminster Scholar, written during Dr. Friend's
      Mastership, in 1699.
    </p>
    <p>
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      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "What say you to a stroll through <i>Thorney Island</i>,{1} this morning?"
      said old Crony, with whom I had been taking a <i>déjeuné à la fourchette</i>;
      "you have indulged your readers with all the whims and eccentricities of
      Eton and of Oxford, and, in common justice, you must not pass by the <i>Westminster
      blacks</i>."{2} Crony had, I learned, been a foundation scholar during the
      mastership of Dr. Samuel Smith; when the poet Churchill, Robert Lloyd,
      (the son of the under-master) Bonnel Thornton, George Colman the elder,
      Richard Cumberland, and a host of other highly-gifted names, were
      associated within the precincts of the abbey cloisters. Our way towards
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1  The abbey ground, so called by the monkish writers; but,
     since Busby's time, more significantly designated by the
     scholars <i>Birch Island.&mdash;Vide Tidier</i>.

     2  Black&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;s from Westminster; ruff&mdash;s from Winchester;
     and gentlemen from Eton.&mdash;<i>Old Cambridge Proverb</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[68]</span>Westminster from the Surrey side of
      Vauxhall bridge, where Crony had taken up his abode, lay through the scene
      of his earliest recollections; and, not even Crockery himself could have
      been more pathetic in his lamentations over the improvements of modern
      times. "Here," said Crony, placing himself upon the rising ground which
      commands an uninterrupted view of the bank, right and left, and fronts the
      new road to Chelsea, and, the Grosvenor property; "here, in my boyish
      days, used the Westminster scholars to congregate for sports and sprees.
      Many a juvenile frolic have I been engaged in beneath the shadowy willows
      that then o'ercanopied the margin of old father Thames; but they are
      almost all destroyed, and with them disappears the fondest recollections
      of my youth. Upwards, near yonder frail tenement which is now fast
      mouldering into decay, lived the beautiful gardener's daughter, the flower
      of Millbank, whose charms for a long time excited the admiration of many a
      noble name, ay, and inspired many a noble strain too, and produced a
      chivalrous rivalry among the young and generous hearts who were then of
      Westminster. Close to that spot all matches on the water were determined;
      and beneath yon penthouse, many a jovial cup have I partook of with the
      contending parties, when the aquatic sports were over, in the evening's
      cool retirement, or seated on the benches which then filled up the space
      between the trees in front of Watermans' Hall, as the little public house
      then used to be called. About half a mile above was the favourite
      bathing-place; and just over the water below Lambeth palace, yet may be
      seen Doo's house, where, from time immemorial, the Westminster boys had
      been supplied with funnies, skiffs, wherries, and sailing-boats. The old
      mill which formerly stood on the right-hand of the river, and from which
      the place derived its name, has now entirely disappeared; and in lieu of
      the <span class="pagenum">[69]</span>green fields and pleasant walks with
      which this part of the suburbs abounded, we have now a number of square
      brick-dust tubs, miscalled cottages <i>ornée</i>, and a strange-looking
      Turkish sort of a prison called a Penitentiary, which from being
      judiciously placed in a swamp is rendered completely uninhabitable.
      Cumberland-gardens, on the opposite side, was, in former times, in great
      vogue; here the cits used to rusticate on a summer's evening, coming up
      the water in shoals to show their dexterity in rowing, and daring the
      dangers of the watery element to <i>blow a cloud</i> in the fresh air, and
      ruralise upon the 'margin of old father Thames.'
    </p>
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    <p>
      But where can the Westminster boys of the present day look for amusements?
      there's no snug spot now for a dog-tight or a badger-bait. Earl Grosvenor
      has converted all the green lanes into Macadamised roads, and covered the
      turf with new brick tenements. No taking a pleasant toodle with a friend
      now along the sequestered banks, or shooting a few sparrows or fieldfares
      in the neighbourhood of the <i>five chimnies</i>{3} not a space to be
      found free from the encroachments of modern speculators, or big enough for
      a bowling alley or a cricket match. Tothill-fields have altogether
      disappeared; and the wand of old Merlin would appear to have waved over
      and dispersed the most trifling vestiges and recollections of the past. A
      truce with your improvements!" said Crony, combating my attempt to
      harmonise his feelings; "tell me what increases the lover's boldness and
      the maiden's tenderness more than the fresh and fragrant air, the green
      herbage, and the quiet privacy of retired spots, where all nature yields a
      delightful inspiration to the mind. There where the lovers find delight,
      the student finds repose, secluded from the busy haunts of men, and yet
      able, by a few strides, to mingle again at pleasure with the world, the
      man of
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     3 Since called the Five-fields, Chelsea; and a favourite
     resort of the Westminster scholars of that time, but now
     built upon.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[70]</span>contemplation turns aside to consult his
      favourite theme, and having run out his present stock of thoughtful
      meditation, wheels him round, and finds himself one of the busy group
      again.{4} As we advance
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     4 The Rogent's-park, formerly called Marylebone, is an
     improve-ment of this nature. It was originally a park, and
     had a royal palace in it, where, I believe, Queen Elizabeth
     occasionally resided. It was disbarked by Oliver Cromwell,
     who settled it on Colonel Thomas Harrison's regiment of
     dragoons for their pay; but at the restoration of Charles
     II. it passed into the hands of other possessors; from which
     time it has descended through different proprietors, till,
     at length, it has reverted to the Crown, by whose public
     spirit a magnificent park is secured to the inhabitants of
     London. The expense of its planting, &amp;c. must have been
     enormous; but money cannot be better laid out than on
     purposes of this lasting benefit and national ornament.

     The plan and size of the park is in every respect worthy of
     the nation. It is larger than Hyde-park, St. James's, and
     the Greenpark together; and the trees planted in it about
     twelve years ago have already become umbrageous. The water
     is very extensive. As you are rowed on it, the variety of
     views you come upon is admirable: sometimes you are in a
     narrow stream, closely overhung by the branches of trees;
     presently you open upon a wide sheet of water, like a lake,
     with swans sunning themselves on its bosom; by and by your
     boat floats near the edge of a smooth lawn fronting one of
     the villas; and then again you catch the perspective of a
     range of superb edifices, the elevation of which is
     contrived to have the effect of one palace. The park, in
     fact, is now belted with groups of these mansions, entirely
     excluding all sight of the streets. Those that are finished,
     give a satisfactory earnest of the splendid spirit in which
     the whole is to be accomplished. There will be nothing like
     it in Europe. The villas in the interior of the park are
     planted out from the view of each other, so that the
     inhabitant of each seems, in his prospect, to be the sole
     lord of the surround-ing picturesque scenery.

     In the centre of the park there is a circular plantation of
     im-mense circumference, and in the interior of this you are
     in a perfect Arcadia. The mind cannot conceive any thing
     more hushed, more sylvan, more entirely removed from the
     slightest evidence of proximity to a town. Nothing is
     audible there except the songs of birds and the rustling of
     leaves. Kensington gardens, beautiful as they are, have no
     seclusion so perfect as this.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[71]</span>in life we cling still closer to the
      recollections of our infancy; the cheerful man loves to dwell over the
      scenes and frolics of his boyish days; and we are stricken to the very
      heart by the removal or change of these pleasant localities; the loss of
      an old servant, an old building, or an old tree, is felt like the loss of
      an old friend. The paths, and fields, and rambles of our infancy are
      endeared to us by the fondest and the purest feelings of the mind; we lose
      sight of our increasing infirmities, as we retrace the joyous mementos of
      the past, and gain new vigour as we recall the fleeting fancies and
      pleasant vagaries of our earliest days. I am one of those," continued
      Crony, "who am doomed to deplore the destructive advances of what
      generally goes by the name of improvement; and yet, I am not insensible to
      the great and praiseworthy efforts of the sovereign to increase the
      splendour of the capital westward; but leave me a few of the green fields
      and hedgerow walks which used to encircle the metropolis, or, in a short
      space, the first stage from home will only be half-way out of London. A
      humorous writer of the day observes, that 'the rage for building fills
      every pleasant outlet with bricks, mortar,rubbish,and eternal
      scaffold-poles, which, whether you walk east, west, north, or south, seem
      to be running after you. I heard a gentleman say, the other day, that he
      was sure a resident of the suburbs could scarcely lie down after dinner,
      and take a nap, without finding, when he awoke, that a new row of
      buildings had started up since he closed his eyes. It is certainly
      astonishing: one would think the builders used magic, or steam at least,
      and it would be curious to ask those gentlemen in what part of the
      neighbouring counties they intend London should end. Not content with
      separate streets, squares, and rows, they are actually the founders of new
      towns, which in the space of a few months become finished and inhabited.
      The precincts of London have more the appearance of a newly-discovered
      colony than <span class="pagenum">[72]</span>the suburbs of an ancient
      city.{5} And what, sir, will be the pleasant consequences of all this to
      posterity? Instead of having houses built to encumber the earth for a
      century or two, it is ten to one but they disencumber the mortgagee, by
      falling down with a terrible crash during the first half life, and,
      perhaps, burying a host of persons in their ruins. Mere paste-board
      palaces are the structures of the present times, composed of lath and
      plaster, and Parker's cement, a few coloured bricks, a fanciful viranda,
      and a balcony, embellished within by the <i>décorateur</i>, and stuccoed
      or whitewashed without, to give them a light appearance, and hide the
      defects of an ignorant architect or an unskilful builder; while a very few
      years introduces the occupant to all the delightful sensations of cracked
      walls, swagged floors, bulged fronts, sinking roofs, leaking gutters,
      inadequate drains, and other innumerable ills, the effects of an
      originally bad constitution, which dispels any thing like the hopes of a
      reversionary interest, and clearly proves that without a renovation equal
      to resurrection, both the building and the occupant are very likely to
      fall victims to a rapid consumption." In this way did Crony contrive to
      beguile the time, until we found ourselves entering the arena in front of
      the Dean's house, Westminster. "Here, alone," said my old friend, "the
      hand of the innovator has not been permitted to intrude; this spot remains
      unpolluted; but, for the neighbourhood, alas!" sighed Crony, "that is
      changed indeed. The tavern in Union-street,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     5 For instance: in what a very short time back were the
     Bays-water-fields, there is now a populous district, called
     by the inhabitants "Moscow;" and at the foot of Primrose-
     hill we are amazed by coming upon a large complication of
     streets, &amp;c. under the name of "Portland Town." The rustic
     and primaeval meadows of Kilburn are also filling with raw
     buildings and incipient roads; to say nothing of the
     charming neighbourhood of St. John's Wood Farm, and other
     spots nearer town.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[73]</span>where Charles Churchill, and Lloyd, and
      Bonnel Thornton used to meet and mix wit, and whim, and strong potation,
      has sunk into a common pot-house, and is wholly neglected by the scholars
      of the present time: not that they are a whit more moral than their
      predecessors, but, professing to be more refined, they are now to be found
      at the Tavistock, or the Hummums, at Long's, or Steven's; more polished in
      their pleasures, but more expensive in their pursuits."
    </p>
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    <p>
      As we approached the centre of Dean's-yard, Crony's visage evidently grew
      more sentimental; the curved lips of the cynic straightened to an
      expression of kindlier feeling, and ere we had arrived at the school-door,
      the old eccentric had mellowed down into a generous contemplatist. "Ay,"
      said Crony, "on this spot, Mr. Black mantle, half a century ago, was I, a
      light-hearted child of whim, as you are now, associated with some of the
      greatest names that have since figured in the history of our times, many
      of whom are now sleeping in their tombs beneath a weight of worldly
      honours, while some few have left a nobler and a surer monument to exalt
      them with posterity, the well-earned tribute of a nation's gratitude, the
      never-fading fame which attaches itself to good works and great actions.
      Among the few families of my time who might be styled ''<i>magni nominis</i>'
      in college, were the Finches, the Drummonds, (arch-bishop's sons), and the
      Markhams. Tom Steele{6} was on the foundation also, and had much fame in
      playing Davus. The Hothams{7} were considered among the lucky hits of
      Westminster; the Byngs{8} thought not as lucky as they should have been.
      Mr. Drake{9}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     6 A   descendant   of  the   celebrated  Sir  Richard
     Steele,   the associate of Addison in the Spectator, Tatler,
     Crisis, &amp;c.

     7  Sir Henry and Sir William Hotham, admirals in the British
     navy.

     8 Viscount Torrington, a rear-admiral of the blue.

     9 Thomas   Tyrwhitt   Drake,   Esq.,   (I   believe)
     member   for Agmondesham, Bucks.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[74]</span>of Amersham was one of the best scholars
      of his time; for a particular act of beneficence, two guineas given out of
      his private pocket-money to a poor sufferer by a fire, Dr. Smith gave him
      a public reward of some books. Lord Carmarthen{10} here came to the title,
      on the death of his eldest brother. Here too he found the Jacksons, and
      what was more, the Jacksons{11} found him. Lord Foley had, during his stay
      here, two narrow escapes for his life, once being nearly drowned in the
      Thames, and secondly, by a hack-horse running away with him: the last
      incident was truly ominous of the noble lord's favourite, but unfortunate
      pursuits{12}. Sir John St. Aubyn is here said to have formed his
      attachments with several established characters in the commercial world,
      as Mr. Beckett, and others; which afterwards proved of the highest
      consequence to his pursuits and success in life. Lord Bulkley had the
      credit of being one of the handsomest and best-humoured boys of his time,
      and so he continued through life. Michael Angelo Taylor{13} was remarkable
      for his close application, under his tutor Hume, and the tutor as
      remarkable for application to him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hatton, junior. Lawyers, if not always good scholars, generally are
      something better; with much strong practical sense, and a variety of all
      that "makes a ready man; "Hatton was all this, both as to scholarship, and
      the pertinent application of it. Though a nephew of Lord Mansfield, and
      bred up under his auspices, he was not more remarkable than his brother
      George for the love of bullion. His abilities were great, and they would
      have been greatly thought of, had he been personally less locomotive. "Ah,
      ah," said his uncle, "you'll never prosper till you learn to stay in a
      place." He replied, "O never fear, sir, do but get me a place; and I'll
      learn of you to stay in it."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     10 The present Duke of Leeds.

     11  Dr. Cyril Jackson, afterwards sub-preceptor to his
     Majesty, George the Fourth, and since canon of Christ
     Church, Oxford. He refused the primacy of Ireland; was an
     excellent governor of his college, and died universally
     respected at Fulpham, in Sussex, in 1819. Dr. William
     Jackson, his brother, who was Bishop of Oxford, was also
     Regius Professor of Greek to that university; he died in
     1815.

     12  His lordship's attachment to the turf is as notorious as
     his undeviating practice of the purest principles of honour.
     It will not excite surprise, that such conduct has not been
     in such pursuits successful.

     13 The member for Durham.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[75]</span>Lord Deerhurst (now Earl of Coventry) had
      then, as now, very quick parts, and early insight into beautiful
      composition. Whatever good thing he met with, he was always ready with an
      immediate parallel; Latin, Greek, or from honesty into English, nothing
      came amiss to him. He had a quick sense of the ridiculous; and could scout
      a character at all absurd and suspicious, with as much pleasant scurrility
      as a gentleman need have.
    </p>
    <p>
      Banks always made his own exercises, as his exercises have since made him.
      He was a diligent and good boy; and though an early arithmetician, and
      fond of numbers, he was as soon distinguished for very honourable
      indifference to number one.
    </p>
    <p>
      Douglas (now, I believe, Marquis of Queensberry) was remarkable for the
      worst penmanship in the school, and the economy of last moments; till then
      he seldom thought of an exercise. His favourite exercise was in
      Tothill-fields; from whence returning once very late, he instantly
      conceived and executed some verses, that were the best of his day. On
      another day, he was as prompt, and thought to have been more lucky than
      before; when, lo, the next morning he was flogged! for the exercise was so
      ill written, that it was not legible even by himself.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Maiden was remarkable for his powers of engaging, and he then, as
      since, made some engagements, which might as well have been let alone. He
      made an early promise of all he has since performed. He was very fond of
      dramatic entertainments, and he enacted much; was accounted a good actor;
      so was his crony, Jack Wilson, so well known at Mrs. Hobart's, &amp;c.,
      for his fal de ral tit and for his duets with Lady Craven, Lady A. Foley,
      &amp;c, &amp;c.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord MANSFIELD, then William Murray, here began his career. When at
      school, he was not remarkable for personal courage, or for mental bravery;
      though one of the stoutest boys of his standing, he was often beat by boys
      a year or two below him; and though then acute and voluble, his opinions
      were suppressed and retracted before minds less powerful but more intrepid
      than his own. Of his money allowance he was always so good a manager,
      <span class="pagenum">[70]</span>that he could lend to him who was in
      need. The famous exercise which Niçois made such a rout about, was in
      praise of abundance: an English theme on this thesis, from Horace&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "<i>Dulce est de magno tollore acervo</i>. "
</pre>
    <p>
      He was in college; and no man on earth could conjecture that in his own <i>acervo</i>
      there would ever be aggrandizement, such as it has since occurred.
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Stormont at school began his knack of oral imitations, and when a
      child, could speak quite as well as afterwards; after his uncle, the
      disgusting pronunciation of the letter o then too infected his language;
      he made it come to the ear like an a. Humorously glancing at this
      affectation, Onslow or Stanhope said "Murray's horse is an ass."
    </p>
    <p>
      Markham, the Archbishop of York, made an early display of classical taste,
      and the diligent cultivation of it. Some of his school exercises are
      extant, and show more than a promise of that refinement and exactness,
      which afterwards distinguished his performances at Christ Church. The
      Latin version of the fragment of Simonides, as beautiful as any thing in
      the whole range of poetical imitation, though published in the Oxford
      Lachrymo as Mr. Bournes, is known to be written by Mr. Markham.
    </p>
    <p>
      At school, too, Markham's conversation had a particularity known to
      distinguish it. War was his favourite topic, and caught, perhaps, from the
      worthy major, his father, and from his crony Webb, afterwards the general.
      It was apparent upon all occasions; when he was to choose his reading as a
      private study, in the sixth form, Cæsar was his first book; and so
      continuing through most of his leisure time addicted to this sort of
      inquiry, the archbishop was afterwards able to talk war with any soldier
      in England. But, indeed, what is there he could not talk equal to any
      competitor? To the Archbishop Markham, and through him to Westminster,
      attach the credit of the good scholarship of the present king. This is
      little less than a credit to the country.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Marquis of Stafford had fame for his English exercises; and after
      saying this of his Wednesday nights' themes, let it also be noted, that he
      had fame for other exercises of old England. He could ride, run, row, and
      bat better than most of his comtemporaries; in his potations, too, he was
      rather deep; but though deep, yet clear; and though gentle, yet not dull.
      At once a most jolly fellow, and the most magnificent of his time,&mdash;and
      so "<i>ab incepto processerit</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke of Dorset, then Sackville, (since dead) was good-humoured, manly,
      frank, and passionately fond of various school <span class="pagenum">[77]</span>exercises;
      as billiards, at the alehouse in Union-street, (then perhaps a tavern) and
      <i>double-fives</i> between the two walls at the school-door. For
      Tothill-fields fame as to cricket, he was yet more renowned: there he was
      the champion of the town-boys against those in college; and in the great
      annual match, he had an innings that might have lasted till the time
      Baccelli <i>run him out</i>, had not the other side given up the game.
    </p>
    <p>
      As to the school itself, there it was easy to catch him out; though such
      was his address, that he was seldom caught out. When he was in school,
      really few boys were there to better purpose; he made several good prose
      exercises both in English and Latin; and, what is rare for a boy of rank,
      with but small aid from the tutor.
    </p>
    <p>
      At school, he shot and rowed pretty well; and as he could not always pay
      for his boat in specie, somebody proposed a barter of <i>Tothill-fields
      game</i>; but he had a soul above it, and what was more, at his elbow
      another soul, saying, <i>Carpamus dulcia</i>, and of my dressing. That
      friend was
    </p>
    <p>
      Lord Edward Bentinck, whose culinary fame began on the sparrows and
      fieldfares knocked down about the Five Chimnies and Jenny's whim. At a
      bill of fare, and the science how dinner should be put before him, he was
      then, as since, unrivalled; yet more to his good memorial, he knew how a
      dinner should be put before other people. For one day, as he was beginning
      to revel in a surreptitious banquet in the Bowling-alley, his share of the
      mess Lord Edward gave to the relief of want, which then happened to be
      wandering by the window.&mdash;"This praise shall last."
    </p>
    <p>
      Old Elwes, the late member for Berks, may occur, on the mention of want
      wandering by, though, notwithstanding appearance, he suffered nobody about
      him to be in such wants as himself. Penurious, perhaps, on small objects;
      in those which are greater, he was certainly liberal almost to
      prodigality. The hoarding principle might be strong in him, but in the
      conduct of it he was often generous, always easy. No man in England
      probably lost more money in large sums, for want of asking for it: for
      small money, as in farthings to street beggary, few men probably have lost
      less. What he had not sufficiently cultivated, was the habit of letting
      money easily go. So far, he was the reverse of Charles the Second; for on
      greater occasions, again I say it, he seemed to own the act under the
      ennobling impulse of systematic generosity, expanding equally in
      self-denial, and in social sympathy. He was among the most dispassionate
      and tender-tempered men alive; and, considering <span class="pagenum">[78]</span>all
      things, it might be reasonable to allot him the meed of meekness upon
      earth, and of that virtue which seeketh not her own reward.
    </p>
    <p>
      His ruling passion was the love of ease.
    </p>
    <p>
      The beginnings of all this were more or less discernible at school, where
      Lord Mansfield gave him the nick-name of Jack Meggot.
    </p>
    <p>
      His other little particularities were the best running and walking in the
      school, and the commencement of his fame for riding, which, in the
      well-known trials in the Swiss Academy, outdid all competition. Worsley,
      of the Board of Works, alone divided the palm; he rode more gracefully.
      Elwes was by far the boldest rider.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke of Portland (who died in 1809) was among the <i>delicciæ</i> of
      each form at Westminster, in all that appertained to temper, the
      tenderness and warmth of feeling, suavity of approach, and the whole
      passive power of pleasing. Thus much internal worth, tempered with but
      little of those showy powers which dazzle and seduce, gave early promise
      that he would escape all intriguing politics, and never degrade himself by
      the projects of party; for a party-man must always be comparatively mean,
      even on a scale of vicious dignity; in violence, subordinate to the
      ruffian; in chicane, below a common town-sharper.
    </p>
    <p>
      He had, happily, no talents for party; he was better used by nature. He
      seemed formed for the kindliest offices of life; to appreciate the worth,
      and establish the dignity of domestic duties; to exemplify the hardest
      tasks of friendship and affinity; to display each hospitable charm.
    </p>
    <p>
      All that he afterwards did for Chace Price, and Lord Eduard, appeared as a
      flower in its bud, in Dean's-yard and Tothill-fields, with the fruit-woman
      under the Gateway, and the coffee-house then opposite.
    </p>
    <p>
      In his school-exercises, fame is not remembered to have followed any but
      his Wednesday evening themes: some of them were incomparably the best of
      the standing. In the rest of the school business, said the master to him
      one day, "you just keep on this side whipping."
    </p>
    <p>
      His smaller habits were none remarkable, except that his diet was rather
      more blameable in the article of wine. A little too early; a little too
      much.
    </p>
    <p>
      This, probably, more than any hereditary taint, made him, in immediate
      manhood, a martyr to the gout.
    </p>
    <p>
      Against this, his ancestor's nostrum was tried in vain; the disease would
      not yield, till it was overborne by abstinence, which, to the praise of
      the duke's temper, he began and continued, with a splendour of resolution
      not any where exceeded.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[79]</span>The duke had been long estranged from all
      animal food but fish, and every fermented liquor. According to the old
      Latin distich, the poetry of a water-drinker is said to be short-lived,
      and not fit to live: was this proverbial doom extended to what was not
      poetry, it might be checked by the prose of the Duke of Portland. Most of
      his common letters were among the models of epistolary correspondence.
    </p>
    <p>
      The Duke of Beaufort{14} exhibited at school more of the rudiments of a
      country gentleman, than the rudiments of Busby; he knew a horse
      practically, while other boys took it only from description in Virgil.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Stare loco nescit</i>, was however his motto; and through all the
      demesnes adjacent to his little reign, on the water, and in the water, he
      was well; on horseback he was yet better; and to ride, or tie, on foot, or
      on horseback, no boy of his time was more ready at every good turn. He
      loved his friend; and, such were the engaging powers of his very frank and
      pleasant manner, his friends all loved him.
    </p>
    <p>
      Some encumbrances, <i>solito de more</i> of all boys, with the
      coffee-house, for jellies, fruit, &amp;c, left when he left school, he
      afterwards discharged with singular éclat.
    </p>
    <p>
      In regard to scholarship, he was by no means wanting; though it must be
      owned, he wanted always to be better strangers with them. Like many other
      boys, he knew much more than he was aware of; for he had as much aversion
      to the Greek Epigrams, as the best critic could have; and in Terence, as
      he could find nothing to laugh, Lloyd often raised an opposite emotion.
      Lloyd, had he lived to this time, would have taken Terence as a main
      ingredient in his enjoyments. So benevolent is nature to fit the feelings
      of man to his destiny.
    </p>
    <p>
      M'Donald, afterwards Solicitor General, was in college, and had then about
      him much that was remarkable for good value.
    </p>
    <p>
      The different ranks in college are rather arduous trials of temper; and he
      that can escape without imputation through them, and be, as it is called,
      a junior without meanness, and a senior without obduracy, exhibits much
      early promise, both as to talents and virtue.
    </p>
    <p>
      This early promise was M 'Donald's. He was well-respected in either rank,
      and he deserved it; for he obeyed the time, without being time-serving; he
      commanded, as one not forgetting what it was to obey.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Par negotiis, neque supra</i>, characterised his scholarship.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     14 Died in 1803.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[80]</span>He had in every form sufficiency, and
      sometimes eminence. He had more facility in Greek than most boys; his
      English exercises were conspicuous for language and neatness of turn.
    </p>
    <p>
      He was a very uncorrupt boy, and his manners were rather elevated; yet it
      is not remembered that he lost popularity even with the worst boys in the
      school; the whole secret of which was <i>specie minus quam vi</i>. He was
      better than he seemed. There was no pride, no offending wish at seclusion.
    </p>
    <p>
      Though not so remarkable for book knowledge as his brother Sir James, who
      thus, indeed, was nothing less than a prodigy, yet was M'Donald extremely
      well and very variously read. In miscellaneous information, far more
      accomplished than any boy of his time.
    </p>
    <p>
      Markham, the master, had a high opinion of him; and once, in the midst of
      strong and favourable prognostics, said, "There was nothing against him
      but what was for him; rank and connections, and the too probable event of
      thence advancing into life too forward and too early."
    </p>
    <p>
      Markham spoke with much sagacity. The <i>rosa sera</i> is the thing, for
      safe and spreading efflorescence. Well as the wreath might be about
      M'Donald's brow, it had probably been better, if gathered less eagerly, if
      put on later.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cock Langford was the son of the auctioneer&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      And there never was an inheritance of qualities like it. He would have
      made as good an auctioneer as his father; a better could not bo.
    </p>
    <p>
      Cock Langford, so called, from the other auctioneer Cock, very early in
      the school discovered great talents for ways and means; and, by private
      contract, could do business as much and as well as his father.
    </p>
    <p>
      His exercises were not noted for any excess of merit, or the want of it.
      He certainly had parts, if they had been put in their proper direction:
      that was trade. In that he might have been conspicuously useful.
    </p>
    <p>
      As he was in college, and nothing loath in any occasion that led to
      notice, in spite of a lisp in his speech, he played Davus in the Phormio;
      which he opened with singidar absurdity, as the four first words terminate
      in the letter s, which he, from the imperfection in his speech, could not
      help mangling.
    </p>
    <p>
      From the patronage of Lord Orford, Mr. Langford had one of the best
      livings in Norfolk, £1000 a year; and afterwards, I understand, very well
      exemplified the useful and honourable duties of a clergyman resident on
      his benefice.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hamilton. Every thing is the creature of accident; as that <span
      class="pagenum">[81]</span>works upon time and place, so are the
      vicissitudes which follow; vicissitudes that reach through the whole
      allotment of man, even to the charm of character, and the qualities which
      produce it.
    </p>
    <p>
      Physically speaking, human nature can redress itself of climate, can
      generate warmth in high latitudes, and cold at the equator; but in respect
      to mind and manners, from the law of latitude there is no appeal. Man,
      like the plants that grow for him, has a proper sky and soil: with them to
      flourish, without them to fade; through either kingdom, vegetable and
      moral, in situations that are aquatic, the alpine nature cannot live.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this applies to Hamilton wasting himself at Westminster. "Wild
      nature's vigour working at his root;"
    </p>
    <p>
      his situation should have been accordingly; where he might have spread
      wide and struck deep.
    </p>
    <p>
      With more than boyish aptitudes and abilities, he should not thus have
      been lost among boys. His incessant intrepidity, his restless curiosity,
      his undertaking spirit, all indicated early maturity; all should have led
      to pursuits, if not better, at least of more pith and moment than the mere
      mechanism of dead language!
    </p>
    <p>
      This by Hamilton (disdaining as a business what as an amusement perhaps
      might have delighted him) was deemed a dead letter, and as such,
      neglected; while he bestowed himself on other mechanism, presenting more
      material objects to the mind.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Cimage-0017" id="Cimage-0017">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images2/page081.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
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    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Exercises out of school took place of exercises within. Not that like
      Sackville or Hawkins, he had a ball at every leisure moment in his hand;
      but, preferably to fives or cricket, he would amuse himself in mechanical
      pursuits; little in themselves, but great as to what they might have been
      convertible.
    </p>
    <p>
      In the fourth form, he produced a red shoe of his own making. And though
      he never made a pocket watch, and probably might mar many, yet all the
      interior machinery he knew and could name. The whole movement he took to
      pieces, and replaced.
    </p>
    <p>
      The man who is to find out the longitude, cannot have beginnings; better
      than these. Count Bruhl, since Madge's death, the best watch-maker of his
      time, did not raise more early wonder.
    </p>
    <p>
      Besides this, Hamilton was to be found in every daring oddity. Lords
      Burlington and Kent, in all their rage for porticos, were nothing to him
      in a rage for pediments.
    </p>
    <p>
      For often has the morning caught him scaling the high pediments of the
      school-door, and at peril of Ins life clambering down, opening the door
      within, before the boy who kept the gate could come with the key. His
      evenings set upon no less perils; in pranks with gunpowder; in leaping
      from unusual heights into the <span class="pagenum">[82]</span>Thames. As
      a practical geographer of London, and Heaven only knows how many miles
      round it, omniscient Jackson himself could not know more.
    </p>
    <p>
      All this, surely, was intrinsically right, wrong only in its direction.
      Had he been sent to Woolwich, he might have come out, if not a rival of
      the Duke of Richmond, then master of the ordnance, at least a first-rate
      engineer. In economical arts and improvements, nothing less than national,
      he might have been the Duke of Bridgewater of Ireland. Had the sea been
      his profession, Lord Mulgrave might have been less alone in the rare union
      of science and enterprise.
    </p>
    <p>
      But all this capability of usefulness and fair fame, was brought to nought
      by the obstinate absurdity of the people about him; nothing could wean
      them from Westminster. His grandfather Roan, or Rohan, an old man who
      saved much money in Rathbone-place, and spent but little of it every
      evening at Slaughter's coffee-house, holding out large promise to
      property, so became absolute; and absolute nonsense was his conduct to his
      grandson. He persevered in the school; where, if a boy disaffects
      book-knowledge, his books are only bought and sold. And after Westminster,
      when the old man died, as if solicitous that every thing about his grave,
      but poppy and mandragora, should grow downwards, his will declared his
      grandson the heir, but not to inherit till he graduated at Cambridge.
    </p>
    <p>
      To Cambridge therefore he went; where having pursued his studies, as it is
      called, in a ratio inverse and descending, he might have gone on from bad
      to worse; and so, as many do, putting a grave face upon it, he might have
      had his degree. But his animal spirits, and love of bustle, could not go
      off thus undistinguished; and so, after coolly attempting to throw a tutor
      into the Cam&mdash;after shaking all Cambridge from its propriety by a
      night's frolic, in which he climbed the sign-posts, and changed the
      principal signs, he was rusticated; till the good-humour of the university
      returning, he was re-admitted, and enabled to satisfy his grandfather's
      will!
    </p>
    <p>
      After that, he behaved with much gallantry in America; and with good
      address in that very disagreeable affair, the contested marriage of his
      sister with Mr. Beresford the clergyman.
    </p>
    <p>
      Indeed, through the intercourse of private life he was very amiable. The
      same suavity of speech, courteous attentions, and general good-nature, he
      had when a boy, continued and improved: good qualities the more to be
      prized, as the less probable, from his bold and eager temper, from the
      turbulence of his wishes, and the hurry of his pursuits.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[83]</span>Jekyl had in part, when a boy, the same
      happy qualities which afterwards distinguished him so entirely: in his
      economy of time, in his arts of arranging life, and distributing it
      exactly, between what was pleasant and what was grave.
    </p>
    <p>
      With vigorous powers and fair pursuits, the doing one thing at a time is
      the mode to do every thing. Had Jekyl no other excellence than this, I
      could not be surprised when he became attorney-general.
    </p>
    <p>
      "When you got into the place of your ancestor, Sir Joseph," said the tutor
      of Jekyl to him, "let this be your motto:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          <i>Et properare loco, et Cesare</i>."
</pre>
    <p>
      "Jekyl," said Mrs. Hobart one day, struck with the same address and
      exactness, "do you know, if you were a painter, Poussin would be nothing
      to you in the balance of a scene."
    </p>
    <p>
      Several of his English exercises, and his verses, will not easily be
      forgotten. And it will be remembered also, in a laughable way, that he was
      as mischievous as a gentleman need be; the mobbing a vulgar, the hoaxing a
      quiz, all the dialect of the Thames below Chelsea-reach, and the whole
      reach of every thing, pleasant but wrong, which the school statutes put
      out of reach, but what are the practice of the wits, and of every
      gentleman who would live by the statutes. All these were among Jekyl's
      early peculiarities, and raised his fame very high for spirit and
      cleverness.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "So sweet and voluble was his discourse."
</pre>
    <p>
      He was very popular among all the boys of his time. And he had a knack yet
      more gratifying, of recommending himself to the sisters and cousins of the
      boys he visited.
    </p>
    <p>
      And he well held up in theory what he afterwards exemplified in fact. For
      in one of the best themes of the time on this subject,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "<i>Non formosus erat, sod erat facundus Ulysses</i>,"
</pre>
    <p>
      he was much distinguished.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[84]</span>"But the grave has closed upon most of
      the gay spirits of my earlier time," said Crony; "and I alone remain the
      sad historian. Yonder porch leads to the dormitory and school-room.{15}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'There Busby's awful picture decks the place,
          Shining where once he shone a living grace.'

     15 This school was founded by Queen Elizabeth in 1560, for
     the education of forty boys, denominated king's scholars
     from the royalty of their founders; besides which, the
     nobility and gentry send their sons thither for instruction,
     so that this establishment vies with Eton in celebrity and
     respectability. The school is not endowed with lands and
     possessions specifically appropriated to its own
     maintenance, but is attached to the general foundation of
     the collegiate church of Westminster, as far as relates to
     the support of the king's scholars. It is under the care of
     the dean and chapter of Westminster, conjointly with the
     dean of Christ Church, Oxford, and the master of Trinity,
     Cambridge, respect-ing the election of scholars to their
     respective colleges. The foundation scholars sleep in the
     dormitory, a building erected from the design and under the
     superintendence of the celebrated Earl of Burlington, in the
     reign of George the First; and in this place the annual
     theatrical exhibitions take place; the scenery and
     arrangements having been contrived under the direction of
     Mr. Garrick, were presented by Archbishop Markham, the
     former master of the school. The king's scholars are distin-
     guished from the town-boys, or independents, by a gown, cap,
     and college waistcoat; they have their dinner in the hall,
     but seldom take any other meal in college; they pay for
     education and accommodation as the town-boys; eight of them
     are generally elected at the end of the fourth year to the
     colleges above-named; they have studentships at Oxford, and
     scholarships at Cambridge; the former worth from forty to
     sixty pounds per annum, but the latter of small beneficial
     consideration. The scholars propose themselves for the
     foundation by challenge, and contend with each other in
     Latin and Greek every day for eight weeks successively, when
     the eight at the head of the number are chosen according to
     vacancies. This contest occasions the king's scholarships to
     be much sought after, as it becomes the ground-work of
     reputation, and incites desire to excel. There are four boys
     who are called Bishop's boys, from their being established
     by Williams, Bishop of Lincoln; they have a gratuitous
     education, and a small allowance which is suffered to
     accumulate till the period of their admission into St.
     John's College, Cambridge; they are distinguished by wearing
     a purple gown, and are nominated by the dean and head-
     master.
</pre>
    <p>
      What a cloud of recollections, studded with bright and variegated lights,
      passes before my inward vision! Stars of eminence in every branch of
      learning, science, and public duties, who received their education within
      those walls; old Westminsters, whose fame will last as long as old
      England's records, and who shall doubt <span class="pagenum">[85]</span>that
      will be to the end of time? Here grew into manhood and renown the Lord
      Burleigh, King, Bishop of London, the poet Cowley, the great Dryden,
      Charles Montague, Earl of Halifax, Dr. South, Matthew Prior, the tragedian
      Rowe, Bishop Hooper, Kennet, Bishop of Peterborough, Dr. Friend, the
      physician, King, Archbishop of Dublin, the philosopher Locke, Atterbury,
      Bishop of Rochester, Bourne, the Latin poet, Hawkins Browne, Boyle, Earl
      of Cork and Orrery, Carteret, Earl of Granville, Charles Churchill, the
      English satirist, Frank Nicholls, the anatomist, Gibbon, the historian,
      George Colman, Bonnel Thornton, the great Earl of Mansfield, Clayton
      Mordaunt Cracherode, Richard Cumberland, the poet Cowper. These are only a
      few of the great names which occur to me at this moment; but here is
      enough to immortalize the memory of the old Westminsters."
    </p>
    <p>
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    </div>
    <h2>
      ON FEASTERS AND FEASTING.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     On the Attachment of the Moderns to Good Eating and
     Drinking&mdash;Its Consequences and Operation upon Society&mdash;
     Different Description of Dinner Parties&mdash;Royal&mdash;Noble&mdash;
     Parliamentary&mdash;Clerical&mdash;Methodistical&mdash;Charitable&mdash;
     Theatrical&mdash;Legal&mdash;Parochial&mdash;Literary&mdash;Commercial and
     Civil Gourmands&mdash;Sketches at a Side-table, by Bernard
     Blackmantle.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[86]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "There are, while human miseries abound,
          A thousand ways to waste superfluous wealth,
          Without one fool or flatterer at your board,
          Without one hour of sickness or disgust."
          &mdash;Armstrong.
</pre>
    <p>
      In such esteem is good eating held by the moderns, that the only way in
      which Englishmen think they can celebrate any important event, or effect
      any charitable purpose, is by a good dinner. From the palace to the
      pot-house, the same affection for good eating and drinking pervades all
      classes of mankind. The sovereign, when he would graciously condescend to
      bestow on any individual some mark of his special favour, invites him to
      the royal banquet, seats him <i>tète-à-tête</i> with the most polished
      prince in Europe; by this act of royal notice exalts him in the public
      eye, and by the suavity and elegance of his manners rivets his affections
      and secures his zeal for the remainder of his life. The ministers too have
      their state dinners, where all important questions are considered before
      they are submitted to the grand council of the nation. The bishops dine in
      holy <span class="pagenum">[87]</span>conclave to benefit Christianity,
      and moralize over Champagne on the immorality of mankind. The judges dine
      with the lord chancellor on the first day of term, and try their powers of
      mastication before they proceed to try the merits of their fellow
      citizens' causes. A lawyer must eat his way to the bar, labouring most
      voraciously through his commons dinners in the Temple or Lincoln's Inn
      Halls, before he has any chance of success in common law, common pleas, or
      common causes in the court of King's Bench or Chancery. The Speaker's
      parliamentary dinners are splendid spreads for poor senators; but
      sometimes the feast is infested with rats, whom his majesty's royal
      rat-catcher immediately cages, and contrives, by the aid of a blue or red
      ribband, to render extremely useful and docile. Your orthodox ministers
      dine on tithes, turtle, and Easter offerings, until they become as sleek
      as their own velvet cushions, and eke from charity to mankind almost as
      red in the face from the ruby tint of red port, and the sorrowful
      recollections of sin and death. The methodist and sectarians have their
      pious love feasts&mdash;bachelor's fare, bread and butter and kisses, with
      a dram of comfort at parting, I suppose. The deaf, the dumb, the lame, the
      blind, all have their annual charitable dinnerings; and even the Actor's
      Fund is almost entirely dependent on the fund of amusement they contrive
      to offer to their friends at their annual fund dinner. The church-wardens
      dine upon a child, and the overseers too often upon the mite extorted from
      the poor. Even modern literature is held in thraldom by the banquetings of
      modern booksellers and publishers, who by this method contrive to cram the
      critics with their crudities, and direct the operation of their servile
      pens in the cutting up of poor authors. At the Publisher's Club, held at
      the Albion, Dr. Kitchener and Will Jerdau rule the roast; here these
      worthies may be heard commenting with <span class="pagenum">[88]</span>profound
      critical consistency on culinaries and the classics, gurgling down heavy
      potations of black strap, and making still heavier remarks upon black
      letter bibliomania, until all the party are found labouring "<i>Dare
      pondus idonea fumo</i>," or, in the language of Cicero, it may be justly
      said of them, "<i>Damnant quod non intelligent</i>." The magnifico Murray
      has his merry meetings, where new books are made palatable to certain
      tastes by sumptuous feastings, and a choice supply of old wines. Colburn
      brings his books into notice by first bringing his dinner <i>coteries</i>
      into close conclave; and Longman's monthly melange of authors and critics
      is a literary statute dinner, where every guest is looking out for a
      liberal engagement.
    </p>
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      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      Even the booksellers themselves feast one another before they buy and
      sell; and a trade sale, without a trade dinner to precede it, would be a
      very poor concern indeed. Fire companies and water companies, bubble
      companies and banking companies, all must be united and consolidated by a
      good dinner company. Your fat citizen, with a paunch that will scarce
      allow him to pass through the side avenue of Temple Bar, marks his feast
      days upon his sheet almanack, as a lawyer marks his term list with a
      double dash, thus =, and shakes in his easy chair like a sack of blubber
      as lie recapitulates the names of all the glorious good things of which he
      has partaken at the annual civic banquet at Fishmonger's Hall, or the
      Bible Association dinner at the City of London Tavern: at the mention of
      white bait, his lips smack together with joy, and he lisps out
      instinctively Blackwall: talk of a rump steak and Dolly's, his eyes grow
      wild with delight; and just hint at the fine green fat of a fresh killed
      turtle dressed at Birch's, and his whole soul's in arms for a corporation
      dinner. Reader, I have been led into this strain of thinking by an
      excursion I am about to make with Alderman Marigold and family, <span
      class="pagenum">[89]</span>to enjoy the pleasures of a Sunday ordinary in
      the suburbs of the metropolis; an old fashioned custom that is now fast
      giving way to modern notions of refinement, and is therefore the more
      worthy of characteristic record.
    </p>
    <p>
      Bernard Blackmantle.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <h2>
      A SUNDAY RAMBLE TO HIGHGATE,
    </h2>
    <h3>
      OR, THE CITS ORDINARY.
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Bernard Blackmantle's first Excursion with the Marigold
     Family&mdash;Lucubrations of the Alderman on the Alterations of
     the Times&mdash;Sketches and Recollections on the Road&mdash;The Past
     and the Present&mdash;Arrival at the Gate House, Highgate&mdash;The
     Cit's Ordinary&mdash;Traits of Character&mdash;The Water Drinker, the
     Vegetable Eater, and the Punster&mdash;Tom Cornish, the
     Gourmand&mdash;Anecdote of old Tattersall and his Beef Eater&mdash;
     Young Tat. and the Turnpike Man.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[90]</span>"May I never be merry more," said the
      alderman, "if we don't go a Maying on Sunday next, and you must accompany
      us, Master Blackmantle: I always make a country excursion once a year, to
      wit, on the first Sunday in May, when we join a very jolly party at the
      Gate House, Highgate, and partake of an excellent ordinary."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I thought, Pa, you would have given up that vulgar custom when we removed
      westward, and you were elected alderman of the ward of Cheap."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay," said Mrs. Marigold, "if you wish to act politely to your wife and
      daughter write to the Star and Garter at Richmond, or the Toy at Hampton
      Court, and order a choice dinner beforehand for a select party; then we
      should be thought something of, and be able to dine in comfort, without
      being <span class="pagenum">[91]</span><i>scrowged</i> up in a corner by a
      Leadenhall landlady, or elbowed out of every mouthful by a Smithfield
      salesman."
    </p>
    <p>
      "There it is, Mr. Blackmantle, that's the evil of a man having a few
      pounds more in his purse than his neighbours&mdash;it makes him miserable
      with his family at home, and prevents him associating with old friends
      abroad. If you marry my Biddy, make these conditions with her&mdash;to
      dispense with all Mrs. Marigold's maxims on modern manners, and be at
      liberty to smoke your pipe where, and with whom you please."
    </p>
    <p>
      "I declare, Pa, one would imagine you wished Mr. Blackmantle to lose all
      his manners directly after marriage, and all respect for his intended
      bride beforehand."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Nothing of the sort, Miss Sharpwit; but, ever since I made the last
      fortunate contract, you and your mother have contracted a most determined
      dislike to every thing social and comfortable&mdash;haven't I cut the
      Coger's Society in Bride Lane, and the Glee Club at the Ram in Smithfield?
      don't I restrain myself to one visit a week to the Jolly Old Scugs{1}
      Society in Abchurch Lane? haven't I declined the chair of the Free and
      Easy Johns, and given up my command in the Lumber Troop?&mdash;are these
      no sacrifices? is it nothing to have converted my ancestors' large estate
      in Thames Street into warehouses, and emigrated westward to be confined in
      one of your kickshaw cages in Tavistock Square? Don't I keep a chariot and
      a chaise for your comfort, and consent to be crammed up in a corner at a
      concert party to hear some foreign stuff I don't understand? Plague take
      your drives in Hyde Park and promenades in Kensington Gardens! give me the
      society where I can eat, drink, laugh, joke, and smoke
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 Blue coat boys. The others are all well-known anacreontic
     meetings held in the city.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[92]</span>as I like, without being obliged to watch
      every word and action, as if my tongue was a traitor to my head, and my
      stomach a tyrant of self-destruction."
    </p>
    <p>
      The alderman's remonstrance was delivered with so much energy and good
      temper, that there was no withstanding his argument; a hearty laugh, at
      the conclusion, from Miss Biddy and myself, accompanied by an ejaculation
      of "Poor man, how ill you are used!" from his lady, restored all to
      good-humour, and obtained the "<i>quid pro quo</i>," a consent on their
      parts to yield to old customs, and, for once in a way, to allow the
      alderman to have a day of his own. The next morning early an open barouche
      received our party, the coachman being particularly cautioned not to drive
      too fast, to afford the alderman an opportunity of <i>luxuriating</i> upon
      the reminiscences of olden time.
    </p>
    <p>
      As the carriage rolled down the hill turning out of the New Road the
      alderman was particularly eloquent in pointing out and describing the once
      celebrated tea gardens, Bagnigge Wells.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In my young days, sir, this place was the great resort of city elegance
      and fashion, and divided the town with Vauxhall. Here you might see on a
      Sunday afternoon, or other evenings, two thirds of the corporation
      promenading with their wives and daughters; then there was a fine organ in
      the splendid large room, which played for the entertainment of the
      company, and such crowds of beautiful women, and gay fellows in
      embroidered suits and lace ruffles, all powdered and perfumed like a
      nosegay, with elegant cocked hats and swords in their sides; then there
      were such rural walks to make love in, take tea or cyder, and smoke a
      pipe; you know, Mrs. Marigold, you and I have had many a pleasant hour in
      those gardens during our courting days, when the little naked Cupid used
      to sit astride of a swan, and the water spouted from its beak as high as
      the <span class="pagenum">[93]</span>monument; then the grotto was so
      delightful and natural as life, and the little bridge, and the gold fish
      hopping about underneath it, made it quite like a terrestrial paradise{2};
      but about that time Dr. Whitfield and the Countess of Huntingdon undertook
      to save the souls of all the sinners, and erected a psalm-singing shop in
      Tottenham Court Road, where they assembled the pious, and made wry faces
      at the publicans and sinners, until they managed to turn the heads without
      turning the hearts of a great number of his majesty's liege subjects, and
      by the aid of cant and hypocrisy, caused the orthodox religion of the land
      to be nearly abandoned; but we are beginning to be more enlightened, Mr.
      Blackmantle, and Understand these <i>trading</i> missionaries and <i>Bible
      merchants</i> much better than they could wish us to have done. Then, sir,
      the Pantheon, in Spa Fields, was a favourite place of resort for the bucks
      and gay ladies of the time; and Sadler's Wells and Islington Spa were then
      in high repute for their mineral waters. At White Conduit House the Jews
      and Jewesses of the metropolis held their carnival, and city apprentices
      used to congregate at Dobney's bowling-green, afterwards named, in
      compliment to Garrick's Stratford procession, the Jubilee tea-gardens;
      those were the times to grow rich, Mr. Blackmantle, when half-a-crown
      would cover the day's expenditure of five persons, and behave liberally
      too."&mdash;In our way through Islington, the alderman pointed out to us
      the place as formerly celebrated for a weekly consumption of cakes and
      ale; and as we passed through Holloway, informed us that it was in former
      time equally notorious for its cheese-cakes, the fame of which attracted
      vast numbers on
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 Upon reference to an old print of Bagnigge Wells, I find
     the alderman's description of the place to be a very
     faithful portrait. The Pantheon is still standing, but
     converted into a methodist chapel.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[94]</span>the Sunday, who, having satiated
      themselves with pastry, would continue their rambles to the adjacent
      places of Hornsey Wood House, Colney Hatch, and Highgate, returning by the
      way of Hampstead to town.
    </p>
    <p>
      The topographical reminiscences of the alderman were illustrated as we
      proceeded by the occasional sallies of Mrs. Marigold's satire: "she could
      not but regret the depravity of the times, that enabled low shop-keepers
      and servants to dress equal to their betters: it is now quite impossible
      to enjoy society and be comfortable in public, without being associated
      with your tallow-chandler, or your butcher, or take a pleasant drive out
      of town, without meeting your linen-draper, or your tailor, better mounted
      or in a more fashionable equipage than yourself."
    </p>
    <p>
      "All for the good of trade," said the alderman: "it would be very hard
      indeed if those who enable others to cut a dash all the week could not
      make a splash themselves on a Sunday; besides, my dear, it's a matter of
      business now-a-days: many of your kickshaw tradesmen west of Temple Bar
      find it as necessary to consult <i>appearances</i> in the park and watch
      the <i>new come outs</i>, as I do to watch the stock market: if they find
      their customers there in good feather and high repute, they venture to
      cover another leaf in their ledger; but if, on the contrary, they appear
      shy, only show of a Sunday, and are cut by the nobs, why then they
      understand it's high time to close the account, and it's very well for
      them if they are ever able to <i>strike a balance</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      At the conclusion of this colloquy, we had arrived at the Gate House,
      Highgate, just in time to hear the landlord proclaim that dinner was that
      moment about to be served up: the civic rank of the alderman did not fail
      to obtain its due share of servile attention from Boniface, who undertook
      to escort our party into the room, and having announced the consequence
      <span class="pagenum">[95]</span>of his guests, placed the alderman and
      his family at the head of the table.
    </p>
    <p>
      I have somewhere read, "there is as much valour expected in feasting as in
      fighting; "and if any one doubts the truth of the axiom, let him try with
      a hungry stomach to gratify the cravings of nature at a crowded ordinary&mdash;or
      imagine a well disposed group of twenty persons, all in high appetite and
      "eager for the fray" sitting down to a repast scantily prepared for just
      half the number, and crammed into a narrow room, where the waiters are of
      necessity obliged to wipe every dish against your back, or deposit a
      portion of gravy in your pocket, to say nothing of the sauce with which a
      remonstrance is sure to fill both your ears. Most of the company present
      upon this occasion appeared to have the organs of destructiveness to an
      extraordinary degree, and mine host of the Gate House, who is considered
      an excellent physiognomist, looked on with trembling and disastrous
      countenance, as he marked the eager anxiety of the expectant <i>gourmands</i>
      sharpening their knives, and spreading their napkins, at the shrine of
      Sensuality, exhibiting the most voracious symptoms of desire to commence
      the work of demolition.
    </p>
    <p>
      A small tureen of mock turtle was half lost on its entrance, by being
      upset over the leg of a dancing-master, who capered about the room to
      double quick time, from the effects of a severe scalding; on which the
      alderman (with a wink) observed, that the gentleman had no doubt caused
      many a <i>calf s head to dance</i> about in his time, and now he had met
      with a rich return. "I'll bring an action against the landlord for the
      carelessness of his waiter." "You had better not," said the alderman. "Why
      not, sir?" replied the smarting son of Terpsichore. "Because you have only
      <i>one leg to stand on</i>." This sally produced a general laugh, and
      restored all to good humour. On the appearance of a fine cod's head and
      shoulders, the <span class="pagenum">[96]</span>rosy gills of Marigold
      seemed to extend with extatic delight; while a dozen voices assailed him
      at once with "I'll take fish, if you please." "Ay, but you don't take me
      for a fag: if you please, gentlemen, I shall help the ladies first, then
      myself and friend, and afterwards you may divide the <i>omnium and scrip</i>
      just as you please."
    </p>
    <p>
      "What a strange animal!" whispered the dancing master to his next
      neighbour, an old conveyancer. "Yes, sir," replied the man of law, "a city
      shark, I think, that will swallow all our share of the fish."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Don't you think, Mr. Alderman," said a lusty lady on the opposite side of
      the table, "the fish is rather <i>high</i>?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No, ma'ain, it's my opinion," (looking at the fragments) "the company
      will find it rather low."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, but I mean, Mr. Alderman, it's not so <i>fresh</i> as it might be."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why the head did whisper to me, ma'am, that he had not been at sea these
      ten days; only I thought it rude to repeat what was told me in confidence,
      and I'm not fond of <i>fresh things</i> myself, am I, Mrs. Marigold? Shall
      I help you to a little fowl, ma'am, a wing, or a merry thought?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Egad! Mr. Alderman, you are always ready to assist the company with the
      latter."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Yes, ma'am, always happy to help the ladies to a __tit bit: shall I send
      you the <i>recorder's nose</i>? Bless my heart, how warm it is! Here, Joe,
      hang my wig behind me, and place that calf's-head before me." (See Plate.)
    </p>
    <p>
      "Very sorry, ma'am, very sorry indeed," said Mr. Deputy Flambeau to the
      lady next him, whose silk dress he had just bespattered all over; "could
      not have supposed this little pig had so much gravy in him," as Lady
      Macbeth says.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I wish you'd turn that ere nasty thing right round, Mr. Deputy," growled
      out a city <span class="pagenum">[97]</span>costermonger, "'cause my
      wife's quite alarmed for her <i>grose</i> de Naples."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Not towards me, if you please, Mr. Deputy," simpered out Miss Marigold,
      "because thereby hangs a tail, i.e. (tale)."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That's my Biddy's ultimatum," said the alderman; "she never makes more
      than one good joke a day."
    </p>
    <p>
      "If they are all as good as the last, they deserve the benefit of frequent
      resurrection, alderman."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why so, Mr. Blackmantle?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Because they will have the merit of being very funny upon a very grave
      subject&mdash;<i>jeu d'esprits</i> upon our latter end."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Could you make room for three more gentlemen?" said the waiter, ushering
      in three woe-begone knights of the trencher, who, having heard the fatal
      clock strike when at the bottom of the hill, and knowing the punctuality
      of the house, had toiled upwards with breathless anxiety to be present at
      the first attack, and arrived at the end of the second course, <i>just in
      time to be too late</i>. "Confound all clocks and clockmakers! set my
      watch by Bishopsgate church, and made sure I was a quarter too fast."
      "Very sorry, gentlemen, very sorry, indeed," said Boniface; "nothing left
      that is eatable&mdash;not a chop or a steak in the house; but there is an
      excellent ordinary at the Spaniards, about a mile further down the lane;
      always half an hour later than ours." "Ay, it's a grievous affair,
      landlord; but howsomdever, if there's nothing to eat, why we must go: we
      meant to have done you justice to-day&mdash;but never mind, we'll be in
      time for you another Sunday, old gentleman, depend upon it; "and with this
      significant promise the three <i>hungarians</i> departed, not a little
      disappointed.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Those three men are no ordinary customers," said our host; "they have
      done us the honour to dine here <i>before</i>, and what is more, of
      leaving nothing <i>behind</i>; one of them is the celebrated Yorkshireman,
      Tom <span class="pagenum">[98]</span>Cornish, whom General Picton pitted
      against a Hanoverian glutton to eat for a fortnight, and found, at the end
      of a week, that he was a whole bullock, besides twelve quartern loaves,
      and half a barrel of beer, ahead of his antagonist; and if the Hanoverian
      had not given up, Tom would have eaten the rations of a whole company. His
      father is said to have been equally gluttonous and penurious, and could
      eat any given quantity: this person once dining with a member of the
      Society of Friends, who was also a scion of Elwes' school, after having
      eat enough for four moderate visitors, re-helped himself, exclaiming, 'You
      see it's cut and come again with me! 'to which the sectarian gravely
      replied, 'Friend, cut again thou may'st, but come again thou never
      shalt.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay, that's a very good joke, landlord," said the alderman; "but you know
      I am up to your jokes: you think these long stories will save your mutton,
      but there you're wrong&mdash;they only give time to take breath; so bring
      in the sirloin and the saddle of mutton, waiter; and when we've done
      dinner I'll tell you an anecdote of old Tattersall and his beef-eater,
      which occurred at this house in a former landlord's time. Come, Mr.
      Blackmantle, let me send you a slice of the sirloin, and tell us what you
      think of good eating."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That the wit of modern times directs all its rage <i>ad gulam</i>; and
      the only inducement to study is <i>erudito luxu</i>, to please the palate,
      and satisfy the stomach. Even my friend Ebony, the northern light, has
      cast off the anchorite, and sings thus jollily:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'The science of eating is old,
          Its antiquity no man can doubt:
          Though Adam was squeamish, we're told,
          Eve soon found a <i>dainty bit</i> out.'
</pre>
    <p>
      "We talk of the degeneracy of the moderns, as if men now-a-days were in
      every respect inferior to their <span class="pagenum">[99]</span>ancestors;
      but I maintain, and challenge contradiction, that there are many stout
      rubicund gentlemen in this metropolis that might be backed for eating or
      drinking with any Bacchanalian or masticator since the days of Adam
      himself. What was <i>Offellius Bibulus</i>, the Roman parasite, or <i>Silenus
      Ebrius</i>, or <i>Milo</i>, who could knock down an ox, and eat him up
      directly afterwards, compared to Tom Cornish, or Richardson the oyster
      eater?{3} or what are all these opposed to the Oxonian, who, a short time
      since, went to the Swan at Bedford, and ordered dinner? a goose being
      brought, he hacked it in a style at which Mrs. Glass would have fainted;
      indeed so wretched was the mutilated anatomy, in appearance, from bad
      carving, that, being perfectly ashamed of it, he seized the moment when
      some poor mendicant implored his charity at the window, deposited the
      remains of the goose in his apron, rang the bell, and asked for his bill:
      the waiter gazed a moment at the empty dish, and then rushing to the
      landlord, exclaimed, 'Oh! measter, measter, the gentleman eat the goose,
      bones and all!' and the worthies of Bedford believe the wondrous tale to
      this day."
    </p>
    <p>
      To return to Tom Cornish, our host informed us his extraordinary powers of
      mastication were well known, and dreaded by all the tavern-keeping
      fraternity who had Sunday ordinaries within ten miles round London, with
      some of whom he was a regular annuitant, receiving a trifle once a year,
      in lieu of giving them a <i>benefit</i>, as he terms the filling of his
      voracious paunch. A story is told of his father, who is said to have kept
      a very scanty table, that dining one Saturday with
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     3 In 1762, says Evelyn in his Diary, "one Richardson,
     amongst other feats, performed the following: taking a live
     coal on his tongue, he put on it a raw oyster; the coal was
     blown on with a bellows, till it flamed in his mouth, and so
     remained till the oyster gaped, and was quite boiled."
     Certainly the most simple of all cooking apparatus.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[100]</span>his son at an ordinary in Cambridge, he
      whispered in his ear, "Tom, you must eat for to-day and to-morrow." "O
      yes," retorted the half-starved lad, "but I han't eaten for yesterday, and
      the day before yet, father." In short, Tom makes but one hearty meal in a
      week, and that one might serve a troop of infantry to digest. The
      squalling of an infant at the lower end of the room, whose papa was vainly
      endeavouring to pacify the young gourmand with huge spoonfuls of
      mock-turtle, drew forth an observation from the alderman, that had well
      nigh disturbed the entire arrangement of the table, and broke up the
      harmony of the scene "with most admired disorder;" for on the head of the
      Marigold family likening the youngster's noise to a chamber organ, and
      quaintly observing that they always had music during dinner at
      Fishmongers' Hall, the lady mother of the infant, a jolly dame, who
      happened to be engaged in the shell fish line, took the allusion
      immediately to herself, and commenced such a furious attack upon the
      alderman as proved her having been regularly matriculated at the college
      in Thames Street.
    </p>
    <p>
      When the storm subsided the ladies had vanished, and the alderman moved an
      adjournment to what he termed the <i>snuggery</i>, a pleasant little room
      on the first floor, which commanded a delightful prospect over the
      adjacent country. Here we were joined by three eccentric friends of the
      Marigold family, who came on the special invitation of the alderman, Mr.
      Peter Pendragon, a celebrated city punster, Mr. Philotus Wantley, a
      vegetable dieter, and Mr. Galen Cornaro, an abominator of wine, and a
      dyspeptic follower of Kitchener and Abernethy&mdash;a trio of
      singularities that would afford excellent materials for my friend Richard
      Peake, the dramatist, in mixing up a new <i>monopolylogue</i> for that
      facetious child of whim and wit, the inimitable Charles Mathews. Our first
      story, while the wine was decantering, proceeded from the <span
      class="pagenum">[101]</span>alderman, who having been driven from the
      dinner table somewhat abruptly by the amiable <i>caro sposa</i> of the
      fish-merchant, had failed in giving us his promised anecdote of old
      Tattersall and his beef-eater. "I have dined with him often in this
      house," said the alderman, "in my earlier days, and a pleasant, jovial,
      kindhearted fellow he was, one who would ride a long race to be present at
      a good joke, and never so happy as when he could trot a landlord, or knock
      down an argument monger with his own weapons. The former host of the Gate
      House was a bit of a screw, and old Tat knew this; so calling in one day,
      as if by accident, Tat sat him down to a cold round of beef, by way of
      luncheon, and having taken some half ounce of the meat, with a few
      pickles, requested to know what he had to pay for his eating. 'Three
      shillings, sir,' said the waiter. 'Three devils!' ejaculated Tat, with
      strong symptoms of surprise, for in those days three shillings would have
      nearly purchased the whole round: 'send in your master.' In walks the
      host, and Tat renewed his question, receiving in reply a reiteration of
      the demand, but accompanied with this explanation, that peck high or peck
      low, it was all the same price: 'in short, sir,' said the host, 'I keep
      this house, and I mean the house should keep me, and the only way I find
      to insure that is to make the short stomachs pay for the long ones.' 'Very
      well,' said Tat, paying the demand, 'I shall remember this, and bring a
      friend to dine with you another day.' At this time Tat had in his employ a
      fellow called Oxford Will, notorious for his excessive gluttony, a very
      famine breeder, who had won several matches by eating for a wager, and who
      had obtained the appellation of Tattersall's beef-eater. This fellow Tat
      dressed in decent style, and fixing him by his side in the chaise, drove
      up to the Gate House on a Sunday to dine at the ordinary, taking care to
      be in excellent time, and making a previous appointment with a few friends
      <span class="pagenum">[102]</span>to enjoy the joke. At dinner Will was,
      by arrangement, placed in the chair, and being well instructed and
      prepared for execution, was ably supported by Tat and his friends: the
      host, too, who was in excellent humour, quite pleased to see such a
      numerous and respectable party, apologised repeatedly, observing that he
      would have provided more abundantly had he known of the intended honour:
      in this way all things proceeded very pleasantly with the first course,
      Will not caring to make any very wonderful display of his masticatory
      prowess with either of the <i>unsubstantials</i>, fish or soup; but when a
      fine <i>aitch-bone</i> of beef came before the gourmand, he stuck his fork
      into the centre, and, unheedful of the ravenous solicitations of those
      around him requesting a slice, proceeded to demolish the whole joint, with
      as much celerity as the hyena would the harmless rabbit: the company
      stared with astonishment; the landlord, to whom the waiters had
      communicated the fact, entered the room in breathless haste; and on
      observing the empty dish, and hearing Will direct the waiter to take away
      the bone and bring him a clean plate, was apparently thunder-struck: but
      how much was his astonishment increased upon perceiving Will help himself
      to a fine young turkey, stuffed with sausages, which he proceeded to
      dissect with anatomical ability, and by this time the company
      understanding the joke, he was allowed uninterruptedly to deposit it in
      his immense capacious receptacle, denominated by old Tat the <i>fathomless
      vacuum</i>. Hitherto the company had been so completely electrified by the
      extra-ordinary powers of the glutton, that astonishment had for a short
      time suspended the activity of appetite, as one great operation of nature
      will oftentimes paralyze the lesser affections of the body; but, as Will
      became satisfied, the remainder of the party, stimulated by certain
      compunctious visitings of nature, called cravings of the stomach, gave
      evident symptoms of <span class="pagenum">[103]</span>a very opposite
      nature: in vain the landlord stated his inability to produce more viands,
      he had no other provisions in the house, it was the sabbath-day, and the
      butchers' shops were shut, not a chop or a steak could be had: here Will
      feigned to join his affliction with the rest&mdash;he could have enjoyed a
      little snack more, by way of finish. This was the climax; the party,
      according to previous agreement, determined to proceed to the next inn to
      obtain a dinner; the landlord's remonstrance was perfectly nugatory; they
      all departed, leaving Tat and his man to settle with the infuriated host;
      and when the bill was brought in they refused to pay one sixpence more
      than the usual demand of three shillings each, repeating the landlord's
      own words, that peck high or peck low, it was all the same price."
    </p>
    <p>
      With the first glass of wine came the inspiring toast of "The Ladies," to
      which Mr. Philotus Wantley demurred, not on account of the sex, for he
      could assure us he was a fervent admirer, but having studied the wise
      maxims of Pythagoras, and being a disciple of the Brahma school,
      abominators of flesh and strong liquors, he hoped to be excused, by
      drinking the ladies in <i>aqua pura</i>.&mdash;" Water is a monstrous
      drink for Christians!" said the alderman, "the sure precursor of coughs,
      colds, consumptions, agues, dropsies, pleurisies, and spleen. I never knew
      a water-drinker in my life that was ever a fellow of any spirit, mere
      morbid anatomies, starvelings and hypochondriacs: your water-drinkers
      never die of old age, but melancholy."&mdash;"Right, right, alderman,"
      said Mr. Pendragon; "a cup of generous wine is, in my opinion, excellent
      physic; it makes a man lean, and reduces him to friendly dependence on
      every thing that bars his way: sometimes it is a little grating to his
      feelings, to be sure, but it generally passes off with an hic-cup.
      According to Galen, sir, the waters of <i>Astracan</i> breed worms in
      those who taste them; those <span class="pagenum">[104]</span>of <i>Verduri</i>,
      the fairest river in Macedonia, make the cattle who drink of them black,
      while those of Peleca, in Thessaly, turn every thing white; and Bodine
      states that the stuttering of the families of Aquatania, about Labden, is
      entirely owing to their being water-drinkers: a man might as well drink of
      the river Styx as the river Thames, '<i>Stygio monstrum conforme paludi</i>,'
      a monstrous drink, thickened by the decomposition of dead Christians and
      dead brutes, and purified by the odoriferous introduction of gas water and
      puddle water, joined to a pleasant and healthy amalgamation of all the
      impurities of the common sewers.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'As nothing goes in so thick,
          And nothing comes out so thin,
          It must follow, of course,
          That no-thing can be worse,
          As the dregs are all left within.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      "Very well, Mr. Pendragon, very well, indeed," said Mr. Galen Cornaro, an
      eccentric of the same school, but not equally averse to wine; "'temperance
      is a bridle of gold; and he who uses it rightly is more like a god than a
      man.' I have no objection to a cup of generous wine, provided nature
      requires it&mdash;but 'simple diet,' says Pliny, 'is best;' for many
      dishes bring many diseases. Do you know John Abernethy, sir? he is the <i>manus
      dei</i> of my idolatry. 'What ought I to drink?' inquired a friend of mine
      of the surgeon. 'What do you give your horse, sir?' was the question in
      reply. 'Water.' 'Then drink water,' said Abernethy. After this my friend
      was afraid to put the question of eatables, lest the doctor should have
      directed him to live on oats. 'Your modern good fellows,' continued John,
      'are only ambitious of rivalling a brewer's horse; who after all will
      carry more liquor than the best of them.' 'What is good to assist a weak
      digestion?' said another patient. 'Weak food and warm clothing,' was the
      reply; 'not, <span class="pagenum">[105]</span>however, forgetting my <i>blue
      pill</i>.' When you have dined well, sleep well: wrap yourself up in a
      warm watch-coat, and imitate your dog by basking yourself at full length
      before the fire; these are a few of the Abernethy maxims for dyspeptic
      patients." I had heard much of this celebrated man, and was desirous of
      gleaning some more anecdotes of his peculiarities. With this view I laid
      siege to Mr. Galen Cornaro, who appeared to be well acquainted with the
      whims of the practitioner. "I remember, sir," said my informant, "a very
      good fellow of the name of Elliot, a bass-singer at the concerts and
      theatres of the metropolis; a man very much resembling John Abernethy in
      person, and still more so in manner; one who under a rough exterior
      carried as warm a heart as ever throbbed within the human bosom. Elliot
      had fallen ill of the jaundice, and having imbibed a very strong dislike
      to the name of doctor, whether musical or medical, refused the
      solicitations of his friends to receive a visit from any one of the
      faculty; to this eccentricity of feeling he added a predilection for
      curing every disease of the body by the use of simples, decoctions, and
      fomentations extracted from the musty records of old Culpepper, the
      English physician. Pursuing this principle, Elliot every day appeared to
      grow worse, and drooped like the yellow leaf of autumn in its sear; until
      his friends, alarmed for his safety, sent to Abernethy, determined to take
      the patient by surprise. Imagine a robust-formed man, sinking under
      disease and <i>ennui</i>, seated before the fire, at his side a table
      covered with phials and pipkins, and near him his <i>vade mecum</i>, the
      renowned Culpepper. A knock is heard at the door. 'Come in!' vociferates
      the invalid, with stentorian lungs yet unimpaired; and enter John
      Abernethy, not a little surprised by the ungraciousness of his reception.
      'Who are you?' said Elliot in thorough-bass, just inclining his head half
      round to recognize his visitor, <span class="pagenum">[106]</span>without
      attempting to rise from his seat: Abernethy appeared astonished, but
      advancing towards his patient, replied, 'John Abernethy.'
    </p>
    <p>
      'Elliot. Oh, the doctor!
    </p>
    <p>
      'Abernethy. No, not the doctor; but plain John Abernethy, if you please.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Elliot. Ay, my stupid landlady sent for you, I suppose.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Abernethy. To attend a very stupid patient, it would appear.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Elliot. Well, as you are come, I suppose I must give you your fee.
      (Placing the gold upon the table.)
    </p>
    <p>
      'Abernethy (looking rather cross.) What's the matter with you?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Elliot. Can't you see?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Abernethy. Oh yes, I see very well; then tasting some of the liquid in
      the phials, and observing the source from whence the prescriptions had
      been extracted, the surgeon arrived at something that was applicable to
      the disease. Who told you to take this?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Elliot. Common sense.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Abernethy putting his fee in his pocket, and preparing to depart. Good
      day.
    </p>
    <p>
      'Elliot (reiterating the expression.) Good day! Why, you mean to give me
      some advice for my money, don't you?
    </p>
    <p>
      'Abernethy, with the door in his hand. Follow common sense, and you'll do
      very well.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "Thus ended the interview between Abernethy and Elliot. It was the old
      tale of the stammerers personified; for the professional and the patient
      each conceived the other an imitator. On reaching the ground-floor the
      surgeon was, however, relieved from his embarrassment by the communication
      of the good woman of the house, who, in her anxiety to serve Elliot, had
      produced this extraordinary scene. Abernethy laughed heartily&mdash;assured
      her that the patient would do well&mdash;wrote a prescription for him&mdash;begged
      <span class="pagenum">[107]</span>he might hear how he proceeded&mdash;and
      learning he was a professional man, requested the lady of the mansion to
      return him his fee."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ay," said the alderman, "that was just like John Abernethy. I remember
      when he tapped poor Mrs. Marigold for the dropsy, he was not very tender,
      to be sure, but he soon put her out of her tortures. And when on his last
      visit I offered him a second twenty pound note for a fee, I thought he
      would have knocked me down; asked me if I was the fool that gave him such
      a sum on a former occasion; threw it back again with indignation, and said
      he did not rob people in that manner." No professional man does more
      generous actions than John Abernethy; only it must be after his own
      fashion.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Come, gentlemen, the bottle stands still," said Mr. Pendragon, "while you
      are running through the merits of drinking. Does not Rabelais contend that
      good wine is the best physic?' because there are more old tipplers than
      old physicians.' Custom is every thing; only get well seasoned at the
      first start, and all the rest of life is a summer's scene. Snymdiris the
    </p>
    <p>
      Sybarite never once saw the sun rise or set during a course of twenty
      years; yet he lived to a good old age, drank like a centaur, and never
      went to bed sober."
    </p>
    <p>
      And when his glass was out, he fell Like some ripe kernel from its shell.
    </p>
    <p>
      "I was once an anti-gastronomist and a rigid antisaccharinite; sugar and
      milk were banished from my breakfast-table, vegetables and puddings my
      only diet, until I almost ceased to vegetate, and my cranium was
      considered as soft as a custard; and curst hard it was to cast off all
      culinary pleasures, sweet reminiscences of my infancy, commencing with our
      first spoonful of pap, for all young protestants are papists; to this day
      my heart (like Wordsworth's) <span class="pagenum">[108]</span>overflows
      at the sight of a pap-boat&mdash;the boat a child first mans; to speak
      naughty-cally, as a nurse would say, how many a row is there in the
      pap-boat&mdash;how many squalls attend it when first it comes into contact
      with the skull! But I am now grown corpulent; in those days I was a
      lighter-man, and I believe I should have continued to live (exist) upon
      herbs and roots; but Dr. Kitchener rooted up all my prejudices, and
      overturned the whole system of my theory by practical illustrations.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Thus he that's wealthy, if he's wise,
          Commands an earthly paradise;
          That happy station nowhere found,
          But where the glass goes freely round.
          Then give us wine, to drown the cares
          Of life in our declining years,
          That we may gain, if Heav'n think fitting,
          By drinking, what was lost by eating:
          For though mankind for that offence
          Were doom'd to labour ever since,
          Yet Mercy has the grape impower'd
          To sweeten what the apple sour'd."
</pre>
    <p>
      To this good-humoured sally of Pendragon succeeded a long dissertation on
      meats, which it is not <i>meet</i> I should relate, being for the most
      part idle conceits of Mr. Galen Cornaro, who carried about him a long list
      of those prescribed eatables, which engender bile, breed the <i>incubus</i>,
      and produce spleen, until, according to his bill of fare, he had left
      himself nothing to subsist upon in this land of plenty but a mutton-chop,
      or a beef-steak. What pleased me most was, that with every fresh bottle
      the two disciples of Pythagoras and Abernethy became still more vehement
      in maintaining the necessity for a strict adherence to the theory of water
      and vegetable economy; while their zeal had so far blinded their
      recollection, that when the ladies returned from their walk to join us at
      tea, they were both "<i>bacchi plenis</i>," as Colman has it, something
      inclining from <span class="pagenum">[109]</span>a right line, and
      approaching in its motion to serpentine sinuosities. A few more puns from
      Mr. Pendragon, and another story from the alderman, about his friend,
      young Tattersall, employing Scroggins the bruiser, disguised as a
      countryman to beat an impudent Highgate toll-keeper, who had grossly
      insulted him, finished the amusements of the day, which Mrs. Marigold and
      Miss Biddy declared had been spent most delightfully, so rural and
      entertaining, and withal so economical, that the alderman was induced to
      promise he would not dine at home again of a Sunday for the rest of the
      summer. To me, at least, it afforded the charm of novelty; and if to my
      readers it communicates something of character, blended with pleasure in
      the perusal, I shall not regret my Sunday trip with the Marigold family
      and first visit to the
    </p>
    <p>
      GATE HOUSE, HIGHGATE. <a name="Cimage-0020" id="Cimage-0020">
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    </p>
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    <h2>
      THE STOCK EXCHANGE.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      <span class="pagenum">[110]</span>
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Have you ever seen Donnybrook fair?
          Or in a <i>caveau</i> spent the night?
          On Waterloo's plains did you dare
          To engage in the terrific fight?
          Has your penchant for life ever led
          You to visit the Finish or Slums,
          At the risk of your pockets and head?
          Or in Banco been fixed by the bums?
          In a smash at the hells have you been,
          When pigeons were pluck'd by the bone?
          Or enjoy'd the magnificent scene
          When our fourth George ascended his throne?
          Have you ever heard Tierney or Canning
          A Commons' division address?
          Or when to the gallery ganging,
          Been floor'd by a rush from the press?
          Has your taste for the fine arte impell'd
          You to visit a bull-bait or fight?
          Or by rattles and charleys propell'd,
          In a watch-house been lodged for the night?
          In a morning at Bow-street made one
          Of a group just to bother sage Birnie?
          Stood the racket, got fined, cut and run,
          Being fleeced by the watch and attorney?
          Or say, have you dined in Guildhall
          With the mayor and his corporate souls?
          Or been squeezed at a grand civic ball,
          With dealers in tallow and coals?
          Mere nothings are these, though the range
          Through all we have noticed you've been,
          When compared to the famed Stock Exchange,
          That riotous gambling scene.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[111]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     The unexpected Legacy&mdash;Bernard Blackmantle and Bob Transit
     visit Capel Court&mdash;Characters in the Stocks&mdash;Bulls, Bears
     and Bawds, Brokers, Jews and Jobbers&mdash;A new Acquaintance,
     Peter Principal&mdash;His Account of the Market&mdash;The Royal
     Exchange&mdash;Tricks upon Travellers&mdash;Slating a Stranger&mdash;The
     Hebrew Star and his Satellites&mdash;Dividend Hunters and
     Paragraph Writers&mdash;The New Bubble Companies&mdash;Project
     Extraordinary&mdash;Prospectus in Rhyme of the Life, Death,
     Burial, and Resurrection Company&mdash;Lingual Localisms of the
     Stock Exchange explained&mdash;The Art and Mystery of Jobbing
     exposed&mdash;Anecdotes of the House and its Members&mdash;Flying a
     Tile&mdash;Billy Wright's Brown Pony&mdash;Selling a Twister&mdash;A Peep
     into Botany Bay&mdash;Flats and Flat-catchers&mdash;The Rotunda and
     the Transfer Men&mdash;How to work the Telegraph&mdash;Create a Rise&mdash;
     Put on the Pot&mdash;Bang down the Market&mdash;And waddle out a Lame
     Duck.
</pre>
    <p>
      A bequest of five hundred pounds by codicil from a rich old aunt had most
      unexpectedly fallen to my friend Transit, who, quite unprepared for such
      an overwhelming increase of good fortune, was pondering on the best means
      of applying this sudden acquisition of capital, when I accidentally paid
      him a visit in Half-moon Street. "Give me joy, Bernard," said Bob; "here's
      a windfall;" thrusting the official notice into my hand; "five hundred
      pounds from an old female miser, who during her lifetime was never known
      to dispense five farthings for any generous or charitable purpose; but
      being about to <i>slip her wind</i> and make a <i>wind-up</i> of her
      accounts, was kind enough to remember at parting that she had a poor
      relation, an <span class="pagenum">[112]</span>artist, to whom such a sum
      might prove serviceable, so just hooked me on to the tail end of her
      testamentary document and booked me this legacy, before she booked herself
      inside for the other world. And now, my dear Bernard," continued Bob, "you
      are a man of the world, one who knows
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'What's what, and that's as high
          As metaphysic wit can fly.'
</pre>
    <p>
      I am puzzled, actually bewildered what to do with this accumulation of
      wealth: only consider an eccentric artist with five hundred pounds in his
      pocket; why it must prove his death-warrant, unless immediate measures are
      taken to free him from its magical influence. Shall I embark it in some of
      the new speculations? the Milk company, or the Water company, the Flesh,
      Fish, or Fowl companies, railways or tunnel-ways, or in short, only put me
      in the right way, for, at present, I am mightily abroad in that respect."
      "Then my advice is, that you keep your money at home, or in other words,
      fund it; unless you wish to be made fun of and laughed at for a milksop,
      or a bubble merchant, or be taken for one of the Gudgeon family, or a
      chicken butcher, a member of the Poultry company, where fowl dealing is
      considered all fair; or become a liveryman of the worshipful company of
      minors (i.e. miners), where you may be fleeced à la Hayne, by legs,
      lawyers, bankers and brokers, demireps and contractors'; or, perhaps, you
      <span class="pagenum">[113]</span>will feel disposed to embark in a new
      company, of which I have just strung together a prospectus in rhyme: a
      speculation which has, at least, much of novelty in this country to
      recommend it, and equally interests all orders of society.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 It is not surprising, we see, that lawyers, bankers, and
     brokers are found at the bottom of most of the new schemes.
     Their profits are certain, whatever the fate of the Gudgeon
     family. The brokers, in particular, have a fine harvest of
     it. Their charges being upon the full nominal amount of the
     shares sold, they get twice as much by transferring a single
     100L. share in a speculation, although only 1L. may have
     been paid on it, as by the purchase or sale of 100L.
     consols, of which the price is 94L. Or, to make the matter
     plainer to the uninitiated, suppose an individual wishes to
     lay out 500L. in the stock-market. If he orders his broker
     to purchase into the British funds, the latter will buy him
     about  535L.  three per   cent,   consols; and the
     brokerage, at one-eighth per cent, will be about 13s.    But
     if the same person desires to invest the same sum in the
     stock of a new Mine or Rail-road company, which is divided
     into 100L. shares, on each of which say 1L. is paid, and
     there is a premium of 1L. (as is the case at this moment
     with a stock we have in our eye) his broker's account will
     then stand thus:&mdash;

     Bought 250 shares in the &mdash;&mdash; Company.

     First instalment of 1L. paid                      £250   0   0

     Premium L. per share                               250   0   0

                                         500   0   0

     Brokerage £ per cent, on 25,000L. stock             62  10   0

                                         562  10   0

     Which will leave Mr. Adventurer to pay 62L.  10s. to his
     broker, and to pay 99L. more on each of his 250 shares, when
     the&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;company "call" for it!

     Or, let us reverso the case, and suppose our speculator,
     having been an original subscriber for 100 shares in the
     &mdash;&mdash; company, and having consequently obtained them for
     nothing, wishes to sell, finding them at a premium of 6s.
     per share, and either fearing they may go lower, or not
     being able to pay even the first instalment called for by
     the directors. If he is an humble tradesman, he is perhaps
     eager to realise a profit obtained without labour, and hugs
     him-self at the idea of the hundred crowns and the hundred
     shillings he shall put into his pocket by this pleasant
     process. Away he posts to Cornhill, searches out a broker,
     into whose hands he puts the letter entitling him to the 100
     shares, with directions to sell at the current premium. The
     broker takes a turn round 'Change, finds a customer, and the
     whole affair is settled in a twinkling, by an entry or two
     in the broker's memorandum-book, and the drawing of a couple
     of cheques. Our fortunate speculator, who is anxiously
     waiting at Batson's the return of his man of business, and
     spending perhaps 3s. 6d. in bad negus and tough sandwiches,
     on the strength of his good luck, is then presented with a
     draft on a banker for 5L. neatly folded up in a small slip
     of foolscap, containing the following satisfactory
     particulars:&mdash;

     Sold 100 shares in the&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;company&mdash;nothing paid&mdash;prem. 6s. £30

     Brokerage, 1/4 per cent, on 10,000L. stock           25

     By cheque                                             5

     He stares wildly at this document, utterly speechless, for
     five minutes, during which the broker, after saying he shall
     be happy to "do" for him another time, throws a card on the
     table, and exit. The lucky speculator wanders into 'Change
     with the account in his hand, and appeals to several Jews to
     know whether he has not been cheated: some abuse him for the
     insinuation against so "respectable" a man as Mr.&mdash;&mdash;- the
     broker; others laugh in his face; and all together hustle
     him into the street. He goes home richer by 4L.. 16s. 6d.
     than when he went out, and finds that a wealthy customer,
     having called three times in his absence to give him a
     particular order, had just left the shop in a rage, swearing
     he would no longer encourage so inattentive a tradesman.&mdash;
     <i>Examiner</i>.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      THE LIFE, DEATH, BURIAL, AND RESURRECTION COMPANY.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      CAPITAL.&mdash;ONE HUNDRED MILLIONS SHARES.&mdash;ONE POUND.
    </h3>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[115]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          In this age of projectors, when bubbles are spread
          With illusive attractions to bother each head,
          When bulls, bears, jews, and jobbers all quit Capelcourt
          To become speculators and join in the sport,
          Who can wonder, when interest with intellect clashes,
          We should have a new club to dispose of our ashes;
          To rob death of its terrors, and make it delightful
          To give up your breath, and abolish the frightful
          Old custom of lying defunct in your shroud,
          Surrounded by relatives sobbing aloud?
          We've a scheme that shall mingle the "grave with the gay,"
          And make it quite pleasant to die, when you may.
          First, then, we propose with the graces of art,
          Like our Parisian friends, to make ev'ry tomb smart;
          And, by changing the feelings of funeral terrors,
          Remove what remain'd of old Catholic errors.
          Our plan is to blend in the picturesque style
          Smirke, Soane, Nash, and Wyatville all in one pile.
          So novel, agreeable, and grateful our scheme,
          That death will appear like a sweet summer's dream;
          And the horrid idea of a gloomy, cold cell,
          Will vanish like vapours of mist from a dell.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[116]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Thus changed, who'll object a kind friend to inhume,
          When his sepulchre's made like a gay drawing-room 1
          A diversified, soothing commixture of trees,
          Umbrageous and fann'd by the perfumed breeze;
          With alcoves, and bowers, and fish-ponds, and shrubs,
          Select, as in life, from intrusion of scrubs;
          While o'er your last relics the violet-turf press
          Must a flattering promise afford of success.
          "Lie light on him, earth," sung a poet of old;
          Our earth shall be sifted, and never grow cold;
          No  rude  weight on  your chest&mdash;how   like  ye   our scheme {1}
          Where your grave  will   be warm'd by a process of steam,
          Which will boil all the worms and the grubs in their holes,
          And preserve from decay ev'ry part but your souls.
          Our cemetery, centred in fancy's domain,
          Shall by a state edict eternal remain
          To all parties open, the living or dead;
          Or christian, or atheist, here rest their head,
          In a picturesque garden, and deep shady grove,
          Where young love smiles, and fashion delighteth to rove.
          To render the visitors' comforts complete,
          And afford the grieved mourners a proper retreat,
          The directors intend to erect an hotel,
          Where a <i>table d'hôte</i> will be furnished well;
          Not with the "cold meats of a funeral feast,"
          But a banquet that's worthy a nabob at least;
          Of <i>lachryma christi</i>, and fine <i>vin de grave</i>,
          And cordial compounds, a choice you may have.
          Twice a week 'tis proposed to illumine the scene,
          And to waltz and quadrille on the velvety green;
          While Colinet's band and the Opera Corps
          Play and dance with a spirit that's quite <i>con amore</i>,
          A committee of taste will superintend
          The designs and inscriptions to each latter end.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[117]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Take notice, no cross-bones or skulls are allowed,
          Or naked young cherubims riding a cloud;
          In short, no allusions that savour of death,
          Nor aught that reminds of a friend's parting breath.
          The inscriptions and epitaphs, elegies too,
          Must all be poetical, lively, and new;
          Such as never were heard of, or seen heretofore,
          To be written by Proctor, Sam. Rogers, or Moore.
          In lieu of a sermon, glee-singers attend,
          Who will chant, like the cherubims, praise without end.
          Three decent old women, to enliven the hours,
          Attend with gay garlands and sacred flowers,
          The emblems of grief&mdash;artificial, 'tis true,
          But very like nature in a general view.
          Lord Graves will preside, and vice-president Coffin
          Will pilot the public into the offing.
          The College of Surgeons and Humane Society
          Have promised to send a delightful variety.
          The Visitors all are physicians of fame;
          And success we may, therefore, dead certainty name.
          To the delicate nervous, who'd wish a snug spot,
          A romantic temple, or moss-cover'd grot,
          Let them haste to John Ebers, and look at the plan;
          Where the grave-book lies open, its merits to scan.
          Gloves, hatbands, and essence of onions for crying,
          White 'kerchiefs and snuff, and a cordial worth trying,
          The attendants   have   ready;   and more&mdash;as   time presses,
          No objection to bury you in fancy dresses.
          Our last proposition may frighten you much;
          We propose to reanimate all by a touch,
          By magic revive, if a century old,
          The bones of a father, a friend, or a scold.
          In short, we intend, for all&mdash;but a wife,
          To bring whom you please in a moment to life;
          That is, if the shares in our company rise,&mdash;
          If not 'tis a bubble, like others, of lies.

          &mdash;Bernard Blackmantle.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[118]</span>The recitation of this original <i>jeu
      d'esprit</i> had, I found, the salutary effect of clearing my friend
      Transit's vision in respect to the <i>speculation mania</i>; and being by
      this time fully accoutred and furnished with the possibles, we sallied
      forth to make a purchase in the public funds. There is something to be
      gleaned from every event in this life, particularly by the eccentric who
      is in search of characteristic matter. I had recently been introduced to a
      worthy but singular personage in the city, Mr. Peter Principal, stock
      broker, of the firm of Hazard and Co.&mdash;a man whose probity was never
      yet called in question, and who, having realized a large property by the
      most honourable means, was continually selected as broker, trustee, and
      executor by all his acquaintance. To him, therefore, I introduced my
      friend Bob, who being instantly relieved from all his weighty troubles,
      and receiving in return the bank receipts, we proceeded to explore the
      regions of Pluto (i.e. the money market), attended by Peter Principal as
      our guide and instructor. On our entrance into Capel Court we were
      assailed by a motley group of Jews and Gentiles, inhabitants of Lower
      Tartary (i.e. Botany Bay{2}), who, suspecting we came there on business,
      addressed us in a jargon that was completely unintelligible either to
      Transit or myself. One fellow inquired if I was a bull,{3} and his
      companion wished to know if Transit was a bear{4}; another eagerly offered
      to give us <i>five eighths</i>, or sell us, at the same price, for the
      account'{5}; while a fourth thrust his
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 A place so named, without the Stock Exchange, where the
     lame ducks and fallen angels of Upper Tartary assemble when
     expelled the house, to catch a hint how the puff's and bangs
     succeed in the private gambling market; when if they can
     saddle their neighbour before he is up to the variation, it
     is thought good jobbing.

     3  Persons that purchase with a view for a rise in the
     funds.

     4  One who sells with a view to a fall in the price of stock.

     5 A certain future day, fixed upon by the Committee of the
     Stock Exchange, for the settlement of <i>time bargains</i>&mdash;they
     are usually appointed at an interval of six weeks, and the
     price of stocks on this given day determines the
     speculator's gain or loss.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[119]</span>copper countenance into my face, and
      offered to do business with me at a fiddle.{6} "Tush, tush," said Peter
      Principal to the increasing multitude which now barred our passage, "we
      are only come to take a look, and watch the operation of the market." "<i>Dividend
      hunters</i>{7} I suppose," said a knowing looking fellow, sarcastically,
      "ear wigging{8}&mdash;Hey, Mr. Principal, something good for the pull
      out{9}? Well, if the gentlemen wish to put on the pot, although it be for
      a pony,{10} I'm their man, only a little rasping,{11} you know." To this
      eloquent appeal succeeded a similar application from a son of Israel, who
      offered to accommodate us in any way we wished, either for the <i>call</i>{l2}
      or <i>put</i>{13}; to which friendly offer little Principal put his direct
      negative, and, after innumerable
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     6 When a broker has got money transactions of any conse-
     sequence, as there is no risk in these cases, he will fiddle
     one finger across the other, signifying by this that the
     jobber must give up half the turn of the market price to
     him, which he pockets besides his commission.

     7 Those who suppose by changing stock they get double
     interest, by receiving four dividends in one year instead of
     two; but in this they are deceived, as the jobber, when he
     changes stock, gains the advantage; for instance, if he buys
     consols at sixty, when he sells out there will be deducted
     one and a half per cent. for the dividend.

     8 When bargains are done privately by a whisper, to conceal
     the party's being a bull.

     9 Buying or selling for ready money.

     10 Pony, 25,000L.

     11 Giving greater turns to the jobbers than those regulated
     in the market.

     12  <i>Call</i>. Buying to call more at one-eighth or one-fourth
     above the price on a certain day, if the buyer chooses, and
     the price is in his favour.

     13  <i>Put</i>. Selling to put more to it on a certain day, at
     one-eighth or one-fourth under the market price.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[120]</span>attacks of this sort, we reached the
      upper end of the court, and found ourselves upon the steps which lead to
      the regions of Upper Tartary, (i.e.) the Stock Exchange. At this moment
      our friend Principal was summoned by his clerk to attend some antique
      spinster, who, having scraped together another hundred, had hobbled down
      to annex it to her previous amount of consols. "You must not attempt to
      enter the room by yourselves," said Principal; "but accompany me back to
      the Royal Exchange, where you can walk and wait until I have completed the
      old lady's <i>job</i>." While Principal was gone to invest his customer's
      stock, we amused ourselves with observing the strange variety of character
      which every where presents itself among the groups of all nations who
      congregate together in this arena of commerce. Perhaps a more fortunate
      moment for such a purpose could not have occurred: the speculative
      transactions of the times had drawn forth a certain portion of the Stock
      Exchange, gamblers, or inhabitants of Upper Tartary, who, like experienced
      sharpers of another description, never suffer a good thing to escape them.
      Capel Court was partially abandoned for exchange bubbles,{14} and new
      companies opened a new system of fraudulent enrichment for these sharks of
      the money market.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     14 The speculative mania, which at this time raged with un-
     precedented violence among a large portion of his Majesty's
     liege subjects, gave the "John Bull" a glorious opportunity
     for one of their witty satires, in which the poet has very
     humorously described the

     BUBBLES OF 1825.

     Tune&mdash;"Run, neighbours, run."

     Run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share
     In all the famous projects that amuse John Bull;
     Run, take a peep on 'Change, for anxious crowds beset us there,
     Each trying which can make himself the greatest gull.
     No sooner are they puff'd, than a universal wish there is
     For shares in mines, insurances in foreign loans and fisheries.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[121]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     No matter where the project lies, so violent the mania,
     In Africa, New Providence, Peru, or Pennsylvania!
     Run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share
     In all the famous bubbles that amuse John Bull.
     Few folks for news very anxious at this crisis are,
     For marriages, and deaths, and births, no thirst exists;
     All take the papers in, to find out what the prices are
     Of shares in this or that, upon the broker's lists.
     The doctor leaves his patient&mdash;the pedagogue his Lexicon,
     For mines of Real Monte, or for those of Anglo-Mexican:
     E'en Chili bonds don't cool the rage, nor those still more romantic, sir,
     For new canals to join the seas, Pacific and Atlantic, sir.
     Run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share
     In all the famous bubbles that amuse John Bull.
     At home we have projects too for draining surplus capital,
     And honest Master Johnny of his cash to chouse;
     Though t'other day, Judge Abbott gave a rather sharpish slap at all.
     And Eldon launched his thunder from the upper House.
     Investment banks to lend a lift to people who are undone&mdash;
     Proposals for Assurance&mdash;there's no end of that, in London;
     And one amongst the number, who in Parliament now press their Bills,
     For lending cash at eight per cent, on coats and inexpressibles.
     Run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share
     In all the famous bubbles that amuse John Bull.
     No more with her bright pails the milkman's rosy  daughter works,
     A company must serve you now with milk and cream;
     Perhaps they've some connexion with the advertising water-works,
     That promise to supply you from the limpid stream.
     Another body corporate would fain some pence and shillings get,
     By selling fish at Hungerford, and knocking up old Billingsgate:
     Another takes your linen, when it's dirty, to the suds, sir,
     And brings it home in carriages with four nice bits of blood, sir.
     Run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share
     In all the famous bubbles that amuse John Bull.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[122]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     When Greenwich coaches go by steam on roads of iron railing, sir,
     How pleasant it will be to see a dozen in a line;
     And ships of heavy burden over hills and valleys sailing, sir,
     Shall cross from Bristol's Channel to the Tweed or Tyne.
     And Dame Speculation, if she ever fully hath her ends,
     Will  give us docks at Bermondsey, St. Saviour's, and St. Catherine's;
     While side long bridges over mud shall fill the folks with wonder, sir,
     And lamp-light tunnels all day long convey the Cocknies under, sir.
     Run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share
     In all the famous bubbles that amuse John Bull.
     A tunnel underneath the sea, from Calais straight to Dover, sir,
     That qualmish folks may cross by land from shore to shore,
     With sluices made to drown the French, if e'er they would come over, sir,
     Has long been talk'd of, till at length 'tis thought a monstrous bore.
     Amongst the many scheming folks, I take it he's no ninny, sir,
     Who bargains with the Ashantees to fish the coast of Guinea, sir;
     For, secretly, 'tis known, that another brilliant view he has,
     Of lighting up the famous town of Timbuctoo with oil gas.
     Run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share
     In all the famous bubbles that amuse John Bull.
     Then a company is form'd, though not yet advertising,
     To build, upon a splendid scale, a large balloon,
     And send up tools and broken stones for fresh Mac-Adamizing
     The new discover'd turnpike roads which cross the moon.
     But the most inviting scheme of all is one proposed for carrying
     Large furnaces to melt the ice which hems poor Captain Parry in;
     They'll then have steam boats twice a week to all the newly-seen land,
     And call for goods and passengers at Labrador and Greenland!
     Run, neighbours, run, you're just in time to get a share
     In all the famous bubbles that amuse John Bull,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[123]</span>High 'Change was a subject full of the
      richest materials for my friend Bob, who, without knowing more of the
      characters than their exterior appearances of eccentricity and costume
      exhibited, proceeded to <i>book</i>, as he termed it, the leading
      features. Every now and then there was a rush to different parts of the
      arena, and an appearance of great anxiety among the crowd to catch the
      attention of a person who flourished a large parchment above their heads
      with all the pride and importance of a field marshal's baton. This was, I
      found, no other than the leading agent of some newly projected company,
      who took this method of <i>indulging</i> the subscribers with shares, or
      letting the fortunate applicants know how many of these speculative
      chances the committee had allowed them to possess. The return of little
      Principal afforded me a key to the surrounding group, without which their
      peculiar merits would have been lost to the world, or have remained
      individually unknown, like the profit of many of the modern speculations.
      "You must not suppose," said Principal, "that great talents make great
      wealth here, or that honourable conduct and generous feelings command
      respect&mdash;no such thing; men are estimated upon 'Change in proportion
      to the supposed amount of their property, and rise or fall in the worldly
      opinion of their associates as prosperity or adversity operates upon the
      barometer of their fortunate speculations; a lucky hit will cause a dolt
      to be pointed out as a clever fellow, when, the next turn of the market
      proving unsuccessful, he is despised and insulted: so much are the
      frequenters of 'Change influenced by the most sordid and mercenary
      feelings, that almost all of them are the willing dupes of riches and good
      fortune. However, as you are strangers here, gentlemen, I will introduce
      you, <i>entre nous</i>, to a few of the characters who thrive by the
      destruction of thousands of their fellow-creatures. The bashaw in black
      yonder, who rests his elephantic trunk against a pillar of the Exchange,
      with his hands thrust into his breeches pockets, is the Hebrew star&mdash;the
      Jewish luminary, a very Shiloh among the peoples of his own persuasion,
      and, I am sorry to say, much too potent <span class="pagenum">[124]</span>with
      the orthodox ministers of George the Fourth. The fellow's insolence is
      intolerable, and his vulgarity and ignorance quite unbearable. He
      commenced his career in Manchester by vending trinkets and spectacle-cases
      in the streets of that town, from which station he gradually rose to the
      important occupation of a dealer in <i>fag ends</i>, from which he
      ascended to the dignity of a bill-broker, when, having the command of
      money, and some wealthy Hebrew relatives conveniently distributed over the
      Continent for the transaction of business, he took up his abode in London,
      and towards the termination of the late war, when a terrible smash took
      place among some of his tribe, he found means to obtain their confidence,
      and having secured, by the aid of spies, the earliest foreign
      intelligence, he rapidly made a colossal fortune in the British funds,
      without much risk to himself. It is said he can scarcely write his own
      name, and it only requires a minute's conversation to inform you of the
      general ignorance of his mind; in short, he is one of Hazlitt's men, with
      only one idea, but that one entirely directed to the accumulation of gold.
      A few years since some of the more respectable members of the Stock
      Exchange, perceiving the thraldom in which the public funds of the country
      were held by the tricks and manouvres of the Jew party, determined to make
      a stand against them: among these was a highly respected member of
      parliament, a great sporting character, and a very worthy man. His losses
      proved excessive, but they were promptly paid. In order to weaken his
      credit, and, if possible, shake his confidence and insult his feelings,
      the Jew took an opportunity, during High 'Change, of telling him, 'Dat he
      had got his cote and vaistcote, and he should very soon have his shirt
      into de bargain:' in this prophecy, however, Mr. Mordecai was mistaken;
      for the market took a sudden turn, and the gentleman alluded to recovered
      all his losses in a short time, to the great discomfiture <span
      class="pagenum">[125]</span>of the high priest and the Jews. In private
      life he is equally abrupt and vulgar, as the following anecdote will
      prove, at his own table: A christian broker solicited some trifling
      favour, observing, he had granted what he then requested to another member
      of the house, who was his brother-in-law. 'Vary true, vary true,' said
      Solomon Gruff, as he is sometimes called, 'but then you do not shleep vid
      my shister, my boy; dat makes all de differance.' At present this fellow's
      influence is paramount at most of the courts of Europe, at some of which
      his family enjoy considerable honours; in short, he is the head of the
      locust tribe, and the leader of that class of speculators whom a witty
      writer has well described in the following lines, addressed to the
      landholders:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'The National Debt may be esteemed a mass
          Of filth which grows corrupter every day;
          And in this heap, as always comes to pass,
          Reptiles and vermin breed, exist, decay.
          'Tis now so huge, that he must be an ass
          Who thinks it ever can be clear'd away:
          And the time's quickly coming, to be candid,
          When funded men will swallow up the landed.
          'Then will these debt-bred reptiles, hungry vermin,
          Fed from the mass corrupt of which I spoke,
          Usurp your place.    A Jew, a dirty German,
          Who has grown rich by many a lucky stroke,
          Shall rule the Minister, and all determined
          To treat your bitter sufferings as a joke.
          Said I, he shall!    It will be nothing new;
          The Treasury now is govern'd by a Jew.'
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="Cimage-0021" id="Cimage-0021">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images2/page125.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
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      <img src="images2/page125th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page125" />
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    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      The tall dandy-looking youth standing near the great man is a scion of the
      former head of the Hebrew family: his father possessed very superior
      talents, but was too much attached to splendid society to die rich; his
      banquets were often graced by royalty, and his liberality and honourable
      conduct proverbial, until misfortune produced a catastrophe that will not
      bear <span class="pagenum">[126]</span>repeating. The very name of the
      sire causes a feeling of dislike in the breast of the Colossus, and
      consequently the son is no partaker in the good things which the great man
      has to dispose of. The three tall Jews standing together are brothers, and
      all members of the Stock Exchange; their affinity to the high priest, more
      than their own talents, renders their fortunes promising. Observe the
      pale-faced genteel-looking man.on the right hand side of the arena&mdash;that
      is Major G&mdash;s, an unsuccessful speculator in the funds, but a highly
      honourable officer, who threw away the proceeds of his campaigns in the
      Peninsula among the sharks of the Stock Exchange and the lesser gamblers
      of St. James's: he has lately given to the world a sketch of his own life,
      under the assumed name of 'Ned Clinton, or the Commissary,' in which he
      has faithfully narrated scenes and characters. The little, jolly,
      fresh-coloured gentleman near him is Tommy B&mdash;h, a great speculator
      in the funds, a lottery contractor, and wine merchant, and quite at home
      in the tea trade. The immense fat gent behind him is called the dinner man
      and M. C. of Vaux hall, of which place Tommy B&mdash;h holds a principal
      share; his office is to write lyrics for the lottery, and gunpowder puffs
      for the Genuine Tea Company, paragraphs for Vauxhall, and spirited
      compositions in praise of spiritless wines: amid all these occupations it
      is no wonder, considering his bulk, that he invariably falls asleep before
      the dinner cloth is removed, and snores most mellifluously between each
      round of the bottle. The sharp-visaged personage to the left of him is the
      well known Count Bounce&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-"&mdash;"Excuse me,
      Mr. Principal," said I, "but I happen to know that worthy well myself;
      that is, I believe, Sam Dixon, the <i>coper</i> of Barbican, a jobber in
      the funds, it would appear, as well as in horses, coaches, and chaises: of
      the last named article I have had a pretty good specimen from his emporium
      myself, <span class="pagenum">[127]</span>which, I must ever remember, was
      at the risk of my life.&mdash;"Do you observe that stout-looking gentleman
      yonder with large red whiskers, in a drab surtout, like a stage coachman?
      that is the Marquis of H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-, one of the
      most fortunate gamblers (i.e. speculators) of the present day: during the
      war his lordship acquired considerable sums of money by acting on his
      priority of political information, his policy being to make one of the
      party in power, without holding office, and by this means be at liberty to
      act in the money market as circumstances required: among the <i>roués</i>
      of the west he has not been less successful in games of chance, until his
      coffers are crammed with riches; but it must be admitted he is liberal in
      his expenditure, and often-times generous to applicants, particularly
      sporting men, who seek his favours and assistance. The little club of sage
      personages who are mustered together comparing notes, in the corner of the
      Dutch Walk, are the paragraph-writers for the morning and evening press;
      very potent personages here, I assure you, for without their kind
      operation the public could never be gulled to any great extent. The most
      efficient of the group is the elegant-looking tall man who has just moved
      off to consult his patron, the Hebrew star, who gives all his foreign
      information exclusively to the Leviathan of the press, of which paper Mr.
      A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-r is the representative. Next to him
      in importance, information, and talent, is the reporter for the Globe and
      Traveller, G&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;s M&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;e,
      a shrewd clever fellow, with considerable tact for business. Mr. F&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;y,
      of the Courier, stands near him on his left; and if he does but little
      with the stocks, he does that little well. The sandy-haired laddie with
      the high cheek bones and hawk-like countenance is M'C&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-h,
      of the Chronicle, but a wee bit of a <i>wastrell</i> in Stock Exchange
      affairs; and the mild-looking young gentleman who is in <span
      class="pagenum">[128]</span>conversation with him represents the mighty
      little man of the Morning Herald. The rest of the public prints are mostly
      supplied with Stock Exchange information by a bandy-legged Jew, a very
      Solomon in funded wisdom, who pens paragraphs at a penny a line for the
      papers, and puts into them whatever the projectors dictate, in the shape
      of a puff, at per agreement. The knot of swarthy-looking athletic fellows,
      many of whom are finger-linked together, and wear rings in their ears, are
      American captains, and traders from the shores of the Atlantic. That
      jolly-looking ruby-faced old gentleman in black, who is laughing at the
      puritanical tale of his lank brother, Alderman Shaw, is the celebrated
      grand city admiral, Sir W. Curtis, a genuine John Bull, considered worth a
      <i>plum</i> at least, and the author of a million of good jokes. Observe
      that quiet-looking pale-faced gentleman now crossing the arena: from the
      smartness of his figure and the agility with which he bustles among the
      crowd, you would suppose him an active young man of about five-and-twenty,
      while, in fact, about sixty summers have rolled over his head; such are
      the good effects of temperance, system, and attention to diet. Here he is
      known by the designation of Mr. Evergreen; a name, perhaps, affixed to him
      with a double meaning, combining in view the freshness of his age and his
      known attachment to theatricals, of which pursuits, as a recreation, he is
      devotedly fond. As a broker, lottery contractor, and a man of business,
      Mr. D&mdash;&mdash;-1 stands No. One for promptitude, probity, and the
      strictest sense of honour; wealthy without pride, and learned without
      affectation, his company is eagerly sought for by a large circle of the
      literati of the day, with whom, from his anecdotal powers, he is in high
      repute: on stage affairs he is a living 'Biographia Dramatica,' and
      Charles Mathews, it is said, owes much of his present celebrity to the
      early advice and persevering friendship of this worthy man. The pair <span
      class="pagenum">[120]</span>of tall good-looking gentlemen on the French
      Walk are Messrs. J. and H&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;S***h, merchants in the
      city, and authors at the west end of the town: here they have recently
      been designated by the title of their last whimsical production, and now
      figure as Messrs. Gaiety and Gravity, cognomens by no means inapplicable
      to the temper, feeling, and talent of the witty brothers. But come," said
      Principal, "the 'Change is now becoming too full to particularize, and as
      this is <i>settling</i> day at the Stock Exchange, suppose we just walk
      across to the Alley, take a look at the market, and see how the <i>account</i>
      stands."&mdash;In passing down Saint Bartholomew Lane, accident threw in
      our way the respected chief magistrate of the city, John Garrett, Esq. of
      whose sire little Principal favoured us with some entertaining anecdotes.&mdash;"Old
      Francis Garrett, who began business in the tea trade without cash, but
      with great perseverance and good credit, <i>cut up</i> at his death for
      near four hundred thousand pounds, and left his name in the firm to be
      retained for seven years after his decease, when his posthumous share of
      the profits was to be divided among his grand-children. As he generally
      travelled for orders himself, he was proverbial for despatch; and has been
      known to call a customer up in the morning at four o'clock to settle his
      account, or disturb his repose in the night, if old Francis was determined
      to make a lamp of the moon, and pursue his route. A very humorous story is
      related of him. Arriving at Benson, near Henley, on a Sunday morning, just
      as his customer, a Mr. Newberry, had proceeded to Church, old Francis was
      very importunate to prevail upon the servant-maid to call him out, in
      order that he might proceed to Oxford that night: after much persuasion
      she was induced to accompany him to the church, to point out the pew where
      her master sat. At their entrance the eccentric figure of the tea-broker
      caused a general movement of recognition among the congregation; but
      Francis, <span class="pagenum">[130]</span>nothing abashed, was proceeding
      up the aisle with his cash instead of prayer-book in his hand, when his
      attention was arrested by the clergyman's text, 'Paul we know, and Silas
      we know, but who art thou?' The singular coincidence of the words, added
      to the authoritative style of the pastor, quite staggered Francis Garrett,
      who, however, quickly recovering, made a low bow, and then, in a true
      business-like style, proceeded to, apologize to the reverend and
      congregation for this seeming want of respect, adding he was only old
      Francis Garrett, of Thames-street, the tea broker, whom every body knew,
      come to settle a small account with his friend Mr. Newberry. The
      eccentricity of the man was notorious, and this, perhaps, better than the
      apology, induced the clergyman to overlook the offence; but the story will
      long be remembered by the good people of Benson, and never fail to create
      a laugh in the commercial room among the merry society of gentlemen
      travellers. The son, who has deservedly risen to the highest civic
      honours, is a worthy and highly honourable man, whose conduct since he has
      been elected lord mayor reflects great credit upon his fellow citizens'
      choice."&mdash;We had now mounted the steps which lead to the Stock
      Exchange, or, as Principal, who, though one among them, may be said not to
      be one of them, observed, we had arrived at the <i>wolves' den</i>, "the
      secret arcana of which place, with its curious intricacies and perplexing
      paradoxical systems and principles, I shall now," continued our friend,
      "endeavour to explain; from which exposition the public will be able to
      see the monster that is feeding on the vitals of the country, while
      smiling in its face and tearing at its heart, yet cherished by it, as the
      Lacedemonian boy cherished the wolf that devoured him. I am an enemy to
      all monopolies," said Principal, "and this is one of the worst the country
      is infested with. "A private or exclusive market, that is, a market <span
      class="pagenum">[131]</span>into which the public have not the liberty or
      privilege of either going to make, or to see made, bargains in their own
      persons, is one where the most sinister arts are likely to prevail. The
      Stock Exchange is of this description, and accordingly is one where the
      public are continually gulled out of their money by a system of the most
      artful and complicated traffic&mdash;a traffic calculated to raise the
      hopes of novices, to puzzle the wits of out-door speculators, and sure to
      have the effect of diminishing the property of those who are not members
      of the fraternity.{15}
    </p>
    <p>
      "One of the principles of the Stock Exchange is, that the public assist
      against themselves, which is not the less true than paradoxical. It is
      contrary to the generally-received opinion that stocks should either be
      greatly elevated or depressed, without some apparent cause: it is contrary
      to natural inference that they should rise,&mdash;not from the public
      sending in to purchase, or to buy or sell, which however frequently
      happens. It follows, therefore, that the former is occasioned by the arts
      of the interested stock-jobbers, and the latter by out-door speculators,
      who have the market price <i>banged down</i> upon them by those whose
      business and interest it is to fleece them all they can. In the language
      of the Stock Exchange, you must be either a <i>bull or a bear,</i> a <i>buyer
      or a seller</i>: now as it is not necessary you should have one shilling
      of property in the funds to embark in this speculation, but may just as
      well sell a hundred thousand pounds of stock as one pound, according to
      the practice of time bargains, which is wagering contrary to law&mdash;so
      neither party can be compelled to complete their agreement, or to pay
      whatever the difference of the amount may be upon the stock when the
      account closes: all transactions
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     15 The mode of exchanging stock in France is in public. A
     broker stands in the situation of an auctioneer, and offers
     it to the best bidder.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[132]</span>are, therefore, upon honour; and whoever
      declines to pay his loss is posted upon a black board, declared a
      defaulter, shut out of the association, and called by the community a <i>lame
      duck</i>.
    </p>
    <p>
      "It is not a little extraordinary, while the legislature and the judges
      are straining every nerve to suppress low gambling and punish its
      professors, they are the passive observers of a system pregnant with ten
      times more mischief in its consequences upon society, and infinitely more
      vicious, fraudulent, and base than any game practised in the hells
      westward of Temple Bar; but we are too much in the practice of gaping at a
      gnat and swallowing a camel, or the great subscription-houses, such as
      White's, Brooke's, and Boodle's, would not have so long remained
      uninterrupted in this particular, while the small fry that surround them,
      and which are, by comparison, harmless, are persecuted with the greatest
      severity. As there is a natural disposition in the human mind for
      gambling, and as it is visible to all the world that many men (cobblers,
      carpenters, and other labourers), by becoming stock-jobbers, are suddenly
      raised from fortunes of a few pounds to hundreds of thousands, therefore
      every falling shop-keeper or merchant flies to this disinterested seminary
      with the same hope: but the jobbers, perceiving their transactions
      interrupted by these persons intruding, in order to keep them at a
      distance, formed themselves into a body, and established a market composed
      of themselves, excluding every person not regularly known to the
      craft.{16} As the brokers found difficulty always to meet with people that
      would accommodate them either to buy or sell without waiting in the
      regular
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     16 An article in their by-laws expresses, that no new member
     shall be admitted who follows any other trade or business,
     or in any wise is subject to the bankrupt laws: at the same
     time it is curious to observe, that most of them are either
     <i>soi-disant</i> merchants or shopkeepers.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[133]</span>market in the Bank, to save themselves
      time they got accommodated among these gamblers in buying or selling as
      they wished; at the same time they gave the jobber one-eighth per cent,
      for such accommodation. As the loss was nothing to the broker, of course
      this imposition was looked over, because it saved his own time, and did
      not diminish his own commission.{17} It is clear, therefore, that the
      Stock Exchange is a self-constituted body, without any charter, but merely
      established at the will of the members, to the support of which a
      subscription is paid by each individual. They are ruled by by-laws, and
      judged by a committee, chosen from among themselves. This committee, as
      well as the members, are regularly re-balloted once in every year; of
      course no person is admitted within the walls of this house who does not
      regularly pay his subscription.
    </p>
    <p>
      "In this way has the Stock Market been established and forced from its
      original situation by a set of jobbers and brokers, who are all, it will
      be seen, interested in keeping their transactions from the eye of the
      public. These men being always ready either to buy or sell, renders it
      easy for the brokers to get their business done, having no trouble but
      merely stepping into the Stock Exchange. If a broker wants to buy 5000L.
      stock, or any other sum, for a principal, the jobber will readily sell it,
      although perhaps possessing no part of it himself at the time, but will
      take his chance of other brokers coming to put him in possession of it,
      and may have to purchase the amount in two or three different
      transactions,{18} but in doing that he will take care to call the price
      lower than he sold at.{19}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     17 If the system of the private market had tended to lessen
     the broker's commission, he would have gone or stood any
     where else to transact business for his principals.

     18 This at present only applies to young beginners, but old
     jobbers, who have enjoyed the system long enough, have been
     put in pos-session of large fortunes, and are now enabled to
     buy into or sell out of their own names to the amount of
     hundreds of thousands.

     19  Should other brokers not come into the market to sell to
     him, he is then obliged, at a certain hour of the day, to go
     among his brethren to get it at the most suitable price
     possible. This is sometimes the cause of a momentary rise,
     and what is known by the jobbers turning out bears for the
     day. A depression some-times takes place on the same
     principle when they are bulls for a future day, and cannot
     take stock.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[134]</span>After the stock is transferred from the
      seller to the buyer, instead of the money, he will write you a draft on
      his banker, although he has no effects to discharge the same till such
      time as he is put in possession of it also by the broker whom he sold it
      to; and it sometimes occurs, such drafts having to pass through the
      clearing-house,{20} the principal is not certain whether his money, is
      safe till the day following. In this way does the floating stock pass and
      repass through the Stock Exchange to and from the public, each jobber
      seizing and laying his hand on as much as he can, besides the eighth per
      cent. certain, which the established rule gives in their favour: the price
      frequently gives way, or rises much more to his advantage, which advantage
      is lost to the principals, and thrown into the pockets of middle men by
      the carelessness and indolence of the broker, who will not trouble himself
      in looking out for such persons as he might do business with in a more
      direct way.{21} When the Stock Market was more public, that is, when they
      admitted the public by paying sixpence a day, competitors for government
      loans were to be seen in numbers, which enabled ministers to make good
      bargains for the country{22};
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     20 A room situated in Lombard-street, where the banking
     clerks meet for the mutual exchange of drafts. The principal
     business commences at three o'clock in the afternoon, and
     the balances are paid and received at five o'clock.

     21  Query,&mdash;When a broker has to buy and sell for two
     different principals, may he not act as a jobber also, and
     put the turns into his own pocket? In such cases the jobbers
     are convenient cloaks to disguise the transaction.

     22 The loans taken by Boyd and Co., Goldsmidt, and others,
     were generally contracted for upon much better terms for the
     country than those taken by the Stock Exchange; but as they
     were contending against what is known by the interests of
     the house, they all were ruined in their turns, as the
     jobbers could always depreciate the value of stocks by
     making sales for time of that they did not possess.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[135]</span>but, since the establishment of the
      present private market, the stock-jobbers have been found to have so much
      power over the price of stocks, after loans had been contracted for, that
      real monied men, merchants, and bankers, have been obliged to creep in
      under the wings of this body of gamblers, and be satisfied with what
      portion of each loan this junto pleases to deal out to them."&mdash;In
      this way little Principal opened the secret volume of the Stock Exchange
      frauds, and exposed to our view the vile traffic carried on there by the
      <i>flat-catchers of the money market</i>. In ordinary cases it would be a
      task of extreme peril for a stranger to intrude into this <i>sanctum
      sanctorum</i>; but as our friend, the broker, was highly respected, we
      were allowed to pass through unmolested&mdash;a favour that will operate
      in suppressing our notice of certain characters whom we recognized within.
      It will, however, hardly be credited that in this place, where every man
      is by profession a gambler, and sharping is the great qualification, so
      much of their time is devoted to tricks and fancies that would disgrace a
      school-boy. Among these the most prominent is hustling a stranger; an
      ungenerous and unmanly practice, that is too often played off upon the
      unsuspecting, who have been, perhaps, purposely invited into the den for
      the amusement of the wolves. Another point of amusement is <i>flying a
      tile, or slating</i> a man, as the phrases of the Stock Exchange describe
      it. An anecdote is told of one of their own members which will best convey
      an idea of this trick. One who was ever foremost in <i>slating</i> his
      brothers, or kicking about a new castor, had himself just sported a new
      hat, but, with prudence which is proverbial among the craft, he would
      leave his new <i>tile</i> at the counting-house, <span class="pagenum">[136]</span>and
      proceed to the Stock Exchange in an old one kept for the purpose: this
      becoming known to some of the wags, members of the house, they despatched
      a note and obtained the new hat, which no sooner made its appearance in
      the house than it was thrown up for general sport; a joke in which none
      participated more freely than the unsuspecting owner, whose chagrin may be
      very well conceived, when, on his return to his counting-house from
      Capel-court, he discovered that he had been assisting in kicking his own
      property to pieces. Another trick of these wags is the screwing up a
      number of pieces of paper longitudinally with a portion of black ink
      inside them, and lying on the table before some person, whom they will
      endeavour to engage in serious conversation upon the state of the market,
      when it is ten to one if he does not roll some of these <i>twisters</i>
      between his fingers, and from agitation or deep thought on his approaching
      losses, or the risk of his speculations, blacken his fingers and his face,
      to the horse-laughical amusement of the by-standers. One of the best among
      the recent jokes my friend Bob has depicted to the life. (See Plate.) The
      fame of Mr. Wright's brown pony had often reached the ears of his brother
      brokers, but hitherto the animal himself was personally unknown: to
      obviate this difficulty, some sportive wight ascertained the stable where
      the old gentleman usually left his nag during the time he was attending
      the market, and by a well-executed forgery succeeded in bringing the pony
      to Capel-court, when, without further ceremony, he was introduced into the
      house during the high bustle of the market, to the no small amusement of
      the house and the utter astonishment of his owner.
    </p>
    <p>
      There is a new Stock Exchange established in Capel-court, where a number
      of Jews, shopkeepers, and tradesmen assemble, and jobbers who have
      emigrated from their friends in the upper house, some <span class="pagenum">[137]</span>of
      whom have either been <i>ducks</i>, or have retired out of it on some
      honourable occasion; but as all is conducted upon honour in this traffic
      of gambling, these men also set up the principle of honour, on which they
      risk what has been honourably brought away from their honourable fellow
      labourers in the principal vineyard: these men stand generally in the
      Alley, and, hearing what is going on in the other market (as they
      speculate also upon the price established there), they will give advice to
      strangers who may be on the out-look to make, as they expect, a speedy
      fortune by dabbling in the stocks. If they find a person to be
      respectable, they will offer to do business with him on the principle of
      their brethren, and also exact the one-eighth per cent, as they do,
      trusting to his honour, that (although they do not know where he lives) he
      will appear on or before the settling day to balance the account, and pay
      or receive the difference.{23}
    </p>
    <p>
      These jobbers speculate a great deal upon puts and calls, and will give a
      chance sometimes for a mere trifle. They have not, like the private
      market, the public generally to work upon, the by-laws in the Stock
      Exchange prohibiting any broker or jobber, being a regular member, from
      dealing with them, on pain of forfeiting his right to re-enter; but,
      notwithstanding, some of the brokers, and even the jobbers inside, will
      run all risks when there appears a good chance of getting a turn on the
      price in their favour: from this cause, however, the Alley, or New Stock
      Exchange jobbers, are obliged to gamble more directly with each other;
      consequently many get thrown to the leeward, and those who stand longest
      are generally such as have other resources from the trade or
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     23 There have many lately entered into gambling transactions
     with these gentlemen, and have taken the profit so long as
     they were right in their speculations; but as soon as a loss
     came upon them, knowing they have no black board, they walk
     themselves coolly away with what they get.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[138]</span>occupation they carry on elsewhere. From
      this place, called by the members of the <i>house Lower Tartary, or Hell</i>,
      the next step of degradation, when obliged to waddle out of the court, is
      the <i>Rotunda of New Botany Bay</i>. Here may be seen the private market
      in miniature; a crowd of persons calling themselves jobbers and brokers,
      and, of course, a market to serve any person who will deal with them; the
      same system of <i>ear-wigging</i>, nods, and winks, is apparent, and the
      same <i>fiddling, rasping</i>, and attempts at overreaching each other, as
      in Upper Tartary, or the Den; and of course, while they rasp and fiddle,
      their principals have to pay for the music: but as no great bargains are
      contracted here (these good things being reserved for a select few in the
      private market), the jobbers, who are chiefly of little note, are glad if
      they can pick up a few shillings for a day's job, by cutting out money
      stock for servants' and other people's small earnings. Here may be seen my
      lord's footman from the west end of the town, who is a great politician,
      and knows for a certainty that the stocks will be down; therefore he wants
      to sell out his 50L. savings, to get in at less: here also may be some
      other lord's footman, who has taken a different view of things, and wants
      to buy; and, although their respective brokers might meet each other, and
      transact business in a direct way, at a given price, notwithstanding they
      either do, or they pretend to have given the jobbers the turn,{24} that
      is, the one sold at one-eighth, and the other bought at one-fourth.&mdash;This
      market, as in the Alley, is ruled by the prices established in the private
      gambling market, which being the case, some will have messengers running
      to and from this market to see how the puffs and bangs proceed; and if
      they can saddle their neighbour before he knows the price is changed, it
      is thought good jobbing. From the Stock
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     24 Some act both as jobbers and brokers, and will charge a
     com-mission for selling their own stock.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[139]</span>Exchange to the Rotunda, every where, it
      will be perceived, a system of gambling and deception is practised upon
      the public, and the country demoralized and injured by a set of men who
      have no principle but interest, and acknowledge no laws but those of gain.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Cimage-0022" id="Cimage-0022">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images2/page139.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page139 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      As this was settling-day, we had the gratification to observe one
      unfortunate howled out of the craft for having speculated excessively; and
      not being able or willing to pay his differences, he was compelled to
      waddle{25}; which he did, with a slow step and melancholy countenance,
      accompanied by the hootings and railings of his unfeeling tribe, as he
      passed down the narrow avenue from Upper Tartary, proclaimed to the lower
      regions and the world
    </p>
    <p>
      A LAME DUCK
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     25 Those who become ducks are not what are termed true
     jobbers; they are those who either job or speculate, or are
     half brokers and half jobbers, and are left to pay out-door
     speculators' accounts; or if a jobber lend himself to get
     off large amounts of stock, in cases where the broker does
     not wish the house to know he is operating, he generally
     gives him an immediate advantage in the price in a private
     bargain; this is termed being such-a-one's bawd.
</pre>
    <p>
      <a name="Clink2H_4_0014" id="Clink2H_4_0014">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      THE ISLE OF WIGHT.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      <span class="pagenum">[140]</span>
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Garden of England! spangle of the wave!
          Loveliest spot that Albion's waters lave!
          Hail, beauteous isle! thou gem of perfumed green,
          Fancy's gay region, and enchantment's scone.
          Here where luxuriant Nature pours,
          In frolic mood, her choicest stores,
          Bedecking with umbrageous green
          And richest flowers the velvet scene,
          Begirt by circling ocean's swell,
          Enrich'd by mountain, moor, and dell;
          Here bright Hygeia, queen of Health,
          Bestows a gift which bankrupts wealth.

     The Oxford Student&mdash;Reflections on the Close of a Term&mdash;The
     Invitation&mdash;Arrival at Southampton&mdash;Remarks&mdash;The Steam Boat&mdash;
     Advantages of Steam&mdash;Voyage to the Isle of Wight&mdash;
     Southampton Water&mdash;The Solent Sea and surrounding Scenery&mdash;
     Marine Villas, Castles, and Residences&mdash;West Cowes&mdash;Its
     Harbour and Attractions&mdash;The Invalid or the Convalescent&mdash;
     The Royal Yacht Club&mdash;Circular in Rhyme&mdash;Aquatic Sports
     considered in a National Point of Vieio&mdash;A Night on board
     the Rover Yacht&mdash;The Progress of Navigation&mdash;The
     Embarkation&mdash;The Soldier's Wife&mdash;Sketches of Scenery
     and Characters&mdash;Evening Promenaders&mdash;Excursions in the
     Island, to Ryde, Newport, Shanklin Chine, Bonchurch, the
     Needle Rocks&mdash;Descriptive Poetry&mdash;Morning, Noon, and Night&mdash;
     The Regatta&mdash;The Pilot's Review&mdash;The Race Ball&mdash;Adieu to
     Vectis.
</pre>
    <p>
      The Oxford commemoration was just over, and the Newdigate laurels graced
      the brow of the victor; the <span class="pagenum">[l4l]</span>last concert
      which brings together the scattered forces of <i>alma mater</i>, on the
      eve of a long vacation, had passed off like the note of the cygnet; the
      rural shades of Christchurch Meadows were abandoned by the classic
      gownsmen, and the aquatic sons of Brazen-nose and Jesus had been compelled
      to yield the palm of marine superiority to their more powerful opponents,
      the athletic men of Exeter. The flowery banks of Isis no longer presented
      the attractive evening scene, when all that is beautiful and enchanting
      among the female graces of Oxford sport like the houris upon its velvet
      shores, to watch the prowess of the college youth: The regatta had
      terminated with the term; even the High Street, the usually
      well-frequented resort of prosing dons, and dignitaries, and gossiping
      masters of arts, bore a desolate appearance. Now and then, indeed, the
      figure of a solitary gownsman glanced upon the eye, but it was at such
      long and fearful intervals, and then, vision-like, of such short duration,
      that, with the closed oaks of the tradesmen, and the woe-begone faces of
      the starving <i>scouts and bed-makers</i>, a stranger might have imagined
      some ruthless plague had swept away, "at one fell swoop," two-thirds of
      the population of Rhedycina. It was at this dull period of time, that a
      poor student, having passed successfully the Scylla and Charybdis of an
      Oxonian's fears, the great go and little go, and exhausted by long and
      persevering efforts to obtain his degree, had just succeeded in adding the
      important academical letters to his name, when he received a kind
      invitation from an old brother Etonian to spend a few weeks with him in
      the Isle of Wight, "the flowery seat of the Muses," said Horace Eglantine,
      (the inviter), "and the grove of Hygeia; the delightful spot, above all
      others, best calculated to rub off the rust of college melancholy,
      engendered by hard reading, invigorate the studious mind, and divest the
      hypochrondriac of <i>la maladie <span class="pagenum">[142]</span>imaginaire!</i>'"
      "And where," said Bernard Blackmantle, reasoning within himself, "is the
      student who could withstand such an attractive summons? Friendship,
      health, sports, and pleasures, all combined in the prospective; a view of
      almost all the blessings that render life desirable; the charm that binds
      man to society, the medicine that cures a wounded spirit, and the cordial
      which reanimates and brightens the intellectual faculties of the
      philosopher and the poet; in short, the health-inspiring draught, without
      which the o'ercharged spirit would sink into earth, a prey to black
      despondency, or linger out a wearisome existence only to become a gloomy
      misanthrope, a being hateful to himself and obnoxious to all the world."
      With nearly as much alacrity as the lover displays when, on the wings of
      anticipated delight, he hastes to seek the beloved of his soul, did I,
      Bernard Blackmantle, pack up my portmanteau, and make the best of my way
      to Southampton, from which place the steam boat conveys passengers,
      morning and evening, to and from the island. Southampton has in itself
      very little worthy the notice of the lover of the characteristic and the
      humorous, at least that I discovered in a few hours' ramble. It is a clean
      well-built town, of considerable extent and antiquity, particularly its
      entrance gate, enlivened by numerous elegant shops, whose blandishments
      are equally attractive with the more fashionable <i>magazines de modes</i>
      of the British metropolis. The accommodations for visitors inclined to
      bathe or walk have been much neglected, and the vapours arising from its
      extended shores at low water are, in warm weather, very offensive; but the
      influx of strangers is, nevertheless, very great, from its being the port
      most eligible to embark from for either Havre de Grace, Guernsey, Jersey,
      or the Isle of Wight. The market here is accounted excellent, and from
      this source the visitors of Cowes are principally <span class="pagenum">[143]</span>supplied
      with fruit, fish, fowl, and delicacies. The steam boat is a new scene for
      the painter of real life, and the inquisitive observer of the humorous and
      eccentric. The facility it affords of a quick and certain conveyance, in
      defiance of wind and tide, ensures its proprietors, during the summer
      months, a harvest of success. Its advantages I have here attempted to
      describe in verse, a whim written during my passage; and this will account
      for the odd sort of measure adopted, which I attribute to the peculiar
      motion of the vessel, and the clanking of the engine; for, as everybody
      knows, poets are the most susceptible of human beings in relation to local
      circumstances.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          THE ADVANTAGES OF STEAM.

          If Adam or old Archimedes could wake as from a dream,
          How the ancients would be puzzled to behold
          Arts, manufactures, coaches, ships, alike impell'd by steam;
          Fire and water changing bubbles into gold.
          Steam's universal properties are every day improving,
          All you eat, or drink, or wear is done by steam;
          And shortly it will be applied to every thing that's moving,
          As an engine's now erecting to write novels by the ream.
          Fine speeches in the parliament, and sermons 'twill deliver;
          To newspapers it long has been applied;
          In King's Bench Court or Chancery a doubtful question shiver
          With an argument already "cut and dried."
          Its benefits so general, and uses so extensive,
          That steam ensures the happiness of all mankind;
          We grow rich by its economy, and travel less expensive
          To the Indies or America, without the aid of wind.
</pre>
    <p>
      Here we are, then, on board the steam boat, huge clouds of smoke rolling
      over our heads, and the reverberatory paddles of the engine just beginning
      to cut the bosom of Southampton Water. Every where the eye of the
      traveller feasts with delight upon the surrounding scenery and objects,
      while his cranium is protected from the too powerful heat of a summer's
      <span class="pagenum">[144]</span>sun by an elegant awning spread from
      side to side of the forecastle, and under which he inhales the salubrious
      and saline breezes, enjoying an uninterrupted prospect of the surrounding
      country. On the right, the marine villas of Sir Arthur Pagett and Sir
      Joseph Yorke, embowered beneath the most luxuriant foliage, claim the
      notice of the traveller; and next the antique ruins of Netley Abbey peep
      out between the portals of a line of rich majestic trees, bringing to the
      reflective mind reminiscences of the past, of the days of superstition and
      of terror, when the note of the gloomy bell reverberated through the
      arched roofs the funeral rite of some departed brother, and, lingering,
      died in gentle echoings beneath the vaulted cloisters, making the monkish
      solitude more horrible; but now, as Keate has sung,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Mute is the matin bell, whose early call
          Warn'd the gray fathers from their humble beds;
          No midnight taper gleams along the wall,
          Or round the sculptured saint its radiance sheds."
</pre>
    <p>
      At the extremity of the New Forest, and commanding the entrance to the
      river, the picturesque fort called Calshot Castle stretches forth, like
      the Martello Towers in the Bay of Naples, an object of the most romantic
      appearance; and at a little distance from it rises the stately tower of
      Eaglehurst, with its surrounding pavilions and plantations. To the
      westward is the Castle of Hurst; and now opens to the astonished
      traveller's view the Wight, extending eastward and westward far as the eye
      can compass, but yet within its measurement from point to point.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;"Here in this delicious garden is
          Variety without end; sweet interchange
          Of hills and valleys, rivers, woods, and plains;
          Now land, now sea, and shores with forests crown'd,
          Rocks, dens, and caves."
</pre>
    <p>
      The coast presents a combination of romantic, pastoral, and marine
      beauties, that are deservedly the <span class="pagenum">[145]</span>theme
      of admiration, and certainly no spot of the same extent, in the three
      kingdoms, perhaps in the world, can boast of such a diversity of
      picturesque qualities, of natural charms, and local advantages&mdash;attractions
      which have justly acquired for it the emphatic distinction of the Garden
      of England. Every where the coast is adorned with cottages or villas, hill
      or vale, enriched by the most luxuriant foliage, and crowned in the
      distance by a chain of lofty downs; while in front the coasts of Gosport
      and Portsmouth, and that grand naval station for England's best bulwarks,
      Spithead, present a forest of towering masts and streamers, which adds
      much to the natural grandeur of the scene. As we near Cowes we are
      delighted with a variety of striking objects: The chaste and
      characteristic seat of Norris, the residence of Lord Henry Seymour,
      massive in its construction, and remarkable for the simplicity of its
      style and close approximation to the ancient castle. On the brow of the
      hill the picturesque towers of East Cowes Castle rise from a surrounding
      grove, and present a very beautiful appearance, which is materially
      increased upon nearer inspection by the rapid spread of the deep-hued ivy
      clinging to its walls, and giving it an appearance of age and solidity
      which is admirably relieved by the diversity of the lighter foliage. On
      the other side projects from a point westward Cowes Castle, the allotted
      residence of the governor, but now inhabited by the Marquis of Anglesey
      and his family, to whose partiality for aquatic sports Cowes is much
      indebted for its increasing consequence and celebrity. The building
      itself, although much improved of late, is neither picturesque nor
      appropriate; but the adjoining scenery, and particularly the marine villas
      of Lord Grantham and the late Sir J. C. Hippesley, have greatly increased
      the beauty of the spot, which first strikes the eye of a stranger in his
      progress to West Cowes from <span class="pagenum">[146]</span>Southampton
      Water. The town itself rises like an amphitheatre from the banks of a
      noble harbour, affording security and convenience for large fleets of
      ships to ride at anchor safely, or to winter in from stress of weather, or
      the repair of damages. But here ends my topographical sketches for the
      present. The inspiring air of "Home, sweet Home," played by the steward
      upon the key bugle, proclaims our arrival; the boat is now fast drawing to
      her moorings at the Fountain Quay, the boatmen who flock along-side have
      already solicited the care of my luggage, and the hand of my friend,
      Horace Eglantine, is stretched forth to welcome my arrival at West Cowes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The first salutations over with my friend Eglantine, I could not help
      expressing my surprise at the sailor-like appearance of his costume. "All
      the go here, old fellow," said Horace; "we must start that long-tailed gib
      of yours for a nice little square mizen, just enough to cover your beam
      and keep your bows cool; so bear a hand, my boy, and let us drop down easy
      to our births, and when properly rigged you shall go on board my yacht,
      the Rover, and we will bear away for the westward. Only cast off that sky
      scraper of yours before the boom sweeps it overboard, and cover your main
      top with a Waterloo cap: there, now, you are cutter rigg'd, in good
      sailing trim, nothing queer and yawl-like about you." In this way I soon
      found myself metamorphosed into a complete sailor, in appearance; and as
      every other person of any condition, from the marquis downwards, adopted
      the same dress, the alteration was indispensably necessary to escape the
      imputation of being considered a Goth. Among the varied sports in which
      the nobility and gentry of England have at any time indulged, or that
      have, from the mere impulse of the moment and the desire of novelty,
      become popular, none have been more truly national and praiseworthy than
      the establishment of the Royal Yacht Club. The promotion <span
      class="pagenum">[147]</span>of aquatic amusement combines the soundest
      policy in the pursuit of pleasure, two points but rarely united; in
      addition to which it benefits that class of our artizans, the shipwrights,
      who, during a time of profound peace, require some such auxiliary aid; nor
      is it less patriotic in affording employment to sea-faring men,
      encouraging the natural characteristic of Britons, and feeding and
      fostering a branch of service upon which the country must ever rely for
      its support and defence in time of peril. To the owners it offers
      advantages and attractions which are not, in other pursuits, generally
      attainable; Health here waits on Pleasure,&mdash;Science benefits by its
      promotion,&mdash;friends may partake without inconvenience or much
      additional expense,&mdash;travel is effected with economy,&mdash;and
      change of scene and a knowledge of foreign coasts obtained without the
      usual privations and incumbrances attendant upon the public mode of
      conveyance. By a recent regulation, any gentleman's pleasure yacht may
      enter the ports of France, or those of any other power in alliance with
      England, exempted from the enormous exactions generally extorted from
      private and merchant vessels, as harbour and other dues,&mdash;a privilege
      of no mean consequence to those who are fond of sailing. In addition,
      there are those, and of the service too, who contend, that since the
      establishment of the Royal Yacht Club, by their building superior vessels,
      exciting emulation, and creating a desire to excel in naval architecture,
      and also by the superiority of their sailing, the public service of the
      country has been much benefited, particularly as regards our lighter
      vessels, such as revenue cutters and cruizers. This club, which originated
      with some gentlemen at Cowes in the year 1815, now comprises the name of
      almost every nobleman and gentleman in the kingdom who keeps a yacht, and
      is honoured with that of the sovereign, and other members of his family,
      <span class="pagenum">[148]</span>as its patrons. Cowes Harbour is the
      favourite rendezvous; and here in the months of July and August may be
      seen above one hundred fine vessels built entirely for purposes of
      pleasure, and comprising every size and variety of rigging, from a ship of
      three hundred tons burthen to the yawl of only eight or ten. It was just
      previous to that delightful spectacle, the regatta, taking place, when the
      roads and town presented an unusually brilliant appearance, that I found
      myself agreeably seated on board the Rover, a cutter yacht of about thirty
      tons, who, if she was not fitted up with all the superiority of many of
      those which surrounded me, had at least every comfortable and necessary
      accommodation for half a dozen visitors, without incommoding my friend
      Horace or his jovial crew.
    </p>
    <p>
      I had arrived at Cowes a low-spirited weakly invalid, more oppressed in
      mind than body; but a few trips with my friend Eglantine to sea, on board
      the Rover, and some equally pleasant rambles among the delightful scenery
      which surrounds the bay of Cowes, had in one week's residence banished all
      symptoms of dispepsia and nervous debility, and set the master of arts
      once more upon his legs again. Some idea of my condition, on leaving <i>alma
      mater</i>, may be obtained by the following effusion of my Muse, who, to
      do her justice, is not often sentimental, unless when sickness presses her
      too close.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          THE INVALID.

          Light-hearted Mirth and Health farewell,
          Twin sisters of my youthful days,
          Who through life's early spangled dell
          Would oft inspire my humble lays.

          Fancy, cameleon of the mind,
          The poet's treasure, life, and fame,
          Thou too art fled, with wreath to bind
          The budding of some happier name.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[149]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Oppression's sway, or fortune's frown,
          My buoyant spirits once could bear;
          But now chimeras press me down,
          And all around seems fell despair.

          With fev'rish dreams and frenzied brain,
          When Hecate spreads her veil, I'm crost;
          My body sinks a prey to pain,
          And all but lingering hope is lost.
</pre>
    <p>
      With the return of health and spirits, Horace insisted I should write the
      "L'Allegro" to this "Il Penseroso" effusion. So, finding the jade had
      recovered her wonted buoyancy, I prayed her mount on gayest wing, and
      having spread her pinions to the sun, produced the following impromptu.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          THE CONVALESCENT.

          Welcome, thou first great gift below,
          Hygeian maid, with rosy glow,
          Thrice welcome to my call.
          Let misers hug their golden store,
          I envy none the servile ore;
          To me thou art all in all.

          Thou spring of life, and herald fair,
          Whose charm dispels disease and care,
          And yields a summer joy,
          All hail! celestial seraph, hail!
          Thou art the poet's coat of mail,
          His mirth without alloy.
</pre>
    <p>
      There is a prepossessing something in the life of a sailor which improves
      the natural attachment of Englishmen to every thing nautical; so much so,
      that I never heard of one in my life who was not, after a single trip,
      always fond of relating his hair-breadth perils and escapes, and of
      seizing every opportunity to display his marine knowledge by framing his
      conversation <i>ship shape</i>, and decorating his oratory with a few of
      those lingual localisms, which to a landsman must be almost unintelligible
      without the aid of <span class="pagenum">[150]</span>a naval glossary. A
      fortnight's tuition under the able auspices of my friend Horace had
      brought me into tolerable good trim in this particular; I already knew the
      difference between fore and aft, a gib, a mainsail, and a mizen;could hand
      a rope, or let go the foresail upon a tack; and having gained the good
      opinion of the sailing captain, I was fast acquiring a knowledge how to
      box the binnacle and steer through the Needle's Eye. But, my conscience!
      as the Dominie says, I could never learn how to distinguish the different
      vessels by name, particularly when at a little distance; their build and
      rigging being to my eye so perfectly similar. In all this, however, my
      friend Horace was as completely at home as if he had studied naval
      architecture at the college; the first glance of a vessel was quite enough
      for him: like an old sportsman with the pedigree of a horse or a dog, only
      let him see her, through his glass head or stern, or upon a lee lurch, and
      he would hail her directly, specify her qualities and speed, tell you
      where she was built, and who by, give you the date of her register,
      owner's name, tonnage, length and breadth of her decks, although to the
      eye of the uninitiated there was no distinguishing mark about her, the
      hull being completely black, and the rigging, to a rope, like every other
      vessel of the same class. "For instance," said Horace, "who could possibly
      mistake that beautiful cutter, the Pearl? See how she skims along like a
      swan with her head up, and stern well under the wind! Then, look at her
      length; there's a bowsprit, my boy! full half the measurement of her hull;
      and her new mainsail looks large enough to sweep up every breath of wind
      between the sea and the horizon. Then only direct your fore lights to her
      trim; every rope just where it should be, and not a line too much; and
      when she fills well with a stiff breeze, not a wrinkle in all her canvas
      from the gib to the gaff topsail. Then observe how she dips in the bows,
      and what a breadth she <span class="pagenum">[151]</span>has; why she's
      fit for any seas; and if the Arrow ever shoots past her, I'll forfeit
      every shot in my lockers." "Avast there! master Horace," said our master
      at the helm, who was an old Cowes pilot, and as bluff as a Deal sea-boat;
      "the Pearl is a noble sailer; but a bird can't fly without wings, nor a
      ship run thirteen knots an hour without a good stiff breeze. If the light
      winds prevail, the Arrow will have the advantage, particularly now she's
      cutter rigged, and has got the marquis's old mainsail up to take the wind
      out of his eye." "Ay, ay," said Horace, "you must tell that story to the
      marines, old boy; it will never do for the sailors." "Mayhap, your honours
      running right a-head with the Pearl, and betting your blunt all one way;
      but, take an old seaman's advice; may I get no more rest than a dog-vane,
      or want a good <i>grego</i>{1} in a winter's watch, if I don't think you
      had better keep a good look-out for the wind's changing aft; and be ready
      to haul in your weather-braces, and bear the back-stays abreast the
      top-br'im, ere the boatswain's mate pipes the starboard-watch a-hoy."
      "Tush, tush, old fellow," said Horace, with whom I found Lord Anglesey's
      cutter stood a one at Lloyd's. "May my mother sell vinegar, and I stay at
      home to bottle it off, if I would give a farthing per cent, to be ensured
      for my whole risk upon the grand match! Mind your weather roll, master&mdash;belay
      every inch of that. There now; look out a-head; there's the Liberty giving
      chase to the Julia, and the Jack-o'lantern weathering the Swallow upon
      every tack. His Grace of Norfolk won't like that; but a pleasure hack must
      not be expected to run against a thorough-bred racer. There is but one
      yawl in the club, and that is the little Eliza, that can sail alongside a
      cutter; but then Sir George Thomas is a tar for all weathers&mdash;a true
      blue jacket&mdash;every thing so snug&mdash;cawsand rig&mdash;no topmasts&mdash;all
      so square and trim, that nothing of his bulk can
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 A watch-coat.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[152]</span>beat him." In this way my friend
      Eglantine very soon perfected me in nautical affairs, or, to use his
      expression, succeeded in putting a "timber head in the ship;" and the
      first use I made of my newly acquired information was to pen a <i>jeu
      d'esprit</i>, in the way of a circular in rhyme, inviting the members of
      the Royal Yacht Club to assemble in Cowes-roads. The whim was handed about
      in MS., and pleased more from its novelty than merit; but as it contains a
      correct list of the club at this period, and as the object of the English
      Spy is to perpetuate the recollections of his own time, I shall here
      introduce it to the notice of my readers.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Clink2H_4_0015" id="Clink2H_4_0015">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      A CIRCULAR,
    </h2>
    <h3>
      ADDRESSED TO THE MEMBERS OP THE ROYAL YACHT CLUB.
    </h3>
    <p>
      Come, lads, bend your sails; o'er the blue waters thronging, In barks like
      the sea-mew that skims o'er the lave; All you to the Royal Yacht squadron
      belonging, Come, muster at Cowes, for true sport on the wave.{1} First our
      king,{2} Heaven bless him! who's lord of the sea, And delights in the
      sport of the circling wave, Commands you attend him wherever ye be, Sons
      of ocean, ye loyal, ye witty, and brave. Here Anglesey,{3} Waterloo's
      hero, shall greet ye;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 The club generally assemble in Cowes-roads about the
     middle of July to commence their aquatic excursions, which
     are continued

     until after the Regatta in August.

     2 His Majesty is graciously pleased to honour the club by
     becoming its patron.

     3 The Marquis of Anglesey is a principal promoter of this
     truly British sport, and resides with his family at Cowes
     Castle during the season. The Pearl cutter, 113 tons, and
     the Liberty cutter, 42 tons, are both his property.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[153]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      The Pearl, and the Liberty, cutters in trim, The Welds {4} in the Arrow
      and Julia too meet ye, The match for eight hundred affording you whim.
      Here Grantham{5} his Nautilus, steer'd by old Hollis, Shall cut through
      the wave like a beautiful shell; And Symonds{6} give chase in the yawl the
      Cornwallis, And Webster{7} the Scorpion manage right well; And Williams{8}
      the younger, and Owen{9} his dad, From the shores of Beaumaris have run
      the Gazelle; And Craven{10} his May-fly wings o'er like a lad That is used
      to the ocean, and fond of its swell. Come, lads, bear a hand&mdash;here's
      Sir George hove in sight, With his little Eliza{11} so snug and so trim;
      Tan sails, cawsand rigg'd&mdash;for all weather she's tight; You must sail
      more than well, if you mean to beat him. Then steady, boys, steady&mdash;here's
      Yarborough's{12} Falcon, A very fine ship, but a little too large; And
      here is a true son of Neptune to talk on, Vice-Admiral Hope,{13} K.CB. in
      his barge.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     4 Joseph and James Welds, Esqrs., of Southampton, the
     wealthy and spirited owners of the Arrow yawl, 85 tons, and
     the Julia, 43 tons. These gentlemen evince the greatest
     spirit in challenging and sailing any of the club.

     5 Lord Grantham, Nautilus, Cutter, 103 tons, a new and very
     fast sailer.

     Owner                            Vessel          Class     Tons

     6 Capt. J. C. Symonds, R.N.  Adm. Cornwallis     Yawl        22

     7 Sir Godfrey Webster        Scorpion,           Cutter     110

     8 T. P. Williams, Esq.,      Hussar,             Schooner,  120
                    and the       Blue-eyed Maid,     Cutter,     39

     9 Owen Williams, Esq.        Gazelle             Cutter      87

     10 Earl Craven               May-fly             Yawl        39

     11 Sir George Thomas, Bart.  Eliza               Yawl        34

     12 Lord Yarborough           Commodore Falcon    Ship       335

     13 Vice-Admiral Sir W. Johnston Hope, K.C.B., who is here in
     one of the Admiralty yachts.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[154]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Come,  lads, spread your canvas for health  and for pleasure,
     For both are combined in this true British sport;
     Come, muster in Cowes-roads without further leisure,
     Blue jackets and trowsers for dresses at court.
     See Deerhurst{14} his Mary sticks to like a lover,
     And Lindegren's{15}Dove wings it over the main;
     Powell's {16} Briton, 'tis very well known, is a rover,
     In Union the Pagets{17}must ever remain;
     Here's Smith's {18 }Jack o'lantern and Chamberlayne's Fairy,{19}
     Earl Harborough's{20} Ann, and F. Pake's Rosabelle{21}
     Lord Willoughby's {22} Antelope, Penleaze's {23}Mary,
     And Gauntlet's{24}Water-sprite sails very well.
     Come, jolly old Curtis,{25} bear up in your Emma,
     Eight cheerily laden with turtle and port;
     And Melville{26} set sail if you'd scape the dilemma
     Of being too late for our aquatic sport.
     See Norfolk {27}already is here in the Swallow,
     And the Don Giovanni a challenge has sent,
     Which Lyons {28} accepts, and intends to beat hollow,
     That is if the Londoner should not repent.

     Owner                        Vessel

     14 Viscount Deerhurst        Mary

     15 J. Lindegren, Esq.        Dove.

     16 J. B. Powell, Esq.        Briton

     17  Right Hon. Sir A. Paget  Union

     18 T. A. Smith, jun. Esq.    Jack o'lantern

     19 W. Chamberlayne, Esq.     Fairy

     20  Earl of Harborough       Ann

     21 F. Pare, Esq.             Rosabelle

     22 Lord Willoughby do Broke  Antelope

     23 J. S. Penleaze, Esq.      Mary

     24 Captain J. Gauntlet       Water Sprite

     25 Sir William Curtis, Bart. Rebecca Maria,   Yawl,      76 tons.
                   and            Emma,            Schooner, 132 tons.

     26  Lord Melville            Admiralty Yacht            100

     27  Duke of Norfolk          Swallow          Yawl      124

     28 Captain Edmund Lyons (the polar navigator) had just
     launched the Queen Mab.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[155]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     But look, what a crowd of fine yachts are arriving!
     The Elizabeth,{29 }Unicorn,{30} Cygnet,{31} and Jane,{32}
     The Eliza, Sabrina,{33} Madora,{34} all striving
     To beat one another as coursing the main.
     A fleet of small too, at anchor are riding;
     The Margaret{35} Sapphire,{36} the Molly,{37} and Hind,{38}
     The Orion,{39} and Dormouse{40} and Janette{41}abiding
     The time when each vessel shall covet the wind.
     Then, boys, bend your sails, and weigh for  our regatta,
     We've a  Sylph?{42 and a  Rambler{43} and a Merry Maid,{44}
     A Syren{45} a Cherub{46} a Charlotte{47} and at her
     A Corsair(48} who looks as if nothing afraid.
     Here the Lord of  the Isles{49} and freebooter Rob Roy,{50}
     By a Will o' the Wisp{51} are led over the deep;

     29 J. Fleming, Esq.
      Elizabeth

     30 H. Perkins, Esq.
      Unicorn,

     31 J. Reynolds, Esq.
      Cygnet

     32 Hon. William Hare
      Jane

     33 James Maxie, Esq.
      Sâbrina

     34 H. Hopkins, Esq.
      Madora

     35 Hon. William White
      Margaret

     36 James Dundas, Esq.
      Sapphire

     37 Lieutenant-Colonel Harris
      Charming Molly

     38 Capt. Herringham, R.N.
      Hind

     39 James Smith, Esq.
      Orion

     40. P. Peach, Esq.
      Dormouse

     41 Capt. C. Wyndham, R.N.
      Janette

     42 R. W. Newman, Esq.
      Sylph

     43 J. H. Durand, Esq.
      Jolly Rambler

     44 Joseph Gulston, Esq.
      Merry-maid

     45 T. Lewin, Esq.
      Syren

     46 T. Challen, Esq.
      Cherub

     47 John Vassall, Esq.
      Charlotte

     48 Corbett, Esq.
      Corsair

     49 Colonel Seale
      Lord of the Isles

     50 W. Gaven, Esq.
      Rob Roy

     51 E. H. Dolatield, Esq.
      Will o' the Wisp

     And  the  Highland  Lass{52}   blushes   a   welcome   of joy,
     As alongside the Wombwell{53} she anchors to sleep.
     Here the Donna del Lago{54} consorts with Rostellan,{55}
     To the New Grove,{56} Lord Nelson{57} Louisa {58} attends,
     Galatea{59} runs a Harrie{60} in chase of the Erin,{61}
     And here with the Club List my Circular ends.

     Owner                        Vessel              Class     Tons

     52 Lieut.-Gen. Mackenzie     Highland Lass       Yawl       25

     53 T. Harman, Esq.           Wombivell           Cutter     33

     54 S. Halliday, Esq.         Lady of Die Lake    Yawl       42

     55 Marquis of Thoruond       Rostellan           Schooner   60

     56 John Roche, Esq.          New Grove           Cutter     24

     57 Reverend C. A. North      Lord Nelson         Cutter     75

     58 Arch. Swinton, Esq.       Louisa              Yawl       24

     59 C. R. M. Talbot, Esq.     Galatea             Schooner  179

     60 Sir R. J. A. Kemys        Harrier             Schooner   36

     61 T. Allen, Esq.            Erin                Schooner   94
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[156]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      "A right merrie conceit," said Horace, "and a good-humoured jingle that
      must be gratifying to all mentioned, and will serve as a record of the
      present list of the Yacht Club to future times. We must petition the
      commodore to enter you upon the ship's books as poet-laureate to the
      squadron: you shall pen lyrics for our annual club-dinner at East Cowes,
      compose sea-chants for our cabin jollifications, sing the praises of our
      wives and sweethearts, and write a congratulatory ode descriptive of our
      vessels, crews, and commanders, at the end of every season; and your
      reward shall be a birth on board any of the fleet when you choose a sail,
      and a skin-full of grog whenever you like to command it. So come, old
      fellow, give us a spice of your qualifications for your new office;
      something descriptive of the science of navigation, from its earliest date
      to the perfection of a first-rate man of war."
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[157]</span> THE PROGRESS OF NAVIGATION, AN ORIGINAL
      SONG;
    </p>
    <p>
      Dedicated to the Members of the Royal Yacht Club.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          In the first dawn of science, ere man could unfold
          The workings of nature, or valued dull gold;
          Ere yet he had ventured to dare ocean's swell,
          Or could say by the moon how the tides rose and fell;
          A philosopher seated one day on the brink
          Of the silvery margin thus took him to think:
          "If on this side the waters are girted by land,
          What controls the wide expanse, I'd fain understand."
          Thus buried in thought had he ponder'd till now,
          But a beautiful nautilus sail'd to and fro;
          Just then a sly breeze raised the curls from his eyes,
          And he woke from a dream to extatic surprise.
          O'er his head a huge oak spread a canopy round,
          Whose trunk being hollow, he levell'd to ground;
          With a branch form'd a mast, and some matting a sail,
          And thus rudely equipp'd dared the perilous gale;
          Of the winds and the waves both the mercy and sport,
          His bark was long tost without guidance to port,
          And the storms of the ocean went nigh to o'erwhelm,
          When the tail of the dolphin suggested a helm.
          Ry degrees, the canoe to a cutter became,
          And order and form newly-moulded the same,
          Ropes, rigging, and canvas, and good cabin room,
          A bowsprit, a mizen, a gib, and a boom.
          From the cutter, the schooner, brig, frigate arose;
          Till Britons, determined to conquer their foes,
          Built ships like to castles, they call'd men of war,
          The fame of whose broadsides struck terror afar.
          Now boldly, philosophy aided by skill,
          Bent his course o'er the blue waters sailing at will,
          But dubious the track, for as yet 'twas unknown
          How to steer 'twixt the poles for a north or south zone,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[158]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Till the magnet's attraction, by accident found,
          Taught man how the globe he could traverse around;
          New worlds brought to light, and new people to view,
          And by commerce connected Turk, Christian, and Jew.
          All this while, father Neptune lay snug in his bed,
          Till he heard a sad riot commence o'er his head,
          Folks firing, and fighting, and sailing about,
          When his godship popp'd up just to witness the rout;
          It happen'd in one of those actions to be
          When Europe combined fought the isle of the sea,
          And, as usual, were conquer'd, sunk, fired, or run,
          That old Neptune acknowledged each Briton his son.
          "From this time," said his godship, "henceforth, be it known,
          Little England's the spot for the ocean-king's throne;
          And this charter I grant, and enrol my decree,
          That my brave sons, the Britons, are lords of the sea."
</pre>
    <p>
      "There's nothing like a good song," said Horace, "for conveying
      information on nautical subjects, or promoting that national spirit which
      is the pride and glory of our isle. I question if the country are not more
      indebted to old Charles Dibdin for his patriotic effusions during the late
      war, than to all the psalm-singing admirals and chaplains of the fleet put
      together. I know that crab Gambier, and the methodist privateers who press
      all sail to pick up a deserter from the orthodox squadron, do a great deal
      of mischief among our seamen; for as Corporal Trim says, 'What time has a
      sailor to palaver about creeds when it blows great guns, or the enemies of
      his country heave in sight? a sailor's religion is to perform his duty
      aloft and do good below; honour his king, love his girl, obey his
      commander, and burn, sink, and destroy the foes of his country.' Here we
      have an occasional exhibition of this sort on board the depot vessel in
      the harbour, when the <i>Bethel</i> flag <span class="pagenum">[159]</span>is
      hoisted, and the voice of the puritan is heard from East Cowes to
      Eaglehurst; as if there were not already conventicles enough on shore for
      those who are disposed to separate themselves from the established church,
      without the aid of a floating chapel, furnished by the government agent to
      subvert the present order of things. On this point, you know, I was always
      a liberal thinker, but a firm friend to the church, as being essential to
      the best interests of the state. An old college chum of ours, who has been
      unusually fortunate in obtaining ecclesiastical preferment, thought proper
      to send me a friendly lecture in one of his letters the other day on this
      subject, to which I returned the following answer, and put an end to his
      scruples, as I think, for ever: I have entitled it
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          THE UNIVERSALIST.

          'to a friend who questioned the propriety of his
          religious opinions.

          'You ask what creed is mine? and where
          I seek the Lord in holy prayer?
          What sect I follow? by what rule,
          Perhaps you mean, I play the fool?
          I answer, none; yet gladly own
          I worship God, but God alone.
          No pious fraud or monkish lies
          Shall teach me others to despise;
          Whate'er their creed, I love them all,
          So they before their Maker fall.
          The sage, the savage, and refined,
          On this one point are equal blind:
          Shall man, the creature of an hour,
          Arraign the all-creative Power?
          Or, by smooth chin, or beard unshaved,
          Decree who shall or not be saved?
          Presumptuous priests, in silk and lawn,
          May lib'ral minds denounce with scorn;
          The reason's clear&mdash;remove the veil,
          Their trade and interest both must fail.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[160]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          I hold that being worse than blind,
          Where bigotry usurps the mind;
          And more abhor him who for pelf,
          Denouncing others, damns himself.
          Look round, observe creation's work,
          From Afric's savage to the Turk;
          Through polish'd Europe turn your eye,
          To where the sun of liberty
          On western shores illumes the wave,
          That flows o'er many a patriot's grave;
          As varied as their skin's the creed,
          By which they hope they shall succeed
          In presence of their God, to prove
          Their claim to his eternal love;
          A claim that must and will have weight,
          No matter what their creed or state.
          By modes of faith let none presume
          To fix his fellow-creature's doom.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      "A truce with religion, Horace," said I; "it is a controversy that
      generally ends in making friends foes, and foes the most implacable of
      persecutors: with the one it shuts out all hope of reconciliation, with
      the other breeds a war of extermination; so come, lad, leave theology to
      the fathers&mdash;we that have liberal souls tolerate all creeds. More
      hollands, steward: here's a glass to all our college acquaintance, not
      forgetting grandmamma and the pretty nuns of Saint Clement's. Where the
      deuce is all that singing we hear above, steward?" "On board the
      Transport, your honour." "Ay, I remember, I saw the poor devils embark
      this morning, and a doleful sight it was&mdash;one hundred of my
      fellow-creatures, in the prime of life, consigned to an early grave,
      transported to the pestilential climate of Sierre Leone: inquire for them
      three months hence, and you shall find them&mdash;not where they will find
      you&mdash;but where whole regiments of their predecessors have been
      sacrificed, on the unhealthy shores&mdash;victims to the false policy of
      holding what is worse than useless, and of enslaving the original owners
      of the soil.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[161]</span>Liquor, and the reflection of their
      desperate fortunes, have driven them mad, and now they give vent to their
      feelings in a forced torrent of wild mirth, in which they would bury the
      recollections of those they are parted from for ever. On the beach this
      morning I witnessed a most distressing scene: wives separated by force
      from their husbands, and children torn from the fond embraces of parents
      whose parting sighs were all they could yield them on this side the grave.
      'Push off the boat, and, officer, see that no women are permitted on
      board,' said the superintending lieutenant of the depot, with a voice and
      manner hard and unfeeling as the iron oracle of authority. My heart
      sickened at the sight, and the thrilling scream of a widowed wife, as she
      fell senseless on the causeway, created an impression that my pitying Muse
      could not resist recording.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'THE SOLDIER'S WIPE.

          'There's a pang which no pencil nor pen can express,
          A heart-broken sigh which despondency breathes,
          When the soul, overcharged with oppressive distress,
          Of the tear of relief the sad bosom bereaves.
          'Twas thus on the shore, like a statue of grief,
          The wife of the soldier her babe fondly press'd;
          Not a word could she utter, no tear gave relief,
          But sorrow convulsively heaved her soft breast.
          Now nearer she presses&mdash;now severed for life
          The waves bear the lord of her bosom from view;
          Distraction suspends the red current of life,
          And she sinks on the beach as he sighs out adieu.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      "Zounds, old fellow, how sentimental you are growing!" said Horace: "you
      must read these pathetic pieces to the marines; they will never do for the
      sailors. Here, steward, bear a hand, muster the crew aft, and let us have
      a tune, Jack's Alive, Malbrook, or the College Hornpipe;" an order that
      was quickly carried into execution, as most of the <span class="pagenum">[162]</span>men
      on board I found played some wind instrument, the effect of which upon the
      stillness of the water was enchantingly sweet. During the occasional rests
      of the band, Horace sung one of those delightful melodies, written in
      imitation of Moore, for which he was celebrated when a boy at Eton.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          THE EVENING TIDE.

          Tune&mdash;" The Young May Moon."
          Whither so fast away, my dear?
          The star of Eve is bright and clear,
          And the parting day, as it fades away,
          To lovers brings delight, my dear:
          Then 'neath night's spangled veil, my dear,
          Come list t' the young heart's tale sincere;
          Yon orb of light, so chaste and bright,
          Love's magic yields within her sphere.
          Then through the shady grove, my love,
          Let's wander with the cooing dove,
          Till the starry night, to morning's light,
          Shall break upon our wooing, love.
          As life's young dream shall pass, my love,
          Together let us gaily row,
          And day by day, in sportive play,
          Enjoy life's Meeting gloss, my love.
</pre>
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    <p>
      It was on one of those warm evenings in the month of July, when scarcely a
      zephyr played upon the wanton wave, and the red sun had sunk to rest
      behind the Castle turrets, giving full promise of another sultry day, that
      our little band had attracted a more than usual display of promenaders on
      the walk extending from the Fort point to the Marine Hotel. With the
      report of the evening gun, or, as Horace termed it, the <i>admiral's grog
      bell</i>, we had quitted the cabin, and mustering our little party upon
      deck, suffered the Rover to drift nearer in shore with the tide, that we
      might enjoy the gratifying spectacle of more closely observing the young,
      the beautiful, and the <span class="pagenum">[163]</span>accomplished <i>elegantes</i>
      who traversed to and fro upon the beach to catch the soft whispers of the
      saline air.
    </p>
    <p>
      At the Castle Causeway a boat had just landed a group of beautiful
      children, who appeared clinging round a tall well-formed man, in a blue
      jacket and white trowsers, resting a hand upon each of two fine boys
      dressed in a similar style: he walked on, with a slight affection of
      lameness, towards the Castle entrance, preceded by three lovely little
      female fairies, who gambolled in his path like sportive zephyrs.&mdash;"There
      moves one of the bravest men, and best of fathers, in his majesty's
      dominions," said Horace&mdash;"the commander of the Pearl." "What," said
      I, "the Marquis of Anglesey?" "The same&mdash;who here seeks retirement in
      the bosom of his family, and without ostentation enjoys a pleasure, which,
      in its pursuit, produces permanent advantage to many, and enables others,
      his friends and relations, to participate with him in his amusements. We
      are much indebted to the marquis for the promotion of this truly British
      sport, who with his brothers, Sir Charles and Sir Arthur, were among the
      first members of the Royal Yacht Club. The group of blue jackets to the
      left, whom the marquis recognised as he passed, consist of that merry
      fellow, Sir Godfrey Webster, who lias a noble yacht here, the Scorpion;
      the commander of the Sabrina, James Manse, Esq. another jovial soul; the
      two Williams's, father and son, who have both fine yachts in our roads;
      Sir Charles Sullivan; and the Polar navigator, Captain Lyons, who has just
      launched a beautiful little boat called the Queen Mab, with whom he means
      to bewitch the Don Giovanni of London." "Who is that interesting female
      leaning over the railings in front of the Gothic house, attended by a dark
      pensive-looking swain, with a very intelligent countenance? Methinks there
      is an air of style about the pair that speaks nobility; and yet I have
      observed <span class="pagenum">[164]</span>they appear too fond of each
      other's society to be fashionables." "That is the delightful Lady F. L.
      Gower and her lord: I thought you would have recognised that star
      instantly, from the splendid picture of her by Lawrence, which hangs in
      the Stafford Gallery at Cleveland-house. The elegant group pacing the lawn
      in front of the castellated mansion, on this side of Lord Gower, is the
      amiable Countess of Craven and her family: the earl, that generous and
      once merry-hearted soul, I lament to hear, is a victim to the gout; but it
      is hoped a few trips on board the May-fly will restore him to health, and
      the enjoyment of his favourite pursuit." "By my soul, Horace," said I,
      "here comes a splendid creature, a very divinity, my boy: I' faith just
      such a woman as might melt the heart of a corsair." "By my honour you have
      hit the mark exactly," replied Eglantine, "for she is already the
      corsair's bride, and Corbett feels, as he ought to do, not a little proud
      of his good fortune. The raven-haired Graces accompanying that true son of
      Neptune, Sir George Thomas, are daughters of the baronet, and, report
      says, very accomplished girls. Now by all that's fascinating and charming,
      hither comes the beautiful Miss Seymour, Mrs. Fitzherbert's <i>protégé</i>,
      and his Majesty's little pet&mdash;an appellation I have often heard him
      salute her by. The magnificent-looking belle by her side is a relation,
      the charming Mrs. Seymour, acknowledged to be a star of the first
      magnitude in female attractions. The three portly-looking gentlemen whose
      grog-blossomed visages speak their love of the good things of this world
      are the Admirals Scott and Hope, and that facetious of all funny senators,
      Sir Isaac Coffin. If you are an admirer of the soft and the sentimental,
      of the love-enkindling eye, and Madonna-like expression of countenance,
      observe that band of Arcadian shepherdesses in speckled dresses yonder&mdash;Bristol
      diamonds of the first and purest <span class="pagenum">[165]</span>water,
      I assure you; and their respected father, the wealthy proprietor of
      Miles's-court, Bristol, may well be delighted with his amiable and
      beauteous daughters. The little dapper-looking man in the white hat yonder
      is the liberal, good-tempered Duke of Norfolk; and the dashing <i>roué</i>
      by his side, the legitimate heir to his title, is the Earl of Surrey,
      whose son, the young Baron of Mowbray, follows hand in hand with Captain
      Wollaston, an old man-of-war's man, who sails the Swallow cutter. The
      female group assembled in front of the King's-house are the minor
      constellations from East Cowes, and the congregated mixture of oddities
      who grace the balconies of the Pavilion boarding-house comprise every
      grade of society from the Oxford invalid to the retired shopkeeper, the
      Messieurs <i>Newcomes</i> of the island." "A rich subject for a more
      extended notice," said I, "when on some future occasion I visit Margate or
      Brighton, where the diversity of character will be more numerous, varied,
      and eccentric than in this sequestered spot." As the evening advanced, the
      blue-eyed maid of heaven spread forth her silvery light across the glassy
      surface of the deep, yielding a magic power to the soul-inspiring scene,
      and, by reflection, doubling the objects on the sea, whose translucent
      bosom scarcely heaved a sigh, or murmured forth a ripple on the ear; and
      now, amid the stillness of the night, we were suddenly amused with the
      deep-sounding notes of the key-bugle reverberating over the blue waters
      with most harmonious effect. "We are indebted to that mad wag, Ricketts,
      for this unexpected pleasure," said Horace; "he is an amateur performer of
      no mean talent, and delights in surprising the visitors in this agreeable
      manner." "Rover, a-hoy," hailed a voice from the shore; off went our boat,
      and on its return brought an accession to our party of half a dozen right
      merry fellows, among whom was that choice spirit, Henry Day, whose
      facetious powers of oratory and whim are <span class="pagenum">[166]</span>universally
      esteemed, and have often afforded us amusement, when enjoying an evening
      among the eccentrics of London and the brilliants of the press, who
      assemble for social purposes at the Wrekin. The Days are too well known
      and respected as a family of long standing in the island to require the
      eulogy of the English Spy, but to acknowledge their hospitality and
      kindness he penned the following tribute ere he quitted the shores of
      Vectis.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          LOVE, LAW, AND PHYSIC.

          In Vectis' Isle three happy Days
          By any may be seen:
          First, James, who loves by social ways
          To animate mirth's scene;
          An honest lawyer, Henry, next
          With speech and bottle plies you;
          And when by fell disease perplex'd,
          Charles physics and revives you.
          "Love, law, and physic," here combine
          To claim the poet's praise:
          May fortune's sunbeams ever shine
          On three such worthy Days.
</pre>
    <p>
      A few more songs and a few more grogs brought on the hour of ten; and now
      our friends having departed to their homes, Horace and myself took a turn
      or two upon deck, smoked out our cigars, conjured up the reminiscences of
      our school-boy days, and having spent a few moments in admiration of the
      starry canopy which spread its spangled brightness over our heads, we
      sought again the cabin, drank a parting glass to old friends, turned into
      our births, and soon were cradled by the motion of the vessel into sweet
      repose. The events of the former evening, the novelty of the scene, and,
      above all, the magnificence of Nature, as she appeared when viewed from
      sea, in her diurnal progress through the transition <span class="pagenum">[167]</span>of
      morning, noon, and night, all inspired my Muse to attempt poetic sketches
      of the character of the surrounding island scenery. A delightful pleasure
      I have endeavoured to convey to my readers in the following rhymes.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          MORNING IN  THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT.

          When o'er the foreland glimmering day
          Just breaks above the eastern lulls,
          And streaks of gold through misty gray
          Dispels night's dark and vap'rous chills;
          Then, when the landsman 'gins to mow
          The perfumed crop on grounds above,
          And sailors chant the "yeo, heave yeo,"
          Then young hearts wake to life and love.
          When still and slow the murmuring swell
          Of ocean, rising from his throne,
          O'erleaps the beach, and matin's bell
          To prayer invites the college drone;
          Then, when the pennant floats on high,
          And anchor's weigh'd again to rove,
          And tuneful larks ascend the sky,
          Then young hearts wake to life and love.
          When, by unerring nature's power,
          Creation breaks the spell of night,
          And plants their leaves expand and flow'r,
          And all around breathes gay delight;
          Then when the herdsman opes his fold
          To let the merry lambkin rove,
          And distant hills are tipt with gold,
          Then young hearts wake to life and love,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[168]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          NOON IN  THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT.

          When toiling 'neath meridian sun
          The boatman plies the lab'ring oar,
          And sportive nymphs the margin shun
          Of ocean's pebble-parched shore;
          Then when beneath some shadowy cliff,
          O'er-hanging wood, or leafy vale,
          The trav'ller rests, haul'd up the skiff,
          Then lovers breathe their am'rous tale.
          When Nature, languid, seems to rest,
          Nor moves a leaf, or heaves a wave,
          And Zephyrs sleep, by Sol caress'd,
          And sportive swallows skim the lave;
          Then, when by early toil oppress'd,
          The peasant seeks the glen or dale,
          Enjoys his frugal meal and rest,
          Then lovers breathe their am'rous tale.
          When close beneath the forest's pride
          The upland's group of cattle throng,
          And sultry heat dissevers wide
          The feather'd host of tuneful song;
          Then when a still, dead, settled calm
          O'er earth, and air, and sea prevail,
          And lull'd is ev'ry spicy balm,
          Then lovers breathe their am'rous tale.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[169]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          EVENING IN  THE  ISLE  OF  WIGHT.

          When twilight tints with sober gray
          The distant hills, and o'er the wave
          The mellow glow of parting day
          Crimsons the shipwreck'd sailor's grave;
          Then when the sea-bird seeks the mast,
          And signal lights illume the tower,
          And sails are furl'd, and anchors cast,
          Then, then is love's delicious hour.
          When o'er the beach the rippling wave
          Breaks gently, heaving to and fro,
          Like maiden bosoms, ere the knave
          Of hearts has ting'd their cheek with woe;
          Then, when the watch their vigils keep,
          And grog, and song, and jest have power
          To laugh to scorn the peril'd deep,
          Then, then is love's delicious hour.
          When Cynthia sheds her mystic light
          In silv'ry circles o'er the main;
          And Hecate spreads her veil of night
          O'er hearts that ne'er may meet again;
          Then, Anna, blest with thee, I stray
          'Mid scenes of bliss&mdash;through nature's bower;
          While eve's star guides us on our way,
          Then, then is love's delicious hour.
</pre>
    <p>
      It has often been observed by inquisitive travellers, that in most of our
      country villages not only the three best houses are inhabited by the
      lawyer, the parson, and the doctor, but three-fourths of the whole
      property of the place is generally monopolized by the same disinterested
      triumvirate: however true the satire <span class="pagenum">[170]</span>may
      be in a general sense, it certainly does not apply to Cowes, where the
      liberal professions are really practised by liberal minds, and where the
      desire to do good outweighs the desire to grow rich. But the good people
      of Cowes are not without their nabobs; for instance, the eastern shores of
      the river are under the dominion of Lord Henry Seymour and Mr. Nash, who
      there rule over their humble tenantry with mild paternal sway. On the
      western side, the absolute lords of the soil are Messrs. Bennett and Ward:
      the first, like other great landed proprietors, almost always an absentee;
      and the last somewhat greedy to grapple at every thing within his reach.
      "Who does that fine park and mansion belong to?" said a stranger,
      surveying Northwood from the summit of the hill. "King George," replied
      the islander. "And who owns the steam-boats, which I now see arriving?"
      "King George," reiterated the fellow. "And who is the largest proprietor
      of the surrounding country?" "King George." "Indeed!" said the stranger,
      "I was not aware that the crown lands were so extensive in the Wight. Have
      you much game?" "Ees, ees." "And who is the lord of the manor?" "King
      George." "And these new roads I see forming, are they also done by King
      George?" "Ees, ees, he ought to gi' us a few new ones, I think; bekase Ize
      zure he's stopped up enou of our old ones." "What, by some new inclosure
      act, I suppose?" "Naye, naye, by some old foreclosure acts, I expect."
      "Why, you do not mean to say that our gracious sovereign is a money-lender
      and mortgagee?" "No; but our ungracious king be the', and a money-maker
      too." "Fellow, take care; you are committing treason against the Lord's
      anointed." "Ees, ees, he be a 'nointed one, zure enou," retorted the
      fellow, laughing outright in the traveller's face. "Sirrah," said the
      offended stranger, "I shall have you taken before a justice." "Ees, ees,
      Ize heard o' them ere chaps at East Cowes, but Ize <span class="pagenum">[171]</span>not
      much respect for 'em." "Not care for the magistrate!" "Lord love you,&mdash;you
      be one of the Mr. Newcome, Ize warrant me; why, we've gotten no zuch
      animal here, nothing o' sort nearer as Newport; and lawyer Day can
      out-talk the best of them there, whenever he likes." "There must be some
      mistake here," said the stranger, cooling a little of his choler: "did you
      not tell me, fellow, that the king of England owned all the land here, and
      the steam-boats, and the manor, and the town, and the people, and&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-."
      "Hold, hold thee there," said the islander; "I said, King George; and here
      he comes, in his four-wheeled calabash, and before he undertakes to give
      us any more new roads, I wish he'd set about mending his own queer ways"
      However strong the current of prejudice may run against Squire Ward in the
      island, among a few of the less wealthy residents, it must be admitted,
      that he is hospitable even to a proverb, a sincere and persevering friend,
      and a liberal master to his tenantry: the Christmas festivities at
      Northwood, when the poor are plentifully regaled with excellent cheer,
      smacks of a good old English custom, that shall confer upon the donor
      lasting praise, and hand down his name to posterity with better chance of
      grateful remembrance than all his mine of wealth can purchase; there are
      some well authenticated anecdotes in circulation of George Ward, which
      prove that he has, with all his eccentricities,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "A tear for pity, and a hand, open as day, to melting charity."
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
To his enterprising spirit Cowes is indebted for much of its present
popularity, the facility of travelling to and from the island being
greatly aided by the steamboats (his property) from Portsmouth and
Southampton; but much yet remains to be done by the inhabitants
themselves, if they wish to secure their present high partronage, and
increase with succeeding seasons the number of their visitors. The
promenade, admirably situate for the enjoyment of the sea <span class="pagenum">[172]</span>breeze,
and the delightful spectacle of a picturesque harbour filled with
a forest of beautiful pleasure yachts, is of an evening generally
obstructed by the assemblage of a juvenile band of both sexes, of
the very lowest description, who render it utterly impossible for the
delicate ear of female propriety to hazard coming in contact with their
boisterous vulgarities. The beautiful walk round the Castle battery
is wholly usurped by this congregated mass of rabble; and yet the
appointment of a peace-officer, a useful animal I never once saw at
Cowes, would remove the objection, and preserve a right of way and
good order among the crowd that would at least render it safe, if not
pleasant, to traverse the extended shore. The visit of their royal
highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Cambridge to John Nash, Esq. the
eminent architect, at East Cowes Castle, gave a new lustre to the
enchanting scene, and afforded the English Spy a favourable opportunity
for completing his sketches of the scenery and character of the island.
Among the festivities which the presence of the royal visitors gave
birth to, the most attractive and delightful was the grand <i>déjeuné a la
fourchette</i>, given at St. Lawrence by the commodore of the Yacht Club,
the Right Honourable Lord Yarborough. The invitations to meet the royal
party were very general, including all of note and respectability on the
island, and extending to the number of six hundred persons, for whom
a most liberal and princely banquet was prepared upon the lawn of a
delightful cottage, near his seat of Appuldurcombe. The spot selected
for this entertainment was situated under a bold line of cliffs,
extending in a semicircular form for above a mile in length, and
inclosing one of the most romantic of nature's variegated scenes,
abounding with hill, and dale, and rich umbrageous foliage, delightfully
increased by the inspiring freshness of the sea breeze, and the unbroken
view of the Channel in front, and <span class="pagenum">[173]</span>rendered still more attractive
and picturesque by the numerous tents and temporary pavilions which had
been erected for the accommodation of the visitors, spreading over
a line of ground like an encampment in the Pyrenees, a similitude of
feature that was more powerfully increased when the well-concerted echo
of the signal bugles resounded from hill to hill, and the cannon's loud
report, from the battery beneath, reverberating through the surrounding
hill and dale, proclaimed for many a mile the gladsome tidings of the
approach of royalty. The scene was, beyond description, magnificent;
the assemblage of fashionables included a long list of noble and
distinguished persons, who, on the approach of the duke and duchess,
congregated upon an eminence, immediately opposite the entrance to the
lawn, and by their loyal cheers, and smiles, and birthday suits, gave
honest welcome to their monarch's brother, and in the fulness of their
hearty zeal, paid a grateful tribute to their absent king. The ungenial
state of the morning's weather had prevented many of the yachts from
coming round, but a few jolly hearts had weathered the Needles, and
displayed their loyalty by decorating their vessels with all the colours
of all the nations of the world. At an appointed signal the tents were
thrown open, and the royal party having retired to the pavilion, the
company sat down to an entertainment, where a profusion of choice wines
and viands covered the extended line; then commenced the interchange of
bright eyes and soft sayings, and the rosy blush of maiden beauty tinged
the cheek of many a sylphic form as the accomplished beau challenged the
fair to wine with him, and many a heart from that day's sportive scene
shall date the first impression of the soveieign passion which blends
with life's red current all of happiness or misery here below. The
repast over, the company again met the royal party and promenaded on
the lawn, and while thus <span class="pagenum">[174]</span>engaged, a new delight was prepared for
them&mdash;a scene not less congenial than peculiar to the English character,
and one which may well uplift that honest pride of country which ever
animates a Briton's heart. The tables being again replenished, the
peasantry of the surrounding districts were admitted and regaled with
unrestricted hospitality.

          And round the gay board cheerful Industry shone,
          In a pureness and brightness to wealth oft unknown;
          'Twas a feast where a monarch might wish to preside,
          For the cottager's comfort's his country's pride;
          And Benevolence smiled on the heart-moving scene,
          And music and beauty enlivened the green,
          While the labourer, gratefully raising the glass,
          Gave his king, then his donor, his dame, and his lass.
</pre>
    <p>
      The commodore's liberality is proverbial; he had sold his old yacht, the
      Falcon, and the new vessel was not likely to be launched this season, yet
      he would not forego the pleasure of a grand fête, and as it could not be
      given on board his own ship, according to annual custom, he seized upon
      this opportunity of the royal visit to unite Loyalty and Friendship under
      one banner, and it must be recorded, that he displayed an excellence of
      arrangement which left no wish ungratified. An excursion round the island,
      sailing in a westerly direction, is one of most delightful amusement to a
      lover of the picturesque; the circuit is nearly eighty miles, every where
      presenting new features of the most beautiful variety and romantic
      scenery, a voyage we made in the Rover in about eight hours. Clearing
      Sconce Point, which is the first object worthy notice from Cowes, you
      perceive the cottage, battery, and residence of Captain Farrington on the
      rise of the hill, and beyond are Gurnet and Harness Bays closely
      succeeding one another, the shores above being well diversified with
      foliage and richly cultivated grounds. From this station the coast
      gradually sinks towards Newtown River, where the luxuriant woods of
      Swainton are perceived rising in the distance, crowned by <span
      class="pagenum">[175]</span>Shalfleet church and a rich country as far as
      Calbourne, the landscape bounded by a range of downs which stretch to the
      extremity of the island. The coast at Hamsted, the farm estate of John
      Nash, Esq. presents a very bold outline, and approaching Yarmouth, which
      has all the appearance of an ancient French fort, the view of the opposite
      point, called Norton, is very picturesque, presenting a well-wooded
      promontory, adorned with numerous elegant residences; from this spot the
      coast begins to assume a very bold, but sterile aspect, composed of steep
      rugged slopes, and dull-coloured earthy cliffs, till the attention of the
      voyager is suddenly arrested by the first view of the Needle rocks,
      situate at the termination of a noble promontory called Freshwater cliffs,
      which extend along a line of nearly three miles, and at a part called
      Mainbench are six hundred feet above the sea level, in some places
      perpendicular, and in others overhanging the ocean in a most terrific
      manner; at the extreme point, or Needles, is the light-house, where the
      view of the bays and cliffs beneath is beyond description awfully sublime,
      and the precipices being covered with myriads of sea-fowl of all
      description, who breed in the crannies of the rocks, if called into action
      by the report of a gun fill the air with screams and cries of most
      appalling import; the grandeur of the scene being much increased by the
      singularly majestic appearance of the Needle rocks, rearing their craggy
      heads above the ocean, and giving an awful impression of the storms and
      convulsions which must have shaken and devoured this once enormous mass.
      Their present form bears no resemblance to their name, which was derived
      from a spiral rock, about one hundred and twenty feet high, that fell in
      the year 1764, and left the present fragments of its grandeur to moulder
      away, like the base of some proud column of antiquity. On the opposite
      coast is Hurst Castle, a circular fort, built by Henry <span
      class="pagenum">[176]</span>the Eighth; and on the north side of the
      promontory is Alum Bay, the most beautiful and unique feature of the sea
      cliffs of Albion. For about a quarter of a mile from the Needles the
      precipice is one entire glare of white chalk, which curves round to, and
      is joined by a most extraordinary mixture of vertical strata, composed of
      coloured sands and ocherous earths blending into every variety of tint,
      and so vivid and beautiful in colour, that they have been not unfrequently
      compared to the prismatic hues of the rainbow. It was on this spot the
      Fomone, a frigate of fifty guns, returning home, after an absence of three
      years, with some Persian princes on board, in June, 1811, struck upon the
      rocks and went to pieces: the appearance of a wreck, in such an
      extraordinary situation, must have formed a combination of grand materials
      for the painter, that would be truly sublime. At Saint Catherine's, in the
      cliffs, is the gloomy ravine called Blackgang Chine, which should be
      visited by the traveller at sunset, when the depth of shade materially
      increases the savage grandeur of its stupendous and terrific effect.
      Tradition reports, that the awful chasm beneath was formerly the retreat
      of a gang of pirates, from which it derived its name. The total absence of
      vegetation, and the dusky hue of the soil, combined with the obvious
      appearance of constant decay, the dismembered fragments, and the streamlet
      to which it owes its origin, falling perpendicularly over a ledge of hard
      rock from above seventy feet high, producing a wild echo in the cavity
      beneath, all conspire to render it the most striking and astonishing of
      Nature's wildest works. The view off the Sand Rock presents the tasteful
      marine villas of Sir Willoughby Gordon and Mrs. Arnold, whose
      well-cultivated grounds and rich plantations reach down to the sea shore.
      Saint Lawrence brings to view the romantic cottage of Lord Yarborough,
      succeeded by Steep Hill, the lovely retreat of the late Earl Dysart; <span
      class="pagenum">[177]</span>the romantic flank of Saint Boniface Down, and
      in the distance the fairy land of Bonchurch, whose enchanting prospects
      and picturesque scenery have so often called forth the varied powers of
      the painter and the poet, where sportive nature, clothed in her gayest
      vest, presents a diversified landscape, abounding with all the delightful
      combinations of rural scenery, of rich groves, and dells, and meads of
      green, and rocks, and rising grounds; streams edged with osiers, and the
      lowing herd spread over the luxuriant land. As you approach East End, you
      perceive an extensive scene of devastation, caused by the frequent
      landslips near to Luccombe Chine, and the romantic chasm of Shanklin, from
      which spot Sandown comes next in view, and sailing under the towering
      Culver cliffs we arrive at the eastern extremity of the island. At
      Bimbridge a very dangerous ledge spreads out into the sea, and gaining
      Brading Haven the old church tower of Saint Helen's proclaims you are fast
      gaining upon that delightful watering-place, the town of Ryde, whose
      picturesque pier, shooting forth into the ocean, and covered with groups
      of elegant visitors, forms an object of the most pleasing description.
      From this point the whole line of coast to Cowes wears a rich and
      highly-cultivated appearance, being divided into wood, arable, and pasture
      lands, diversified by the villas of Earl Spencer, Mr. G. Player, and Mr.
      Fleming, when, having passed Wooten Creek, the next object is Norris
      Castle; and now, having cleared the point, you are once more landed in
      safety at the Vine Key, and my old friend, Mrs. Harrington, whose pleasant
      countenance, obliging manners, and good accommodation, are the universal
      theme of every traveller's praise, has already made her best curtsy to
      welcome you back to Cowes.
    </p>
    <p>
      The regatta was, indeed, a glorious scene, when the harbour was literally
      filled with a forest of masts and streamers, the vessels of the Royal
      Yacht <span class="pagenum">[178]</span>Club spread forth their milk white
      canvas to the gale, many of those who were riding at anchor being
      decorated from head to stem, over-mast, with the signal colours of most of
      the squadron and the ensigns of the different nations. On the shore, and
      round the castle battery, the congregated groups of lovely females
      traversed to and fro, and the witchery of blight eyes and beauteous faces
      upon the manly hearts of the sons of Neptune must have been magically
      triumphant. The Pearl beat the Arrow, and the Julia the Liberty,&mdash;thus
      equalizing the victory between the contending parties. The procession of
      the pilot boats, about forty in number, was a very animated scene; and in
      the sailing match of the succeeding day, our little craft, the Rover, came
      in second, and received the awarded prize. The race ball at East Cowes
      gave the young and fair another opportunity of riveting their suitors'
      chains, and the revels of Terpsichore were kept up with spirit until the
      streaking blush of golden morn shone through the dusky veil which Hecate
      spreads around the couch of drowsy night. But the day of parting was at
      hand; the last amusement of the time was a match made between Captain Lyon
      and a Mr. Davey, of London, to sail their respective yachts, the Queen Mab
      and the Don Giovanni, upon the challenge of the last mentioned, a
      stipulated distance, for a sum of two hundred guineas&mdash;an affair
      which did not, to use a sporting phrase, <i>come off well</i>, for the Don
      most ungallantly refused to meet his fair opponent; and being wofully
      depressed in spirits, either from apprehension of defeat, or sea sickness,
      or some such fresh water fears, the little Queen was compelled to sail
      over the course alone to claim the reward of her victory.
    </p>
    <p>
      And now the sports of the season being brought to a conclusion, and the
      rough note of old Boreas and the angry groanings of Father Neptune giving
      token of approaching storms, I bade farewell to Vectis, my <span
      class="pagenum">[179]</span>friend Horace transporting me in his yacht to
      Southampton Water. Reader, if I should appear somewhat prolix in my
      descriptions, take a tour yourself to the island, visit the delightful
      scenery with which it abounds, participate in the aquatic excursions of
      the place, and meet, as I have done, with social friends, and kind hearts,
      and lovely forms, and your own delightful feelings will be my excuse for
      extending my notice somewhat beyond my usual sketchy style.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         FAREWELL TO VECTIS.

         Blest isle, fare thee well! land of pleasure and peace,
         May the beaux and the belles on thy shores still increase:
         How oft shall my spirit, by absence opprest,
         Revisit thy scenes, and in fancy be blest,
         In the magic of slumber still sport on thy wave,
         And dream of delights that I waken to crave.
         Farewell, merry hearts! fare ye well, social friends!
         Adieu! see the Rover her canvas unbends;
         Land of all that is lovely for painting or verse,
         Farewell! ere in distance thy beauties disperse,
         Now Calshot is passed, now receding from view,
         Once more, happy Vectis, a long, last adieu.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      PORTSMOUTH IN TIME OF PEACE.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      <span class="pagenum">[180]</span>
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Where now are the frolicsome care-killing souls,
          With their girls and their fiddlers, their dances and bowls?
          Where now are the blue jackets, once on our shore
          The promoters of merriment, spending their store?
          Where now are our tars in these dull piping times?
          Laid up like old hulks, or enlisted in climes
          Where the struggle for liberty calls on the brave,
          The Peruvians, the Greeks, or Brazilians to save
          From the yoke of oppression&mdash;there, Britons are found
          Dealing death and destruction to tyrants around;
          For wherever our tars rear the banner of fame,
          They are still the victorious sons of the main.

     A Trip to Portsmouth on board the Medina Steam-Boat&mdash;The
     Change from War to Peace&mdash;Its Consequences&mdash;The Portsmouth
     Greys&mdash;The Man of War's Man&mdash;Tom Tackle and his Shipmate&mdash;
     Lamentation of a Tar&mdash;The Hero Cochrane&mdash;An old
     Acquaintance&mdash;Reminiscences of the past&mdash;Sketches of Point-
     Street and Gosport Beach&mdash;Naval Anecdotes&mdash;"A Man's like a
     Ship on the Ocean of Life."
</pre>
    <p>
      "Bear a hand, old fellow!" said Horace Eglantine one morning, coming down
      the companion hatchway of the Rover: "if you have any mind for a
      land-cruise, let us make Portsmouth to-day on board the steamer, while our
      yacht goes up the harbour to get her copper polished and her rigging
      overhauled." In earlier days, while yet the light-heartedness of youth
      <span class="pagenum">[181]</span>and active curiosity excited my boyish
      spirit, I had visited Portsmouth, and the recollection of the scenes I
      then witnessed was still fresh upon my memory. The olive-branch of peace
      now waved over the land of my fathers; and while the internal state of the
      country, benefited by its healing balm, flourished, revived, invigorated
      and prosperous, Portsmouth and Gosport, and such like sea-ports, were
      almost deserted, and the active bustle and variety which but now reigned
      among their inhabitants had given way to desolation and abandonment: at
      least such was the account I had received from recent visitors. I was,
      therefore, anxious from observation to compare the present with the past;
      and, with this view, readily met the invitation of my friend Horace
      Eglantine. The voyage from Cowes to Portsmouth on board the steam-boat,
      performed, as it now is, with certainty, in about an hour and a half, is a
      delightful excursion; and the appearance of the entrance to the harbour
      from sea, a most picturesque and imposing scene. The fortifications, which
      are considered the most complete in the world, stretching from east to
      west, on either side command the sea far as the cannons' power can reach.
      Nor is the harbour less attractive, flanked on each side by the towns of
      Gosport and Portsmouth, and filled with every description of vessel from
      the flag-ship of England's immortal hero, Nelson, which is here moored in
      the centre, a monument of past glory, to the small craft of the trader,
      and the more humble ferry-boat of the incessant applicant, who plys the
      passenger with his eternal note of "Common Hard, your honour."
    </p>
    <p>
      One of my companions on board the Medina was an old man of war's man,
      whose visage, something of the colour and hardness of dried salmon,
      sufficiently indicated that the possessor had weathered many a trying
      gale, and was familiar with all the vicissitudes of the mighty deep. With
      the habitual roughness of <span class="pagenum">[182]</span>his manners
      was combined a singular degree of intelligence, and he evinced a
      disposition to be communicative, of which I found it very agreeable to
      avail myself. On approaching the harbour, my attention was arrested by the
      sight of a number of boats rowed by men arrayed in a grotesque uniform of
      speckled jackets, whose freights, to judge from appearances, must have
      been of no common weight, as the rowers seemed compelled to use a degree
      of exertion little inferior to that employed by galley-slaves. I inquired
      of my nautical Mentor who these men were, and in what description of
      service they were occupied. "Them, master," replied he, releasing the quid
      from his mouth, and looking with his weather-eye unutterable things; "they
      are the <i>Portsmouth Greys</i>." My countenance spoke plainly enough that
      this reply had by no means made me <i>au fait</i> to the subject of my
      question, and my informant accordingly proceeded&mdash;"Shiver my timbers,
      mate, they are as rum a set, them boat's crews, as ever pulled an oar&mdash;chaps
      as the public keeps out of their own pocket for the public good; and it's
      been but just a slip, as one may say, between the cup and the lip, as has
      saved a good many on 'em from being run up to the yard-arm. Some on 'em
      forgot to return things as they <i>found</i> rather too easy, and some,
      instead of writing their own name, <i>by mistake</i> wrote somebody's
      else's; so government sent 'em here, at its own charge, to finish their <i>edication</i>.
      You see the <i>floating academy</i> as is kept a purpose for 'em," said
      he, pointing to the receiving-hulk for the convicts at this station, which
      was lying in the harbour: "them as is rowing in the boats," added the
      talkative seaman, "has been a getting stones, and ballast, and such like,
      for the repairs of the harbour; they does all the rough and dirty jobs as
      is to be done about the works and place&mdash;indeed, we calls 'em the <i>Port
      Admiral's skippers</i>." I now fully understood the import of the term <i>Portsmouth
      Greys</i>, which had before been an enigma to <span class="pagenum">[183]</span>me;
      and comprehended that the unhappy beings before me were of
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          The ill-fated children of suff'ring and sin,
          With conscience reproaching and sorrow within;
          Bosoms that mis'ry and guilt could not sever,
          Hearts that were blighted and broken for ever:
          Where each, to some vice or vile passion a slave,
          Shared the wreck of the mind, and the spirit's young grave.
          Whose brief hist'ry of life, ere attain'd to its prime,
          Unfolded a volume of madness and crime,
          Such as leaves on the forehead of manhood a stain
          Which tears over shed seek to blot out in vain;
          A stain which as long as existence will last,
          Embitt'ring the future with thoughts of the past.
</pre>
    <p>
      I might have indulged much longer in these reflections, but my musing mood
      was interrupted by the Medina reaching her destination, and we disembarked
      safely at Portsmouth Point.
    </p>
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    <p>
      On landing, the worthy veteran, who had, by his confabulation during the
      voyage, claimed, in his own opinion, a right of becoming my companion for
      a time, a privilege which, in such a scene, and at such a place, it will
      easily be believed I was not averse from granting him, proceeded along
      with me <i>carpere iter comités parati</i>, up Point Street, and at one of
      the turnings my friend made a sudden stop. "My eyes!" he exclaimed, "may I
      perish, but that is my old messmate, Tom Tackle. Many's the can of flip
      we've scuttled while on board the <i>Leander</i> frigate together; and
      when we were obliged to part convoy and go on board different ships, there
      was above a little matter of brine about both our eyes." At this moment
      Tom Tackle came up with us: the warmth of affection with which his old
      shipmate had spoken of him had interested me not a little in his favour,
      and his mutilated frame spoke volumes in behalf of the gallantry he had
      displayed in the service of his country. One eye was entirely <span
      class="pagenum">[184]</span>lost; one coat-sleeve hung armless by his
      side; and one vanished leg had its place superseded by a wooden
      substitute. I gazed upon the "unfortunate brave" with mingled pity and
      veneration; yet, so true is the observation of the ancient,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "<i>Res sunt humanæ flobilo ludibrium</i>"
</pre>
    <p>
      That is, human feelings and affairs are a singular compound of the
      ludicrous and the lamentable, that I could not avoid giving way to my
      mercurial disposition, and congratulating my fellow-voyager on the ease
      with which he had recognized his old comrade by his present remaining
      half. "Lord help your honour!" said he, "a seaman's weather-gauge is made
      for squalls&mdash;foul weather or fair&mdash;in stays or out of trim&mdash;sailing
      all right before the wind, or coming up under jury-masts; he's no tar that
      cannot make out an old friend at a cable's length, and bring to without
      waiting for signals of distress. Shiver my timbers, if I should not know
      my old messmate here while there's a timber rib left in his hulk, or a
      shoulder-boom to hang a blue jacket on. But, my toplights, Tom!" continued
      he, "where's all the girls, and the tiddlers, and the Jews, and
      bumboat-women that used to crowd all sail to pick up a spare hand ashore?
      Not a shark have I seen in the harbour, and all the old grog-shops with
      their foul-weather battens up and colours half-mast." "All in mourning for
      Mr. Nap, shipmate," said Tom; "we've had no fun here since they cooped him
      up on board the Bellerophon, and stowed him away at St. Helena. All the
      Jews have cut and run, and all the bumboat-women retired upon their
      fortunes; the poor landlords are most of them in the bilboes at
      Winchester: and as for a pretty girl&mdash;whew!&mdash;not such an article
      to be had at Point now, either for love or money: and all this comes of
      the peace&mdash;shiver my odd forelight! mate, if it lasts much longer, it
      will be the ruin of the navy.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[185]</span>How I long to hear the sound of the
      boatswain's whistle once more! 'Up hammocks, boys&mdash;clear the decks,
      and prepare for action! 'that's the way to live and be merry; then the
      music of a good broadside pouring into an enemy's under-works, and cutting
      her slap in two between wind and water&mdash;that's glory, my christian!
      May I never taste grog again, if we are not all ruined by the peace.
      There's only one fighting fellow left of the old stock of commanders, and
      they have turned him out of the navy lest he should infect the
      psalm-singers. Look out a-head there, shipmate; d'ye see that fine
      frigate, the Peranga, now lying oft' Spithead, and can you ever forget
      Basque Roads and the gallant Cochrane? I just got a glimpse of his figure
      head t'other morning, coming up Point here; so I hauled to and threw my
      shattered hulk slap across his headway, lowering my top-gallants as I
      passed round under his bows. 'Officer,' said he, 'you and I should know
      one another, methinks.' 'Success attend your honour,' said I; 'do you
      remember your master-gunner when you captured the Spanish galleon, who
      carried away a spar or two in the action?' 'What, Tom Tackier said he:
      'Heaven help thee, lad! I'd give the bounty of a good boat's crew if I
      could put you into sailing-trim and commission again; but here, officer,
      is something to drink to old acquaintance with, and if you can find your
      way on board the Peranga to-morrow, I'll take care they don't throw you
      over the ship's side before you have had a skinfull of grog: 'so seizing
      fast hold of my single tin with both his grappling-irons, I thought he
      would have shook it out of the goose-neck at parting; and when I went on
      board next day, he treated me like a port-admiral, and sent me on shore
      with every cranny well-filled, from my beef-tub to my grog-bucket, and put
      a little more of the right sort o' stuff" in my jacket pockets to pay
      harbour dues with. That's the commander for me! And now I hear, after
      having taken <span class="pagenum">[186]</span>and destroyed all the
      Spanish king's navy, he's off to give the Grand Signor a taste of his
      quality. My forelights! how I should like to see him with his double rows
      of grinders wide open, bearing down upon a whole fleet of Mussulmen&mdash;there'd
      be weeping, and wailing, and gnashing o' teeth among the Turks! I wouldn't
      give my wooden pin for the whole of the Grand Sultan's flotilla. But come,
      shipmate, may I never want 'bacca, if we don't drink his health, and that
      'ere gemman you've taken in tow shall join us, if he likes." I was too
      much amused to desire to part company just yet, and the good-humoured tars
      perceiving my bent, linked themselves to each arm, and in this way,
      laughing at the curiosity we provoked, did our party reach the middle of
      Point-street, and brought ourselves to anchor under the head of old
      Admiral Benbow, where Tom assured us we should be supplied with the best
      of grog and ship-stores of the first quality. Horace had proceeded to
      escort some ladies, whom he met with on board the steamboat, to the house
      of a friend in the High-street, where I had appointed to meet him in the
      space of an hour. Sitting myself down therefore with my two jovial
      associates, I determined to humour the frolic which had brought me into
      the society of such eccentric characters. "Shiver my timbers! Jem," said
      the one-legged mariner, "but you never make any inquiries after Betsy
      Bluff, among your other old friends. It's true, the wench has got spliced
      again, to be sure; but then, you know, she waited three years, and had the
      log-books overhauled first." "Ay, ay, Tom, so they say she did; but I
      never believed 'em: howsomedever, that wasn't the worst of it; for having
      got my will and my power in her possession, she drew all my pay and
      prize-money, and when at last I got home from an enemy's keeping, I had
      not a shot left in the locker to keep myself. But the mischief did not end
      even there, for she disgraced me, <span class="pagenum">[187]</span>and
      the British flag, by marrying a half-starved tailor, and setting him up in
      the Sally port with the money that I had been fighting the enemies of my
      country for. May I never get groggy again, if I couldn't have forgiven her
      freely if she'd taken some honest-hearted fellow, like yourself, in tow,
      who had got disabled in the service, or consorted with a true man of war's
      man, all right and tight; but to go and lash herself alongside of such a
      crazy land lubber as this ninth degree of manhood&mdash;may I never taste
      'bacca again if Bet's conduct is bearable! She's no wife of mine, Tom; and
      when I go to pieces, a wreck in this world, may I be bolted into old
      Belzy's caboose if she shall be a copper fastening the better for Jem
      Buntline!" During the recital of this story the countenance of the old tar
      assumed a fiery glow of honest indignation, and when he had finished the
      tale, his fore lights gave evident signs that his heart had been long
      beating about in stormy restlessness at the remembrance of his wife's
      unfaithfulness. "Cheer up, messmate," said Tom; "I see how the land lies.
      Come, fill your pipe, and I'll sing you the old stave I used to chant on
      Saturday nights, when we messed together on board the Leander.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          A man's like a ship on the ocean of life,
          The sport both of fair and foul weather,
          Where storms of misfortune, and quicksands of strife,
          And clouds of adversity gather.
          If he steers by the compass of honour, he'll find,
          No matter what latitude meets him,
          A welcome in every port to his mind,
          And a friend ever ready to greet him.
          If love takes the helm in an amorous gale,
          Of the rocks of deception beware,
          Steer fairly for port, and let reason prevail,
          And you're thus sure to conquer the fair.
          For the Bay of Deceit keep a steady look out,
          Steer clear of the shoals of distress,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[188]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Yet ever be ready to tack and about
          When the black waves of misery press.
          Like a vessel, digest out in all colours, d'ye see,
          Are the virtues and vices of life:
          Blue and red are the symbols of friendship and glee,
          White and black of ill-humour and strife.
          True worth, like true honour, is born of no clime,
          But known by true courage and feeling,
          Where power and pity in unison chime,
          And the heart is above double dealing."
</pre>
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    <p>
      "Ay, Tom, now you're on the right tack&mdash;a good song, and a jovial
      friend, and let the marines blubber about love and lullaby, it'll never do
      for the sailors. As we are overhauling old friends, do you remember
      Charley Capstan, the coxswain's mate of the Leander V "Shiver my timbers,
      but I do; and a bit of tough yarn he was, too: hard as old junk without,
      and soft as captain's coop meat within. Wasn't I one of the crew that
      convoyed him up this very street when returning from a cruise off the
      Straits, we heard that Charley's old uncle had slipt his cable, and left
      him cash enough to buy out and build a ship of his own? That was a gala,
      messmate! There was Charley, a little fat porpoise, as round as a
      nine-pounder, mounted on an eighteen gallon cask of the real Jamaica,
      lashed to a couple of oars, and riding astride, on his messmates'
      shoulders, up to the Point. Then such a jolly boat's crew attended him,
      rigged out with bran new slops, and shiners on their topmasts, with the
      Leander painted in front, and half a dozen fiddlers scraping away 'Jack's
      alive,' and all the girls decked out in their dancing dresses, with
      streamers flying about their top-gallants, and loose nettings over their
      breastworks&mdash;that was a gala, messmate! And didn't Charley treat all
      Point to the play that night, and engage the whole of the gallery cabin
      for his own friends' accommodation; and when the reefers in the hold
      turned saucy, didn't you and two or three more <span class="pagenum">[189]</span>drop
      down upon 'em, and having shook the wind out of their sails, run up the
      main haliards again, without working round by the gangway?" "Right, Tom,
      right; and don't you remember the illumination, when we stuck up ten pound
      of lighted candles round the rim of the gallery before the play began, and
      when Jane Shore was in the midst of her grief, Charley gave the signal,
      and away they went, like a file of marines from a double broadside, right
      and left, tumbling about the ears of the reefers and land lubbers in the
      chicken coops below? Those were the days of glory, messmate, when old Jack
      Junk, who had never seen a play before, took it all for right down arnest
      matter o' fact; and when poor Mrs. Shore came to ask charity of that
      false-hearted friend of hers, what was jealous of her, and fell down at
      the door, overcome by grief and hunger, poor Jack couldn't stand it no
      longer; so after suffering the brine to burst through the floodgates of
      his heart, till he was as blind as our chaplain to sin, he jumped up all
      at once, and made for the offing, blubbering as he went, 'May I be
      blistered, if ever I come to see such cruel stuff as this again!' Then
      didn't Stephen Collins, and Kelly, and Maxfield, the three managers, come
      upon deck, and drink success to the Leander's crew, out of a bucket of
      grog we had up for the purpose, and the ould mare of Portsmouth sent his
      compliments to us, begging us not to break our own necks or set fire to
      the playhouse? Another glass, Jem, to the crew of the Leander: don't you
      remember the ducking ould Mother Macguire, the bum-boat woman, received,
      for bringing paw-paw articles on board, when we came in to refit?" "May I
      never want 'bacca, if I shall ever forget that old she crocodile! Wasn't
      it her that brought that sea-dragon, Bet Bluff, on board, and persuaded me
      to be spliced to her? shiver her timbers for it!" "Avast there! messmate,"
      said Tom: "when you <span class="pagenum">[190]</span>can't skuttle an
      enemy, it's best to sail right away from her hulk before she blows up and
      disables her conqueror. May I never get groggy, if I shall ever forget the
      joke between you and the old Sheenie, when you threatened to throw him
      overboard for selling you a dumb time-keeper. 'Blesh ma heart,' said the
      Jew, while his under works shook like a cutter's foresail going about,
      'how could you expect de vatch to go well, ven de ship vas all in
      confushion?' an excuse that saved him from sailing ashore in a
      skuttle-bucket." "Have you weathered Gosport lately?" inquired Jem: "there
      used to be a little matter of joviality going forward there upon the beach
      in war time, but I suppose it's all calm enough now." "All ruined by the
      peace; and all that glorious collection of the kings and queens of
      England, and her admirals and heroes, which used to swing to and fro in
      the wind, when every house upon the beach was a grog-shop, are past,
      vanished, or hanging like pirates in tatters; the sound of a fiddle never
      reaches their ears; and the parlour-floors, where we used to dance and
      sing till all was blue, are now as smooth and as clean as the decks of
      Lord Nelson's flag ship, the Victory, which lies moored in our harbour,
      like a Greenwich pensioner, anchored in quiet, to drop to pieces with old
      age. You may fire a nine-pounder up the principal street at noon-day now
      and not hurt any body; and if the peace lasts much longer, horses may
      graze in their roads, and persons receive pensions for inhabiting the
      vacant houses." The period within which I had promised to join Horace
      Eglantine had now elapsed. It was no easy task to separate myself from my
      nautical friends, and the amusement they had afforded me demanded some
      acknowledgment in return; calling, therefore, for a full bowl of punch, we
      drank success to the British navy, toasted wives and sweethearts, honoured
      our gracious king, shook <span class="pagenum">[191]</span>hands at
      parting, like old friends, and having promised to renew my acquaintance
      before I left Portsmouth, I bade adieu to jolly Jem Buntline and what
      remained of his noble messmate, the lion-hearted Tom Tackle.
    </p>
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    <hr />
    <p>
      <br /> <br />
    </p>
    <h1>
      EVENING, AND IN HIGH SPIRITS.
    </h1>
    <p>
      A SCENE AT LONG'S HOTEL. <span class="pagenum">[192]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Sketches of Character&mdash;Fashionable Notorieties&mdash;Modern
     Philosophy&mdash;The Man of Genius and the Buck&mdash;"A short Life
     and a merry one "&mdash;A Short Essay on&mdash;John Longs&mdash;Long Corks
     &mdash;Long Bills&mdash;Long Credits&mdash;Long-winded Customers&mdash;The
     Ancients and the Moderns, a Contrast by Old Crony.

          Ye bucks who in manners, dress, fashion, and shiny,
          So often have hail'd me as lord of your gang&mdash;
          "O lend me your ears!" whilst I deign to relate
          The cause of my splendour, the way to be great;
          My own chequered life condescend to unfold,
          And give a receipt of more value than gold;
          Reveal t' ye the spot where the graces all dwell,
          And point out the path like myself to excel.
          &mdash;Pursuits of Fashion.
</pre>
    <p>
      Only contrive to obtain the character of an eccentric, and you may ride
      the <i>free horse</i> round the circle of your acquaintance for the
      remainder of your life. If my readers are not by this time fully satisfied
      of my peculiar claims to the appellation of an <i>oddity</i>, I have no
      hopes of obtaining pardon for the past whims and fancies of a volatile
      muse, or anticipating patronage for the future wanderings of a restless
      and inquisitive humorist. But my bookseller, a steady, persevering,
      inflexible sort of personage, whose habits of business are as rigid as a
      citizen of the last century, or a puritan of the Cromwell commonwealth,
      has lately suffered the marble muscles of his frigid countenance to unbend
      with a sort of mechanical <span class="pagenum">[193]</span>inclination to
      an expression of&mdash;what shall I say&mdash;lib&mdash;lib&mdash;liberality;
      no, no, that will never do for a bookseller&mdash;graciousness&mdash;ay,
      that's a better phrase for the purpose; more characteristic of his manner,
      and more congenial to my own feelings. Well, to be plain then, whenever a
      young author can pass through an interview with the headman of the firm
      without hearing any thing in the shape of melancholy musings, serious
      disappointments, large numbers on hand, doubtful speculation, and such
      like pleasant innuendoes, he may rest satisfied that his book is selling
      well, and his publisher realizing a fair proportion of profit for his
      adventurous spirit. I am just now enjoying that pleasant gratification,
      the reflection of having added to my own comforts without having detracted
      from the happiness of others. In short, my scheme improves with every
      fresh essay, and my friend Bob Transit, who has just joined me in a bottle
      of iced claret at Long's, has been for some minutes busily engaged in
      booking mine host and his exhibits; while I, under pretence of writing a
      letter, have been penning this introduction to a chapter on fashion and
      its follies, annexing thereunto a few notes of characters, that may serve
      to illustrate that resort of all that is exquisite and superlative in the
      annals of high ton. "Evening, and in High Spirits," &mdash;a scene worthy
      of the acknowledged talent of the artist, and full of fearful and
      instructive narrative for the pen of the English Spy. Seated snugly in one
      corner of Long's new and splendid coffee-room, we had resolved on our
      entering to depart early; but the society we had the good fortune to be
      afterwards associated with might have tempted stronger heads than those of
      either Bob Transit the artist, or Bernard Blackmantle the moralist.
    </p>
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      <br /><br />
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    <p>
      "Waiter, bring another bottle of iced claret, and tell Long to book it to
      the king's lieutenant." "By the honour of my ancestry," said the
      Honourable Lillyman Lionise, "but I am devilishly cut already."
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[194]</span>"You do well, mighty well, sir, to swear
      by the honour of your ancestors; for very few of your modern stars have a
      ray of that same meteoric light to illumine their own milky way."
    </p>
    <p>
      "That flash of your wit, lieutenant, comes upon one like the electric
      shock of an intended insult, and I must expect you will apologize."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then I fear, young valiant, you will die of the disease that has killed
      more brave men than the last twenty years' war."
    </p>
    <p>
      "And what is that, sir, may I ask?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Expectation, my jewel! I've breakfasted, dined, supped, and slept upon it
      for the last half century, and am not one step higher in the army list
      yet."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But, lieutenant, let me observe that&mdash;that&mdash;"
    </p>
    <p>
      "That we are both pretty nigh bosky, and should not therefore be too
      fastidious in our jokes over the bottle."
    </p>
    <p>
      Enter Waiter. "The claret, gentlemen. Mr. Long's compliments, and he
      requests permission to assure you that it is some of the late Duke of
      Queensberry's choice stock, marked A one."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Which signifies, according to Long's edition of Cocker, that we must pay
      double for the liqueur. Come, Lionise, fill a bumper; and let us tails of
      the lion toast our caput, the sovereign, the first corinthian of his day,
      and the most polished prince in the world."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Tiger, Tiger,"{1} ejaculated a soft voice in the adjoining box; "ask Tom
      who the trumps are in the next stall, and if they are known here, tell
      them the Honourable Thomas Optimus fills a bumper to their last toast."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 Since the death of the Earl of Barrymore, Tom has
     succeeded to the "vacant chair" at Long's; nor is the Tiger
     Mercury the only point in which he closely resembles his
     great prototype.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[195]</span>A smart, clever-looking boy of about
      fifteen years of age darted forward to execute the honourable's commands;
      when having received the requisite information from the waiter, he
      approached the lieutenant and his friend, and with great politeness, but
      no lack of confidence, made the wishes of his master known to the <i>bon
      vivants</i>; the consequence was, an immediate interchange of civilities,
      which brought the honourable into close contact with his merry neighbours;
      and the result, a unanimous resolution to make a night of it.
    </p>
    <p>
      At this moment our <i>tête-à-tête</i> was interrupted by the appearance of
      old Crony, who, stanch as a well-trained pointer to the scent of game, had
      tracked me hither from my lodgings; from him I learned the lieutenant was
      a fellow of infinite jest and sterling worth; a descendant of the
      O'Farellans of Tipperary, whose ancestry claimed precedence of King Bryan
      Baroch; a specimen of the antique in his composition, robust, gigantic,
      and courageous; time and intestine troubles had impaired the fortunes of
      his house, but the family character remained untainted amid the
      conflicting revolutions that had convulsed the emerald isle. Enough,
      however, was left to render the lieutenant independent of his military
      expectations: he had joined the army when young; seen service and the
      world in many climates; but the natural uncompromising spirit which
      distinguished him, partaking perhaps something too much of the pride of
      ancestry, had hitherto prevented his soliciting the promotion he was
      fairly entitled to. Like a majority of his countrymen, he was cold and
      sententious as a Laplander when sober, and warm and volatile as a
      Frenchman when in his cups; half a dozen duels had been the natural
      consequence of an equal number of intrigues; but although the scars of
      honour had seared his manly countenance, his heart and person were yet
      devoted to the service of the ladies. Fame had trumpeted forth his prowess
      in the wars of <span class="pagenum">[196]</span>Venus, until notoriety
      had marked him out an object of general remark, and the king's lieutenant
      was as proud of the myrtle-wreath as the hero of Waterloo might be of the
      laurel crown.
    </p>
    <p>
      But see, the door opens; how perfumed, what style! Long bows to the earth.
      What an exquisite smile! Such a coffee-house visitor banishes pain: While
      Optimus rising, cries "Welcome, Joe Hayne! May you never want cash, boy&mdash;here,
      waiter, a glass; Lieutenant, you'll join us in toasting a lass. I'll give
      you an actress&mdash;Maria the fair." "I'll drink her; but, Tom, you have
      ruined me there. By my hopes! I am blown, cut, floor'd, and rejected, At
      the critical moment, sirs, when I expected To revel in bliss. But, here's
      white-headed Bob, My prime minister; he shall unravel the job. And if
      Jackson determines you've not acted well, I'll mill you, Tom Optimus,
      though you're a swell." "Sit down, Joe; be jolly&mdash;'twas Carter alone
      That has every obstacle in your way thrown. Nay, never despair, man&mdash;you'll
      yet be her liege; But rally again, boy, you'll carry the siege." Thus
      quieted, Joe sat him down to get mellow; For Joe at the bottom's a hearty
      good fellow.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Have you heard the report," said Optimus, "that Harborough is actually
      about to follow your example, and marry an actress? ay, and his old flame,
      Mrs. Stonyhewer, is ready to die of love and a broken heart in
      consequence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Just as true, my jewel, as that I shall be gazetted field-marshal; or
      that you, Mr. Optimus, will be accused of faithfulness to Lady Emily. Our
      young friend here, the rich commoner, has given currency to such a variety
      of common reports, that the false jade grows bold enough to beard us in
      our very teeth."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why, zounds! lieutenant," said Lionise, "how very sentimental you are
      becoming."
    </p>
    <p>
      "It's a way of mine, jewel, to appear singular in some sort of society."
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[197]</span>"And satirical in all, I'll vouch for
      you, lieutenant;" said Optimus.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By Jasus, you've hit it! if truth be satire, it's a language I love,
      although it's not very savoury to some palates."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Will the duke marry the banker's widow, Joel that's the grand question at
      Tattersall's, now your match with Maria's off, and Earl Rivers's
      greyhounds are disposed of. Only give me the office, boy, in that
      particular, and I'll give you a company to-morrow, if money will purchase
      one; and realize a handsome fortune by betting on the event."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then I'll bet Cox and Greenwood's cash account against the
      commander-in-chief's, that the widow marries a Beau-clerc, becomes in due
      time Duchess of St. Alban's, and dies without issue, leaving her immense
      property as a charitable bequest to enrich a poor dukedom; and thus,
      having in earlier life degraded one part of the peerage, make amends to
      the Butes, the Guildfords, and the Burdetts, by a last redeeming act to
      another branch of the aristocracy."
    </p>
    <p>
      "At it again, lieutenant; firing ricochet shot, and knocking down duck and
      drake at the same time."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sure, that has been the great amusement of my life; in battle and abroad
      I have contrived to knock down my share of the male enemies of my country;
      in peace and at home I've a mighty pleasant knack of winging a few female
      bush fighters."
    </p>
    <p>
      "But the widow, my dear fellow, is now a woman of high {2} character; has
      not the moral Marquis of Hertford undertaken to remove all &mdash;&mdash;&mdash;and
      disabilities? and did he not introduce the lady to the fashionable world
      at his own hotel, the Piccadilly (peccadillo) Guildhall? Was not the fête
      at Holly Grove attended by H.R.H. the Duke of York, and Mrs. C&mdash;y,
      and all the virtuous portion of our nobility? and has she not since been
      admitted to the parties at the Duke of "Query&mdash;did Mr. Optimus mean
      <i>high</i> as game is <i>high</i>?
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[198]</span>Devonshire's, and what is still more
      wonderful, been permitted to appear at court, and since, in the royal
      presence, piously introduced to the whole bench of Bishops?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "By Jasus, that's true; and I beg belle Harriette's pardon. But, I well
      remember, I commanded the cityguard in the old corn-market, Dublin, on the
      very night her reputed father, jolly Jack Kinnear, as the rebels called
      him, contrived to wish us good morning very suddenly, and took himself off
      to the sate of government."
    </p>
    <p>
      I shall be obliged to entertain the world with a few of her eccentricities
      some day or other; the ghost of poor Ralph Wewitzer cries loudly for
      revenge. The sapient police knight, when he <i>secured the box of letters</i>
      for his patroness, little suspected that they had all been <i>previously
      copied</i> by lieutenant Terence O'Farellan of the king's own. A mighty
      inquisitive sort of a personage, who will try his art to do her justice,
      spite of "leather or prunella."
    </p>
    <p>
      The party was at this moment increased by the arrival of Lord William, on
      whose friendly arm reposed the Berkley Adonis&mdash;"<i>par nobile fratrum</i>."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Give me leave, lieutenant," said his lordship, "to introduce my friend
      the colonel." "And give me leave," whispered Optimus, "to withdraw my
      friend Hayne, for 'two suns shine not in the same hemisphere.'"
    </p>
    <p>
      "The man that makes a move in the direction of the door makes me his
      enemy," said the lieutenant, loudly. And the whole party were immediately
      seated.
    </p>
    <p>
      Hitherto, my friend Crony and myself had been too pleasantly occupied with
      the whim, wit, and anecdote of the lieutenant, to pay much attention to
      the individuality of character that surrounded the festive board; but,
      having now entered upon our second bottle, the humorist commenced his
      satirical sketches.&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Holding forth to the gaze of this fortunate time The extremes of the
      beautiful and the sublime."
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[199]</span>"Suppose I commence with the pea-green
      count," said Crony. "I know the boy's ambition is notoriety; and an artist
      who means to rise in his profession should always aim at painting
      first-rate portraits, well-known characters; because they are sure to
      excite public inquiry, thus extending the artist's fame, and securing the
      good opinion of his patrons by the gratification of their unlimited
      vanity. The sketch too may be otherwise serviceable to the rising
      generation; the Mr. Greens and Newcomes of the world of fashion, if they
      would avoid the sharks who infest the waters of pleasure, and are always
      on the anxious <i>look-up</i> for a nibble at a new 'come out.'
    </p>
    <p>
      "The young exquisite's connexion with the fancy, or rather with the lowest
      branch of that illustrious body, the bruising fraternity and their boon
      companions, had been, though not an avowed, a real source of jealousy to
      many of his dear bosom friends at Long's hotel, from the moment of the
      count's making his <i>début</i>,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     '<i>Imberbis juvenis, tandem custode remote</i>,'
</pre>
    <p>
      into the fashionable world. That he would be ultimately floored by his
      milling <i>protégés</i> it did not require the sagacity of a conjurer to
      foresee; nor was it likely that the term of such a catastrophe would be so
      tediously delayed, as to subject any one who might be eager to witness its
      arrival to that sickness of the heart which arises from hope deferred. But
      this process for scooping out the Silver (or Foote) Ball, as he has since
      been designated, by no means suited the ideas of the worthies before
      alluded to. The learned Scriblerus makes mention of certain <i>doctors</i>,{3}
      frequently seen at White's in his day, of a modest and upright appearance,
      with no air of overbearing, and habited like true masters of arts in black
      and white only. They were justly styled, says the above high authority,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     3 A cant phrase for dice,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[200]</span>subtiles and graves, but not always
      irrefragabiles, being sometimes examined and, by a nice distinction,
      divided and laid open. The descendants of these doctors still exist, and
      have not degenerated, either in their numbers or their merits, from their
      predecessors. They take up their principal residence in some well-known
      mansions about the neighbourhood of the court, and many of the gentlemen
      who honoured the count with their especial notice on his <i>entrée</i>
      into public life are understood to be familiarly acquainted with them. Now
      could they have only instilled into the young gentleman a wish to be
      introduced to these doctors, or once prevailed upon him to take them in
      hand for the purpose of deciding what might be depending upon the result
      of the investigation; nay, could they even have spurred him on to an
      exhibition of his tactics, in manoeuvring
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Those party-colour'd troops, a shining train,
          Drawn forth to combat on the velvet plain;'
</pre>
    <p>
      they could have so delightfully abridged the task which to their impatient
      eyes appeared to be much too slow in executing, could have spared their
      dear friend so much unnecessary time and labour in disencumbering himself
      of the superfluity of worldly dross which had fallen to his share. A
      little <i>cogging, sleeving, and palming</i>; nay, a mere spindle
      judiciously planted, or a few long ones introduced on the weaving system,
      could have effected in one evening what fifty milling matches, considering
      the 'glorious uncertainty' attaching to pugilistic as well as legal
      contests, might fail to accomplish. By this method, too, the person in
      whom they kindly took so strong an interest would, even when he had lost
      every thing, have escaped the imputation of having dissipated his
      property. It would have been comfortably distributed in respectable
      dividends among a few gentlemen of acknowledged talent, instead of
      floating in air like the leaves of the
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[201]</span>Sibyl, and alighting in various parts of
      the inner and outer ring; now depositing a few cool hundreds in the
      pockets of a sporting Priestley bookseller, or the brother of a
      Westminster Abbott; now contributing a small modicum to brighten the
      humbler speculations of the Dean-street casemen, or the Battersea
      gardener.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But to this conclusion Horatio would not come. He was good for backing
      and betting on pugilists, but on the turf he would do little, and at the
      tables nothing. His zealous friends had therefore no chance in the way
      they would have liked best; but being men of the world, and knowing, like
      Gay's bear, that
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'There might be picking
          Ev'n in the carving of a chicken,'
</pre>
    <p>
      they did not disdain to make the most in their power by watching the
      motions of his hobby, and if this was not a sufficient prize to furnish
      much cause for exultation, it was at least one that it would have been
      unwise to reject.
    </p>
    <p>
      "A contemporary writer has exerted to the utmost the very little talent he
      possesses to represent the peagreen's uniform resistance to all the
      temptations of cards and dice, as a proof of his possessing a strength of
      mind and decision of character rarely found in young men of his fortune
      and time of life. In the elegant language of this apologist, the count, by
      this prudent abstinence, 'has shown himself not half so green as some
      supposed, and the sharps, and those who have tried on the grand mace with
      him, have discovered that he was no flat.' How far this negative eulogium
      may be gratifying to the feelings of the individual on whom it is
      bestowed, I will not say; in my character of English Spy I have been under
      the necessity of carefully observing this fortunate youth, <i>depuis que
      la rose venait d'eclore</i>, in other words, from the time that he became,
      or rather might <span class="pagenum">[202]</span>have become, his own
      master; and I should certainly not attribute his refraining from the
      tables to any superior strength of mind: indeed, it would be singular if
      such a characteristic belonged to a man whose own hired advocate could
      only vindicate his client's heart at the expense of his head. Pope tells
      us, that to form a just estimate of any one's character, we must study his
      ruling passion; and by adopting this rule, we shall soon obtain a
      satisfactory clew both to the exquisite count's penchant for the
      prize-ring, and his aversion to the <i>hells</i>. Some persons exhibit an
      inexplicable union of avarice and extravagance, of parsimony and
      prodigality&mdash;something of this kind is observable in the gentleman in
      question. But self predominates with him in all; and being joined to
      rather alow species of vanity, and a strong inclination to be what is
      vulgarly called <i>cock of the walk</i>, it has uniformly displayed itself
      in an insatiate thirst for notoriety. Now pugilists, from the very nature
      of their profession, must be public characters; while the gamester, to the
      utmost of his power, does what he does 'by stealth, and blushes to find it
      fame.' To be the patron of some noted bruiser, to bear him to the field of
      action in your travelling barouche, accompanied by Tom Crib the XX
      champion, Tom Spring the X champion, Jack Langan and Tom Cannon the
      would-be champions, and Lily White Richmond, is sure to make your name as
      notorious, though perhaps not much more reputable, than those of your
      associates; but the man who, like 'the youth that fired the Ephesian
      dome,' aims at celebrity alone, in frequenting the purlieus of the
      gaming-house only 'wastes his sweetness on the desert air.' Moreover, the
      members of the Ebony Clubs being compelled to assume the appearance, and
      adopt the manners, insensibly imbibe too much of the feelings of
      gentlemen, to be likely to pay, to the most passive <i>pigeon</i> that
      ever submitted to <i>rooking</i>, the cap in hand homage rendered by a
      <span class="pagenum">[203]</span>practitioner within the pins and binders
      of the prize-ring to the swell who takes five pounds worth of benefit
      tickets, or stands a fifty in the stakes for a milling match.
    </p>
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    <p>
      "These motives seem to me sufficient to have prompted the count's
      predominating attachment to the prize-ring and its heroes, which, however,
      having as I have before remarked, been viewed with no favourable eye by
      some of his comrades, his recent ill-luck at Warwick could hardly be
      expected to escape the jests and sarcasms of his bottle companions."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Fore God," said Optimus, "this backing of your man against the black
      diamond has been but a bad spec. Out heavyish I suppose, ay, Joe?"
    </p>
    <p>
      Count. Why, a stiffish bout, I must confess; and what's more, I'm not by
      any means without my suspicions about the correctness of the thing.
    </p>
    <p>
      Optimus. What, cross and jostle work again? a second edition of Virginia
      Water? But I thought you felt assured that Cannon would not do wrong for
      the wealth of Windsor Castle?
    </p>
    <p>
      Count. True, I did feel so, and others confirmed me in my assurance, but I
      believe I was wofully mistaken; and curse me if I don't think they were
      all in the concern of doing me.
    </p>
    <p>
      Optimus. Was not there a floating report about the bargeman receiving a
      thousand to throw it over?
    </p>
    <p>
      Count. Something of the sort; but I don't believe it. Two bills for five
      hundred, but so drawn that they could not be negotiated. I shall
      certainly, said the count, give notice to the stake-holders not to give up
      the battle-money for the present.
    </p>
    <p>
      Optimus. Pshaw! that will never do. A thing of that nature must be done at
      the time. Besides, Cannon stood two hundred in his own money, and says he
      will freely pay his losses.
    </p>
    <p>
      Count. A pretty do that, when he had a cheque <span class="pagenum">[204]</span>of
      mine for the sum he put down. But I've stopped payment of that at my
      banker's.
    </p>
    <p>
      Optimus. And will as surely be obliged to revoke that order, as well as to
      give up disputing the stakes. No, no, Joe; get out of the business now as
      you can, and cut it. I always thought and told you, that I thought your
      man had no chance. But his going to fight so out of condition, in a
      contest where all his physical powers were necessary, does look as if you
      had been put in for a piece of ready made luck. But what could you expect?
      Can any good thing come out of Nazareth? That a gentleman can patronize
      such fellows!
    </p>
    <p>
      Count. I am still of opinion that the spirit of national courage is much
      promoted&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      Optimus. Spirit of a fiddle-stick! Nonsense, man; that card will win no
      trick now. You, like others might have thought so once; but you have seen
      enough by this time to know that the system is on altogether a different
      tack; that its stanchest upholders and admirers are bullies, sharpers,
      pickpockets, pothouse keepers, coachmen, fradulent bankrupts, the Jon
      Bee's and big B's, and all the lowest B's of society in station and
      character, whose only merit, if such it can be called, is the open
      disclaiming of any thing like honour or principle. And after having been a
      patron of such a set of wretches, you will end by becoming, according to
      circumstances, the object of their vulgar abuse, or the butt of their
      coarse ridicule.
    </p>
    <p>
      "The latter, I understand,"said Lord William, "is pretty much the case
      already. A friend of mine was telling me, that one of the precious
      brotherhood, on hearing that Joe meant to dispute his bets, asked what
      better could be expected from a Foote-mam out of place?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "No more of that, Hal, if thou lovest him," exclaimed Optimus, who
      immediately perceived, by his <span class="pagenum">[205]</span>countenance,
      that the last hit had been too hard. Much more has been said upon this
      affair than it is worth. Let us change the subject.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By my conscience," exclaimed the lieutenant, "and here's an excellent
      episode to wind up the drama with, headed, 'The Foote Ball's farewell to
      the Ring:' I'll read it you, with permission, and afterwards, colonel, you
      shall have a copy of it for next Sunday's 'Age;' it will save the
      magnanimous little B., your accommodating editor, or his locum tenens, the
      fat Gent, the trouble of straining their own weak noddles to produce any
      more soft attempts at the scandalous and the sarcastic.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the honour of my ancestry," rejoined the Gloucestershire colonel, "do
      you take me for a reporter to the paper in question?"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Why not?" said the lieutenant, coolly: "if you are not a reporter and a
      supporter too, my gallant friend, by the powers of Poll Kelly but you are
      the most ill-used man in his majesty's dominions!"
    </p>
    <p>
      "Sir, I stand upon my honour," said the colonel, petulantly.
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the powers, you may, and very easily too," whispered O'Farellan, in a
      side speech to his left hand companion; "for it has been trodden under
      Foote by others these many months. To be plain with you, colonel, there
      are certain big whispers abroad, that you and your noble associate, the
      amiable yonder, with that beautiful obliquity of vision, which is said to
      have pierced the heart of a northern syren, are the joint Telegraphs of
      the Age. Sure no man in his senses can suspect Messieurs the Conducteurs
      of knowing any thing of what passes in polished life, or think&mdash;
    </p>
    <p>
      "Ah, my dear Wewitzer," said Belle Harriet, now Mrs. Goutts, speaking to
      the late comedian, of some female friend, "she has an eye! an eye, that
      would pierce through a deal board." "By heavens," said Wewitzer, "that
      must be then a gimhlet eye." <span class="pagenum">[206]</span>of charging
      them with any personal knowledge of the amusing incidents they pretend to
      relate, beyond a certain little wanton's green room <i>on dits</i>, or the
      chaste conversations of the blushless naiads who sport and frolic in the
      Cytherian mysteries which are nightly performed in the dark groves of
      Vauxhall. Take a word of advice from an old soldier, colonel: It is worse
      than leading a forlorn hope to attempt to storm a garrison single handed;
      club secrets must be protected by club laws, for 'tis an old Eton maxim,
      that tales told out of school generally bring the relater to the block.
      But my friend Stanhope will no doubt explain this matter with a much
      better grace when he comes in contact with the tale-bearer."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Hem," instinctively ejaculated Horace C&mdash;&mdash;-t, the once elegant
      Apollo of Hyde Park, "thereby hangs a tale; 'tis a vile Age, and the
      sooner we forget it, the better&mdash;I am for love and peace." "i.e. a
      piece" responded the lieutenant. Horace smiled, and continued, "Come, Tom
      Duncombe, I'll give our mutual favourite, the female Giovanni. Lads, fill
      your glasses; we toast a deity, and one, too, who has equal claims upon
      most of us for the everlasting favours she has conferred."
    </p>
    <p>
      "'Fore Gad, lieutenant," simpered out Lord William, squaring himself round
      to resume the conversation with the veteran, "if you do not mind your
      hits, we must positively cut. My friend, the colonel, will certainly set
      his blacks{5} upon you, and I shall be obliged to speak to little
      magnanimous, the ex-Brummagem director, to strike off a counterfeit
      impression of you in his scandalous Sunday chronicle, 'pon honour, I
      must."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     5 A very curious tradition is connected with a certain
     castle near Gloucester, which foretells, that the family
     name shall be extinct when the race of the blacks* cease to
     be peculiar to the family; a prophecy that I think not very
     likely to be fulfilled, judging by the conduct of the
     present race of representatives.

     * A species of Danish blood-hound, whose portraits and names
     are carved in the oaken cornice of one of the castle
     chambers.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[207]</span>"The divil a care," said the lieutenant,
      laughingly; "to arms with you, my lord William; my fire engine will soon
      damp the ardour of little magnanimous, and an extra dose of Tom Bish's
      compounds put his friend, the fat Gent, where his readers have long been,
      in sweet somniferous repose. But zounds, gentlemen, I am forgetting the
      count, whose pardon I crave, for bestowing my attention on minor
      constellations while indulged with the overpowering brilliancy of his
      meteoric presence."
    </p>
    <p>
      "The 'Farewell to the Ring,'" vociferated the count. "Come, lieutenant,
      give us the episode: I long to hear all my misfortunes strung together in
      rhyme."
    </p>
    <p>
      "By the powers, you shall have it, then; and a true history it is, as ever
      was said or sung in church, chapel, or conventicle, with only one little
      exception&mdash;by the free use of poetic license, the satirist has fixed
      his hero in a very embarrassing situation&mdash;just locked him up at
      Radford's steel Hotel in Carey Street, Chancery Lane, coning over a long
      bill of John Long's, and a still longer one of the lawyers, with a sort of
      codicil, by way of refresher, of the house charges, and a smoking detainer
      tacked on to its tail, by Hookah Hudson, long enough to put any
      gentleman's pipe out.
    </p>
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    <p>
      There's the argument, programme, or fable. Now for the characters; they
      are all drawn from the life by the English Spy (see plate), under the
      amusing title of 'Morning, and in Low Spirits, a scene in a Lock-up
      House;' a very appropriate spot for a lament to the past, and
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "'Tis past, and the sun of my glory is set.
          How changed in my case is the fortune of war!
          With no money to back, and no credit to bet,
          No more in the Fancy I shine forth a star.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[208]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Accursed be the day when my bargeman I brought
          To fight with Jos. Hudson!&mdash;the thought is a sting.
          I sighing exclaim, by experience taught,
          Farewell to Tom Cannon, farewell to the ring!

          "By the Blackwater vict'ry made drunk with success,
          Endless visions of milling enchanted my nob;
          I thought my luck in: so I could do no less
          Than match 'gainst the Streatham my White-headed Bob.

          "I've some reason to think that there, too, I was done;
          For it oft has been hinted that battle was cross'd:
          But I well know that all which at Yately I won,
          With a thousand <i>en outre</i> at Bagshot I lost.

          "At Warwick a turn in my favour again
          Appear'd, and my crest I anew rear'd with pride;
          Hudson's efforts to conquer my bargeman were vain,
          I took the <i>long odds</i>, and I floor'd <i>the flash side</i>.

          "But with training, and treating, and sparring, and paying
          For all through the nose, as most do in beginning
          Their fancy career, I am borne out in saying,
          I was quite out of pocket in spite of my winning.

          "So when Bob fought old George, being shortish of money,
          And bearing in mem'ry the Bagshot affair,
          In my former pal's stakes I stood only <i>a  pony</i>,
          (Which was never return'd, so I'm done again there).

          "To be perfectly safe, on the old one I betted;
          For the knowing ones told  me the thing was made right:
          If it had been, a good bit of blunt I'd have netted;
          But a double X spoilt it, and Bob won the fight.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[209]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "But the famed stage of Warwick, and Ward, were before me&mdash;
          I look'd at Tom Cannon, and thought of the past;
          I was sure he must win, and that wealth would show'r o'er me,
          So, like Richard, I set all my hopes on a cast;

          "And the die was soon thrown, and my luck did not alter&mdash;
          I was floor'd at all points, and my hopes were a hum;
          I'm at Tattersall's all but believed a defaulter,
          And here, in a spunging house, shut by a bum.

          "'Mid the lads of the fancy I needs must aspire
          To be quite <i>au fait</i>; and I have scarcely seen
          Of mills half a score, ere I'm fore'd to retire&mdash;
          O thou greenest among all the green ones, Pea Green!

          "And what have I gain'd, but the queer reputation
          Of a whimsical dandy, half foolish, half flash?
          To bruisers and sharpers, in high and low station,
          A poor easy dupe, till deprived of my cash.

          "All you who would enter the circle I've quitted,
          Reflect on my fate, and think what you're about:
          By brib'ry betray'd, or by cunning outwitted,
          In the Fancy each novice is quickly clean'd out.

          "For me it has lost its attractions and lustre;
          The thing's done with me, and I've done with the thing:
          The blunt for my bets I must manage to muster,
          Then farewell to Tom Cannon, farewell to the ring!"
</pre>
    <p>
      The reading of this morceau produced, as might have been expected,
      considerable merriment on the <span class="pagenum">[210]</span>one hand,
      and some little discussion upon the other; the angry feelings of the
      commander in chief and his pals overbalancing the mirthful by their
      solemnly protesting against the exposure of the secrets of the prison
      house, which, in this instance, they contended, were violently distorted
      by some enemy to the modern accomplishment of pugilism. In a few moments
      all was chaos, and the stormy confusion of tongues, prophetk: of the
      affair ending in a grand display and milling catastrophe; the
      apprehensions of which induced John Long, and John Long's man, to be on
      the alert in removing the service, <i>en suite</i>, of superb cut glass,
      which had given an additional lustre to the splendour of the dessert. The
      arrival of other characters, and the good humour of the count, joined to a
      plentiful supply of soda water and iced punch, had, however, the effect of
      cooling the malcontents, who had no sooner recovered their wonted
      hilarity, than old Crony proceeded to particularize, by a comparison of
      the past with the present, interspersing his remarks with anecdotes of the
      surrounding group. "These are your modern men of fashion," said Crony;
      "and the specimen you have this day had of their conduct and pursuits an
      authority you may safely quote as one generally characteristic.
    </p>
    <p>
      'To support this new fashion in circles of <i>ton</i>. New habits, new
      thoughts, must of course be put on; Taste, feeling, and friendship, laid
      by on the shelf, And nothing or worshipp'd, or thought of, but&mdash;self.'
    </p>
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    </p>
    <p>
      "It was not thus in the days of our ancestors: the farther we look back,
      the purer honour was. In the days of chivalry, a love promise was a law;
      the braver the knight, the truer in love: then, too, religion, delicacy,
      sentiment, romantic passion, disinterested friendship, loyalty to king,
      love of country, a thirst for fame, bravery, nay, heroism, characterized
      <span class="pagenum">[211]</span>the age, the nation, the noble, the
      knight, and esquire. Mercy! what 'squires we have now-a-days! At a more
      recent date, all was courtliness, feeling, high sentiment, proud and lofty
      bearing, principle, the word inviolable, politeness at its highest pitch
      of refinement: lovers perished to defend their ladies' honour; now they
      live to sully it: the nobility and the people were distinct in dress and
      address; but, above all, amenity and good-breeding marked the distinction,
      and the line was unbroken. Now, dress is all confusion, address far below
      par, amenity is a dead letter, and as to breeding, it is confined to the
      breeding of horses and dogs, except when law steps in to encourage the
      breeding of disputes; not to mention the evils arising from crossing the
      old breed; nor can we much wonder at it, when we reflect on the altered
      way of life, the change of habits, and the declension of virtue, arising
      from these very causes.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Each hopeful hero now essays to start
          To spoil the intellect, destroy the heart,
          To render useless all kind Nature gave,
          And live the dupe of ev'ry well dress'd knave;
          To herd with gamblers, be a blackleg king,
          And shine the monarch of the betting ring.'
</pre>
    <p>
      "Men of family and fashion, in those golden days, passed their time in
      courts, in dancing-rooms, and at clubs composed of the very cream of birth
      and elegance. You heard occasionally of Lord Such-a-one being killed in a
      duel, or of the baronet or esquire dying from cold caught at a splendid <i>fête</i>,
      or by going lightly clad to his magnificent vis-à-vis, after a select
      masquerade; but you never read his death in a newspaper from a catarrh
      caught in the watch-house, from &amp; fistic fight, or in a row at a hell&mdash;things
      now not astonishing, since even men with a title and a name of rank pass
      their time in the stable, at common hells, at the Fives-court&mdash;the
      hall of infamy; in the watch-house, the justice-room, and make the finish
      in <span class="pagenum">[212]</span>the Fleet, King's Bench, or die in
      misery and debt abroad. In the olden times, a star of fashion was quoted
      for dancing at court, for the splendour of his equipages, his running
      footmen and black servants, his expensive dress, his accomplishments, his
      celebrity at foreign courts, his fine form, delicate hand, jewels,
      library, &amp;c. &amp;c. Now fame (for notoriety is so called) may be
      obtained by being a Greek, or Pigeon, by being mistaken for John the
      coachman, when on the box behind four tits; by being a good gentleman
      miller, by feeding the fancy, standing in print for crim. con., breaking a
      promise of marriage once or twice, and breaking as many tradesmen as
      possible afterwards; breaking the watchman's head on the top of the morn;
      and lastly, breaking away (in the skirmish through life) for Calais, or
      the Low Countries. There is as much difference between the old English
      gentleman and him who ought to be the modern representative of that name,
      as there is between a racer and a hack, a fine spaniel and a cross of the
      terrier and bull dog. In our days of polish and refinement, we had a Lord
      Stair, a Sedley, a Sir John Stepney, a Sir William Hamilton, and many
      others, as our ambassadors, representing our nation as the best bred in
      the world; and by their grace and amiability, gaining the admiration of
      the whole continent. We had, in remoter times, our Lords Bolingbroke,
      Chesterfield, and Lyttleton, our Steele, &amp;c, the celebrated poets,
      authors, and patterns of fashion and elegance of the age. We had our
      Argyle,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'The state's whole thunder form'd to wield,
          And shake at once the senate and the field.'
</pre>
    <p>
      We had our virtuosi of the highest rank, our rich and noble authors in
      abundance. The departed Byron stood alone to fill their place. The
      classics were cultivated, not by the learned profession only, but by the
      votaries of fashion. Now, our Greek scholars are of <span class="pagenum">[213]</span>another
      cast.{6} In earlier days the chivalrous foe met his opponent in open
      combat, and broke a lance for the amusement of the spectators, while he
      revenged his injuries in public. Now, the practice of duelling{7} has
      become almost a profession, and the privacy with which it is of necessity
      conducted renders it always subject to suspicion (see plate); independent
      of which, the source of quarrel is too often beneath the dignity of
      gentlemen, and the wanton sacrifice of life rather an act of bravado than
      of true courage.{7}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     6 "Adeipe nunc Danaûm insidiai, et&mdash;&mdash;ab uno, Disce
     omnes!"

     The Greek population of the fashionable world comprises a
     very large portion of society, including among its members
     names and persons of illustrious and noble title, whose
     whole life and pleasure in life appears to "rest upon the
     hazard of a die." The modern Greek, though he cannot boast
     much resemblance to Achilles, Ajax, Patroclus, or Nestor,
     is, nevertheless, a close imitator of the equally renowned
     chief of Ithaca. To describe his person, habits, pursuits,
     and manners, would be to sketch the portrait of one or more
     <i>finished roués</i>, who are to be found in most genteel
     societies. The mysteries of his art are manifold, and
     principally consist in the following rules and regulations,
     put forth by an old member of the corps, whose conscience
     returned to torture him when his reign of earthly vice was
     near its close.

     ELEMENTS OF GREEKING. 1. A Greek should be like a mole,
     visible only at night. 2. He should be a niggard of his
     speech, and a profligate with his liquor, giving freely, but
     taking cautiously. 3. He must always deprecate play in
     public, and pretend an entire ignorance of his game. 4. He
     must be subtle as the fox, and vary as the well-trained
     hawk; never showing chase too soon, or losing his pigeon by
     an over eager desire to pluck him. 5. He must be content to
     lose a little at first, that he may thereby make a final hit
     decisive. 6. He must practise like a conjuror in private,
     that his slippery tricks in public may escape observation.
     Palming the <i>digits</i> requires no ordinary degree of agility.
     7. He must secure a confederate, who having been pigeoned,
     has since been enlightened, and will consent to decoy others
     to the net. 8. He should have once held the rank of captain,
     as an introduction to good society, and a privilege to bully
     any one who may question his conduct. 9. He must always put
     on the show of generosity with those he has plucked&mdash;that
     is, while their bill, bond, post obit,  or other legal
     security is worth having.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[214]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     10. He should be a prince of good fellows at his own table,
     have the choicest wines for particular companies, and when a
     grand hit cannot be made, refuse to permit play in his own
     house; or on a decisive occasion, let his decoy or partner
     pluck the pigeon, while he appears to lose to some
     confederate a much larger sum.

     11. He must not be afraid to fight a duel, mill &amp; rumbustical
     green one, or bully a brother sharper who attempts to poach
     upon his preserves.

     12. He must concert certain signals with confederates for
     <i>working the broads</i> (i.e. cards), such as fingers at whist:
     toe to toe for an ace, or the left hand to the eye for a
     king, and so on, until he can make the fate of a rubber
     certain. On this point he must be well instructed in the
     arts of <i>marked cards, briefs, broads, corner bends, middle
     ditto, curves, or Kingston Bridge</i>, and other arch tricks of
     <i>slipping, palming, forcing</i>, or even <i>substituting</i>,
     whatever card may be necessary to win the game. Such are a
     few of the elements of modern Greeking, contained in the
     twelve golden rules recorded above, early attention to which
     may save the inexperienced from ruin.
</pre>
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<pre xml:space="preserve">
     7 ELEMENTS OF DUELLING.

     "The British Code of Duel," a little work professing to give
     the necessary instructions for <i>man-killing according to
     honour</i>, lays down the following rules as indispensable for
     the practice of principals and seconds in the pleasant and
     humane amusement of shooting at each other. "1. To choose
     out a snug sequestered spot, where the ground is level, and
     no natural, terrestrial, or celestial line presenting itself
     to assist either party in his views of sending his opponent
     into eternity. 2. To examine the pistols; see that they are
     alike in quality and length, and load in presence of each
     other. 3. To measure the distance; ten paces of not less
     than thirty inches being the minimum, the parties to step to
     it, not from it. 4. To fire by signal and at random; it
     being considered unfair to take aim at the man whose life
     you go out to take. 5. Not to deliver the pistols cocked,
     lest they should go off un-expectedly; and after one fire
     the second should use his endeavours to produce a
     reconciliation. 6. If your opponent fire in the air, it is
     very unusual, and must be a case of extreme anguish when you
     are obliged to insist upon another shot at him. 7. Three
     fires must be the ultimatum in any case; any more reduces
     duel to a conflict for blood," says the code writer; "if
     the parties can afford it, there should be two surgeons in
     attendance, but if economical, one mutual friend will
     suffice; the person receiving the first fire, in case of
     wound, taking the first dressing. 8. It being always
     understood that wife, children, parents, and relations are
     no impediment with men of very different relative stations
     in society to their meeting on equal terms." The <i>consistency,
     morality, justice, and humanity of this code, I
     leave to the gratifying reflection of those who have most
     honourably killed their man</i>.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[215]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'For, as duelling now is completely a science,
          And sets, the Old Bailey itself at defiance;
          Now Hibernians are met with in every street,
          'Tis as needful to know how to shoot as to eat.'

     The following singular challenge is contained in a letter
     from Sir William Herbert, of St. Julian's, in Monmouthshire,
     father-in-law to the famous Lord Herbert, of Cherbury, to a
     gentleman of the name of Morgan.    The original is in the
     British Museum.

     "Sir&mdash;Peruse this letter, in God's name. Be not disquieted.
     I reverence your hoary hair. Although in your son I find too
     much folly and lewdness, yet in you I expect gravity and
     wisdom.

     "It hath pleased your son, late at Bristol, to deliver a
     challenge to a man of mine, on the behalf of a gentleman (as
     he said) as good as myself; who he was, he named not,
     neither do I know; but if he be as good as myself, it must
     either be for virtue, for birth, for ability, or for calling
     and dignity. For virtue I think he meant not, for it is a
     thing which exceeds his judgment: if for birth, he must be
     the heir male of an earl, the heir in blood of ten earls;
     for, in testimony thereof, I bear their several coats.
     Besides, he must be of the blood royal, for by my
     grandmother Devereux I am lineally and legitimately
     descended out of the body of Edward IV. If for ability he
     must have a thousand pounds a year in possession, a thousand
     pounds more in expectation, and must have some thousands in
     substance besides. If for calling and dignity, he must be
     knight or lord of several seignories in several kingdoms, a
     lieutenant of his county, and a counsellor of a province.

     "Now to lay all circumstances aside, be it known to your
     son, or to any man else, that if there be any one who
     beareth the name of gentleman, and whose words are of
     reputation in his county, that doth say, or dare say, that I
     have done unjustly, spoken an untruth, stained my credit and
     reputation in this matter, or in any matter else, wherein
     your son is exasperated, I say he lieth in his throat, and
     my sword shall maintain my word upon him, in any place or
     province, wheresoever he dare, and where I stand not sworn
     to observe the peace. But if they be such as are within my
     governance, and over whom I have authority, I will for their
     re-formation chastise them with justice, and for their
     malaport misdemeanour bind them to their good behaviour. Of
     this sort, I account your son, and his like; against whom I
     will shortly issue my warrant, if this my warning doth not
     reform them. And so I thought fit to advertise you hereof,
     and leave you to God.

     "I am, &amp;c.

     "WM. HERBERT."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[216]</span>"The art of fencing formerly
      distinguished the gentleman, who then wore a sword as a part of his dress.
      He is now contented with a regular stand-up fight, and exhibits a fist
      like a knuckle-bone of mutton&mdash;hard, coarse, and of certain
      magnitude. The bludgeon hammer-headed whip, or a vulgar twig, succeeds the
      clouded and amber-headed cane; and instead of the snuff-box being rare,
      and an article of parade, to exhibit a beauty's miniature bestowed in
      love, or that of a crowned head, given for military or diplomatic
      services, all ranks take snuff out of cheap and vulgar boxes, mostly of
      inferior French manufacture, with, not unfrequently, indecent
      representations on them; or you have wooden concerns with stage coaches,
      fighting-cocks, a pugilistic combat, or an ill-drawn neck and neck race
      upon them. The frill of the nobleman and gentleman's linen once bore
      jewels of high price, or a conceit, like a noted beauty's eye, set in
      brilliants less sparkling than what formed the centre. Now, a fox, a stag,
      or a dog, worthily occupies the place of that enchanting resemblance. In
      equitation, we had Sir Sydney Meadows, a pattern and a prototype for
      gentlemen horsemen. The Melton hunt now is more in vogue, and the sons of
      our nobility ride like their own grooms and postboys&mdash;ay, and dress
      like them too. Autrefois, a man of fashion might be perceived ere he was
      seen, from a reunion <span class="pagenum">[217]</span>of rich and costly
      perfumes. Now, snuff and tobacco, the quid, the pinch, and the cigar,
      announce his good taste. The cambric pocket-handkerchief was the only one
      known in the olden times. The belcher (what a name! ) supplies its place,
      together with the bird's eye, or the colours of some black or white boxer.
      An accomplished man was the delight of all companies in former times. An
      out and outer, one up to every thing, down as a nail or the knocker of
      Newgate, a trump, or a Trojan, now carry the mode of praise; one that can
      <i>patter flash, floor a charley, mill a coal-heaver</i>, come coachey in
      prime style, up to every rig and row in town, and down to every move upon
      the board, from a nibble at the club to a dead hit at a hell; can swear,
      smoke, take snuff, lush, play at all games, and throw over both sexes in
      different ways&mdash;he is the finished man. The attributes of a modern
      fine gentleman are, to have his address at his club, and his residence any
      where; to lounge, laugh, lisp, and loll away the time from four to eight,
      when having dressed, eat his olives, he goes to Almack's if he can, or
      struts into Fop's Alley at the Opera in boots, in defiance of decency or
      the remonstrance of the door-keepers; talks loud to be noticed; and having
      handed some woman of fashion to her carriage, gets in after her without
      invitation, and, as a matter of course, behaves rudely in return; makes a
      last call at the club in his way home to learn the issue of the debate,
      and try his luck at French hazard or fleecing a novice. (See Plate.)
    </p>
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    <p>
      If his fortune should be one thousand per annum, his income may be
      extended to five, by virtue of credit and credulity. If he comes out very
      early in life, say eighteen, he will scarcely expect to be visible at
      twenty-four; but if he does not appear until he is twenty-one, and then
      lives all his days, he may die fairly of old age, infirmity, and
      insolvency, at twenty-six. His topographical knowledge of town is bounded
      by the fashionable <span class="pagenum">[218]</span>directory, which
      limits his recognition, on the north, by Oxford-street, on the east, by
      Bond-street, on the south, by Pall Mall, and on the west, by Park-lane.
      Ask him where is Russell Square, and he stares at you for a rustic;
      inquire what authors he reads, and he answers Weatherbey and Rhodes; ask
      what are their works, and he laughs outright at your ignorance of the
      'Racing Calendar,' 'Annals of Sporting,' 'Boxiana,' and 'Turf
      Remembrancer;' question his knowledge of science, it consists in starch <i>à
      la Brummel</i>{8}; of mathematics, in working problems on the cards; of
      algebra, in calculating the long odds, or squaring the chances of the
      dice; he tells you, his favourite book is his betting account, that John
      Bull is the only newspaper worth reading, and that you must never expect
      to be admitted into good society if the cut of your coat does not bear
      outward proofs of its being fabricated either in Saint James's Street or
      Bond Street; that the great requisites are <i>confidence, indifference,
      and nonchalance</i>; as, for instance, George Wombwell being thrown out of
      his tilbury on High gate Hill, when driving Captain Burdett, and both
      being dreadfully bruised, George is picked
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     8 When Brummel fell into disgrace, he devised the starched
     neckcloth, with the design of putting the prince's neck out
     of fashion, and of bringing his Royal Highness's muslin, his
     bow, and wadding, into contempt. When he first appeared in
     this stiffened cravat, tradition says that the sensation in
     St. James's-street was prodigious; dandies were struck dumb
     with envy, and washerwomen miscarried. No one could conceive
     how the effect was produced&mdash;tin, card, a thousand
     contrivances were attempted, and innumerable men cut their
     throats in vain experiments; the secret, in fact, puzzled
     and baffled every one, and poor dandy L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;d died raving
     mad of it;  his mother, sister, and all his relations waited
     on Brummel, and on their knees implored him to save their
     kinsman's life by the explanation of the mystery; but the
     beau was obdurate, and  L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;d miserably perished.

     When Brummel fled from England, he left this secret a legacy
     to his country; he wrote on a sheet of paper, on his
     dressing-table, the emphatic words, "Starch is the man."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[219]</span> up by a countryman, when he inquires,
      very coolly, if 't'other blackguard is not quite dead:' his amours are
      more distinguished by their number than attractions, and the first point
      is, not attachment, but notoriety; the lady always being the more
      desirable, in proportion to the known variety of her gallants; that of all
      the pleasures of this life, there is nothing like a squeeze at court (see
      plate), or being wedged into a close room at a crowded rout.
    </p>
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    <p>
      A ruffian was never thought of by our forefathers; the exquisite was; but
      he was more sublimated than the exquisite of the nineteenth century. The
      dandy is of modern date; but there is some polish on him&mdash;suppose it
      be on his boots alone. Shape and make are attended to by him; witness the
      Cumberland corset, and his making what he can of every body. Then, again,
      he must have a smattering of French, and affect to be above old England.
      When he smokes, he does it from vanity, to show his <i>écume de mer</i>
      pipe. He may have a gold snuff-box and a little diamond pin; and when he
      swears, he lisps it out like a baby's lesson. Sometimes (not often) he
      plays upon the guitar; and the peninsular war may have made a man of him,
      and a linguist too; but he is far below the ancient exquisites (who
      touched the lute, the lyre, and violoncello). And he is an egotist in
      every thing&mdash;in gallantry, in conversation, in principle, and in
      heart. Nor has the deterioration of the gentleman been confined to England
      only&mdash;polite and ceremonious France has felt her change. The
      Revolution brought in coarse and uncivilised manners. The awkward and
      unsuccessful attempt at Spartan and Roman republican manners; the citizen
      succeeding to Monsieur; the blasphemous, incredulous, atheistical
      principles instilled into the then growing generation of all classes; the
      system of equality, subversive of courtliness, and the obliging attentions
      and suavities of society, poisoned at once the source <span class="pagenum">[220]</span>of
      morals and of manners; for there can be nothing gentlemanlike in atheism,
      radicalism, and the level, ling system. To this state of things succeeded
      a reign of terror, assassination, and debauchery; and lastly, a military
      despotism, in which the private soldier rose to the marshals baton; a
      groom in the stables of the Prince of Condé saw himself ennobled; peers
      and generals had brothers still keeping little retail shops; and a
      drum-boy lived to see his wife&mdash;a washerwoman, or fish vender&mdash;a
      duchess (Madame Lefevre). How can we expect breeding from such materials?
      Bayonets gave brilliancy to the imperial court; and the youth of the
      country were all soldiers, without dreaming of the gentleman, except in a
      low bow and flourish of the hat; a greater flourish of self-praise, and a
      few warm, loose, and dangerous compliments to the fairer sex, became more
      than even the objects of their passion, but less so of their attentions
      and prepossessing assiduities. This military race taught us to smoke, to
      snuff, to drink brandy, and to swear; for although John Bull never was
      backward in that point, yet St. Giles's and not St. James's, was the <i>rendezvous</i>
      for those who possessed that brutal and invincible habit. These were not
      amongst the least miseries and curses which the war produced; and they
      have left such mischievous traces behind them, that the mature race in
      France laugh at the old court, and at all old civil and religious
      principles, whilst our demoralized youth play the same game at home. And
      if a Bolingbroke or a Chesterfield was now to appear, he would be quizzed
      by all the smokers, jokers, hoaxers, glass-cockers, blacklegs, and
      fancy-fellows of the town, amongst whom all ranks are perfectly lost, and
      morality is an absolute term. O tempora! O Moses! (as the would-be Lady
      Sckolard said.) Nor does Moses play second best in these characters of the
      day. Moses has crept into all circles; from the ring to the peerage and
      baronetage, the stage, the <span class="pagenum">[221]</span>race-course;
      and our clubs are tinged with the Israelitish: they may lend money, but
      they cannot lend a lustre to the court, or to the gilded and painted
      saloons of the <i>beau monde</i>. The style of things is altered; we mean
      not the old style and new in point of date, but in point of brilliancy in
      the higher circles. Our ancestors never bumped along the streets, with a
      stable-boy by their side, in a one-horse machine, which is now the <i>bon
      ton</i> in imitation of our Gallic neighbours, whose equipage is measured
      by their purse. Where do you now see a carriage with six horses, and three
      outriders, and an <i>avant courier</i>, except on Lord Mayor's day? Yet
      how common this was with the nobility <i>d'autrefois</i>. Two grooms are
      no longer his Grace's and my Lord's attendants, but each is followed by
      one groom in plain clothes, not very dissimilar from the man he serves. Do
      we ever see the star of nobility in the morning, to guard him who has a
      right to it from popular rudeness and a confusion of rank? All is now
      privacy, concealment, equality in exterior, musty and meanness: not that
      the plain style of dress would be exceptionable, if we could say in verity&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'We have within what far surpasseth show.'
</pre>
    <p>
      But the lining is now no better (oftentimes worse) than the coat. Our
      principles and our politeness are on a par&mdash;at low-water mark. The
      tradesman lives like the gentleman, and the nobleman steps down a degree
      to be, like other people, up to all fashionable habits and modern customs;
      whilst the love for gain, at the clubs, on the turf, in the ring, and in
      private life, debases one part of society, and puts down the other, which
      becomes the pigeon to the rook. Whilst all this goes on, the press
      chronicles and invents follies for us; and there are men stupid enough to
      glory in their depravity, to be pleased with their own deformity of mind,
      body, or dress, of their affectations, <span class="pagenum">[222]</span>and
      their leading of a party. There is something manly in the Yacht Club, in a
      dexterously driving four fleet horses in hand, in reining in the proud
      barb, and in gymnastic exercises: but the whole merit of these ceases,
      when my Lord (like him of carroty beard) becomes the tar without his
      glory, and wears the check shirt without the heart of oak&mdash;when the
      driver becomes the imitator of the stage and hackney box&mdash;when the
      rider is the unsuccessful rival of the jockey; and the frequenter of the
      gymnastic arena becomes a bruiser, or one turning strength into money, be
      the bet or the race what it may.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Shades of our ancestors! whose fame of old
          In ev'ry time the echoing world has told!
          Whose dauntless valour and heroic deeds,
          Each British bosom yet enraptur'd reads!
          Deeds, which in ev'ry country, clime, and age,
          Have fill'd the poet's and historian's page;
          Of ev'ry muse the theme, and ev'ry pen:
          Ye I invoke! and ye, my countrymen,
          If British blood yet flows within your veins,
          If for your country aught of love remains,
          O make your first, your chief, your only care,
          That which first rais'd and made you what you were.'"
</pre>
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    <h2>
      CHELTONIAN CHARACTERS.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      A TRIP TO THE SPAS.
    </h3>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER I.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      <span class="pagenum">[223]</span>
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Bernard Blackmantle and Bob Transit pay a Visit to the
     Chelts&mdash;Privileges of a Spy&mdash;Alarm at Chelten-him&mdash;The rival
     Editors&mdash;The setting of a great Son&mdash;How to sink in
     Popularity and Respect&mdash;A noble Title&mdash;An old Flame&mdash;
     Poetical <i>jeu d'esprit</i>, by Vinegar Penn&mdash;Muriatic Acid&mdash;An
     Attorney-General's Opinion on Family Propensities given
     without a Fee!!&mdash;The Cheltenham Dandy, or the Man in the
     Cloak, a Sketch from the Life-Noble Anecdote of the Fox-
     hunting Parson&mdash;Bury-ing alive at Berkeley&mdash;Public
     Theatricals in private&mdash;"A Michaelmas Preachment," by an
     Honest Reviewer&mdash;A few Words for Ourselves&mdash;The Grand
     Marshall&mdash;Interesting Story of a former M. C.

          "Oh, I've been to countries rare;
          Seen such sights, 'twould make you stare."
</pre>
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    <p>
      "That last chapter of yours, Blackmantle, on John Long and John Long's
      customers, will long remain a memorial of your scrutinizing
      qualifications, and, as I think, will prevent your taking your port,
      punch, pines, or soda-water in Bond-street for some time to come, lest
      'suspicion, which ever haunts the guilty mind,' should in the course of
      conversation convict you; and then, my dear fellow, you would certainly go
      off pop like the last-mentioned article in the above reference to the
      luxuries of Long's hotel." <span class="pagenum">[224]</span>"Bravo, Bob
      Transit!" said I; "this comes mighty well from you, sir, my <i>fidus
      achates</i>.&mdash;'<i>A bon chat bon rat</i>'&mdash;the <i>fidus and
      audax</i> satirists of the present times. And who, sir, dares to doubt our
      joint authority? are we not the very spies o' the age?
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Joint monarchs of all we survey;
          Our right there is none to dispute.'
</pre>
    <p>
      From the throne to, the thatched cottage, wherever there is character,
      'there fly we,' and, on the wings of merry humour, draw with pen and
      pencil a faithful portraiture of things as they are; not tearing aside the
      hallowed veil of private life, but seizing as of public right on public
      character, and with a playful vein of satire proving that we are of the
      poet's school;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Form'd to delight at once and lash the age.'

          At this season of the year fashion cries out of
          Town; so, pack up, Master Robert, and
          Let us to Chelt's retiring banks,
          Where beaux and beauties throng,
          To drink at Spas and play rum pranks,
          That here will live in song.
</pre>
    <p>
      What Cheltenham was, is no business of ours; what it is, as regards its
      buildings, salubrious air, and saline springs, its walks, views,
      libraries, theatre, and varieties, my friend Williams, whose shop at the
      corner of the assembly rooms is the grand lounge of the literati, will put
      the visitor into possession of for the very moderate sum of five
      shillings. But, reader, if you would search deeper into society, and know
      something of the whim and character of the frequenters and residents of
      this fashionable place of public resort, you must consult the English Spy,
      and trace in his pages and the accompanying plates of his friend Bob
      Transit the faithful likenesses of the scenes and persons who figure in
      the maze of fashion, <span class="pagenum">[225]</span>or attract
      attention by the notoriety of their amours, the eccentricity of their
      manners, or the publicity of their attachments to the ball or the
      billiard-room, the card or the hazard-table, the turf or the chase; for in
      all of these does Cheltenham abound. From the <i>cercle de la basse to the
      cercle de la haute</i>, from the nadir to the zenith, 'I know ye, and have
      at ye all'&mdash;ye busy, buzzing, merry, amorous groups of
      laughter-loving, ogling, ambling, gambling Cheltenham folk.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'A chiel's among ye taking notes,
          And faith, he'll print them.'
</pre>
    <p>
      To spy out your characteristic follies, ye sons and daughters of pleasure,
      have we, Bernard Blackmantle and Robert Transit, esquires, travelled down
      to Cheltenham to collect materials for an odd chapter of a very odd book,
      but one which has already established its fame by continued success, and,
      as I hope owes much of its increasing prosperity to its characteristic
      good-humour; so, without more preface, imagine a little dapper-looking
      fellow of about five feet something in altitude, attended by a tall
      sharp-visaged gentleman in very spruce costume, parading up and down the
      High-street, Cheltenham&mdash;lounging for a few minutes in Williams's
      library&mdash;making very inquisitive remarks upon the passing
      singularities&mdash;and then the little man most impertinently whispering
      to his friend with the Quixotic visage, book him, Bob&mdash;when out comes
      the note book of both parties, and down goes somebody. Afterwards see them
      popping into this shop, and then into the other, spying and prying about&mdash;occasionally
      nodding perhaps to a London actor, who shines forth here a star of the
      first magnitude; John Liston, for instance, or Tyrone Power&mdash;then
      posting off to the well walks, or disturbing the peaceful dead by ambling
      over their graves in search of humorous epitaphs&mdash;making their way
      down to the Berkeley kennel in North-street (See Plate), <span
      class="pagenum">[226]</span>or paying a visit to the Paphian divinities at
      the Oakland cottages under the Cleigh Hills&mdash;trotting here and there&mdash;making
      notes and sketches until all Cheltenham is in a state of high excitement,
      and the rival editors of the Chronicle and Journal, Messrs. Halpine and
      Judge, are so much alarmed that they are almost prepared to become
      friends, and unite their forces for the time against the common enemy.
    </p>
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    <p>
      Imagine such an animated, whispering, gazing, inquiring scene, as I have
      here presented you with a slight sketch of, and, reader, you will be able
      to form some idea of the first appearance of the English Spy and his
      friend the artist, among the ways and walks of merry Cheltenham. Then here
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'At once, I dedicate my lay
          To the gay groups that round me swarm,
          Like May-bees round the honied hive,
          When fields are green, and skies are warm
          And all in nature seems alive.'
</pre>
    <p>
      Time was, a certain amorous colonel carried every thing here, and bore
      away the belle from all competitors; the hunt, the ball, the theatre, and
      the card-party all owned his sovereign sway; although it must be admitted,
      that, in the latter amusement, he seldom or ever hazarded enough to
      disturb his financial recollections on the morrow. But time works wonders&mdash;notoriety
      is of two complexions, and what may render a man a very agreeable
      companion to foxhunters and frolicsome lordlings, is not always the best
      calculated to recommend him in the eyes of the accomplished and the rigid
      in matters of moral propriety. But other equally celebrated and less
      worthy predilections have been trumpeted forth in courts and newspapers,
      until the fame of the colonel has spread itself through every grade of
      society, and, unlike that wreath which usually decks the gallant soldier's
      brow, a cypress chaplet binds the early gray, and makes admonitory signal
      of the ill-spent past. The wrongs of an injured <span class="pagenum">[227]</span>and
      confiding husband, whose fortunes, wrecked by the false seducer, have left
      him a prey to shattered ruin, yet live in the remembrance of some honest
      Cheltenham hearts; and although these may feel for the now abandoned
      object of his illicit passion, there are but few who, while they drop a
      tear of pity as she passes them daily in the street, do not invoke a
      nobler feeling of indignation upon the ruthless head of him who forged the
      shafts of misery, and pierced at one fell blow the hearts of husband,
      wife, and children! What father that has read Maria's hapless tale of woe,
      and marked the progress of deceptive vice, will hereafter hazard the
      reputation of his daughters by suffering them to mix in Cheltenham society
      with the branded seducer and his profligate associates? Gallantry, an
      unrestricted love of the fair sex, and a predilection for variety, may all
      be indulged in this country to any extent, without betraying confidence on
      the one hand or innocence upon the other, without outraging decency, or
      violating the established usages of society. While the profligate confines
      his sensual pleasures with such objects as I allude to within the walls of
      his harem, the moralist has no right to trespass upon his privacy; it is
      only when they are blazoned forth to public view, and daringly opposed to
      public scorn, that the lash of the satirist is essentially useful, if not
      in correcting, at least in exposing the systematic seducer, and putting
      the inexperienced and the virtuous on their guard against the practice of
      profligacy. It is the frequency and notoriety of such scenes that has at
      last alarmed the Chelts, who, fearing more for their suffering interests
      than for their suffering fellow-creatures, begin to murmur rather loudly
      against the Berkeley Adonis, representing that the town itself suffers in
      respectability and increase of visitors, by its being known as the
      rendezvous of the bloods and blacks of Berkeley. The truth of this
      assertion may be gathered from the <span class="pagenum">[228]</span>following
      <i>jeu d' esprit</i>, only one among a hundred of such squibs that have
      been very freely circulated in Cheltenham and the neighbourhood within the
      last year.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'NEWS FROM CHELTENHAM.

          'The season runs smartly in Cheltenham's town,
          The gossips are up, and the colonel is down;
          He has taken the place of the famous Old Gun {1}
          That exploded last year, and created some fun.
          Were no lives then lost? some say, Yes! and some, No!
          The report even shook the old walls of Glasgow.{2}
          And the Bushe was found out to be no safe retreat,
          For in love, as in war, you may chance to be beat;
          And a hell-shaming fellow can never be reckon'd,
          Whate'er he may publish, a capital second.'
</pre>
    <p>
      "But now having had our fling at his vices, let us speak of him more
      agreeably; for the fellow hath some qualifications which, if humour suit,
      enables him to shine forth a star of the first magnitude among <i>bons
      vivants</i> and sporting characters, who ride, amble, and vegetate upon
      the banks of the Chelt. Such is his love of hunting, a pleasure in which
      he not only indulges himself, but enables others, his friends, to
      participate with him, by keeping up a numerous stud of thirty well trained
      horses, and a double pack of fox-hounds, that no appropriate day may be
      lost, nor any opportunity missed, of pursuing the sports of the chase.
      This is as it should be, and smacks of that glorious spirit which animated
      his ancestors; although the violence of his temper will sometimes break
      out even here, in the field, when some young and forward Nimrod, unable to
      restrain his fiery steed, <i>o'er-caps</i> the hounds, or crosses the
      scent. As the Chelts are, or have been, greatly benefited by the hounds
      being kept alternately during the hunting months between
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1  A good-morrow to you, Captain Gun.

     2  Miss Glasgow, divine perfection of antique virgin purity!
     what could the poet mean by this allusion?
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[229]</span>Cheltenham and Gloucester, they must at
      least feel some little gratitude to be due to the man who is the cause of
      such an increase of society, and consequent expenditure of cash. But, say
      they, we lose in a fourfold degree; for the respectable portion of the
      fashionable visitants have of late cut us entirely, to save their sons and
      daughters from pollution and ruin, by association or the force of example.
      'Tis not in the nature of the English Spy rudely to draw aside the
      curtain, even to expose the midnight revelries and debaucheries, of which
      he possesses some extraordinary anecdotes; events, which, if recorded
      here, would, in the language of the poet,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Give ample room, and verge enough,
          The characters of hell to trace;
          How through each circling year, on many a night,
          Have Severn's waves re-echoed with affright
          The shrieks of (maids) through Berkeley's roofs that ring.'
</pre>
    <p>
      "But let these tales be told hereafter, as no doubt they will be, by the
      creatures who now pander to vice, when the satiated and the sullen chief
      sinks into decay, or cuts from his emaciated trunk the filthy excrescences
      which, like poisonous fungus, suck the sap of honour and of life. The
      colonel hath had many trials in this life, and much to break down a noble
      and a proud spirit. In earlier days, a question of birthright, while it
      cut off one entail, brought on another, which entailed a name, not the
      ancient gift of a monarch, but one still more ancient, and, according to
      Dodsley's Chronology of the Kings of England, the origin of British
      sovereignty itself&mdash;a '<i>filius nullius,</i>' a title that left it
      open to the wearer to have established his own fame, and to have been the
      architect of a nobler fortune; for
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Who nobly acts may hold to scorn
          The man who is but nobly born.'
</pre>
    <p>
      "Had the colonel acted thus, there is little doubt but long ere this the
      kind heart of his Majesty would have <span class="pagenum">[230]</span>warmed
      into graciousness as he reflected upon the untoward circumstances which
      removed from the eldest born of an ancient house the honours of its
      armorial bearings; the <i>engrailed bar</i> might have been erased from
      the shield, and the coronet of nobility have graced the elder brother,
      without invading the legal designation or claims of the legitimate
      younger; but
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          I sing of a day that is gone and past,
          Of a chance that is lost, and a die that's cast.
</pre>
    <p>
      And even now, while I am sermonizing on late events but too notorious, the
      busy hum of many voices buzzes a tale upon the ear that sickens with its
      unparalleled profligacy; but the English Spy, the faithful historian of
      the present times, refuses to stain his pages by giving credit to, or
      recording, the imputed profligate connexion. Adieu, <i>monsieur</i> the
      colonel; fain would I have passed you by without this comment; but your
      association with the black spirits of the 'Age'{3} has placed you upon a
      pedestal, the proper mark for satire to shoot her barbed arrows at.
    </p>
    <p>
      "But let us take a turn down the High Street; and as I live here comes an
      old flame of the colonel's, Miss R*g*rs, who is now turned into Mrs.
      E***n, and who, it is said, most wickedly turned her pen, and pointed the
      following <i>jeu d'esprit</i> against her late protector, when he was laid
      up by a serious accident, which happened to his knee after the more
      serious loss of a&mdash;<i>Foote</i>.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     3 "A fellow-feeling makes us wondrous kind" says Pope; and
     it would appear so from the intimacy which subsists between
     the colonel and his jackall Bunn, the would-be captain, who
     it is said is the <i>filius nullius</i> of old Ben Bunn the
     <i>conveyancer</i>, not of legal title or estate by roll of
     parchment, but of the very soil itself. Lord W. Lennox, too,
     no doubt, prides himself upon the illegitimate origin of his
     ancestry; and the publisher of the infamous scandals
     manufactured in the Quadrant is also of the same kidney,
     being the reputed natural son of jolly old Bardolph Jennyns.
     What the remaining portion of the coterie spring from, the
     Gents and Bs., the sensitive nose of a sensible man will
     very easily discover.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[231]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'To Cupid's colonel help, ye people all;
          He's missed his <i>Footing</i>, 'Pride has had a fall;'
          The knee's uncapp'd, the calf laid open quite,
          The Foote presents the most distressing sight;
          Its form so perfect, pity none were nigh,
          With warning voice to guard from injury.
          Waltzers! your peerless partner view,
          The gallant gay Lothario quite <i>perdu;
          Sans Foote</i> to rest upon, his claims deny'd
          To take a birth by English nobles' side.
          Let him to Cheltenham, 'tis not to go far;
          He's sure to find a <i>seat&mdash;on Irish car</i>.'
</pre>
    <p>
      "I am told, but I cannot discover the allusion myself, that Miss B*g*rs
      was prompted to this effusion of the satiric muse by the green-eyed
      monster, Jealousy, Observe that machine yonder, rumbling up the street
      like an Irish jaunting-car, that contains the numerous family of M***r,
      the vinegar merchant, whose lady being considered by the Chelts as
      lineally descended from the Tartar race, they have very facetiously
      nicknamed muriatic acid. The mad wag with the sandy whiskers yonder, and
      somewhat pleasant-looking countenance, is a second-hand friend of the
      colonel's; mark how he is ogling the young thing in the milliner's shop
      through the window: his daily occupation, making assignations, and his
      nightly amusement, a new favourite. A story is told of his father, a
      highly respected legal character in the Emerald Isle, that, on being asked
      by a friend why his son had left the country, replied, 'By Jasus, sir, it
      was high time: sure I am there's enough of the family left behind. Is not
      his lady in a <i>promising</i> way, and both his female servants, and
      those of two or three of his friends, and are not both mine in a similar
      situation? Zounds, sir, if he had remained here much longer, there would
      not have been a single female in the whole country. However, 'Good wine,
      they say, needs no Bushe,' so I shall leave him unmarked by his family
      cognomen, lest this <span class="pagenum">[232]</span>should be taken as a
      puff-card of his capabilities, and thereby add to the list of his
      Cytherean exploits. In a late affair, when the colonel was called out (but
      did not come), Sir Patrick beat about the Bushe for him very judiciously,
      and by great skill in diplomacy enabled his friend to come off second
      best. But here comes one who stands at odds with description, and attracts
      more notice in Cheltenham than even the colonel, his companions, and all
      the metropolitan visitory put together. If I was to lend myself to the
      circulation of half the strange tales related of him by the Chelts, I
      could fill a small-sized volume; but brevity is the soul of wit, and the
      eccentric Mackey, with all his peculiarities and strange fancies for
      midnight mastications, has a soul superior to the common herd, and a
      'heart and hand, open as day, to melting charity.' It is strange, 'passing
      strange,' that one so rich and fond of society, and well-descended withal,
      should choose thus to ape the ridiculous; a man, too, if report speaks
      truly, of no ordinary talents as a writer on finance, and an expounder of
      the solar system. Vanity! vanity! what strange fantasies and eccentric
      fooleries dost thou sometimes fill the brain of the biped with, confining
      thy freaks, however, to that strange animal&mdash;man. The countenance of
      our eccentric is placid and agreeable, and, provided it was cleared of a
      load of snuff, which weighs down the upper lip, might be said to be,
      although in the sear o' the leaf, highly intellectual; but the old Scotch
      cloak, the broad-brimmed hat of the covenanter, the loose under vest, the
      thread-bare coat shaking in the wind, like the unmeasured garment of the
      scarecrow, and the colour-driven nankeens, grown short by age and frequent
      hard rubbings; then, too, the flowing locks of iron gray straggling over
      the shoulders like the withered tendrils of a blighted vine&mdash;all
      conspire to arrest the attention of an inquisitive eye; yet the Chelts
      know but little <span class="pagenum">[233]</span>about his history,
      beyond his being a man of good property, the proprietor of the Vittoria
      boarding-house, inoffensive in manners, obliging in disposition, and
      intelligent in conversation. His great penchant is a midnight supper,
      stewed chicken and mushrooms, or any other choice and highly-seasoned
      dish; to enjoy which in perfection, he hath a maiden sleeping at the foot
      of his bed ready to attend his commands, which, it is said, are
      communicated to her in a very singular way; no particle of speech being
      used to disturb the solemn silence of the night, but a long cane reaching
      downwards to the slumbering maid, by certain horizontal taps against her
      side, propelled forward by the hand of the craving <i>gourmand</i>, wakes
      her to action, and the banquet, piping-hot from the stew-pan, smokes upon
      the board, unlike a vision, sending up real and enchanting odoriferous
      perfumes beneath his olfactory organs. Extraordinary as this account may
      appear, it is, I believe, strictly true, and is the great feature of the
      eccentric's peculiarities, all the minor whims and fancies being of a
      subordinate and uninteresting nature. I shall conclude my notice of him by
      relating an action that would do honour to a king, and will excuse the
      eccentric with the world, although his follies were ten times more
      remarkable. During the suspension of payments by one of the Cheltenham
      banks, and when all the poorer class of mechanics and labourers were in a
      most piteous situation from the unprecedented number of one pound
      provincial notes then in circulation, Mr. Mackey, to his eternal-honour be
      it related, and without the remotest interest in the bank, stepped nobly
      forward, unsolicited and unsupported, gave to all the poor people who held
      the one pound notes the full value for them, reserving to himself only the
      chance of the dividend. Ye Berkeleys, Ducies, Lennoxes, Cravens, Hammonds,
      Bushes, Molineauxes, and Coventrys, and all the long list of Cheltenham
      gay! <span class="pagenum">[234]</span>show me an action like this ye have
      done&mdash;a spirit so noble, when did you display?&mdash;Do you see that
      rosy-gilled fellow coming this way, with a hunting-whip in his hand? in
      costume, more like a country horse-dealer than a country clergyman; yet
      such he was, until the bishop of the diocese removed the clerical
      incumbrance of the cassock, to give the wearer freer license to indulge
      his vein for hunting, coursing, cock-fighting, and the unrestricted
      pleasures of the table and the bottle. A good story is told of him and his
      friend, the colonel, who, having invited some unsophisticated farmer to
      partake of the festivities of the castle, laid him low with strong
      potations of <i>black strap</i>, and in that state had him carried forth
      to the stable-yard, where he was immured up to his neck in warm
      horse-dung, the pious ex-chaplain reading the burial-service over him in
      presence of the surviving members of the hunt."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Who the deuce is that pleasant-looking fellow," said Bob, "who appears to
      give and gain the <i>quid pro quo</i> from every body that passes him?"
      "That, my dear fellow, is the Grand Marshal of all the merry meetings
      here, and a very gentlemanly, jovial, and witty fellow; just such a man as
      should fill the office of master of the ceremonies, having both seen and
      experienced enough of the world to know how to estimate character almost
      at a first interview; he is highly and deservedly respected. There is a
      very affecting anecdote in circulation respecting his predecessor, the
      detail of which I much regret that I have lost; but the spirit of the
      affair was too strongly imprinted upon my memory to be easily obliterated.
      He had, it appears, loved a beauteous girl in early life, and met with a
      reciprocal return; but the stern mandate of parental authority prevented
      their union. The lover, almost broken-hearted, sought a distant clime,
      and, after years of peril, returned to England, bringing with him a wife.
      The match had been one <span class="pagenum">[235]</span>of interest, and
      they are seldom those of domestic bliss. It proved so here&mdash;he became
      dissipated, and squandered away the property he had possessed himself of
      by marriage. In this situation, he collected together the wreck of his
      fortunes, and retired to Cheltenham, where his amiable qualities and
      gentlemanly conduct endeared him to a large circle of acquaintance, and,
      in the end, he was induced to accept the situation of master of the
      ceremonies. Time rolled on, and his former partner being dead, he was,
      from his volatile and thoughtless disposition, again plunged in
      difficulties, and imprisoned for debt. The circumstance became known to
      her at whose shrine in early life he had vowed eternal devotion: with a
      still fond recollection of him, who alone had ever shared her heart, she
      hastened to the spot, and, being now a wealthy spinster, paid all his
      debts and released him from durance. Gratitude and love both pointed out
      the course for the obliged M. c. to pursue; but, alas! there is nothing
      certain in the anticipations of complete happiness in this life. The lady
      fell suddenly sick, and died on the very day they were to have been
      married, leaving him sole executor of her property. The calamitous event
      made such a deep impression upon a feeling mind, already shaken by trouble
      and disease, that finding his prospects of bliss again blighted without a
      chance of recovery, he fell into a state of despondency, and was, within a
      week, laid a corpse by the side of his first love. At the post-office,&mdash;purposely
      placed out of the way by the sagacious Chelts to give strangers the
      trouble of making inquiries,&mdash;I received the following whim from the
      same witty pen who wrote me, anonymously, an inauguration ode to commence
      my second volume with." "Who is this whimsical spirit in the clouds?" said
      Bob. "Ay, lad," I retorted, "that's just the inquiry I have been making
      for the last eight months: <span class="pagenum">[236]</span>although it
      would appear we have&mdash;<i>ad interim</i>&mdash;been running, riding,
      racing, rowing, and sailing together in various parts of the kingdom, you
      perceive, Bob, there are more Spies than ourselves at work. However, this
      must be some protecting geni who hovers over our heads and fans the air on
      silken wing, wafting zephyr-like the ambrosial breeze, where'er our merry
      fancies stray. Anon, 'we'll drink a measure the table round;' and if we
      forget the 'Honest Reviewer,' may we lose all relish for a racy joke, and
      be forgotten ourselves by the lovers of good fellowship and good things."
      "Which we never shall be," said Bob; "for those eccentric <i>tomes</i> of
      ours must and will continue to amuse a laughter-loving age, when we are
      booked inside and bound for t'other world." There was not a little
      egotism, methought, about friend Transit's eulogy; but as every parent has
      a sort of poetical licence allowed him in praising his own bantlings,
      perhaps the patronage bestowed by the public upon the English Spy may
      excuse a little vanity in either the author or the artist. "But you are
      the great magician o' the south yourself, Bernard," continued Transit,
      "and will you not use your power, you who can 'call spirits from the vasty
      deep'" "True, Bob; I can call, but will they come when I shall command?
      However, let us retire to our inn, and after dinner we'll chant his lay;
      and if he dances not to the music of his own metre, then hath he no true
      inspiration in him, and is a poet without vanity, a <i>vara avis</i> who
      delighteth not in receiving the reward of merit; so on, old fellow, to our
      quarters, where we will
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Carve the goose, and quaff the wine,'
          And wish our sprite were here to dine&mdash;
          We'd give him hearty cheer;
          A welcome such as hand and heart
          To kindred spirits should impart,
          Where friendship reigns sincere.'
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[237]</span>We would punish him for sending his odes
      to us without sending his family cognomen therewith. Have we not done him
      immortal honour&mdash;placed him in front of our second volume like a
      golden dedication, and what is more, selected him from many a pleasant
      whim, to stand by our side; the only associate who can claim one line
      engrafted on to the never-ending fame of the English Spy?&mdash;But to the
      'Preachment;' let us have another taste of his quality."
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Dlink2H_4_0003" id="Dlink2H_4_0003">
      <!--  H2 anchor --> </a>
    </p>
    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
    </div>
    <h2>
      A SECOND ODE TO BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ESQ.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      or A MICHAELMAS-DAY PREACHMENT.
    </h3>
    <p>
      BY AN HONEST REVIEWER.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "<i>Iterumque, iterumque vocabo</i>."&mdash;Ancient Classics.

          "'Tis a lucky day, boy, and we'll do goods on't."
          &mdash;Winter's Tale.

          "Ours is the skie,
          Where at what fowle we please our hawks shall flie."
          &mdash;Anon.

          Ay, here I come once more, great sir,
          Out of pure love to minister
          Some golden truths to thee;
          Faustus ye're not, nor Frankenstein,
          Yet, being up to trap, I ween
          You'll need a sprite like me.

          Eve watch'd you closely, my young squire,
          Since at vol. two I cool'd the ire
          That left a little stain;
          And therefore wonder not, sweet Spy,
          Since both of us at follies fly,
          Your "Tonson comes again."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[238]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          This is the day of Michaelmas.
          Many would say, ay, "let that pass"
          As a forgotten thing.
          Not so with us, our rent we pay,
          And do we not, on quarter-day,
          Our taxes to the king?

          Since, then, "our withers are unwrung,"
          And we need wish no blister'd tongue
          To creditors and duns,
          Let's carve the goose, and quaff the wine,
          And toast September twenty-nine,
          Nor mark how fast time runs.

          We've clone the same; that is, we've quaffd,
          And sung, and danced, and drunk, and laugh'd,
          When we were half seas over;
          I don't mean tipsy, bless you, no!
          But when we pass'd, like dart from bow,
          Cowes Roads on board the Rover.

          So pipe all hands; for though no gale
          From sea-wash'd shores distend our sail,
          We'll man a vessel here.
          This room's our ship; this wine's our tide;
          And the good friends we sit beside,
          The messmates of our cheer.

          Ay, this looks well; now till the glass
          To king, to country, and our lass,
          And all of pluck and feather;
          That done around, and nothing loth,
          Since we are "learned Thebans" both,

          We'll have some talk together.
          You've been to Cheltenham, I find,
          And, zounds! you really ride the wind,
          To Bath and Worcester too;
          To South'ton and the Isle of Wight,
          As if increase of appetite
          With every new dish grew.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[239]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          But it was really <i>infra dig</i>.
          Spite of your old horse and new gig,
          You did not, some fine morn,
          Drive up to Malcolm Ghur, d'ye see,{4}
          And leave two pretty cards for me
          And Sir John Barleycorn.

          We would have been your chorus, sir,
          Or, an' you pleased, your trumpeter,
          And <i>lioned</i> you about;
          Have shown you every pretty girl,
          And every <i>nouvelle</i> quadrille twirl,
          And every crowded rout.

          At eight o' morns have call'd you down,
          (What would they say of that in town?)
          To swallow pump-room water;
          At eight o' nights have call'd you up,
          (Our grandams used just then to sup),
          To 'gin the dinner slaughter.

          Have whisk'd you o'er to Colonel B's,
          Or drove you up to Captain P's,
          Dons unto Cheltenham steady.
          But I forget the world, good lack,
          Have play'd enough with such a pack
          Of great court-cards already.

     4 Malcolm Ghur, one of the very prettiest of the many pretty
     newly-erected mansions that give a character to the environs
     of Cheltenham. To its proprietor do I owe much for
     hospitality; a merrier man, withal, dwells not in my
     remembrance; he is of your first-rate whist players, though
     he rarely now joins in the game. As the chaplain of the
     county-lodge of F. M. he is much distinguished; and, at the
     dinners of the Friendly Brothers&mdash;which are luxurious
     indeed, and all for the "immortal memory" of William, king
     of that name, and whose portrait ornaments their reading-
     room&mdash;who better than he can "set the table in a roar"?
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[240]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Have set you down at ten pound whist
          With A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-y, and the <i>au fait</i> list,{5}
          Turning your nights to days;
          Or, somewhat wiser, bid you mix
          Where less expensive are odd tricks,
          And where friend R&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-n plays.{6}

          Have made you try a double trade,
          By clapping you in masquerade,
          To jaunt at fancy-balls;
          You would have seen some merry sights
          On two or three particular nights,
          In good Miss&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-'s halls.{7}

          You could have gone as harlequin,
          Or clad yourself in Zamiel's skin,
          Your tending spirits we;
          Or "Peeping Tom" may be more apt,
          Since all are in your record clapp'd
          We send to Coventry.

     5 Colonel A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;y, certainly tho first whist player of the
     rooms.

     If he ever drilled a company of raw recruits half as well as
     he manages a handful of bad cards, he must have been the
     very admirable Crichton of soldiership.

     6 Mr. R&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;n, a facetious and good-humoured son of Erin;
     true

     as clock-work to the board of green cloth, though he has
     been an age making a fortune from it.

     7 Among the most fashionable amusements of Cheltenham are
     the fancy-balls, given by two or three of the principal
     sojourners in that place, of card-playing, scandal,
     freemasonry, and hot water&mdash;God knows how many are in the
     latter ingredient!    The most splendid I recollect was
     given by Colonel&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-, or rather Miss&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-, whose
     <i>protégé</i> he married; touching which alliance, there is a
     story of some interest and much romance. Of that, as Pierce
     Egan says very wittily in every critique, "of that anon."
     There certainly was some fun and humour displayed by a few
     of the characters on the particular evening I mention; the
     two best performers were   a   reverend   gentleman   as
     one   of   Russell's waggoners, inimitably portrayed, and
     Captain B. A&mdash;&mdash;-e, not the author of "To Day," but his
     brother, as an Indian prince. The dress, appearance, and
     language to the life.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[241]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Yet still you've shown us, my smart beau,
          Things that we should and should not know,
          Vide the Oakland cots.
          Bernard Blackmantle, learned Spy,
          Don't you think hundreds will cry fie,
          If you expose such plots?

          You should have told them as I do,
          And yet I love your hunters too,
          That nothing is so vile
          As strutting up and down a street,8
          Dirt-spatter'd o'er from head to feet,
          In the horse-jockey style.

          <i>Ne sutor ultra crep</i>, should tell
          These red-coats 'tis a paltry swell,
          Such careless customs backing;
          If they must strut in spurs and boots,
          For once I'd join the chalk recruits,
          And shout, "Use Turner's Blacking."

          Howe'er, push on&mdash;there are of all,
          Good, bad, high, low, and short, and tall,
          That seek from you decrees.
          Fear not, strike strong&mdash;you must not fly&mdash;
          We will have shots enough&mdash;I'm by,
          A Mephistopheles.

     8 There surely is much and offensive vanity in the practice
     adopted by many members of the B. H. of appearing on the
     pro-menades and in the rooms of Cheltenham, bespattered o'er
     with the slush and foam of the hunting field. Every
     situation has its decent appropriations, and one would
     suppose comfort would have taught these Nimrods a better
     lesson. It is pardonable for children to wear their
     Valentines on the 14th of February, or for a young ensign to
     strut about armed <i>cap à pie</i> for the first week of his
     appointment; but the fashion of showing off in a red jerkin,
     soiled smalls, mudded boots, and blooded spurs, is not
     imitable: there is nothing of the old manhood of sport in
     it; foppery and fox-hunting are not synonymous. Members of
     the B. H. look to it; follow no leader in this respect. Or,
     if you must needs persevere, turn your next fox out in the
     ball-room, and let the huntsman's horn and the view halloo
     supersede the necessity of harps and fiddle-strings.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[242]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      We'll learn and con them each by heart, Set them in note books by our art,
      Each lord, and duke, and tailor. From Dr. S&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;{9} to
      Peter K&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, U&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, O&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,
      and I&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, and E&mdash;&mdash;-, and A&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;,
      Down to the ploughman Naylor.{10}
    </p>
    <p>
      Then let them sow their crop of cares, Their flowers, their weeds, their
      fruit, their tares, Not looking ere they leap. We, like the folks in
      Jamie's book{11} Will i' the dark sharp up our hook, And, my own Barnard,
      reap.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     9 Dr. S&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-e, a very singular, but a very hearty kind
     of Caleb Quotem. He has been soldier, and sailor, doctor,
     and, I believe, divine. He is as well known at the best
     parties as the Wells and the Market-house. He gives feasts
     fit for the gods at home, and invariably credits his
     neighbours' viands as being Jove's nectar or the fruits of
     Paradise, so as to him they be not forbidden. Short commons
     could not upset his politeness. His anecdotes have a spice
     of the old courtier about them; but the line old <i>chanson à
     boire</i>, from Gammar Gurton's Needle,

          "Back and side go bare, go bare,
          Both foot and hand go cold;
          But belly, God send good ale enough,
          Whether it be new or old;"

     he really gives beautifully, and with a spice of the olden
     time quite delightful.

     10   Mr. Naylor, of the Plough hotel; an excellent Boniface,
     a good friend, and a merry companion. As a boy, I recollect
     him keeping the Castle at Marlborough; at "frisky
     eighteen," I have contributed to his success at the Crown at
     Portsmouth; and I now, older, and it may be, a little wiser
     grown, patronize him occasionally at Cheltenham.

     11  Vide Hogg's Brownie of Bodsbeck.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      A TRIP TO THE SPAS.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      <span class="pagenum">[243]</span>
    </h3>
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    <h2>
      CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     The Spas&mdash;Medicinal Properties&mdash;Interesting specimens of
     the Picturesque&mdash;"Spasmodic Affections from Spa Waters"&mdash;
     Grotesque Scripture&mdash;The Goddess Hygeia&mdash;Humorous Epitaph&mdash;
     Characters in the High Street&mdash;Traveller's Hall, or Sketches
     in the Commercial Room at the Bell Inn, Cheltenham.

          "For walks and for waters, for beaux and for belles,
          There's nothing in nature to rival their wells."
</pre>
    <p>
      Inquisitive traveller, if you would see the Well-walks in perfection, you
      must rise early, and take a sip of the saline aperients before you taste
      of the more substantial meal which the <i>Plough</i>-man. Naylor, or the
      Cheltenham <i>Bell</i>-man, or the <i>Shep-herd</i> of the <i>Fleece</i>,
      will be sure to prepare for your morning mastication. Fashion always
      requires some talismanic power to draw her votaries together, beyond the
      mere healthful attractions of salubrious air, pleasant rides, romantic
      scenery, and cheerful society; and this magnet the Chelts possess in the
      acknowledged medicinal properties of their numerous spas, the superior
      qualities of which have been thus pleasantly poetized:&mdash;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "They're a healthful, and harmless, and purgative potion,
          And as purely saline as the wave of the ocean,
          Whilst their rapid effects like a&mdash;&mdash;
          &mdash;&mdash;Hush! never mind;
          We'll leave their effects altogether behind."
</pre>
    <p>
      In short, if you wish to obtain benefit by the drinking of the waters, you
      must do it <i>dulcius ex ipso fonte</i>, as my Lord Bottle-it-out's
      system, the nobleman who originally planned the Well-walks, of sending it
      home <span class="pagenum">[244]</span>to the drinkers in bed, has long
      since been completely exploded; while, on the other hand, its rapid
      effects have been very faithfully delineated by my friend Transit's view
      of the Royal Wells, as they appeared on the morning of our visitation,
      presenting some very interesting specimens of the picturesque in the
      Cruikshank style, actually drawn upon the spot, and affording to the eye
      of a common observer the most indubitable proofs of the active properties
      of the
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Sulphate of soda, and oxide of iron,
          And gases, that none but the muse of a Byron
          Would attempt to describe in the magic of sound,
          Lest it made a report ere he'd quitted the ground;
          And poets are costive, as all the world knows,
          And value no fame that smells under their nose.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Would you like to take off a glass of the waters, sir?" said a very
      respectable-looking old lady to my friend Transit, who was at that moment
      too busily engaged in taking off the water-drinkers to pay attention to
      her request. "There's a beautiful contortion!" exclaimed Bob; sketching a
      beau who exhibited in his countenance all the horrors of cholera, and was
      running away as fast as his legs could carry him. "See, with what alacrity
      the old gentleman is moving off yonder, making as many wry faces as if he
      had swallowed an ounce of corrosive sublimate&mdash;and the ladies too,
      bless me, how their angelic smiles evaporate, and the roseate bloom of
      their cheeks is changed to the delicate tint of the lily, as they partake
      of these waters. What an admirable school for study is this! here we can
      observe every transition the human countenance is capable of expressing,
      from a ruddy state of health and happiness, to one of extreme torture,
      without charging our feelings with violence, and knowing that the pains
      are those of the patient's own seeking, and the penalties not of any long
      duration." In short, my friend Bob furnished, instanter, the subject of
      "Spasmodic Affections from, <span class="pagenum">[245]</span>Spa Waters,"
      (see plate); certainly one of his most spirited efforts.
    </p>
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    <p>
      But we must not pass by the elegant structure of Montpelier Spa, the
      property of Pearson Thompson, esquire, whose gentlemanly manners, superior
      talents, and kind conduct, have much endeared him to all who know him as
      an acquaintance, and more to those who call him their friend. Passing on
      the left-hand side of the upper well-walk, we found ourselves before this
      tasteful structure, and were much delighted with the arrangement of the
      extensive walks and grounds by which it is surrounded:&mdash;a
      health-inspiring spot, and as we are told,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Where Thompson's supreme and immaculate taste
          Has a paradise form'd from a wilderness waste;
          With his walks rectilineous, all shelter'd with trees,
          That shut out the sunshine and baffle the breeze,
          And a field, where the daughters of Erin{12}may roam
          In a fence of sweet-brier, and think they're at home."
</pre>
    <p>
      The Sherborne Spa, but recently erected, is indeed a very splendid
      building, and forms a very beautiful object from the High-street, from
      which it is plainly seen through a grove of trees, forming a vista of
      nearly half a mile in length, standing on a gentle eminence, presenting on
      both sides gravelled walks, with gardens and elegant buildings, that
      display great taste in architecture. The Pump-room is a good specimen of
      the Grecian Ionic, said to be correctly modelled from the temple on the
      river Ilissus at Athens, and certainly is altogether a work worthy of
      admiration. The grotesque colossal piece of sculpture which crowns the
      central dome, as well as the building, has been wittily described by the
      author of the "Cheltenham Mail."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     12 The great number of Irish families who reside and
     congregate at Cheltenham fully justifies the poet's
     particular allusion to the fair daughters of Erin.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[246]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "And then lower down, in fine Leckampton stone,
          We've the fane of <i>Ilissus</i> in miniature shown;
          And crown'd with Hygeia&mdash;a bouncer, my lud!
          And as plump, ay, as any princess of the blood,
          Carved in stone, but a good imitation of wood:
          With her vest all in plaits, like some ancient costume,
          But or Roman or Grecian, I'm loth to presume,
          So I cannot be <i>poz</i> yet I blush to confess,
          That her limbs are shown off in a little undress;
          Whilst the goddess herself, <i>en bon point</i> as she is,
          With her curls <i>à la Grecque</i>, and but little <i>chemise</i>,
          Is so plump and so round, my dear sir, it is plain,
          She must bring <i>the robust</i> into fashion again."
</pre>
    <p>
      Coming back through the churchyard from Alstone Spa, we discovered the
      following humorous epitaph.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Here lies John Ball;
          An unfortunate fall,
          By crossing a wall,
          Brought him to his end."
</pre>
    <p>
      Peace to his manes! But, with such a notice above him to excite attention,
      it is well he hears not, or ten times a clay his sleep might be sadly
      disturbed. Once more we are in the High Street, where I shall just sketch
      two or three singularities, without which my notice of the eccentrics of
      Cheltenham might be deemed imperfect.
    </p>
    <p>
      The dashing knight coming this way on horseback, with his double-pommelled
      saddle, is a well-known Cheltenham resident, whose love of the good things
      of this world induced him to look into the kitchen for a helpmate, and he
      found one, who not only supplies his table with excellent dishes, but also
      furnishes the banquet with a liberal quantity of sauce. The group of <i>roués</i>
      to the right, standing under the portico (I suppose I must call it) to the
      rooms, is composed of that good-humoured fellow Ormsby, who sometimes
      figures here as an amateur actor, and, whether on or off the stage, is
      generally respected for the amiable qualities of his heart. The <span
      class="pagenum">[247]</span>gentleman with the <i>blue bauble</i> round
      his neck is, or was, a lieutenant-colonel, and still loves to fire a great
      gun now and then, when he gets into the trenches before Seringapatam; but
      I must leave others to unriddle the character, while I pay my respects to
      another military hero, who is no less famous among the Chelts for his
      attachment to the stage&mdash;Lieutenant-colonel B*****ll, of whom it
      would be difficult for any one who knew him to speak disrespectfully. Sir
      John N****tt and his son, who are here called the inseparables, finish the
      picture upon this spot, with the exception of my old friend the jack of
      trumps, R*l*y, whose arch-looking visage I perceive peeping out like the
      first glance of a court card in the rear of a bad hand; but let him pass:
      the mirror of the English Spy reflects good qualities as well as bad ones,
      and I should not do him justice if I denied him a fair proportion of both.
      Descending to observe the eccentrics in a more humble sphere, who can pass
      by the dandy candy man with his box of sweetmeats, clean in person as a
      new penny, and his sturdy figure most religiously decorated with lawn
      sleeves, and a churchman's <i>tablier</i> in front; while his ruddy
      weather-beaten countenance, and hairy foraging cap, give him the
      appearance of a Scotch presbyterian militant in the days of the
      covenanters. Then, too, his wares cure all diseases, from a ravaging
      consumption to a frame-shaking hooping cough; and not unlikely are as
      efficacious as the nostrums of the less Mundivagant professors of patent
      empiricism. Of all men in the world your coach <i>cad</i> has the quickest
      eye for detecting a stranger; and who but Sam Spring, the box-book keeper
      of Drury Lane, whose eternal bow has grown proverbial, could ask an
      impudent question with more politeness than Mr. Court, the <i>chargé de
      affaires</i> in the High Street, for the conflicting interests of half a
      hundred coach proprietors 1 "Do you travel to-day, sir?&mdash;Very happy
      to send for your luggage&mdash;Go by the early coach, sir?&mdash;Our
      porter <span class="pagenum">[248]</span>shall call you up, only let me
      put you down at our office." Thus actually bowing you into his book a week
      before you had any serious intention of travelling, by the very
      circumstance of reminding you of the mode by which you intend to reach
      home. I could add to these sketches a few singularities among the trading
      brotherhood of the Chelts; but we may meet again: and after all it would,
      perhaps, be considered invidious to point out the honest tradesman to
      public notice, merely because he has caught something of the
      eccentricities of his betters, or, like them, is led away by the force of
      example.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     ERRATA.

     In Chapter I, page 223, Contents, dele hi, and for Penn,
     read pun. The Man in the Cloak, noble Anecdote of, instead
     of the Fox* hunting Parson,&mdash;Printer.
</pre>
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    <h2>
      TRAVELLER'S HALL.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      <span class="pagenum">[249]</span>
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Sketches in the Commercial Room at the Bell Inn,
     Cheltenltam&mdash;The Traveller's Ordinary&mdash;Trade Puns&mdash;Bolton
     Trotters and Trottees&mdash;Song, All the Booksellers&mdash;Curious
     Sporting Anecdote of a Commercial Man&mdash;Song, The Knight of
     the Saddle Bags&mdash;Private Theatricals in Public&mdash;Visit to
     the Oakland Cottages, a Night Scene.
</pre>
    <p>
      An invitation to dine with the traveller to a London house in the paper
      and print line, yclept booksellers, introduced the English Spy and his
      friend, the artist, to the scene here presented (see plate).
    </p>
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    </p>
    <p>
      Reader, if you wish to make a figure among the Chelts and be thought any
      thing of, you will, of course, domicile at the Plough; but if your object
      is a knowledge of life, social conversation, a great variety of character,
      and a never-failing fund of mirth and anecdote, join the gentleman travellers
      who congregate at the Bell or the Fleece, where you will meet with merry
      fellows, choice viands, good wine, excellent beds, and a pretty
      chambermaid into the bargain. Your commercial man is often a fellow of
      infinite jest, a travelling vocabulary of provincial knowledge, and a
      faithful narrator of the passing events of the time. Who can speak of the
      increasing prosperity, or calculate upon the falling interests of a town,
      so well as your flying man of business 1 The moment he enters a new place
      he expects the landlord to be ready, cap in hand, to welcome him; he first
      sees his horse into a stall, and lectures the ostler upon the art of
      rubbing him down&mdash;orders boots to <span class="pagenum">[250]</span>bring
      in his travelling bags or his driving box, and bids the waiter send the
      chambermaid to show him his bed-room&mdash;grumbles that it is too high
      up, has no chimney in the apartment, or is situate over the kitchen or the
      tap-room&mdash;swears a tremendous oath that he will order his baggage to
      be taken to the next house, and frightens the poor girl into the giving
      him one of the best bed-apartments, usually reserved for the coffee-room
      company. Returning below, he abuses the waiter for not giving him his
      letters, that have been waiting his arrival a week, before he went up
      stairs&mdash;directs boots to be ready to make the circuit of the town
      with him after dinner, carrying his pattern-books, perhaps half a
      hundred-weight of Birmingham wares, brass articles, or patterns of coffin
      furniture; and having thus succeeded in putting the whole house into
      confusion, only to let them know that the Brummagem gentleman has arrived
      on his annual visit to the Chelts, with a new stock of every thing
      astonishing in the brass line, he places himself down at a side table, to
      answer to his principals for being some days later on his march than they
      had concluded&mdash;remits a good sum in bills and acceptances, and adds
      thereunto a sheet of orders, that will suffice to keep the firm in good
      temper for a week to come: sometimes, indeed, the postscript contains a
      hint of an expected "whereas," or strong suspicions of an act of
      insolvency, but always couched in the most consolatory terms, hoping the
      dividend will turn out to be better than present circumstances might lead
      them to expect. In his visits to his customers he is the most courteous,
      obliging fellow imaginable; there is no trouble he thinks too much if he
      is likely to obtain his last account and a fresh order; then, too, his
      generosity is unbounded: he invites the tradesman to take wine with him at
      his inn, inquires kindly after all the family, hopes business is thriving,
      makes an offer of <span class="pagenum">[251]</span>doing any thing for
      him along the road, and bows himself and his pattern-cards out of the
      shop, with as much humility and apparent sense of obligation as the most
      expert courtier could put on when his sovereign deigns to confer upon him
      some special mark of his royal favour. It is at his inn alone that his
      independence breaks forth, and here he often assumes as much consequence
      as if he was the head of the firm he represents, and always carried about
      him a <i>plum</i> at least in his breeches pocket. This is a general
      character, and one, too, formed upon no slight knowledge of commercial
      men; but with all this, the man of the world will admire them and seek
      their company; first, that his accommodations are generally better, and
      the charges not subject to the caprice of the landlord; and, secondly, for
      the sake of society; for what on earth can be more horrible than to be
      shut up in a lone room, a stranger in a provincial town, to eat, drink,
      and pass the cheerless hour, a prey to solitude and <i>ennui</i>?
    </p>
    <p>
      But there is sometimes a little fastidiousness about these <i>knights of
      the saddle-bag</i>, in admitting a stranger to hob and nob with them; to
      prevent a knowledge, therefore, of our pursuits, my friend Bob was
      instructed, before entering the room, to sink the arts, and if any
      inquisitive fellow should inquire what line he travelled in, to reply, in
      the print line; while your humble servant, it was agreed, should represent
      some firm in the spring trade; and thus armed against suspicion, we boldly
      marched into the commercial-room just as the assembled group of men of
      business were sitting down to dinner, hung our hats upon a peg, drew our
      chairs, uninvited, to the table, fully prepared to feel ourselves at home,
      and do ample justice to the "bagmen's banquet."
    </p>
    <p>
      The important preliminary point settled, of whom the duty of chairman
      devolved on, a situation, as I understood, always filled in a commercial
      room by <span class="pagenum">[252]</span>the last gentleman traveller who
      makes it his residence, we proceeded to business. The privilege of finding
      fault with the dinner, which, by the by, was excellent, is always conceded
      to the ancients of the fraternity of traders; these gentlemen who, having
      been half a century upon the road, remember all the previous proprietors
      of the hotel to the fifteenth or twentieth generation removed, make a
      point of enumerating their gracious qualities upon such occasions, to keep
      the living host and representative <i>up to the mark</i>, as they phrase
      it. For instance&mdash;the old buck in the chair, who was a city tea
      broker, found fault with the fish: "There vas nothing of that ere sort to
      be had good but at Billingsgate, where all the best fish from all the
      vorld vas, as he contended, to be bought cheaper as butcher's meat." The
      result of which remark induced the young wags at the table to finish a
      very fine brill, without leaving him a taste, while he was abusing it.
      "This soup is not like friend Birch's," said Mr. Obadiah Pure, a gentleman
      in the drug line; "it hath a watery and unchristianlike taste with it."
      "Ay," replied a youngster at the bottom of the table, with whom it
      appeared to be in request, "I quake for fear while I am eating it, only I
      know there can be no drugs in it, or you would not find fault with a
      customer." "Thou art one of the newly imported, friend," replied Mr. Pure,
      "and art yet like a young bear, with all thy troubles to come." "True,"
      said the wag, "thou may be right, friend; but I shall not be found a <i>bruin</i>
      with thy materials for all that." This sally put down the drug merchant
      for the rest of the dinner-time. "You had better take a little fish or
      soup before they are cold," said the chairman, to a bluff-looking
      beef-eater at his back, who was arranging his papers and samples. "Sir, I
      never eat warm wittals, drink hot liquors, wear a great coat, or have my
      bed warmed." "The natural heat of your <span class="pagenum">[253]</span>constitution,
      I suppose, excuses you," said I, venturing upon a joke. "Sir, you had
      better heat your natural meal, while it is hot, without attempting to heat
      other people's tempers," was the reply; to which Bob retorted, by saying,
      "It was quite clear the gentleman was not mealy-mouthed." "This beef
      smells a little of Hounslow Heath," said a jeweller's gentleman, on my
      right. "Why so, sir?" was inquired by one who knew him. "Because it has
      hung rather too long to be sightly." "You should not have left out the
      chains in that joke, Sam," said his friend; "they would have linked it
      well together, and sealed the subject." "Who takes port?" inquired the
      chairman. "I must sherry directly after dinner, gentlemen," said one.
      "What," retorted the company, "boxing the wine bin! committing treason, by
      making a sovereign go farther than he is required by law. Fine him, Mr.
      Chairman." "Gentlemen, it is not in my power; he is a bottle conjuror, I
      assure you, 'a good man and true;' he only retires to bleed a patient, and
      will return instanter." "Happy to take a glass of wine with you, sir."
      "What do you think of that port, sir?" "Excellent." "Ay, I knew you would
      say so; the house of Barnaby Blackstrap, Brothers, and Company, of Upper
      Thames Street, have always been famous for selling wines of the choicest
      vintage. Do me the honour, sir, of putting a card of ours in your pocket:
      I sent this wine into this house in Jennings's time, for the grand dinner,
      when the first stone of the new rooms over the way was laid, and John
      Kelly, the proprietor, took the chair. You are lucky, sir, in meeting me
      here; they always pull out an odd bottle from the family bin, marked A&mdash;1,
      when I visit them." "Yes, and some <i>odd sort</i> of wine at any other
      time," grumbled out a queer-looking character at a side table opposite.
      "That's nothing but spleen, Mr. Sable," said the knight of the ruby
      countenance: "you and I have met occasionally at this house together now
      for three and twenty years; and although I never <span class="pagenum">[254]</span>come
      a journey without taking an order from them, I thank heaven, I never knew
      you to receive one yet: many a dead man have we seen in this room, but
      none of them requiring a coffin plate to tell their age, and very few of
      them that were like to receive the benefit of resurrection." "I shall book
      you inside, Mr. Blackstrap,'' replied Sable, "for joking on my articles of
      trade, which is contrary to the established usage of a commercial room."
      "Do any thing you like but bury me," said the <i>bon vivant</i>."
      Gentlemen, as chairman, it is my duty to put an end to all grave subjects.
      Will you be kind enough to dissect that turkey?" "I don't see the bee's
      wing in this port, Mr. Blackstrap, that you are bouncing about," said a
      London traveller to a timber-merchant. "No, sir," said the humorist, "it
      is not to be seen until you are a deal higher in spirits; the film of the
      wing is seldom discernible in such mahogany-coloured wine as this." "Sir,
      I blush like rose wood at your impertinence." "Ay, sir, and you'll soon be
      as red as logwood, or as black as ebony, if you will but do justice to the
      bottle," was the reply. "There is no being cross-grained with you," said
      the timber-merchant. "Not unless you cut me," retorted Blackstrap, "and
      you are not sap enough for that." "Gentlemen," continued the facetious
      wine-merchant, "if we do not get a little fruit, I shall think we have not
      met with our dessert; and although there may be some among us whose
      principals are worth a plum, there are very few of their representatives,
      I suspect, who will offer any objections to my reasons." Thus pleasantly
      apostrophised, the fruit made its appearance, and with it a fresh supply
      of the genuine Oporto, which our merry companion, Blackstrap, called "his
      <i>old particular</i>." One of his stories, relative to a joke played off
      upon the Bolton trotters, by his friend Sable, the travelling undertaker,
      is too good to be lost. In Lancashire the custom of hoaxing is called
      <span class="pagenum">[255]</span><i>trotting</i>, and in many instances,
      particularly at Bolton, is still continued, and has frequently been played
      off upon strangers with a ruinous success. Sable had, it would appear,
      taken up his quarters at a commercial inn, and, as is usual with
      travellers, joined the tradesmen in the smoking room at night to enjoy his
      pipe, and profit, perhaps, by introduction in the way of business. The
      pursuit of the undertaker and dealer in coffin furniture was no sooner
      made generally known, than it was unanimously agreed to trot him, by
      giving him various orders for articles in his line, which none of the
      parties had any serious intention of paying for or receiving. With this
      view, one ordered a splendid coffin for himself, and another one for his
      wife; a third gave instructions for an engraved plate and gilt ornaments;
      and a fourth chose to order an elegant suite of silver ornaments to
      decorate the last abode of frail mortality: in this way the company were
      much amused with the apparent unsuspecting manner of Sable, who carefully
      noted down all their orders, and pledged himself to execute them
      faithfully. The Bolton people did not fail to circulate this good joke, as
      they then thought it, among their neighbours, and having given fictitious
      names, expected to have had additional cause for exultation when the
      articles arrived; but how great was their surprise and dismay, when in a
      short time every order came, directed properly to the person who had given
      it! Coffins and coffin-plates, silk shrouds and velvet palls, and all the
      expensive paraphernalia of the charnel-house were to be seen carried about
      from the waggon-office in Bolton, to be delivered at the residences of the
      principal inhabitants. Many refused to receive these mementoes of their
      terrestrial life, and others denied having ever ordered the same. Sable,
      however, proved himself too <i>fast a trotter</i> for the Bolton people;
      for having, by the assistance of the waiter, obtained the true description
      of his <span class="pagenum">[256]</span>customers on the night of the
      joke, and finding they were most of them wealthy tradesmen, he very wisely
      determined to humour the whim, and execute the orders given, and in due
      course of time insisted upon payment for the same. Thus ended the story of
      the Bolton trotters, which our merry companion concluded, by observing,
      that it put an end to sporting, in that way, for some time; and by the
      chagrin it caused to many of the trottees, distanced them in this life,
      and sent them off the course in a galloping consumption.{1} "There's
      honour for you," said Sable, "civilized a
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 <i>A Bolton definition</i>.&mdash;When the Bolton Canal was first
     pro-posed, the Athenians (for that Bolton is the Athens of
     Lancashire no one can doubt) could not well understand how
     boats were to be raised above the level of the sea. A lock
     to them was as incom-prehensible as Locke on the Human
     Understanding. A celebrated member of a celebrated trotting
     club was amongst the number of those who could not
     comprehend the mystery. Unwilling to appear ignorant upon a
     question which formed the common topic of conversation, he
     applied to a scientific gentleman in the neighbourhood for
     an accurate description of a lock. It happened that the man
     of science had on one occasion been a <i>trottee</i>, and was
     glad to have an opportunity of retaliation. "A lock," said
     he, "is a quantity of sawdust congealed into boards, which,
     being let down into the water in a perpendicular slope-
     level, raises it to the declivity of the sea above!"&mdash;" Eh?"
     said the Athenian, "what dun yo' say?" The gentleman
     repeated his description, and the worthy Boltonian recorded
     every word in the tablet of his memory. Sometime afterwards
     he had the honour of dining with some worshipful brothers of
     the quorum, men as profoundly ignorant of the law as any of
     the unpaid magistracy need to be, but who, having seen
     canals, knew well enough what locks were. Our Athenian took
     an early opportunity of adverting to the proposed "cut," and
     introduced his newly-acquired learning in the following
     terms: "Ah! Measter Fletcher, it's a foine thing a lock;
     yo' know'n I loike to look into them theere things; a lock
     is a perpendicular slop level, which, being let into the
     sea, is revealed into boards, that raises it to the
     declivity of the sea above!"&mdash;As it is the province and
     privilege of the ignorant to laugh at a greater degree of
     ignorance than their own, it may be supposed that their
     worships enjoyed a hearty laugh at the expense of their
     Attic brother.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[257]</span>whole district of English barbarians by
      one action, and, what is more, they have never ventured to trot with any
      one of our fraternity since."
    </p>
    <p>
      The conversation now took a turn relative to the affairs of trade; and if
      any one had been desirous of knowing the exact degree of solvency in which
      the whole population of the county of Gloucester was held by these flying
      merchants and factors, they might easily have summed up the estimate from
      the remarks of the company. They were, however, a jovial party; and my
      friend Bob and myself had rarely found ourselves more pleasantly
      circumstanced, either as regarded our social comforts, or the continued
      variety of new character with which the successive speakers presented us.
      As the evening approached our numbers gradually diminished, some to pursue
      their journeys, and others to facilitate the purposes of trade. The
      representative of the house of Blackstrap and Co., his friend Sable, the
      timber merchant, our inviter the bookseller, and the two interlopers,
      remained fixed as fate to the festive board, until the chairman, and
      scarce any one of the company, could clearly define, divide, and arrange
      the exact arithmetical proportions of the dinner bill. After a short
      cessation of hostilities, during which our commercial friends despatched
      their London letters, and Bob and the English Spy, to escape the suspicion
      of not having any definable pursuit, emigrated to the High Street; we
      returned to our quarters, and found the whole party debating upon a
      proposition of the bon vivants, to have another bottle, and make a night
      of it by going to the theatre at half price; a question that was
      immediately carried, <i>nemine contradicente</i>. Mr. Margin, our esteemed
      companion, who represented the old established house of Sherwood and Co.,
      was known to sing a good stave, and what was still more attractive, was
      himself a child of song&mdash;one of the inspired of the nine, who, at the
      Anacreontic Club, held in Ivy Lane, would often amuse <span class="pagenum">[258]</span>the
      society with an original chant; "whose fame," as Blackstrap expressed it,
      "had extended itself to the four corners of the island, wherever the
      sporting works of Sherwood and Co., or the travelled histories of the
      Messrs. Longmans, have found readers and admirers." "Gentlemen," said Mr.
      Margin, "my songs are all of a local nature; whims written to amuse a
      meeting of the trade for a dinner at the Albion or the London, when the
      booksellers congregate together to buy copyrights, or sell at a reduced
      price the refuse of their stock. But, such as it is, you shall have it
      instanter."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          ALL THE BOOKSELLERS;

          A NEW SONG, BY A LONDON TRAVELLER.

          Tune&mdash;Family Pride&mdash;Irish air.

          First, Longmans are famous for travels,
          Will Sherwood for sporting and fun,
          Old Ridgway the science unravels
          How politic matters are done.

          The ponderous tomes of deep learning,
          The heavy, profound, and the flat,
          By Baldwin and Cradock's discerning,
          Are cheaper by half to come at.

          Baines deals out to methodist readers
          Cant, piously strung into rhyme;
          While Rivingtons, 'gainst the seceders,
          With church and king Hatchard will chime.

          John Murray's the lords' own anointed,
          I mean not indeed to blaspheme,
          But the peers have him solely appointed
          To sell what their highnesses scheme.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[259]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Colburn defies Day and Martin
          To beat him with " Real Japan;"
          If puffing will sell books, 'tis certain,
          He'll rival the bookselling clan.

          Catechisms for miss and for master,
          For ladies who're fond oft, romance,
          Sheriff Whittaker publishes faster
          Than booksellers' porters can dance.

          Operatives, mechanics, combiners,
          Knight and Lacey will publish for you;
          They'll tickle ye out of your shiners,
          By teaching the power o' the screw.

          An Architect looks out for Taylor,
          A General Egerton seeks;
          Tommy Tegg at the trade is a railer,
          But yet for a slice of it sneaks.

          Richardson furnishes India
          With all books from Europe she buys;
          Near St. Paul's, in Old Harris's window,
          The juveniles look for a prize.

          Cadell is Scotch Ebony's factor,
          Collecting the news for Blackwood;
          John Miller 's the man for an actor,
          America 's done him some good.

          The Newmans of fam'd Leadenhall
          In very old novels abound;
          While Kelly, respected by all,
          As Sheriff of London is found.

          Will Simpkin supplieth the trade
          From his office in Stationers' Court;
          And Stockdale too much cash has made
          By publishing Harriette 's report.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[260]</span>THE ENGLISH SPY
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Antiquarians seek Arch of Cornhill;
          Joe Butterworth furnishes law;
          And Major his pockets will fill
          By giving to Walton <i>éclat</i>.

          Where, with old Parson Ambrose, the legs
          Once in Gothic Hall pigeons could fleece,
          There, Hurst and Co. now hang on pegs
          The fine arts of Rome and of Greece.

          John Ebers with Opera dancers
          Is too much engaged for to look
          How the bookselling business answers,
          And publishes only "Ude's Cook."

          Hookham and Carpenter both are
          As cautious as caution can be;
          While Andrews, nor Chapple, a sloth are
          In trade, both as lib'ral as free.

          Billy Sams is a loyal believer,
          And publishes prints by the score;
          But his likeness, I will not deceive her,
          Of Chester <i>is not con amore</i>.

          If the world you are ganging to see,
          Its manners and customs to note,
          In the Strand, you must call upon Leigh,
          Where you'll find a directory wrote.

          Cincinnatus like, guiding the plough,
          On Harding each farmer still looks;
          Clerc Smith is the man for a bow,
          And his shop is as famous for books.

          <i>Facetiæ</i> collectors, give ear,
          Who with Mack letter spirits would deal;
          If rich in old lore you'd appear,
          Pay a visit to Priestley and Weale.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[261]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          There's Ogle, and Westley, and Black,
          With Mawman, and Kirby, and Cole,
          And Souter, and Wilson&mdash;alack!
          I cannot distinguish the whole.

          For Robins, and Hunter, and Poole,
          And Evans, and Scholey, and Co.
          Would fill out my verse beyond rule,
          And my Pegasus halts in the Bow.

          The radicals all are done up;
          Sedition is gone to the dogs;
          And Benbow and Cobbett may sup
          With their worthy relations the Hogs.

          So here I will wind up my list
          With Underwood, Callow, and Highley;
          Who bring to the medicals grist,
          By books on diseases wrote dryly.

          Just one word at parting I crave&mdash;
          If Italian, French, German, or Dutch,
          To bother your noddle you'd have,
          Send to Berthoud, or Treuttel and Wurtz,

          Or Zotti, or Dulau, or Bohn,
          But they're all very good in their way;
          Bossange, Bothe, Boosey and Son,
          All expect <i>Monsieur Jean</i> Bull to pay.
</pre>
    <p>
      "A right merrie conceit it is," said Blackstrap, "and an excellent
      memoranda of the eminent book-sellers of the present time." "Ay, sir,"
      continued the veteran; "all our old ballads had the merit of being useful,
      as well as amusing. There was 'Chevy Chase, and 'King John and his
      Barons,' and 'Merry Sherwood,' all of them exquisite chants; conveying
      information to the mind, and relating some grand historical fact, while
      they charmed the ear. But <span class="pagenum">[262]</span>your modern
      kickshaws are all about 'No, my love, no,' or 'Sigh no more, lady,' or
      some such silly stuff that nobody cares to learn the words of, or can
      understand if they did. I remember composing a ballad in this town myself,
      some few years since, on a very strange adventure that happened to one of
      our commercial brethren. He had bought an old hunter at Bristol to finish
      his journey homeward with, on account of his former horse proving lame,
      and just as he was entering Cheltenham by the turnpike-gate at the end of
      the town, the whole of the Berkeley Hunt were turning out for a day's run,
      and having found, shot across the road in full cry. Away went the dogs,
      and away went the huntsmen, and plague of any other way would the old
      hunter go: so, despite of the two hundred weight of perfumery samples
      contained in his saddle-bags, away went Delcroix's deputy over hedge and
      ditch, and straight forward for a steeple chase up the Cleigh Hills; but
      in coming down rather briskly, the courage of the old horse gave way, and
      down he came as groggy before as a Chelsea pensioner, smashing all the
      appendages of trade, and spilling their contents upon the ground, besides
      raising such an odoriferous effluvia on the field, that every one present
      smelt the joke.&mdash;But you shall have the song."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          THE KNIGHT OF THE SADDLE-BAGS;

          A TRUE RELATION   OF   A   TRAVELLER'S
          ADVENTURE  AT CHELTENHAM.

          Tune&mdash;The Priest of Kajaga.

          A knight of the saddle-bags, jolly and gay,
          Rode near to blithe Cheltenham's town;
          His coat was a drab, and his wig iron-gray,
          And the hue of his nag was a brown.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[263]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          From Bristol, through Glo'ster, the merry man came;
          And jogging along in a trot,
          On the road happ'd to pass him, in pursuit of game,
          Of Berkeley's huntsmen a lot.

          Tally-ho! tally-ho! from each voice did resound;
          Hark forward! now cheer'd the loud pack;
          Sir knight found his horse spring along like a hound,'
          For the devil could not hold him back.

          Away went sly Reynard, away went sir knight,
          With the saddle-bags beating the side
          Of his horse, as he gallop'd among them in fright;
          'Twas in vain that the hunt did deride.

          Now up the Cleigh Hills, and adown the steep vale,
          Crack, crack, went the girths of his saddle;
          Sir knight was dismounted, O piteous tale!
          In wasjies the fishes might paddle.

          As prostrate he lay, an old hound that way bent
          Gave tongue as he pass'd him along;
          Which attracted the pack, who  thus drawn by the scent,
          Would have very soon ended his song.

          For O! it was strange, but, though strange, it was true!
          With perfumery samples, his bags
          With essences, musks, and rich odours a few,
          He had joined peradventure the nag's.

          The field took the joke in good-humour and jest;
          Sir knight was invited to dine
          At the Plough the same day, where a fine haunch was dress'd,
          And Naylor gave excellent wine.

          From that time, 'raong the Chelts, has a knight of the bag
          Been look'd on as a man of spirit;
          For who but a knight could have hunted a nag
          So laden, and come off with merit?
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[264]</span>A visit from two of the commercial
      gentlemen of the Fleece gave Blackstrap another opportunity of showing
      off, which he did not fail to avail himself of in no very measured paces,
      by ridiculing the rival house, and extending his remarks to the taste of
      the frequenters. To which one of them replied, "Mine host of the fleece is
      no 'wolf in sheep's clothing,' but a right careful good shepherd, who
      provides well for his flock; and although the fleece hangs over his door,
      it is not symbolical of any fleecing practices within." "Ay," said the
      other, defending his hotel; "then, sir, we live like farmers at a
      harvest-home, and sleep on beds of down beneath coverings of lamb's wool;
      and our attendant nymphs of the chamber are as beautiful and lively as
      Arcadian shepherdesses, and chaste as the goddess Diana." "Very good,"
      retorted Blackstrap; "but you know, gentlemen, that the beaux of this
      house must be better off for the belle. We will allow you of the Fleece
      your rustic enjoyments, seeing that you are country gentlemen, for your
      hotel is certainly out of the town." A good-natured sally that quickly
      restored harmony, and called forth another song from the muse of
      Blackstrap.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          HEALTH, COMPETENCE, AND GOOD-HUMOUR.

          Let titles and fame on ambition be shed,
          Or history's page of great heroes relate;
          The motto I'd choose to encircle my head
          Is competence, health, and good-humour elate.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[265]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          The chaplet of virtue, by friendship entwined,
          Sheds a lustre that rarely encircles the great;
          While health and good-humour eternally find
          A competence smiling on every state.

          No luxuries seeking my board to encumber,
          Contented receiving what Providence sends;
          Age brightens with pleasure, while virtue may number
          Competence, health, and good-humour as friends.

          Then, neighbours, let's smile at old Chronos and care;
          Still shielded with honour, we're fearless of fate:
          With the sports of the field and the joys of the fair,
          We've competence, health, and good-humour elate.
</pre>
    <p>
      At the conclusion of this fresh specimen of our chairman's original
      talent, it was proposed we should adjourn to the theatre, where certain
      fashionable amateurs were amusing themselves at the expense of the public.
      "Sir, I dislike these half and half vagabonds," said Blackstrap, with one
      of his original gestures, "who play with an author before the public, that
      they may the more easily play with an actress in private. Yon coxcomb, for
      instance, who buffoons Brutus, with his brothers, are indeed capital
      brutes by nature, but as deficient of the art histrionic as any biped
      animals well can be. I remember a very clever artist exhibiting a picture
      of the colonel and his mother's son, Augustus, with a Captain Austin, in
      the exhibition of the Royal Academy for the year 1823, in the characters
      of Brutus, Marc Antony, and Julius Cæsar, which caused more fun than
      anything else in the collection, and produced more puns among the
      cognoscenti than any previous work of art ever gave rise to. The Romans
      were such rum ones&mdash;Brutus was a black down-looking biped, with gray
      whiskers, and a growl upon his lip; Marc Antony, without the remotest mark
      of the ancient hero about him; and <span class="pagenum">[266]</span>Cassius
      looked as if he had been cashiered by the commander of some strolling
      company of itinerants for one, whose placid face could neither move to
      woe, nor yield grimace; and yet they were all accounted excellent
      likenesses, perfect originals, like Wombwell's bonassus, only not quite so
      natural."
    </p>
    <p>
      During this rhapsody of Blackstrap's, Transit on the one side, and the
      English Spy on the other, endeavoured to restrain the torrent of his
      satire by assuring him that the very persons he was alluding to were the
      amateurs on the stage before him; and that certain critical faces behind
      him were paid like the painter, of whom he had previously spoken, to
      produce flattering portraits in print, and might possibly make a satirical
      sketch of the bon vivant at the same time; an admonition that had not the
      slightest effect in abridging his strictures upon amateur actors. But as
      the English Spy intends to finish his sketches on this subject, in a visit
      to the national theatres, he has until then treasured up in his mind's
      stores the excellent and apposite, though somewhat racy anecdotes, with
      which the comical commercial critic illustrated his discourse.
    </p>
    <p>
      The "liquor in, the wit's out," saith the ancient proverb; and, although
      my "Spirit in the Clouds" had already hinted at the dangerous consequences
      likely to result from a visit to the "Oakland Cottages," yet such was the
      flexibility of my friend Transit's ethics, his penchant for a spree, and
      the volatile nature of his disposition, when the ripe Falerian set the red
      current mantling in his veins, that not all my philosophy, nor the sage
      monitions of Blackstrap, nor thought, nor care, nor friendly intercession
      could withhold the artist from making a pilgrimage to the altar of love.
      For be it known to the amorous beau, these things are not permitted to
      pollute the sanctity of the sainted Chelts; but in a snug convent, situate
      a full mile and a half from Cheltenham, at the extremity <span
      class="pagenum">[267]</span>of a lane where four roads meet, and under the
      Cleigh Hills, the lady abbess and the fair sisters of Cytherea perform
      their midnight mysteries, secure from magisterial interference, or the
      rude hand of any pious parochial poacher. Start not, gentle reader; I
      shall not draw aside the curtain of delicacy, or expose "the secrets of
      the prison-house:" it is enough for me to note these scenes in half tints,
      and leave the broad effects of light and shadow to the pencils of those
      who are amorously inclined and well-practised in giving the finishing&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;touch.
    </p>
    <p>
      But to return to my friend Transit. Bright Luna tipt with silvery hue the
      surrounding clouds, and o'er the face of nature spread her mystic light;
      the blue concave of high heaven was illumined by a countless host of
      starry meteors, and the soft note of Philomel from the grove came upon the
      soul-delighted ear like the sweet breathings of the Eolian harp, or the
      celestial cadences of that heart-subduing cherub, Stephens; when we set
      out on our romantic excursion. Reader, you may well start at the
      introduction of the plural number; but say, what man could abandon his
      friend to such a dangerous enterprise? or what moralists refuse his
      services where there was such a probability of there being so much need
      for them? But we are poor frail mortals; so a truce with apology, or
      prithee accept one in the language of Moore:
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
         "Dear creatures! we can't live without them,
         They're all that is sweet and seducing to man;
         Looking, sighing, about and about them,
         We dote on them, die for them, do all we can."
</pre>
    <p>
      To be brief: we found excellent accommodation, and spent the night
      pleasantly, free from the sin of single blessedness. Many a choice
      anecdote did the Paphian divinities furnish us with of the <i>gay
      well-known</i> among the Chelts; stories that will be told again and again
      over the friendly bottle, but must not be recorded <span class="pagenum">[268]</span>here.
      Whether Transit, waking early from his slumbers, was paying his devotions
      to Venus or the water-bottle, I know not; but I was awoke by him about
      eight in the morning, and heard the loud echo of the huntsman's hallo in
      my ear, summoning me to rise and away, for the sons of Nimrod had beset
      the house; information which I found, upon looking through the window, was
      alarmingly true, but which did not appear either to surprise or affright
      the fair occupants of the cottages, who observed, it was only some of the
      "Berkeley Hunt going out," (See Plate), who, if they did not find any
      where else, generally came looking after a brush in that neighbourhood.
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Dimage-0012" id="Dimage-0012">
      <!-- IMG --></a> <a href="images2/page268.jpg">ENLARGE TO FULL SIZE</a><br />
    </p>
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      <img src="images2/page268th.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page268" />
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    <p>
      <br /><br />
    </p>
    <p>
      "Then the best thing we can do," said Transit, "is to brush off, before
      they brush up stairs and discover a couple of poachers among their game."
      This, however, the ladies would by no means admit, and the huntsmen
      quickly riding away, we took our chocolate with the lady abbess and her
      nuns, made all matters perfectly pleasant, saluted the fair at parting,
      and bade adieu to the Oakland Cottages.
    </p>
    <p>
      Upon our return to our inn, we received a good-humoured lecture from
      Blackstrap, who was just, as he phrased it, on the wing for Bristol and
      Bath, "where" said he, "if you will meet me at old Matthew Temple's, the
      Castle Inn, I will engage to give you a hearty welcome, and another bottle
      of the old particular;" a proposition that was immediately agreed to, as
      the route we had previously determined upon. One circumstance had, during
      our sojourn in the west, much annoyed my friend Transit and myself; we had
      intended to have been present at the Doncaster race meeting for 1825, and
      have booked both the betting men and their betters. Certainly a better bit
      of sport could never have been anticipated, but we were neither of us
      endowed with ubiquity, and were therefore compelled to cry content in the
      west when our hearts and inclinations were in the <span class="pagenum">[269]</span>north.
      "If now your 'Spirit in the Clouds,' your merry unknown, he that sometimes
      shoots off his witty arrows at the same target with ourselves, should
      archly suspect that old Tom Whipcord was not upon the turf, I would
      venture a cool hundred against the field, that we should have a report
      from him, 'ready cut and dried,' and quite as full of fun and whim as if
      you had been present yourself, Master Bernard, aided and assisted by our
      ally, Tom Whipcord of Oxford." "Heaven forgive you, Blackmantle, for the
      sins you have laid upon that old man's back! You are not content with
      working him hard in the 'Annals' every month, but you must make him mount
      the box of some of the short stages, and drive over the rough roads of the
      metropolis, where he is in danger of having his wheel locked, or meeting
      with a regular upset at every turn." Though Bob has given sufficient
      proofs of his spirit in danger, I certainly never suspected him to be
      possessed of the spirit of divination, and yet his prophetic address had
      scarcely concluded before Boots announced a parcel for Bernard
      Blackmantle, Esq. forwarded from London, per favour of Mr. Williams. And,
      Heaven preserve me from the charge of imposing upon my reader's credulity!
      but, as I live, it was his very hand&mdash;another sketch by my attendant
      sprite, "the Spirit in the Clouds," and to the very tune of Transit's
      anticipations, and my wishes.
    </p>
    <p>
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    <div style="height: 4em;">
      <br /><br /><br />
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    <h2>
      A FAMILIAR EPISTLE TO BERNARD BLACKMANTLE, ESQ.,
    </h2>
    <h3>
      HUMOROUS DESCRIPTION OF DONCASTER
    </h3>
    <p>
      RACES, THE GREAT ST. LEGER, HORSES, AND CHARACTERS, IN 1825. BY AN HONEST
      REVIEWER,
    </p>
    <p>
      ALIAS "The spirit in the clouds."{1}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come
          To answer thy best pleasure; be't to fly,
          To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
          On the curl'd clouds; to thy strong bidding, task
          Ariel, and all his quality.

          Prospero. Why, that's my spirit!
          Shakspeare&mdash;Tempest.

          "Good morrow to my worthy masters; and a merry Christmas
          to you all!"&mdash;The Bellman.

          "Mendiei, mimi, balatrones."&mdash;Hor.
          "Mimics, beggars, and characters of all sorts and sizes."
          &mdash;Free Translation.
</pre>
    <p>
      My Good Mr. Spy,
    </p>
    <p>
      Will you not exclaim, Mercy upon us! here is a text and title as long and
      as voluminous as a modern publication, or the sermon of the fox-hunting
      parson, who, when compelled to
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 See last number of the Spy, Part XXI. p. 273.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[271]</span>preach on a saint's day, mounted the
      pulpit in his sporting toggery, using his gown as "a cloak of
      maliciousness?" But have patience, sweet Spy; be kindly-minded, dear
      Bernard: like John of Magna Charta memory, "I have a thing to say;" and do
      now be a good attentive Hubert to hear me out.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Indeed, since you have inspirited, if not inspired me, by the 'immortal
      honour' of dubbing me your 'associate,' I were wanting in common gratitude
      not to attempt, by the return of moon, for I believe that luminary, like
      your numbers, comes out new every fourth week, to convey to you the
      swellings-over of my gratitude for the kind and fine things you have been
      pleased to cheer me with; although even yet, though the time will come, I
      can neither withdraw my vizor, nor disclose my 'family cognomen.'
    </p>
    <p>
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    </p>
    <p>
      It was true, and joy it was 'twas true, that we were at rowings, sailings,
      feastings, and dancings together, but how comes it we were not at the
      great racings together? that neither you, nor your ministers, they who,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "&mdash;&mdash;correspondent to command,
          Perform thy spiriting gently&mdash;&mdash;"
</pre>
    <p>
      were at the grand muster of the North, the Doncaster meeting? Bernard, I
      tell thee all the world was there; from royalty and loyalty down to the
      dustman and democracy. Then such "sayings and doings," a million of hooks
      could hardly have had an eye to all. You have read of the confusion of
      tongues, of "Babel broke loose," of the crusaders' contributory encampment
      peopled by dozens of nations; you have seen the inside of a patent theatre
      on the first night of a Christmas pantomime, or mingled in an Opera-house
      masquerade; have listened to a Covent-garden squabble, a Billingsgate
      commotion, or a watch-house row; but in the whole course of your life,
      varied as <span class="pagenum">[272]</span>it has been, active as it has
      proved, you never have, never could have experienced any thing at all to
      eclipse or even to equal the "hey, fellow, well met" congregatory musters,
      and the "beautiful and elegant confusions" of Doncaster town in the race
      week of (September) eighteen hundred and twenty-five!
    </p>
    <p>
      I am not, however, about to inflict upon you a "list of the horses," nor
      "the names, weights, and colours of the riders;" but I cannot help
      thinking that the English Spy will not have quite completed his admirable
      gallery of portraits, and his unique museum of curiosities for the benefit
      and delight of posterity, if he omit placing in their already splendid
      precincts two or three heads and sketches, which the genius of notoriety
      is ready to contribute as her own, and which to pass over would be as
      grievous to miss, as Mrs. Waylett's breeches,{2} characters at the
      Haymarket Theatre, or a solution of Euclid by one of Dr. Birkbeck's
      "operatives."
    </p>
    <p>
      Allow me, then, who am not indeed "without vanity," once more to "stand by
      your side," or rather for you, and to attempt, albeit I have not your
      magic pencil, another taste of my quality, by dashing off <i>con amore</i>
      the lions of the North.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 There frequently occur circumstances in a younker's life
     which lie never, in all his after career, forgets. I
     remember a very worthy and a very handsome old gentlewoman,
     the wife of an eminent physician, once being exceedingly
     wroth, it was almost the only time I ever knew her seriously
     angry, because a nephew of hers asserted all women were,
     what in the vulgate is called "knock-knee'd," and almost
     threatened to prove the contrary. Had she lived in our days,
     the truth, almost on any evening on our stage, might be
     ascertained, and I fear not at all to the satisfaction of
     the defender of her sex's shape. Nature never intended women
     to wear the breeches, and the invention of petticoats was
     the triumph of art. Why will Eve's daughters publicly
     convince us they are not from top to toe perfect?
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[273]</span>As, however, some that attend my sitting
      are quite as difficult to manage as the conspirators of Prospero's isle,
      it may be as well if, like Ariel, I sing to them as I lay on the colours
      of identification. Bear in mind still, that I am a "spirit in the clouds,"
      and, therefore, there can be nothing of "<i>michin malachi</i>" in my
      melody.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          I love a race-course, that I do;
          But then, good folks, it is as true,
          Only don't blab, I tell it you,
          I can't love all its people;

          For though I'm somewhat down and fly,
          Is slang gone out, sweet Mister Spy?
          Of trade with them I am as shy
          As jumping from a steeple.

          Yet what with fashion's feather'd band,
          And pawing steeds, and crowded stand;
          Its sights are really very grand,
          Which to deny were sin.

          But then, though fast the horses run,
          Few gain by "clone," and "done," and "done,"
          For what a damper to the fun!
          Those "only laugh who win."

          Oh! what a mixture must we greet
          In rooms, at inns, on turf, in street;
          Be "hand and glove" with all we meet,
          Old files, and new-bronzed faces!

          With marquis, lord, and duke, and squire,
          We now keep up the betting fire;
          And then the guard of the "Highflyer"
          We book at Northern races.{3}

     3 A song would be no song at all without notes; I must
     there-fore try a few. I can assure you they are not mere
     humming ones. <i>Allons</i>&mdash;"all is not gold that glitters,"
     neither is it all "prunella" that blows a horn upon the
     stern of a coach. The "York Highflyer" I really am not to go
     down gratis "next jour-ney" for puffing it is a good coach,
     and the guard is a good guard, and he ventured a "good bit"
     of money on the Léger, and was "floored," for "Cleveland"
     was a slow one. However, it didn't balk his three days'
     holiday, nor spoil his new coat, nor blight his nosegay. I
     saw him after his defeat, looking as rosy as Pistol, and
     heard him making as much noise as one; "nor malice domestic
     nor foreign levy" could hurt him.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[274]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Look in that room,{4} judge for yourself;
          See what a struggle's made for wealth,
          What crushings, bawlings for the pelf,
          'Twixt high heads and low legs.

          That is Lord K&mdash;&mdash;,{5} and that Lord D&mdash;&mdash;-,{5}
          That's Gully{6}; yon's fishmonger C;{5}
          A octree-man that; that, Harry Lee,{5}
          Who stirr'd Mendoza's pegs.

          Or walk up stairs; behold yon board,
          Rich with its thrown-down paper hoard,
          But oh! abused, beset, adored
          By wine-warm'd folks o' nights.

          The playing cog, the paying peer,
          Pigeon and Greek alike are here;
          And some are clear'd, and others clear;
          Ask Bayner,{6} and such wights.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     4  The new subscription room; where down stairs more than
     the "confusion of tongues" prevails, and above a man's
     character, if in-sured, would go under the column of "trebly
     hazardous." It is really a pity that hone-racing should
     appear so close a neighbour to gambling as it does at
     Doncastor.

     5  My men of letters are not merely alphabet men, but bona
     fide characters of consideration upon the turf. I confess
     Lord Kennedy is a bit of a favourite of mine, ever since I
     saw him so good-natured at the pigeon-shooting matches at
     Battersea; and greatly rejoiced was I to find him unplucked
     at the more desperate wagerings of the North. He really is
     clever in the main, and no subject for St. Luke's, though he
     depends much on a bedlamite. Gulley, Crock-ford, and Bland,
     need no character; and every body knows Harry Lee fought a
     pluck battle with old Dan. But it is "box Harry" with
     fighters now.

     6  Poor Rayner of C. G. T.&mdash;hundreds at one fell swoop! all
     his morning's winnings gone in one evening's misfortune. Let
     him think on't when next he plays "the School of Reform."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[275]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Nay, thick as plagues of Egypt swarm
          These emblems of the devil's charm,
          When the fall'n angel works a harm
          To Eve's demented brood;

          Worse than of famish'd shark the maw,
          Worse than snake's tooth, or tiger's claw,
          The gambler's fish{7} spits from its maw
          Hell's poison-filled food!

          But, halt! Who're they so deep in port,
          Who jostle thus the dons of sport,
          With all th' assumed airs of court,
          From which indeed they are?

          But not from court of Carlton,
          Nor James's Court, nor any one;
          But where "the fancy" used to run
          To see the creatures spar.

          The one's a diamond, that you see,
          But yet a black one I agree,
          And in the way of chancery
          A smart Ward in his time;

          The other he's from Vinsor down,
          And though a great gun in that town,
          Has lately been quite basted brown,
          And gone off&mdash;out of time.{8}

     7  The spotted ball now, worse in its woe-causing than the
     apple of Ida, is disgorged from a splendidly gilded fish.
     What a pity it is that the eternal vociforators of "red
     wins, black loses," et vice versa, could not be turned into
     Jonahs, and their odd fish into a whale, and let all be cast
     into the troubled waters (without a three days' redemption)
     they brew for others!

     8  "There never were such times." X Xs, in the ring, and
     failures in the Fives Court, overcome us now without our
     special wonder; for boxers are become betters to extents
     that would make the fathers of the P.R. bless themselves and
     bolt. Cannon and Ward were, however, both on the right side,
     and the nods with which they honoured their old acquaintance
     were certainly improvements upon the style of the academy
     for manners in Saint Martin's Street.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[276]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Look, here's a bevy; who but they!
          Just come to make the poor Tykes pay
          The charge of post-horses and chay,
          That brought them to some tune;

          Lo! Piccadilly Goodered laughs,
          As when some novice, reeling, quaffs
          His gooseberry wine in tipsy draughts,
          At his so pure saloon.{9}

          Good gracious, too! (oh, what a trade
          Can oyster sales at night be made!)
          Here swallowing wine, like lemonade,
          Sits Mrs. H's man{10}!

          And by the Loves and Graces all,
          By Vestris' trunks, Maria's shawl,
          There trots the nun herself, so tall,
          A flirting of a fan,

          And blushing like the "red, red rose,"
          With paly eyes and a princely nose,
          And laced in Nora Crinas clothes,
          (Cool, like a cucumber,)

          With beaver black, with veil so green,
          And huntress boots 'neath skirt quite clean,
          She looks Diana's self&mdash;<i>a quean</i>,
          In habit trimm'd with fur.

          And Mr. Wigelsworth he flew,{11}
          And Miss and Mistress W.
          To bow and court'sy to the new
          Arrival at their Boy;

     9  "Lightly tread, 'tis hallow'd ground." I dare not go on;
     you have been before me, Bernard: (vide vol. i. p. 295, of
     Spy). But really it will be worth while for us to look in on
     Goodered some fine morning, say three, a.m., when he gets
     his print of Memnon home, to which, at Sheardowns, he was so
     liberal as to subscribe. He will discourse to you of the
     round table!

     10  "If I stand here, I saw him."&mdash;Shakespeare, Hamlet.

     11 The host of the Black Boy at Doncastor, who really pro-
     vided race ordinaries in no ordinary way.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[277]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Though he was Black, yet she was fair;
          And sure I am that nothing there
          With that clear nymph could aught compare,12
          Or more glad eyes employ.
</pre>
    <p>
      But where there is, after all, but little reason in many of the scenes
      witnessed at the period I quote, why should I continue to rhyme about
      them? Let it therefore suffice, that with much of spirit there was some
      folly, with a good deal of splendour an alloy of dross, and, with real
      consequence, a good deal of that which was assumed. Like a showy drama,
      the players (there was a goodly company in the north), dresses (they were
      of all colours of the rainbow), and decorations (also various and
      admirable), during the time of performance, were of the first order; but
      that over, and the green and dressing rooms displayed many a hero sunk
      into native insignificance, and the trappings of Tamerlane degenerated to
      the hungry coat of a Jeremy Diddler (and there were plenty of "Raising the
      Wind" professors at Doncaster), or the materiel of the king and queen of
      Denmark to the dilapidated wardrobe of Mr. and Mrs. Sylvester Daggerwood.
    </p>
    <p>
      <i>Mais apropos de le drame, Monsieur L'Espion</i>, what is your report of
      our theatres? Have you seen the monkeys? Are they not, for a classic
      stage, grand,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          &mdash;&mdash;Those happiest smiles
          That play'd on her ripe lip, seem'd not to know
          What guests were in her eyes, which parted thence
          As pearls from diamonds dropt. In brief,
          Her room would be a rarity most beloved,
          If all could so become it."

          Shakespeare, a little altered.
</pre>
    <p>
      I would just say here, that if any disapprove of my picture of the lady,
      they may take Bernard Blackmantle's <span class="pagenum">[278]</span><i>magnifique,
      et admirable</i>? Do they not awake in you visions of rapturous delight,
      as you contrast their antics and mimicry, their grotesque and beautiful
      grimaces, their cunning leers, with the eye of Garrick, the stately action
      of Kemble, the sarcasm of Cooke, the study of Henderson, the commanding
      port of Siddons, the fire of Kean, the voice of Young, the tones of
      O'Neill? When you see them, as the traveller Dampier has it, "dancing from
      tree to tree over your head," and hear them "chattering, and making a
      terrible noise," do you not think of Lord Chesterfield, and exclaim, "A
      well-governed stage is an ornament to society, an encouragement to wit and
      learning, and a school of virtue, modesty, and good manners?" Do you not
      feel, when you behold the flesh and blood punch and man-monkey of Covent
      Garden Theatre "twist his body into all manner of shapes," or "Monsieur
      Gouffe," of the Surrey, "hang himself for the benefit of Mr. Bradley,"
      that we may pay our money, and "see, and see, and see again, and still
      glean something new, something to please, and something to instruct;" and,
      lastly, in a fit of enthusiasm, exclaim,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "To wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
          To raise the genius and to mend the heart,
          To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
          Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold;"
          For this great Jocko's self first leap'd the stage;
          For this was puffd in ev'ry well-bribed page,
          From evening "Courier" down to Sunday "Age!"{13}

     13 It is suspicious, to say the least of it, this excess of
     praise to an old representation; for, after all, punch, the
     original punch, punch in the street, though not so loud, is
     ten times more to "our manner born," and much more original.
     That the beings who banish legitimate performers should
     puff, till we grow sick, a "thing of shreds and patches!"
     But "the world is still deceived by ornament."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[279]</span>But Charles Kemble pays well on
      occasions, and gold would make "Hyperion" of a "satyr." Seriously, Mr.
      Blackmantle, the town is overrun with monkeys; they are as busy, and as
      importunate, as Lady Montague's boys on May day, or the Guy Fawkes
      representatives on the fifth of November. They are "here, there, and every
      where," and the baboon monopolists of Exeter 'Change and the Tower are
      ruined by the importation:&mdash;a free trade in the article with the
      patentees of our classic theatres, as the purchasing-merchants, has done
      the business for Mr. Cross and the beef-eaters. Like the Athenian
      audience, the "thinking people" of England are more pleased with the mimic
      than the real voice of nature; and the four-footed puggys of the Brazils,
      like the true pig of the Grecian, are cast in the shade by their reasoning
      imitator! In short, not to be prosy on a subject which has awakened poetry
      and passion in all, hear, as the grave-diggers say, "the truth on't."{13}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          When winter triumph'd o'er the summer's flame,
          And C. G. opened, Punchinello came;
          Each odd grimace of monkey-art he drew,
          Exhausted postures and imagined new:
          The stage beheld him spurn its bounded reign,
          And frighten'd fiddlers scraped to him in vain;
          His seven-leagued leaps so well the fashion fit,
          That all adore him&mdash;boxes, gallery, pit,{14}

     13 It is suspicious, to say the least of it, this excess of
     praise to an old representation; for, after all, punch, the
     original punch, punch in the street, though not so loud, is
     ten times more to "our manner born," and much more original.
     That the beings who banish legitimate performers should
     puff, till we grow sick, a "thing of shreds and patches!"
     But "the world is still deceived by ornament."

     14 One Dr. Samuel Johnson has something like this, but then
     his lines were in praise of a "poor player," of a man who
     wasted much paper in writing dramas now thought nothing of.
     This is his doggrel.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[280]</span>But I must have done. Christmas will
      soon be here, and "I have a journey, sirs, shortly to go" to be prepared
      for its delights, and to fit myself for its festivities; and yet I am
      unwilling, acute Bernard, merry Echo, cheerful Eglantine, correct Transit,
      to "shake hands and part," without tendering the coming season's
      congratulations; so if it like you, dear spies o' the time, I will, like
      the swan, go off singing.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Marching along with berried brow,
          And snow flakes on his "frosty pow,"
          See father Christmas makes his bow,
          And proffers jovial cheer;

          About him tripping to and fro,
          Picking the holly as they go,
          And kiss-allowing misletoe,
          His merry elves appear.

          Then broach the barrel, fill the bowl,
          And let us pledge the hearty soul,
          Though swift the waning minutes roll,
          And time will stay for none;

          Lads, we will have a gambo still,
          For though we've made the foolish feel,
          And shamed the sinner in his ill,
          Our withers are unwrung.
</pre>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "When learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous foes
          First rear'd the stage, immortal Skakspeare rose;
          Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
          Exhausted worlds, and then imagined new;

          Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
          And panting Time toil'd after him in vain:
          His powerful strokes presiding truth impress'd,
          And unresisted passion storm'd the breast."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[281]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          No poison in the cup have ye,
          In all your travell'd history,
          Pour'd for the hearty, good, and free;
          This will your book evince:

          So "here's the King!"fill, fill for him,
          Then for our Country, to the brim;
          With it, good souls, we'll sink or swim.
          Huzzah! 'tis gall'd jades wince!

          But now, adieu; o'er hill and plain
          I scud, ere we shall meet again;
          Meantime, all prosp'rous be your reign,
          And friends attend in crowds;

          Before your splendid course is o'er,
          And Blackmantle shall please no more,
          You'll know, though yet I'm doom'd to soar,
          Your Spirit in the Clouds.{15}"

          November, 1825.
</pre>
    <p>
      Adieu, thou facetious sprite, and may the graybeard Time tread lightly on
      thy buoyant spirits! Meet thee or not hereafter, thou shalt live in my
      remembrance a cherished name, long as memory holds her influence o'er the
      eccentric mind of Bernard Blackmantle. Here, too, must Transit and myself
      take a farewell of merry Cheltenham, ever on the wing for novelty: our
      sketches have been brief, but full of genuine character; nor can they, as
      I hope, be considered in any instance as violating our established rule&mdash;of
      being true to nature, without offending the ear of chastity, or exciting
      aught but
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     15 "A. word to the wise," &amp;c. Get honest "Tom Whipcord" to
     take you by his hand on Valentine's night to the "noctes"
     muster of the <i>Sporting Annals</i> gents. You will know me by a
     brace of "bleeding hearts" in my plaited neckerchief, and a
     blue bunch of ribbons in my sinister side, as big as the
     Herald newspaper, the gifts of my lady-love.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[282]</span>the approving smile of the lovers of
      mirth, and the patrons of life's merriments. We had intended to have drawn
      aside the curtain of the theatre and the castle, and have shown forth to
      the gaze of the public the unhallowed mysteries which are sometimes
      performed there; but reflection whispered, that morality might find more
      cause to blush at the recital than her attendants would benefit by the
      exposure; and is is lamentably true, that some persons would cheerfully
      forfeit all claim to respectability of character for the honour of
      appearing in print, depicted in their true colours, as systematic and
      profligate seducers. To disappoint this infamous ambition, more than from
      any fear of the threatened consequences, we have left the sable colonel
      and his dark satellites to grope on through the murky ways of waywardness
      and intrigue, without staining our pages with a full relation of their
      heartless conduct, since to have revived the now forgotten tales might
      have given additional pain to some beauteous victims whose fair names have
      dropped into Lethe's waters, like early spring flowers nipped by the
      lingering hand of slow-paced winter; or, in other instances, have
      disturbed the repose of an unsuspecting husband, or have stung the aged
      heart of a doting parent&mdash;evils we could not have avoided, had we
      determined upon rehearsing the love scenes and intrigues of certain
      well-known Cheltenham amateurs.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Adieu, merry Chelts! we're for quitting our quarters;
          Adieu to the chase, to thy walks and thy waters,
          To thy hunt, ball, and theatre, and card tables too,
          And to all thy gay fair ones, a long, long adieu!

          Blackmantle and Transit, the Spy and his friend,
          Through Gloucester and Bristol, to Bath onward bend.
          To show how amused they have been in your streets,
          They give you, at parting, this man of sweetmeats;

          A character, famous as Mackey, the dandy,
          The London importer of horehound and candy;
          The cheapest of doctors, whose nostrums dispense
          A cure for all ills that affect taste or sense,

          I doubt not quite as good as one half your M.D.'s,
          Though sweet is the physic and simple the fees;
          This, at least, you'll admit, as we dart from your view
          That our vignette presents you with a sweet adieu!
</pre>
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    <h2>
      A VISIT TO GLOUCESTER AND BERKELEY.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Sketches on the Mood&mdash;Singular Introduction to an old
     Friend&mdash;A Tithe Cause tried&mdash;A strange Assemblage of
     Witnesses&mdash;Traits of Character&mdash;Effects of the Farmers'
     Success&mdash;An odd Cavalcade&mdash;Rejoicings at Berkeley.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[284]</span>The road from Cheltenham to Gloucester
      affords a good view of the Cotswold and Stroudwater Hills, diversified by
      the vales of Evesham, Gloucester, and Berkeley, bounded on the east by the
      Severn, and presenting in many situations a very rich picturesque
      appearance. We are not of the dull race who dwell on musty records and
      ancient inscriptions, or travel through a county to collect the precise
      date when the first stone of some now moss-crowned ruin was embedded in
      the antique clay beneath. Let the dead sleep in peace; we are not <i>anti-queer-ones</i>
      enough to wish the mouldering reliques of our ancestors arrayed in
      chronological order before our eyes, nor do we mean to risk our merry
      lives in exploring the monastic piles and subterranean vaults and passages
      of other times. No; our office is with the living, with the enriched
      Gothic of modern courts, and the finished Corinthian capitals of society,
      illustrating, as we proceed, with choice specimens of the rustic and the
      grotesque; now laughing over our wine with the Tuscan bacchanal, or
      singing a soft tale of love in the ear of some chaste daughter of the
      composite order; <span class="pagenum">[285]</span>trifling perhaps a
      little harmless badinage with a simple Ionic, or cracking a college joke
      with a learned Doric; never troubling our heads, or those of our readers,
      about the origin or derivation of these orders, whether they came from
      early Greece or more accomplished Home; or be their progenitors of Saxon,
      Norman, Danish, or of Anglo-Saxon character, we care not; 'tis ours to
      depict them as they at present appear, leaving to the profound
      topographers and compilers of county histories all that relates to the
      black letter lore of long forgotten days.
    </p>
    <p>
      Gloucester is proverbial for its dulness, and from the dirty appearance of
      the streets and houses, was, by my friend Transit, denominated the black
      city; a designation he maintained to be strictly correct, since it has a
      cathedral, a bishop, and a black choir of canonicals, and was from
      earliest times the residence of a black brotherhood of monks, whose black
      deeds are recorded in the black letter pages of English history; to which
      was added another confirmatory circumstance, that upon our entrance it
      happened the assizes for the county had just commenced, and the black
      gowns of Banco Regis, and of the law, were preparing to try the blacks of
      Gloucestershire, out of which arose a black joke, that will long be
      remembered by the inhabitants of Berkeley, and the tenantry of the sable
      colonel.
    </p>
    <p>
      We had made our domicile at the Ham Inn, by the recommendation of our
      Cheltenham host, where we met with excellent accommodations, and what,
      beside, we could never have anticipated to have met with in such a place,
      one of the richest scenes that had yet presented itself in the course of
      our eccentric tour.
    </p>
    <p>
      The unusual bustle that prevailed in every department of the inn, together
      with a concatenation of sounds now resembling singing and speaking, and
      the occasional scraping of some ill-toned violins above our heads, induced
      us to make a few inquisitive <span class="pagenum">[286]</span>remarks to
      mine host of the Ham, that quickly put us in possession of the following
      facts.
    </p>
    <p>
      It appeared, that a suit respecting the right of the vicar of Berkeley to
      the great tithes of that town had been long pending in the court of
      Chancery, in which the reverend was opposed to his former friend, the
      colonel, the churchwardens of Berkeley, and the whole of the surrounding
      tenantry. Now this cause was, by direction of the Lord Chancellor, to be
      tried at these assizes, and, in consequence, the law agents had been most
      industrious in bringing together, by subpoena, all the ancient authorities
      of the county, the aged, the blind, and the halt, to give evidence against
      their worthy pastor; and as it is most conducive to success in law, the
      keeping witnesses secure from tampering, and in good-humour with the
      cause, the legal advisers had prepared such festive cheer at the Bam, for
      those of the popular interest, as would have done honour to the colonel's
      banquet at the castle. Such was the information we obtained from our host,
      to whose kind introduction of us to the lawyers we were afterwards
      indebted for a very pleasant evening's amusement.
    </p>
    <p>
      We were ushered into the room by one of the legal agents as two gentlemen
      from London, who, being strangers in the place, were desirous of being
      permitted to spend their evening among such a jovial society. The
      uproarious mirth, and rude welcome, with which this communication was
      received by the company, added to the clouds of smoke which enveloped
      their chairman, prevented our immediate recognition of him; but great and
      pleasant indeed was our surprise to find the most noble, the very learned
      head of the table, to be no other than our old Eton <i>con.</i> little
      Dick Gradus, to whose lot it had fallen to conduct this action, and defend
      the interests of the agriculturalists against the mercenary encroachments
      of the church militant. This was indeed no common cause; and the greatest
      difficulty <span class="pagenum">[287]</span>our friend Gradus had to
      encounter was the restricting within due bounds of moderation the
      over-zealous feelings of his witnesses. It was quite clear a parson's
      tithes, if left to the generosity of his parishioners, would produce but a
      small modicum of his reverence's income. The jovial farmer chuckled with
      delight at the prospect of being able to curtail the demands of his
      canonical adversary. "Measter Carrington," said he, "may be a very good
      zort of a preacher, but I knows he has no zort of business with tithing my
      property; and if zo be as the gentleman judge will let me, gad zooks! but
      I will prove my words, better than he did the old earl's marriage, when he
      made such a fool of himsel' before the peers in parliament." "That's your
      zort, measter Tiller," resounded from all the voices round the table. "Let
      the clergy zow for themselves, and grow for themselves, as the varmers do;
      what a dickens should we work all the week for the good of their bodies,
      when they only devote one hour in the whole seven days for the benefit of
      our zouls?" "That's right, Measter Coppinger," said some one next to the
      speaker; "you are one hundred years of age, and pray how many times have
      you heard the parson preach?" "I never zeed him in his pulpit in the whole
      courze of my life; but then you know that were my fault, I might if I
      would; but I'ze been a main close attendant upon the church for all that:
      during the old earl's lifetime, I was a sort of deputy huntsman, and then
      the parson often followed me; and when I got too old to ride, I was made
      assistant gamekeeper, and then I very often followed the parson; so you
      zee I'ze a true churchman, every inch of me; only I don't like poaching,
      and when his reverence wants me to help him sack his tithes, old Jack
      Coppinger will tell him to his head, he may e'en carry the bag himself."
      "A toast from the chair! Let's hear the lawyer' zentiments on this
      zubject," said another; with which request Gradus complied, by giving,
      "May he who <span class="pagenum">[288]</span>ploughs and plants the soil
      reap all its fruits!" "Ay, Measter Gradus, that is as it should be,"
      reiterated a farmer on his right, "zo I'll give you, 'The varmers against
      the parsons,' and there's old Tom Sykes yonder, the thatcher, he will give
      you a zong about the 'tithe pig and the tenth child,' a main good stave, I
      do azzure you." A request which the old thatcher most readily complied
      with, to the great delight of all present; for independent of his dialect,
      which was of the true rich west-country character, there was considerable
      wit and humour in the song, and an archness of manner in the performer,
      that greatly increased the good-humour of the society. In this way the
      evening was spent very pleasantly; and as the cause was to come on the
      first thing on the ensuing morning, Transit and myself determined to await
      the issue, anticipating that, if our merry-hearted companions, the
      rustics, should be successful, there would be no lack of merriment, and
      some exhibition of good sport both for the pen and pencil.
    </p>
    <p>
      We had strayed after breakfast to view the cathedral, which is very well
      worthy the attention of the curious, and certainly contains some very
      ancient relics of the great and the good of earliest times. On our return,
      the deafening shouts of the multitude, who were congregated outside the
      Sessions House, proclaimed a favourable verdict for the farmers, who, in
      the excess of their joy at having beaten their reverend adversary, gave
      loose to the most unrestrained expressions of exultation: a messenger was
      immediately despatched to Berkeley to convey, express, the glad tidings;
      and the head farmers of the parish, with whom were the church-wardens,
      determined to commemorate their victory by roasting a bullock whole on the
      brow of the hill which overlooked their vicar's residence, and for the
      preparation of which festivity they also sent their instructions. The next
      grand point was, how to <span class="pagenum">[289]</span>convey the
      witnesses, who were very numerous, to the scene of action, a distance of
      eighteen miles. To have despatched them in post-chaises, could they have
      found a sufficient number in Gloucester, was neither in accordance with
      economy, nor with the wishes of the parties themselves, who were very
      anxious to have a grand procession, and enjoy themselves as they went
      along in smoking, singing, drinking, and proclaiming their triumph to
      their neighbours and friends. Mine hostess of the Ram, with every female
      in her establishment, had been, from the moment the verdict was given to
      the departure of the group, busily engaged in making large blue favours,
      of the colonel's colour, to decorate the hats of the visitors, until Mr.
      Boots arrived with the dismaying intelligence, that not another yard of
      riband, of the colour required, could be obtained in all the city of
      Gloucester. With equal industry and perseverance the host himself had put
      in requisition every species of conveyance that he could muster, which was
      calculated to suit the views of the parties, and form a grand cavalcade;
      without much attention to the peculiar elegance of the vehicles, to be
      sure, but with every arrangement for social comfort. It had been decided
      that my friend Transit and myself should accompany Richard Gradus, Esq.
      the solicitor to the fortunate defendants, in a post coach in front,
      preceded by four of mine host's best horses, with postillions decorated
      with blue favours, and streamers flying from the four corners of the
      carriage; and now came the marshalling of the procession to follow.
    </p>
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    <p>
      One of the colonel's hay vans had been supplied with seats, lengthwise, in
      which the first division of farmers placed themselves, not, however,
      forgetting to take in a good supply of ale and pipes with them; next in
      order was one of the old-fashioned double-bodied stages, which had not
      been cleaned, or out of the coach-yard, for twenty years before, and both
      in the <span class="pagenum">[290]</span>inside and on the roof of which
      the more humble rustics and farmers' labourers were accommodated: this
      vehicle was drawn by four cart horses, of the roughest description; the
      rear of the whole being brought up by a long black funeral hearse, with
      three horses, unicorn fashion, on the roof of which the men sate sidewise,
      while the interior was, by Gradus's orders, well filled with casks of the
      best Gloucester ale. About a dozen of the farmers, on horseback, rode by
      the side of the vehicles; and in this order, with the accompaniment of a
      bugle in the hay van, and a couple of blind fiddlers scraping on the
      centre of the roof of the hearse, did we sally forth in most grotesque
      order, amid the joyous acclamations of the multitude, on our way to
      Berkeley, every countenance portraying exultation and good-humour, and
      every where upon the road meeting with a corresponding welcome. A more
      humorous or whimsical procession cannot well be imagined, men, animals,
      and vehicles being perfectly unique. By the time we had reached our
      destination, the potent effects of the Gloucester ale, added to the
      smoking and vociferous expressions of joy that attended us throughout, had
      left very few of our rustic friends without the visible and outward signs
      of their inward devotions to the jolly god. On our arrival near to
      Berkeley, we were met by crowds of the joyous inhabitants, and proceeded
      onward to the spot selected for the festive scene, where we found the
      bullock already roasting on the top of the hill, and where also they had
      pitched a tent, and brought some small cannon, with which they fired a <i>feu
      de joie</i> on our arrival, taking special care to point their artillery
      in the direction of the vicar's residence. On the opposite side of the
      road was the church; and it is not a little singular, that the steeple,
      belfry, and tower are completely detached from the body of the building.
      The vicar, dreading the riotous joy of his parishioners upon <span
      class="pagenum">[291]</span>this occasion, had locked up the church, and
      issued his mandate to the wardens to prevent a merry peal; but these
      persons insisting that as the church was detached from the belfry, the
      vicar had no authority over it, they directed the ringers to give them a
      triple bob major, which canonical music was merrily repeated at intervals,
      to the great dismay of the parson, who, over and above the loss he was
      likely to sustain in his future interests, had by this defect suffered
      under a legal expenditure of some thousands of pounds. The colonel did not
      show, perhaps from prudential motives of respect to his old friend, but
      his agents were well instructed in their duty, and there was no lack of a
      plentiful supply of provision and ale for his tenantry to make right merry
      with. Thus ended our trip to Berkeley, where, after taking a view of the
      castle on the following morning, and surveying the delightful scenery with
      which that most ancient building is surrounded, we bade adieu to our
      friend Gradus, and mounted the Cheltenham coach, as it passed through, on
      our way to Bristol.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      A DAY IN BRISTOL.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     A Glance at the Bristolians&mdash;Their Pursuits and
     Characteristics&mdash;The London Mail&mdash;A Walk to the Hot Wells
     and Clifton&mdash;Blackmantle and Transit start for the
     Territories of King Bladud.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[292]</span>The worthy Bristolians must not feel
      offended if we pass them by rather briefly; had ours been a tour of
      business, connected with commercial pursuit instead of a search after whim
      and character, we should no doubt have found materials enough to have
      filled a dozen chapters; but such pursuits are foreign to the eccentric
      volumes of the English Spy, whose sole aim is humour, localized, and
      embracing characteristic scenes. Such is the above sketch, which struck
      Transit and myself, as we took a stroll down Bridge-street while our
      breakfast was preparing at the White Hart; it was a bit of true life, and
      cannot fail to please: but, after all, Bristol resembles London so
      closely, at least the <span class="pagenum">[293]</span>eastern part of
      the metropolis, that although we saw much that would have been worthy the
      attention of the antiquary and the curious in their several churches and
      museums, or might, with great advantage, have been transferred to the note
      book of the topographer, yet we met with none of that peculiar whimsical
      character that distinguishes the more fashionable places of resort. The
      sole object of the Bristolians is trade, and every face you meet with has
      a ledger-like countenance, closely resembling the calculating citizen of
      London, whose every thought is directed to the accumulation of wealth, by
      increased sales of merchandize, or the overreaching his neighbour in
      taking the first advantage of the market.
    </p>
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    <p>
      The arrival of the London mail, which comes in about ten o'clock in the
      morning, afforded Transit another opportunity of picking up what little of
      character there was to be found. At Bristol there is always a great
      anxiety to obtain the London news and price current; so much so, that the
      leading merchants and others assemble in front of the Post-office, which
      also joins the Exchange, to wait the arrival of the mail (see Plate), and
      receive the letters of advice which are to regulate their concerns. It is
      but justice to add, there is no place in the kingdom of the same distance
      to which the conveyance is quicker, and the facility of delivery more
      promptly attended to. After breakfast we took a stroll round the docks,
      and then bent our steps towards the heights, and along the delightful walk
      which leads to the Hot Wells and Clifton.
    </p>
    <p>
      To attempt a just description of the magnificent and romantic scenery
      which surrounds Clifton, as it is viewed from the Downs, would occupy more
      space than our limits will allow us to devote to the beauties of
      landscape; and would, besides, interfere with an intention which Transit
      and myself have in view at some future period of our lives, namely, the
      making a topographical and characteristic tour through the United
      Kingdoms, which being divided into counties, <span class="pagenum">[294]</span>and
      embracing not only the historical and the picturesque, will be enlivened
      by all the humorous vagaries, eccentric characters, and peculiar sports of
      each, written in a colloquial style; and embracing the lingual localisms,
      proverbs, and provincialisms of the inhabitants: thus producing a humorous
      but most correct view of the present state of society and manners. The
      materials for such a work have gradually presented themselves during the
      progress of the present eccentric volumes; but, as our object here has
      been good-humoured satire joined to comic sketches of existing persons and
      scenes, more in the way of anecdote than history, we hope to meet with the
      same kind friends in a more extended work, among those who have journeyed
      onwards with us through two years&mdash;pleasantly we must suppose, by
      their continued support; and profitably, we are gratefully bound to
      acknowledge, to all parties interested. An early dinner at Clifton, and a
      pleasant walk back by the terrace-road, brought us once more into the busy
      streets of Bristol, where after sauntering away the time until five
      o'clock, we mounted a Bath coach, and started forwards with a fresh
      impetus, and much promise of amusement, to explore the territories of King
      Bladud.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      SKETCHES IN BATH.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      <span class="pagenum">[235]</span>
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     First View of the elegant City&mdash;Meeting with Old Blackstrap
     &mdash;Domicile at the Castle Tavern&mdash;Matthew and Mrs. Temple
     worthy Characters&mdash;Sportsmans Hall&mdash;Bath Heroes of the Turf
     the Ring, and the Chace&mdash;Portraits and Peculiarities drawn
     from the Life.

          May I ne'er flutter in the thoughtless train
          With fashion's elves, the giddy, and the vain;
          May I ne'er stroll again with Milsom swells
          To Tully's shop, or lounge with pump-room belles;
          May I no more to Sidney Gardens stray,
          If, Bath, I wrong thee in my hum'rous lay.
          Court of King Blad', where crescents circling rise
          Above each other till they reach the skies;
          And hills o'er-topping with their verdant green
          The Abbey Church, are in the distance seen:
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[296]</span>Where inns invite ye, and where lodgings
      smile A ready welcome to some Grecian pile; Where chairmen wait ye, ready
      to attend And box ye up upon your latter end; Where summer breezes on
      Hygeia wait, And cards and fashion hold their courts of state. Hither
      we're come to Bath, to spy and tell What reigning follies mark the beau
      and belle; What stars eccentric move within thy sphere, Or who's the
      greatest lion of the year. "Have at ye all," we satirists give no quarter;
      Yet shall our mirth prove grateful as Bath water.
    </p>
    <p>
      The distant appearance, or first glimpse of the city of Bath, is enough to
      impress a stranger with the most favourable opinions of the place. The
      regularity of the streets, and the tasteful character of the architecture
      of the principal buildings, are certainly superior to that of any other
      place of public resort in England; added to which, there is an attention
      to cleanliness apparent in the costume of the lower classes that is not so
      conspicuous in other places. "Blest source of health! seated on rising
      ground, With friendly hills by nature guarded round; From eastern blasts
      and sultry south secure, The Air's balsamic, and the soil is pure."
      Surrounded by delightful scenery, and guarded from the piercing north
      winds by the hilly barriers of nature, the spot seems above all others
      best calculated to restore the health of the valetudinarian, whose
      constitution has become shattered and infirm by a course of fashionable
      dissipation, or a lengthened residence in the pestilential climates of the
      Indies. "Sweet Bath! the liveliest city of the land; Where health and
      pleasure ramble hand in hand, Where smiling belles their earliest visit
      pay, And faded maids their lingering blooms delay. Delightful scenes of
      elegance and ease! Realms of the gay, where every sport can please." <span
      class="pagenum">[297]</span>Thus sings the Bath poet, Bayly; who, if he is
      somewhat too servile an imitation of Moore in his style, has certainly
      more of originality in his matter than generally distinguishes poems of
      such a local nature. One of the greatest characters in the city of Bath
      was the worthy host of our hotel, the Castle; at whose door stood the
      rubicund visage of our Cheltenham friend, Blackstrap, ready to give us a
      hearty welcome, and introduce us to Matthew Temple, who making one of his
      best bows, led the way into the coffee-room, not forgetting to assure us
      that Mistress Temple, who was one of the best women in the world, would
      take the greatest care that we had every attention paid to our commands
      and comforts; and, in good truth, honest Matthew was right, for a more
      comely, good-humoured, attentive, kind hostess exists not in the three
      kingdoms of his Gracious Majesty George the Fourth. In short, Mrs. Temple
      is the major-domo of the Castle, while honest Matthew, conscious of his
      own inability to direct the active operations of the garrison within
      doors, beats up for recruits without; attends to all the stable duty and
      the commissariat, keeps a sharp look-out for new arrivals by coach, and a
      still sharper one that no customer departs without paying his bill; and
      thus having made his daily bow to the inns and the outs, honest Matthew
      retires at night to take his glass of grog with the choice spirits who
      frequent Sportsman's Hall, a snug little smoking room on the left of the
      gateway, where the heroes of the turf and the lads of the fancy nightly
      assemble to relate their sporting anecdotes, sing a merry chaunt, book the
      long odds, and blow a friendly cloud in social intercourse and good
      fellowship.
    </p>
    <p>
      I do not know that it matters much at what end of Bath society I commence
      my sketches; and experience has taught me, that the more fashionable
      frivolities of high life seldom present the same opportunity for the <span
      class="pagenum">[298]</span>study of character, which is to be found in
      the merry, open-hearted, mirthful meetings of the medium classes and the
      lower orders. The pleasure we had felt in Blackstrap's society at
      Cheltenham, induced us to engage him to dine in the coffee-room, with our
      early friends Heartly and Eglantine, both of whom being then at Bath, we
      had invited to meet us, in the expectation that Dick Gradus, having
      arranged his legal affairs at Berkeley, would, by the dinner hour, arrive
      to join such a rare assemblage of old Eton <i>cons</i>&mdash;a
      gratification we had the pleasure to experience; and never did the festive
      board resound with more pleasant reminiscences from old friends: the
      social hour fled gaily, and every fresh glass brought its attendant joke.
      Heartly and Eglantine had, we found, been sufficiently long in Bath to
      become very able instructors to Transit and myself in all that related to
      the haute class, and old Barnaby Blackstrap was an equally able guide to
      every description of society, from the mediums down to the strange
      collections of vagrant oddities which are to be found in the back Janes
      and suburbs of the city of Bath. It has been well said, in a spirited
      reply to the Reverend Mr. Ek&mdash;r&mdash;s&mdash;l's illiberal satire,
      entitled "The Bath Man," that "London has its divisions of good and bad
      sets as well as Bath; nay, every little set has its lower set; Bank looks
      down contemptuously upon wealth; those who are asked to Carlton Palace cut
      the muligatawny set; the ancient aristocracy call law-lords and <i>parvenues</i>
      a bad set; and so downward through the whole scale of society, from
      Almack's to a sixpenny hop, 'still in the lowest deep a lower deep,' and
      human pride will ever find consolation that there is something to be found
      beneath it. Plain men, accustomed to form their notions of good and evil
      on more solid foundations than grades of fashionable distinctions, will
      not consent to stigmatize as bad any class of society because there may
      happen to <span class="pagenum">[299]</span>be a class above it." And what
      better apology could we desire for our eccentric rambles through every
      grade of Bath society? with us every set has its attractions, and I have
      known my friend Transit cut a nobleman and half a dozen honourables for
      the delightful gratification of enjoying the eccentricities of a beggars'
      club, and being enabled to sketch from the life the varied exhibition of
      passion and character which such a meeting would afford him. It will not,
      therefore, create any surprise in my readers, that our first evening in
      Bath should have been devoted to the social pipe; the pleasant account
      Blackstrap gave us of the sporting party, in Matthew Temple's snuggery,
      induced us to adjourn thither in the evening, where we might enjoy life,
      smoke our cigars, join a little chaffing about the turf and the ring, sip
      our punch and grog, enjoy a good chaunt, and collect a little character
      for the pages of the English Spy. To such as are fond of these amusements,
      most heartily do I recommend a visit to the Sporting Parlour at the
      Castle, where they will not fail to recognise many of the jovial
      characters represented in the opposite page; and as old Time pays no
      respect to worth and mellow-hearted mortals, but in his turn will mow down
      my old friend Matthew and his merry companions, I am desirous to
      perpetuate their memory by a song, which will include all of note who upon
      this occasion joined the festive scene.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      SPORTSMAN'S HALL.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      A SCENE AT THE CASTLE.
    </h3>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[300]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Come all you gay fellows, so merry and witty,
          Ye Somerset lads of the elegant city,
          Ye sons of the turf who delight in a race,
          And ye Nimrods of Bath who are fond of the chase;
          Come join us, and pledge us, like true brothers all,
          At old Matthew Temple's, the Castle and Ball.

          Will Partridge, the father of sports, in the chair,
          With honest George Wingrove will welcome you there,
          While Handy, who once on two horses could ride,
          And merry Jack Bedford will meet you beside;
          Then for sport or for spree, or to keep up the ball,
          We've an excellent fellow, you'll own, in Bill Hall.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[301]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Captain Beaven, a yeoman of merry renown,
          Will keep up the joke with the gay ones from town,
          While, if you'd go off in a canter or speed,
          You've only to take a few lessons with Mead;
          Then Sharland can suit every beau to a T,
          So haste to the Castle, ye lovers of glee.

          Sweet Margerim, clerk of the course, will be found
          With any young sportsman to trot o'er the ground,
          Though his Honesty, since at Wells races 'twas tried,
          It must be admitted, has bolted aside;
          The Newcombe's are good at all sports in the ring,
          While, like Chanticleer, Hunt the Cocker will sing.

          Jack Langley, the fam'd 'Squire Western of Bath,
          A jolly fox-hunter, who's fond of a laugh,
          With mellow Tom Williams, of Brewers a pair,
          Are the bacchanals form'd for to banish dull care;
          Then haste to the Castle, ye true merry sprites,
          Where the song, and the chase, and the fancy delights.

          Give a host more to name of the jovial and free,
          That my song would extend till to-morrow d'ye see:
          But a truce to particulars; take them all round,
          There's nothing in Bath like themselves to be found;
          Where harmony, friendship, and mirth can combine,
          The pleasures of life with kind hearts and good wine.
</pre>
    <p>
      And in good truth, there is no place within the dominions of King Bladud,
      where the social man can find more cheerful companions, the sporting man
      more kindred spirits, and the lovers of the characteristic and the
      humorous meet with a greater variety of genuine eccentricity, unalloyed
      with any baser or offensive material. Matthew Temple himself is a great
      original, pure Somerset, perfectly good-natured, ever ready to oblige, and
      although for many years the commander-in-chief of the Castle, is yet in
      all the chicanery of his
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[302]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      profession, and the usual obtrusiveness of a landlord, as unlike the
      generality of his brethren as a raw recruit is to an effective soldier.
      Old Master William Partridge is also worthy of notice as the father of the
      turf, and then if you would ride to hounds, no man in Bath can mount you
      better, or afford you such good corn, great attentions, and a warm stall
      for a prime hack. Rich in anecdote, and what is still better, with a
      charitable purse and a worthy heart, there are few men who have earned for
      themselves more respect in this life, or deserve it better, than William
      Handy, Esq. the once celebrated equestrian, who having realized a handsome
      competency, retired, some years since, to Bath, to enjoy his <i>otium cum
      dignitate</i>: here, at an advanced age, with all the spirits of youth,
      and a lively interest in every thing relating to sporting, you will meet
      with the character I have described; and, take my word for it, will not be
      disappointed in the likeness. Among the bon vivants of Sportsmans' Hall I
      must not omit that care-killing soul Captain Beaven, whose easy flow of
      good-humour and love of good sport is not less conspicuous than his love
      for a pretty lass, and his delight in a good song and a cheerful glass.
      Honest George Wingrove, a wealthy baker, and the patriarch of the room,
      will never prove a crusty customer, I am sure; and if that good-looking
      fellow Mead, the riding-master, does sometimes "o'erstep the modesty of
      nature" in his mode of addressing his pupils, adopting the familiar style
      of addressing them by their christian name&mdash;as, for instance, "set
      upright, Sally; more forward, Eliza; keep your rein-hand more square,
      Ellen;" and soon; he hath, however, yet many good points that amply
      compensate for this perverseness of habit. Among the genuine good ones,
      the real thing, as the sporting phrase has it, not a biped in Bath beats
      Tom Williams, who, agreeable to our Eton Gradus, is good at every thing: a
      more jovial, worthy-hearted, respected soul breathes not within the merry
      court of King Bladud, and very <span class="pagenum">[303]</span>few there
      that can rival him in a good horse, a long run, or as a lively companion.
      Tom is married to the sister of Bartley, the comedian, and carries with
      him into private life the estimation which ever attends him in public. For
      a rum story, a bit of real life, or a roguish joke, who shall excel Jack
      Bedford? And then, if your honour would knock the balls about, why "Jack's
      the lad" to accommodate you. And little Bill Hall, who keeps the Kingston
      billiard-rooms, will be most happy to make his best bow to you without any
      view to the mace. But, i' faith, I am sketching away here in Sportsman's
      Hall at old Matthew Temple's, and could continue so to do for another
      chapter; forgetting, as Transit says, that we have yet to traverse the
      whole city of Bath through, spying into the vagaries and varieties of the
      more polished, and taking a slight occasional glance at the lowest grade
      of society, in order to diversify and keep up the chiaroscuro of our
      pictures.
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<pre xml:space="preserve">
Merry reader, for such I hope thou art, we have now travelled on for
nearly two years together; and many a varied scene in life's pilgrimage
have we set before you, from the gilded dome of royalty to the humble
shed of the Emeralder; but our visit to Bath will afford you a richer
treat than aught that has yet preceded it. It was when the party broke
up at Temple's, and that was not before the single admonition of old
father Time had sounded his morning bell, that a few <i>bon vivants</i>
of the Castle, accompanied by the English Spy and his merry friends,
sallied forth in quest of strange adventure; for it must be admitted,
that in the elegant city

          "Candles and ladies' eyes oft shine most bright,
          When both should be extinguish'd for the night."
</pre>
    <p>
      A fancy ball at the Upper Rooms on this night had attracted all the
      elegance, fashion, and beauty to be found within the gay circle of
      pleasure, and thither <span class="pagenum">[304]</span>we bent our steps,
      having first provided ourselves with the necessary introductions. The
      scene above all others in the fascination of gay life and the display of
      female charms is a fancy ball; a species of entertainment better suited to
      the modest character of our countrywomen than the masquerade, and, in
      general, much better liked in this country, where the masked
      entertainment, unless in private, is always avoided by females of rank and
      character. One of the most amusing scenes which first presented itself to
      our notice on approaching the entrance to the rooms was the eager anxiety
      and determined perseverance of the liveried Mercuries and Bath
      dromedaries, alias chairmen, to procure for their respective masters and
      mistresses a priority of admission; an officious zeal that was often
      productive of the most ludicrous circumstances, and, in two or three
      instances, as far as indispensable absence from the pleasures of the night
      could operate, of the most fatal effects. A well-known city beau, who had
      been at considerable expense in obtaining from London the splendid dress
      of a Greek prince, was completely upset and rolled into the kennel by his
      chairmen running foul of a sedan, in which Lord Molyneaux and his friend
      Lord Ducie had both crammed themselves in the dress of Tyrolese
      chieftains. The Countess of D&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, who personated
      Psyche, in attempting to extricate herself from an unpleasant situation,
      in which the obstinacy of her chairmen had placed her, actually had her
      glittering wings torn away, unintentionally, from her shoulders by the
      rude hand of a Bath rustic, whose humanity prompted him to attempt her
      deliverance. Old Lady L&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;, in the highest state
      of possible alarm, from feeling her sedan inclining full twenty degrees
      too much to the right, popped her head up, and raising the top part of the
      machine, screamed out most piteously for assistance, and on drawing it
      back <span class="pagenum">[305]</span>again, tore off her new head-dress,
      and let her false front shut in between the flap of the chair, by which
      accident, all the beautiful Parisian curls of her ladyship were rendered
      quite flat and uninteresting. An old gentleman of fortune, who was
      suffering under hypochondriacal affection, and had resolved to attempt Sir
      John Falstaff, received the end of a sedan pole plump in his chest, by
      which powerful application he was driven through the back part of the
      machine, and effectually cured of "<i>la maladie imaginaire</i>" by the
      acuteness of a little real pain. The flambeau of a spruce livery servant
      setting fire to the greasy tail of a Bath chairman's surtout produced a
      most awkward <i>rencontre</i>, by which a husband and wife, who had not
      been associated together for some years, but were proceeding to the ball
      in separate chairs, were, by the accidental concussion of their sedans in
      a moment of alarm, actually thrown into each other's arms; and such was
      the gallantry of the gentleman, that he marched into the ball-room bearing
      up the slender frame of his heretofore forsaken rib, to whom he from that
      time has become reunited. The lady mayoress of the city was excessively
      indignant on finding her preeminence of <i>entrée</i> disputed by the wife
      of a Bristol butcher; while the chair of the master of the ceremonies was
      for some time blocked in between the sedans of two old tabbies, whose
      expressions of alarm, attempts at faintings, and little flights of
      scandal, had so annoyed the poor M. C. that when he entered the ball-room,
      he felt as irritable as a tantalized lover between two female furies. In
      short, the scene was rich in amusement for the group of merry hearts who
      had left the Castle in quest of adventure; and while we were enjoying the
      ludicrous effects produced by the jostling of the sedans, my friend
      Transit had sketched the affair in his usual happy style, and designated
      it thus: <span class="pagenum">[306]</span>
    </p>
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    <h2>
      THE BATTLE OF THE CHAIRS.
    </h2>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
           "The chairs are order'd, and the moment comes,
           When all the world assemble at the rooms."
</pre>
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    <p>
      For the ball-room itself, it was the most splendid scene that the magic
      power of fancy could devise. The variety of characters, the elegance of
      the dresses, and the beauty of the graceful fair, joined to their playful
      wit and accomplished manners, produced a succession of delights which
      banished from the heart of man the recollection of his mortal ills, and
      gave him, for the passing time, a semblance of Elysian pleasures. The
      rooms are admirably calculated for this species of entertainment, and are,
      I believe, the largest in England; while the excellent regulations and
      arrangements adopted by the master of the ceremonies to prevent any of
      those unpleasant intrusions, too often admitted into mixed assemblies,
      deserved the highest commendation. It is from scenes of this description
      that the writer on men <span class="pagenum">[307]</span>and manners
      extracts his characters, and drawing aside from the mirth-inspiring group,
      contemplates the surrounding gaieties, noting down in his memory the
      pleasing varieties and amusing anecdotes he has there heard; pleasantries
      with which at some future time he may enliven the social circle of his
      friends, or by reviving in print, recall the brightest and the best
      recollections of those who have participated in their gay delights.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "In this distinguish'd circle you will find
          Many degrees of man and woman kind."
</pre>
    <p>
      And as I am here "life's painter, the very Spy o' the time," I shall
      endeavour to sketch a few of the leading Bath characters; most of the gay
      well-known being upon this occasion present, and many an eccentric star
      shining forth, whose light it would be difficult to encounter in any other
      circle. The accompanying view of the rooms by Transit will convey a
      correct idea of the splendour of the entertainment, and the fascinating
      appearance of the assembled groups.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Ranged on the benches sit the lookers-on,
          Who criticise their neighbours one by one;
          Each thinks herself in word and deed so bless'd,
          That she's a bright example for the rest.
          Numerous tales and anecdotes they hatch,
          And prophesy the dawn of many a match;
          And many a matrimonial scheme declare,
          Unknown to either of the happy pair;
          Much delicate discussion they advance,
          About the dress and gait of those who dance;
          One stoops too much; and one is so upright,
          He'll never see his partner all the night;
          One is too lazy; and the next too rough;
          This jumps too high, and that not high enough.
          Thus each receives a pointed observation,
          Not that it's scandal&mdash;merely conversation."
</pre>
    <p>
      A three months' sojournment at Bath had afforded my friend Eglantine an
      excellent opportunity for <span class="pagenum">[308]</span>estimating
      public character, a science in which he was peculiarly well qualified to
      shine; since to much critical acumen was joined a just power of
      discrimination, aided by a generosity of feeling that was ever enlivened
      by good-humoured sallies of playful satire. To Horace Eglantine, I may
      apply the compliment which Cleland pays to Pope&mdash;he was incapable of
      either saying or writing "a line on any man, which through guilt, through
      shame, or through fear, through variety of fortune, or change of interest,
      he would ever be unwilling to own." It too often happens that the cynic
      and the satirist are themselves more than tinged with the foibles which
      they so severely censure in others. "You shall have a specimen of this
      infirmity," said Horace, "in the person of Peter Paul Pallet; a reverend
      gentleman whom you will observe yonder in the dress of a Chinese mandarin.
      Some few years since this pious personage took upon himself the task of
      lashing the prevailing follies of society in a satire entitled Bath
      Characters, and it must be admitted, the work proves him to have been a
      fellow of no ordinary talent; but an unfortunate amour with the wife of a
      reverend brother, which was soon after made public, added to certain other
      peculiarities and eccentricities, have since marked the satirist himself
      as one of the most prominent objects for the just application of his own
      weapon."
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Come hither, Paul Pallet, your portrait I'll paint:
          You're a satirist, reverend sir, but no saint.
</pre>
    <p>
      But as some of his characters are very amusing, and no doubt very correct
      portraits of the time, 1808, my readers shall have the advantage of them,
      that they may be the better able to contrast the past with the present,
      and form their own conclusions how far society has improved in morality by
      the increase of methodism, the influx of evangelical breathings, or the
      puritanical pretensions of bible societies. I shall pass by his
      description of the club; gaming ever was <span class="pagenum">[309]</span>and
      ever will be a leading fashionable vice, which only poverty and ruin can
      correct or cure. The clergy must, however, be greatly delighted at the
      following picture of the cloth, drawn by one of their holy brotherhood.
      "The Bath church," says the satirist, "is filled with croaking ravens,
      chattering jays, and devouring cormorants; black-headed fanatics and
      white-headed 'dreamers of dreams;' the aqua-fortis of mob politics, and
      the mawkish slip-slop of modern divinity; rank cayenne pepper, and genuine
      powder of post!" Really a very flattering description of our clerical
      comforters, but one which, I lament to say, will answer quite as well for
      1826, with, perhaps, a little less of enthusiasm in the composition, and
      some faint glimmerings of light opposed to the darkness of bigotry and the
      frauds of superstition. Methodism is said to be on the wane&mdash;we can
      hear no better proof that true religion and good sense are coming into
      fashion. The sketch of Mrs. Vehicle, by the same hand, is said to have
      been a true copy of a well-known female gambler; it is like a portrait of
      Sir Joshua Reynolds, a picture worthy of preservation from its intrinsic
      merits, long after the original has ceased to exist: how readily might it
      be applied to half a score card-table devotees of the present day!
      "Observe that <i>ton</i> of beauty, Mrs. Vehicle, who is sailing up the
      passage, supported like a nobleman's coat of arms by her amiable sisters,
      the virtuous widow on one side, and the angelic Miss Speakplain on the
      other. By my soul! the same roses play upon her cheeks now that bloomed
      there winters ago, the natural tint of that identical patent rouge which
      she has enamelled her face with for these last twenty years; her gait and
      presence, too, are still the same&mdash;<i>Vera incessa patuit Dea</i>;
      she yet boasts the enchanting waddle of a Dutch Venus, and the modest brow
      of a Tower-hill Diana. Ah, Jack, would you but take a few lessons from my
      old friend <span class="pagenum">[310]</span>at the science of shuffle and
      cut, you would not rise so frequently from the board of green cloth, as
      you now do, with pockets in which the devil might dance a saraband without
      injuring his shins against their contents. Why, man, she is a second
      Breslaw with a pack; I have known her deal four honours, nine trumps to
      herself three times in the course of one rubber, and not cut a higher card
      to her adversary than a three during the whole evening. Sensible of her
      talents, and of the impropriety of hiding them in a napkin, she chose
      Bath, independence, and her own skill in preference to a country
      parsonage, conjugal control, and limited pin-money. Her <i>caro sposo</i>
      meanwhile retired to his living; and now blesses himself on his escape
      from false deals, odd tricks, and every honour but the true one." One more
      sketch, and I have done; but I cannot pass by the admirable portrait of a
      Bath canonical, "Jolly old Dr. Mixall, rosy as a ripe tomata, and round as
      his own right orthodox wig,
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'With Atlantean shoulders, fit to bear
          The weight of mightiest monarchies!'
</pre>
    <p>
      Awful and huge, he treads the ground like one of Bruce's moving pillars of
      sand! What a dark and deep abyss he carries before him&mdash;the grave
      insatiate of turtle and turbot, red mullet and John Dories, haunches and
      pasties, claret, port, and home-brewed ale! But his good-humour alone
      would keep him at twenty stone were he to cease larding himself for a
      month to come; and when he falls, may the turf lie lightly on his stomach!
      Then shall he melt gently into rich manure;
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'And fat be the gander that feeds on his grave.'"

          "But now for the moderns," said Horace; "for the
          enchanting fair,

          'Whose snow-white bosoms fascinate the eye,
          Swelling in all the pride of <i>nudity</i>;
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[311]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          The firm round arm, soft cheek, and pouting lip,
          And backs exposed below the jutting hip;
          To these succeed dim eyes, and wither'd face»,
          And pucker'd necks as rough as shagreen cases,
          But whose kind owners, hon'ring Bladud's ball,
          Benevolently show their little all.'"
</pre>
    <p>
      But I must not particularize here, as I intend sketching the more
      prominent personages during a morning lounge in Milsom-street; when,
      appearing in their ordinary costume, they will be the more easily
      recognised in print, and remain a more lasting memorial of Bath
      eccentrics,
    </p>
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    <h2>
      SKETCHES IN BATH&mdash;CHAPTER II.
    </h2>
    <h3>
      <span class="pagenum">[312]</span>
    </h3>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Well-known Characters in the Pump-room taking a Sip with
     King Bladud&mdash;Free Sketches of Fair Game&mdash;The awkward
     Rencontre, or Mr. B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;and Miss L.&mdash;Public Bathing or
     stewing alive&mdash;Sober Thoughts&mdash;Milsom-street Swells&mdash;A
     Visit to the Pig and Whistle, Avon-street&mdash;of the Buff
     Club.

          To the pump-room we went, where the grave, and the gay,
          And the aged, and the sickly, lounge time away;
          Where all the choice spirits are seen making free
          With the sov'reign cordial, the true <i>eau de vie</i>.
</pre>
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    <p>
      The <i>déjeuné</i> over, the first place to which the stranger in Bath is
      most desirous of an introduction is the Pump-room; not that he anticipates
      restoration to health from drinking the waters, or imagines the virtues of
      immortality are to be found by immersion in the baths; but if he be a
      person of any condition, he is naturally anxious to <i>show off</i> make
      his bow to the gay throng, and, at the same time, elucidate the exact
      condition of Bath Society. If, however, he is a mere plebeian in search of
      novelty, coupling pleasure with business, or an invalid sent here by his
      doctors to end his days, he is still anxious, while life remains, to see
      and be seen; to observe whom he can recognise among the great folks he has
      known in the metropolis, or perchance, meet consolation from some
      suffering fellow citizen, who, like himself, has been conveyed to Bath to
      save his family the misery of seeing him expire beneath his own roof.
      "What an admirable variety of character does this scene present," said
      Transit, who, on our first <span class="pagenum">[313]</span>entrance, was
      much struck with the magnificence of the rooms, and still more delighted
      with the immense display of eccentricities which presented themselves. "I
      must introduce you, old fellow," said Eglantine, "to a few of the oddities
      who figure here. The strange-looking personage in the right-hand corner is
      usually called Dick Solus, from his almost invariably appearing abroad by
      himself, or dangling after the steps of some fair Thespian, to the single
      of whom he is a very constant tormentor. Mrs. Egan of the theatre, 'who
      knows what's what,' has christened him Mr. Dillytouch; while the heroes of
      the sock and buskin as invariably describe him by the appellation of
      Shake, from an unpleasant action he has both in walking and sitting. The
      sour-visaged gentleman at this moment in conversation with him is the
      renowned Peter Paul Pallet, esq., otherwise the Reverend Mr. M&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-.
      Behind them appears a celebrated dentist and his son, who has attained the
      rank of M.D., both well known here by the titles of the Grand Duke of
      Tusk-aney and Count Punn-tusk-y, a pair of worthies always on the lookout
      for business, and hence very constant attendants at the promenade in the
      Pump-room. The old gentleman in the chintz morning-gown hobbling along on
      crutches, from the gout, is a retired vinegar merchant, the father of a
      Chancery M.P., of whom the Bath wags say, 'that when in business, he must
      always have carried a sample of his best vinegar in his face.'" At this
      moment old Blackstrap advanced, and requested permission to introduce to
      our notice Jack Physick, an honest lawyer, and, as he said, one of the
      cleverest fellows and best companions in Bath. Jack had the good fortune
      to marry one of the prettiest and most attractive actresses that ever
      appeared upon the Bath stage, Miss Jamieson, upon which occasion, the wags
      circulated many pleasant <i>jeux d'esprits</i> on the union of "love, law,
      and physic." The arrival of a very pompous gentleman, who appeared to
      <span class="pagenum">[314]</span>excite general observation, gave my
      friend Eglantine an opportunity of relating an anecdote of the eccentric,
      who figures in Pultney-street under the cognomen of the Bath bashaw.
      "There," said Horace, "you may see him every morning decorated in his
      flannel <i>robe de chambre</i> and green velvet cap, seated outside in his
      balcony, smoking an immensely large German pipe, and sending forth clouds
      of fragrant perfume, which are pleasantly wafted right or left as the wind
      blows along the breakfast tables of his adjoining neighbours. This
      eccentric was originally a foundling discovered on the steps of a door in
      Rath, and named by the parochial officers, Parish: by great perseverance
      and good fortune he became a Hambro' merchant, and in process of time
      realized a handsome property, which, much to his honour and credit, he
      retired to spend a portion of among the inhabitants of this city, thus
      paying a debt of gratitude to those who had protected him in infancy when
      he was abandoned by his unnatural parents. The little fellow yonder with a
      military air, and no want of self-conceit, is a field-officer of the Bath
      volunteers, Adjutant Captain O'Donnel, a descendant from the mighty King
      Bryan Baroch, and, as we say at Eton, no <i>small beer man</i>, I assure
      you." "Who is that gigantic fellow just entering the rooms'?" said
      Heartly. "That is Long Heavisides," replied Eglantine, "whom Handsome Jack
      and two or three more of the Bath wits have christened, in derision, Mr.
      Light-sides, a right pleasant fellow, quite equal in intellect and
      good-humour to the altitude of his person, which, I am told, measures full
      six feet six." "Gentlemen," said the facetious Blackstrap, "here comes an
      old lady who has paid dearly for a bit of the Brown, lately the relict of
      the late Admiral M'Dougal, and now fresh at seventy the blooming wife of a
      young spark who has just attained the years of discretion, at least, as
      far as regards <span class="pagenum">[315]</span>pecuniary affairs; for
      before leading the old lady into church, she very handsomely settled three
      thousand per annum upon her Adonis, as some little compensation to his
      feelings, for the rude jests and jeers he was doomed to bear with from his
      boon companions." "Eyes right, lads," said Eglantine; "the tall stout
      gentleman in a blue surtout and white trowsers is General B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-."
    </p>
    <p>
      "Pshaw! never mind his name," said Heartly; "what are his peculiarities?"
      "Why&mdash;imprimis, he has a lovely young female commander in chief by
      his side&mdash;is a great reader with a very little memory. A very good
      story is told of him, that I fear might be applied with equal justice to
      many other great readers; namely, that some wags having at different times
      altered the title-page, and pasted together various leaves of a popular
      Scotch novel, they thus successfully imposed upon the General the task of
      reading the same matter three times over&mdash;by this means creating in
      his mind an impression, not very far from the truth, that all the works of
      the Great Unknown bore a very close similitude to each other; an opinion
      which the General is said to maintain very strenuously unto this hour. Of
      all the characters in the busy scene of life which can excite a
      pleasurable sensation in the close observer of men and manners, is your
      gay ancient, whether male or female; the sprightly Evergreens of society,
      whose buoyant spirits outlive the fiery course of youth, while their
      playful leafage buds forth in advanced life with all the freshness,
      fragrance, and vigour of the more youthful plants. Such," said Eglantine,
      "is the old beau yonder, my friend Curtis, who is here quaintly
      denominated the Everlasting.
    </p>
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    <p>
      The jolly Bacchanalian, who accompanies him in his morning's lounge, is
      Charles Davis, a right jolly fellow, universally respected, although, it
      must be admitted, he is a <i>party</i> man, since in a <span
      class="pagenum">[316]</span>show of hands, Charles must always,
      unfortunately, be on one side." A promenade up and down the room, and a
      visit to the goddess Hygeia, for such, I suppose, the ancient matron who
      dispenses the healing draught must be designated, gave us an opportunity
      of observing the fresh arrivals, among whom we had the pleasure to meet
      with an old naval officer, known to Heartly, a victim to the gout, wheeled
      about in a chair, expecting, to use his own sea phrase, to go to pieces
      every minute, but yet full of spirits as an admiral's grog bottle, as fond
      of a good joke as a fresh-caught reefer, and as entertaining as the
      surgeon's mate, or the chaplain of the fleet. "I say, Master Heavtly,"
      said the captain, "the frigate yonder with the brown breast works, and she
      with the pink facings, look something like privateers. My forelights,
      Master Heartly, but if I had the use of my under works, I should be for
      firing a little grape shot across their quarters to see if I could not
      bring them into action!" "And I will answer for it, they would not show
      any objection to lie alongside of you, captain," said Eglantine, "while
      you had got a shot left in your locker. Mere Cyprian traders, captain,
      from the Gulf of Venus, engaged in gudgeon bawling, or on the lookout for
      flat fish. The little craft, with the black top, is called the
      Throgmorton; and the one alongside the Ormsby of Berkeley is the Pretty
      Lacy, a prime frigate, and quite new in the service. If you have a mind to
      sail up the Straits of Cytherea, captain, I can answer for it we shall
      fall in with a whole fleet of these light vessels, the two Sisters; the
      Emery's; the yawl, Thomson; that lively little cutter, Jackson; the
      transports, King and Hill; the lugger, Lewis; and the country ship, the
      Lady Grosvenor, all well found, and ready for service, and only waiting to
      be well manned. A good story is just now afloat about the Lacy, who, being
      recently taken up for private trade by Commodore Bowen, was <span
      class="pagenum">[317]</span>discovered to be sailing under false colours.
      It appears, that during the commander's absence a dashing enemy, the
      captain of the Hussar, a man of war, had entered the cabin privately, and
      having satisfied himself of the state of the vessel, took an opportunity
      to overhaul the ship's stores, when drinking rather freely of some choice
      love-age, a cordial kept expressly for the commodore's own use, he was
      unexpectedly surprised by the return of the old commander on board; and in
      making his escape through the cabin window into a boat he had in waiting,
      unfortunately left his time-piece and topmast behind. This circumstance is
      said to have put the commodore out of conceit with his little frigate, who
      has since been paid off', and is now chartered for general purposes." At
      this little episode of a well-known Bath story, the captain laughed
      heartily, and Transit was so much amused thereat, that on coming in
      contact with the commodore and the captain in our perambulations, he
      furnished the accompanying sketch of that very ludicrous scene, under the
      head of
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          The Bath beau and frail belle,
          Or Mr. B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;and Miss L&mdash;&mdash;-.
</pre>
    <p>
      An excellent band of music, which continues to play from one to half past
      three o'clock every day during the season, greatly increases the
      attraction to the rooms, and also adds much to the cheerfulness and gaiety
      of the scene. We had now nearly exhausted our materials for observation;
      and having, to use Transit's phrase, booked every thing worthy of note,
      taken each of us a glass of the Bath water, although I confess not
      swallowing it without some qualmish apprehensions from the recollection of
      the four lines in Anstey's Bath Guide.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "They say it is right that for every glass,
          A tune you should take that the water may pass;
          So while little Tabby was washing her rump,
          The ladies kept drinking it out of the pump."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[318]</span>A very pleasant piece of satire, but
      somewhat, as I understand, at the expense of truth, since the well from
      which the water in the pump room is obtained is many feet below the one
      that supplies the baths; situation certainly assists the view of the
      satirist. I ought not to pass over here the story told us by our old
      friend Blackstrap, respecting the first discovery of these waters by
      Bladud, the son of Lud Hudibras, king of Britain; a fabulous tale, which,
      for the benefit of the city all true Bathonians are taught to lisp with
      their horn book, and believe with their creed, as genuine orthodox; and on
      which subject my friend Horace furnished the following impromptu.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Oh, Lud! oh, Lud! that hogs and mud{1}
          Should rival sage M.D.'s;
          And hot water, in this quarter,
          Cure each foul disease.
</pre>
    <p>
      "Throw physic to the dogs, I'll have none on't,'" said Horace: "if hot
      water can effect such wonders, why, a plague on all the doctors! Let a man
      be content to distil his medicine fresh from his own teakettle, or make
      his washing copper serve the double purpose for domestic uses and a
      medicated bath.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'But what is surprising, no mortal e'er view'd
          Any one of the physical gentlemen stew'd.
          From the day that King Bladud first found out these bogs,
          And thought them so good for himself and his hogs,
          Not one of the faculty ever has tried
          These excellent waters to cure his own hide;
          Though many a skilful and learned physician,
          With candour, good sense, and profound erudition,
          Obliges the world with the fruits of his brain,
          Their nature and hidden effects to explain.'

     1 See the fabulous account alluded to in Warner's History of
     Bath, where Bladud is represented to have discovered the
     properties of the warm springs at Beechen Wood Swainswick,
     by observing the hogs to wallow in the mud that was
     impregnated therewith, and thus to have derived the
     knowledge of a cure for 'tis leprous affection.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[319]</span>But <i>allons</i>, lads," said Horace,
      "we are here to follow the fashion, and indulge in all the eccentricities
      of the place; to note the follies of the time, and depict the chief
      actors, without making any personal sacrifice to correct the evil. Our
      satire will do more to remove old prejudices when it appears in print,
      aided by Bob Transit's pencil, than all our reasonings upon the spot can
      hope to effect, although we followed Mr. M'Culloch's economy, and lectured
      upon decency from break of day to setting sun. In quitting the pump-room
      we must not, however, omit to notice the statue of Beau Nash, before which
      Transit appears, in <i>propria personæ</i>, sketching off the marble
      memento, without condescending to notice the busts of Pope and Newton,
      which fill situations on each side; a circumstance which in other times
      produced the following epigram from the pen of the witty earl of
      Chesterfield.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "The statue plac'd the busts between
          Adds satire to the strength;
          Wisdom and Wit are little seen,
          But Folly at full length."
</pre>
    <p>
      Such is the attachment of man to the recollections of any thing associated
      with pleasure, that it is questionable if the memory of old Joe Miller is
      not held in higher estimation by the moderns than that of Father Luther,
      the reformer; and while the numerous amusing anecdotes in circulation tend
      to keep alive the fame of Nash, it is not surprising that the merry pay
      court to his statue, being in his own dominions, before they bow at the
      classic shrine of Pope, or bend in awful admiration beneath the bust of
      the greatest of philosophers.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "'Twas said of old, deny it now who can,
          The only laughing animal is man."
</pre>
    <p>
      And we are about to present the reader with a right merry scene, one, too,
      if he has any fun in his composition, or loves a good joke, must warm the
      cockles <span class="pagenum">[320]</span>of his heart. Who would ever
      have thought, in these moralizing times, when the puritans are raising
      conventicles in every town and village, and the cant of vice societies has
      spread itself over the land, that in one of our most celebrated places of
      fashionable resort, there should be found baths where the young and the
      old, the beauteous female and the gay spark, are all indiscriminately
      permitted to enjoy the luxurious pleasure together. That such is the case
      in Bath no one who has recently participated in the pleasures of immersion
      will dispute, and in order to perpetuate that gratification, Bob Transit
      has here faithfully delineated the scene which occurred upon our entering
      the King's Bath, through the opening from the Queen's, where, to our great
      amusement and delight, we found ourselves surrounded by many a sportive
      nymph, whose beauteous form was partially hidden by the loose flannel
      gown, it is true; but now and then the action of the water, produced by
      the continued movements of a number of persons all bathing at the same
      time, discovered charms, the which to have caught a glimpse of in any
      other situation might have proved of dangerous consequences to the fair
      possessors. The baths, it must be admitted, are delightful, both from
      their great extent and their peculiar properties, as, on entering from the
      Queen's Bath you may enjoy the water at from 90 to 96 degrees, or
      requiring more heat have only to walk forward, through the archway, to
      obtain a temperature of 116. The first appearance of old Blackstrap's
      visage floating along the surface of the water, like the grog-blossomed
      trunk of the ancient Bardolph, bound up in a Welsh wig, was truly
      ludicrous, and produced such an unexpected burst of laughter from my merry
      companions, that I feared some of the fair Naiads would have fainted in
      the waters from fright, and then Heaven help them, for decency would have
      prevented our rushing to their assistance. The notices to prevent
      gentlemen <span class="pagenum">[321]</span>from swimming in the baths
      are, in my opinion, so many inducements or suggestions for every young
      visitor to attempt it. Among our mad wags, Horace Eglantine was more than
      once remonstrated with by the old bathing women for indulging in this
      pleasure, to the great alarm of the ladies, who, crowding together in one
      corner with their aged attendants, appeared to be in a high state of
      apprehension lest the loose flannel covering that guards frail mortality
      upon these occasions should be drawn aside, and discover nature in all her
      pristine purity&mdash;an accident that had very nearly happened to myself,
      when, in endeavouring to turn round quickly, I found the water had
      disencumbered my frame of the yellow bathing robe, which floated on the
      surface behind me.
    </p>
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    </p>
    <p>
      One circumstance which made our party more conspicuous, was, the rejection
      of the Welsh wigs, which not all the entreaties of the attendant could
      induce any of the wags to wear. The young ladies disfigure themselves by
      wearing the black bonnets of the bathing women; but spite of this
      masquerading in the water, their lovely countenances and soul-subduing
      eyes, create sensations that will be more easily conceived than prudently
      described. A certain facetious writer, who has published his "Walks
      through Bath," alluding to this practice, speaks of it as having been
      prohibited in the fifteenth century. How long such prohibition, if it ever
      took place, continued, it is not for me to know; but if the Bath
      peripatetic historian had made it his business to have seen what he has
      described, he would have found, that the practice of bathing males and
      females together in <i>puris naturalibus</i> was still continued in high
      perfection, in spite of the puritans, the Vice Society, or the prohibition
      of Bishop Beckyngton.{2}
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     2 It appears, that about the middle of the fifteenth century
     it was the custom for males and females to bathe together,
     in puris naturalibus, which was at length prohibited by
     Bishop Beckyngton, who ordered, by way of distinction, the
     wearing of breeches and petticoats; this indecency was
     suppressed, after considerable difficulty, at the end of the
     sixteenth century, (quere, what indecency does our author of
     the "Walks through Bath" mean? the incumbrance of the
     breeches and petticoats, we must imagine). It also seems,
     that about 1700 it was the fashion for both sexes to bathe
     together indiscriminately, and the ladies used to decorate
     their heads with all the advantages of dress, as a mode of
     attracting attention and heightening their charms. The
     husband of a lady in one of the baths, in company with Beau
     Nash, was so much enraptured with the appearance of his
     wife, that he very im-prudently observed, "she looked like
     an angel, and he wished to be with her." Nash immediately
     seized him by the collar, and threw him into the bath; this
     circumstance produced a duel, and Nash was wounded in his
     right arm: it however had the good effect of establishing
     the reputation of Nash, who shortly after became master of
     the ceremonies.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[322]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "You cannot conceive what a number of ladies
          Were wash'd in the water the same as our maid is:
          How the ladies did giggle and set up their clacks
          All the while an old woman was rubbing their backs;
          Oh! 'twas pretty to see them all put on their flannels,
          And then take the water, like so many spaniels;
          And though all the while it grew hotter and hotter,
          They swam just as if they were hunting an otter.
          'Twas a glorious sight to behold the fair sex
          All wading with gentlemen up to their necks,
          And view them so prettily tumble and sprawl
          In a great smoking kettle as big as our hall;
          And to-day many persons of rank and condition
          Were boil'd, by command of an able physician."
</pre>
    <p>
      From the baths we migrated to the grand promenade of fashion, Milsom
      Street, not forgetting to take a survey of the old Abbey Church, which, as
      a monument of architectural grandeur without, and of dread monition
      within, is a building worthy the attention of the antiquarian and the
      philosopher; while perpetuating the remembrance of many a cherished name
      to worth, to science, and to virtue dear, the artist and the amateur may
      derive much gratification from examining the many excellent <span
      class="pagenum">[323]</span>pieces of sculpture with which the Abbey
      abounds. But for us, gay in disposition, and scarcely allowing ourselves
      time for reflection, such a scene had few charms, unless, indeed, the
      English Spy could have separated himself from the buoyant spirits with
      which he was attended, and then, wrapt in the gloom of the surrounding
      scene, and given up to serious contemplation, the emblems of mortality
      which decorate the gothic pile might have conjured up in his mind's eye
      the forms of many a departed spirit, of the blest shades of long-lost
      parents and of social friends, of those who, living, lent a lustre to the
      arts, of witty madcaps frost-bitten by the sable tyrant Death, nipped in
      the very bud of youth, while yet the sparkling jest was ripe upon the
      merry lip, and the ruddy glow of health upon the cheek gave earnest of a
      lengthened life&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;But, soft! methinks I hear my reader
      exclaim, "How now, madcap, moralizing Mr. Spy? art thou, too, bitten by
      the desire to philosophize, thou, 'the very Spy o' the time,' the merry
      buoyant rogue who has laughed all serious scenes to scorn, and riding over
      hill, and dale, and verdant plain upon thy fiery courser, fleet as the
      winds, collecting the cream of comicalities, and, beshrew thee, witling,
      plucking the brightest flowers that bloom in the road of pleasure to give
      thy merry garland's perfume, and deck thy page withal, art thou growing
      serious? Then is doomsday near; and poor, deserted, care-worn man left
      unprotected to the tempest's rage!" Not so, good reader, we are still the
      same merry, thoughtless, laughing, buoyant sprite that thou hast known us
      for the last two years; but the archer cannot always keep his bow upon the
      stretching point; so there are scenes, and times, and fancies produced by
      recollective circumstances and objects, which create strange conceits even
      in the light-hearted bosom of the English Spy. Such was the train of
      reflections which rushed in <span class="pagenum">[324]</span>voluntarily
      upon my mind as I noted down the passing events of the day, a practice
      usual with me when, retiring from the busy hum of men, I seek the
      retirement of my chamber to commit my thoughts to paper. I had recently
      passed through the depository where rest the remains of a tender mother&mdash;had
      sought the spot, unnoticed by my light-hearted companions, and having
      bedewed with tears of gratitude her humble grave, gave vent to my
      feelings, by the following tribute to a parent's worth.
    </p>
    <p>
      MY MOTHER'S GRAVE.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Beneath yon ivy-mantled wall,
          In a lone corner, where the earth
          Presents a rising green mound, all
          Of her who lov'd and gave me birth

          Lies buried deep.   No trophied stone,
          Or graven verse denotes the spot:
          Her worth her epitaph alone,
          The green-sward grave her humble lot.

          How silent sleep the virtuous dead!
          For them few sculptured honours rise,
          No marble tablet here to spread
          A fame&mdash;their every act implies.

          No mockery here, nor herald's shield,
          To glitter o'er a bed of clay;
          But snow-drops and fresh violets yield
          A tribute to worth pass'd away.

          Tread lightly, ye who love or know
          En life's young road a parent's worth,
          Who yet are strangers to the woe
          Of losing those who gave you birth,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[325]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Who cherish'd, fondled, fed, and taught
          From infancy to manhood's pride,
          Directing every opening thought,
          Teaching how Reason's power should guide.

          Ye rich and bold, ye grave and gay,
          Ye mightiest of the sons of men,
          Wealth, honours, fame shall sink away,
          And all be equalized again;

          Save what the sculptor may pourtray,
          And any tyrant, fool, or knave
          Who has the wealth, may in that way
          His name from dull oblivion save;

          That is, he may perpetuate
          His worthlessness, his frauds, and crimes;
          No matter what his tomb relate,
          His character lives with the times.

          Shade of my parent! couldst thou hear
          The voice of him, thine only child,
          Implore thy loss with filial tear,
          And deck thy grave with sonnets wild,

          'Twould all thy troubles past repay,
          Thy anxious cares, thy hopes and fears,
          To find as time stole life away,
          Thy mem'ry brighten'd with his years.

          Yes, sacred shade! while mem'ry guides
          This ever wild eccentric brain,
          While reason holds or virtue chides,
          Still will I pour the filial strain.
</pre>
    <p>
      "What," said my old friend Horace Eglantine, after reading this tribute to
      parental worth, "Bernard Blackmantle moralizing; our Spy turned <span
      class="pagenum">[326]</span>monody-maker, writing epitaphs, and elegies,
      and odes to spirits that have no corporal substance, when there are so
      many living subjects yet left for his merrier muse to dwell upon? Come,
      old fellow, shake off this lethargy of the mind, this vision of past
      miseries, and prepare for present merriments.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'The streets begin to fill, the motley throng
          To see and to be seen, now trip along;
          Some lounge in the bazaars, while others meet
          To take a turn or two in Milsom-street;
          Some eight or ten round Mirvan's shop remain,
          To stare at those who gladly stare again.'
</pre>
    <p>
      In short, my dear fellow, we are all waiting your company to join the
      swells in Milsom-street; where, I have no doubt, you will find many a star
      of fashion, whose eccentricities you will think justly entitles him to a
      niche in your gallery of living characters.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          'Lords of the creation, who, half awake,
          Adorn themselves their daily lounge to take;
          Each lordly man his taper waist displays,
          Combs his sweet locks, and laces on his stays,
          Ties on his starch'd cravat with nicest care,
          And then steps forth to petrify the fair.'
</pre>
    <p>
      Such, for instance, is that roué yonder, the very prince of Bath fops,
      Handsome Jack, whose vanity induces him to assert that his eyebrows are
      worth one hundred per annum to any young fellow in pursuit of a fortune:
      it should, however, be admitted, that his gentlemanly manners and great
      good-nature more than compensate for any little detractions on the score
      of self-conceit. What the son is, the father was in earlier life; and the
      old beau is not a little gratified to observe the estimation in which his
      son is held by the fair sex, on account of his attractive person and still
      more prepossessing manners.
    </p>
    <p>
      "You have heard of Peagreen Hayne's exploits at Burdrop Park; and here
      comes the proprietor of the <span class="pagenum">[327]</span>place,
      honest Tom Calley, as jovial a true-hearted English gentleman as ever
      followed a pack of foxhounds, or gloried in preserving and promoting the
      old English hospitalities of the table: circumstances, the result of some
      hard runs and long odds, have a little impaired the family exchequer;
      however the good wishes of all who know him attend him in adversity. But
      the clouds which have for a time obstructed his sunshine of mirth are fast
      wearing away, and when he shall return to the enjoyment of his patrimonial
      acres, he will be sure to meet a joyous welcome from all surrounding him,
      accompanied with the heartfelt congratulations of those to whom in Bath he
      is particularly endeared. The smart little fellow driving by in his
      cabriolet is beau Burgess, a single star, and one of no mean attraction
      among the fair spinsters, who can estimate the merits and admire the
      refulgence of ten thousand sovereign attendant satellites.
    </p>
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    <p>
      Bath is, perhaps, now the only place in the kingdom where there is yet to
      be found a four-in-hand club; a society of gentlemen Jehus, who formerly
      in London cut no inconsiderable figure in the annals of fashion, and who,
      according to our mode of estimating the amusements of the gay world, were
      very unfairly satirized, seeing, that with the pursuit of pleasure was
      combined the additional employment of a large number of mechanics, and a
      stimulus given, not only to the improvement of a noble breed of horses,
      but to the acquirement of a knowledge, the perfection of which in the
      metropolis is particularly necessary to the existence of the peripatetic
      pleasures of his majesty's subjects. Here we have Colonel Allen, who puts
      along a good team in very prime style, and having lately been spliced to a
      good fortune, is a perfect master in the <i>manage</i>-ment of the bit.
    </p>
    <p>
      "Squire Richards is, also, by no means a contemptible knight of the
      ribbons, only he sometimes measures <span class="pagenum">[328]</span>his
      distance a little too closely; a practice, which if he does not improve
      upon, may some day, in turning a corner, not bring him off right. 'A
      follower of the Buxton school and a true knight of the throng,' says old
      Tom Whipcord in the Annals of Sporting, 'must not expect to drive four
      high-bred horses well with an opera-glass stuck in his right ogle.' A bit
      of good advice that will not only benefit the squire if he attends to it,
      but perhaps save the lives of one or two of the Bath pedestrians. The
      leader of the club, who, by way of distinction from his namesake the
      colonel, is designated Scotch Allen, is really a noble whip, putting along
      four horses in first-rate style, all brought well up to their work, and
      running together as close and as regular as the wheels of his carriage.
      The comical little character upon the strawberry pony is the Bath Adonis;
      a fine specimen of the Irish antique, illustrated with a beautiful
      brogue,and emblazoned with a gold coat of arms. The amours of old B&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;-in
      Bath would very well fill a volume of themselves; but the anecdote I gave
      you in the Pump-room of little Lacy and her paramour will be sufficient to
      show you in what estimation he is held by the ladies." "Give me leave to
      introduce you to a Raer fellow," said Heartly; "an old friend of mine, who
      has all his lifetime been a wholesale dealer in choice spirits, and having
      now bottled off enough for the remainder of his life, is come to spend the
      evening of his days in Bath among the bon vivants of the elegant city,
      enjoying the tit bits of pleasure, and courting the sweet society of the
      pretty girls. By heavens! boys, we shall be found out, and you, Mr. Spy,
      will be the ruin of us all, for here comes our old sporting acquaintance,
      Charles Bannatyne, with his Jackall at his heels, accompanied by that mad
      wag Oemsby, the Cheltenham amateur of fashion, and the gallant little
      Lieutenant Valombre, who having formerly made a rich capture of Spanish
      dollars, is perhaps upon the look-out here <span class="pagenum">[329]</span>for
      a frigate well-laden with English specie, in order to sail in consort, and
      cruize off the straits of independence for life. Well, success attend
      him," said Heartly; "for he well deserves a good word whether at sea or on
      shore. The military-looking gentleman yonder, who is in close conversation
      with that rough diamond, Ellis, once a London attorney, is the
      highly-respected Colonel Fitzgerald, whom our friend Transit formerly
      caricatured under the cognomen of Colonel Saunter, a good-humoured joke,
      with which he is by no means displeased himself." "But, my dear fellows,"
      said Transit, "if we remain fixed to this spot much longer, we shall have
      the eyes of all the <i>beau monde</i> upon us, and stand a chance of being
      pointed at for the rest of the time that we remain in Bath." A piece of
      advice that was not wholly unnecessary, for being personally known to a
      few of the sporting characters, our visit to the elegant city had spread
      like wildfire, and on our appearance in Milsom-street, a very general
      desire was expressed by the beaux to have a sight of the English Spy and
      his friend Transit, by whose joint labours they anticipated they might
      hereafter live to fame.
    </p>
    <p>
      One of the most remarkable personages of the old school still left to Bath
      is the celebrated Captain Mathews, the author of "a short Treatise on
      Whist," and the same gentleman who at an early period of life contested
      with the late R. B. Sheridan, upon Lansdowne, for the fair hand of the
      beauteous Miss Lindly, the lady to whom the wit was afterwards married. In
      this way did my pleasant friends Heartly and Eglantine continue to furnish
      me with brief notices of the most attractive of the stars of fashion who
      usually lounge away the mornings in Milsom-street, exchanging the familiar
      nod and "How d'ye do?" and holding sweet discourse among their fragrant
      selves upon the pursuits of the <i>haute classe</i>, the merits of the
      last new novel, or the fortune of the last unmarried feminine <span
      class="pagenum">[330]</span>arrival. To these may be added reminiscences
      of the last night's card-table and remarks upon the Balls at the rooms;
      for
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "Two musical parties to Bladud belong,
          To delight the old rooms and the upper;
          One gives to the ladies a supper, no song,
          And the other a song and no supper."
</pre>
    <p>
      "The <i>jolie</i> dame to the right," said Horace, "is the mother of
      England's best friend, the Secretary for the Foreign Department, George
      Canning, a man to whom we are all indebted for the amalgamation of party,
      and the salvation of the country The clerical who follows immediately
      behind Mrs. Hunn is a reverend gentleman whose daughters both recently
      eloped from his house on the same morning attended by favoured lovers to
      bind with sacred wreaths their happy destinies at the shrine of Hymen." We
      had now reached the bottom of the street again, after having made at least
      a dozen promenades to and fro, and were on the point of retiring to our
      hotel to dress for dinner, when Heartly directed my attention to a dashing
      roue, who, dressed in the extreme of superlative style, was accompanied by
      a beautiful piece of fair simplicity in the garb of a Puritan. "That,"
      said my friend, "is the beautiful Miss D**T&mdash;one of the faithful,
      whom the dashing Count L***c***t has recently induced to say ay for life:
      thus gaining a double prize of no mean importance by one stroke of good
      luck&mdash;a fine girl and a fine fortune into the bargain." I must not
      forget our friend the consulting surgeon H***ks, or omit to notice that in
      Bath the faculty are all distinguished by some peculiar title of this
      sort, as, the digestive Physician, the practical Apothecary, and the
      operative Chemist; a piece of quackery not very creditable to their
      acknowledged skill and general respectability. At dinner we were again
      joined by our facetious <span class="pagenum">[331]</span>friend
      Blackstrap, who, to use his own phraseology, having made "a good morning's
      work of it," hoped he might be permitted to make one among us, a request
      with which we were most willing to comply. In the evening, after the
      bottle had circulated freely, some of our party proposed a visit to the
      theatre, but as Bath theatricals could not be expected to afford much
      amusement to London frequenters of the theatres royal, Transit suggested
      our sallying forth for a spree;" for," said he, "I have not yet booked a
      bit of true life since I have been in Bath. The pump-room, the bathers,
      and the swells in Milsom-street, are all very well for the lovers of
      elegant life; but our sporting friends and old college chums will expect
      to see a genuine touch or two of the broad humour of Bath&mdash;something
      suburban and funny. Cannot you introduce us to any thing pleasant of this
      sort!" said Transit, addressing Blackstrap: "perhaps give us a sight of
      the interior of a snug convent, or show us where the Bath wonderfuls
      resort to carouse and sing away their cares."&mdash;"It is some years
      since," said Blackstrap, "that in the company of a few merry wags, I paid
      a visit to the Buff-club in Avon-street: but as you, gentlemen, appear
      disposed for a little fun, if you will pledge yourselves to be directed by
      me, I will undertake to introduce you to a scene far exceeding in
      profligacy and dissipation the most florid picture which our friend
      Transit has yet furnished of the back settlements in the Holy-land." With
      this understanding, and with no little degree of anticipatory pleasure,
      did our merry group set forth to take a survey of the interior of the long
      room at the Pig and Whistle in Avon-street. Of the origin of this sign,
      Blackstrap gave us a very humorous anecdote: the house was formerly, it
      would appear, known by the sign of the Crown and Thistle, and was at that
      time the resort of the Irish Traders who visited Bath to dispose of their
      linens. One of these Emeralders <span class="pagenum">[332]</span>having
      lost his way, and being unable to recollect either the name of the street
      or the sign of his inn, thus addressed a countryman whom he accidentally
      met: "Sure I've quite forgotten the sign of my inn." "Be after mentioning
      something like it, my jewel," said his friend. "Sure it's very like the
      Pig and Whistle," replied the enquirer. "By the powers, so it is:&mdash;the
      Crown and Thistle, you mean;" and from this mistake of the Emeralder, the
      house has ever since been so designated. Upon our visit to this scene of
      uproarious mirth, we found it frequented by the lowest and most depraved
      characters in society; the mendicants, and miserable of the female sex,
      who, lost to every sense of shame or decency, assemble here to indulge in
      profligacies, the full description of which must not stain the pages of
      the English Spy.
    </p>
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    <p>
      As a scene of low life, my friend Transit has done it ample justice, where
      the portraits of Lady Grosvenor as one of the Cyprian frequenters is
      designated, the Toad in a Hole, and Lucy the Fair, will be easily
      recognised. A gallon of gin for the ladies, and a liberal distribution of
      beer and tobacco for the males, made us very welcome guests, and insured
      us, during our short stay, at least from personal interruption. It may be
      asked why such a house is licensed by the magistracy; but when it is known
      that characters of this sort will always be found in well-populated
      places, and that the doors are regularly closed at eleven o'clock, it is
      perhaps thought to be a measure of prudence to let them continue to
      assemble in an obscure part of the suburbs, where they congregate together
      under the vigilant eye of the police, instead of being driven abroad to
      seek fresh places of resort, and by this means increase the evils of
      society.
    </p>
    <p>
      The next morning saw my friend Transit and myself again prepared to
      separate from our friends Heartly and Eglantine, on our way to Worcester,
      <span class="pagenum">[333]</span>where we had promised to pay a visit to
      old Crony on our road back to London. Reader, if our sketches in Bath are
      somewhat brief, remember we are ever on the wing in search of novelty, and
      are not disposed to stay one day longer in any place than it affords fresh
      food for pen and pencil In the characters we have sketched we disclaim any
      thought of personal offence; eccentrics are public property, and must not
      object to appear in print, seeing that they are in the journey through
      life allowed to ride a free horse, without that curb which generally
      restrains the conduct of others But I must here take my farewell of the
      elegant city of that attractive spot of which Bayley justly sings
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          "In this auspicious region all mankind
          (Whate'er their taste) congenial joys may find;
          Here monied men may pass for men of worth;
          And wealthy Cits may hide plebeian birth.
          Here men devoid of cash may live with ease,
          Appear genteel, and pass for what they please."
</pre>
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    <h2>
      WAGGERIES AT WORCESTER.
    </h2>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[334]</span>The meeting with an old friend at
      Worcester induced us to domicile there for the space of three days, during
      which time I will not say we were laid up with Lavender, but certainly
      near enough to scent it. Most of our Worcester acquaintance will however
      understand what is meant by this allusion to one of the pleasantest
      fellows that ever commanded the uncivil customers in the Castle, since the
      time of the civil wars. The city is perhaps as quiet a dull place as may
      be found within his majesty's dominions, where a cannon-ball might be
      fired down the principal street at noon-day without killing more than the
      ruby-nosed incumbent of a fat benefice, a superannuated tradesman, or a
      manufacturer of crockery-ware. No stranger should, however, pass through
      the place without visiting the extensive China works of Messrs. Flight and
      Barr, to which the greatest facility is given by the proprietors; and the
      visit must amply repay any admirer of the arts. A jovial evening, spent
      with our old friend of the Castle, had ended with a kind invitation from
      him to partake of a spread at his hotel on the following morning; but such
      was the apprehensions of Transit at the idea of entering this mansion of
      the desolate, from being troubled with certain qualmish remembrances of
      the previous night's debauch, that not all my intreaties, nor the repeated
      messages of the worthy commander of the Castle, could bring our friend
      Transit to book.
    </p>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[335]</span>To those who know my friend John, and
      there are few of any respectability who do not both know and admire him,
      his facetious talent will require but little introduction. Lavender is
      what a man of the world, whose business it has been to watch over the
      interests of society, should be, superior in education and in mind, to any
      one I ever met with filling a similar situation: the governor of the
      Castle is a companion for a lord, or to suit the purposes of justice,
      instantly metamorphosed into an out and outer, a regular knowing cove,
      whose knowledge of flash and the cant and slang used by the dissolute is
      considered to be superior to that of any public officer. A specimen of
      this will be found in the following note, which a huge fellow of a turnkey
      brought to my bedside, and then apologised for disturbing me, by pleading
      the governor's instructions.
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     "QUEER COVES,

     "I hope you have left your dabs,{1}
     and nobs,{2} all right: perhaps prime legs{3} is queer in
     the oration-box{4} from a too frequent use of the
     steamer{5} last darky.{6} I make this fakement{7} to let
     you know I and morning spread are waiting.

     Steel-hotel,                                       Yours, &amp;c.

     June 9, 1825.                                      LOCKIT."
</pre>
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    <p>
      My readers will very readily conceive that with such a companion we were
      not long in tracing out what little of true life was to be found in
      Worcester, and certainly one of the pleasantest scenes in which we
      participated was a visit to the Subscription Bowling Alley, where, in the
      summer time, the most respectable of the inhabitants of Worcester meet
      every evening
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     1 Beds.

     2 Heads.

     3 Cruikshank..

     4 Cranium.

     5 A pipe.

     6 Night.

     7 A note.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[336]</span>for recreation; and a right pleasant
      company we found them. The Caleb Quotem of the society, Dr. Davis, united
      in one person all the acquirements of the great original: he not only
      keeps the time of the city, but keeps all the musicians of the place in
      time; regulates the watch and the watches, and plays a solo <i>à la
      Dragonetti</i> upon the double bass. Sam Swan is another choice spirit,
      who sings a good chant, lives well respected, and sails down the stream of
      time as pleasantly as if he was indeed a royal bird.
    </p>
    <p>
      An old Burdettite, Will Shunk, recognised in us a partizan of the
      government candidate at one of the Westminster Elections: "But, sir," said
      Will, "politics and I have nearly parted; for you must know, I am
      tolerably <i>well breeched</i>, and can fairly say I am hand and glove
      with all the first nobility in the kingdom." A truth to which Captain
      Corls readily assented by explaining that Master William Shunk was a
      first-rate glover, and considered worth a plum at least: "in short, sir,"
      said the captain, "he is a nabob here, and brings to my mind some of the
      eastern princes with whom I have met during my Campaigns in the East." The
      very mention of which exploit induced our friend the governor to tip us
      the office, and the joke was well humoured until silver Powell, who they
      say comes from Norfolk, interrupted our travels in India, with, "Captain,
      can't you see that ere Athlantic fellow, the governor, is making fun of
      you to amuse his London friends." A hint that appeared to strike the
      Captain very forcibly, for it struck him dumb. A good-humoured contest
      between honest Joe Shelton, and Probert the school-master, elicited some
      very comical exposures in the way of recriminations. Joe, it would appear,
      is an artist in economy; and an old story about a lobster raised Joe's ire
      to its height, and produced the Lex taliones on Probert, <span
      class="pagenum">[337]</span>whose habits of frugality wanted his
      competitor's humour to make them pass current. Transit, who had been
      amusing himself with sketching the characters, had become acquainted with
      a sporting Reverend, whose taste for giblets had proved rather expensive;
      and who was most desirous of appearing in print: a favor merry Stephen
      Godson, the lawyer, requested might also be extended to him." "Ay," said
      John Portman, "and if you want a character for your foreground rich in
      colour, my phiz is much at your service; and here's George Brookes, the
      radical, to form a good dark object in the distance." In this way the
      evening passed off very pleasantly. Our friend had made the object of our
      visit to the Bowling Alley known to some few of his intimates,
      circumstance that I have no doubt rather operated to prevent a display of
      some of those good-humoured eccentricities with which it is not
      unfrequently marked. Upon my return to town, I received a farewell ode
      from my Spirit in the Clouds, evidently written under a misconception that
      the English Spy was about to withdraw himself for a time, from his
      sketches on men and manners, when in fact, although his labours will here
      close with the completion of a Second Volume, his friends will find, that
      he is most desirous of still engaging their attentions in a new form,
      attended not only by all his former associates, but uniting in his train
      the brightest and the merriest of all the choice Spirits of the Age.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      BERNARD BLACKMANTLE TO HIS READERS.
    </h2>
    <p>
      To prevent a misconception, and do himself justice, the author of the
      English Spy feels it necessary to state, that in every instance the
      subjects for the Plates illustrating this work have been furnished by his
      pen, and not unfrequently, the rough ideas have <span class="pagenum">[338]</span>first
      emanated from his own pencil; while he states this fact to prevent error,
      he is most anxious to acknowledge the great assistance he has derived from
      the inimitable humour and graphic skill in the execution of the designs,
      by his friend Robert Transit.
    </p>
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    <h2>
      A SHORT ODE AT PARTING,
    </h2>
    <h3>
      FROM HIS "SPIRIT IN THE CLOUDS"
    </h3>
    <p>
      TO THE ENGLISH SPY. <span class="pagenum">[339]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
     Prospero. Now does my project gather to a head;
     My charms crack not; my spirits obey:
     &mdash;&mdash;How's the day?

     Ariel.  On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,
     You said our work should cease.

     &mdash;Shakspkare's Tempest.

     So fare you well; I have left you commands.
     Ibid.&mdash;As you like it.

          "'Tis true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true,"
          That though on fairest winds we flew,
          I in the clouds, beneath them you,
          We still must parted be;

          And that, e'en whilst the world still hung
          On what you wrote, and what I sung,
          Enamour'd of our double tongue,
          Exits my Bernard B&mdash;&mdash;-.

          Well, all great actors must have pause,
          When toiling in a patriot cause,
          And ere another scene he draws,
          New characters to cast,
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[340]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          Secure of having played his part,
          As nature dictates, from the heart,
          'Tis fair before another start,
          He brush up from the last.

          But how will humbugs of the age,
          (I don't mean Mr. B.'s dull page,)
          Crow that they scape satiric rage,
          And get off in whole skins;

          How will dramatic fools rejoice!
          No more is heard great Bernard's voice,
          And that, Heav'n knows, there is a choice,
          Their flummery begins.{1}

          But go your ways; it may be wise,
          To let these puny, pestering flies
          Buzz about people's ears and eyes,
          A season or two longer;

          There must be evil mixed with good,
          A bottom to the clearest flood,
          And let them stand where others stood,
          Till shown who is the stronger.

          Then, fortune-hunting squires of Bath,
          Fine as the Burmese jewell'd Rath,{2}
          Pray totter o'er your Bond-street path,
          A respite short is yours.

     1 I speak of would-be actors (male and female), vain and
     incompetent managers, flippant and unequal critics, puffed
     and translating authors, in short, of all before and behind
     the curtain who have injured, or may injuro, the legitimate
     drama. Let the theatres, like our trade, be free, and
     monopoly thrive not, and for their success the Spirit will
     ever pray; at present, it is "a mad world, my masters;" and
     I am afraid Mr. Rayner with his long and set speeches, as
     chairman of Thomas's Shakspeareans, will not mend the
     matter. We note this to him in a friendly way; seeing, that
     he is a worthy fellow, and a clever Caliban, and really
     loves Shakspeare next to Newmarket and Doncaster.

     2 The  Burmese   carriage is certainly  a curious   machine
     of Indian workmanship; but it is, we should fancy, mere
     outside&mdash;fine to look at, but a "rum one to go," like the
     be-togged, be-booted, be-spurred, furred, and cloaked half
     pays, fortune-hunters, gentlemen with the brogue, &amp;c. that
     pay their court so assiduously to Mrs. Dolland's cheesecakes
     and Mr. Heaviside's quadrilles. But the world is often
     ornament caught.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[341]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          And daughter-selling mothers, still
          Lure the young boys, their eyes may kill,
          To wed your flesh and blood, and fill
          Your purse, and pay your tours.

          Ye London blacks, ye Cheltenham whites,{3}
          Ye turners of the days to nights,
          Make, make the most of all your flights,
          Whilst I and Bernard doze;

          But still be sure, by this same token,
          We still shall sleep with one eye open{4}
          And the first hour our nap is broken,
          You'll pay for't through the nose.

     3 There are indeed "black spirits and white spirits" of all
     sorts and sizes, at all times and places; and a well-cut
     coat and a white satin dress are frequently equally
     dangerous glossings to frail and cunning mortality within.
     To be sure, we have brought down the "tainted wethers of
     dame Nature's flock" with the double barrels of wit and
     satire, right and left; but like mushrooms or mole-hills,
     they are a breeding, increasing species, and it will be only
     a real battue of sharp-shooting that will destroy the
     coveys.    Nevertheless,

          "I have a rod in pickle,
           Their&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;&mdash;"

     I declare the Spirit is growing earthly.

     4 The Bristol men "down along," sleep, they say, in this way
     and hence is it rare for Jew or Gentile, Turk or infidel, to
     get the blind side of them. Some of them, however, have ere
     now been done brown, and that too by being too fanciful and
     neat in their likings.    These tales of the sleepers of an
     eye are too good to be lost; they shall be bound up in the
     volume of my brain, hereafter to be perused with advantage.
     At present,

          "I hear a voice thou canst not hear;
          I see a hand thou canst not see;
          It calls to me from yonder sphere,
          It points to where my brethren be."
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[342]</span>
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">
          When that time comes, and come it must,
          For what we say is not pie-crust,
          To yield to every trifling thrust,
          England shall see some fun.

          Like "eagles in a dove-cote," we
          Both rooks and pigeons will make flee,
          Whilst every cashless company
          Shall, laugh'd at, "cut and run."

          Thus telling painted folly's sect,
          What they're to look to, what expect,
          My farewell words I now direct
          To thee, migrating Spy;

          That done, deliver'd all commands,
          I man a cloud-ship with brave hands,
          And sail to (quitting mortal lands),
          My parlour in the sky.

          Bernard, farewell; may rosy health
          Companion'd by that cherub wealth,
          Be constant to you, like myself,
          Your own departing spirit.

          Not that you're going to die; no, no,
          You'll only take a nap or so;
          But yet I wish you, 'fore you go,
          These blessings to inherit.

          Bernard, farewell; pray think of me,
          When you ride earth, or cross the sea;
          On both, you know, I've been with thee,
          And sung some pretty things;

          Great Spy, farewell; when next you rise
          To make of fools a sacrifice,
          You'll hear, down-cleaving from the skies,
          The rustle of my wings.

          January, 1826.
</pre>
    <p>
      <span class="pagenum">[343]</span>
    </p>
    <p>
      Bernard Blackmantle and Bob Transit,
    </p>
    <p>
      <a name="Dimage-0029" id="Dimage-0029">
      <!-- IMG --></a>
    </p>
    <div class="fig">
      <img src="images2/page343.jpg" width="100%" alt="Page343 " />
    </div>
    <p>
      THE END. <br /> <br />
    </p>
<pre xml:space="preserve">





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