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diff --git a/old/69402-0.txt b/old/69402-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b74666f..0000000 --- a/old/69402-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14209 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Twice round the clock, by George -Augustus Sala - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Twice round the clock - Or the hours of the day and night in London - -Author: George Augustus Sala - -Illustrator: William M'Connel - -Release Date: November 21, 2022 [eBook #69402] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Mark C. Orton and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team - at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images - generously made available by The Internet Archive) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWICE ROUND THE CLOCK *** - - - - - - -[Illustration: GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA, THE AUTHOR OF “TWICE ROUND THE -CLOCK.”] - - - - - TWICE ROUND THE CLOCK; - OR THE - HOURS OF THE DAY AND NIGHT - IN LONDON. - - BY - GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA, - AUTHOR OF “A JOURNEY DUE NORTH,” “GASLIGHT AND DAYLIGHT,” ETC. ETC. - - ILLUSTRATED WITH - A PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR, AND NUMEROUS ENGRAVINGS ON WOOD, - FROM DRAWINGS BY WILLIAM M’CONNEL. - - LONDON: - RICHARD MARSH, 122, FLEET STREET. - 1862. - - - - -PREFACE. - -TO AUGUSTUS MAYHEW. - - -Had I not fifty other valid reasons—did I not feel myself impelled to -such a course by the long years of affectionate intercourse which have -cast sunshine on that highway of life, of which the shadier side of -the road has been apportioned to me, I should still, my dear Augustus, -dedicate this book to you. I could show, I hope, my affection and esteem -in other ways; but to address to you the Epistle Dedicatory of “Twice -Round the Clock” is only your due, in justice and in courtesy. Civility -is not so common a quality among the Eminent British Authors of the day, -and mutual admiration is not so plentifully displayed by our Fieldings -and Smolletts of 1859, that we middling and middle-class ink-spillers -can afford to throw away a chance of saying a kind or civil thing to one -another in the right way and in the right place. Do you, therefore, say -something neat and complimentary about me in the preface to your next -book; and I only trust that the task will confer as sincere a pleasure on -you as it confers on me at this moment. - -But I might still, I must admit, admire you very much, without that -admiration giving you a Right to the Dedication of a Book relating -exclusively to London Life and London Manners in the nineteenth century. -Herein, however, rests, I think, your claim: That you are the author -of a capital book called “Paved with Gold,” replete with the finest -and shrewdest observation drawn from the scenes we have both delighted -to survey, to study, and to describe, and of which book, although the -basis was romantic fiction, the numerous episodes were picturesque but -eminently faithful photographs of fact. I should have liked, myself, to -tell the story of a prize fight, of a ratting match, or of a boy’s low -lodging-house, in my own way, and in these pages; but I shrank from the -attempt after your graphic narratives in “Paved with Gold.” And, again, -have you not been for years the fellow-labourer of your brother Henry, -in those deeply-tinted but unalterably-veracious studies of London Life, -of which we have the results in “Labour and the Poor” and in the “Great -World of London?” Of how many prisons, workhouses, factories, work-rooms, -have you not told the tale? of how many dramas of misery and poverty have -you not been the chronicler? Let us bow to the great ones of letters, -and, reading their books with a hearty, honest admiration, confess that -the capacity to produce such master-pieces is not given to us; but let -us, on our own parts, put in a modest claim to the recognition and -approval of the public. Please remember the reporters. Please not to -forget the bone-grubbers. Fling a pennyworth of praise to the excavators -and night-watchmen who have at least industriously laboured to collect -materials wherefrom better painters may execute glowing tableaux of -London Life. At least, we have toiled to bring together our tale of -bricks, that by the hand of genius they may be erected some day into a -Pyramid. At least, we have endeavoured to our utmost to describe the -London of our day as we have seen it, and as we know it; and, in the -words of the judicious Master Hooker—of whose works, my Augustus, I am -afraid you are not a very sedulous student—we have worked early and -late on London, and have done our best to paint the infinitely-varied -characteristics of its streets and its population, “Tho’ for no other -cause, yet for this, that Posteritie may know we have not looselie, thro’ -silence, permitted thinges to pass away as in a dreame; there shall be -for men’s information extant thus much concerning the present state -of”—London. - -So you see, my dear friend, that I have dedicated my work to you; and -that, _bon grè, mal grè_, you have been saddled with the dignity of its -Patron. I might have addressed you in heroic verse, and with your name -in capitals; and, in the manner of Mr. Alexander Pope, bidden you:— - - “Awake, my MAYHEW: leave all meaner things - To low ambition and the pride of kings.” - -I believe your present ambition extends only to few-acre farming and -the rearing of poultry, and I might well exhort you to return to your -literary pursuits, and to leave the Dorkings and Cochin Chinas alone. -But I refrain. Am I to insult my Patron with advice? Do I expect any -reward for my dedication? Will your Lordship send me a handful of -broad-pieces for my flattery’s sake by the hands of your gentleman’s -gentleman? Will you put me down for the next vacancy as a Commissioner -of Hackney Coaches, or the next reversion for a snug sinecure connected -with the Virginia Plantations or the Leeward Islands? Will your Lordship -invite me to dinner at your country-seat, and place me between Lady -Betty and the domestic chaplain? May I write rhyming epitaphs for her -ladyship’s pug-dog, untimely deceased from excess of cream and chicken? -Or will you speak to Mr. Secretary in my behalf, lest that last paper -of mine against Ministers in “Mist’s Weekly Journal” should draw down -on me the _ex-officio_ wrath of Mr. Attorney-General, and cause my ears -to be nailed to the pillory? Can I ever hope to crack a bottle in your -Lordship’s society at Button’s, or to see your Lordship’s coach-and-six -before my lodgings in Little Britain? Let us be thankful, rather, that -the species of literary patronage at which I have hinted exists no -longer, and that an Author has no need to toady his Patron in order to -make him his friend. For what more in cordiality and kind-fellowship -I could say, you will, I am sure, give me credit. When friendship is -paraded too much in public, its entire sincerity may be open to doubt. I -am afraid that Orestes, so affectionate on the stage, has often declined -in the green-room to lend Pylades sixpence; and I am given to understand, -that Damon has often come down from the platform, where he has been -saying such flourishing fine things about Pythias, and in private life -has spoken somewhat harshly of that worthy. - -You will observe that, with the economy which we should all strive to -inculcate in an age of Financial Reform, I have made these remarks to -serve two ends. You are to take them, if you please, as a Dedication. -The public will be good enough to accept them as a Preface. But as the -dedicatory has hitherto disproportionately exceeded the prefatory matter, -a few words on my part are due to that great body-corporate of Patrons -whom some delight to call the “many-headed monster;” some the “million;” -some the fickle, ungrateful, and exigent—and some the generous, -forbearing, and discerning British Public. - -The papers I have now collected into a volume under the title of “Twice -Round the Clock, or the Hours of the Day and Night in London,” were -originally published in the pages of the “Welcome Guest,” a weekly -periodical whose first and surprising success must be mainly ascribed to -the taste and spirit of its original proprietor, Mr. Henry Vizetelly. -I confess that I thought as little of “Twice Round the Clock” in the -earlier hours of its publication as the critics of the _Saturday -Review_—who, because I contributed for six years to another periodical -whose conductor they hold in hatred, have been pleased to pursue me with -an _acharnement_ quite exciting to experience—may think of it, now. I -looked upon the articles as mere ephemeral essays, of a description of -which I had thrown off hundreds during a desultory, albeit industrious, -literary career. But I found ere long that I had committed myself to -a task whose items were to form an Entirety in the end; that I had -begun the first act of a Drama which imperatively demanded working out -to its catastrophe. I grew more interested in the thing; I took more -pains; I felt myself spurred to accuracy by the conscientious zeal of -the admirable artist, Mr. William M’Connell, whose graphic and truthful -designs embellished my often halting text. I found, to my great surprise, -that the scenes and characters I had endeavoured to embody were awakening -feelings of curiosity and interest among the many thousand readers of -the journal to which I contributed. The work, such as it is, was in the -outset not very deliberately planned. I can only regret now, when it is -terminated, that the details I have sometimes only glanced at were not -more elaborately and completely carried out. - -It would be a sorry piece of vanity on my part to imagine that the -conception of the History of a Day and Night in London is original. -I will tell you how I came to think of the scheme of “Twice Round the -Clock.” Four years ago, in Paris, my then Master in literature, Mr. -Charles Dickens, lent me a little thin octavo volume, which, I believe, -had been presented to him by another Master of the craft, Mr. Thackeray, -entitled—but I will transcribe the title-page in full. - - LOW LIFE; - OR, ONE HALF THE WORLD KNOWS NOT HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVE. - - Being a Critical Account of what is Transacted by People of - almost all Religions, Nations, Circumstances, and Sizes of - Understanding, in the - - TWENTY-FOUR HOURS, - BETWEEN - SATURDAY NIGHT AND MONDAY MORNING. - In a true Description of a - SUNDAY, - As it is usually spent within the Bills of Mortality, - calculated for the twenty-first of June. - - WITH AN ADDRESS TO THE INGENIOUS AND INGENUOUS MR. HOGARTH. - - Let Fancy guess the rest.—_Buckingham._ - -The date of publication is not given; but internal evidence proves the -Opuscule to have been written during the latter part of the reign of -George the Second; and in the copy I now possess, and which I bought at -a “rarity” price, at a sale where it was ignorantly labelled among the -“_facetiæ_”—it is the saddest book, perhaps, that ever was written—in -my copy, which is bound up among some rascally pamphlets, there is -written on the fly-leaf the date 1759. Just one hundred years ago, you -see. The work is anonymous; but in a manuscript table of contents to -the collection of miscellanies of which it forms part, I find written -“By Tom Legge.” The epigraph says that it “is printed for the author, -and is to be sold by T. Legg, at the Parrot, Green Arbour Court, in -the Little Old Bailey.” Was the authorship mere guess-work on the part -of the owner of the book, or was “Tom Legge” really the writer of “Low -Life,” and, if so, who was “Tom Legge?” Mr. Peter Cunningham, or a -contributor to “Notes and Queries,” may be able to inform us. I have -been thus particular, for a reason: that this thin octavo is one of the -minutest, the most graphic—and while in parts coarse as a scene from the -“Rake’s Progress,”—the most pathetic, picture of London life a century -since that has ever been written. There are passages in it irresistibly -reminding one of Goldsmith; but the offensive and gratuitous coarseness -in the next page destroys _that_ theory. Our Oliver was pure. But for the -dedicatory epistle to the great painter prefixed, and which is merely a -screed of fulsome flattery, I could take an affidavit that “Low Life” -was written by William Hogarth. And why not, granting even the fulsome -dedication? Hogarth could have more easily written this calendar of -Town Life than the “Analysis of Beauty;” and the sturdy grandiloquent -little painter was vain enough to have employed some hack to write the -prefatory epistle, if, in a work of satire, he had chosen to assume the -anonymous. Perhaps, after all, the book was written by some clever, -observant, deboshed man out of Grub Street, who had been wallowing in the -weary London trough for years, and had eliminated at last some pearls -which the other swine were too piggish to discern. There, however, is -“Low Life.” If you want to know what London was really like in 1759, you -should study it by night and study it by day; and then you may go with -redoubled zest to your Fielding, Smollett, and Richardson, as one, after -a vigorous grind at his Greek verbs, may go to his Euripides, refreshed. -From this thin little octavo I need not say I borrowed the notion of -“Twice Round the Clock.” I chose a week-day instead of a Sunday, partly -for the sake of variety, partly because Sunday in London has become so -decorous as to be simply dull, and many of the hours would have been -utterly devoid of interest. I brooded fitfully over the scheme for many -months. At first I proposed to take my stand (in imagination) at King -Charles’s Statue, Charing Cross, and describe the Life revolving round me -during the twenty-four hours; but I should have trenched upon sameness by -confinement to singularity; and I chose at last all London as the theme -of description— - - “A mighty maze, but not without a plan.” - -As a literary performance, this book must take its chance; and I fear -that the chance will not be a very favourable one. Flippant, pretentious, -superficial and yet arrogant of knowledge; verbose without being -eloquent; crabbed without being quaint; redundant without being copious -in illustration; full of paradoxes not extenuated by originality; and of -jocular expressions not relieved by humour—the style in which these pages -are written, combines the worst characteristics of the comic writers who -have been the “guides, philosophers and friends” of a whole school of -_quasi_ youthful authors in this era. I have reviewed too many would-be -comic books in my time, not to be able to pounce on the unsuccessful -attempts at humour in “Twice Round the Clock;” I have sufficient -admiration and respect for the genuine models of literary vigour and -elegance extant, not to feel occasionally disgusted with myself when I -have found the most serious topics discussed with a grotesque grimace -the while. It is a bad sign of the age—this turning of “cart-wheels” by -the side of a hearse, this throwing of somersaults over grave-stones. -The style we write in is popular now; but a few years, I hope, will see -a re-action, when a literary man must be either clown or undertaker, and -grinning through a horse-collar will not be tolerated in the case of a -mountebank otherwise attired in a shroud. Meanwhile, I cannot accuse -myself of pandering to a depraved taste. I neither follow nor lead it. -I cannot write otherwise than I do write. The leopard cannot change -his spots. Born in England, I am neither by parentage nor education -an Englishman; and in my childhood I browsed on a salad of languages, -which I would willingly exchange now for a plain English lettuce or -potato. Better to feed on hips and haws than on gangrened green-gages -and mouldy pine-apples. I read Sterne and Charles Lamb, Burton and Tom -Brown, Scarron and Brantôme, Boccaccio and Pigault-le-Brun, instead of -Mrs. Barbauld, and the Stories from the Spelling-book. I was pitchforked -into a French college before I had been through Pinnock in English; and -I declare that to this day I do not know one rule out of five in Lindley -Murray’s grammar. I can spell decently, because I can draw; and the -power (not the knowledge) in spelling correctly is concurrent with the -capacity for expressing the images before us more or less graphically -and symmetrically. It isn’t how a word _ought_ to be spelt: it is how -it _looks_ on paper, that decides the speller. I began to look upon the -quaint side of things almost as soon as I could see things at all; for -I was alone and Blind for a long time in childhood. I had so much to -whimper about, poor miserable object, that I began to grin and chuckle at -the things I saw, so soon as good Doctor Curée, the homœopathist, gave -me back my eyes. It is too late to mend now. While I am yet babbling, I -feel that I have nearly said my say. This book, as a Book, will go, and -be forgotten; but it will, years hence, acquire comparative value when -disinterred, from the “two-penny-box” at a bookstall. Old Directories, -Road Books, Court-Guides, Gazetteers, of half a century since, are worth -something now. They are as the straw that enters into the composition -of new bricks or books. Let us bide our time, then, my Augustus, humbly -but cheerfully. _You_ may have better fortune. You write novels and -tales: and the chronicles of Love never die. But if in the year 1959, -some historian of the state of manners in England during the reign of -Queen Victoria, points an allusion in a foot note by a reference to an -old book called “Twice Round the Clock,” and which professes to be a -series of essays on the manners and customs of the Londoners in 1859, -that reference will be quite enough of reward for your friend. Macaulay -quotes broadsides and Grub Street ballads. Carlyle does not disdain to -put the obscurest of North German pamphleteers into the witness-box; -albeit he often dismisses him with a cuff and a kick. At all events, we -may be quoted some of these days, dear Gus, even if we are kicked into -the bargain. - - GEORGE AUGUSTUS SALA. - - - - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - - FOUR A.M.—BILLINGSGATE MARKET 9 - - FIVE A.M.—THE PUBLICATION OF THE “TIMES” NEWSPAPER 25 - - SIX A.M.—COVENT GARDEN MARKET 37 - - SEVEN A.M.—A PARLIAMENTARY TRAIN 49 - - EIGHT A.M.—ST. JAMES’S PARK—THE MALL 65 - - NINE A.M.—THE CLERKS AT THE BANK, AND THE BOATS ON THE RIVER 78 - - TEN A.M.—THE COURT OF QUEEN’S BENCH, AND THE “BENCH” ITSELF 88 - - ELEVEN A.M.—TROOPING THE GUARD, AND A MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE 104 - - NOON—THE JUSTICE-ROOM AT THE MANSION-HOUSE, AND THE “BAY TREE” 116 - - ONE P.M.—DOCK LONDON AND DINING LONDON 128 - - TWO P.M.—FROM REGENT STREET TO HIGH CHANGE 142 - - THREE P.M.—DEBENHAM AND STORE’S AUCTION-ROOMS, AND THE PANTHEON - BAZAAR 158 - - FOUR P.M.—TATTERSALL’S, AND THE PARK 186 - - FIVE P.M.—THE FASHIONABLE CLUB, AND THE PRISONERS’ VAN 200 - - SIX P.M.—A CHARITY DINNER, AND THE NEWSPAPER WINDOW AT THE - GENERAL POST-OFFICE 218 - - SEVEN P.M.—A THEATRICAL GREEN-ROOM, AND “BEHIND THE SCENES” 235 - - EIGHT P.M.—HER MAJESTY’S THEATRE, AND A PAWNBROKER’S SHOP 251 - - NINE P.M.—HALF-PRICE IN THE NEW CUT, AND A DANCING ACADEMY 268 - - TEN P.M.—A DISCUSSION AT THE “BELVIDERE,” AND AN ORATORIO AT - EXETER HALL 284 - - ELEVEN P.M.—A SCIENTIFIC CONVERSAZIONE, AND AN EVENING PARTY 297 - - MIDNIGHT—THE HAYMARKET, AND THE SUB-EDITOR’S ROOM 317 - - ONE A.M.—EVANS’S SUPPER-ROOMS, AND A FIRE 330 - - TWO A.M.—A LATE DEBATE IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, AND THE - TURNSTILE OF WATERLOO BRIDGE 357 - - HOUR THE TWENTY-FOURTH AND LAST—THREE A.M.—A BAL MASQUE, AND - THE NIGHT CHARGES AT BOW STREET 375 - - - - -LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. - - - PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR _Frontispiece._ - - FOUR A.M.—BILLINGSGATE MARKET: CARRYING FISH ASHORE PAGE 17 - - FOUR A.M.—BILLINGSGATE MARKET: THE FISH SOLD BY AUCTION 20 - - FIVE A.M.—PUBLICATION OF THE “TIMES:” INSIDE THE OFFICE 32 - - FIVE A.M.—PUBLICATION OF THE “TIMES:” OUTSIDE THE OFFICE 33 - - SIX A.M.—COVENT GARDEN MARKET: THE WEST END 41 - - SIX A.M.—COVENT GARDEN MARKET: EARLY BREAKFAST STALL 44 - - SEVEN A.M.—PARLIAMENTARY TRAIN: PLATFORM OF THE LONDON AND - NORTH-WESTERN RAILWAY 60 - - SEVEN A.M.—PARLIAMENTARY TRAIN: INTERIOR OF A THIRD-CLASS CARRIAGE 64 - - EIGHT A.M.—ST. JAMES’S PARK 68 - - EIGHT A.M.—OPENING SHOP 76 - - NINE A.M.—OMNIBUSES AT THE BANK 84 - - NINE A.M.—PENNY STEAMBOATS ALONGSIDE THE PIER AT LONDON BRIDGE 85 - - TEN A.M.—INTERIOR OF THE COURT OF QUEEN’S BENCH 96 - - TEN A.M.—INTERIOR OF THE QUEEN’S BENCH PRISON 97 - - ELEVEN A.M.—TROOPING THE GUARD AT ST. JAMES’S PALACE 109 - - ELEVEN A.M.—A WEDDING AT ST. JAMES’S CHURCH, PICCADILLY 113 - - NOON—THE JUSTICE-ROOM AT THE MANSION HOUSE 121 - - ONE P.M.—DOCK-LABOURERS RETURNING TO WORK 137 - - ONE P.M.—DINING-ROOMS IN BUCKLERSBURY 141 - - TWO P.M.—REGENT STREET 148 - - TWO P.M.—HIGH CHANGE 156 - - THREE P.M.—DEBENHAM AND STORR’S AUCTION-ROOMS 168 - - THREE P.M.—THE PANTHEON BAZAAR 177 - - FOUR P.M.—TATTERSALL’S 193 - - FOUR P.M.—THE PARK 197 - - FIVE P.M.—THE FASHIONABLE CLUB 212 - - FIVE P.M.—THE PRISONERS’ VAN 216 - - SIX P.M.—A CHARITY DINNER 229 - - SIX P.M.—THE NEWSPAPER WINDOW AT THE GENERAL POST-OFFICE 233 - - SEVEN P.M.—A THEATRICAL GREEN-ROOM 244 - - SEVEN P.M.—BEHIND THE SCENES 249 - - EIGHT P.M.—THE OPERA 257 - - EIGHT P.M.—INTERIOR OF A PAWNBROKER’S SHOP 265 - - NINE P.M.—HOUSE OF CALL FOR THE VICTORIA AUDIENCE 276 - - NINE P.M.—A DANCING ACADEMY 281 - - TEN P.M.—A DISCUSSION AT THE “BELVIDERE” 288 - - TEN P.M.—AN ORATORIO AT EXETER HALL 296 - - ELEVEN P.M.—A SCIENTIFIC CONVERSAZIONE 312 - - ELEVEN P.M.—AN EVENING PARTY 316 - - MIDNIGHT—SUPPER-ROOMS IN THE HAYMARKET 325 - - MIDNIGHT—THE SUB-EDITOR’S ROOM 329 - - ONE A.M.—EVANS’S SUPPER-ROOMS 341 - - ONE A.M.—A FIRE 349 - - TWO A.M.—A LATE DEBATE IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS 368 - - TWO A.M.—THE TURNSTILE OF WATERLOO BRIDGE 372 - - THREE A.M.—A BAL MASQUE 381 - - THREE A.M.—THE NIGHT CHARGES AT BOW STREET 392 - - - - -TWICE ROUND THE CLOCK; OR, THE HOURS OF THE DAY AND NIGHT IN LONDON. - - - - -FOUR O’CLOCK A.M.—BILLINGSGATE MARKET. - - -Reader, were you ever up all night? You may answer that you are neither -a newspaper editor, a market gardener, a journeyman baker, the driver -of the Liverpool night mail, Mrs. Gamp the sicknurse, the commander of -the Calais packet, Professor Airey, Sir James South, nor a member of the -House of Commons. It may be that you live at Clapham, that one of the -golden rules of your domestic economy is “gruel at ten, bed at eleven,” -and that you consider keeping late hours to be an essentially immoral and -wicked habit,—the immediate prelude to the career and the forerunner of -the fate of the late George Barnwell. I am very sorry for your prejudices -and your susceptibilities. I respect them, but I must do them violence. I -intend that—_bon gré, mal gré_—in spirit, if not in actual corporeality, -you should stop out not only all night but all day with me; in fact, for -the space of twenty-four hours, it is my resolve to prohibit your going -to bed at all. I wish you to see the monster LONDON in the varied phases -of its outer and inner life, at every hour of the day-season and the -night-season; I wish you to consider with me the giant sleeping and the -giant waking; to watch him in his mad noonday rages, and in his sparse -moments of unquiet repose. You must travel TWICE ROUND THE CLOCK with -me; and together we will explore this London mystery to its remotest -recesses—its innermost arcana. To others the downy couch, the tasselled -nightcap, the cushioned sofa, the luxurious ease of night-and-day rest. -Ours be the staff and the sandalled shoon, the cord to gird up the lions, -the palmer’s wallet and cockle-shells. For, believe me, the pilgrimage -will repay fatigue, and the shrine is rich in relics. - -Four o’clock in the morning. The deep bass voice of Paul’s, the Staudigl -of bells, has growlingly proclaimed the fact. Bow church confirms the -information in a respectable baritone. St. Clement’s Danes has sung forth -acquiescence with the well-known chest-note of his tenor voice, sonorous -and mellifluous as Tamberlik’s. St. Margaret’s, Westminster, murmurs -a confession of the soft impeachment in a contralto rich as Alboni’s -in “Stridi la vampa;” and all around and about the pert bells of the -new churches, from evangelical Hackney to Puseyite Pimlico, echo the -announcement in their shrill treble and soprani. - -Four o’clock in the morning. Greenwich awards it,—the Horse Guards allow -it—Bennett, arbiter of chronometers and clocks that, with much striking, -have grown blue in the face, has nothing to say against it. And that -self-same hour shall never strike again this side the trumpet’s sound. -The hour itself being consigned to the innermost pigeon-hole of the Dead -Hour office—(a melancholy charnel-house of misspent time is that, my -friend)—you and I have close upon sixty minutes before us ere the grim -old scythe-bearer, the saturnine child-eater, who marks the seconds and -the minutes of which the infinite subdivision is a pulsation of eternity, -will tell us that the term of another hour has come. That hour will be -five a.m., and at five it is high market at Billingsgate. To that great -piscatorial Bourse we, an’t please you, are bound. - -It is useless to disguise the fact that you, my shadowy, but not the less -beloved companion, are about to keep very bad hours. Good to hear the -chimes at midnight, as Justice Shallow and Falstaff oft did when they -were students in Gray’s Inn; but four and five in the morning! these be -small hours indeed: this is beating the town with a vengeance. Were it -winter, our bedlessness would be indefensible; but this is still sweet -summer time. - -But why, the inquisitive may ask—the child-man who is for ever cutting up -the bellows to discover the reservoir of the wind—why four o’clock a.m.? -Why not begin our pilgrimage at one a.m., and finish the first half at -midnight, in the orthodox get-up-and-go-to-bed manner? Simply because -four a.m. is in reality the first hour of the working London day. The -giant is wide awake at midnight; he sinks into a fitful slumber about -two in the morning: short is his rest, for at four he is up again and at -work, the busiest bee in the world’s hive. - -The child of the Sun, the gorgeous golden peacock, strutting in a -farmyard full of the Hours, his hens, now triumphs. It is summer; and -more than that, a lovely summer morning. The brown night has retired, -and the meek-eyed moon, mother of dews, has disappeared: the young day -pours in apace; the mountains’ misty tops are swelling on the sight, and -brightening in the sun. It is the cool, the fragrant, and the silent -hour, to meditation due and sacred song; the air is coloured, the efflux -divine turns hovels into palaces, and shoots with gold the rags of -beggars. - - “The city now doth like a garment wear - The beauty of the morning.... - Never did Sun more beautifully steep - In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill. - Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep. - The River glideth at its own sweet will; - Dear God! the very houses seem asleep, - And all that mighty Heart is lying still.” - -I know that the acknowledgment of one’s quotations or authorities is -going out of fashion. Still, as I murmur the foregoing lines as I wander -round about the Monument and in and out of Thames Street, waiting for -Billingsgate-market time to begin, a conviction grows upon me that the -poetry is not my own; and in justice to the dead, as well as with a view -of sparing the printer a flood of inverted commas, I may as well confess -that I have been reading Mr. James Thomson and Mr. William Wordsworth on -the subject of summer lately, and that very many of the flowery allusions -to be found above, have been culled from the works of those pleasing -writers. - -_Non omnis moriar._ Though the so oft-mentioned hours be asleep, and the -river glideth in peace, undisturbed by penny steamboats, the mighty heart -of Thames Street is anything but still. The great warehouses are closed, -’tis true; the long wall of the Custom House is a huge dead wall, full of -blind windows. The Coal Exchange (which edifice, with its gate down among -the dead men in Thames Street, and its cupola, like a middle-sized bully, -lifting its head to about the level of the base of that taller bully the -Monument, is the neatest example of an architectural “getting up stairs” -that I know)—the Coal Exchange troubles not its head as yet about -Stewarts or Lambtons, Sutherlands or Wallsend. The moist wharfs, teeming -with tubs and crates of potter’s ware packed with fruity store, and -often deliciously perfumed with the smell of oranges, bulging and almost -bursting through their thin prison bars of wooden laths, are yet securely -grated and barred up. The wharfingers are sleeping cosily far away. But -there are shops and shops wide open, staringly open, defiantly open, with -never a pane of glass in their fronts, but yawning with a jolly ha! ha! -of open-windowedness on the bye-strollers. These are the shops to make -you thirsty; these are the shops to make your incandescent coppers hiss; -these are the shops devoted to the apotheosis and apodeiknensis (I quote -Wordsworth again, but Christopher, not William) of Salt Fish— - - “Spend Herring first, save Salt Fish last, - For Salt Fish is good when Lent is past.” - -So old Tusser. What piles of salted fish salute the eye, and make -the mouth water, in these open-breasted shops! Dried herrings, -real Yarmouth bloaters, kippered herrings, not forgetting the old -original, unpretending red herring, the modest but savoury “soldier” -of the chandler’s-shop! What flaps of salt cod and cured fishes to me -unknown, but which may be, for aught I know, the poll of ling which -King James the First wished to give the enemy of mankind when he dined -with him, together with the pig and the pipe of tobacco; or it may be -Coob or Haberdine! What are Coob and Haberdine? Tell me, Groves, tell -me, Polonius, erst chamberlain and first fishmonger to the court of -Denmark. Great creels and hampers are there too, full of mussels and -periwinkles, and myriads of dried sprats and cured pilchards—shrunken, -piscatorial anatomies, their once burnished green and yellow panoplies -now blurred and tarnished. On the whole, each dried-fish shop is a most -thirst-provoking emporium, and I cannot wonder much if the blue-aproned -fishmongers occasionally sally forth from the midst of their fishy -mummy pits and make short darts “round the corner” to certain houses of -entertainment, kept open, it would seem, chiefly for their accommodation, -and where the favourite morning beverage is, I am given to understand, -gin mingled with milk. It is refreshing, however, to find that the -fragrant berry of Mocha (more or less adequately represented by chicory, -burnt horse-beans, and roasted corn)—that coffee, the nurse of Voltaire’s -wit, the inspirer of Balzac’s brain; coffee, which Madame de Sevigné -pertly predicted would “go out” with Racine, but which nevertheless has, -with astonishing tenacity of vitality, “kept in” while the pert Sevigné -and the meek Racine have quite gone out into the darkness of literary -limbo—is in great request among the fishy men of Billingsgate. Huge, -massive, blue and white earthenware mugs full of some brown decoction, -which to these not too exigent critics need but to steam, and to be -sweet, to be the “coffee as in France,” whose odoriferous “percolations” -the advertising tradesmen tell us of, are lifted in quick succession -to the thirsty lips of the fishmen. Observe, too, that all market men -drink and order their coffee by the “pint,” even as the scandal-loving -old ladies of the last century (ladies don’t love scandal now-a-days) -drank their tea by the “dish.” I can realise the contempt of a genuine -Billingsgate marketeer for the little thimble-sized filagree cups with -the bitter Mocha grouts at the bottom, which, with a suffocating Turkish -chibouque, Turkish pachas and attar-of-roses dealers in the Bezesteen, -offer as a mark of courtesy to a Frank traveller when they want to cheat -him. - -Close adjacent is a narrow passage called Darkhouse Lane, and here -properly should be a traditional Billingsgate tavern called the -“Darkhouse.” There is one, open all night, under the same designation, in -Newgate Market. Hither came another chronicler of “twice round the clock” -with another neophyte, to show him the wonders of the town, one hundred -and fifty years ago. Hither, when pursy, fubsy, good-natured Queen Anne -reigned in England, and followed the hounds in Windsor’s Park, driving -two piebald ponies in a chaise, and touched children for the “evil,” -awing childish Sam Johnson with her black velvet and her diamonds, came -jovial, brutal, vulgar, graphic Ned Ward, the “London Spy.” Here, in the -“Darkhouse,” he saw a waterman knock down his wife with a stretcher, and -subsequently witnessed the edifying spectacle of the recreant husband -being tried for his offence by a jury of fishwomen. Scant mercy, but -signal justice, got he from those fresh-water Minoses and Rhadamanthuses. -Forthwith was he “cobbed”—a punishment invented by sleeveboard-wielding -tailors, and which subsequently became very popular in her Majesty’s -navy. Here he saw “fat, motherly flatcaps, with fish-baskets hanging over -their heads instead of riding-hoods,” with silver rings on their thumbs, -and pipes charged with “mundungus” in their mouths, sitting on inverted -eel-baskets, and strewing the flowers of their exuberant eloquence over -dashing young town rakes who had stumbled into Billingsgate to finish -the night—disorderly blades in laced velvet coats, with, torn ruffles, -and silver-hilted swords, and plumed hats battered in scuffles with the -watch. But the town-rakes kept comparatively civil tongues in their -heads when they entered the precincts of the Darkhouse. An amazon of the -market, otherwise known as a Billingsgate fish-fag, was more than a match -for a Mohock. And here Ned Ward saw young city couples waiting for the -tide to carry them in a tilt-boat to Gravesend; and here he saw bargemen -eating broiled red-herrings, and Welshmen “louscobby” (whatever that -doubtless savoury dish may have been, but there _must_ have been cheese -in it); and here he heard the frightful roaring of the waters among the -mechanism of the piers of old London Bridge. There are no waterworks -there now; the old bridge itself is gone; the Mohocks are extinct; and we -go to Gravesend by the steamer, instead of the tilt-boat; yet still, as -I enter the market, a pleasant cataract of “chaff” between a fishwoman -and a costermonger comes plashing down—even as Mr. Southey tells us that -the waters come down at Lodore—upon my amused ears; and the conviction -grows on me that the flowers of Billingsgate eloquence are evergreens. -Mem.: To write a philosophical dissertation on the connection between -markets and voluble vituperation which has existed in all countries and -in all ages. ’Twas only from his immense mastery of Campanian slang that -Menenius Agrippa obtained such influence over the Roman commons; and one -of the gaudiest feathers in Daniel O’Connell’s cap of eloquence was his -having “slanged” an Irish market-woman down by calling her a crabbed old -hypothenuse! - -Billingsgate has been one of the watergates or ports of the city from -time immemorial. Geoffrey of Monmouth’s fabulous history of the spot -acquaints us that “Belin, a king of the Britons, about four hundred years -before Christ’s nativity, built this gate and called it ‘Belinsgate,’ -after his own calling;” and that when he was dead, his body being burnt, -the ashes in a vessel of brass were set on a high pinnacle of stone -over the said gate. Stowe very sensibly observes, that the name was -most probably derived from some previous owner, “happily named Beling -or Biling, as Somars’ Key, Smart’s Wharf, and others, thereby took the -names of their owners.” When he was engaged in collecting materials for -his “Survey,” Billingsgate was a “large Watergate port, or harborough for -ships and boats commonly arriving there with fish, both fresh and salt, -shellfish, salt, oranges, onions, and other fruits and roots, wheat, -rye, and grain of divers sorts, for the service of the city, and the -parts of this realm adjoining.” Queenhithe, anciently the more important -watering-place, had yielded its pretensions to its rival. Each gives its -name to one of the city wards. - -Some of the regulations concerning the “mystery” of the fishmongers in -old times are sufficiently interesting for a brief notice. In the reign -of Edward I. the prices of fish were fixed—for the best soles, 3_d._ -per dozen; the best turbot, 6_d._ each; the best pickled herrings, -1_d._ a score; fresh oysters, 2_d._ a gallon; the best eels, 2_d._ per -quarter of a hundred. In a statute of Edward I. it was forbidden to -offer for sale any fish except salt fish after the second day. In the -city assize of fish the profits of the London fishmongers were fixed at -one penny in twelve. They were not to sell their fish secretly, within -doors, but in plain market-place. In 1320 a combination was formed -against the fishmongers of Fish-wharf, to prevent them from selling by -retail; but Edward II. ordered the mayor and sheriffs to interfere, -and the opposition was unsuccessful. The mayor issued his orders to -these fishmongers of Bridge Street and Old Fish Street, to permit their -brethren in the trade to “stand at stall;” to merchandise with them, and -freely obtain their share of merchandise, as was fit and just, and as the -freedom of the city required. A few years later some of the fishmongers -again attempted to establish a monopoly; but it was ordered that the -“billestres,” or poor persons who cried or sold fish in the streets, -“provided they buy of free fishmongers, and do not keep a stall, or make -a stay in the streets, shall not be hindered;” and also that persons and -women coming from the uplands with fish caught by them or their servants -in the waters of the Thames or other neighbouring streams, were to be -allowed to frequent the market. With these exceptions, none but members -of the Fishmongers’ Company were to be allowed to sell fish in the city, -lest the commodity should be made dear by persons dealing in it who were -unskilful in the mystery. - -The old churches of London in the immediate vicinity of the fish-markets -contained numerous monuments to fishmongers. That the stock-fishmongers, -or dealers in dried or salted fish, should have formed so important -a portion of the trade is deserving of notice, as a peculiarity of -the times. Lovekin and Walworth, who both acquired wealth, were -stock-fishmongers. The nature of the commodity was such as to render the -dealers in it a superior class to the other fishmongers. A great store -might be accumulated, and more capital was required than by the other -fishmongers, who only purchased from hand to mouth. - -In 1699, an act was passed for making it a free market for the sale of -fish—though the very commencement of the preamble alludes to Billingsgate -having been time out of mind a free market for all kinds of floating -and salt fish, as also for all manner of floating and shellfish. The -necessity of a new act had arisen, as the preamble recites, from various -abuses, one of which was that the fishmongers would not permit the street -hawkers of fish to buy of the fishermen, by which means the fishmongers -bought at their own prices. The extraordinary dream of making the country -wealthy, and draining the ocean of its riches by means of fisheries, had -for above a century been one of the fondest illusions of the English -people; and about the time that the act was passed, “ways to consume more -fish” were once more attracting the popular attention. The price of fish -at the time was said to be beyond the reach of the poor and even of the -middling classes; and for many days together the quantity received at -Billingsgate was very inconsiderable. To remedy these evils, carriages -were to be constructed, to be drawn by two post-horses, which were to -convey the fish to market at a rate of speed which was then thought to -be lightning rapidity. But though the project was much talked about, -it never came to a head, and ultimately fell through, the projectors -consoling themselves with the axiomatic reflection—that there are more -fish in the sea than ever came out of it. - -But while I am rummaging among the dusty corners of my memory, and -dragging forth worm-eaten old books to the light; while I have suffered -the hare of the minute-hand, and the tortoise of the hour-hand (the -tortoise wins the race), to crawl or scamper at least half round the -clock, Billingsgate Market itself—the modern—the renovated—a far -different place to that uncleanly old batch of sheds and hovels, reeking -with fishy smells, and more or less beset by ruffianly company, which -was our only fish market twenty years ago—New Billingsgate, with a real -fountain in the centre, which during the day plays real water, is now -in full life and bustle and activity. Not so much in the market area -itself, where porters are silently busied in clearing piles of baskets -away, setting forms and stools in order, and otherwise preparing for -the coming business of the fish auction, as on the wharf, in front of -the tavern known to fame as Simpson’s, and where the eighteenpenny fish -ordinary is held twice every day, except Sunday, in each year of grace. -This wharf is covered with fish, and the scaly things themselves are -being landed, with prodigious celerity, and in quantities almost as -prodigious, from vessels moored in triple tier before the market. Here -are Dutch boats that bring eels, and boats from the north sea that bring -lobsters, and boats from Hartlepool, Whitstable, Harwich, Great Grimsby, -and other English seaports and fishing stations. They are all called -“boats,” though many are of a size that would render the term ship, or -at least vessel, far more applicable. They are mostly square and squat -in rigging, and somewhat tubby in build, and have an unmistakeably fishy -appearance. Communications are opened between the vessels, each other, -and the shore, by means of planks placed from bulwark to bulwark; and -these bulwarks are now trodden by legions of porters carrying the fish -ashore. Nautical terms are mingled with London street vernacular; fresh -mackerel competes in odour with pitch and tar; the tight strained rigging -cuts in dark indigo-relief against the pale-blue sky; the whole is a -confusion, slightly dirty but eminently picturesque, of ropes, spars, -baskets, oakum, tarpaulin, fish, canvas trousers, osier baskets, loud -voices, tramping feet, and “perfumed gales,” not exactly from “Araby the -blest,” but from the holds of the fishing-craft. - -[Illustration: BILLINGSGATE MARKET: CARRYING FISH ASHORE.] - -Upon my word, the clock has struck five, and the great gong of -Billingsgate booms forth market-time. Uprouse ye, then, my merry, merry -fishmongers, for this is your opening day! And the merry fishmongers -uprouse themselves with a vengeance. The only comparison I can find -for the aspect, the sights, and sounds of the place, is—a Rush. A -rush hither and thither at helter-skelter speed, apparently blindly, -apparently without motive, but really with a business-like and engrossing -pre-occupation, for fish and all things fishy. Baskets full of turbot, -borne on the shoulders of the _facchini_ of the place, skim through the -air with such rapidity that you might take them to be flying fish. Out of -the way! here is an animated salmon leap. Stand on one side! a shoal of -fresh herrings will swallow you up else. There is a rush to the tribunes -of the auctioneers; forums surrounded by wooden forms—I mean no pun—laden -with fish, and dominated by the rostra of the salesmen, who, with long -account-books in their hands, which they use instead of hammers, knock -down the lots with marvellous rapidity. An eager crowd of purchasers -hedge in the scaly merchandise. They are substantial-looking, hearty, -rosy-gilled men—for the sale of fish appears to make these merchants -thrive in person as well as in purse. Why, though, should fishmongers -have, as a body, small eyes? Can there be any mysterious sympathy between -them and the finny things they sell?—and do they, like the husband and -wife who loved each other so much, and lived together so long, that, -although at first totally dissimilar in appearance, they grew at last to -resemble one another feature for feature—become smaller and smaller-eyed -as their acquaintance with the small-eyed fishes lengthens? I throw this -supposition out as a subject for speculation for some future Lavater. -Among the buyers I notice one remarkable individual, unpretending as to -facial development, but whose costume presents a singular mixture of the -equine and the piscine. Lo! his hat is tall and shiny, even as the hat of -a frequenter of Newmarket and an _habitué_ of Aldridge’s Repository, and -his eminently sporting-looking neckcloth is fastened with a horse-shoe -pin; but then his sleeves are as the sleeves of a fishmonger, and his -loins are girt with the orthodox blue apron appertaining, by a sort of -masonic prescription, to his craft and mystery! His nether man, as far -as the spring of the calf, is clad in the galligaskins of an ordinary -citizen; but below the knee commence a pair of straight tight boots of -undeniably sporting cut. Who is this marvellous compound of the fishy -and “horsey” idiosyncrasies? Is he John Scott disguised as Izaak Walton? -is he Flatman or Chifney? Tell me, Mr. Chubb, proprietor of the “Golden -Perch;” tell me, “Ruff,” mythical author of the “Guide to the Turf”—for -knowing not to which authority especially to appeal, I appeal to both, -even as did the Roman maid-servant, who burnt one end of the candle to -St. Catherine and the other to St. Nicholas (old St. Nicholas I mean, -sometimes familiarised into “Nick”), in order to be on the safe side. - -There are eight auctioneers or fish salesmen attached to the market, -and they meet every morning between four and five o’clock at one of the -principal public-houses, to discuss the quantity and quality of fish -about to be offered for sale. The three taverns are known as Bowler’s, -Bacon’s, and Simpson’s. The second of these is situated in the centre -of the market, and is habitually used by the auctioneers, probably on -account of the son of the proprietor being the largest consignee at -Billingsgate. - -[Illustration: BILLINGSGATE: THE FISH SOLD BY AUCTION.] - -As the clock strikes five, the auctioneers disperse to their various -boxes. Below each box are piled on “forms” or bulks the “doubles” of -plaice, soles, haddock, whiting, and “offal.” A “double” is an oblong -basket tapering to the bottom, and containing from three to four dozen -of fish; “offal” means odd lots of different kinds of fish, mostly small -and broken, but always fresh and wholesome. When the auctioneer is -ready, a porter catches up a couple of “doubles,” and swings one on to -each shoulder, and then the bids begin. Soles have been sold as low as -four shillings the “double,” and have fetched as high as three pounds. -There is one traditional bid on record, which took place in the early -part of the present century, of forty guineas per hundred for mackerel. -Plaice ranges from one-and-sixpence to four shillings the double. The -sale is conducted on the principle of what is termed a “Dutch auction,” -purchasers not being allowed to inspect the fish in the doubles before -they bid. Offal is bought only by the “fryers.” You may see, almost every -market morning, a long, gaunt, greasy man, of that dubious age that you -hesitate whether to call him youngish or oldish, with a signet ring on -one little finger, and a staring crimson and yellow handkerchief round -the collar of his not very clean checked shirt, buy from fifteen to -twenty doubles of one kind or another; and in the season the _habitués_ -of the market say that he will purchase from twenty-five to thirty -bushels of periwinkles and whelks. This monumental “doubler,” this -Rothschild of the offal tribe, resides in Somers Town. To him resort to -purchase stock those innumerable purveyors of fried fish who make our -courts and bye-streets redolent with the oleaginous perfumes of their -hissing cauldrons. For the convenience of small dealers, who cannot -afford to buy an entire double, stands are erected at different parts of -the market for “bumbarees.” We may ask in vain, _undè derivatur_, for the -meaning of the term, though it is probably of Dutch origin. Any one can -be a bumbaree: it requires neither apprenticeship, diploma, nor license, -and it is the _pons asinorum_ of the “mystery of fishmongers.” The career -is open to all; which, considering the difficulty of settling one’s -children in life, must be rather a gratifying reflection for parents. -The process of bumbareeing is very simple. It consists in buying as -largely as your means will afford of an auctioneer, hiring a stall for -sixpence, and retailing the fish at a swingeing profit. I think that if -I were not a landed gentleman, a Middlesex magistrate, and a member of -the Court of Lieutenancy—vainly endeavouring, meanwhile, to ascertain my -parochial settlement, in order to obtain admission to a workhouse as an -unable-bodied pauper—that I should like to be a bumbaree. - -Plaice, soles, haddocks (fresh), skate, maids, cod, and ling (the two -last-mentioned fish in batches of threes and fours, with a string passed -through the gills), are the only fish sold by auction. Fresh herrings are -sold from the vessel by the long hundred (130). They are counted from -the hold to the buyers in “warp” fives. Twopence per hundred is charged -to bring them on shore. Eels are sold by the “draft” of twenty pounds -weight—the price of the draft varying from three shillings to fifteen. -Twopence per draft is paid for “shoreing” or landing the fish from the -vessels. Sprats are sold on board the ships by the bushel. A “tindal” is -a thousand bushels of sprats. When we come to consider the vast number of -these oily, savoury little fishes that a bushel will contain, the idea -of a “tindal” of them seems perfectly Garagantuan; yet many “tindals” of -them are sold every week during the winter season—for the consumption of -sprats among the poorer classes is enormous. What says the Muse of the -Bull at Somers Town—what sweet stanzas issue from the anthology of Seven -Dials?— - - “O! ’tis my delight on a Friday night, - When sprats they isn’t dear, - To fry a couple of score or so - Upon a fire clear. - - “They eats so well, they bears the bell - From all the fish I knows: - Then let us eat them while we can, - Before the price is rose.” - (Chorus—ad libitum) “O! ’tis my delight,” &c. - -The last two lines are replete with the poetry and philosophy of the -poorer classes: “Let us eat them while we can, before the price is rose;” -for even sprats are sometimes luxuries unattainable by the humble. -Exceedingly succulent sprats labour under the disadvantage of being -slightly unwholesome. To quote Mr. Samuel Weller’s anecdote of the remark -made by the young lady when remonstrating with the pastrycook who had -sold her a pork pie which was all fat, sprats are “rayther too rich.” -And yet how delicious they are! I have had some passably good dinners -in my time; I have partaken of _turbôt à la crême_ at the Trois Frères -Provençaux; I have eaten a _filet à la Chateaubriand_ at Bignon’s: yet -I don’t think there is a banquet in the whole repertory of Lucullus and -Apicius—a more charming red-letter night in the calendar of gastronomy, -than a sprat supper. You must have three pennyworth of sprats, a large -tablecloth is indispensable for finger-wiping purposes—for he who would -eat sprats with a knife and fork is unworthy the name of an epicure—and -after the banquet I should recommend, for purely hygienic and antibilious -reasons, the absorption of a _petit verre_ of the best Hollands. - -To return. As regards salmon, nine-tenths of the aristocratic fish are -brought up by rail in barrels, and in summer packed in ice. Salmon and -salmon-trout are not subjected to the humiliation of being “knocked -down” by an auctioneer. They are disposed of “by private contract” at so -much per pound. - -Of dried and smoked fish of all kinds the best come from Yarmouth; but -as regards the costermonger and street-vender—the modern “billestres,” -of dried haddocks, smoked sprats and herrings, entire or kippered—they -are little affected by the state of the cured fish market so long as they -can buy plenty of the fresh kind. The costermonger cures his fish himself -in the following manner:—He builds a little shed like a watch-box, with -wires across the upper part; and on this grating he threads his fish. -Then he makes a fire on the floor of his impromptu curing-house with coal -or mahogany dust, and smokes the fish “till done,” as the old cookery -books say. There is a dealer in the market to whom all fish-sellers -bring the skins of departed soles. He gives fourpence-halfpenny a pound -for them. They are used for refining purposes. And now for a word -concerning the crustacea and the molluscs. Of oysters there are several -kinds: Native Pearls, Jerseys, Old Barleys, and Commons. On board every -oyster-boat a business-like gentleman is present, who takes care that -every buyer of a bushel of oysters pays him fourpence. No buyer may carry -his oysters ashore himself, be he ever so able and willing. There are -regular “shoremen,” who charge fourpence a bushel for their services; so -that whatever may be the market-price of oysters, the purchaser must pay, -_nolens volens_, eightpence a bushel over and above the quoted rate. - -Of mussels there are three kinds: Dutch, Exeters, and Shorehams. They are -brought to market in bags, of the average weight of three hundredweight; -each bag containing about one hundred and sixty quarts, inclusive of dirt -and stones. They are sold at from five shillings to seven shillings a -bag. Of periwinkles—or, as they are more popularly and familiarly termed, -“winkles”—there are four sorts: Scotch, Clays, Isle of Wights, and -Maidens. They are sold by the bushel, or by the “level” or gallon. Crabs -are sold by the “kit” (a long shallow basket) and by the score. Lobsters -by the score and the double. - -At the “Cock,” in Love Lane, and at the “White Hart,” in Botolph Lane, -there is a boiling-house in the rear of the premises. Each boiling-house -consists of a spacious kitchen filled with immense cauldrons. Here winkle -and whelk buyers, who have neither utensils nor convenient premises -sufficient to boil at home, can have it done for them for fourpence -a bushel. Each boiling is performed separately in a wicker-basket; -crabs and lobsters may likewise be boiled at these houses. Half-a-dozen -scores of the fish are packed in a large basket, shaped like a -strawberry-pottle, a lid is put between each lot, and the hot-water -torture is inflicted at the rate of sixpence a score. - -If your servant, the writer, were not precluded by the terms of his -contract from taking any natural rest, he might, pleading fatigue, retire -to bed; and, tossing on an unquiet couch, as men must do who slip between -the sheets when the blessed sun is shining, have fantastic dreams of Ned -Ward and Sir William Walworth: dream of the market-scene in “Masaniello,” -and hum a dream-reminiscence of “Behold, how brightly beams the morning!” -which, of course, like all things appertaining to dreams, has no more -resemblance to the original air than the tune the cow died of. Then -fancy that he is a supernumerary in a pantomime, and that Mr. Flexmore, -the clown, has jumped upon his shoulders, and is beating him about the -ears with a “property” codfish. Then he might be Jonah, swallowed by the -whale; and then Tobit’s fish. Then he would find himself half awake, and -repeating some lines he remembered reading years ago, scrawled in ink on -a huge placard outside the shop of Mr. Taylor, the famous fishmonger, in -Lombard Street. Yes: they ran thus— - - “So the ‘Times’ takes an interest in the case of Geils; - I wish it would take some in my eels!” - -What a queer fish Mr. Taylor must have been! Where is he now? Why, -he (your servant) is Taylor—Jeremy Taylor—Tom Taylor—Taylor the -water-poet—Billy Taylor—the Three Tailors of Tooley Street—Mr. Toole, the -toast-master of arts and buttered toast; and—he is asleep! - - - - -FIVE O’CLOCK A.M.—THE PUBLICATION OF THE “TIMES” NEWSPAPER. - - - “There she is—the great engine—she never sleeps. She has her - ambassadors in every quarter of the world—her couriers upon - every road. Her officers march along with armies, and her - envoys walk into statesmen’s cabinets. They are ubiquitous. - Yonder Journal has an agent at this minute giving bribes at - Madrid; and another inspecting the price of potatoes at Covent - Garden.” - - “PENDENNIS.” - -If you have no objection to the statement of the fact, I would beg to -observe that our present station on the clock face, twice round which -we have to go, is now five in the morning; and that at five a.m. the -publication of the “Times” newspaper is, to use a north-country mining -expression, in “full blast.” You abhor the politics of the journal -in question, you say: you consider the “Times” and “Evening Mail” to -be the organ of a company, with limited liability, composed of the -Emperor Alexander, Cardinal Wiseman, Baron Rothschild, Prince Aali -Pacha, Metternich, Doctor Cumming, Baring Brothers, Lord Palmerston, -Mr. Disraeli, Mr. W. J. Fox, and Miss Martineau. You are offended with -the “Times” because the editor declined to insert that last six-paged -letter from you against organ grinding. Never mind, you must come all -the same to see the paper published. For the publication of the “Times” -is a great, an enormous, a marvellous fact: none the less wonderful for -being repeated three hundred and thirteen times a-year. It is a pulsation -of London’s mighty heart, that should not be neglected. It is the daily -booming of a tocsin, which, year after year, proclaims progress, and -still progress to the nations; which is the joy bell to the good, the -passing bell to the bad, the world is blessed or cursed with; which rings -out ignorance and prejudice and superstition, and rings in knowledge -and enlightenment and truth. The “Times” is not alone in the possession -of a peal of bells of this kind; and many daily, more weekly, papers -ring out, loud and clear, to eager listeners; were your vassal not one -of the modestest of men, he would hint that for the last dozen years he -has been agitating daily and weekly a little tintinnabulum with what -lustiness his nerveless arm will let him. But hard by St. Paul’s, the -cathedral of Anglicanism, is Printing House Square, the cathedral of -Journalism, and in it hangs a bell to which Great Tom of Lincoln, Peter -of York, the Kolokol of Moscow, and our own defunct “Big Ben,” are but -as tinkling muffineers. For though the sides of the bell are only paper, -the clapper is the great public tongue; the booming sound that fills the -city every morning, and, to use the words of Mr. Walter Whitman, “utters -its barbaric youp over the house-tops of creation,” is the great Public -Voice. Bottle up your animosities, then, stifle your prejudices, and come -and hear the voice’s first faint murmur at five o’clock in the morning. - -The office of the “Times” and “Evening Mail” is, as all civilised men -should know, situated in Printing House Square and Playhouse Yard, in the -parish of St. Ann’s, Blackfriars, in the city of London. Now this is very -pleasant and comfortable information, and is fit matter for a studious -man to lay to heart; and there exists but one little drawback to mar the -felicity which one must naturally feel at having the style and title of -the press’s great champions’ _habitat_ so patly at one’s fingers’ ends. -The drawback—the kink in the cable, the hyssop in the wine-cup, the thorn -to the rose—is that, with the exception of Honey Lane market and Little -Chester Street, Pimlico, Printing House Square is the most difficult -locality to find in all London. It is not much use asking your way to -it; a map of London, however elaborate, would not be of the slightest -assistance to you in discovering it: it will avail you little even to be -told that it is close to Apothecaries’ Hall, for where, I should like -to know, is that huge musty caravanserai of drugs, and who is to find -it at a short notice? And the intimation that Printing House Square is -not far from Puddle Dock, would not, I opine, render you great service, -intimate as might be your acquaintance with the shores of the river, both -above and below bridge, and would be scarcely more lucid a direction -than the intimation that the London terminus of the South-Western -Railway was close to Pedlars’ Acre. The “Times” newspaper is somewhere -near all these places; and it is likewise within a stone’s throw from -Ludgate Hill, and not far from St. Paul’s, and within a minute’s walk of -Fleet Street, and contiguous to Blackfriars Bridge, close handy to Earl -Street, and no great distance from Chatham Place. Yet, for all this, -the “Times” office might be, to the uninitiated, just as well placed in -the centre of the Cretan labyrinth, or the maze at Hampton Court, or -the budget of a Chancellor of the Exchequer. The best way to reach the -office is to take any turning to the south side of London Bridge, or -the east of Bridge Street, Blackfriars, and then trust to chance. The -probabilities are varied. Very likely you will find yourself entangled -in a seemingly hopeless net-work of narrow streets; you will be jostled -into chandlers’ shops, vilified by boys unctuous, black, and reeking -from the printing-machine; pursued by costermongers importuning you to -purchase small parcels of vegetables; and, particularly after sundown, -your life will be placed in jeopardy by a Hansom cab bouncing up or down -the narrow thoroughfare, of course on its way to the “Times” office, -and on an errand of life and death; the excited politician inside, -frantically offering the cabman (he, even, doesn’t know the way to the -“Times,” and has just asked it of a grimy cynic, smoking a pipe in front -of a coal and potato shed) extra shillings for speed. The grimy cynic, -perhaps from sheer malevolence of disposition, perhaps from the ruffling -of his temper naturally incidental to his being asked the same question -about five hundred times every day, answers morosely that he believes -the Hoffice is in Bummondsey, but he’s blest if he knows hanything more -about it. He will have bad times of it, that grimy cynic, I perpend, -for telling such fibs. Still struggle on manfully, always like the -nautical gentleman in the blue pilot jacket who had had so many domestic -afflictions, and exhorted the passenger to “go down, go down.” Never mind -the regiments of gallinacea that board in the gutter and lodge in the -adjacent coal-cellars, and peck at your feet as though they could relish -your corns. Never mind the infants of tender years who come tumbling -between your legs, sprawl, howling, at your feet, and cast around -appealing glances, which draw cries of “shame!” from vengeful family-men -who have never set eyes on you before, but who evidently regard you as a -peripatetic ogre, going about, of malice prepense, to trip up children. -Never mind the suffocating odour of second-hand fish, vegetables, fruit, -coal-dust, potato sacks, the adjacent gasworks, gum-benzoin, hartshorn, -opium, and other medicaments from Apothecaries’ Hall. Never mind the -noises of dogs barking, of children that are smacked by their parents -or guardians for crying, and then, of course, roar louder; of boys -yelling the insufferable “Old Dog Tray,” the abominable “Keemo Kimo,” the -hideous “Hoomtoomdoodendoo,” and rattling those abhorrent instruments -of discord, the “bones;” of women scolding, quarrelling, or shrieking -domestic calumnies of Mrs. Armstrong in connection with Bill Boosker, -nicknamed the “Lively Flea,” from garret-windows across the street; of -men growling, and wagon-wheels rumbling, and from distant forges the -yell of the indignant anvil as the ruthless hammer smites it, and the -great bar of iron is beaten flat, the sparks flying up, rejoicing in a -red “ha-ha!” at the ferruginous defeat. Never mind the dangers of hoop, -“hopscotch,” “fly-the-garter,” “thread-the-needle,” “trip-the-baker,” -“tipcat,” and “shove-halfpenny,” for the carrying out of which exciting -and amusing games the juvenile population entirely monopolise what spare -strips of pavement there are. Trust on, be not afraid, keep struggling; -and it is five hundred to one that you will eventually turn up Printing -House Square, over against the “Times” office. How ever the leviathan of -the press manages to breathe in this close, stifling, elbow-hampering -neighbourhood, has always puzzled me, and has puzzled, I daresay, a great -many wiser than I. How do the archbishops in their coaches and six (it -is well known that those gorgeous prelates write the leading articles, -carrying the necessary stationery in their mitres, and wiping their pens -on their black silk aprons—the B—p of O—x—d, however, always writes with -a pastoral crozier, dipped in milk and honey, or a lamb’s fleece—and -come down to the office at a quarter past nine every evening to correct -their proofs) contrive to squeeze their broad-shouldered equipages -through these bye-lanes? How can the sub-editor’s four-in-hand pass, the -city correspondent’s comfortable yellow chariot, nay, even the modest -broughams of the compositors? Why does not the “Times” burst forth from -the shell it has grown too large for, and plant its standard on the hill -of Ludgate, or by the side of Cheap,—if it must needs be in the city? The -area of Lincoln’s Inn Fields would be perhaps the most suitable locality -for a new office; but it is indubitable that unless the “leading journal” -retrogress and contract its operation, they will have, some day, to pull -down the choking little nests of back-streets which surround and hem it -in, even as they had to pull down the wall of the dock, bodily, in order -to let the _Great Britain_ steam-ship out. - -What a contrast sequestered Printing House Square, with its old-fashioned -aspect, its quiet, dingy-looking houses, its clump of green trees within -a railing to the left, presents to the gurgling, gasping neighbourhood -which stands in such close propinquity to it! Here is the great brainpan -of journalism; the centre of newspaper activity, the prefecture of -police of the public press. Absolutely necessary is it that it should -be entirely a secret police, the “awful, shadowy, irresponsible, and -yet _puissant_ we” should dominate over the columns of the daily -journal. Will a time ever come, I wonder, when a man will sign his own -articles in a newspaper; receive his reward for honesty, his censure -for tergiversation, from the public? Will a strange day of revolution -ever arrive, when the mystic “we” shall be merged into the responsible, -tax-paying, tangible, palpable, shootable, suicidable, and kickable “I?” -Perhaps never; perhaps such a consummation would be disastrous. Old -Cobbett, in one of his screeds of passionate contempt in his “gridiron” -paper the “Register,” once said that he should like to have all the -newspaper editors and correspondents in London assembled in Hyde Park, -in order that from their personal appearance the public might judge -by what a disreputable-looking set of fellows they were hoodwinked -and nose-led. There would be no need to hold such a gathering in this -scene-painting age. Walk but into any fashionable photographic studio, -and you shall find all the “sommités” of the press neatly collectionised, -and stuck on pasteboard in the show-room portfolio; and if you entreat -the photographer’s pretty wife civilly, she will point out to you -Doctor Copperbolt of the “Thunderer,” and Bill Hornblower of the “Penny -Trumpet,” in their habit as they live. - -Printing House Square is to me interesting at all times of the day and -night. In the afternoon, the dullest period of its existence, when the -compositors are gone away, the editors not come, the last number of the -last edition of the day’s sheet printed, and the mighty steam-engine -for a time hushed, I wander into its precincts often; make some small -pretexts of taking out a slip of paper, and wending my way towards the -advertising department; but soon retrace my steps, and, to tell the -truth, moon about the square in such a suspicious and prowling manner, -that if they kept any spoons on the premises, I should most probably be -ordered off by the compositor on duty. This was Playhouse Yard too, once, -was it—nay, is still; but where is the old playhouse—the Globe Theatre, -Blackfriars, if I mistake not? Not a vestige, not a particle remains. -The fourth estate has swallowed it all up. The Press Dragon of Wantley -has devoured everything; and the “Times” seems omnipotent in its home by -Puddle Dock. Look over the door of the advertisement office. Above that -portal is a handsome marble slab, a votive tablet, in commemoration of a -great victory the “Times” once gained, not a legal victory, but one of -power and influence with the people, and especially with the commercial -community, by its exposure, anent the trial of Bogle _v._ Lawson, of the -most extensive and remarkable fraudulent conspiracy ever brought to light -in the mercantile world. The “Times” refused to be reimbursed for the -heavy costs with which its proprietors had been saddled in defending the -action brought by Mr. Bogle, a banker at Florence, against the publisher -of the “Times,” Mr. Lawson. But a subscription, amounting to £2,700, had -been raised, and this handsome sum, which the “Times” proprietors refused -to accept, was at last laid out in the foundation of two scholarships -at Christ’s Hospital and the City of London School, for the benefit of -pupils of those institutions proceeding to the universities of Oxford -and Cambridge. Do you remember—are you old enough to remember—the famous -case of Bogle _versus_ Lawson, reader? It would take me five times the -space I can spare for this paper to give you even the outline of the -history of the monstrous fraud from which that action grew. Suffice -it now to say, that Mr. Bogle had been mixed up—it has been since -established innocently—in the great continental letter of credit forging -system, invented, carried out, and pursued with consummate success by an -accomplished scoundrel, the Marquis de Bourbel, who, when the felonious -bubble at length burst, and the fraud was detected, was in nowise cast -down or abashed by that discovery that had come, and the punishment that -seemed imminent, but with admirable strategy called in his outlying -pickets of countesses, actresses—_demi-monde_ adventuresses—couriers, -and sham English milords, who had been scouring the Continent changing -his forged letters of credit, and, after the unutterable impudence of -an appearance in court during the “Times” trial, gracefully retired -into private life. I, the scribe, _moi qui vous parle_, have lived in -the same house with this great man. It was at a hairdresser’s shop in -the Regent’s Quadrant, and in an upper chamber of the house in question -did the gallant marquis, assisted by a distinguished countess, who had -formerly danced on stilts, and an English copper-plate engraver, work -off the proofs of his wicked paper money from the counterfeited plates. -I should like to know what became eventually of the Marquis de Bourbel: -whether his lordship was, in the ripeness of his time, guillotined, -garotted, hanged, or knouted. I go for Siberia and the knout, for, from -the peculiar conformation of his lordship’s character, I don’t think it -possible that he could have refrained for long from forgery. We should -have heard of him, I think, had he come to grief in Western Europe; -but Russian bank-notes are very easy to forge, and Russian prisons and -prisoners are seldom brought before the public eye. They manage those -little things better, and keep them nice and cozy and quiet; and so I go -for Siberia and the knout. - -It is, however, as the shades of evening gather round the _Cour des -Miracles_ which encompasses the “Times” office, that the scene which -it and the Square present becomes more interesting. For early in the -evening that giant steam-engine begins to throb, and, as the hour -advances, the monster is fed with reams on reams of stout white paper, -which he devours as though they were so many wafers.[1] It gets late at -Printing House Square; the sub-editors have been for some time in their -rooms; the ineffable mysteries of the “Times”—editors, proprietors, -cabinet ministers, lord chancellors, generals of the Jesuits, for aught I -know, have arrived from their clubs in broughams and in cabs. Who shall -tell? That stout good-humoured looking gentleman with the umbrella and -the ecclesiastical neckcloth, may be the writer of the comic leading -articles, just arrived with his copy. No; he has vainly tried the door -of the advertisement office, which is closed. Perhaps he is only X. -Y. Z., who, in the second column, entreats P. Q. R. to return to his -disconsolate parents; or the inventor of some new tooth-powder with a -Greek name, or the discoverer of the “fourteen shilling trousers.” It is -getting later, and the windows of the great office are all blazing with -gas. The steam-engine not only throbs; it pants, it groans, it puffs, it -snorts, it bursts into a wild, clanging pæan of printing. Sub-editors -are now hard at work cutting down “flimsy,” ramming sheets of “copy” on -files, endlessly conferring with perspiring foremen. Ineffable mysteries -(I presume) are writing terribly slaughtering articles in carpeted rooms, -by the light of Argand lamps. Do they have cake and wine, I wonder, -in those rooms? Sherry and sandwiches, perhaps, and on field-nights -lobsters. It is getting later, but there is no sign of diminution yet in -the stream of cabs that drive into the Square. Every one who is in debt, -and every one who is in difficulties, and everybody who fancies that he, -or any friend, relation, or connection of his, has a grievance, and can -put pen to paper, four letters together in orthography and four words in -syntax, must needs write a letter to the “Times;” and of the metropolitan -correspondents of that journal, the immense majority themselves bring -their letters down to the office, thinking, haply, that they might -meet the editor standing “promiscuous” on the door-step, and after -some five minutes’ button-holding, secure, irrevocably, the insertion -of their communications. I don’t at all envy the gentleman whose duty -it is to open and read (do they read them all?) the letters addressed -to the editor of the “Times”. What quires of insane complaints, on -matters running from the misdelivery of a letter to the misgovernment -of India, from the iniquities of the income-tax to an overcharge for a -sandwich in a country inn, that editor must have to wade through; what -reams of silly compliments about “your influential journal,” and “your -world-known paper,” he must have to read, and grin in his sleeve at! What -a multitudinous army, what a Persian host, these correspondents must be! -Who are they?—the anonymous ones—what are they like? Who is “Verax?” who -“Paterfamilias?” who “Indophilus?” who “The London Scoundrel?” who “A -Thirsty Soul?” When will Mr. Herbert Watkins photograph me a collection -of portraits of “Constant Readers,” “Englishmen,” and “Hertfordshire -Incumbents?” Where is the incumbency of that brilliant writer? Who is -“_Habitans in Sicco_,” and how came he first to date from the “Broad -Phylactery?” and where does “Jacob Omnium” live when he is at home? I -should like to study the physiognomy of these inveterate letter writers; -to be acquainted with the circumstances which first led them to put pen -to paper in correspondence with the “Times;” to know how they like to -see themselves in print, and also how they feel, when, as happens with -lamentable frequency, their lucubrations don’t get printed at all. - -[Illustration: PUBLICATION OF THE “TIMES” NEWSPAPER: INSIDE THE OFFICE.] - -[Illustration: PUBLICATION OF THE “TIMES” NEWSPAPER: OUTSIDE THE OFFICE.] - -It is getting later and later, oh! anxious waiters for to-morrow’s -news. The “Times” has its secrets by this time. State secrets, literary -secrets, secrets artistic and dramatic; secrets of robbery, and fire, -and murder—it holds them all fast now, admitting none to its confidence -but the Ineffables, the printers, and the ever-throbbing steam-engine; -but it will divulge its secrets to millions at five o’clock to-morrow -morning. Later and later still. The last report from the late debate -in the Commons has come in; the last paragraph of interesting news, -dropped into the box by a stealthy penny-a-liner, has been eliminated -from a mass of flimsy on its probation, and for the most part rejected; -the foreign telegrams are in type; the slaughtering leaders glare in -their “chases,” presaging woe and disaster to ministers to-morrow; the -last critic, in a white neckcloth, has hurried down with his column -and a-half on the last new spectacle at the Princess’s; or has, which -very frequently happens, despatched that manuscript from the box at the -“Albion,” where he has been snugly supping, bidding the messenger hasten, -and giving him to procure a cab the sum of one extra shilling, which that -messenger never by any chance expends in vehicular conveyance, but runs -instead with the art-criticism, swift as the timid roe, so swift indeed, -that policemen are only deterred through chronic laziness from pursuing -and asking whether he hasn’t been stealing anything. By this time the -“Times” has become tight and replete with matter, as one who has dined -well and copiously. Nothing is wanting: city correspondence, sporting -intelligence, markets, state of the weather, prices of stocks and railway -shares, parliamentary summary, law and police reports, mysterious -advertisements, and births, deaths, and marriages. Now let the nations -wonder, and the conductors of the mangy little continental fly-sheets -of newspapers hide their heads in shame, for the “Times”—the mighty -“Times”—has “gone to bed.” The “forms,” or iron-framed and wedged-up -masses of type, are, in other words, on the machine; and, at the rate of -twelve thousand an hour, the damp broad sheets roll from the grim iron -instrument of the dissemination of light throughout the world. - -At five o’clock a.m., the first phase of the publication of the “Times” -newspaper commences. In a large bare room—something like the receiving -ward of an hospital—with a pay counter at one end, and lined throughout -with parallel rows of bare deal tables, the “leading journal” first -sees the light of publicity. The tables are covered with huge piles -of newspapers spread out the full size of the sheet. These are, with -dazzling celerity, folded by legions of stout porters, and straightway -carried to the door, where cabs, and carts, and light express phæton-like -vehicles, are in readiness to convey them to the railway stations. -The quantity of papers borne to the carriages outside by the stout -porters seems, and truly is, prodigious; but your astonishment will -be increased when I tell you that this only forms the stock purchased -every morning by those gigantic newsagents, Messrs. Smith and Son, of -the Strand. As the largest consumers, the “Times” naturally allows them -a priority of supply, and it is not for a considerable period after -they have received their orders that the great body of newsagents and -newsvenders—the “trade,” as they are generically termed—are admitted, -grumbling intensely, to buy the number of quires or copies which they -expect to sell or lend that day. The scene outside then becomes one of -baffling noise and confusion. There is a cobweb of wheeled vehicles -of all sorts, from a cab to a hybrid construction something between a -wheelbarrow and a costermonger’s shallow. There is much bawling and -flinging, shoving, hoisting, pulling and dragging of parcels; all the -horses’ heads seem to be turned the wrong way; everybody’s off-wheel -seems locked in somebody else’s; but the proceedings on the whole are -characterised by much good-humour and some fun. The mob of boys—all -engaged in the news-trade—is something wonderful: fat boys, lean boys, -sandy-haired and red-haired boys, tall boys and short boys, boys with red -comforters (though it is summer), and boys with sacks on their backs and -money-bags in their hands; boys with turn-down collars; and boys whose -extreme buttonedupness renders the fact of their having any shirts to put -collars to, turn-down or stuck-up, grievously problematical. Hard-working -boys are these juvenile Bashi-Bazouks of the newspaper trade. And I am -glad to observe, for the edification of social economists, with scarcely -an exception, very honest boys. I don’t exactly say that they are trusted -with untold gold, but of the gold that is told, to say nothing of the -silver and copper, they give a generally entirely satisfactory account. -At about half-past seven the cohorts of newsvenders, infantry and -cavalry, gradually disperse, and the “Times” is left to the agonies of -its second edition. - -As you walk away from Printing House Square in the cool of the morning, -and reflect, I hope with salutary results, upon the busy scene you -have witnessed, just bestow one thought, and mingle with it a large -meed of admiration, for the man who, in his generation, truly made the -“Times” what it is now—John Walter, of Bearwood, Member of Parliament. -Foul-mouthed old Cobbett called him “Jack Walters,” and him and his -newspaper many ungenteel names, predicting that he should live to -see him “earthed,” and to “spit upon his grave;” but he survived the -vituperative old man’s coarse epithets. He put flesh on the dry bones of -an almost moribund newspaper. He, by untiring and indomitable energy and -perseverance, raised the circulation of the “Times” twenty-fold, and put -it in the way of attaining the gigantic publicity and popularity which it -has now achieved. It is true that Mr. Walter realised a princely fortune -by his connection with the “Times,” and left to his son, the present Mr. -John Walter, M.P., a lion’s share in the magnificent inheritance he had -created. But he did much solid good to others besides himself. This brave -old pressman, who, when an express came in from Paris—the French king’s -speech to the Chambers in 1835—and when there were neither contributors -nor compositors to be found at hand, bravely took off his coat, and in -his shirt-sleeves first translated, and then, taking “a turn at case,” -proceeded to set up in type his own manuscript. Mr. Walter was one of -the pioneers of liberal knowledge; and men like him do more to clear -the atmosphere of ignorance and prejudice, than whole colleges full of -scholiasts and dialecticians. - - - - -SIX O’CLOCK A.M.—COVENT GARDEN MARKET. - - -An Emperor will always be called Cæsar, and a dog “poor old fellow,” -in whatever country they may reign or bark, I suppose; and I should -be very much surprised if any men of Anglo-Saxon lineage, from this -time forward to the millennium, could build a new city in any part -of either hemisphere without a street or streets named after certain -London localities, dear and familiar to us all. There is a Pall Mall in -Liverpool, though but an unsavoury little thoroughfare, and a Piccadilly -in Manchester—a very murky, bricky street indeed, compared with that -unequalled hill of London, skirted on one side by the mansions of the -nobles, and on the other by the great green parks. Brighton has its -Bond Street—_mutatus ab ille_, certainly, being a fourth-rate skimping -little place, smelling of oyster-shells, sand, recently-washed linen, and -babies. I question not but in far-off Melbourne and Sydney, and scarcely -yet planned cities of the Bush, the dear old names are springing up, -like shoots from famous trees. Antipodean legislators have a refreshment -room they call “Bellamy’s;” merchants in far-off lands have their -“Lloyd’s;” there are coffee-houses and taverns, thousands of miles away, -christened “Joe’s,” and “Tom’s,” and “Sam’s,” though the original “Joe,” -the primeval “Tom,” the first “Sam,” most bald-headed and courteous of -old port-wine-wise waiters, have long since slept the sleep of the just -in quiet mouldy London graveyards, closed years ago by the Board of -Health. On very many names, and names alone, we stamp _esto perpetua_; -and English hearts would ill brook the alteration of their favourite -designations. Long, long may it be, I hope, before the great Lord Mayor -of London shall be called the Prefect of the Thames, or the Secretary of -State for the Home Department be known as the Minister of the Interior! - -Foremost among names familiar to British mouths is Covent Garden. The -provincial knows it; the American knows it; Lord Macaulay’s New Zealander -will come to meditate among the moss-grown arcades, when he makes that -celebrated sketching excursion we have so long been promised. To the -play-goer Covent Garden is suggestive of the glories of Kemble and -Siddons; old book-a-bosom studious men, who live among musty volumes, -remember that Harry Fielding wrote the “Covent Garden Journal;” that -Mr. Wycherley lived in Bow Street; and that Mr. Dryden was cudgelled in -Rose Street hard by. Politicians remember the _fasti_ of the Westminster -election, and how Mr. Sheridan, beset by bailiffs on the hustings, -escaped through the churchyard. Artists know that Inigo Jones built that -same church of St. Paul, in compliance with the mandate of his patron, -the Earl of Bedford. “Build me a barn,” said the Earl. Quoth Inigo, “My -lord, I will build you the handsomest barn in England;” and the church is -in the market to this day, with its barn-like roof, to see. Old stagers -who have led jovial London lives, have yet chuckling memories of how in -Covent Garden they were wont to hear the chimes at midnight in the days -when they were eating their terms, and lay over against the “Windmill” -in Moorfields, and consorted with the Bona Robas. Those days, Sir John -Falstaff—those days, Justice Shallow, shall return no more to you. There -was the “Finish,”—a vulgar, noisy place enough; but stamped with undying -gentility by the patronage of his late Royal Highness the Prince of -Wales. Great George “finished” in Covent Garden purlieus; Major Hanger -told his stories, Captain Morris sang his songs, there. In a peaceable -gutter in front of the “Finish,” Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Esq., M.P., -lay down overtaken in foreign wines, and told the guardian of the night -that his name was Wilberforce. A wild place, that “Finish;” yet a better -one than Great George’s other “Finish” at Windsor, with the actress to -read plays to him, the servants anxious for him to quit the stage, that -they might sell his frogged, furred coats, and white kid pantaloons: -the sorry end in a mean chair—unfriended, unloved, save by hirelings -deserted. When the Hope of England is old enough to wear on his fair -head the coronal and the three ostrich feathers, will _he_ patronise a -“Finish?” shall we have another wild young Prince and Poins, I wonder. -To be sure, Mr. Thackeray tells us that the young nobles of the present -age have “Spratts” and the “back kitchen” to finish up a night in; but, -pshaw! the Hope of England takes the chair at the Royal Institution to -hear Mr. Faraday lecture, and sits on the bench beside John Lord Campbell -to see rogues tried. - -Covent Garden is a very chain, and its links are pleasant reminiscences. -They are somewhat dangerous to me, for my business is not antiquarian, -nor even topographical, just now; and I have but to do with the sixth -hour of the morning, and the vegetable market that is held in the monks’ -old garden. I will dismiss the noble house of Bedford, though Covent -Garden, &c., are the richest appanage of that ducal entity—simply -recording a wish that you or I, my friend, had one tithe of the fat -revenues that ooze from between the bricks of the Bedford estate. You -should not dig, nor I delve, then. We would drink brown ale, and pay the -reckoning on the nail, and no man for debt should go to jail, that we -could help, from Garryowen to glory. I will say nothing to you of the -old theatre: how it was burnt again and again, and always re-appeared, -with great success on the part of Phœnix. Of Bow Street, even, will -I be silent, and proffer nought of Sir Richard Birnie, or that famed -runner, Townsend. Nor of the Garrick Club, in King Street, will I -discourse; indeed, I don’t know that I am qualified to say anything -pertinent respecting that establishment. I am not a member of the club; -and I am afraid of the men in plush, who, albeit aristocratic, have -yet a certain “Garrick” look about them, and must be, I surmise, the -prosperous brothers of the “green-coats” who sweep and water the stage, -and pick up Sir Anthony Absolute’s hat and crutch in the play. And -scant dissertations shall you have from me on those dim days of old, -when Covent Garden was in verity the garden of a convent; when matins -and vespers, complins and benedictions, were tinkled out in mellow -tintinnabulations through the leafy aisles of fruit trees; when my Lord -Abbot trod the green sward, stately, his signet-ring flashing in the -evening sun; and Brother Austin hated Friar Lawrence, and cursed him -softly as he paced the gravel walks demurely, his hands in his brown -sleeves, his eyes ever and anon cast up to count the peaches on the -wall. Solemn old conventual days, with shrill-voiced choir-boys singing -from breves and minims as big as latch-keys, scored in black and red on -brave parchment music-tomes. Lazy old conventual days, when the cellarer -brewed October that would give Messrs. Bass and Allsopp vertigo; when the -poor were fed with a manchet and stoup at the gate, without seeking the -relieving officer, or an order for the stoneyard. Comfortable old days, -when the Abbot’s _venator_ brought in a fat buck from Sheen or Chertsey, -the _piscator_ fresh salmon (the water-drops looked like pearls on their -silvery backs). Comfortable old days of softly-saddled palfreys, venison -pasties, and Malvoisie, sandalled feet, and shaven crowns, bead-telling, -and censor-swinging. These were the days of the lazy monks in their -Covent Garden. Lazy! They were lazy enough to illuminate the exquisitely -beautiful missals and books of hours you may see in the British Museum; -to feed, and tend, and comfort the poor, and heal them when they were -sick; to keep art and learning from decay and death in a dark age; to -build cathedrals, whose smallest buttress shall make your children’s -children, Sir Charles Barry, blush; but they were the lazy monks—so -let us cry havoc upon them. They were shavelings. They didn’t wash -their feet, they aided and abetted Guy Fawkes, Ignatius Loyola, and the -Cardinal Archbishop of ——. - -It is six o’clock on a glorious summer’s morning; the lazy monks fade -away like the shadows of the night, and leave me in Covent Garden, and -in high market. Every morning during the summer may be called market -morning; but in the winter the special mornings are Tuesday, Thursday, -and Saturday. It is a strange sight then in the winter blackness to see -the gas glimmering among huge piles of vegetables hoisted high on carts, -and slowly moving like Birnam Woods coming to a Dunsinane of marketdom. -When the snow is on the ground, or when the rain it raineth, the glare of -lights and black shadows; the rushing figures of men with burdens; the -great heaving masses of baskets that are tumbled from steep heights; the -brilliantly-lighted shops in the grand arcade, where, winter or summer, -glow the oranges and the hot-house fruits and flowers; all these make up -a series of pictures, strange and sometimes almost terrible. There are -yawning cellars, that vomit green stuff; there are tall potato-sacks, -propped up in dark corners, that might contain corpses of murdered men; -there are wondrous masses of light and shade, and dazzling effects of -candlelight, enough to make old Schkalken’s ghost rise, crayon and -sketch-book in hand, and the _eidolon_ of Paul Rembrandt to take lodgings -in the Piazza, over against the market. - -[Illustration: COVENT GARDEN MARKET: THE WEST END.] - -But six o’clock in the glorious summer time! The London smoke is not out -of bed yet, and indeed Covent Garden market would at all times seem to -possess an exemption from over fumigation. If you consider the fronts -of the houses, and the arches of the Piazza, you will see that though -tinted by age, they have not that sooty grimness that degrades St. Paul’s -cathedral into the similitude of a temple dedicated to the worship of -the goddess of chimney-sweepers, and makes the East India House (what -will they do with the India House when the directors are demolished?) -look like the outside of the black-hole at Calcutta. Smoke has been -merciful to Covent Garden market, and its cornucopia is not as dingy as -a ramoneur’s sack. All night long the heavily-laden wagons—mountains -of cabbages, cauliflowers, brocoli, asparagus, carrots, turnips, and -seakale; Egyptian pyramids of red-huddled baskets full of apples and -pears, hecatombs of cherries, holocausts of strawberry pottles, chair -wicker bosoms crimsoned by sanguinolent spots; and above all, piles, -heaps—Pelions on Ossas, Atlases on Olympuses, Chimborazos on Himalayas, -Mount Aboras on Mont Blancs—of PEAS, have been creaking and rumbling and -heavily wheezing along suburban roads, and through the main streets of -the never-sleeping city. You heard those broad groaning wheels, perturbed -man, as your head tossed uneasily on the pillow, and you thought of the -bill that was to come due on the morrow. You too heard them, pretty -maiden, in the laced night cap, as you bedewed that delicate border -of dentelle with tears, coursing from the eyes which should have been -closed in sleep two hours since, tears evoked by the atrocious behaviour -of Edward (a monster and member of the Stock Exchange) towards Clara (a -designing, wicked, artful thing, whose papa lives in Torrington Square) -during the last _deux temps_. That dull heavy sound was distinct above -the sharp rattle of the night cabmen’s wheels; the steady revolving -clatter of the home-returning brougham: for the sound of wheels in -London are as the waves of a sea that is never still. The policemen met -the market wagons as they trudged along, and eyed them critically, as -though a neat case of lurking about with intent to commit a felony might -be concealed in a strawberry-pottle, or a drunk and incapable lying -perdu in a pea-basket. Roaring blades, addicted to asserting in chorus -that they would not go home till morning—a needless vaunt, for it was -morning already—hailed the bluff-visaged market carters, interchanged -lively jocularities with them bearing on the syrup giving rhubarb and -the succulent carrot, and lighted their pipes at the blackened calumets -of the vegetarians. Young Tom Buffalo, who had been out at a christening -party at Hammersmith, and had made the welkin ring (whatever and wherever -the welkin may be, and howsoever the process of making it ring be -effected) met a gigantic cabbage-chariot, as home returning, precisely -at that part of Knightsbridge where Old Padlock House used to stand, -and struck a bargain with the charioteer for conveyance to Charing -Cross, for fourpence, a libation of milk, qualified by some spirituous -admixture, and a pipeful of the best Bristol bird’s-eye. And so from all -outlying nursery-grounds and market-gardens about London: from Brompton, -Fulham, Brentford, Chiswick, Turnham Green, and Kew; from sober Hackney, -and Dalston, and Kingsland, bank-clerk beloved; from Tottenham, and -Edmonton, sacred to John Gilpin, his hat and wig; from saintly Clapham -and Brixton, equally interested in piety, sugar-baking, and the funds, -come, too heavy to gallop, too proud to trot, but sternly stalking in -elephantine dignity of progression, the great carts bound to Covent -Garden. One would think that all the vegetable-dishes in the world would -not be able to hold the cabbage, to say nothing of the other verdant -esculents. - -Delude not yourself with the notion that the market-carts alone can -bring, or the suburban market-gardens furnish, a sufficient quantity of -green meat for the great, insatiable, hungry, ravenous monster that men -call (and none know why) London. Stand here with me in Covent Garden -market-place, and let your eyes follow whither my finger points. Do you -see those great vans, long, heavily-built, hoisted on high springs, and -with immense wheels—vans drawn by horses of tremendous size and strength, -but which, for all their bulk and weight, seem to move at a lightning -pace compared with the snail crawl of the ancient market-carts? Their -drivers are robust men, fresh-coloured, full-whiskered, strong-limbed, -clad in corduroy shining at the seams, with bulging pockets, from -which peep blotting-paper, interleaved books of invoices, and parcels -receipts. They are always wiping their hot foreheads with red cotton -pocket-handkerchiefs. They are always in such a hurry. They never -can wait. Alert in movement, strong in action, hardy in speech, curt -and quick in reply, setting not much store by policemen, and bidding -the wealthiest potatoe salesman “look sharp;” these vigorous mortals -discharge from their vans such a shower of vegetable missiles that you -might almost fancy the bombardment of a new Sebastopol. “Troy,” the old -ballad tells us, “had a breed of stout bold men;” but these seem stouter -and bolder. And they drive away, these stalwart, bold-spoken varlets, -standing erect in their huge vans, and adjuring, by the name of “slow -coach,” seemingly immoveable market-carts to “mind their eye;” wearing -out the London macadam with their fierce wheels, to the despair of the -commissioners of paving (though my private opinion is, that the paving -commissioners like to see the paving worn out, in order that they may -have the “street up” again); threading their way in a surprisingly -dexterous though apparently reckless manner through the maze of vehicles, -and finding themselves, in an astonishingly short space of time, in -Tottenham Court Road, and Union Street, Borough. What gives these men -their almost superhuman velocity, strength, confidence? They do but carry -cabbages, like other market-folk; but look on the legends inscribed on -these vans, and the mystery is at once explained. “Chaplin and Home,” -“Pickford and Co.,” railway carriers. These vegetable Titans are of -the rail, and raily. They have brought their horns of plenty from the -termini of the great iron roads. Carts and carts, trucks and trucks -have journeyed through the dense night, laden with vegetable produce; -locomotives have shrieked over Chatmoss, dragging cabbages and carrots -after them; the most distant counties have poured the fatness of their -lands at the feet of the Queen-city; but she, like the daughter of the -horse-leech, still cryeth, “Give! give!” and, like Oliver Twist, “asks -for more.” So they send her more, even from strange countries beyond the -sea. Black steamers from Rotterdam and Antwerp belch forth volumes of -smoke at the Tower stairs, and discharge cargoes of peas and potatoes. -The Queen-city is an hungered, and must be fed; and it is no joke, I need -scarcely tell you, to feed London. When the King of Siam has resolved -upon the ruin of a courtier, he makes him a present of a white elephant. -As the animal is thrice sacred in Siamese eyes, the luckless baillee, -or garnishee, or possessor of the brute, dare neither sell, kill, nor -neglect it; and the daily ration of rice, hay, and sugar which the albino -monster devours, soon reduces the courtier to irremediable bankruptcy. -Moral: avoid courts. If this were a despotic country, and her Majesty -the Empress of Britain should take it into her head to ruin Baron -Rothschild or the Marquis of Westminster (and indeed I have heard that -the impoverished nobleman last mentioned is haunted by the fear of dying -in a workhouse), I don’t think she could more easily effect her purpose -than by giving him LONDON and bidding him feed it for a week. - -[Illustration: COVENT GARDEN MARKET: EARLY BREAKFAST STALL.] - -Very sweet is the smell of the green peas this summer morning; and very -picturesque is it to see the market-women ranged in circles, and busily -employed in shelling those delicious edibles. Some fastidious persons -might perhaps object that the fingers of the shellers are somewhat -coarse, and that the vessels into which the peas fall are rudely -fashioned. What does it matter? If we took this fastidiousness with us -into an analysis of all the things we eat and drink, we should soon fill -up the measure of the title of Dr. Culverwell’s book, by “avoiding” -eating and drinking altogether. The delicate Havannah cigar has been -rolled between the hot palms of oleaginous niggers; nay, some travellers -declare, upon the bare thighs of sable wenches. The snowy lump-sugar has -been refined by means of unutterable nastinesses of a sanguineous nature; -the very daily bread we eat has, in a state of dough, formed the flooring -for a vigorous polka, performed by journeymen bakers with bare feet. -Food is a gift from heaven’s free bounty: take Sancho Panza’s advice, -and don’t look the gift-horse in the mouth. He may have false teeth. -We ought to be very much obliged, of course, to those disinterested -medical gentlemen who formed themselves into a sanitary commission, and -analysing our dinners under a microscope, found that one-half was poison, -and the other half rubbish; but, for my part, I like anchovies to be -red and pickles green, and I think that coffee without chicory in it -is exceedingly nasty. As for the peas, I have so fond a love for those -delicious pulse that I could partake of them even if I knew they had been -shelled by Miss Julia Pastrana. I could eat the shucks; I have eaten them -indeed in Russia, where they stew pea-shells in a sweet sauce, and make -them amazingly relishing. - -But sweeter even than the smell of the peas, and more delightful than the -odour of the strawberries, is the delicious perfume of the innumerable -flowers which crowd the north-western angle of the market, from the -corner of King Street to the entrance of the grand avenue. These are -not hot-house plants, not rare exotics; such do not arrive so soon, and -their aristocratic purchasers will not be out of bed for hours. These are -simply hundreds upon hundreds of flower-pots, blooming with roses and -geraniums, with pinks and lilacs, with heartsease and fuschias. There are -long boxes full of mignionette and jessamine; there are little pet vases -full of peculiar roses with strange names; there are rose-trees, roots -and all, reft from the earth by some floral Milo who cared not for the -rebound. The cut flowers, too, in every variety of dazzling hue, in every -gradation of sweet odour, are here, jewelling wooden boards, and making -humble wicker-baskets iridescent. The violets have whole rows of baskets -to themselves. Who is it that calls the violet humble, modest? He (I will -call him he) is nothing of the sort. He is as bold as brass. He comes -the earliest and goes away the latest of all his lovely companions; like -a guest who is determined to make the most of a banquet. When the last -rose of summer, tired of blooming alone, takes his hat and skulks home, -the modest violet, who has been under the table for a great part of the -evening, wakes up, and calls for another bottle of dew—and the right sort. - -It seems early for so many persons to be abroad, not only to sell but -to purchase flowers, yet there is no lack of buyers for the perfumed -stores which meet the eye, and well nigh impede the footsteps. Young -sempstresses and milliner’s girls, barmaids and shopwomen, pent up all -day in a hot and close atmosphere, have risen an hour or two earlier, and -make a party of pleasure to come to Covent Garden market to buy flowers. -It is one of heaven’s mercies that the very poorest manage somehow to buy -these treasures; and he who is steeped to the lips in misery will have a -morsel of mignionette in his window, or a bunch of violets in a cracked -jug on his mantelshelf, even as the great lady has rich, savage, blooming -plants in her conservatory, and camelias and magnolias in porphyry -vases on marble slabs. It is a thin, a very thin, line that divides the -independent poor from the pauper in his hideous whitewashed union ward: -the power of buying flowers and of keeping a dog. How the halfpence are -scraped together to procure the violets or mignionette, whence comes -the coin that purchases the scrap of paunch, it puzzles me to say: but -go where you will among the _pauperum tabernas_ and you will find the -dog and the flowers. Crowds more of purchasers are there yet around the -violet baskets; but these are buyers to sell again. Wretched-looking -little buyers are they, half-starved Bedouin children, mostly Irish, in -faded and tattered garments, with ragged hair and bare feet. They have -tramped miles with their scanty stock-money laid up in a corner of their -patched shawls, daring not to think of breakfast till their purchases -be made; and then they will tramp miles again through the cruel streets -of London town, penetrating into courts and alleys where the sun never -shines, peering into doorways, selling their wares to creatures almost -as ragged and forlorn as themselves. They cry violets! They cried -violets in good Master Herrick’s time. There are some worthy gentlemen, -householders and ratepayers, who would put all such street-cries down by -Act of Parliament. Indeed, it must an intolerable sin, this piping little -voice of an eight-years old child, wheezing out a supplication to buy a -ha’porth of violets. But then mouthy gentlemen are all Sir Oracles; and -where they are, no dogs must bark nor violets be cried. - -It is past six o’clock, and high ’Change in the market. What gabbling! -what shouting! what rushing and pushing! what confusion of tongues -and men and horses and carts! The roadway of the adjacent streets is -littered with fragments of vegetables. You need pick your way with care -and circumspection through the crowd, for it is by no means pleasant -to be tripped up by a porter staggering under a load of baskets, that -look like a Leaning Tower of Pisa. Bow Street is blocked up by a triple -line of costermongers’ “shallows,” drawn by woe-begone donkies; their -masters are in the market purchasing that “sparrergrass” which they -will so sonorously cry throughout the suburbs in the afternoon. They -are also, I believe, to be put down by the worthy gentlemen who do not -like noise. I wish they could put down, while they are about it, the -chaffering of the money-changers in the temple, and the noise of the -Pharisees’ brushes as they whiten those sepulchres of theirs, and the -clanging of the bells that summon men to thank Heaven that they are not -“as that publican,” and to burn their neighbour because he objects to -shovel hats. King Street, Southampton Street, Russell Street, are full of -carts and men. Early coffee-shops and taverns are gorged with customers, -for the Covent Gardeners are essentially jolly gardeners, and besides, -being stalwart men, are naturally hungry and athirst after their nights’ -labour. There are public-houses in the market itself, where they give you -hot shoulder of mutton for breakfast at seven o’clock in the morning! Hot -coffee and gigantic piles of bread-and-butter disappear with astounding -rapidity. Foaming tankards are quaffed, “nips” of alcohol “to keep the -cold out” (though it is May) are tossed off; and among the hale, hearty, -fresh-coloured market-people, you may see, here and there, some tardy -lingerer at “the halls of dazzling light,” who has just crawled away from -the enchanted scene, and, cooling his fevered throat with soda-water, or -whipping up his jaded nerves with brandy and milk, fancies, because he is -abroad at six o’clock in the morning, that he is “seeing life.” Crouching -and lurking about, too, for anything they can beg, or anything they can -borrow, or, I am afraid, for anything they can steal, are some homeless, -shirtless vagabonds, who have slept all night under baskets or tarpaulins -in the market, and now prowl in and out of the coffee-shops and taverns, -with red eyes and unshaven chins. I grieve to have to notice such -unsightly blots upon the Arcadia I have endeavoured to depict; but, alas! -these things ARE! You have seen a caterpillar crawling on the fairest -rose; and this glorious summer sun must have spots on its face. There are -worse on London’s brow at six o’clock in the morning. - - - - -SEVEN O’CLOCK A.M.—A PARLIAMENTARY TRAIN. - - -I know that the part which I have proposed to myself in these papers is -that of a chronological Asmodeus; you, reader, I have enlisted, _nolens -volens_, to accompany me in my flights about town, at all hours of the -day and night; and you must, perforce, hold on by the skirts of my cloak -as I wing my way from quarter to quarter of the immense city, to which -the Madrid which the lame fiend showed his friend was but a nut-shell. -And yet, when I look my self-appointed task in the face, I am astounded, -humiliated, almost disheartened, by its magnitude. How can I hope to -complete it within the compass of this book, within the time allotted -for daily literary labour? For work ever so hard as we penmen may, and -rob ever so many hours from sleep as you may choose to compute—as we are -forced to do sometimes—that you may have your pabulum of printed matter, -more or less amusing and instructive, at breakfast time, or at afternoon -club reading hour, we must yet eat, and drink, and sleep, and go into -the world soliciting bread or favours, we must quarrel with our wives, -if married, and look out the things for the wash, if single—all of which -are operations requiring a certain expenditure of time. We must, we -authors, even have time, an’t please you, to grow ambitious, and to save -money, stand for the borough, attend the board-room, and be appointed -consuls-general to the Baratarian Islands. The old Grub Street tradition -of the author is defunct. The man of letters is no longer supposed to -write moral essays from Mount Scoundrel in the Fleet, to dine at twopenny -ordinaries, and pass his leisure hours in night-cellars. Translators -of Herodotus no longer lie three in a bed; nor is the gentleman who is -correcting the proof-sheets of the Sanscrit dictionary to be found in a -hay-loft over a tripe shop in Little Britain, or to be heard of at the -bar of the Green Dragon. Another, and as erroneous, an idea of the author -has sprung up in the minds of burgesses. He wears, according to some -wiseacres, a shawl dressing-gown, and lies all day on a sofa, puffing a -perfumed _narghilè_, penning paragraphs in violet ink on cream-laid paper -at intervals; or he is a lettered Intriguer, who merely courts the Muses -as the shortest way to the Treasury bench, and writes May Fair novels or -Della Cruscan tragedies that he may the sooner become Prime Minister. -There is another literary idea that may with greater reason become -prevalent—that of the author-manufacturer, who produces such an amount of -merchandise, takes it into the market, and sells it according to demand -and the latest quotations, and the smoke of whose short cutty pipe, as -he spins his literary yarn, is as natural a consequence of manufacture -as the black cloud which gusts from Mr. Billyroller’s hundred-feet-high -brick chimney as he spins _his_ yarns for madapolams and “domestics.” The -author-manufacturer has to keep his books, to pay his men, to watch the -course of the market, and to suit his wares to the prevailing caprice. -And, like the cotton-spinner, he sometimes goes into the “Gazette,” -paying but an infinitesimal dividend in the pound. - -Did I not struggle midway into a phrase, some page or so since, and did -it not waltz away from me on the nimble feet of a parenthesis? I fear -that such was the case. How can I hope, I reiterate, to give you anything -like a complete picture of the doings in London while still the clock -goes round? I might take one house and unroof it, one street and unpave -it, one man and disclose to you the secrets of twenty-four hours of his -daily and nightly life; but it is London, in its entirety, that I have -presumed to “time”—forgetting, oh! egregious and inconsistent!—that every -minute over which the clock hand passes is as the shake of the wrist -applied to a kaleidoscope, and that the whole aspect of the city changes -with as magical rapidity. - -I should be Briareus multiplied by ten thousand, and not Asmodeus at all, -if I could set down in writing a tithe of London’s sayings and doings, -acts and deeds, seemings and aspects, at seven o’clock in the morning. -Only consider. Drumming with your finger on a map of the metropolis; -just measure a few palms’ lengths, say from Camberwell Gate to the -“Mother Redcap,” on the one hand—from Limehouse Church to Kensington -Gravel Pits, on the other. Take the cubic dimensions, my dear sir; think -of the mean area; rub up those mathematics, for proficiency in whose -more recondite branches you so narrowly escaped being second wrangler, -twenty years since; out with your logarithms, your conic sections, your -fluxions, and calculate the thousands upon thousands of little dramas -that must be taking place in London as the clock strikes seven. Let me -glance at a few, as I travel with you towards that railway terminus -which is our destination. Camberwell Gate: tollbar-keeper, who has been -up all night, going to bed, very cross; tollbar-keeper’s wife gets up -to mind the gate, also very cross. Woodendesk Grove, Grosvenor Park, -Camberwell: Mr. Dockett, wharfage clerk in Messrs. Charter Party and -Co.’s shipping house, Lower Thames Street, is shaving. He breakfasts at -half-past seven, and has to be in the city by nine. Precisely at the -same time that he is passing Mr. Mappin’s razor over his commercial -countenance, Mr. Flybynight, aged twenty-two, also a clerk, but attached -to the Lost-Monkey-and-Mislaid-Poodle-Department (Inland Revenue), -Somerset House, lets himself into No. 7, Woodendesk Grove, next door to -Mr. Dockett’s, by means of a Chubb’s key. Mr. Flybynight is in evening -costume, considerably the worst for the concussion of pale ale bottle -corks. On his elegant tie are the stains of the dressing of some lobster -salad, and about half-a-pint of the crimson stream of life, formerly -the joint property of Mr. Flybynight’s nose and of a cabman’s upper -lip, both injured during a “knock-down and drag-out” fight, supervening -on the disputed question of the right of a passenger to carry a live -turkey (purchased in Leadenhall market) with him in a hackney cab. Mr. -Flybynight has been to two evening parties, a public ball (admission -sixpence), where he created a great sensation among the ladies and -gentlemen present, by appearing with a lady’s cap on his head, a raw -shoulder of mutton in one hand, and a pound of rushlights in the other; -and to two suppers—one of roasted potatoes in Whitechapel High Street, -the second of scolloped oysters in the Haymarket. He paid a visit to -the Vine Street station-house, too, to clear up a misunderstanding as -to a bell which was rung by accident, and a policeman’s hat which was -knocked off by mistake. The inspector on duty was so charmed with Mr. -Flybynight’s engaging demeanour and affable manners, that it was with -difficulty that he was dissuaded from keeping him by him all night, and -assigning him as a sleeping apartment a private parlour with a very -strong lock, and remarkably well ventilated. He only consented to tear -himself away from Mr. Flybynight’s society on the undertaking that -the latter would convey home his friend Mr. Keepitup, who, though he -persistently repeated to all comers that he was “all right,” appeared, -if unsteadiness of gait and thickness of utterance were to be accepted -as evidence, to be altogether wrong. Mr. Flybynight, faithful to his -promise, took Mr. Keepitup (who was in the Customs) home; at least -he took him as far as he would go—his own doorstep, namely, on which -somewhat frigid pedestal he sat, informing the “milk,” a passing -dustman, and a lady in pink, who had lost her way, and seemed to think -that the best way to find it was to consult the pavement by falling -prone thereupon every dozen yards or so—that though circumstances had -compelled him to serve his country in a civil capacity, he was at heart -and by predilection a soldier. In proof of which Mr. Keepitup struck -his breast, volunteered a choice of martial airs, beginning with the -“Death of Nelson,” and ending with a long howl, intermingled with -passionate tears and ejaculations bearing reference to the infidelity -of a certain Caroline, surname unknown, through whose cruelty he -“would never be the same man again.” Mr. Flybynight, safely arrived -at Woodendesk Grove, after these varied peripatetics, is due at the -Lost-Monkey-and-Mislaid-Poodle Office at ten; but he will have a violent -attack of lumbago this morning, which will unavoidably prevent him -from reaching Somerset House before noon. His name will show somewhat -unfavourably in the official book, and the Commissioners will look him -up sharply, and shortly too, if he doesn’t take care. Mr. Keepitup, -who, however eccentric may have been his previous nocturnal vagaries, -possesses the faculty of appearing at the Custom-house gates as the -clock strikes the half-hour after nine, with a very large and stiff -shirt-collar, a microscopically shaven face, and the most irreproachable -shirt, will go to work at his desk in the Long Room, with a steady hand -and the countenance of a candidate for the Wesleyan ministry; but Mr. -Flybynight will require a good deal of soda-water and sal-volatile, and -perhaps a little tincture of opium, before he is equal to the resumption -of his arduous duties. Wild lads, these clerks; and yet they don’t do -such a vast amount of harm, Flybynight and Keepitup! They are very young; -they don’t beat the town every night; they are honest lads at bottom, -and have a contempt for meanness and are not lost to shame. They have -not grown so vicious as to be ashamed and remorseful without any good -resulting therefrom; and you will be astonished five years hence to see -Keepitup high up in the Customs, and Flybynight married to a pretty -girl, to whom he is the most exemplary of husbands. Let me edge in this -little morsel of morality at seven o’clock in the morning. I know the -virtue of steadiness, lectures, tracts, latch-key-prohibitions, strict -parents, young men’s Christian associations, serious tea-parties and -electrifying machines; but I have seen the world in my time, and its -ways. Youth _will_ be youth, and youthful blood _will_ run riot. There is -no morality so false as that which ignores the existence of immorality. -Let us keep on preaching to the prodigals, and point with grim menace -to the draff and husks, and the fatted calf which never shall be theirs -if they do not reform; let us thunder against their dissipation, their -late hours, their vain “larks,” their unseemly “sprees.” It is our duty; -youth must be reproved, admonished, restrained by its elders. It has -been so ever since the world began; but do not let us in our own hearts -think every wild young man is bound hopelessly to perdition. Some there -are, indeed, (and they are in evil case,) who have come to irremediable -grief, and must sit aloof—spirits fallen never to rise again—and watch -the struggling souls. But it must rejoice even those callous ones to see -how many pecks of wild oats are sown every day, and what goodly harvests -of home virtues and domestic joys are reaped on all sides, from the most -unpromising soil. Let us not despair of the tendencies of the age. Young -men will be young men, but they should be taught and led with gentle and -wise counsels, with forbearance and moderation, to abandon the follies of -youth, and to become staid and decorous. Flybynight, with such counsels, -and good examples from his elders—ah, ye seniors! what examples are not -due from you!—will leave off sack and live cleanly like a gentleman; and -Keepitup will not bring his parents’ gray hairs with sorrow to the grave. - -Seven o’clock in the morning! I have already ventured a passing -allusion to the “milk.” The poor little children who sell violets and -water-cresses debouch from the great thoroughfares, and ply their humble -trade in by-streets full of private houses. The newsvenders’ shops in -the Strand, Holywell Street, and Fleet Street, are all in full activity. -Legions of assistants crowd behind the broad counters, folding the still -damp sheets of the morning newspapers, and, with fingers moving in swift -legerdemain, tell off “quires” and “dozens” of cheap periodicals. If it -happen to be seven o’clock, and a Friday morning, not only the doors of -the great newsvenders—such as Messrs. Smith and Son and Mr. Vickers—but -the portals of all the newspaper offices, will be crowded with newsmen’s -carts and newsmen’s trucks; and from the gaping gates themselves will -issue hordes of newsmen and flying cohorts of newsboys—boys with -parcels, boys with bags, boys with satchels, men staggering under the -weight of great piles of printed paper. Mercy on us! what a plethora of -brainwork is about, and what a poor criterion of its quality the quantity -manifestly affords! Yon tiny urchin with the red comforter has but -half-a-dozen copies tucked beneath his arm of a journal sparkling with -wit, and radiant in learning, and scathing in its satire, and Titanic in -its vigour; yet, treading on his heels, comes a colossus in corduroy, -eclipsed by a quadrangular mountain of closely-packed paper, quires—nay, -whole reams—of some ragamuffin print, full of details of the last murder -and abuse of some wise and good statesman because he happens to be a lord. - -Seven, still seven! Potboys, rubbing their eyes, take down the shutters -of taverns in leading thoroughfares, and then fall to rubbing the -pewter pots till they assume a transcendent sheen. Within, the young -ladies who officiate in the bar, and who look very drowsy in their -curl-papers and cotton-print dresses, are rubbing the pewter counters -and the brass-work of the beer-engines, the funnels and the whisky -noggins, washing the glasses, polishing up the mahogany, cutting up -the pork pies which Mr. Watling’s man has just left, displaying the -Banbury cakes and Epping sausages under crystal canopies. The early -customers—matutinal _habitués_—drop in for small measures of cordials or -glasses of peculiarly mild ale; and the freshest news of last night’s -fire in Holborn, or last night’s division in the House, or last night’s -opera at Her Majesty’s, are fished up from the columns of the “Morning -Advertiser.” By intercommunication with the early customers, who all -have a paternal and respectful fondness for her, the barmaid becomes -_au courant_ with the news of the day. As a rule, the barmaid does not -read the newspaper. On the second day of publication, she lends it to -the dissenting washerwoman or the radical tailor in the court round the -corner, who send small children, whose heads scarcely reach to the top -of the counter, for it. When it is returned, she cuts it up for tobacco -screws and for curl papers. I like the barmaid, for she is often pretty, -always civil, works about fourteen hours a day for her keep and from -eighteen to twenty pounds a year, is frequently a kinless orphan out of -that admirable Licensed Victuallers’ School, and is, in nine cases out of -ten, as chaste as Diana. - -I should be grossly misleading you, were I to attempt to inculcate -the supposition that at seven o’clock in the morning only the humbler -classes, or those who have stopped up all night, are again up and -doing. The Prime Minister is dressed, and poring over a savage leader -in the “Times,” denouncing his policy, sneering at his latest measure, -and insulting him personally in a facetious manner. The noble officers -told off for duty of her Majesty’s regiment of Guards are up and fully -equipped, though perchance they have spent the small hours in amusements -not wholly dissimilar from those employed by the daring Flybynight -and the intrepid Keepitup to kill time, and have devoted their vast -energies to the absorbing requirements of morning parade. Many of the -infant and juvenile scions of the aristocracy have left their downy -couches ere this, and are undergoing a lavatory purgatory in the -nursery. Many meek-faced, plainly-dressed young ladies, of native and -foreign extraction, attached as governesses to the aristocratic families -in question, are already in the school-room, sorting their pupils’ -copy-books, or preparing for the early repetition of the music lesson, -which is drummed and thrummed over in the morning pending the arrival -of Signor Papadaggi or Herr Hammerer, who comes for an hour and earns a -guinea. The governess, Miss Grissel, does not work more than twelve hours -a day, and she earns perhaps fifty guineas a year against Papadaggi’s -fifteen hundred and Hammerer’s two thousand. But then she is only a -governess. Her life is somewhat hard, and lonely, and miserable, and -might afford, to an ill-regulated mind, some cause for grumbling; but it -is her duty to be patient, and not to repine. What says the pleasing poet? - - “O! let us love our occupations, - Bless the squire and his relations, - Live upon our daily rations, - And always know our proper stations.”[2] - -Let us trust Miss Grissel knows her proper station, and is satisfied. - -Seven o’clock in the morning; but there are more governesses, and -governesses out of bed, than Miss Grissel and her companions in woe, -in the mansions of the nobility. Doctor Wackerbarth’s young gentlemen, -from Towellem House, New Road, are gone to bathe at Peerless Pool, under -escort of the writing-master. The Misses Gimps’ establishment for young -ladies, at Bayswater, is already in full activity; and the eight and -thirty boarders (among whom there are at present, and have been for -the last ten years, two, and positively only two, vacancies. N.B.—The -daughters of gentlemen only are received)—the eight and thirty boarders, -in curl papers and brown Holland pinafores, are floundering through -sloughs of despond in the endeavour to convey, in the English language, -the fact that Calypso was unable to console herself for the departure of -Ulysses; and into the French vernacular, the information that, in order -to be disabused respecting the phantoms of hope and the whisperings of -fancy, it is desirable to listen to the history of Rasselas, Prince of -Abyssinia. In Charterhouse and Merchant Taylors’ and St. Paul’s, the -boys are already at their lessons, and the cruel anger of Juno towards -Æneas, together with the shameful conduct of Clytemnestra to Agamemnon, -are matters of public (though unwilling) discussion; some private -conversations going on surreptitiously, meanwhile, touching the price of -alleytaws as compared with agates, and the relative merits of almond-rock -and candied horehound. After all, the poor have their privileges—their -immunities; and the couch of the rich is not altogether a bed of roses. -Polly Rabbets, the charity girl, lies snugly in bed, while the honourable -Clementina St. Maur is standing in the stocks, or is having her knuckles -rapped for speaking English instead of French. Polly has a run in the -Dials before breakfast, an expedition to buy a red herring for father, -and perchance a penny for disbursement at the apple-stall. She is not -wanted at school till nine. The most noble the Marquis of Millefleurs, -aged ten, at Eton, has to rise at six; he is fag to Tom Tucker, the army -clothier’s son. He has to clean his master’s boots, fry bacon, and toast -bread for his breakfast. If he doesn’t know his lesson in school, the -most noble the Marquis of Millefleurs is liable to be birched; but no -such danger menaces Jemmy Allbones at the National, or Tommy Grimes at -the Ragged School. If the schoolmaster were to beat them, their parents -would have the _plagosus Orbilius_ up at the police-court in a trice, and -the Sunday newspapers would be full of details of the “atrocious cruelty -of a schoolmaster.” - -One more peep at seven o’clock doings, and we will move further afield. -Though sundry are up and doing, the great mass of London is yet sleeping. -Sleeps the cosy tradesman, sleeps the linendraper’s shopman (till eight), -sleeps the merchant, the dandy, the actor, the author, the _petite -maitresse_. Hold fast while I wheel in my flight and hover over Pimlico. -There is Millbank, where the boarders and lodgers, clad in hodden gray, -with masks on their faces and numbers on their backs, have been up and -stirring since six. And there, north-west of Millbank, is the palace, -almost as ugly as the prison, where dwells the Great Governess of the -Land. She is there, for you may see the standard floating in the morning -breeze; and at seven in the morning, she, too, is up and doing. If she -were at Osborne she would be strolling very likely on the white-beached -shore, listening to the sea murmuring “your gracious Majesty,” and “your -Majesty’s ever faithful subject and servant,” and “your petitioner -will ever pray;” for it is thus doubtless that the obsequious sea has -addressed sovereigns since Xerxes’ time. Or if the Imperial Governess -were at Windsor, she might, at this very time, be walking on those -mysterious Slopes on which it is a standing marvel that Royalty can -preserve its equilibrium. When I speak of our gracious lady being awake -and up at seven o’clock, I know that I am venturing into the realms of -pure supposition; but remember I am Asmodeus, and can unroof palaces -and hovels at will. Is it not, besides, a matter of public report that -the Queen rises early? Does not the Court newsman (I wonder whether -that occult functionary gets up early too) know it? Does not everybody -know it—everybody say it? And what everybody says must be true. There -are despatches to be read; private and confidential letters to foreign -sovereigns to be written; the breakfasts, perchance, of the little -princes and princesses to be superintended; the proofs, probably, of the -last Royal etching or princely photograph to be inspected; a new pony -to be tried in the riding-house; a new dog to be taught tricks: a host -of things to do. Who shall say? What do we know about the daily life -of royalty, save that it must be infinitely more laborious than that -of a convict drudging through his penal servitude in Portland Prison? -I met the carriage of H.R.H. the Prince Consort, with H.R.H. inside -it, prowling about Pedlar’s Acre very early the other morning, going -to or coming from, I presume, the South-Western Railway Terminus. When -I read of her Majesty’s “arriving with her accustomed punctuality” at -some rendezvous at nine o’clock in the morning, I can but think of and -marvel at the amount of business she must have despatched before she -entered her carriage. If there were to be (which heaven forfend!) a -coronation to-morrow, the sovereign would be sure to arrive with his or -her “accustomed punctuality;” yet how many hours it must take to try on -the crown, to study the proper sweep of the imperial purple, to learn by -heart that coronation oath which is never, never broken! For my part, I -often wonder how kings and queens and emperors find time to go to bed at -all. - -So now, reader, not wholly, I trust, unedified by the cursory view we -have taken of Babylon the Great in its seven-o’clock-in-the-morning -phase, we have arrived at the end of our journey—to another stage -thereof, at least. We have flown from Knightsbridge to Bermondsey, -not exactly as the crow flies, nor yet as straight as an arrow from a -Tartar’s bow; but still we have gyrated and skimmed and wheeled along -somehow, even as a sparrow seeking knowledge on the housetops and corn in -the street kennels. And now we will go out of town. - -Whithersoever you choose; but by what means of conveyance? By water? -The penny steamboats have not commenced their journeys yet. The _Pride -of the Thames_ is snugly moored at Essex Pier, and _Waterman_, No. 2, -still keeps her head under her wing—or under her funnel, if you will. -The omnibuses have not yet begun to roll in any perceptible numbers, -and the few stage coaches that are still left (how they linger, those -cheerful institutions, bidding yet a blithe defiance to the monopolising -and all-devouring rail!) have not put in an appearance at the White -Horse Cellar in Piccadilly, the Flower Pot in Bishopsgate Street, or the -Catherine Wheel in the Borough. So we must needs quit Babylon by railway. -Toss up for a terminus with me. Shall it be London Bridge, Briarean -station with arms stretching to Brighton the well-beloved, Gravesend -the chalky and periwinkley, Rochester the martial, Chatham the naval, -Hastings the saline, Dover the castellated, Tunbridge Wells the genteel, -Margate the shrimpy, Ramsgate the asinine, Canterbury the ecclesiastical, -or Herne Bay the desolate? Shall it be the Great Northern, hard by -Battle Bridge and Pentonville’s frowning bastille? No; the fens of -Lincolnshire nor the moors of Yorkshire like me not. Shall it be the -Great Western, with its vast, quiet station, its Palladio-Vitruvian -hotel, and its promise of travel through the rich meadows of Berkshire -and by the sparkling waters of Isis, into smiling Somerset and blooming -Devon? No; cab fares to Paddington are ruinously expensive, and I -have prejudices against the broad gauge. Shall it be the Eastern -Counties? Avaunt! evil-smelling Shoreditch, bad neighbourhood of worse -melodramas, and cheap grocers’ shops where there is sand in the sugar and -birch-brooms in the tea. No Eastern Counties carriage shall bear me to -the pestiferous marshes of Essex or the dismal flats of Norfolk. There is -the South-Western. Hum! The Hampton Court line is pleasant; the Staines, -Slough, and Windsor delicious; but I fancy not the Waterloo Road on a -fine morning. I am undecided. Toss up again. Heads for the Great Western; -tails for the London and North-Western. Tails it is; and abandoning our -aërial flight, let us cast ourselves into yonder Hansom, and bid the -driver drive like mad to Euston Square, else we shall miss the seven -o’clock train. - -This Hansom is a most dissipated vehicle, and has evidently been up all -night. One of its little silk window-curtains has been torn from its -fastenings and flutters in irregular festoons on the inward wall. The -cushions are powdered with cigar ashes; there is a theatrical pass-check, -and the thumb of a white kid glove, very dirty, lying at the back. -The long-legged horse with his ill-groomed coat, all hairs on end like -the fretful porcupine his quills, and his tail whisking with derisive -defiance in the face of the fare, carries his head on one side, foams at -the mouth, and is evidently a dissipated quadruped, guilty, I am afraid, -of every vice except hypocrisy. Of the last, certainly, he cannot be -accused, for he makes not the slightest secret of his propensity for -kicking, biting, gibbing, rearing, and plunging, a succession of which -gymnastic operations brings us, in an astonishingly brief space of time, -to George Street, Euston Square; where the cabman, who looks like a -livery-stable edition of Don Cæsar de Bazan, with a horse-cloth instead -of a mantle, tosses the coin given him into the air, catches it again, -informs me contemptuously that money will grow warm in my pocket if I -keep it there so long, and suddenly espying the remote possibility of a -fare in the extreme distance of the Hampstead Road, drives off—“tools” -off, as he calls it—as though the Powers of Darkness, with Lucifer and -Damagorgon at their head, were after him. - -I think the Euston Square Terminus is, for its purpose, the handsomest -building I have ever seen, and I have seen a few railway stations. There -is nothing to compare to it in Paris, where the termini are garish, -stuccoed, flimsy-looking structures, half booths and half barracks. -Not Brussels, not Berlin, not Vienna, can show so stately a structure, -for a railway station, _bien entendu_; and it is only, perhaps, in St. -Petersburg, which seems to have been built with a direct reference to -the assumption of the Imperial crown at some future period by the King -of Brobdignag, that a building can be found—the Moscow Railway Terminus, -in fact—to equal in grandeur of appearance our columniated palace of the -iron road. But the Russian station, like all else in that “Empire of -Façades,” is deceptive: a magnificent delusion, a vast and splendid sham. -Of seeming marble without it is; within, but bad bricks and lath and -plaster. - -[Illustration: PARLIAMENTARY TRAIN: PLATFORM OF THE LONDON AND -NORTH-WESTERN RAILWAY.] - -_Open sesame!_ Let us pass the crowds of railway porters, who have not -much to do just now, and are inclined to lounge about with their hands -in their pockets, and to lean—in attitudes reminding the spectator of -the Grecian statues clad in green velveteen, and with white letters on -their collars—on their luggage trucks, for the passengers by the seven -o’clock train are not much addicted to arriving in cabs or carriages -which require to be unloaded, and there are very few shilling or sixpenny -gratuities to be earned by the porters, for the securing of a comfortable -corner seat with your back to the engine, or that inestimable comfort, -a place in a first-class carriage whose door the guard is good enough -to keep locked, and in which you can make yourself quite at home with a -bottle of sherry, some walnuts, and a quiet game at _écarté_ or _vingt -un_. The seven o’clock trainbands are not exactly of the class who drink -sherry and play cards; they are more given to selling walnuts than to -eating them. They are, for the most part, hard-faced, hard-handed, -poorly-clad creatures; men in patched, time-worn garments; women in -pinched bonnets and coarse shawls, carrying a plenitude of baskets and -bundles, but very slightly troubled with trunks or portmanteaus. You -might count a hundred heads and not one hat-box; of two hundred crowding -round the pay-place to purchase their third-class tickets for Manchester, -or Liverpool, or even further north, you would have to look and look -again, and perhaps vainly after all, for the possessor of a railway rug, -or even an extra overcoat. Umbrellas, indeed, are somewhat plentiful; -but they are not the slim, aristocratic trifles with ivory handles and -varnished covers—enchanter’s wands to ward off the spells of St. Swithin, -which moustached dandies daintily insert between the roof and the -hat-straps of first-class carriages. Third-class umbrellas are dubious -in colour, frequently patched, bulgy in the body, broken in the ribs, -and much given to absence from the nozzle. Swarming about the pay-place, -which their parents are anxiously investing, thirteen-and-fourpence or -sixteen-and-ninepence in hand, are crowds of third-class children. I am -constrained to acknowledge that the majority of these juvenile travellers -cannot be called handsome children, well-dressed children, even tolerably -good-looking children. Poor little wan faces you see here, overshadowed -by mis-shapen caps, and bonnets nine bauble square; poor little thin -hands, feebly clutching the scant gowns of their mothers; weazened little -bodies, shrunken little limbs, distorted often by early hardship, by the -penury which pounced on them—not in their cradles—they never had any—but -in the baker’s jacket in which they were wrapped when they were born, -and which will keep by them, their only faithful friend, until they die, -and are buried by the parish—poor ailing little children are these, and -among them who shall tell how many hungry little bellies! Ah! judges -of Amontillado sherry; crushers of walnuts with silver nut-crackers; -connoisseurs who prefer French to Spanish olives, and are curious -about the yellow seal; gay riders in padded chariots; proud cavaliers -of blood-horses, you don’t know how painfully and slowly, almost -agonisingly, the poor have to scrape, and save, and deny themselves the -necessaries of life, to gather together the penny-a-mile fare. It is a -long way to Liverpool, a long way to Manchester; the only passengers by -the seven o’clock train who can afford to treat the distance jauntily, -are the Irish paupers, who are in process of being passed to their -parish, and who will travel free. O! marvels of eleemosynary locomotion -from Euston Square to Ballyragget or Carrighmadhioul! - -But hark! the train bell rings; there is a rush, and a trampling of feet, -and in a few seconds the vast hall is almost deserted. This spectacle -has made me somewhat melancholy, and I think, after all, that I will -patronise the nine o’clock express instead of the PARLIAMENTARY TRAIN. - -Let us follow the crowd of third-class passengers on to the vast -platform. There the train awaits them, puffing, and snorting, and -champing its adamantine bit, like some great iron horse of Troy suddenly -gifted with life and power of locomotion. By the way, I wonder how that -same wooden horse we are supposed to read about in Homer, but study -far more frequently in the pages of Lemprière, or in the agreeable -metrical romance of Mr. Alexander Pope, really effected its entrance -into Ilium. Was it propelled on castors, on rollers, or on those -humble wooden wheels that quickened the march of the toy horse of our -nonage—the ligneous charger from Mr. Farley’s shop in Fleet Street, -painted bright cream-colour, with spots resembling red wafers stuck all -over him, a perpendicular mane, and a bushy tail? Very few first or even -second-class carriages are attached to the great morning train. The rare -exceptions seem to be placed there more as a graceful concession to the -gentilities, or the respectabilities, or the “gigabilities,” as Mr. -Carlyle would call them, than with any reference to their real utility -in a journey to the north. Who, indeed, among the bustling Anglo-Saxons, -almost breathless in their eagerness to travel the longest possible -distance in the shortest possible time, would care to pay first-class -fare for a trip to Manchester, which consumes ten mortal hours, when, -by the space-scorning express, the distance may be accomplished, at a -not unreasonable augmentation of fare, in something like five hours? So -the roomy six-seated chariots, with their arm-rests and head-rests, are -well nigh abandoned; and the wooden boxes, which appear to have been -specially designed by railway directors to teach second-class travellers, -who can afford to pay more than third-class fare, that they had much -better pay first-class, and go the entire animal (which, indeed, seeing -how abominable are our second-class carriages in England, is a far -preferable proceeding), are not much better tenanted. Some misanthropic -men, in Welsh wigs and fur caps with flaps turned down over the ears, -peer at us as we pass, pull up the window-frames captiously, as though -they suspected us of a design to intrude on their solitude, and, watch in -hand, call out in hoarse voices to the guard to warn him it is time the -train had started. What is the use of being in a hurry, gentlemen? you -will have plenty of breathing-time at Tring, and Watford, and Weedon, and -some five-and-twenty other stations, besides opportunities for observing -the beauties of nature at remote localities, where you will be quietly -shunted off on to a siding to allow the express to pass you by. - -But what a contrast to the quietude of the scarcely-patronised first and -second-class _wagons_ are the great hearse-like caravans in which travel -the teeming hundreds who can afford to pay but a penny a mile! Enter -one of these human menageries where the occupants are stowed away with -little more courtesy or regard to their comfort than might be exemplified -by the master of the ceremonies of one of Mr. Wombwell’s vans. What a -hurly-burly; what a seething mass; what a scrambling for places; what a -shrill turmoil of women’s voices and children’s wailings, relieved, as -in the _Gospodin Pomilaïou_ (the Kyrie Eleison of the Russian churches), -by the deep bass voices of gruff men! What a motley assemblage of men, -women, and children, belonging to callings multifariously varied, yet -all marked with the homogeneous penny-a-mile stamp of poverty! Sailors -with bronzed faces and tarry hands, and those marvellous tarpaulin -pancake hats, stuck, in defiance of all the laws of gravity, at the -back of their heads; squat, squarely-built fellows, using strange and -occasionally not very polite language, much given to “skylarking” with -one another, but full of a simple, manly courtesy to all the females, -and marvellously kind to the babies and little children; gaunt American -sailors in red worsted shirts, with case-knives suspended to their belts, -taciturn men expectorating freely, and when they do condescend to address -themselves to speech, using the most astounding combination of adjective -adjurations, relating chiefly to their limbs and their organs of vision; -railway navvies going to work at some place down the line, and obligingly -franked thither for that purpose by the company; pretty servant-maids -going to see their relatives; Jew pedlars; Irish labourers in swarms; -soldiers on furlough, with the breast of their scarlet coatees open, and -disclosing beneath linen of an elaborate coarseness of texture—one might -fancy so many military penitents wearing hair tunics; other soldiers in -full uniform, with their knapsacks laid across their knees, and their -muskets—prudently divested of the transfixing bayonets—which the old -women in the carriage are marvellously afraid will “go off,” disposed -beside them, proceeding to Weedon barracks under the command of a staid -Scotch corporal, who reads a tract, “Grace for Grenadiers” or “Powder and -Piety,” and takes snuff; journeymen mechanics with their tool-baskets; -charwomen, servants out of place, stablemen, bricklayers’ labourers, and -shopboys. - -[Illustration: PARLIAMENTARY TRAIN: INTERIOR OF A THIRD CLASS CARRIAGE.] - -Ay, and there are, I am afraid, not a few bad characters among the -crowd: certain dubiously-attired, flash-looking, ragged dandies, with -cheap pins in their foul cravats, and long greasy hair floating over -their coat-collars, impress me most unfavourably, and dispose me to -augur ill for the benefit which Manchester or Liverpool may derive from -their visit; and of the moral status of yonder low-browed, bull-necked, -villanous-looking gentleman, who has taken a seat in a remote corner, -between two stern guardians, and who, strive as he may to pull his -coat-cuffs over his wrists, cannot conceal the presence of a pair of neat -shining handcuffs, there cannot, I perpend, exist any reasonable doubt. -But we must take the evil with the good: and we cannot expect perfection, -not even in a Parliamentary Train. - - - - -EIGHT O’CLOCK A.M.—ST. JAMES’S PARK—THE MALL. - - -Of the great army of sightseers, there are few but have paid a visit -to Portsmouth, and, under the guidance of a mahogany-faced man in a -pea-jacket, who has invariably served in his youth as coxswain to -Admiral Lord Nelson, K.C.B., have perambulated from stem to stern, from -quarterdeck to kelson, that famous ship from whose signal halyards flew -out, fifty-three years since, the immortal watchword “England expects -every man to do his duty,” in Trafalgar Bay. We are (or rather were, till -the epoch of the late passport regulations and the war), an ambitious -army of sightseers in this year of questionable grace, ’59; and nothing -less would serve us then for an autumn trip than a picnic in the Street -of Tombs at Pompeii, a moonlight polka among the rank docks and charlocks -and slimy reptiles of the Roman Colosseum, a yacht voyage up the gulf of -Bothnia, or a four days’ jolting in a _telega_ from Moscow to the fair of -Nishni-Novgorod. But in the days of yore, when this old hat was new, and -Manlius was consul, and the eleven hours’ route to the Continent existed -not, we went a-gipsying in a less ostentatious manner. The Lions in the -Tower, the Horns at Highgate, the Spaniards at Hampstead, the Wandering -Minstrel at Beulah Spa; and on highdays and holidays a stage-coach -and pleasure-boat journey to Portsmouth, Southampton, Netley Abbey, -Carisbrook Castle, and the Undercliff; these filled up the simple measure -of our pleasure-gadding. We are improved now-a-days, and go the grand -tour like my lord; and are wiser, and better, and happier—of course. - -When in the noble harbour of Portsmouth you have taken your wife, your -sweetheart, or your friend the intelligent foreigner, to whom you wish -to show the glories of England, and when the cicerone of the great -war-ship has told his parrot-tale about admirals’ quarter-galleries and -officers’ gun-rooms; when at last he has taken you into the cabin, and at -the back shown you the sorrowful inscription painted on the stanchion, -“HERE NELSON DIED!” did never a sudden desire come across you to be left -alone—to have the army of sight-seers banished five hundred miles away—to -be allowed to remain there in the silent cabin among the shadows, to muse -on the memory of the great dead, to conjure up mind-pictures of that -closing scene: the cannon booming overhead; the terrified surgeons with -outspread bandages, and probes, and knives, knowing that their skill was -of no avail; the burly shipmen crying like little children; and alone -tranquil and serene among that sorrowful group, peaceful as an infant in -its cradle, the Admiral, his stars and ribbons gleaming in the lantern’s -fitful rays, but never with so strong a light as the gory ghastliness of -his death wound; the brave yellow-haired Admiral, with the puny limbs -and giant’s heart, waiting to die, ready to die, happy to die, thanking -God that he had done his duty to his king, and meekly saying, “Kiss me, -Hardy.” - -That inscription in the _Victory’s_ cabin has been to me the source of -meditation frequent and infinitely pleasant. I love to think, walking -in historical streets and houses, that my feet are treading over spots -where men for ever famous have left an imprint of glory. I peer into the -soil, the stones, the planks, to descry the shadowy mark of Hercules’ -foot, of the iron-plated sole of the warrior, the sandalled shoon of the -saint, the dainty heel of the brocaded slipper of beauty. Every place -that history or tradition has made her own is to me a field, not of -forty, but of forty thousand footsteps; and I please myself sometimes -with futile wishes that the boundaries of these footsteps might have been -marked by plates of brass and adamant, as Nelson’s death-place is marked -on board his flagship. It were better, perhaps, to leave the exact spot -to imagination; for though I would give something to know the very window -of the Banqueting House from whence Charles Stuart came out to his death, -and the precise spot where he turned to Juxon and uttered his mysterious -injunction “Remember!” I would not care to know the particular branch of -the tree to which Judas affixed his thrice-earned halter when he hanged -himself: I could spare Mr. Dix the trouble of telling me the identical -spot on the tavern table on which the coroner laid his three-cornered -hat when he held his inquest on the worthless impostor Chatterton—a -“marvellous boy” if you will, but one who perished in his miserable folly -and forgery—and I could well exempt the legitimacy-bemused courtiers of -Louis XVIII. from perpetuating, as they did in brass, the few inches of -soil at Calais first pressed on his return to France by the foot of that -gross fat man. - -There are two cities in the world, London and Paris, so full of these -footstep memories, so haunted by impalpable ghosts of the traces of -famous deeds, that locomotion, to one of my temperament, becomes a task -very slow, if not painfully difficult, of accomplishment. ’Tis a long -way from the Luxor Obelisk to the Carrousel; but it’s a week’s journey -when you feel inclined to stop at every half-dozen yards’ distance, -questioning yourself and the ministering spirits of your books, pointing -your fingers to the paving-stones, and saying—Here the guillotine stood; -here Louis died; here the daughter of Maria Theresa cast her last glance -at the cupolas of the Tuileries; here Robespierre was hooted; here -Théroigne de Méricourt was scourged; here Napoleon the Great showed -the little king of Rome to the people; here, on the great Carrousel -Place, he, arrayed in the undying gray coat and little hat, reviewed -the veterans of his guard, many and many a time at EIGHT O’CLOCK IN THE -MORNING. - -[Illustration: EIGHT O’CLOCK A.M.: ST. JAMES’S PARK.] - -There! I have brought you round to the subject-matter of this article, -and to the complexion of “Twice Round the Clock” again; and the stroke -is, I flatter myself, felicitous—rivalling Escobar or Dom Calmet in -Jesuitry, Metternich and Menschikoff in diplomacy. You thought doubtless -that I was about to launch into an interminable digression; you may -perhaps have said, scoffingly, that Admiral Lord Nelson, K.C.B., -Maximillien Robespierre, Charles the First’s head, and the Emperor -Napoleon’s cocked hat, could have nothing whatsoever to do with the Mall -of Saint James’s Park at eight o’clock in the morning. You are mistaken. -The allusions to memorable footsteps were all cunningly devised with a -reference to the great Field of Famous Footsteps—the Mall, which, were -the imprint of those bygone pedal pressures marked out with landmarks, -such as those in the _Victory’s_ cabin, would become a very Field of -the Cloth of Brass. And what better time can there be to muse upon the -traditional glories of the Mall and the fame of its frequenters, than -eight a.m. in sweet summer time? - -I grant the clown, the dunderheaded moneyspinner who votes that books -are “rubbish,” the cobweb-brained fop who languidly declares reading -to be a “bore,” will find in the broad smooth Mall, just a Mall, broad -and smooth, and nought else—even as Peter Bell found in a primrose by -the river’s brim a yellow primrose, and nothing more. At eight o’clock -in the morning, to clown, dunderhead, and cobweb-brain, the Mall is a -short cut from Marylebone to Westminster; the water-carts are laying the -dust; mechanics are going to work; there are some government offices in -the distance; two big guns on queer-looking carriages; some scattered -children; a good many birds, making rather a disagreeable noise, in -the green trees; and a few cows being milked in a corner. But come -with me, dweller in the past, lover of ancient and pleasant memories, -hand-and-glove friend of defunct worthies, shadowy acquaintances in -ruffs and peaked beards and point lace. Let us deliver dunderhead and -cobweb-brain to the tormentors, and, sitting on a rustic bench beneath -a spreading tree, summon the Famous Footsteps; summon the dead-and-gone -walkers to pace the Mall again. Here they come! a brave gathering, a -courtly throng, a worshipful assemblage, but oft-times a motley horde -and a fantastic crew. Here is Henry the Eighth’s Mall, a park where -that disreputable monarch indulged in “the games of hare and pheasant, -partridge and heron, for his disport and pastime,” and where he had a -deer killed for the amusement of the “Embassador from Muscovie.” Here is -Saint James’s Park in the reign of clever, shrewish, cruel Queen Bess—a -park only used as an appendage to the tilt-yard and a nursery for deer: -here is the “inward park” (now the inclosure and ornamental water), into -which, so late as the commencement of Charles II.’s reign, access to the -public was denied; and where, in 1660, Master Pepys saw a man “basted” -by the keeper for carrying some people over on his back through the -water. Here is Charles II.’s famous Mall, for the first time broad and -smooth, the park planted and reformed by the celebrated French gardener, -Le Nôtre, laid out with fish-ponds and a decoy for water-fowl; the Mall -itself a vista of half a mile in length, on which the game of Pall Mall -was played, and which, always according to curious Samuel Pepys, who -“discoursed with the keeper of the Pall Mall as he was sweeping it,” was -floored with mixed earth, and over all that cockle-shells, powdered and -spread to keep it fast; which, however, in dry weather, turned to dust -and deadened the ball. In this park of Charles II. was the fantastic -little territory of Duck Island, the ground contained within the channels -of the decoy, and which London Barataria had revenues and laws and -governors appointed by the king. The Duke of Saint Simon’s friend, Saint -Evremond, was one of these governors; Sir John Flock another. Close to -Duck Island was Rosamond’s Pond, a piece of water whose name bore a dim -analogy to the _soubriquet_ with which, in later years, Waterloo Bridge -has been qualified; for it was in Rosamond’s Pond that forsaken women -came in preference, at even-song, to drown themselves. There was the -Birdcage Walk, where Mr. Edward Storey kept his Majesty’s aviary, and -dwelt in the snug little hut recently demolished, known as Storey’s Gate. -There was the Mulberry Garden, into which the river Tyburn flows, and so -into Tothill Fields and the Thames; and there was Spring Gardens, where -the beaux went to look at the citizens’ wives; and the citizens’ wives, I -hope, to drink chocolate, but I fear to look at the beaux. - -But the famous footsteps? See, see in your mind’s eye, Horatio, how the -shadows of the old frequenters of the Mall come trooping along. Here -is the founder of the feast himself, King Charles the Second, witty, -worthless, and good-humoured, tramping along the broad expanse at _eight_ -o’clock in the morning, to the despair of his courtiers, who liked not -walking so fast, nor getting up so early. You can’t mistake the king’s -figure; ’tis that swarthy gentleman, with the harshly-marked countenance, -the bushy eyebrows, the lively kindling gray eye, and the black suit and -perriwig. He walks a little in advance of his suite with an easy, rapid -gait, and at his heels follow a little barking multitude of dogs, black, -black and white, or black and tan, with long silky ears and feathery -tails. We may see him again, and on the Mall, but not at eight o’clock -in the morning. It is the afternoon of a July day, and a court cavalcade -comes flaunting in feathers forth from Whitehall. Here is King Charles, -but in a laced and embroidered suit, and mounted on a gaily-caparisoned -charger. He rides with his hand in that of a lady, in a white laced -waistcoat and crimson petticoat, and who, the chroniclers say, with her -hair dressed _à la negligence_, “looks mighty pretty,” but she is very -dark, and not very well favoured, and is a poor Portuguese lady who has -the misfortune to be Queen of England, and to have the merriest and the -worst husband in Europe. Here is La Belle Stuart, with her hat cocked, -and a red plume, looking, with her sweet eye, little Roman nose, and -excellent _taille_, the greatest beauty that the Clerk of the Acts ever -did see in his life. Here is Lady Castlemaine, with a yellow plume, but -in a terrible temper that the king does not take any notice of her, and -in a rage when she finds that no gentleman presses to assist her down -from her horse. Here is “our royal brother,” James Duke of York, scowling -and sulky, on his way through the Park to Hounslow, to enjoy his prime -diversion of the chase, and escorted by a party of the guards in morions -and steel corslets. Memory be good to us! how the shadows gather around! -His Highness Oliver, Lord Protector of this realm, is being borne along -the Mall in a sedan chair. He crouches uneasily in a corner of the -gilded vehicle, as though he feared that Colonel Titus might be lying -_perdu_ under the linden trees, correcting the proof sheets of “Killing -no Murder.” Sir Fopling Flutter bids his coachman take the carriage to -Whitehall, and walks over the park with Belinda. Now, years later, it is -Jonathan Swift leaving his best gown and perriwig at Mrs. Vanhomrigh’s, -then walking up the Mall, by Buckingham House, and so to Chelsea. It is -not a very well-conducted Mall just now, and Swift tells Stella that he -is obliged to come home early through the park, to avoid the Mohocks. -Now, back again, and to walk with decorous Mr. Evelyn, who is much -shocked to see Nelly Gwynne leaning over her garden wall (overhanging the -park),—she lived at 79, Pall Mall—and indulging in familiar discourse -with “Old Rowley.” Now we are in Horace Walpole’s time, and the -macaroni-cynic of Strawberry Hill is gallanting in the Mall with Lady -Caroline Petersham, and pretty Miss Beauclerc, and foolish Mrs. Sparre. -Now Lady Coventry and Walpole’s niece, Lady Waldegrave, are mobbed in -the park for being dressed in an “outlandish” fashion. Now, back and -back again; and the Duchess of Cleveland is walking across the Mall on -a dark night, pursued by three men in masks, who offer her no violence, -but curse her as the cause of England’s misery, and prophesy that she -will one day die in a ditch, like Jane Shore. Forward, hark forward, and -mad Margaret Nicholson attempts the life of George III., as he passes in -his coach through the Mall to open Parliament. Backward, and James II. -walks across the park from St. James’s, where he had slept, to Whitehall, -to be crowned. A very few years after his coronation, the Dutch Guards -of William Prince of Orange marched across from St. James’s to turn the -unlucky Stuart out of Whitehall. And now, backwards and forwards, and -forwards and backwards, the famous shadows mingle in a fantastic reel, a -mad waltz of extinct footsteps. Sir Roger de Coverley and Mr. Spectator -saunter under the limes; Beau Fielding minces by the side of Margaretta; -Beau Tibbs airs his clean linen and lackered sword hilt; Mr. Pope meets -Lady Mary’s sedan, borne by Irish chair-men—the translator of the “Iliad” -grins spitefully over his shoulder and makes faces at Lady Mary’s black -boy; Sir Plume instructs Sir John Burke in the nice conduct of a clouded -cane; Goldsmith’s good-natured man fraternises with Coleman’s “brother -who could eat beef;” Lord Fanny takes off his three-cornered hat to Mr. -Moore, the inventor of the worm powders; Partridge, the almanack maker, -discusses the motions of the heavenly bodies on the banks of Rosamond’s -Pond with Count Algarotti, and becomes so excited that he nearly adds -“one more unfortunate” to the list of Ophelias in Rosamond’s Pond, by -tumbling into the water; Alfieri meets Lord Ligonier—tells him the -measure of his sword, and makes a rendezvous with him for sunset in Hyde -Park; Lord George Gordon passes Westminster to St. James’s, followed by -a mob of yelling, screaming Protestants. Real people dispute the passage -of the Mall with imaginary personages. The encampment of ’Eighty, the -Temple of Concord, and the Humane Society’s drags, are inextricably mixed -up with scenes from Wycherley and Etherege; and pet passages from the -“Trivia” and the “Rape of the Lock.” I must bring myself back to reason -and St. James’s Park, and eight o’clock in the morning. I must deal -henceforth in realities. Here is one. - -It is the morning of the 30th of January, 1649, and a King of England -walks across the frozen park, from St. James’s, where he has slept, to -Whitehall, the palace of his fathers. Armed men walk before, armed men -walk behind and around; but they are no guards of honour. They escort a -prisoner to the scaffold. The High Court of Justice has adjudged Charles -Stuart, King of England, a traitor, and has decreed that he shall be -put to death by severing his head from his body. President Bradshaw -has put off his red robe, the man without a name has put on his black -mask; the axe is sharpened, the sawdust spread, the block prepared, the -velvet-covered coffin yawns; on its lid is already the leaden plate with -the inscription, “King Charles, 1649.” - -It is not my fault, dear reader, if the spot which your author and -artist to command have selected for illustration of the eighth hour -ante-meridian, be so rich in historical and literary recollections; -that we may fancy every inch of its surface trodden and re-trodden till -the very soil has sunk, by the feet of the departed great; that the -student, and the lover of old lore, must arrest himself perforce at -every tree, and evoke remembrance at every pace. And centuries hence the -Mall of St. James’s Park will be as famous to our descendants for our -deeds as it is now to us for the presence of our ancestors. Is not the -Mall yet one of the most favoured resorts of the British aristocracy? -Do not the carriages of the nobility and gentry rattle over its broad -bosom to dinner parties, to opera, to concerts, and to balls? We have -seen their chariot lamps a hundred times—we humble pedestrians and -plebeians—gleaming among the tufted trees, wills-o’-the-wisp of Belgravia -and Tyburnia. Is not St. James’s Park bounded now as then by high and -mighty buildings: War Office, Admiralty, Stationery Office, Barracks? -Do not the Duke of York’s steps lead from the Duke of York’s column, -between two _corps de logis_, one occupied by wings—ethereal wings, -though made of brick and stucco, of the House of Carlton, the abode -of George the Great (the great Fritz was called “_der grosse_”) of -England? And the Mall itself? Is it not overlooked by Stafford House, -the palatial; by Marlborough House, the vast and roomy, once sacred to -the memory of the victor of Ramilies and of “Old Sarah!” but now given -up to some people called artists, connected with something called the -English school, and partially used as a livery and bait stable for the -late Duke of Wellington’s funeral car, with its sham trophies and sham -horses? Does not a scion of royalty, no other than his Royal Highness the -Duke of Cambridge, frequently condescend to walk from his lodgings in the -Stable-yard, Saint James’s, across the park to those Horse Guards, whose -affairs he administers with so much ability and success? And, finally, -at the western extremity of the Mall, and on the side where once was the -Mulberry Garden, stands there not now a palace, huge in size, clumsy in -its proportions, grotesque in decoration, mean in gross, frivolous in -detail, infinitely hideous in its general appearance, but above whose -ugly roof floats that grandest and noblest of all banners, the Royal -Standard of England, and whose walls, half hospital, half barrack, as -they remind us of, are hallowed as being part of Buckingham Palace, the -abode of our good, and true, and dear Queen? She lives at the top of the -Mall. She comes out by times on the Mall, in her golden coach, with the -eight cream-coloured horses; her darling little daughter passed along -the Mall to be married; let us hope, and heartily, to see more sons and -daughters yet riding to their weddings through that field of famous -footsteps. Let us hope that we may live to throw up our caps, and cry God -bless them! - -Great lords and ladies sweep the Mall no more with hoops and flowing -trains of brocaded paduasoy, nor jingle on the gravel with silver spurs, -nor crunch the minute pebbles with red heels. Broughams and chariots now -convey the salt ones of the earth to their grand assemblies and solemn -merry-makings; and the few aristocrats who may yet pedestrianise within -the precincts, are so plainly attired that you would find it difficult -to distinguish them from plain Brown or Jones walking from Pimlico to -Charing Cross. His Royal Highness strides over from the Stable-yard to -the Horse Guards in a shooting-jacket and tweed trousers, and in wet -weather carries an umbrella. Nay, I have seen another Royal Highness—a -bigger Royal Highness, so to speak, for he is consort to the Queen—riding -under the trees of the Mall on a quiet bay, and dressed in anything but -the first style of fashion. Were it not _scandalum magnatum_ even to -think such a thing, I should say that his Royal Highness’s coat was seedy. - -At this early eight o’clock in the morningtide, see—an exception to the -rule, however—perambulating the Mall, a tremendous “swell.” No fictitious -aristocrat, no cheap dandy, no Whitechapel buck or Bermondsey exquisite, -no apprentice who has been to a masquerade disguised as a gentleman, can -this be. Aristocracy is imprinted on every lineament of his moustached -face, in every crease of his superb clothes, in each particular horsehair -of his flowing plume. He is a magnificent creature, over six feet in -height, with a burnished helmet, burnished boots, burnished spurs, -burnished sabre, burnished cuirass—burnished whiskers and moustache. -He shines all over, like a meteor, or a lobster which has been kept -a _little_ too long, in a dark room. He is young, brave, handsome, -and generous; he is the delight of Eaton Square, the cynosure of the -Castor and Pollux Club, the idol of the corps de ballet of her Majesty’s -Theatre, the pet of several most exclusive Puseyite circles in Tyburnia, -the mirror of Tattersall’s, the pillar and patron of Jem Bundy’s ratting, -dog-showing, man-fighting, horse-racing, and general sporting house, in -Cat and Fiddle Court, Dog and Duck Lane, Cripplegate. Cruel country, -cruel fate, that compel Lieutenant Algernon Percy Plantagenet, of the -Royal Life Guards, the handsomest man in his regiment, and heir to £9,000 -a year, to be mounting guard at eight o’clock in the morning! He is -mounting guard at present by smoking a cigar (one of Milo’s best) on the -Mall. By and by he will go into his barrack-room and draw caricatures in -charcoal on the whitewashed wall. He will smoke a good deal, yawn a good -deal, and whistle a good deal during the day, and will give a few words -of command. For you see, my son, that we must all earn our bread by the -sweat of our brow, and that the career even of a Plantagenet, with £9,000 -a year, is not, throughout, a highway of rose-leaves! - -From this gay and resplendent warrior, we fall, alas! to a very prosaic -level. As eight o’clock chimes from the smoky-faced clock of the Horse -Guards, I try in vain (I have dismissed my shadowy friends) to people -the Mall with aristocratic visitants. Alas and indeed! the magnificent -promenade of the park, on which look the stately mansions of the nobles, -is pervaded by figures very mean, very poor and forlorn in appearance. -Little troops of girls and young women are coming from the direction of -Buckingham Palace and the Birdcage Walk, but all converging towards the -Duke of York’s column: that beacon to the great shores of Vanity Fair. -These are sempstresses and milliners’ workwomen, and are bound for the -great Dress Factories of the West End. Pinched faces, pale faces, eager -faces, sullen faces, peer from under the bonnets as they pass along -and up the steps. There are faces with large mild eyes, that seem to -wonder at the world and at its strange doings, and at the existence of a -Necessity (it must be a Necessity, you know), for Jane or Ellen to work -twelve hours a day; nay, in the full London season, work at her needle -not unfrequently all night, in order that the Countess or the Marchioness -may have her ball dress ready. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: EIGHT O’CLOCK; OPENING SHOP.] - -There is another ceremony performed with much clattering solemnity of -wooden panels, and iron bars, and stanchions, which occurs at eight -o’clock in the morning. ’Tis then that the shop-shutters are taken -down. The great “stores” and “magazines” of the principal thoroughfares -gradually open their eyes; apprentices, light-porters, and where the -staff of assistants is not very numerous, the shopmen, release the -imprisoned wares, and bid the sun shine on good family “souchong,” -“fresh Epping sausages,” “Beaufort collars,” “guinea capes,” “Eureka -shirts,” and “Alexandre harmoniums.” In the smaller thoroughfares, the -proprietor often dispenses with the aid of apprentice, light-porter, and -shopman—for the simple reason that he never possessed the services of any -assistants at all—and unostentatiously takes down the shutters of his -own chandler’s, green-grocer’s, tripe, or small stationery shop. In the -magnificent linendrapery establishments of Oxford and Regent Streets, the -vast shop-fronts, museums of fashion in plate-glass cases, offer a series -of animated _tableaux_ of _poses plastiques_ in the shape of young ladies -in morning costume, and young gentlemen in whiskers and white neckcloths, -faultlessly complete as to costume, with the exception that they are -yet in their shirt sleeves, who are accomplishing the difficult and -mysterious feat known as “dressing” the shop window. By their nimble and -practised hands the rich piled velvet mantles are displayed, the _moire_ -and _glacé_ silks arranged in artful folds, the laces and gauzes, the -innumerable whim-whams and fribble-frabble of fashion, elaborately shown, -and to their best advantage. - -Now, all over London, the shops start into new life. Butchers and bakers, -and candlestick makers, grocers and cheesemongers, and pastrycooks, -tailors, linendrapers, and milliners, crop up with mushroom-like -rapidity. But I must leave them, to revisit them in all their glory a few -hours later. Leave, too, the Park and its Mall, with the cows giving milk -of a decidedly metropolitan flavour, and the children and the nursemaids, -and the dilapidated dramatic authors reading the manuscripts of their -five-act tragedies to themselves, and occasionally reciting favourite -passages in deep diapason on the benches under the trees. Leave, too, the -London sparrows, and—would that we could leave it altogether—the London -smoke, which already begins to curl over and cover up the city like a -blanket, and which will not keep clear of the Mall, even at eight o’clock -in the morning. - - - - -NINE O’CLOCK A.M.—THE CLERKS AT THE BANK, AND THE BOATS ON THE RIVER. - - -It is nine o’clock, and London has breakfasted. Some unconsidered tens -of thousands have, it is true, already enjoyed with what appetite they -might their præ-prandial meal; the upper fifty thousand, again, have not -yet left their luxurious couches, and will not breakfast till ten, eleven -o’clock, noon; nay, there shall be sundry listless, languid members of -fast military clubs, dwellers among the tents of Jermyn Street, and the -high-priced second floors of Little Ryder Street, St. James’s, upon whom -one, two, and three o’clock in the afternoon shall be but as dawn, and -whose broiled bones and devilled kidneys shall scarcely be laid on the -damask breakfast-cloth before Sol is red in the western horizon. - -I wish that, in this age so enamoured of statistical information, -when we must needs know how many loads of manure go to every acre of -turnip-field, and how many jail-birds are thrust into the black hole -_per mensem_ for fracturing their pannikins, or tearing their convict -jackets, that some M’Culloch or Caird would tabulate for me the amount of -provisions, solid and liquid, consumed at the breakfasts of London every -morning. I want to know how many thousand eggs are daily chipped, how -many of those embryo chickens are poached, and how many fried; how many -tons of quartern loaves are cut up to make bread-and-butter, thick and -thin; how many porkers have been sacrificed to provide the bacon rashers, -fat and streaky; what rivers have been drained, what fuel consumed, what -mounds of salt employed, what volumes of smoke emitted, to catch and cure -the finny haddocks and the Yarmouth bloaters, that grace our morning -repast. Say, too, Crosse and Blackwell, what multitudinous demands -are matutinally made on thee for pots of anchovy paste and preserved -tongue, covered with that circular layer—abominable disc!—of oleaginous -nastiness, apparently composed of rancid pomatum, but technically known -as clarified butter, and yet not so nasty as that adipose horror that -surrounds the truffle bedecked _pâté de foie gras_. Say, Elizabeth -Lazenby, how many hundred bottles of thy sauce (none of which are genuine -unless signed by thee) are in request to give a relish to cold meat, -game, and fish. Mysteries upon mysteries are there connected with nine -o’clock breakfasts. Queries upon queries suggest themselves to the -inquisitive mind. Speculations upon speculations present themselves to -him who is observant. Are those eggs we see in the coffee-shop windows, -by the side of the lean chop with a curly tail, the teapot with the -broken spout, and the boulder-looking kidneys, ever eaten, and if so, -what secret do the coffee-shop proprietors possess of keeping them from -entire decomposition? For I have watched these eggs for weeks together, -and known them by bits of straw and flecks of dirt mucilaginously -adhering to their shells, to be the selfsame eggs; yet when I have -entered the unpretending house of refreshment, and ordered “tea and an -egg,” I have seen the agile but dingy handmaiden swiftly approach the -window, slide the glass panel back with nimble (though dusky) fingers, -convey an egg to the mysterious kitchen in the background, and in a few -minutes place the edible before me boiled, yet with sufficient marks of -the straw upon it to enable me to discern my ancient friend. Who, again, -invented muffins?—and what becomes of all the cold crossbuns after Good -Friday? I never saw a crossbun on Holy Saturday, and I believe the boy -most addicted to saccharine dainties would scorn one. - -So hungry London breakfasts, but not uniformly well, at nine o’clock in -the morning. In quietly grim squares, in the semi-aristocratic North-West -End—I don’t mean Russell and Bloomsbury, but Gordon, Tavistock, Queen, -and Camden, on the one side, and Manchester and Portman on the other—the -nine o’clock breakfast takes place in the vast comfortless dining-room, -with the shining side-board (purchased at the sale of Sir Hector Ajacks, -the great Indian general’s, effects), and the portrait of the master of -the house (Debenham Storr, R.A., pinxit), crimson curtain and column in -foreground, dessert plate, cut orange, and—supposed—silver hand-bell in -front ditto. This is the sort of room where there is a Turkey carpet that -has been purchased at the East India Company’s sale rooms, in Billiter -Street, and which went cheap because there was a hole in one corner, -carefully darned subsequently by the mistress of the house. The master -comes down stairs gravely, with a bald head—the thin, gray hair carefully -brushed over the temples, and a duffel dressing-gown. He spends five -minutes in his “study,” behind the breakfast dining-room; not, goodness -knows, to consult the uncut books on the shelves—uncomfortable works, -like Helps’s “Friends in Council,” that scrap of rusty BACON, and Mr. -Harriet Martineau’s “India,” are among the number; but to break the seals -of the letters ranged for him on the leather-covered table—he reads -his correspondence at breakfast—to unlock, perchance, one drawer, take -out his cheque-book, and give it one hasty flutter, one loving glance, -and to catch up and snuggle beneath his arm the copy of the “Times” -newspaper, erst damped, but since aired at the kitchen fire, which the -newsvender’s boy dropped an hour since down the area. It may be, too, -that he goes into that uselessly (to him) book-furnished room, because -he thinks it a good, a grand, a respectable thing to have a “study” at -all. This is the sort of house where they keep a footman, single-handed—a -dull knave, who no more resembles the resplendent flunkey of Eaton Square -or Westbourne Terrace, than does the cotton-stockinged “greencoat” of -the minor theatres; who is told that he must wear a morning jacket, and -who accoutres himself in a striped jerkin, baggy in the back and soiled -at the elbows, that makes him look like an hostler, related, on the -mother’s side, to a Merry Andrew. The mistress of the house comes down -to nine o’clock breakfast, jingling the keys in her little basket, and -with anxious pre-occupation mantling from her _guipure_ collar to her -false front, for those fatal crimson housekeeping books are to be audited -this morning, and she is nervous. The girls come down in brown-holland -jackets and smartly dowdy skirts, dubious as to the state of their back -hair; the eldest daughter frowning after her last night’s course of -theology (intermingled with the last novel from Mr. Mudie’s). As a rule, -the young ladies are very ill-tempered; and, equally as a rule, there -is always one luckless young maiden in a family of grown-up daughters -who comes down to breakfast with her stockings down at heel, and is -sternly reprimanded during breakfast because one of her shoes comes off -under the table; he who denounces her being her younger brother, the -lout in the jacket, with the surreptitious peg-top in his pocket, who -attends the day-school of the London University, and cribs his sisters’ -Berlin-wool canvas to mend his Serpentine yacht sails with. The children -too old to breakfast in the nursery come down gawky, awkward, tumbling, -and discontented, for they are as yet considered too young to partake -of the frizzled bits of bacon which are curling themselves in scorched -agony on the iron footman before the grate, the muffins, which sodden in -yellow butter-pools in the Minton plates on the severely-creased damask -table-cloth, or the dry toast which, shrivelled and forbidding, grins -from between the Sheffield-plated bars of the rack. The servants come -in, not to morning breakfast, but to morning prayers. The housemaid has -just concluded her morning flirtation with the baker; the cook has been -crying over “Fatherless Fanny.” The master of the house reads prayers -in a harsh, grating voice, and Miss Charlotte, aged thirteen, is sent -to her bed-room, with prospects of additional punishment, for eating -her curl-papers during matins. The first organ-grinder arrives in the -square during breakfast; and the master of the house grimly reproves the -children who are beginning to execute involuntary polkas on their chairs, -and glowers at the governess—she is such a meek young creature, marked -with the small-pox, that I did not think it worth while to mention her -before—who manifests symptoms of beating her sad head to the music. How -happy, at least how relieved, everybody is when the master exchanges -his duffel dressing-gown for a blue body-coat, takes his umbrella, and -drives off in his brougham to the city or Somerset House! The children -are glad to go to their lessons, though they hate _them_ at most times, -passably. Miss Meek, the governess, is glad to install herself in her -school-room, and grind “Mangnall’s Questions,” and “Blair’s Preceptor,” -till the children’s dinner, at one o’clock; though she would, perhaps, -prefer shutting herself up in her own room and having a good cry. The -mistress finds consolation, too, in going downstairs and quarrelling -with the cook, and then going upstairs and being quarrelled with by the -nurse. Besides, there will be plenty of time for shopping before Mr. -M. comes home. The girls are delighted that cross papa is away. Papa -always wants to know what the letters are about which they write at the -little walnut-tree tables with the twisted legs. Papa objects to the -time wasted in working the application collars. Papa calls novel reading -and pianoforte practice “stuff,” with a very naughty adjective prefixed -thereunto. This is the sort of house that is neatly, solidly furnished -from top to toe, with every modern convenience and improvement: with -bath-rooms, conservatories, ice cellars; with patent grates, patent -door-handles, dish-lifts, asbestos stoves, gas cooking ranges, and -excruciatingly complicated ventilatory contrivances; and this is also the -sort of house where, with all the conveniences I have mentioned, every -living soul who inhabits it is uncomfortable. - -As the clock strikes nine, you see the last school-children flock in to -the narrow alley behind St. Martin’s Lane, hard by the Lowther Arcade, -and leading to the national schools. They have been romping and playing -in the street this half-hour; and it was but the iron tongue of St. -Martin that interrupted that impending fight between the young brothers -Puddicomb, from King Street, Long Acre, who are always fighting, and -that famous clapper-clawing match between Polly Briggs and Susey Wright. -At the last stroke of nine there hurries into the school corridor a -comely female teacher in a green plaid shawl: and, woe be unto her! nine -has struck full ten minutes, when the inevitable laggard of every school -appears, half skurrying, half crawling, her terror combating with her -sluggishness, from the direction of Leicester Square. She is a gaunt, -awkward girl, in a “flibberty-flobberty” hat, a skimping gray cape, with -thunder-and-lightning buttons, an absurdly short skirt, and lace-edged -trousers, that trail over her sandaled shoes. Add to this her slate -and satchel, and she is complete. When will parents cease, I wonder, -to attire their children in this ridiculous and preposterous manner. -Hannah (her name is Hannah, for certain!) left her home in Bear Street in -excellent time for school; but she has dawdled, and loitered, and gloated -over every sweetstuff and picture shop, and exchanged languid repartees -with rude boys. She will be kept in to a certainty this afternoon, will -Hannah! - -Now is the matutinal occupation of the milkwoman nearly gone; her last -cries of “Milk, ho!” die away in faint echoes, and she might reasonably -be supposed to enjoy a holiday till the afternoon’s milk for tea were -required; but not so. To distant dairies she hies, and to all appearances -occupies herself in scrubbing her milk pails till three o’clock. I have -a great affection (platonic) for milkwomen. I should like to go down -to Wales and see them when they are at home. What clean white cotton -stockings they wear, on—no, not their legs—on the posts which support -their robust torsos! How strong they are! There are many I should be -happy to back, and for no inconsiderable trifle either, to thrash Ben -Gaunt. Did you ever know any one who courted a milkwoman? Was there ever -a milkwoman married, besides Madam Vestris, in the “Wonderful Woman?” -Yes; I love them—their burly forms; their mahogany faces, handsomely -veneered by wind and weather; their coarse straw bonnets flattened at -the top; their manly lace-up boots, and those wonderful mantles on -their shoulders, which are neither shawl, tippet, cape nor scarf, but a -compound of all, and are of equally puzzling colour and patterns. - -The postman is breakfasting in the interval between the eight and the ten -o’clock delivery. Does he take his scarlet tunic off when he breakfasts? -Does he beguile the short hour of refreshment by reading, between snaps -of bread and butter and gulps of coffee, short extracts from “A Double -Knock at the Postman’s Conscience,” by the Reverend Mr. Davis, Ordinary -of Newgate? For if the postman reads not during breakfast-time, I am -wholly at a loss to know, dog-tired as he must be when he comes home from -his rounds at night, when he can find time for pursuing his literary -studies. By the way, where does the postman lodge? I have occupied -apartments in the same house with a policeman; I was once aware of the -private residence of a man who served writs; and I have taken tea in -the parlour of the Pandean pipes to a Punch-and-Judy; but I never knew -personally the abode of a postman. Mr. Sculthorpe and Mr. Peacock know -them but too frequently, to the postman’s cost. - -Nine o’clock, and the _grande armée_ of “musicianers” debouches from -Spitalfields, and Leather Lane, Holborn, and far-off Clerkenwell, and, -in compact columns, move westward. Nine o’clock, and the sonorous cry -of “Old clo’!” is heard in sequestered streets chiefly inhabited by -bachelors. Nine o’clock, and another _grande armée_ veers through Temple -Bar, charges down Holborn Hill, escalades Finsbury, captures Cornhill by -a dexterous flank movement, and sits down and invests the Bank of England -in regular form. This is London going to business in the city. - -[Illustration: NINE O’CLOCK A.M.: OMNIBUSES AT THE BANK.] - -[Illustration: NINE O’CLOCK A.M.: PENNY STEAMBOATS ALONGSIDE THE PIER AT -LONDON BRIDGE.] - -If the morning be fine, the pavement of the Strand and Fleet Street looks -quite radiant with the spruce clerks walking down to their offices, -governmental, financial, and commercial. Marvellous young bucks some -of them are. These are the customers, you see at a glance, whom the -resplendent wares in the hosiers’ shops attract, and in whom those wary -industrials find avid customers. These are the dashing young parties who -purchase the pea-green, the orange, and the rose-pink gloves; the crimson -braces, the kaleidoscopic shirt-studs, the shirts embroidered with -dahlias, deaths’ heads, race-horses, sun-flowers, and ballet-girls; the -horseshoe, fox-head, pewter-pot-and-crossed-pipes, willow-pattern-plate, -and knife-and-fork pins. These are the glasses of city fashion, and the -mould of city form, for whom the legions of fourteen, of fifteen, of -sixteen, and of seventeen shilling trousers, all unrivalled, patented, -and warranted, are made; for these ingenious youths coats with strange -names are devised, scarves and shawls of wondrous pattern and texture -despatched from distant Manchester and Paisley. For them the shiniest -of hats, the knobbiest of sticks, gleam through shop-windows; for them -the geniuses of “all-round collars” invent every week fresh yokes of -starched linen, pleasant instruments of torture, reminding us equally -of the English pillory, the Chinese cangue, the Spanish garotte, the -French _lucarne_ to the guillotine (that window from which the criminal -looks out into eternity), and the homely and cosmopolitan dog-collar! -There are some of these gay clerks who go down to their offices with -roses at their button-holes, and with cigars in their mouths; there are -some who wear peg-top trousers, chin-tufts, eye-glasses, and varnished -boots. These mostly turn off in the Strand, and are in the Admiralty or -Somerset House. As for the government clerks of the extreme West-end—the -patricians of the Home and Foreign Offices—the bureaucrats of the -Circumlocution Office, in a word—_they_ ride down to Whitehall or -Downing Street in broughams or on park hacks. Catch them in omnibuses, -or walking on the vulgar pavement, forsooth! The flags of Regent Street -they might indeed tread gingerly, at three o’clock in the afternoon; but -the Strand, and at nine o’clock in the morning! Forbid it, gentility! I -observe—to return to the clerks who are bending citywards—that the most -luxuriant whiskers belong to the Bank of England. I believe that there -are even whisker clubs in that great national institution, where prizes -are given for the best pair of _favoris_ grown without macassar. You may, -as a general rule, distinguish government from commercial clerks by the -stern repudiation of the razor, as applied to the beard and moustaches, -by the former; and again I may remark, that the prize for the thinnest -and most dandy-looking umbrellas must be awarded, as of right, to the -clerks in the East India House—mostly themselves slim, natty gentlemen, -of jaunty appearance, who are all supposed to have had tender affairs -with the widows of East India colonels. You may know the cashiers in the -private banking houses by their white hats and buff waistcoats; you may -know the stock-brokers by their careering up Ludgate Hill in dog-carts, -and occasionally tandems, and by the pervading sporting appearance of -their costume; you may know the Jewish commission agents by their flashy -broughams, with lapdogs and ladies in crinoline beside them; you may know -the sugar-bakers and the soap-boilers by the comfortable double-bodied -carriages with fat horses in which they roll along; you may know the -Manchester warehousemen by their wearing gaiters, always carrying their -hands in their pockets, and frequently slipping into recondite city -taverns up darksome alleys, on their way to Cheapside, to make a quiet -bet or so on the Chester Cup or the Liverpool Steeplechase; you may know, -finally, the men with a million of money, or thereabouts, by their being -ordinarily very shabby, and by their wearing shocking bad hats, which -have seemingly never been brushed, on the backs of their heads. - -“Every road,” says the proverb, “leads to Rome;” every commercial -ways leads to the Bank of England. And there, in the midst of that -heterogeneous architectural jumble between the Bank of England itself, -the Royal Exchange, the Poultry, Cornhill, and the Globe Insurance -Office, the vast train of omnibuses, that have come from the West and -that have come from the East—that have been rumbling along the Macadam -while I was prosing on the pedestrians—with another great army of clerk -martyrs outside and inside, their knees drawn up to their chins, and -their chins resting on their umbrella handles, set down their loads of -cash-book and ledger fillers. What an incalculable mass of figures must -there be collected in those commercial heads! What legions of _£. s. d._! -What a chaos of cash debtor, contra creditor, bills payable, and bills -receivable; waste-books, day-books, cash-books, and journals; insurance -policies, brokerage, agio, tare and tret, dock warrants, and general -commercial bedevilment! They file off to their several avocations, to -spin money for others, often, poor fellows, while they themselves are -blest with but meagre stipends. They plod away to their gloomy wharves -and hard-hearted counting-houses, where the chains from great cranes wind -round their bodies, and they dance hornpipes in bill-file and cash-box -fetters, and the mahogany of the desks enters into their souls. Upon my -word, I think if I were doomed to clerkdom, that I should run away and -enlist; but that would avail me little, for I am equally certain that, -were I a grenadier, and my commanding officer made me mount guard, that I -should pop my musket into the sentry-box and run away too. - -So the omnibuses meet at the Bank and disgorge the clerks by hundreds; -repeating this operation scores of times between nine and ten o’clock. -But you are not to delude yourself, that either by wheeled vehicle or by -the humbler conveyances known as “Shanks’s mare,” and the “Marrowbone -stage”—in more refined language, walking—have all those who have business -in the city reached their destination. No; the Silent Highway has been -their travelling route. On the broad—would that I could add the silvery -and sparkling—bosom of Father Thames, they have been borne in swift, -grimy little steamboats, crowded with living freights from Chelsea, -and Pimlico, and Vauxhall piers, from Hungerford, Waterloo, Temple, -Blackfriars, and Southwark—straight by the hay-boats, with their lateen -sails discoloured in a manner that would delight a painter, straight -by Thames police hulks, by four and six-oared cutters, by coal-barges, -and great lighters laden with bricks and ashes and toiling towards -Putney and Richmond; by oozy wharves and grim-chimneyed factories; by -little, wheezy, tumbledown waterside public-houses; by breweries, and -many-windowed warehouses; by the stately gardens of the Temple, and the -sharp-pointed spires of city churches, and the great dome of Paul’s -looming blue in the morning, to the Old Shades Pier, hard by London -Bridge. There is landing and scuffling and pushing; the quivering old -barges, moored in the mud, are swaying and groaning beneath trampling -feet. Then, for an instant, Thames Street, Upper and Lower, is invaded -by an ant-hill swarm of spruce clerks, who mingle strangely with the -fish-women and the dock-porters. But the insatiable counting-houses soon -swallow them up: as though London’s commercial maw were an hungered too, -for breakfast, at nine o’clock in the morning. - - - - -TEN O’CLOCK A.M.—THE COURT OF QUEEN’S BENCH, AND THE “BENCH” ITSELF. - - -The author presents his compliments to the “neat-handed Phillis” -who answers (when she is in a good temper, which is but seldom) the -second-floor bell, takes in his letters, brings up his breakfast, -stands in perpetual need of being warned not to light the fire with the -proof-sheets of his last novel, pamphlet on the war, or essay on the -Æolic digamma, or twist into cigar-lights the cheques for large amounts -continually sent him by his munificent publishers, and exercises her -right of search over his tea-caddy and the drawer containing his cravats, -all-round collars, and billet-doux; the author and your servant presents -his compliments to Phillis—ordinarily addressed by Mrs. Lillicrap, -the landlady, as “Mariar, you ’ussey”—and begs her to procure for him -immediately a skin of the creamiest parchment, free from grease, a bottle -of record ink, a quill plucked from the wing of a hawk, vulture, or some -kindred bird of prey, a box of pounce, a book of patterns of German text -for engrossing, and a hank of red tape or green ferret, whichsoever, in -her æsthetic judgment, she may prefer. He would be further obliged if -she would step round to the author’s solicitor, and ask, not for that -little bill of costs, which has been ready for some time, but which he -is not in the slightest hurry for—but for copies of Tidd’s Practice, the -Law List, and Lord St. Leonards’ “Handy Book on Property Law.” For I, -the author, intend to be strictly legal at ten o’clock in the morning. -I serve you with this copy of “Twice Round the Clock” as with a writ; -and in the name of Victoria, by the grace, &c., send you greeting, and -command—no, not command, but beg—that within eight days you enter an -appearance, to purchase this volume. Else will I invoke the powers of -the great _ca. sa._ and the terrible _fi. fa._ I will come against you, -with sticks and staves, and the sheriff of Middlesex shall take you, to -have and to hold, wheresoever you may be found running up and down in -his bailiwick. _Son nutrito di latte legale._ I am fed with law’s milk -at this hour of the morning. Shear me the sheep for vellum, fill me with -quips and quiddities; bind me apprentice to a law stationer in the Lane -of Chancery, over-against Cursitor Street; and let me also send in a -little bill of costs to my publishers, and charge them so much a “folio,” -instead of so much a “sheet.” - -This exercitation over, and the necessary stationery brought by Phillis, -_alias_ “Mariar,” I approach my great, grim subject with diffident -respect. What do I know of law, save that if I pay not, the Alguazils -will lay me by the heels; that if I steal, I shall go to the hulks; -that if I kill, I shall go hang? What do I know of _Sinderesis_, -feoffors and feoffees, and the law of tailed lands? What of the Assize -of _Mortdancestor_, tenants in dower, villein entry—of _Sylva cædua_, -which is, I am sure you will be glad to hear, more familiarly known as -the 45th of Edward the Third? These things are mysteries to me. I bought -the _habeas corpus_ once (the palladium of our liberties is an expensive -luxury), but its custodian scarcely allowed me to look at it, and, -hailing a cab, desired me to “look alive.” I have been defendant in an -action, but I never could make out why they should have done the things -to me that they did, and why John Lord Campbell at Westminster should -have been so bitter against me. I never was on a jury; but I have enjoyed -the acquaintance of an Irish gentleman whose presence on the panel was -considered invaluable at state trials, he having the reputation of an -indomitable “boot-eater.” Finally, I have, as most men have, a solicitor, -a highly respectable party, who, of course, only charges me the “costs -out of pocket.” But what is the exact measure of “costs out of pocket?” I -never knew. - -Not wholly destitute of legal literature is your servant, however. In -Pope and Arbuthnot’s Reports (_vide_ Miscellanies) I have read the great -case of Stradlings _versus_ Styles, respecting the piebald horses and -the horses that were pied, and have pondered much over that notable -conclusion (in Norman-French) by the reporter—“Je heard no more parceque -j’etais asleep sur mong bench.” I have followed the arguments in Bardell -_versus_ Pickwick: I have seen the “Avocat Patelin” and the “Lottery -Ticket;” I have paced the Salle des Pas Perdus in Paris, and Westminster -Hall, London; I knew a captain once who lived in the equally defunct -“rules” of the Queen’s Bench; and I have played racquets in the area of -that establishment, as an amateur(?). So, then, though, in a very humble -degree, I conceive myself qualified to discourse to you concerning legal -London at ten o’clock in the morning. - -The judges of the land—of Queen’s Bench, Exchequer, and Common Pleas, -Chief-Justices, Barons, and Puisne Judges, and Sages of the Court of -Probate, Divorce, and Matrimonial Causes—are mostly jaunty, elderly -gentlemen of cheerful appearance, given in private life to wearing -light neckcloths, buff waistcoats, and pepper-and-salt trousers, and -particularly addicted to trotting down to the Courts of Westminster -mounted on stout hacks—’tis the bishops, _par excellence_, who ride -the cobs—and followed by sober grooms. There are judges who, it is -reported, make up considerable books for the Derby and Oaks—nay, for -the double event. I have seen a judge in a white hat, and I have seen a -vice-chancellor drinking iced fruit effervescent at Stainsbury’s in the -Strand. - -Parliament Street and Palace Yard are fair to see, this pleasant morning -in Term time. The cause list for all the courts is pretty full, and -there is a prospect of nice legal pickings. The pavement is dotted -with barristers’ and solicitors’ clerks carrying blue and crimson bags -plethoric with papers. Smart attorneys, too, with shoe-ribbon, light -vests, swinging watch-guards, and shiny hats (they have begun to wear -moustaches even, the attorneys!), bustle past, papers beneath their arms, -open documents in their hands, which they sort and peruse as they walk. -The parti-coloured fastenings of these documents flutter, so that you -would take these men of law for so many conjurors about to swallow red -and green tape. And they do conjure, and to a tune, the attorneys. Lank -office-boys, in hats too large, and corduroys and tweeds too short, and -jackets, stained with ink, too short for them; cadaverous office-runners -and process-servers, in greasy and patched habiliments, white at the -seams; bruised and battered, ruby-nosed law-writers, skulking down to -Westminster in quest of a chance copying job; managing clerks, staid -men given to abdominal corpulence, who wear white neckcloths, plaited -shirt-frills, black satin waistcoats, and heavy watch chains and seals, -worn, in the good old fashion, underneath the vest, and pendulous -from the base line thereof, file along the pavement to their common -destination, the great Hall of Pleas at Westminster. The great solicitors -and attorneys, men who may be termed the princes of law, who are at the -head of vast establishments in Bedford Row and Lincoln’s Inn Fields, -and whose practice is hereditary, dash along in tearing cabs: you look -through the windows, and see an anxious man, with bushy gray whiskers, -sitting inside; the cushions beside and before him littered, piled, -cumbered, with tape-tied papers. He has given Sir Fitzroy three hundred, -Sir Richard five hundred, guineas, for an hour’s advocacy. Thousands -depend upon the decision of the twelve worthy men who will be in the -jury-box in the course of an hour. See! one of them is cheapening apples -at a stall at this very moment, and tells his companion (who has just -alighted from a chaise-cart) that in that little shop yonder Marley -murdered the watchmaker’s shopman. Great lawyers such as these have as -many noble fortunes in their hands as great doctors have noble lives. -Of the secrets of noble reputations, doctors and lawyers are alike -custodians; and, trustworthy. - -The briefless barristers would like to patronise cabs, but they can’t -afford those luxuries. They walk down Parliament Street arm-in-arm, -mostly men with bold noses of the approved Slawkenbergius pattern, and -very large red or sandy whiskers. Whiskers cost nothing, noses are -cheap—I had mine broken once for nothing, though it cost me several -pounds sterling to get it mended again. Their briefless clothes are very -worn and threadbare, their hats napless, their umbrellas—they always -carry umbrellas—gape at the mouth, and distend at the nozzle. These -barristers are second wranglers, fellows of their college, prizemen; they -have pulled stroke-oar, and bibbed at wine parties given by marquises. -They are very poor and briefless now. The chambers in the Temple are very -high up; the carpet, ragged; the laundress is a tipsy shrew who pilfers; -the boot-boy insists upon serving up small coal broiled with the mutton -chops. It is but seldom, but very seldom, that they can order a steak -at the “Rainbow,” or demand a bottle of Port from the plump waiter the -“Cock.” No attorneys ascend their staircase; no briefs are frayed in -being pushed through the aperture of their letter-boxes; editors are -deaf, and the only magazine which receives their contributions don’t pay. -They cannot help asking themselves sometimes, sadly and querulously, -poor fellows, of what avail is the grand classical education, tedious -and expensive; the slaving for a degree or for honours; the long nights -spent beneath the glare of the reading lamp, learning and re-learning the -palimpsests of law; of what avail are the joints of mutton and bottles of -heady wine consumed at the keeping-term dinners; of what avail the square -of the hypothenuse, and the knowledge (in the best Latin) that strong men -lived before Agamemnon; of what avail the wig (it is getting unpowdered), -the gown (it is growing threadbare), and the big Greek prize-books -with the College arms emblazoned on the covers? Lo! there is Tom -Cadman, who has been an unsuccessful play-actor and an usher in a cheap -boarding-school, writing leaders for a daily paper in the coffee-room of -the “Albion,” or returning thanks for the press at a champagne dinner; -there is Roger Bullyon, of the Home Circuit, whose only talent is abuse, -who knows no more of law than he does of the conduct to be expected from -a gentleman, who will never, if he live till ninety, be more than a -fluent, insolent donkey, and yet there he is, with more briefs than he -can carry, or his clerk compute the fees on. But console yourselves, oh, -ye briefless ones. Though the race be not to the swift, nor the battle to -the strong, your chance is yet in the lucky-bag; the next dive may bring -it forth splendid and triumphant. - - “No one is so accursed by fate, - No one so utterly desolate, - But some heart, though unknown, - Responds unto his own.” - -Mr. Right, the attorney, is coming post-haste after you, his waistcoat -pockets distended with retainers and refreshers. In that tremendous -lottery of the law, as wise Mr. Thackeray terms it, who shall say that -you may not be next the fortunate wretches who shall win the prize—the -_gros lot_? To-day is poverty and heart-sickening hope deferred and -the pawn-shop; but to-morrow may make you the thunderer before the -judicial committee of the Privy Council on the great appeal from Bombay, -Parsetjee-Jamsetjee-Ramsetjee Loll _versus_ Boomajee-Krammajee-Howdajee -Chow. It may make you standing counsel to the Feejee Islands Company, or -defender of group 97 of Railway Bills. So, despair not, briefless man; -but pause before you sell that sheet anchor of hope, of yours, for old -iron. - -Barristers in large practice drive over Westminster Bridge’s crazy arches -(the rogues have houses at Norwood and Tulse Hill, with conservatories -and pineries) in small phætons or gleaming clarences, with sleek white -horses. They have wives rustling in sheeny silks and glowing with -artificial flowers, who, their lords being deposited in the temple of -Theseus, are borne straight away to Stagg and Mantell’s, or Waterloo -House; or, perchance, to that glorious avenue of Covent Garden Market, -where they price cucumbers at Mrs. Solomon’s, and bouquets at Mrs. -Buck’s. For, note it as a rule, though it may seem a paradox, people who -have kitchen-gardens and hot-houses are always buying fruit, flowers, -and vegetables. The steady-going old Nisi Prius barristers, in good -practice—sedate fogies—with their white neckcloths twisted like halters -round their necks; pompous old fellows, who jingle keys and sovereigns in -their pockets, as, their hands therein, they prop up the door-jambs of -the robing-room, in converse with weasel-faced attorneys, are borne to -Westminster in cabs. Very hard are they upon the cabman, paying him but -the exact fare, and threatening him with the severest terrors of the law -at the slightest attempt at overcharge; and much are they maledicted by -the badged Jehus as they drive slowly away. These Nisi Prius worthies are -great hands at a rubber of whist, and are as good judges of port-wine as -they are of law. - -Whence comes the Chief, the leader, the great advocate of the day, who -carries attorney and solicitor general, chief-justice, chancellor, -peer, written as legibly on his brow as Cain carried the brand?—how he -reaches Westminster Hall, or how he gets away from it, no man can tell. -He will make a four hours’ speech to-day, drive eight witnesses to the -verge of distraction, blight with sarcasm, and sear with denunciation, a -semi-idiotic pig-jobber, the defendant in an action of breach of promise -of marriage, in which the plaintiff is a stay-maker of the mature age -of thirty-seven. What shrieks of laughter will ring through the court -when in burning accents, in which irony is mingled with indignation, the -Chief reads passages from the love-smitten but incautious pig-jobber’s -correspondence, and quotes from his poetical effusions (they _will_ write -poetry, these defendants) such passages as— - - “When you tork - You are like roast pork.” - -Or, - - “Say, luvley chine, - Will you be mine.” - -Two hours afterwards, and the Chief will be on the other side of -Westminster Hall, in the Commons’ House of Parliament, pounding away on -the wrongs of a few people in Staffordshire who object to the odour of -some neighbouring gas-works, and, to use an Americanism, “chawing up” -the ministry at a tremendous rate. How is it that about the same time he -manages to dine with the Merchant Cobblers at their grand old hall on St. -Crispin’s Hill; to take the chair at the festival of the Association for -improving the moral condition of Mudlarks; to make a two hours’ speech -at the meeting for the suppression of street “catch-’em-alive-O’s;” to -look in at half-a-dozen west-end clubs; to hear Bosio—ah! poor Bosio, -ah, poor swan, miasma’d to death in the horrid marshes of Ingria and -Carelia—in the last act of the “Traviata;” and to be seen flitting out -of the bar-parlour of Joe Muttonfist’s hostelry in Mauley Court-yard, -Whitechapel, where the whereabouts of the impending great fight between -Dan Bludyer, surnamed the “Mugger,” and Tim Sloggan, better known as -“Copperscull,” for two hundred pounds a-side, will be imparted to the -patrons of the “fancy?” Tom Stoat, who knows everything and everybody, -says he saw the Chief at the Crystal Palace Flower Show, and it is -certain that he (the Chief) will be at the Queen’s Ball to-night (he has -a dinner party this evening), and that after the opera he will take a -chop and kidney at Evans’s. And after that? What a life! What frame can -bear, what mind endure it! When does he study? when does he read those -mammoth briefs? when does he note those cases, prepare those eloquent -exordia and perorations? Whence comes the minute familiarity with every -detail of the case before him which he seems to possess, the marvellous -knowledge he displays of the birth, parentage, education, and antecedents -of the trembling witnesses whom he cross-examines? What a career! and -see, there is its Hero, shambling into Westminster Hall, a spare, -shrunken, stooping, prematurely-aged man. He has not had a new wig these -ten years, and his silk gown is shabby, almost to raggedness. He is no -doubt arguing some abstruse point of law with that voluble gentleman, -his companion, in the white waistcoat. Let us approach and listen, for I -am Asmodeus and we are eaves-droppers. Point of law! Upon my word, he is -talking about the Chester Cup. - -[Illustration: TEN O’CLOCK A.M.: INTERIOR OF THE COURT OF QUEEN’S BENCH.] - -In with ye, then, my merry men all, to the hall of Westminster, for -the Court of Queen’s Bench is sitting. It is not a handsome court; it -is not an imposing court. If I were to say that it was a very mean and -ugly room, quite unworthy to figure as an audience-chamber for the -judges of the land, I don’t think that I should be in error. Where are -the lictors and the fasces? Where the throned daïs on which the wise -men of the Archeopagus should properly sit? The bench looks but an -uncomfortable settle! the floor of the court is a ridiculous little -quadrangle of oak, like a pie-board; the witness-box is so small that it -seems capable of holding nothing but the shooting “Jack” of our toyshop -experience; and the jury-box has a strong family likeness to one of -the defunct Smithfield sheep-pens, where sit the intelligent jury, who -have an invincible propensity, be the weather hot or cold, for wiping -their foreheads with blue cotton pocket handkerchiefs. A weary martyrdom -some of those poor jurymen pass; understanding a great deal more about -the case on which they have to deliver at its commencement than at -its termination; bemused, bewildered, and dazzled by the rhetorical -flourishes and ingenious sophistry of the counsel on both sides, and -utterly nonplussed by the elaborately obscure pleas that are put in. But -the usher has sworn them in that they “shall will and truly try” the -matter before them; and try it they must. To a man who has, perhaps, a -matter of sixty or seventy thousand pounds at stake on the issue of a -trial, the proceedings of most tribunals seem characterised by strange -indifference, and an engaging, though, to the plaintiff and defendant, a -somewhat irritating _laisser aller_. The attorneys take snuff with one -another, and whisper jokes. The counsel chat and poke each other in the -ribs; the briefless ones, in the high back rows, scribble caricatures on -their blotting-pads, or pretend to pore over “faggot” briefs, or lounge -from the Queen’s Bench into the Exchequer, and from the Exchequer into -the Bail Court, and so on and into the Common Pleas; the usher nods, and -cries, “Silence,” sleepily; the clerk reads in a droning monotonous voice -documents of the most vital importance, letters that destroy and blast -a life-long reputation of virtue and honour: letters that bring shame -on noble women, and ridicule on distinguished men; vows of affection, -slanderous accusations, outbursts of passion, anonymous denunciations, -ebullitions of love, hatred, revenge. Some one is here, doubtless, -to report the case for to-morrow’s papers, but no active pens seem -moving. The Chief has not assumed his legal harness yet; and the junior -counsel employed in the case are bungling over their preliminaries. -The faded moreen curtains; the shabby royal arms above the judge, with -their tarnished gilding, subdued-looking lion, and cracked unicorn; the -ink-stained, grease-worn desks and forms; the lack-lustre, threadbare -auditory, with woe-be-gone garments and mien, who fill up the hinderpart -of the auditory: though what they can want in the Court of Queen’s Bench -Heaven only knows; the bombazine-clad barristers, in their ill-powdered -wigs—quite fail in impressing you with a sense of anything like grandeur -or dignity. Yet you are in _Banco Reginâ_. Here our sovereign lady -the Queen is supposed to sit herself in judgment; and from this court -emanates the Great Writ of Right—the Habeas Corpus. To tell the truth, -neither counsel, jury, nor audience seem to know or to care much about -what is going on; but there are three persons who sit up aloft—not -exactly sweet little cherubs, for they are very old, wrinkled men—who -know the case like a book, and considerably better than many books; who -have weighed the _pros_ and _cons_ to the minutest hair’s breath, to a -feather’s turn of the scale, who are awake and alive, alive O! to all -the rhetorical flourishes and ingenious sophistry of the advocates, and -who will tell the jury exactly what the case is made of in about a tithe -of the time that the junior counsel would take in enumerating wrongs of -which the plaintiff complains, or whose commission the defendant denies. -It is an edifying sight to watch the presiding judge—that shrivelled -man in petticoats—with his plain scratch wig all awry. Now he hugs his -arms within his capacious sleeves; now he crosses his legs; now, yes, -now he twiddles his judicial thumbs; now he nods his august head, allows -it to recline over one shoulder, and seems on the point of falling off -to sleep; now he leans wearily, his cheek in his hand, his elbow on -the bench, first on one side, then on the other; then he rises, shakes -his old head, yawns, and, with his hands in his pockets, surveys the -outer bar through gold-rimmed spectacles. He seems the most bored, the -most indifferent spectator there; but only wait till the chiefs on both -sides have concluded their eloquent bamboozling of the jury; mark my -Lord Owlett settle his wig and his petticoats then, sort and unfold the -notes he has been lazily (so it seemed) scrawling from time to time, and -in a piping, quavering voice, begin to read from them. You marvel at -the force, the clarity, the perspicuity of the grand old man; you stand -abashed before the intellect, clear as crystal, at an age when man’s -mind as well as his body is oft-times but labour and sorrow; you are -astonished that so much vigour, so much shrewdness, so much eloquence, -should exist in that worn and tottering casket. Goodness knows, I am not -an optimist, and give but too much reason to be accused of _nil admirari_ -tendencies; yet I cannot help thinking that if on this earth there exists -a body of men grandly wise, generously eloquent, nobly impartial, and -sternly incorruptible, those men are the judges of England. - -Come away though, now, Don Cleophas; we must go further afield. The case -that is “on” just now is not of sufficient interest to detain us; though -here is an episode sufficiently grotesque. An old lady is entitled to -some damages, or to some verdict, or to some money or apology, or, at all -events, something from somebody. My Lord Owlett suggests a compromise, -and instructs counsel to ask her what she will take to settle matters. - -“What will you take?” asks the gentleman in the bob-tailed wig of the old -lady. - -Now the old lady is very deaf, and merely shakes her head at the counsel, -informing the jury, in confidence, that she is “very hard o’ hearin’.” - -“His Lordship wants to know what you will take?” asks the counsel again; -this time bawling as loud as ever he can in the old lady’s ear. - -“I thank his lordship kindly,” the ancient dame answers stoutly, “and if -it’s no illconwenience to him, _I’ll take a little warm ale_!” - -And, amid a roar of laughter from the spectators, we quit the Court of -Queen’s Bench. - -Nor must we linger, either, beneath William Rufus’s carved roof-tree, -so ingeniously heightened, and otherwise transmogrified, by Sir Charles -Barry and his satellites. This is a different Westminster Hall to that -which I knew in my childhood, just after the great fire of ’34. There -was no great stained glass window at the end then, no brazen Gothic -candelabra, no golden House of Lords in the corridor beyond, where the -eye is dazzled with the gilding, the frescoes, the scarlet benches and -rich carpets, and where the Lord High Chancellor sits on the woolsack, -like an allegory of Themis in the midst of a blaze of fireworks. In my -time, the keeper of her Majesty’s conscience and the Great Seal sat in -a panelled room, like a dissenting chapel. Let us hasten forth from the -Great Hall, for it is full of memories. I spoke of famous footsteps on -the Mall, St. James’s; how many thousand footsteps—thousands?—millions -rather, have been lost here in fruitless pacing up and down! Westminster -Hall is always cool: well it may be so; the dust was laid and the air -refrigerated centuries since by the tears and the sighs of ruined -suitors. What a wondrous place the old hall is! what reminiscences it -conjures up—they will _not_ be laid in the Red Sea—of the gorgeous -banquets of the Plantagenets, of the trials of Laud and Strafford, -and of Laud and Strafford’s master; of Mr. Jonathan Wild’s ancestor -walking the hall with a straw in his shoe; of poor little Lady Jane -Grey and Guildford Dudley, her husband, standing their trial here on a -velvet-covered platform in the midst of the hall, for treason to Bloody -Mary. Did they ever cut a state prisoner’s head off in Westminster Hall, -I wonder, as they did Mary Stuart’s in the hall at Fotheringay? The place -is large enough. - - * * * * * - -[Illustration: TEN O’CLOCK A.M.: INTERIOR OF THE QUEEN’S BENCH PRISON.] - -Once again I stand within the precincts of the Queen’s Bench; but where -is my Lord Owlett, where the bewigged barristers and the jury-box with -the “twelve honest men” within wiping their semperperspiring foreheads? -I am standing in the centre of a vast gravelled area, bounded on -the south side by a brick wall of tremendous height, and crowned by -those curious arrangements of geometrical spikes known as _chevaux de -frise_. To the north there is a range of ordinary-looking houses, the -numbers of which are painted very conspicuously in white characters on -a black ellipse above the doors, about which, moreover, there is this -peculiarity, that they are always open. If you peep through the yawning -portals, you will see that the staircases are of stone, and that the -roofs of the rooms on the ground-floor are vaulted. There are no barred -windows, no bolts, bars, or grim chains apparent, though from the back -windows of these houses there is a pleasant prospect of another high -wall, equally surmounted with _chevaux de frise_. When the spider -has got the fly comfortably into his web, and has satisfied himself -that he can’t get out, I daresay that he does not take the trouble to -handcuff him. In the midst of this gravelled area stands a pump, known -as the “Dolphin;” to the right of this institution, and somewhat in the -back-ground, is a great square building, called the “State House.” The -rooms here are double the size to those in the houses I have alluded -to, and are accorded by the governor of the place as a matter of favour -to those inmates of the—well, the college—who can afford to fill them -with a sufficient quantity of furniture. Close to the State House is a -strong iron gateway, through which the guardians of the college have a -strong disinclination to allow the under-graduates to pass, unless they -be furnished with a certain mysterious document called “a discharge.” -The guardians themselves are ruddy men with very big keys; but they -seem on the very best terms with the gentlemen whose intended exercise -outside the walls they feel compelled (doubtless through solicitude -for their precious health) to debar, and are continually bidding them -“good morning” in the most affable manner; it being also one of their -idiosyncrasies to rub their noses with the handles of the big keys while -going through the salutation. In days not very remote there were certain -succursals, or chapels of ease, to the college, in the shape of dingy -tenements in the borough of Southwark, extending as far as the Elephant -and Castle; and in these tenements, which were called the “Rules,” such -collegians as were in a position to offer a fantastic guarantee entitled -a “Bail Bond,” were permitted to dwell, and thence they wrote letters -to their friends and relations, stating that the iron was entering into -their souls, and that they were languishing—well, never mind where—in -college. These “rules” were abolished in the early years of her present -Majesty’s reign; and at the same time a stern Secretary of State -prohibited the renewal of a notable saturnalia called “a Mock Election,” -of which no less celebrated an artist than Haydon painted a picture (he -was himself a collegian at the time), which was bought, for considerably -more than it was worth, by King George IV. The saturnalia was fast -falling into desuetude by itself; but the Home Secretary also interfered -to put a stop to the somewhat boisterous conviviality which had reigned -among those collegians who had money, from time immemorial, and which -had converted the Queen’s Bench into a den of the most outrageous and -disgraceful dissipation and revelry. Under the present not very stringent -regulations (considering what a _carcere duro_ is, the other _alma -mater_ of Whitecross Street, to say nothing of the hideous place called -Horsemonger Lane), the collegians are restricted to the consumption of -one quart of beer—which they may have just as strong as ever they like—or -one imperial pint of wine, per diem, at their option; yet it is a very -curious fact, that no collegian who was flush of cash was ever found -to labour under any difficulty in providing sufficient refreshment for -his friends when he gave a wine party in his room. The payment of rent -is unknown in the college; and it is but rarely that the time-honoured -system of “chummage,” or quartering two or mere collegians in one room, -and allowing the richest to pay his companions a stipulated sum to go out -and find quarters elsewhere, is resorted to. As a rule, the collegian on -his arrival, after spending one night in a vaulted apartment close to -the entrance, and which bears a strong resemblance to the Gothic vault -described in “Rookwood”—an apartment known as the “receiving ward”—has -allotted to him, by solemnly-written ticket, a whitewashed chamber of -tolerable size, moderately haunted by mice, and “passably” infested by -fleas. Straightway there starts up, as it were from the bowels of the -earth, a corpulent female rubicund in countenance, tumbled in garments, -and profuse in compliments, assuring him that he is the very “Himage -of the Markis of Scatterbrass, which his aunt let him out by composing -with his creditors,” or “Capting Spurbox, of the Hoss Guards, as ’ad -champagne hevery mornin’, and went through the court payin’ nothink.” -She, for a small weekly stipend—say, five shillings—agrees to furnish -your room; and in an astonishingly short space of time you find the -bare cube transformed into a sufficiently comfortable bed-room and -sitting-room. For eighteenpence a week extra you may have a double green -baize door with brass nails, like a verdant coffin, and white dimity -curtains to your windows, with real tassels. In the train of the stout -tumbled female, there always follows a gaunt woman of no particular age, -with ropy hair, a battered bonnet, and scanty garments apparently nailed -to her angular form, who expresses, with many curtsies, her desire to -“do for you.” Don’t be alarmed; she simply means that for three or four -shillings a week she will clean your room, boil your kettle, and bring up -the dinner, which has been cooked for you in the common kitchen of the -college. She, too, has an acolyte, a weazened old man in a smock frock -and knee shorts (though I think that he must be dead or have left college -by this time[3]) who for a shilling a week will make your boots shine -like mirrors; who resides here, and has resided here for many years, -because he can’t or won’t pay thirty pounds, and who is reported to be -worth a mint of money. So here the collegian lives, and makes as merry as -he can under adverse circumstances. The same tender precautions adopted -by the authorities of the college to prevent the unnecessary egress -of those in _statu pupillari_, are enforced to preserve a due state -of morality among them. There is a chapel, as there is an infirmary, -within the walls; the lady collegians, of whom there is always a small -number in hold, are kept in jealous seclusion. Dicing and card-playing -are strictly prohibited, and contumacious contravention of the rules -involves the probability of the recalcitrant student being immured in a -_locus penitentiæ_ called the “Strong Room.” There he is kept for four -and twenty hours, _without tobacco_. Horrible punishment! This is in the -college attached to her Majesty’s Bench. Pshaw! Why should I beat about -the Bench, or the bush, any longer, or even endorse the quibble adopted -by those collegians who wish to have their letters addressed to them -genteelly, of “No. 1, Belvidere Place?” That which I have been describing -is a debtors’ jail—the Queen’s Prison, in fact. - -And what of the collegians—the prisoners—themselves? It is ten o’clock -in the morning, and they are sauntering about in every variety of shabby -deshabille, smoking pipes after their meagre breakfasts, walking arm -in arm with one another, or with friends who have come to see them, -and whose ingress is permitted from nine a.m. until seven p.m. None -are allowed to enter after that hour; but those visitors already in -are allowed to stop till nine in the evening. Some of the collegian -prisoners, poor fellows, have women and little children with them, who -are very silly and sentimental, in their illogical way; but you may -depend on it that, in nine out of ten of these groups, the staple theme -of conversation is the probability of the captive being “out next week.” -They are always going to be out next week, these caged birds; but they -die sometimes in the Bench, for all that. - -Don’t you think, too, that it would be as graceful as expedient to draw -a veil over these broken-down men? Even the felons in Pentonville are -allowed to wear masks in the exercise-yard. Why should I, whose sternest, -strongest aim it is to draw from Life, and from the life only, but who -wish to pluck the mote from no man’s eye, to cast a stone at no glass -house built on the pattern of mine own, expatiate in word-pictures upon -the dilapidated dandies, the whilom dashing bucks in dressing-gowns out -at elbows, and Turkish caps with tassels, set, with a woe-begone attempt -at jaunty bearing, on one side, the decayed tradesmen, the uncertificated -bankrupts, the cankers of a calm world and a long peace, that prowl and -shuffle through the yards of a debtors’ prison? Why, every man of the -world has acquaintances, if not friends, there. Why, poor old Jack, who -gave the champagne dinners we were so glad to be invited to, has been in -the Bench for months. Yonder broken-winged butterfly, relapsing, quite -against the order of nature, into a state of grubhood again, may have -gone through his Humanities with the best of us, and may say _Hodie mihi, -cras tibi_. To-day he is in jail; but to-morrow I, you, my brother the -millionaire, may be taken in execution; and who shall say that we shall -have the two pounds twelve wherewith to purchase the _habeas corpus_? - - - - -ELEVEN O’CLOCK A.M.—TROOPING THE GUARD, AND A MARRIAGE IN HIGH LIFE. - - -I have the fortune, or misfortune, to live in a “quiet street,” and am -myself an essentially quiet man, loving to keep myself in the Queen’s -peace, and minding my own business, though devoutly wishing that people -would not mind it for me in quite so irritating a degree. I sleep soundly -when in health, and never question Mrs. Lillicrap’s mystifying items in -her weekly bill, of “mustard, vinegar, and mending,” or “pepper, postage -stamps, and mother-o’-pearl buttons.” I never grumble at the crying of -babies, remembering that a wise and good doctor once told me that those -dear innocents pass the days of their nonage in a chronic state of -stomach-ache and congestion of the brain, and console myself with that -thought. I can even support, without much murmuring, the jangling of -the pupils’ piano at Miss Besom’s establishment for young ladies, next -door. Distance, and a party-wall, lend enchantment to the sound, and I -set no more store by it than I do by the chirruping of the birds in the -town-bred foliage at the extremity of Buckingham Street, or the puffing -and snorting of the halfpenny steamboats at the “Fox-under-the-Hill.” I -am so quiet, that I can allow the family of a distant blood-relation to -reside in the parlours for twelve months, without troubling myself about -their health; and I never yet rebelled at the perverse orthography of the -washerwoman, who persists in spelling my half-hose thus: “Won pare sox.” -When I die, I hope that they will lay me in a very quiet church-yard in -Kent, that I know, where some one who cared for me has been mouldering -away peacefully these four years, where the clergyman’s blind white -pony will browse upon the salad that I am eating by the roots; where -the children will come and have famous games—their silver voices and -pattering feet upon the velvet turf make out a pleasant noise, I wot; -and where they will write “_Requiescat in pace_” upon my gravestone; if, -indeed, I leave maravedis enough behind me for Mr. Farley to cut me an -inscription withal. - -Yet, quiet as I am, I become at Eleven o’Clock in the Morning on every -day of the week save Sunday a raving, ranting maniac—a dangerous lunatic, -panting with insane desires to do, not only myself but other people, a -mischief, and possessed, less by hallucination than by rabies. For so -sure as the clock of St. Martin’s strikes eleven, so sure does my quiet -street become a pandemonium of discordant sounds. My teeth are on edge -to think of them. The “musicianers,” whose advent from Clerkenwell and -the East-end of London I darkly hinted in a preceding chapter, begin -to penetrate through the vaster thoroughfares, and make their hated -appearance at the head of my street. First Italian organ-grinder, -hirsute, sunburnt, and saucy, who grinds airs from the “Trovatore” six -times over, follows with a selection from the “Traviata,” repeated -half a dozen times, finishes up with the “Old Hundredth” and the -“Postman’s Knock,” and then begins again. Next, shivering Hindoo, his -skin apparently just washed in walnut juice, with a voluminous turban, -dirty white muslin caftan, worsted stockings and hob-nailed shoes, -who, followed by two diminutive brown imps in similar costume, sings -a dismal ditty in the Hindostanee language, and beats the tom-tom -with fiendish monotony. Next comes a brazen woman in a Scotch cap, to -which is fastened a bunch of rusty black feathers, apparently culled -from a mourning coach past service. She wears a faded tartan kilt, -fleshings, short calico trews, a velveteen jacket, tin buckles in her -shoes, and two patches of red brick-dust on her haggard cheeks, and -is supposed to represent a Scottish highlander. She dances an absurd -fling, interpolated occasionally with a shrill howl to the music of -some etiolated bagpipes screeded by a shabby rogue of the male sex, her -companion, arrayed in similar habiliments. Next come the acrobats—drum, -clarionet, and all. You know what those nuisances are like, without -any extended description on my part. Close on their heels follows the -eloquent beggar, with his numerous destitute but scrupulously clean -family, who has, of course, that morning parted with his last shirt. -Then a lamentable woman with a baby begins to whimper “Old Dog Tray.” -Then swoop into the street an abominable band of ruffians, six in -number. They are swarthy villains, dressed in the semblance of Italian -goatherds, and are called, I believe, _pifferari_. They play upon a kind -of bagpipes—a hideous pig-skin-and-walking-stick-looking affair, and -accompany their droning by a succession of short yelps and a spasmodic -pedal movement that would be a near approach to a sailor’s hornpipe, if -it did bear a much closer resemblance to the war-dance of a wild Indian. -Add to these the Jews crying “Clo’!” the man who sells hearthstones, -and the woman who buys rabbit-skins, the butcher, the baker, and the -boys screaming shrill Nigger melodies, and rattling pieces of slate -between their fingers in imitation of the “bones,” and you will be able -to form an idea of the quietude of our street. From the infliction of -the soot-and-grease-bedaubed and tambourine-and-banjo-equipped Ethiopian -serenaders, we are indeed mercifully spared; but enough remains to turn a -respectable thoroughfare into a saturnalia. - -I can do nothing with these people. I shout, I threaten, I shake my fist, -I objurgate them from my window in indifferent Italian, but to no avail. -They defy, scorn, disregard, make light of me. They are encouraged in -their abominable devices, not merely by the idlers in the street, the -servant-maids gossiping at the doors, the boys with the baskets, and -the nurse children, but by the people at the windows, who seem to have -nothing to do but to look from their casements all day long. There is -an ancient party of the female persuasion opposite my humble dwelling, -who was wont to take intense interest in the composition of my literary -essays. She used to bring her work to the window at first; but she never -did a stitch, and soon allowed that flimsy pretext to fall through, -and devoted herself with unaffected enjoyment to staring at me. As I -am modest and nervous, I felt compelled to put a stop to this somewhat -too persevering scrutiny; but I disdained to adopt the pusillanimous -and self-nose-amputating plan of pulling down the window blinds. I -tried taking her portrait as she sat, like an elderly Jessica, at the -casement, and drew horrifying caricatures of her in red chalk, holding -them up, from time to time, for her inspection; but she rather seemed -to like this last process than otherwise; and I was obliged to change -my tactics. The constant use of a powerful double-barrelled Solomon’s -race-glass of gigantic dimensions was first successful in discomposing -her, and ultimately routed her with great moral slaughter; and she now -only approaches the window in a hurried and furtive manner. I daresay -she thinks my conduct most unhandsome. She and the tall man in the long -moustaches at number thirteen, all the pupils at the ladies’ school next -door, the two saucy little minxes in black merino and worked collars at -number nine, and that man with the bald head shaped like a Dutch cheese, -in the parlour at number nine, who is always in his shirt sleeves, drums -with his fingers on the window panes, and grins and makes faces at the -passers-by, and whom I conscientiously believe to be a confirmed idiot, -are all in a league against me, and have an alliance, offensive and -defensive, with the musical _canaille_ below. They cry out “Shame” when I -remonstrate with those nuisances: they shout and jeer at me when I sally -forth from the door, and make rabid rushes at the man with the bagpipes: -they inquire derisively whether I consider myself lord of the creation? -I am tempted—desperately tempted—to avail myself of my rights as a -Civis Romanus, to summon the aid of the police, and to give one of the -grinders, howlers, or droners in charge. Mr. Babbage, the arithmetician, -does it; why should not I? What progress can I make in “Twice Round the -Clock” in the midst of this hideous din? But then I remember, with much -inward trouble, that I have in public committed myself more than once -in favour of street music—that I have laughed at the folly of putting -down bagpipes and barrel-organs by act of Parliament. I remember, too—I -hope in all its force and Truth—a certain axiom, that the few must -always suffer for the enjoyment of the many—that we are not all sages in -decimals and logarithms—or people writing in books and newspapers—that -the sick, the nervous, the fastidious, and the hypochondriacal, are but -drops of water in a huge ocean of hale, hearty, somewhat thick-skinned -and thick-eared humanity, who like the noisy vagabonds who are my -bane and terror in the quiet street, and admire their distressing -performances. Some men cannot endure a gaping pig; to many persons the -odour of all roots of the garlic family is intolerable. I hate cats. I -had an aunt who said that she could not “abide” green as a colour. Yet -we should not be justified, I think, in invoking the terrors of the -legislature against roast pork, onions, cats, and green peas. Mr. Babbage -must pursue his mathematical calculations in a study at the back of his -house, and I must hie me to the Reading-room of the British Museum, or -turn out for a stroll. - -And in this stroll, which, if the weather be fine, almost invariably -leads towards one or other of the parks, I am frequently permitted -to witness the imposing ceremony of “trooping the guard” in the -Palace-yard, St. James’s. Why her Majesty’s Foot Guards should be -“trooped” at eleven o’clock in the morning, and in what precise -evolutions the operation of “trooping” consists, I am unable to state. -Eleven o’clock, too, does not seem always a rigidly adhered-to hour; for, -on the mornings of the days consecrated to our “Isthmian games,” to the -cosmopolitan Derby, and the more aristocratic, but equally attractive -Ascot Cup, the time taken is nine instead of eleven, doubtless for the -convenience of the heavy guardsmen, who, with heavy cigars protruding -from their heavy moustaches, and heavy opera-glasses slung by their -sides, go solemnly down to the races in heavy drags. - -To the uninitiated, “trooping the guard” appears to consist in some -hundred and fifty grenadiers in full uniform, their drums and fifes and -their brass band at their head, marching from the Horse Guards, across -the parade ground, and along the Mall to the Palace-yard, where the -Queen’s colours are stuck into a hole in the centre, where the officer on -guard salutes them, where the other officers chat in the middle of the -quadrangle, and where officers and men, and a motley crowd of spectators, -listen to the enlivening strains of the brass band playing selections -from the popular operas of the day. No complicated manœuvres seem to be -performed; the automaton-like inspection of the “troops” takes place on -the other side of the park; and when the colours are firmly fixed, and -left in charge of a sentry, the “troops” file off again, the officers -repairing to their clubs, and the soldiers to their barracks, while the -brass bandsmen at once subside into private life, and become civilians of -decidedly Cockney tendencies. - -Hungry men are said, sometimes, to lull the raging of their appetites by -sniffing the hot, and, to some noses, fragrant breeze which is emitted -from between the gratings of an eating-house. To some the contemplation -of eel pies, smoking rounds of beef, rumpsteak pies, and pen’orths of -pudding, shining in the glory of dripping, and radiant with raisins, is -almost as satisfying as the absolute possession of those dainties. It is -certain that contented spirits do yet exist, by whom the sight of the -riches and the happiness of others is accepted as a compensation for the -wealth and the felicity which they do not themselves enjoy. It is a very -pleasant mental condition, this—to be able to stare a pastrycook’s window -out of countenance, and partake of, in imagination, the rich plum-cakes, -the raspberry-tarts, and the lobster-patties, without coveting those -dainties; to walk up Regent Street, and wear, mentally, the “ducks of -bonnets,” the Burnouse cloaks and the Llama shawls, which poverty forbids -us to purchase; to walk through the Vernon or Sheepshanks collections, -and hang up the delightful Landseers, Websters, and Mulreadys in -fantastic mind-chambers of our own; to call Hampton Court and Windsor -our palaces, and St. James’s and the Green our parks; to fancy that the -good people who have horses and carriages, and jewels, and silks, and -satins, have but a copyhold interest in them, and that the fee-simple of -all these fine things is in us. Such imaginative optimists can sit down -unmurmuringly to a Barmecide feast; the “Court Circular” pleases them -as much as an invitation to the Queen’s ball; a criticism on “Lucrezia -Borgia” at the opera delights them as much as an actual stall at Covent -Garden; and Mr. Albert Smith’s Egyptian Hall ascent of Mont Blanc, and -his more recent Chinese entertainment, are to them quite as full of -interest and adventure as a real pilgrimage to Chamouni, a toilsome -scramble up the “Grands Mulets,” a sail in a sampan on the Canton river, -or a “fightee pigeon” with the “Braves” in Hog Lane. - -[Illustration: ELEVEN O’CLOCK A.M.: TROOPING THE GUARD AT ST. JAMES’S -PALACE.] - -The immortal young ladies who have been occupied in their eternal -crochet-work any time since the siege of Troy, and who are called the -Fates, have decided that it is better for me to be Alone. I am condemned -for life to soliloquise. None of the young women with whom I have (to -adopt the term current in domestic service) “kept company,” would, -in the end, have anything to do with me. They were very punctual in -sending me cards—one sent me cake, but that was long ago—when they were -married. One said I squinted, another that I was ill-tempered, and a -third wondered at my impudence. Joan went off to Australia to join -her cousin the digger, who, having done well at Bendigo, had written -home for a wife, as he would for a Deans’ revolver. Sarah married the -linendraper (I am happy to state that he manifested himself stupid -and ferocious, and went, commercially, to the dogs within six months -after marriage); as for Rachel, she positively fell in love with the -tailor who came to measure me for my wedding suit, and married _him_. A -nursemaid with a perambulator nearly tripped me up the other day, and -sitting in that infantile chariot was Rachel’s eldest. Even the young -lady who sold sardines at Stettin, and who, while I was waiting three -years since for the ice to break up in the Baltic, undertook to teach -me the prettiest German I ever heard in Deutschland, evinced a decided -partiality for a certain baker with a Vandyke beard, who was a member of -the Philharmonic Society of that town on the Oder, and at length jilted -me for a trumpeter in a dragoon regiment, a burly knave in a striped -and fringed uniform, all red and yellow, like a flamingo. The heartless -conduct of the grocer’s daughter towards me has already been recorded in -print. So I am alone. Not repining, however, but taking pleasure in other -people’s children, with the additional consolation of not having their -little frocks and perambulators to pay for, and passably content to sit -on a mile-stone by the great roadside, and smoke the calumet of peace, -watching the wain of life, with youth on the box and pleasure in the -dickey, tear by, till the dust thrown up by the wheels has whitened my -hair, and it shall be time enough to think of a neat walking funeral for -One. - -Now, do you understand why I alluded to the pleasures of imagination in -connection with the contemplation of cook-shops, pictures, and palaces? -Now, do you comprehend how a hopelessly solitary man—if you put a single -grain of philosophic _hachisch_ into that pacific calumet of his—can -derive so much pleasure and contentment from the sight of other folk’s -weddings? I say nothing of courtship, which, on the part of a third -party, argues a certain amount of, perhaps, involuntary eavesdropping and -espionage, but which, when the boys and girls love each other sincerely, -is as delightful a sight as the sorest of eyes, the sorest of hearts, -could desire to witness. What pretty ways they have, those simple young -“lovyers!” what innocent prattlings and rompings, what charming quarrels -and reconciliations! Edward would dance with Miss Totterdown last -night; Clara flirted most shamefully with Wertha Bjornsjertnjöe, the -Scandinavian poet, and Lady Walrus’s last lion. What confiding billings -and cooings! how supremely foolish they are! and what an abhorrent thing -is common-sense in love at all! Wondrously like ostriches, too, are -Jenny and Jemmy Jessamy. They hide their pretty heads in each other’s -bosoms, and fancy they are totally invisible. They have codes of masonic -telegraphy, as legible as Long Primer to the meanest understanding. -I reckon among my friends a professor of photography in fashionable -practice, and marvellous are the stories he has to tell of the by-play of -love that takes place sometimes in his glass studio. For you see, when, -in order to “focus” a young couple before him, he throws the curtain of -the camera over his head, Jenny and Jemmy Jessamy are apt, in the sweet -ignorance of love, to fancy that the operator can’t see a bit what is -going on; so Jenny arranges Jemmy’s hair, and gives the moustache a -twist, and there is a sly kiss, and a squeeze, and a pressure of the -foot or so, and a variety of harmless endearing blandishments, known to -our American cousins (who are great adepts at sweet-hearting) under the -generic name of “conoodling,” and all of which are faithfully transmitted -through the lens, and neatly displayed in an inverted position on the -field of the camera, to the edification of the discreet operator. Oh, -you enamoured young men and women, you don’t know that the eyes of -domestic Europe are always fixed on you, and that your pretty simperings -and whimperings form a drama which becomes the source of infinite -amusement and delight to the philosophic bystanders. And is it not much -better so, and that our lads and lasses should court in the simple, -kindly Anglo-Saxon way, than that we should adopt foreign manners, and -marry our wives, as in France, starched and prim from the convent or -the boarding-school? Away with your morose, sulky, icy, ceremonious -courtships. The Shepherd in Virgil, the moralist said, grew acquainted -with Love, and found him a native of the rocks. But he did not dwell -there in sulky solitude, I will be bound. The rock was most probably the -Rocher de Cancale, where he sat and ate _dinde truffée_, and quaffed -Chambertin, with his Psyche, in a new bonnet and cream-coloured gloves, -by his side. And they went to the play afterwards, and had merry times of -it, you may be sure. - -[Illustration: ELEVEN O’CLOCK A.M.: A WEDDING AT ST. JAMES’S CHURCH, -PICCADILLY.] - -I am very fond of weddings, and, to abandon for a moment the egotism -and engrossing self-sufficiency which so delightfully characterise my -sex, I fancy that the sight of the solemnisation of matrimony has equal -charms for that better part of creation, whose special vocation it is, -under all circumstances, to be married and happy, but who are oft-times, -alas! as hopelessly celibate as the Trappist. One can scarcely go to a -wedding without seeing some of these brave knights-errant, these _preux -chevalières_ of womanhood, these uncloistered nuns, these hermits in a -vale of wax lights and artificial flowers, clustering in the galleries, -or furtively ensconced in pews near the altar. They are very liberal -to the pew-openers, these kind old maids, and are always ready with -smelling-bottles if there be any fainting going on. They take their part -in the crying with praiseworthy perseverance, and echo the responses -in heartrending sobs; they press close to the bride as she comes down -the aisle on the arm of her spouse, and eye her approvingly and the -bridesmaids criticisingly; then go home, the big Church Service tucked -beneath their mantles—go home to the solitary mutton chop and bleak -shining hearth, with the cut paper pattern grinning through the bars -like a skeleton. There are some cynics who irreverently call old maids -“prancers,” and others who, with positive brutality, accuse them of -leading monkeys in a place which I would much rather not hear of, far -less mention. They are, to be sure, somewhat stiff and starched, have -uncomfortable prejudices against even the moderate use of mild cigars, -and persist in keeping hideous little dogs to snap at your ankles; but -how often would the contemptuous term “old maid,” were its reality -known, mean heroic self-sacrifice and self-denial—patience, fortitude, -unrepining resignation? No man, who is not a Caliban or Miserrimus, -need remain, his life long, a bachelor. The Siamese twins married; the -living skeleton was crossed in love, but afterwards consoled himself -with a corpulent widow; the hunch-backed Scarron found a beautiful woman -to love and nurse him; and General Tom Thumb turned benedict the other -day. But how many women—young, fair, and accomplished, pure and good and -wise—are doomed irrevocably to solitude and celibacy! Every man knows -such premature old maids; sees among a family of blooming girls one who -already wears the stigmata of old maidenhood. It chills the blood to see -these hopeless cases, to see the women resign themselves to their fate -with a sad meek smile—to come back, year after year, and find them still -meek, smiling, but sad, confirmed old maids. It is ill for me, who dwell -in quite a Crystal Palace of a glass house, to throw so much as a grain -of sand at the windows opposite, but I cannot refrain from sermonising -my fellows on their self-conceited bachelorhood. What dullards were -those writers in the “Times” newspaper about marriage and three hundred -a year! Did Adam and Eve have three halfpence a year when they married? -Has the world grown smaller? Are there no Australias, Americas, Indies? -Are there no such things as marrying on a pound a week in a top garret, -and ending in a mansion in Belgrave Square? no such things as toil, -energy, perseverance? husband and wife cheering one another on, and in -wealth at last pleasantly talking of the old times, the struggles and -difficulties? We hear a great deal now-a-days about people’s “missions.” -The proper mission of men is to marry, and of women to bear children; -and those who are deterred from marriage in their degree (for we ought -neither to expect nor to desire Squire B. to wed Pamela every day) by the -hypocritical cant about “society” and “keeping up appearances,” had much -better send society to the dogs and appearances to the devil, and have -nothing more to do with such miserable sophistries. - -This diatribe, which I sincerely hope will increase the sale of -wedding-rings in the goldsmiths’ shops forty-fold, brings me naturally -to the subject of the second cartoon, by which the ingenious artist who -transcribes my inky men and women into flesh and blood, has chosen to -illustrate the hour of eleven o’clock in the morning. Here we are at a -fashionable wedding at St. James’s Church, Piccadilly. - -If I had the tongue or pen of Mr. Penguin, the urbane and aristocratic -correspondent of the “Morning Post,” I should give you quite a vivid, -and at the same time a refined, description of that edifying spectacle—a -marriage in high life. How eloquent, and, by turn, pathetic and humorous, -I could be on the bevy of youthful bridesmaids—all in white tulle over -pink glacé silk, all in bonnets trimmed with white roses, and with -bouquets of camelias and lilies of the valley! How I could expatiate, -likewise, on the appearance of the beauteous and high-born bride, her -Honiton lace veil, her innumerable flounces; and her noble parents, and -the gallant and distinguished bridegroom, in fawn-coloured inexpressibles -and a cream-coloured face; and his “best man,” the burly colonel of the -Fazimanagghur Irregulars; and the crowd of distinguished personages who -alight from their carriages at the little wicket in Piccadilly, and pass -along the great area amid the cheers of the little boys! They are all so -noble and distinguished, that one clergyman can’t perform the ceremony, -and extra parsons are provided like extra oil-lamps on a gala night at -Cremorne. The register becomes an autograph-book of noble and illustrious -signatures; the vestry-room has sweet odours of Jocky Club and Frangipani -lingering about it for hours afterwards; the pew-opener picks up white -satin favours tied with silver twist. A white rose, broken short off at -the stem, lies unregarded on the altar-steps; and just within the rails -are some orange-blossoms from the bride’s coronal. For they fall and die, -the blossoms, as well as the brown October leaves. Spring has its death -as well as autumn: a death followed often by no summer, but by cold and -cruel winter. The blossoms fall and die, and the paths by the hawthorn -hedges are strewn with their bright corses. The blossoms droop and die: -the little children die, and the green velvet of the cemetery is dotted -with tiny grave-stones. - -See, the bridal procession comes into garish Piccadilly, and, amid fresh -cheers and the pealing of the joy-bells, steps into its carriages. - - “Happy, happy, happy pair! - None but the brave, - None but the brave, - None but the brave, deserve the fair.” - -So sings Mr. John Dryden, whilom poet laureate. Let us hope that the -brides of St. James’s are all as fair as the bridegrooms are brave, and -that they all commence a career of happiness by that momentous plunge -into the waters of matrimony at eleven o’clock in the morning. With which -sincere aspiration, I will clap an extinguisher on the Hymeneal torch, -which I have temporarily lighted, and so to read the births, marriages, -and deaths in the “Times.” - - - - -NOON.—THE JUSTICE-ROOM AT THE MANSION-HOUSE, AND THE “BAY TREE.” - - -The red-whiskered, quick-tempered gentleman, who carried the shiny -leather bag and the bundle of sticks—umbrella and fishing-rods tied -together like the fasces of a Roman lictor—and who wore a cloak -gracefully over his forty-shilling suit of heather tweed, “thoroughly -well shrunk,” the gentleman who, at Morley’s Hotel, Trafalgar Square, -and at twenty minutes before twelve, engaged a Hansom cabman, No. 9,009, -and bade him drive “like anything” (but he said like something which I -decline to mention) to the London Bridge Terminus of the South-Eastern -Railway, has thrust his bundle of sticks, &c., through the little -trap-door in the cabriolet’s roof, and has savagely ordered the driver to -stop, or to drive him to Jericho, or to the deuce. But the high-towering -Jehu of 9,009 cannot drive to the dominions of the deuce, even as did -“Ben,” that famous Jarvey of the olden time, immortalised in the ballad -of “Tamaroo.” He can drive neither to the right nor to the left, nor -backwards nor forwards; for he is hemmed in, and blocked up, and jammed -together in the middle of the Poultry; and just as a sarcastic saloon -omnibus driver behind jeeringly bids him “keep moving,” accompanying the -behest by the aggressive taunt of “gardner;” and just as the charioteer -of the mail-cart in front affectionately recommends him not to be in -a hurry, lest he should injure his precious health, Twelve o’Clock is -proclaimed by the clock of St. Mildred’s, Poultry; and cabman 9,009 has -lost his promised extra shilling for extra speed, and the red-whiskered -gentleman has lost his temper, and the train into the bargain, and -there will be weeping at Tunbridge Wells this afternoon, where a young -lady, with long ringlets and a white muslin jacket, will mourn for her -Theodore, and will not be comforted—till the next train arrives. - -It is noon, high noon, in the City of London. Why did not the incautious -cabman drive down Cannon Street, the broad and unimpeded? or why did -he not seek his destination by crossing Waterloo Bridge—he of the red -whiskers would have paid the toll cheerfully—and tread the mazes of -Union Street, Borough? Perhaps he was an inexperienced cabman, new -to its dædalian ways. Perhaps he was a prejudiced and conservative -cabman, adhering to the old Poultry as the corporation adhered to the -old Smithfield, and detesting newfangled thoroughfares. Perhaps he -was a misanthropic cabman, whose chief delight was to make travellers -lose trains. If such be the case, he has his wicked will now; and the -red-whiskered gentleman, sulkily alighting, scowlingly pays him his -legal fare, leaves him grumbling, and retires himself moodily muttering, -conscious that he has nearly two hours before him through which to kick -his heels, and not knowing what on earth to do with himself. Be of good -cheer, red-whiskered, shipwrecked one. Comfort ye, for I am here, the -wanderer of the clock-face, and the dweller on the threshold of time. I -will show you brave sights, and make your heart dance with mulligatawny -soup and Amontillado sherry at the “Cock,” in Threadneedle Street. You -are not hungry yet? Well, we will stroll into the Stereoscopic Company’s -magnificent emporium in Cheapside, and mock our seven senses with the -delusions of that delightful toy, which, if Sir David Brewster didn’t -invent, he should properly have invented. You care not for the arts? -Shall we cross by King Street, and have a stare at Guildhall, with Gog -and Magog, and the monument that commemorates Beckford’s stern resolve to -“stand no nonsense” from George III.? Or we may stroll into Garraway’s, -and mark how the sale of sandwiches and sherry-cobblers may be combined -with the transfer of land and the vending of freehold houses. There -is the auction-mart, too, if you have a fancy to see Simony sales by -auction, and advowsons of the cures of immortal souls knocked down for -so many pounds sterling. There is the rotunda of the Bank of England, -with its many-slamming, zinc-plated doors, and its steps and flags worn -away by the boots of the ever-busy stockbrokers. We will not go into the -Dividend Office, for I have no dividends to draw now, and the sight makes -me sad; neither will we enter the Great Hall where William the Third’s -statue is (prettily noticed by Mr. Addison in a full-bottom-wigged -allegory in the “Spectator”), and where the urbane clerks are for ever -honouring the claims upon the old lady in Threadneedle Street; giving -“notes for gold” and “gold for notes.” We will not enter, because we -don’t want any change just now; and one of the Brothers Forrester, who -is sure to be hovering about the court-yard, in conversation with yonder -cock-hatted beadle in blazing scarlet, might think we came for gold or -notes that didn’t belong to us. The Bullion Office we cannot visit, for -we haven’t an order of admission; and there is one place especially, O -rubicund-headed traveller, where we will be exceedingly cautious not to -show our faces. That place is the interior of the Stock Exchange. I am -not a “lame duck;” I never, to my knowledge, “waddled;” I never attempted -to pry into the secrets of the “bulls” and the “bears;” my knowledge -of stockjobbing is confined to the fact that I once became possessed, -I scarcely know how, only that I paid for them, of fifty shares in a -phantom gold-mining company; that I sold them, half an hour afterwards, -at half-a-crown premium to a mysterious man in a dark room, up a court -off Cornhill, who to every human being who entered his lair handed a -long list covered with cabalistic figures, with the remark that it was -“very warm,” and which—the list, not the weather—I believe contained -the current prices of stocks, though it might have related to the -market value of elephants, for aught I knew; that I pocketed the fifty -half-crowns, and that I have never heard anything of the phantom company -from that day to this. Vice-Chancellor somebody will be down upon me -some day as a “contributory,” I suppose, and I shall be delivered over -to the tormentors; but, meanwhile, I will tell you why I won’t take my -red-whiskered friend into the Stock Exchange—why I should like mine enemy -to go there as soon as convenient. I have heard such horrible stories -of the tortures inflicted by the members of the “House,” upon unwary -strangers who have strayed within its precincts; of the savage cries of -“two hundred and one,” the shrieks, the yells, the whistles, and the -groans; the dancing round the captive, the covering him with flour, the -treading on his miserable toes, the buffeting of his wretched ears, the -upripping of his unhappy coat-collar, and chalking of his luckless back; -the “bonneting,” the “ballooning,” and the generally fiendish cruelties -which intruders upon the speculators for the “account” have to suffer, -that I would sooner venture without permission behind the scenes of a -well-regulated theatre, or attempt to beard the lion in his den, or walk -up, unannounced, into the sanctum of the editor of the “Times” newspaper, -or pay a morning call in a Choctaw wigwam, myself being a Pawnee or a -Sioux, at war with my friends the C.’s, or pass through Portugal Street, -Cursitor Street, or Chancery Lane, at any hour of the day or night, if -my affairs should happen to embarrassed, than trust myself to the tender -mercies of the members of the Stock Exchange. They are the staunchest and -most consistent of Conservatives. - -Whither, then, away! Why, bless me, how stupid I have been! The -Mansion House police-court opens at noon precisely, and we may enjoy, -gratuitously, the sight of the Corporation Cadi, the Cæsar of Charlotte -Row, the great Lord Mayor of London himself, dispensing justice to -all comers. By the way, I wish his Lordship would render unto us one -little modicum of justice, combined with equity, by ridding us of the -intolerable swarm of ragged, disgusting-looking juvenile beggars, who -beset pedestrians at the doors of Messrs. Smith, Payne, and Smith’s -banking-house, and of the scarcely less intolerable importunities of the -omnibus cads who are wrestling for old ladies and young children on the -very threshold of the Mansion House. Here we are at the Municipal Hall of -London’s Ædiles; architecture grand but somewhat gloomily florid, like -George the First, say, in a passion, his bulbous Hanoverian jaw flaming -from his perturbed perriwig—glowering, half-angry, half-frightened, as -he tears his embroidered coat-tail from the grasp of Lady Nithsdale, -and obstinately refuses pardon for that poor Jacobite lord yonder -cooped up in the gloomy Tower under sentence of death, but who, thanks -to his wife’s all-womanly devotion (well did Madame de Lavallete -imitate her bright example to save _her_ chivalrous husband just one -hundred years afterwards), will cheat the headsman’s axe and George’s -Hanoverian malice yet. The attic storey was evidently clapped on as an -afterthought, and threatens to tumble over on to the portico; the whole -is profusely ornamented, like everything civic, and reminds me generally -of a freestone model of the Lord Mayor’s state carriage, squared in the -Corinthian manner, and the gilt gingerbread well covered with smoke and -soot. - -Not by that door in the basement will we enter, which is flanked by -announcements relative to charity dinners, and youths who have absconded -from their friends. Within that eternally-gaslit office is the place -of business of the Eumenides of finance, whose grim duty it is to -pursue forgers and bank-robbers through the world. There dwell, for -thief-catching purposes, the terrible Forresters. Not by that door in -Charlotte Row. Don’t you see the handsome carriage, with the fat, brown, -gaudily harnessed horses drawn up before it, and the superb powdered -footmen sucking their bamboo-cane tops? How odd it is that you can always -tell the difference between a footman appertaining to one of the high -civic dignitaries, and the flunkey of a real patrician. The liveries, on -a drawing-room day, for instance, are equally rich, equally extravagant -in decoration, and absurd in fashion; both servitors sport equally large -cocked-hats, equally long canes, and have an equal amount of powder -dredged over their heads; yet, on either flunkey’s brow are the stigmata -“East” or “West” of Temple Bar, stamped as legibly as the brand of Cain. -The door in Charlotte Row is his Lordship’s private entrance; and her -Ladyship is very probably at this moment preparing to go out for an -airing. Not by that other lateral door in George Street—that low-browed, -forbidding-looking portal. That is the prisoners’ entrance. There the -grim cellular van brings and waits for the victims of Themis. There it -sets down and takes up, if not the chief actors, at least those who are -most deeply interested in the moving drama which is every day enacted in -the police tribunal of the Mansion House. - -[Illustration: NOON: THE JUSTICE-ROOM AT THE MANSION HOUSE.] - -So—up this broad, roomy flight of granite steps on the Lombard Street -side of the Mansion House frontage—on through a double barrier of -swing-doors at the corresponding angle beneath the portico; and in less -time than it would take to accept a bill (an operation in comparison to -the celerity of which a pig’s whisper is an age, and the pronunciation -of the mystic words “Jack Robinson” a life-long task), we are within -the sanctuary of municipal justice. The first thing that strikes the -stranger, accustomed as he may be to frequenting other police-courts, -is the unwonted courtesy of the officials, and their gorgeous costumes. -About Bow Street, Lambeth, Westminster, there hangs an indefinable but -pervading miasma of meanness and squalor. A settled mildew seems to -infest the walls and ceiling, a chronic dust to mantle the furniture -and flooring. No one connected with the court, officially or otherwise, -with the single exception of the Magistrate—who, always smug and clean -shaven, and in a checked morning neckerchief and a high shirt collar, -looks like a judicial edition of Major Pendennis—seems to have had his -clothes brushed for a week or his boots blacked for a month. A dreadful -jail-bird odour ascends from the ill-favoured auditory. The policemen -are shabby in attire and morose in manner. The buckles of their belts -are dull, and their buttons tarnished. They hustle you hither and -thither, and order you in or out in a manner most distressing to your -nerves; and the gloomy usher thrusts a ragged Testament into your hands, -and swears you as though he were swearing _at_ you. But at the Mansion -House there is a bluff, easy-going, turtle-and-venison-fed politeness -generally manifest. You enter and you emerge from the court without being -elbowed or shoved. The city policemen are more substantial-looking, -well to do, and better natured men than their metropolitan _confrères_. -Some of them have the appearance of small freeholders, and others, I am -sure, have snug sums in the savings’ banks. As to the jailers, ushers, -court-keepers, warrant-officers, marshalmen, and other multifarious -hangers-on of civic justice, they are mostly men of mature age, rosy, -bald and white-headed sages, who remember Sir John Key and the great -Sir Claudius Hunter, and mind the time when Mr. Alderman Wood rode on -horseback at the side of Queen Caroline’s hearse, on the occasion of -the passage of that injured lady’s funeral procession through the city. -As to their attire, it is positively—if I may be allowed the use of a -barbarism—“splendiferous.” Stout broadcloth, bright gilt buttons, with -elaborate chasings of civic heraldry, scarlet collars, with deep gold -lace: none of your paltry blue blanketing, horn buttons, and worsted -gloves. No doubt, when in full uniform, the “splendiferous” functionaries -all wear cocked-hats. Maybe, feathers. There is one weazened creature who -flits in and out of a side door, to the left of the Lord Mayor’s chair, -and is perpetually handing up printed forms to his Lordship or to the -chief clerk. I don’t know exactly what he is, whether the Lord Mayor’s -butler, or the sword-bearer’s uncle, or the city-marshal’s grandfather, -or the water-bailiff’s son-in-law; but the front of his coat is profusely -ornamented with bars of gold braid, like pokers from Crœsus’s kitchen, -and on his shoulders he wears a pair of state epaulettes, the which give -him somewhat of a military appearance, and, contrasting with his civilian -spectacles and white neckcloth, would produce an effect positively -sublime if it were not irresistibly ludicrous. The home of Beadledom—its -last home, I am afraid, after the exhaustion of the Windsor uniform, and -that of the Elder Brethren of the Trinity House—will be at the Mansion -House. - -The architect who has contrived the new Justice-room in this stately -edifice must have been, if not a man of genius, at least one of original -conceptions. The old police-court—sacred to the manes of Mr. Hobler—was -simply a Cave of Trophonius and Den of Despair. There was no light in -it—“only darkness visible;” and when you peered at the misty prisoner -in the dock, you were always reminded of Captain Macheath in his cell, -when the inhuman Mr. Lockit wouldn’t allow him any more candles, and -threatened to clap on extra fetters in default of an immediate supply on -the captain’s part of “garnish” or jail fees. But the Palladio who has -arisen to remedy these defects has contrived to introduce a considerable -amount of light—only it labours under the trifling disadvantage of being -all in the wrong place. The Lord Mayor, with his back to the window, -sits in a reflected light, just as does Wilkie’s portrait of the Duke of -York; and the fine effect of the city arms carved on his chair, to say -nothing of his Lordship’s gold chain and furred robe, is thereby totally -lost. Mr. Goodman and the clerks, who are all very gentlemanly-looking -individuals, much given to all-round collars and parting their hair down -the middle, fill up commitments and make out summonses in a puzzling -haze of chiaro oscuro; the reporters are compelled to pore over their -“Times” with their noses close to the paper (for no one ever saw a police -reporter do anything save read the newspaper, though we are sure to read -a verbatim narrative of the case in which we are interested next day), -and the general audience is lost in a Cimmerian gloom. To make amends, -there is plenty of light on the ceiling, and some liberal patches of -it on the walls, and a generous distribution of its bounty on the bald -heads, golden epaulettes, and scarlet collars of the marshalmen. We can’t -have everything we want, not even in the way of Light. Let us be thankful -that there is some of it about, even as it behoves us to be exceedingly -grateful that there is such a vast amount of wealth in the world. Other -people possess it—only, we don’t. - -This, then, is the justice-room of the Mansion House. I have not given -you, _seriatim_, a George Robins’s catalogue of its contents, but by bits -and bits I trust you will have been enabled to form a tolerably correct -mind-picture of its contents. My Lord Mayor in the chair, clerks before -him, reporters to the right, marshalmen left; spectacled official at the -desk in the left-hand corner—the summoning officer, I think—audience not -too tightly packed into a neat pen at the back of the court; dock in the -centre, and the prisoner—Ah! the prisoner! - -Did it never strike you, in a criminal court of assize—“the judges all -ranged, a terrible show,” the solemn clerk of the arraigns gazing over -the indictment, the spectators almost breathless with excited curiosity, -rays from opera glasses refracted from the gallery, Regent Street bonnets -and artificial flowers relieving the dark mass of the menfolk’s dress, -the bar bewigged, the eloquent advocate for the defence thundering forth -genteel philippics against the eloquent counsel for the prosecution—did -it never strike you, I say, what a terrible fuss and bother, and calling -on Jupiter to lift a wagon wheel out of a rut, what a waste of words, -and show, and ceremonial all this became, when its object, the End to -all these imposing means, was one miserable creature in the dock, with -spikes, and rue, and rosemary before him, accused of having purloined -a quart pot? As for the prisoner who is this day arraigned before the -mighty Lord Mayor—but first stand on tiptoe. There he is, God help him -and us all! a miserable, weazened, ragged, unkempt child, whose head, the -police reports will tell us to-morrow, “scarcely reached to the railing -of the dock.” He has been caught picking pockets. It is not his first, -his second, his third offence. He is an incorrigible thief. The great -Lord Mayor tells him so with a shake of his fine head of hair. He must -go to jail. To jail with him. He has been there before. It is the only -home he ever had. It is his preparatory school for the hulks. The jail -nursing-mother to thousands, and not so stony-hearted a step-mother as -the streets. He is nobody’s child, nobody save the police knows anything -about him, he lives nowhere; but in the eyes of the law he is somebody. -He is a figure in a tabular statement, a neat item to finish a column in -a report, withal. He is somebody to Colonel Jebb and Mr. Capper of the -Home Office, and, in the end, the Ordinary of Newgate, the sheriffs, and, -especially, somebody to CALCRAFT. He is somebody to whip, somebody to -put to the crank, and into “punishment jackets,” and to “deprive of his -bed and gas,” and gag, and drench with water, and choke with salt, and -otherwise torture _à la mode de_ Birmingham (Austin’s improved method), -somebody to build castellated jails for, somebody to transport, somebody -to hang. - -There are reformatories, you say, for such as these. Yes, those admirable -institutions do exist; but do you know, O easily-satisfied optimist! -that police magistrates every day deplore that reformatories, niggardly -subsidised by a State grudging in every thing but jails, and gyves, and -gibbets, are nine tenths of them full, and can receive no more inmates, -even though recommended to them by “the proper authorities?” But the -streets are fuller still of strayed lambs, and though wolves devour them -by the score each day, the tainted flock of lost ones still increases and -increases. - -I must tell you, that before the “case of wipes,” as an irreverent -bystander called the _procès_ of the pickpocket, was gone into (a -good-for-nothing rascal that _filou_, deservedly punished, of course), -what are called the night charges were disposed of. As I shall have -something to say of the manners and customs of these night charges -at another hour in the morning and in another place, I will content -myself with informing you now, that a blue bonnet and black silk velvet -mantle, charged with being drunk and disorderly in Cheapside the night -before, were set at liberty without pecuniary mulct, it being her, or -their, first offence; but a white hat with a black band, surmounting -a rough coat, cord trousers, and Balbriggan boots, who had fought -four omnibus conductors, broken eighteen panes of glass, demolished -sundry waiters, and seriously damaged the beadle of the Royal Exchange -(off duty, and enjoying the _dulce deripere in loco_ in the shape of -cold whiskey-and-water in a shady tavern somewhere up a court of the -Poultry)—all in consequence of their (or his) refusal to pay for a bottle -of soda-water, was fined in heavy sums—the aggregate cost of his whistle -being about six pounds. The white hat was very penitent, and looked (the -face under it likewise) very haggard and tired, and, in addition to his, -or its, or their penalty, munificently contributed half a sovereign to -the poor box. My Lord Mayor was severe but paternal, and hoped with -benignant austerity that he might never see the white hat there again; -in which hope, and on his part, I daresay the white hat most cordially -joined. - -I never could make out what they are always doing with paupers at the -Mansion House. I never pay his Lordship a visit without finding a bevy -of the poor things pottering about in a corner under the care of some -workhouse official, and being ultimately called up to be exorcised or -excommunicated, or, at all events, to have something done to them, under -the New Poor Law Act. This morning there are at least a dozen of them, -forlorn, decrepit, shame-faced, little old men, cowering and shivering, -although the day is warm enough, in their uncomfortable-looking gray -suits. Pauper females seem to be at a discount at the Mansion House, -save when, brazen-faced, blear-eyed, and dishevelled, they are dragged -in droves to the bar to be committed to Holloway prison, for a month’s -hard labour, for shivering innumerable panes of glass, throwing cataracts -of gruel about, and expressing an earnest desire to lacerate with sharp -cutlery the abdominal economy of the master of the City of London Union. -Of incarnations of male impecuniosity, there is a lamentable plenty and -to spare. - -The pickpocket is succeeded by a distinguished burglar, well known -in political—I beg pardon, in police—circles. There is no absolute -charge of felony against him at present, and the only cause for his -appearance to-day is his having been unfortunate enough to fall in -with an acquaintance, who knew him by sight, in the shape of a city -police-constable, who forthwith took him into custody for roaming about -with intent to commit a felony. My Lord having heard a brief biographical -sketch of his career, and being satisfied that he is a “man of mark” -in a felonious point of view, sends him to Holloway for three months, -which, considering that the fellow has committed, this time, at least, -no absolute crime, seems, at the first blush, something very like a -gross perversion of justice, and an unwarrantable interference with the -liberty of the subject. When subsequently, however, I gather that a few -inconsiderable trifles, such as a “jemmy,” a bunch of skeleton keys, a -“knuckle duster,” and a piece of wax candle, all articles sufficiently -indicative of the housebreaker’s stock-in-trade, have been found in his -possession, I cease to quarrel with the decision, and confess that my -burglarious friend’s incarceration, if not in strict accordance with law, -is based on very sound principles of equity. After the housebreaker, -there are two beggar women and a troop of ragged children—twenty-one -days; and a most pitiable sight to see and hear—beggar woman, children, -and sentence, and their state of life into which it has _not_ pleased -Heaven to call, but cruel and perverse man to send them. Then an Irish -tailor who has had a slight dispute with his wife the night before, and -has corporeally chastised her with a hot goose—a tailor’s goose, be it -understood—to the extent of all but fracturing her skull. He is sent for -four months’ hard labour, which is rather a pleasurable thing to hear, -although I should derive infinitely more delectation from the sentence if -it included a sound thrashing. - -But, holloa! we have been here three-quarters of an hour, and it is -close upon one o’clock. Come, my red-whiskered friend, I think we have -had enough of the Mansion House Justice-room. Let us make a bow to his -Lordship, and evaporate. You want some lunch, you say—you are hungry now; -well, let us go and lunch accordingly; but where? - -I mentioned Garraway’s and the Cock. There is the Anti-Gallican, famous -for soups. There is Birch’s, with real turtle, fit for Olympian deities -to regale upon. There is Joe’s in Finch Lane, if you feel disposed for -chop or steak, sausage or bacon, and like to see it cooked yourself -on a Brobdignagian gridiron. No: you want something simple, something -immediate; well, then, let us go to the Bay Tree. - -I never knew exactly the name of the street in which the Bay Tree is -situated. I know you go down a narrow lane, and that you will suddenly -come upon it, as a jack-in-the-box suddenly comes upon you. The first -time I was taken there was by a friend, who, just prior to our arrival -at the house of refection, took me up a dark entry, showed me a small -court-yard, and, at its extremity, a handsome-looking stone building. -_That is Rothschild’s_, he said, and I thought I should have fainted. I -am not a City man, and when I come eastward, it is merely (of course) to -make a morning call on my friend the Governor of the Bank of England, or -the Secretary for India for the time being, at his palace in Leadenhall -Street. When I travel in foreign parts, my brougham (of course) takes -me to the London Bridge Terminus. Authors never come into the City -now-a-days, save to visit their bankers or their publishers. Authors ride -blood horses, dine with dukes, and earn ten thousand a year. Such, at -least, is the amount of their income surmised to be by the Commissioners -of Income Tax, when they assess them arbitrarily and at such a figure -their opposing creditors declare their revenue should be estimated, when -they petition the Court for the Relief of Insolvent Debtors. - -I never sat down in the Bay Tree; though its premises include, I believe, -vast apartments for smoking and punch-bibbing purposes. I never looked -one of the innumerable assistants (are they barmen or barmaids?) in the -face. I was always in such a hurry. All I know of the establishment is, -that it is a capital place to lunch at, and that everything is very -excellent and very cheap; and that the thousands who resort to it between -eleven and three, always seem to be in as desperate a hurry as I am. - - - - -ONE P.M.—DOCK LONDON AND DINING LONDON. - - -This modest series of papers brought me, at the time of their -composition, into great trouble, which was very nearly resulting in my -complete discomfiture. Perhaps the severest of my trials was having to -write the book at all, possessing, as is my misfortune, of course, a -constitutional disinclination for the avocation to which I have devoted -myself (as a _gagne pain_, or bread-winning mean). I didn’t so much mind -the ladies and gentlemen, who, since the commencement of the periodical -in which these articles were originally published—ladies and gentlemen -personally quite unknown to me—who overwhelmed me with correspondence; -some denouncing, others upbraiding, many ridiculing, and a few—a -very few—eulogising yours to command. I didn’t so much object to the -attentions of those professional begging-letter writers, who are good -enough to include authors in their list of possible contributaries, and -who were profuse lately in passionate appeals (in bold, clerkly hands) -for pecuniary assistance; for though, like Bardolph, I have nothing, and -cannot even coin my nose for guineas, or my blood for drachmas, it is -not the less flattering to a man’s minor vanities to receive a begging -letter. I can imagine an old pauper out for a holiday, coming home to -the workhouse, quite elated at having been accosted in the street by a -mendicant, and asked for a halfpenny. I could bear with equanimity—nay, -could afford to smile at—the people who went about saying things (who -_are_ the people who go about saying things, I wonder!) who ingeniously -circulated reports that I was dead; that I wrote these papers under a -pseudonym; that they were plagiarisms from some others written twenty -years ago; and that I never wrote them at all. I disregarded such -insinuations serenely; for who among us is exempt from such bald chat? -The very stupidest have their Boswells—the very meanest have those to -envy them, as well as the Great and Learned! There are people at this -very moment, who are going about saying that Jones has pawned his plate, -that the bailiffs are in Thompson’s country house, that Robinson has -written himself out, that Brown has run away with Jenkins’s wife, that -Muggins has taken to brandy-and-water, that Simpkins murdered Eliza -Grimwood, that Larkins cut Thistlewood’s head off, and that Podgers -was tried at the Old Bailey, in the year ’thirty-five, for an attempt -to set the Thames on fire. But I was infinitely harassed while the -clock was ticking periodically—the efforts I had to make to keep it -from running down altogether!—by the great plague of “Suggesters.” From -the metropolitan and suburban postal districts, from all parts of the -United Kingdom—the United Kingdom, pshaw! from the Continent generally, -and from across the broad Atlantic (fortunately, the return mail from -Australia was not yet due)—suggestions poured in as thickly as letters of -congratulation on one who has just inherited a vast fortune. If there had -been five hundred in lieu of four-and-twenty hours in “Twice Round the -Clock,” the Great Suggestions I received had stomach for them all. The -Suggesters would take no denial: I was bound under terrific penalties to -adopt, endorse, carry out, their hints,—else would they play the dickens -with me. I _must_ have a sing-song meeting for nine p.m.; the committee -of a burial club at ten; the dissecting-room of an hospital at eleven; a -postal receiving-house, a lawyer’s office, a rag, bones, and bottle shop, -the tollgate of Waterloo Bridge, and the interior of a Hammersmith ’bus, -at some hour or other of the day or night. The Suggestions were oral as -well as written. Strange men darted up on me from by-streets, caught at -my button with trembling fingers, told me in husky tones of their vast -metropolitan experience, and impressed on me the necessity of a graphic -tableau of Joe Perks, the sporting barber’s, at one o’clock in the -morning. Low-browed merchants popped from shady shell-fish shops, and, -pointing to huge lobsters, asked where they could send the crustaceous -delicacies with their compliments, and how excellent a thing it would -be to give a view of the aristocracy supping at Whelks’s celebrated -oyster and kippered salmon warehouse after the play. And, finally, a shy -acquaintance of mine, with a face like an over-ripe Stilton cheese, and -remotely connected with the Corporation of London—he may be, for aught I -know, a ticket-porter in Doctors’ Commons, or a hanger-on to the water -bailiff—favoured me with an occult inuendo that a word-picture of the -Court of Common Council will be the very thing for four p.m., fluttering -before my dazzled eyes a phantom ticket for the Guildhall banquet. In -vain I endeavoured to convince these respectable Suggesters, that the -papers in question were not commenced without a definite plan of action; -that such plan, sketched forth years since, duly weighed, adjusted, -and settled, after mature study and deliberation, not only so far as -I am concerned, but by “parties” deeply learned in the mysteries of -London Life, and versed in the recondite secret of pleasing the public -taste, had at length been put into operation, and was no more capable -of alteration than were the laws of the Medes and Persians. But all to -no purpose did I make these representations. The Suggesters wouldn’t be -convinced; their letters continued to flow in. They found out my address -at last (they have lost it now, ha, ha!), and knocked my door down; -bringing me peremptory letters of introduction from people I didn’t know, -or didn’t care five farthings about, or else introducing themselves -boldly, in the “Bottle Imp” manner, with an implied “You must learn to -love me;” they nosed me in the lobby, and saw me dancing in the hall, and -my only refuge at last was to go away. Yes; the pulsations of time had to -beat behind the dial of a clock in the rural districts; and these lines -were written among the hay and the ripening corn, laughing a bitter laugh -to think that the postman was toiling up the quiet street in London with -piles of additional suggestions, and that the Suggesters themselves were -waiting for me in my usual haunts, in the fond expectation of a button to -hold, or an ear to gloze suggestions within. - -I tried the sea-shore; but found London-super-Mare sweltering, stewing, -broiling, frying, fizzing, panting, in the sun—like Marseilles, minus the -evil odours—to such an extent, and so utterly destitute of shade, that I -was compelled to leave it. The paint was blistering on the bright green -doors; the shingly pavement seemed to cry out “Come and grill steaks on -me!” the pitch oozed from the seams of the fishing-boats; the surf hissed -as it came to kiss the pebbles on the beach; the dial on the pier-head -blazed with concentric rays; the chains of the suspension bridge were -red hot; the camera obscura glared white in the sunshine; the turf on -the Steyne was brown and parched, like a forgotten oasis in a desert; -the leaves on the trees in the pavilion gardens glittered and chinked in -the summer breeze, like new bright guineas; the fly-horses hung their -heads, their poor tongues protruding, their limbs flaccid, and their -scanty tails almost powerless to flap away the swarms of flies, which -alone were riotous and active of living creation, inebriating themselves -with saccharine suction in the grocers’ shops, and noisily buzzing their -scanmag in private parlours; the flymen dozed on their boxes; the pushers -of invalid perambulators slumbered peacefully beneath the hoods of -their own Bath chairs; the ladies in the round hats found it too hot to -promenade the cliff, and lolled instead at verandahed windows, arrayed -in the most ravishing of muslin morning wrappers, and conversed languidly -with exquisites, whose moustaches were dank with moisture, and who had -scarcely energy enough to yawn. The captivating amazons abandoned for the -day their plumed hats, their coquettish gauntlets, their wash-leather -sub-fusk garments with the straps and patent-leather boots, and deferred -their cavalcades on the skittish mares till the cool of the evening; -the showy dragoon officers confined themselves, of their own free will, -to the mess-room of their barracks on the Lewes road, where they sipped -sangaree, smoked fragrancias, read “Bell’s Life,” and made bets on every -imaginable topic. The hair of the little Skye terriers no longer curled, -but hung supine in wiry hanks; the little children made piteous appeals -to their parents and guardians to be permitted to run about without -anything on; the two clerks at the branch bank, who are sleepy enough in -the coldest weather, nodded at each other over the ledgers which had no -entries in them. The only sound that disturbed the drowsy stillness of -the streets was the popping of ginger-beer corks; and the very fleas in -the lodging-houses lost all their agility and vivacity. No longer did -they playfully leap—no longer archly gyrate; they crawled and crept, -like their low relatives the bugs, and were caught and crushed without -affording the slightest opportunity for sport. It was mortally hot at -London-super-Mare, and I left it. Then I tried that English paradise -of the west, Clifton; but woe is me! the Downs were so delightful; -the prospect so exquisitely lovely; the Avon winding hundreds of feet -beneath me, like a silver skein, yet bearing big three-masted ships on -its bosom; the rocks and underwood so full of matter for pleasant, lazy -cogitation, that I felt the only exertion of which I was capable, to be -writing sonnets on the Avon and its sedgy banks, or making lame attempts -at pre-Raphaelite sketches in water-colours; or thinking about doing -either, which amounts to pretty nearly the same thing. So I came away -from Clifton too, and hung out my sign HERE. (It is THERE now: swallows -have come and gone, snows have gathered and melted, babies prattle now -who were unborn and unthought of then.) Ye shall not know where Here was -situated, oh, ye incorrigible Suggesters. No more particular indices -of its whereabouts will I give, even to the general public, than that -close to my study was a dry skittle-ground, where every day—the hotter -the better—I exercised myself with the wooden “cheese” against the seven -and a-half pins which were all that the dry skittle-ground could furnish -forth towards the ordinary nine; that over-against this gymnastic course -was an _étable_, a “shippon,” as they call it in the north, where seven -cows gravely ruminated; and that, at the end of a yard crowded with -agricultural implements which old Pyne alone could draw, there was a -Stye, from which, looking over its palings, - - “All start, like boys who, unaware, - Ranging the woods to find a hare, - Come to the mouth of some dark lair: - Where, growling low, a fierce old bear - Lies amid bones and blood.” - -Not that any fierce or ancient member of the ursine tribe resided -therein; but that it was the residence of a horrific-looking old sow, a -dreadful creature, that farrowed unheard-of families of pigs, that lay -on her broadside starboard the live-long day, winking her cruel eye, -and grunting with a persistent sullenness. The chief swineherd proudly -declared her to be “the viciousest beast as ever was,” and hinted darkly -that she had killed a Man. The chief swineherd and I were friends. He was -my “putter-up” at skittles, and did me the honour to report among the -neighbouring peasantry, that “barrin’ the gent as cum here last autumn, -and was off his head” (insane, I presume); I was “the very wust hand at -knock-’em-downs he ever see.” It is something to be popular in the rural -districts; and yet I was not three miles distant from the Regent Circus. - - * * * * * - -My eyes are once again turned to the clock face. It is One o’Clock in -the Afternoon, and I must think of London. Come back, ye memories: open -Sesame, ye secret chambers of the brain, and let me transport myself away -from the dry skittle-ground, the seven grave cows and the vicious sow, -to plunge once more into the toil and trouble of the seething, eddying -Mistress City of the world. - -There are so many things going on at one o’clock in the day; the steam of -life is by that time so thoroughly “up,” that I am embarrassed somewhat -to know which scenes would be the best to select from the plethora of -tableaux I find among my stereoscopic slides. One o’clock is the great -time for making business appointments. You meet your lawyer at one; you -walk down to the office of the newspaper you may happen to write for, -and settle the subject of your leading article, at one. One o’clock is a -capital hour to step round to your stockbroker, in Pope’s Head Alley, -Cornhill, and do a little business in stocks or shares. At one o’clock -the Prime Minister, or his colleagues, have resignation enough to listen -(with tolerable patience) to some half dozen deputations who come to -harangue them about nothing in particular; at one o’clock obliging -noblemen take the chair at public meetings at the Freemasons’, or the -London Tavern. At one o’clock—from one to two rather—the aristocracy -indulge in the sumptuous meal known as “lunch.” At one o’clock that vast, -yet to thousands unknown and unrecked of city, which I may call Dock -London, is in full activity after some twenty minutes’ suspension while -the workmen take _their_ lunch. - -The ingenious and persevering artist who constructed that grand model of -Liverpool, which we all remember in the Exhibition of 1851, and which -is now in the Derby Museum of the city of the Liver, did very wisely in -making the Docks the most prominent feature in his model, and treating -the thoroughfares of the town merely as secondary adjuncts. For the Docks -are in reality Liverpool, even as the poet has said that love is of man’s -life a part, but woman’s whole existence. Our interest in the Queen of -the Mersey commences at Birkenhead, and ends at Bramley Moore Dock, on -the other side. I say Bramley Moore Dock, because that was the last -constructed when I was in Liverpool. Some dozens more may have been built -since I was there. Docks are like jealousy, and grow continually by what -they feed on. We can ill afford to surrender so noble a public building -as St. George’s Hall, so thronged and interesting a thoroughfare as Dale -Street; yet it must be confessed that the attention of the visitor to -Liverpool is concentrated and absorbed by the unrivalled and magnificent -docks. So he who visits Venice, ardent lover of art and architecture -as he may be, gives on his first sojourn but a cursory glance at the -churches and palaces; he is fascinated and engrossed by the canals and -the gondolas. So the stranger in Petersburg and Moscow has at first -but scant attention to bestow on the superb monuments, the picturesque -costumes; his senses are riveted upon the golden domes of Tzaaks and the -Kremlin. Liverpool is one huge dock; and from the landing-stage to West -Derby island, everything is of the docks and docky. The only wonder seems -to be that the ships do not sail up the streets, and discharge their -cargoes at the doors of the merchants’ counting-houses. But in London, -in the suburbs, in the West-end, in the heart of the city oft-times, -what do we know or care about the docks? There are scores of members of -the Stock Exchange, I will be bound, who never entered the dock gates, -and those few who have paid a visit to Dock London, may merely have gone -there with a tasting-order for wine. When we consider that in certain -aristocratic circles it is reckoned to be rather a breach of etiquette -than otherwise to know anything about the manners and customs of the -dwellers on the other side of Temple Bar, even as the by-gone snob-cynic -of fashion and literature professed entire ignorance as to the locality -of Russell Square, and wanted to know “where you changed horses” in a -journey to Bloomsbury—unless, indeed, my Lord Duke or my Lady Marchioness -happen to be a partner in a great brewing and banking firm, under which -circumstances he or she may roll down in her chariot to the city to -glance over the quarterly balance sheet of profit; when we consider that -this world of a town has cities upon cities within its bosom, that in the -course of a long life may never be visited; when we think of Bermondsey, -Bethnal Green, Somers Town, Clerkenwell, Hoxton, Hackney, Stepney, Bow, -Rotherhithe, Horsleydown—places of which the great and titled may read -every day in a newspaper, and ask, languidly, where they are,—we need no -longer be surprised if the Docks are ignored by thousands, and if old men -die every day who have never beheld their marvels. - -Coming home from abroad often, with an intelligent foreigner, I persuade -him to renounce the Calais route and the South-Eastern Railway, and -even to abjure the expeditious run from Newhaven. I decoy him on board -one of the General Steam Navigation vessels at Boulogne, and when his -agonies of sea-sickness have, in the course of half a dozen hours or -so, subsided—when we have passed Margate, Gravesend, Erith, Woolwich, -Greenwich even—when I have got him past the Isle of Dogs, and we are -bearing swiftly on our way towards the Pool—I clap my intelligent -foreigner on the back, and cry, “Now look around (Eugène or Alphonse, -as the case may be); now look around, and see the glory of England. -Not in huge armies, bristling with bayonets, and followed by monstrous -guns; not in granite forts, grinning from the waters like ghoules from -graves; not in lines of circumvallation, miles and miles in extent; not -in earthworks, counter-scarps, bastions, ravelins, mamelons, casemates, -and gunpowder magazines—shall be found our pride and our strength. Behold -them, O intelligent person of foreign extraction! in yonder forest of -masts, in the flags of every nation that fly from those tapering spars -on the ships, in the great argosies of commerce that from every port in -the world have congregated to do honour to the monarch of marts, London, -and pour out the riches of the universe at her proud feet.” After this -flourishing exordium—the sense of which you may have heard on a former -occasion, for it forms part of my peroration on the grandeur of England, -and, if my friends and acquaintances are to be believed, I bore them -terribly with it sometimes—I enter into some rapid details concerning -the tonnage and import dues of the port of London; and then permit the -intelligent foreigner to dive down below again to his berth. Sometimes -the foreign fellow turns out to be a cynic, and declares that he cannot -see the forest of masts for the fog, if it be winter—for the smoke, if it -be summer. - -But the docks of London—by which, let me be perfectly understood, (I do -not, by any means, intend to confine myself to the London Docks) I speak -of Dock London in its entirety: of the London and St. Katherine’s, of -the East and West India, and the Victoria Docks—what huge reservoirs are -they of wealth, and energy, and industry! See those bonding warehouses, -apoplectic with the produce of three worlds, congested with bales of -tobacco and barrels of spices; with serons of cochineal, and dusky, -vapid-smelling chests of opium from Turkey or India; with casks of -palm-oil, and packages of vile chemicals, ill-smelling oxides and -alkalis, dug from the bowels of mountains thousands of miles away, and -which, ere long, will be transformed into glowing pigments and exquisite -perfumes; with shapeless masses of india rubber, looking inconceivably -dirty and nasty, yet from which shall come delicate little cubes with -which ladies shall eraze faulty pencil marks from their landscape copies -after Rout and Harding—india rubber that shall be spread over our coats -and moulded into shoes, yea, and drawn out in elastic ductility, to -form little filaments in pink silk ligatures—I dare not mention their -English appellation, but in Italian they are called “_legaccie_”—which -shall encircle the bases of the femurs of the fairest creatures in -creation; with bags of rice and pepper, with ingots of chocolate and -nuggets and nibs of cocoa, and sacks of roasted chicory. The great hide -warehouses, where are packed the skins of South American cattle, of -which the horns, being left on the hides, distil anything but pleasant -odours, and which lie, prone to each other, thirsting for the tan-pit. -See the sugar warehouses, dripping, perspiring, crystallising with sugar -in casks, and bags, and boxes.[4] How many million cups of tea will be -sweetened with these cases when the sugar is refined! how many tomesful -of gossiping scandal will be talked to the relish of those saccharine -dainties! what stores of barley-sugar temples and Chantilly baskets for -the rich, of brandyballs and hardbake for the poor, will come from those -coarse canvas bags, those stained and sticky casks! And the huge tea -warehouses, where the other element of scandal, the flowery Pekoe or the -family Souchong, slumbers in tinfoiled chests. And the coffee warehouses, -redolent of bags of Mocha and Mountain, Texan and Barbadian berries. -And the multitudinous, almost uncataloguable, mass of other produce: -shellac, sulphur, gum-benzoin, ardebs of beans and pulse from Egypt, -yokes of copper from Asia Minor; sponge, gum-arabic, silk and muslin -from Smyrna; flour from the United States; hides, hams, hemp, rags, and -especially tallow in teeming casks, from Russia and the Baltic provinces; -mountains of timber from Canada and Sweden; fruit, Florence oil, tinder, -raw cotton (though the vast majority of that staple goes to Liverpool), -indigo, saffron, magnesia, leeches, basket-work, and wash-leather! The -ships vomit these on the dock quays, and the warehouses swallow them up -again like ogres. But there is in one dock, the London, an underground -store, that is the Aaron’s rod of dock warehouses, and devours all the -rest. For there, in a vast succession of vaults, roofed with cobwebs -many years old, are stored in pipes and hogsheads the wines that thirsty -London—thirsty England, Ireland, and Scotland—must needs drink. What -throats they have, these consumers! what oceans of good liquor their -Garagantuan appetites demand! Strange stories have been told about these -docks, and the thirsty souls who visit them with tasting-orders; how the -brawny coopers stride about with candles in cleft sticks, and, piercing -casks with gimlets, pour out the rich contents, upon the sawdust that -covers the floor, like water; how cases of champagne are treated as of -as little account as though they were cases of small beer; how plates of -cheese-crumbs are handed round to amateurs that they may chasten their -palates and keep them in good tone of taste; how the coopers are well -nigh infallible in detecting who are the tasters that visit these “wine -vaults” with a genuine intention of buying, and who the epicureans, whose -only object in visiting the London Docks is to drink, gratuitously on -the premises, as much good wine as they can conveniently carry. Strange, -very strange stories, too, are told of the occasional inconvenience into -which the “convenient carriage” degenerates; of respectable fathers of -families appearing in the open street, after they have run the tether of -the tasting-order, staggering and dishevelled, and with bloodshot eyes, -their cravats twisted round to the backs of their necks like bagwigs, -and incoherently declaring that cheese always disagreed with them. I am -candidly of opinion, however, that the majority of these legends are -apocryphal, or, in the rare cases when they have a foundation in fact, -belong to the history of the past, and that commercial sobriety, in the -highest order, is the rule in the wine vaults of the London Docks. - -[Illustration: ONE O’CLOCK P.M.: DOCK-LABOURERS RETURNING TO WORK.] - -But the Ships! Who shall describe those white-sailed camels? who shall -tell in graphic words of the fantastic interlacing of their masts and -rigging, of the pitchy burliness of their bulging sides; of the hives -of human ants who in barges and lighters surround them, or swarm about -their cargo-cumbered decks? Strange sight to see, these mariners from -every quarter of the globe; of every variety of stature and complexion, -from the swarthy Malay to the almost albino Finn; in every various -phase of picturesque costume, from the Suliote of the fruitship, in his -camise and capote, to the Yankee foremast-man in his red shirt, tarry -trousers, and case-knife hung by a strand of lanyards to his girdle. But -not alone of the maritime genus are the crowds who throng the docks. -There are lightermen, stovedores, bargees, and “lumpers;” there are -passengers flocking to their narrow berths on board emigrant ships; there -are entering and wharfingers’ clerks travelling about in ambulatory -counting-houses mounted on wheels; there are land rats and water rats, -ay, and some that may be called pirates of the long-shore, and over -whom it behoves the dock policemen and the dock watchmen to exercise a -somewhat rigid supervision—for they will pick and steal, these piratical -ne’er-do-weels, any trifle, unconsidered or not, that comes handy to -their knavish digits; and as they emerge from the dock-gates, it is -considered by no means a breach of etiquette for an official to satisfy -himself, by a personal inspection of their garments, that they don’t -happen to have concealed about them, of course by accident, such waifs -and strays as a bottle of Jamaica rum, a lump of gutta percha, a roll of -sheet copper, or a bundle of Havannah cigars. - -But a clanging bell proclaims the hour of one, and the dock-labourers, -from Tower Hill to the far-off Isle of Dogs, are summoned back to their -toil. Goodness and their own deplenished pockets only know how they have -been lunching, or on what coarse viands they have fed since noon. Many -have not fed at all; for, of the motley herd of dock-labourers, hundreds, -especially in the London Docks—where no recommendation save strength is -needed, and they are taken on their good behaviour from day to day—are -of the Irish way of thinking; and, wonderfully economical, provident, -self-denying are those much maligned Hibernians when they are earning -money. They are only spendthrifts and indolent when they have nothing. -They will content themselves with a fragment of hard, dry bread, and the -bibulous solace of the nearest pump, and go home cheerfully at dusk to -the unsavoury den—be it in Whitechapel or in Bloomsbury or in far-off -Kensington, for they prefer strangely to live at the farthest possible -distance from their place of daily toil—where their ragged little robins -of children dwell like so many little pigs under a bed. And there they -will partake of a mess of potatoes, with one solitary red herring smashed -up therein, to “give it a relish.” They will half starve themselves, and -go as naked as the police will permit them to go; but they will be very -liberal to the priest, and will scrape money together to bring their -aged and infirm parents over from the “ould country.” That is folly and -superstition, people will say. Of course, what people say must be right. - -Some dock-labourers lunch on too much beer and too little bread; for -they are held in thraldom by certain unrighteous publicans, who still -pursue, with great contentment and delectation to themselves, but to the -defrauding, ruin, and misery of their customers, the atrocious trade, -now well nigh rooted from the manufacturing and mining districts, known -as the “tommy-shop” system. I think I need scarcely explain what this -system is, for, under its twin denomination of “truck,” it has already -formed a subject for Parliamentary inquiry. Let it suffice to say, that -the chief feature in the amiable system consists in giving the labourer -a fallacious and delusive credit to the amount of his weekly wages, and -supplying him with victuals and drink (chiefly the latter) at an enormous -rate of profit. The labourer is paid by his foreman in tickets instead -of cash, and invariably finds himself at the end of the week victimised, -or, to use a more expressive, though not so genteel a term, diddled, -to a heart-rending extent. Dock-labourers who are in regular gangs and -regularly employed, are the greatest sufferers by this unjust mode of -payment. As to the casual toilers who crowd about the gates at early -morning in the hope of being engaged for a working day, they are paid -half a crown, and are free to squander or to hoard the thirty pence as -they list. That industrious and peaceable body of men, the coalwhippers, -groaned for a long period under the iniquities of the truck system; they -are now protected by a special Act of Parliament, renewed from time to -time; but the dock-labourers yet eat their bread leavened by a sense of -injustice. There are none to help them; for they have no organisation, -and very few friends. It is perfectly true that the dock-companies have -nothing whatsoever to do with the social servitude under which their -labourers groan; and that it is private speculators who work the system -for their own aggrandisement; but the result to the labourer is the same. -I don’t think it matters to Quashie, the negro slave, when he is beaten, -whether the cowhide be wielded by Mr. Simon Legree, the planter, or by -Quimbo, the black driver. - -Look at these labourers, and wonder. For it is matter for astonishment to -know that among these meanly-clad, frequently ragged men, coarse, dirty, -and repulsive in aspect, there are very many who have been tenderly bred -and nurtured; who have been, save the mark, gentlemen! who have received -University educations and borne the Queen’s commission. And here also are -the draff and husks of foreign immigration; Polish, German, and Italian -exiles. They have come to this—down to this—up to this, if you choose; -come to the old, old level, as old as Gardener Adam’s time, of earning -the daily bread by the sweat of the brow. It were better so than to -starve; better so than to steal. - -[Illustration: ONE O’CLOCK P.M.: DINING ROOMS IN BUCKLERSBURY.] - -What time the dock-labourers have finished lunch, another very -meritorious class of human ants begin their prandial repasts. With just -one thought at the vast number of merchants’, brokers’, shipping-agents’, -warehousemen’s, wholesale dealers’ counting-houses that exist in London -city, you will be able to form an idea of the legions of clerks, juniors -and seniors, who, invariably early-breakfasting men, must get seriously -hungry at one p.m. Some I know are too proud to dine at this patriarchal -hour. They dine, after office hours, at Simpson’s, at the Albion, at the -London, or, save us, at the Wellington. They go even further west, and -patronise Feetum’s, or the Scotch Stores in Regent Street, merely skating -out, as it were, for a few minutes at noon, for a snack at that Bay Tree -to which I have already alluded. Many, and they are the married clerks, -bring neat parcels with them, containing sandwiches or bread-and-cheese, -consuming those refreshments in the counting-house. In the very great -houses, it is not considered etiquette to dine during office-hours, -save on foreign-post nights. As to the extremely junior clerks, or -office-boys, as they are irreverently termed, they eat whatever they -can get, and whenever they can get it, very frequently getting nothing -at all. But there are yet hundreds upon hundreds of clerks who consume -an orthodox dinner of meat, vegetables, and cheese—and on high days -and holidays pudding—at one p.m. Their numbers are sufficient to cram -almost to suffocation the eating-houses of Cheapside, the Poultry, Mark -Lane, Cornhill, and especially Bucklersbury. Of late years there has -been an attempt to change the eating-houses of Cheapside into pseudo -“restaurants.” Seductive announcements, brilliantly emblazoned, and -showily framed and glazed, have been hung up, relating to “turtle” and -“venison;” salmon, with wide waddling mouths, have gasped in the windows; -and insinuating mural inscriptions have hinted at the existence of -“Private dining-rooms for ladies.” Now, whatever can ladies—though I have -the authority of Mr. Charles Dibdin and my own lips for declaring that -there are fine ones in the city—want to come and dine in Cheapside for? -At these restaurants they give you things with French names, charge you a -stated sum for attendance, provide the pale ale in silver tankards, and -take care of your hat and coat; but I like them not—neither, I believe, -do my friends, the one-o’clock-dining clerks. Either let me go to -Birch’s or the Anti-Gallican, or let me take my modest cut of roast and -boiled, my “one o’ taters,” my “cheese and sallary,” at an eating-house -in Bucklersbury—such a one as my _alter ego_, Mr. M’Connell, has here -presented for your edification. And his pictured morals must eke out my -written apophthegms—for this sheet is full. - - - - -TWO P.M.—FROM REGENT STREET TO HIGH CHANGE. - - -I breathe again. I see before me, broad-spread, a vista of gentility. I -have done, for many hours to come, with shabby subjects. No more dams -I’ll make for fish—in Billingsgate; nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish, -at second-rate eating-houses; nor fetch firing at requiring in Covent -Garden or the Docks. Prospero must get a new man, for Caliban has got a -new master: Fashion, in Regent Street. - -I declare that when I approach this solemnly-genteel theme, my frame -dilates, my eyes kindle, my heart dances. I experience an intense desire -to array myself in purple and fine linen, knee shorts, lace ruffles, -pink silk stockings, diamond buckles, and a silver-hilted sword; to -have my hair powdered, and my jewelled _tabatière_ filled with scented -rappee; to sit with my feet on a Turkey carpet, before a table inlaid -with _marqueterie_, wax candles in silver sconces (the candles all -green, with fillagree _bobeches_) on either side; and then—while my -Dulcinea in a hoop petticoat, a point lace apron, red-heeled _mules_, a -_toupet_ and a _mouche_ on the left cheek, her feathered fan, painted by -Fragonard on the finest chicken-skin, lying beside her—plays the minuet -from “Ariadne” in an adjoining and gilded _salon_, decorated in the -_Style Pompadour_, on the harpsichord; and on pink scented note-paper, -with a diamond pointed pen and violet ink—the golden pounce-box at my -elbow—then under these circumstances and with these luxurious appliances -around me, I think I could manage to devote myself to the task of -inditing matter concerning Regent Street in the smoothest dythrambics. -This is rather a violent contrast to the dry skittle-ground, the cows, -and the depraved sow which inspired me in the last chapter; but only -take my subject into consideration: only permit me to inoculate you -with one drop of the ethereal nectar which should be quaffed by every -writer who would look upon Regent Street from a proper point of view. -Ladies and gentlemen moving in the polite circles have—but that is long -ago—accused me of being of Bohemia, and to that manner born; of writing a -great deal too much about the Virginian weed in its manufactured state, -and the fermented infusion of malt and hops; publishers have refused -to purchase my novels because they contained too many descriptions of -“low life;” because my heroes and heroines were too frequently ragged -and forlorn creatures, who didn’t go into “society,” who didn’t go to -church, who were never seen at the May meetings in Exeter Hall, but who -went to public-houses and penny-gaffs instead. Oh, lords and ladies! oh, -brilliant butterflies of society! oh, respectable people of every degree! -whose ear coarse language wounds, but who would have, believe me, to -undergo much coarser deeds from the ragged ones you despise, were it not -for the humble efforts of us poor pen-and-ink missionaries; O salt ones -of the earth! think that you are but hundreds among the millions of the -tattered and torn, who have never studied the “Handbook to Etiquette,” -nor heard of Burke and Debrett, and who would eat peas with their knives -if they had any peas to eat—Heaven help them! They are around and about -you always. I have no greed of gain in advocating their cause, for I am -unknown to them, and am of your middle class, and am as liable to be -stoned by the ragged ones for having a better coat than they any day. But -woe be to you, respectables, if you shut your ears to their plaints and -your eyes to their condition. For the stones may fly thick and fast some -day; there may be none to help you, and it may be too late to cry for -help. - -I have heard Regent Street compared to the Boulevard des Italiens, to -Unter-den-Linden at Berlin, to Broadway at New York, to the Montagne -de la Cour at Brussels, to the Corso de’ Servi at Milan, to the Toledo -at Naples, to George Street, Sydney, and to the Nevskoi Perspective at -Petersburg. In my opinion, Regent Street is an amalgamation of all these -streets, and surpasses them all. Their elements are strained, filtered, -refined, condensed, sublimated, to make up one glorious thoroughfare. -Add to this, the unique and almost indescribable _cachet_ which the -presence of English aristocracy lends to every place it chooses for -its frequentation, and the result is Regent Street. Of the many cities -I have wandered into and about, there is but one possessing a street -that can challenge comparison with—and that, I must confess, well nigh -equals—the street that Nash, prince of architects, built for the fourth -George. At a right angle from the pleasant waters of the river Liffey, -there runs a street, wide in dimensions, magnificent in the proportions -of its edifices, splendid in its temples and its palaces, though many of -the latter, alas! are converted now into hotels, now into linen-drapers’ -shops; but on a golden summer’s afternoon, when you see, speeding towards -the column of Nelson in the distance, the glittering equipages of the -rich and noble, who yet have their dwelling in Eblana; the clattering -orderlies, on sleek-groomed horses, and with burnished accoutrements, -spurring from the Castle towards the Post Office—and, beauty of beauties, -the side walks on either hand converted into parterres of living flowers, -the grand and glorious Irish girls, with their bright raiment and -brighter eyes; you will acknowledge that Regent Street has a rival, that -beyond St. George’s Channel is a street that the triumphal procession of -a Zenobia or a Semiramis might pass down, and that the queen of streets -is Sackville Street, Dublin. - -Do you know, youth of the present generation—for I fondly hope that I -have good store of juveniles among my readers—that Regent Street has its -antiquities, its archæologia, its topographical curiosities? Mr. Peter -Cunningham knows them all by heart; I am not about to steal from the -“Handbook of London” of our modern Camden; but will just tell you, in -my desultory way, that, in the days when the Mews reared their head, an -unsightly mass of brick buildings, in the area which is now Trafalgar -Square; when Carlton House loomed at the eastern end of Pall Mall, -instead of the ugly post erected as a monument of national gratitude to -the Royal Duke who paid nobody; when the Golden Cross, Charing Cross, -was hemmed in by a cobweb mass of dirty tenements, and Hungerford Market -was yet a mass of fishy hovels ungraced by Hungerford Hall and Mr. -Gatti’s penny-ice shop; when the old “Courier” newspaper office stood -(over-against Mr. Cross’s older Exeter ’Change, with the elephant’s tusks -displayed outside, the shops beneath, and Chunee and the wild beasts all -alive and roaring upstairs) in the space that now forms the approach -to Waterloo Bridge; and when the vicinity of Temple Bar was blocked up -by a brick-and-mortar _cloaca_, since swept away to form what is now -termed Picket Place. Are you at all aware, neophytes in topographical -lore, that the area of Regent Street the superb, was occupied by mean -and shambling tenth-rate avenues, among which the chiefest was a large, -dirty highway, called Great Swallow Street? Old Fuller (I don’t know why -he should be called “old” so persistently, for he did not attain anything -like a venerable age) was in the habit of collecting information for the -“Worthies of England” from the tottering crones who sat spinning by the -ingle-nook, and from the white-headed grand-sires sunning themselves -on the bench by the almshouse door. In like manner, I owe much of the -information I possess on the aspect of London streets, at the time just -previous to my nonage, to communing with nurses and nurses’ female -friends. The good folks who tend children, seldom deem that the little -pitchers they say jestingly have long ears, will suck their lore in so -greedily, or retain it so long. - -My personal acquaintance with Regent Street dates from the year -’thirty-two, when I remember a great scrambling procession of operatives, -with parti-coloured flags, emblazoned with devices I could not read, -passing down it. Mrs. Esner, who was then attached to my person in a -domestic capacity (she often calls upon me now, and, saying that she -“nussed” me, expatiates on the benefits of a pound of green tea), told -me that these operatives belonged to the “Trades Union.” She said—though -the good woman must have exaggerated—that they were half a million in -number, and I recollect her portending, in a grave low voice, that there -would be riots that night. I don’t think that any occurred; but long -after, whenever I saw a crowd I used to ask whether “there would be any -riots” that night, just as I might have inquired whether there would be -any bread-and-butter for tea. This was about the time that they used to -call the great Duke of Wellington “Nosey,” and “Sawbones,” and to break -his windows. I was too young to know then, that the Athenians grew tired -of hearing Aristides called “The Just;” and that a nation once grumbled -at having to pay for the palace it had bestowed upon that John Churchill, -Duke of Marlborough, who won the battle of Blenheim. I think, too, there -must have been something about the Cholera in my earliest recollections -of Regent Street; yet, no: I lived in North Audley Street at that time, -and opposite the mansion of the great Earl of Clarendon; for, as clearly -as though it were yesterday, I see now in the eye to which the attention -of Horatio, friend of Hamlet Prince of Denmark, was directed—a hot autumn -afternoon. I am at the nursery-window in sad disgrace, and pouting -because I have wrenched the sprightly wooden hussar from the horse -which had the semi-circle of wire with the bullet at the end fixed in -his stomach, and who used, with that impetus, to swing so deftly. There -is much commotion in the great earl’s mansion; for one of the servants -partook too plentifully last night of gooseberry-fool after a rout his -lordship gave—where are the “routs” and the “gooseberry-fools” now?—and -she is dead this morning of cholera morbus. My female _entourage_ are -unanimously exacting in calling it cholera “morbus.” The undertaker’s men -bring the body out; the shell gleams white in the afternoon’s sunshine, -and it is begirt with cords; “for,” says the domestic oracles behind -me, “it was so mortal swole that it would ’ave bust else.” A horrible -rumour runs about, that the coffin has been “pitched and sealed.” What -can “pitching and sealing” mean? There is a great crowd before the -earl’s door, who are violent and clamorous, because rumour—a servant’s -hall, an area gate, a coachman from-the-house-to-his-wife-in-the-mews -rumour—bruits it about that the body has not been washed. My nurse says -that they will have to send for the “padroll” with “cut-lashes.” All -these things sink into my little mind; and then the whole sequel, with -a train of years behind it, fade away, leaving me with but one more -recollection—that we had a twopenny cottage-loaf boiled in milk that day -for dinner, which was consequently swollen to twice its natural size; and -which the Eumenides of the nursery authoritatively assured me was, with -brown sugar, the “best puddin’ out.” I know now that congested loaf to -have been an insipid swindle. - -I am again in Regent Street, but at another window, and in another -house. There is no nurse now, but a genteel young woman, aged about -thirty—she asked me once, for fun, how old she was, and I guessed, in -all youthful seriousness, fifty, whereupon she slapped me—to take care -of me. Her name is Sprackmore, she has long corkscrew ringlets, and is -very pious, and beneath her auspices I first study the “Loss of the -_Kent_ East Indiaman,” and the “Dairyman’s Daughter.” She has fits, -too, occasionally. I am just of that age to be a hollow-eyed little boy -in a tunic, with a frill and a belt, and to be dreadfully afraid of -the parent I used a year before to love and caress with such fearless -confidence. They say I am a clever child, and my cleverness is encouraged -by being told that I am not to ask questions, and that I had much better -go and play with my toys than mope over that big volume of Lyttelton’s -“History of England,” lent to me by Mr. Somebody, the lawyer—I see him -now, very stout and gray, at the funeral whenever any of us dies: of -which volume—it is in very shabby condition—I break the top-cover off -by letting it fall from the chair, which is my reading-desk. I suffer -agonies of terror and remorse for months, lest the fracture should be -discovered, though I have temporarily repaired it by means of a gimlet -and a piece of twine. Then, one bright day, my cousin Sarah gives me a -bright five-shilling piece—I take her to the opera now, but she always -remembers my childish dependence upon her, and insists upon paying the -cab home—and take Lyttelton’s “History,” still with great fear and -trembling, to a bookbinder’s in Broad Street, Golden Square, who tells me -that the “hends is jagged,” and that there must be a new back, lettering, -and gilding to the book. He works his will with it, and charges me four -shillings and sixpence out of the five shilling-piece for working it; but -to tell of the joyful relief I feel when I bring Lyttelton’s “History” -back safe and sound! I do not get rid of my perturbation entirely, -however, till I have rubbed the back against the carpet a little to -soil it, in order that it may not look too new. Oh! the agonies, the -Laocoon-like conscience windings, the Promethean tortures, that children -suffer through these accidental breakages! Oh! the unreasoning cruelty -of parents, who punish children for such mischances! So I am the little -boy in a tunic; and I daresay that, with my inquisitiveness, and my -moping over books, I am an intolerable little nuisance. I am at the -Regent Street window, and much speculation is rife as to whether the -King, who is lying mortally sick at Windsor, is dead. For it is within -a few minutes of eleven, and at that time the well-known troop of Horse -Guards pass on their way to St. James’s; and it is reasonably inferred -that, if King William be gathered to his fathers, the standard will be -furled. The Guards pass; they wore helmets, with plumes above them shaped -like black mutton chops—not the casques with the flowing horse-hair they -wear now; and to be sure the standard is furled, in a species of drab -umbrella case. The King is dead for sure; nay, he does not die for a full -week afterwards; the flag was merely furled because the day was dark and -lowering, presaging rain. - -[Illustration: TWO O’CLOCK P.M.: REGENT STREET.] - -I told you hours since that I lived in the house in Regent Street -in which the Marquis de Bourbel forged his letters of credit.[5] I -think that I am qualified to speak of the place, for, walking down it -the other day, I counted no less than eleven houses, between the two -circuses, in which I had at one time dwelt. But they were all early, -those remembrances, and connected with the time when the colonnade of -the Quadrant existed—“_La ville de Londres_,” as the foreign engravers -of pictorial note-paper used grandiloquently to call it. Whatever -could have possessed our Commissioner of Woods and Forests to allow -those unrivalled arcades to be demolished! The stupid tradesmen, whose -purblind, shop-till avarice led them to petition for the removal of the -columns, gained nothing by the change, for the Quadrant, as a lounge in -wet weather, was at once destroyed; and I see now many of the houses, -once let out in superior apartments, occupied as billiard-rooms and -photographic studios, and many of the shops invaded and conquered by -cheap tailors. The Quadrant colonnade afforded not only a convenient -shelter beneath, but it was a capital promenade for the dwellers in the -first-floors above. The _entresols_ certainly were slightly gloomy; and -moustached foreigners, together with some gaily-dressed company still -naughtier, could with difficulty be restrained from prowling backwards -and forwards between Glasshouse Street and the County Fire Office. But, -perambulating Regent Street at all hours of the day and night, as I do -now frequently, I see no diminution in the number of moustached, or -rouged, or naughty faces, whose prototypes were familiar to me, years -agone, in the brilliant Quadrant. As to the purlieus of the County Fire -Office, they are confusion, and a scandal to London and its police. -The first-floor balconies above were in my childhood most glorious -playgrounds. There I kept preserves of broken bottles and flowerpots; on -those leads I inscribed fantastic devices in chalk and with penknives, -drawing silver diagrams through the cake of dust and dried refrain that -covered the metal; and often have I come to domestic grief through an -irresistible propensity for poaching on the balconies of the neighbours -on either side. Still in a state of tunic-hood, I remember a very tall, -handsome gentleman, with a crimson velvet under-waistcoat—I saw his -grave in Perè la Chaise last winter—who was my great aider and abettor -in these juvenile escapades. He had a wondrous weapon of offence called -a “sabar-cane,” a delightful thing (to me then), half walking-stick, -half pea-shooter, from which he used to discharge clay pellets at the -vagrant cats on the adjoining balconies. He it was who was wont to lean -over the balcony, and fish for people’s hats with a salmon-hook affixed -to the extremity of a tandem-whip; he it was who came home from the Derby -(quite in a friendly manner) to see us one evening, all white—white hat, -white coat, white trousers, white waistcoat, white neckerchief, white -boots, to say nothing of the dust and the flour with which he had been -plentifully besprinkled at Kennington Gate. He had won heavily on some -horse long since gone to grass for ever, was very merry, and insisted -upon winding-up our new French clock with the snuffers. He it was who -made nocturnal excursions from parapet to parapet along the leads, -returning with bewildering accounts of bearded men who were gambling -with dice at No. 92; of the tenor of the Italian Opera, who, knife in -hand, was pursuing his wife (in her nightdress) about the balcony, at -No. 74; and of Mademoiselle Follejambes, the _premier sujet_ of the same -establishment, who was practising _pirouettes_ before a cheval glass at -the open window of No. 86, while Mademoiselle Follejambe’s mamma, with -a red cotton pocket-handkerchief tied round her old head, was drinking -_anisette_ out of a tea-cup. You must be forbearing with me, if, while I -speak of Regent Street, I interlard my speech with foreign languages a -little. For, from its first erection, the Quadrant end of Regent Street -has been the home of the artistic foreigners who are attracted to London -during the musical and operatic season, less by inclination for the -climate and respect for the institutions of England, than by a profound -admiration for the circular effigies, in gold, (with neatly milled edges) -of her Majesty the Queen, which John Bull so liberally bestows on those -who squall or fiddle for him, provided they be of foreign extraction. -Let me not be too unjust, however, to Bull. Find him but a real English -tenor, and J. B. will smother him in bank-notes, and deafen him with -plaudits. From the balconies of Regent Street, I have seen the greatest -_cantatrici_ and _ballerine_ of this age. The Grand Cham of tenors, -who has _never_ been replaced—no signor Mario, no Signor Giuglini, no -Signor Mongini, no Signor Tamberlik, no Mr. Sims Reeves, no Mr. George -Perren—the incomparable Rubini, had lodgings opposite, once, to where -we dwelt, at a shawl shop. I have watched the sedulous care which that -eminent man took of his health, marvelled at the multitudinous folds -of silk or woollen stuff, like the turban of an Asiatic, with which he -encircled his invaluable throat when he took out-door exercise. I have -seen, through his open window, the basso of basso’s, Papa Lablache, the -man with the lion’s head, the Falstaffian abdomen, and the ten times -stentorian lungs, eat maccaroni for twenty-seven consecutive minutes, -till he seemed determined to outdo all the ribbon-swallowing conjurors -who had ever lived. We used to say that he was practising for Leporello. -He had a kindly heart, Papa Lablache, and preserved a kindly remembrance -of the hearty English people, among whom he made his fortune. Though he -would sometimes facetiously declare, that when his voice was no longer -fit to be heard in a Continental city, he would come to England to -settle, and sing “_Fra questi sordi_” among these deaf ones—for whom -he would still be quite good enough—his heart never cooled towards the -old country; and, moribund at Naples, when the supreme Hour was fast -arriving, he raised himself on his couch, and essayed to sing a song he -loved very well—“Home! sweet Home!” But, as the silver cord loosened, he -murmured, “_Mi manca la voce_”—“My voice fails me;” and so died. - -To say nothing of a dreadful German basso, one of the regular -line-of-battle ship voices, with 56-pounders on the first deck, who was -once a next-door neighbour in the Quadrant, and when he used to call for -his servant thus,“PAOOLO!” shook the flower-pots on our own balcony; -or of an egregious fiddler, with long hair, who, in imitation of his -predecessor, Paganini, gave out that he had sold himself to the devil, -but who was, I believe, an arrant humbug with a mania for practising in -the open air—it may have been as a medium of advertisement—and used to -attract large crowds in the street beneath listening to his complicated -fiddlements. Yet I must spare a word for Madame—I really forget whom, but -it ended with “heim,” I think—who had the six-and-thirty Austro-Sclavonic -children who used to perform the mirror dance and other terpsichorean -feats at her Majesty’s Theatre and whom she used to drill on the balcony -like soldiers. They made a tremendous noise, these tiny _figurantes_, -and in the hours of recreation were not unaccustomed to fight among -themselves. Then Madame Somethingheim would sally forth on the balcony -and cut savagely into their poor young bodies with a switch, and after -much howling on their part, and chasing to and fro on hers, restore peace. - -The colonnades are as fruitful to me in recollections as the balconies. -How many miles of daily walks have I gone over, the hand of a toddling -little sister in mine, and with strict injunctions not to stray beyond -the shadow of the columns, and with prohibitions, under dreadful menaces, -of venturing in Air Street on the one side or Vigo Lane on the other! -I wore, I remember, then, an absurd blue cloak, too short for me, and -lined with red, and with a brass clasp somewhat resembling the ornament -on a cartouch box. This cloak chafed and fretted me, and was the bane -and terror of my existence; for I knew, or fancied I knew, that every -passer-by must know that it had never been made for me, which, indeed, -it never had, having formerly been of far larger dimensions and the -property of an officer in his Majesty’s light infantry. I believe that -there was a domestic ukase promulgated for our benefit against crossing -the road; but we did cross it nevertheless, with many looks to the right -and the left, not only to secure ourselves against threatening carriage -wheels, but with reference to the possible appearance of parents and -guardians. There was a delightful bird-stuffer’s shop at the corner of -a court, with birds of paradise, parrots, and hummingbirds of gorgeous -plumage, and strange creatures with white bodies and long yellow beaks -and legs that terrified while they pleasured us. Then there was the -funeral monument shop, with the mural tablets, the obelisks, the broken -columns, the extinguished torches, and the draped urns in the window, -and some with the inscriptions into the bargain, all ready engraved in -black and white, puzzling us as to whether the tender husbands, devoted -wives, and affectionate sons, to whom they referred, were buried in -that grisly shop—it had a pleasant, fascinating terror about it, like -an undertaker’s, too. There was Swan and Edgar’s, splendid and radiant, -then as now, with brave apparel (how many times have I listened to the -enthusiastic cheers of Swan and Edgar’s young men, on the occasion of -the proprietors giving their annual banquet to their _employés_?), and -even then replete with legends of dishonest fares, who caused a cab to -halt at the Regent Street entrance, got out, said they would be back -in a moment, and then darting through the crowded shop, knavishly -escaped at the Piccadilly end. There was the Italian statuary shop, with -Canova’s Graces, the crouching Venus, and the birds round a vase in -alabaster; and, above all, there was Mrs. Lipscombe’s shop—I don’t mean -the staymaker’s, but the one next to that, the filter shop, with the -astonishing machines for converting foul and muddy water, like gruel, -thick and slab, into a sparkling, crystal stream. What a miracle it -seemed to me that the goblet, filled to the brim, and yet into which, -from the filter above, drops continually fell, never overflowed! How I -used to watch the little cork ball, kept in a continually bounding state -of agitation by the perpendicular jet of water—watch it with almost -breathless agitation, when, every now and then, the centre of gravity -would be lost, and the little ball would tumble in the basin beneath—the -whole was covered by a glass shade—till, caught up once more, it would be -sent in eddying whirls higher than ever! I have seen the same experiment -tried since with bigger balls—and of marble—very like twenty-four -pounders—at the _Grandes Eaux_ of Versailles, and in the gardens of -Peterhoff. Stone Neptunes and Tritons surrounded the basin, and the jets -of water, forty feet high, sent the spray flying in the faces of the -spectators; but none of these hydraulic displays ever came up, in my -opinion, to the tiny squirt, with the little cork ball, underneath the -glass shade, in Mrs. Lipscombe’s window. Does she make stays and sell -filters yet, I wonder! What a curious mixture of avocations! I know of -none stranger since the names of M. Fenwick de Porquet and Mrs. Mary -Wedlake were amalgamated, and inquiries as to whether we “bruised our -oats yet,” were alternated with pressing questions of “_Parlez vous -Français?_” - -When I thus walked the Regent Quadrant, twenty years since, it was -haunted by a class of men, now, I am happy to believe, almost entirely -extinct. We have plenty of rogues in our body corporate yet. The turf -has its blacklegs and touts; the nightside of London is fruitful in -“macemen,” “mouchers,” and “go-alongs.” You must not be angry with me -for using slang terms; for did not a clergyman, at a highly-respectable -institution, deliver a lecture on slang the other day, and did not the -“Times” quote him? We are not free from skittle-sharps, card-cheats, -“duffers,” and ring-droppers; nay, even at remote country race-courses, -you may find remnants of the whilom swarming tribe of “charley-pitchers,” -the knavish gentry who pursue the games of “under seven or over seven,” -“red, black, leather and star,” or inveigle the unwary with “three little -thimbles and one small pea.” But a stern and righteous legislation has -put down nine-tenths of the infamous dens where any fool who chose -to knock was fleeced to the last lock of wool. If a man wants to be -vicious (in the gambling way) now, he must have the _entrée_ to the -abodes of vice, and a nodding acquaintance with the demon. A neophyte -is not allowed to ruin himself how and where he likes. In the days -of which I make mention, Regent Street and its purlieus abounded in -open gambling houses, and to the skirts of these necessarily hung on -a deboshed regiment of rogues, who made their miserable livings as -runners, and decoy-ducks, and bravos to these abominable nests. They -were called “Greeks,” and two o’clock in the afternoon was their great -time for turning out. From what infected holes or pestiferous garrets in -Sherrard, or Brewer, or Rupert Street, they came, I know not; but there -they were at the appointed hour, skulking with a half sheepish, half -defiant stride up and down Regent Street. Miserable dogs mostly, for -all their fine clothes—always resplendently, though dirtily, attired. -They wore great white coats, shiny hats, and mosaic jewellery, which was -just then coming into fashion. There was another fashion, in which they -very nearly succeeded, by adopting, to drive out, and make permanently -disreputable: that of wearing moustaches. They used to swagger about, all -lacquered, pomatumed, bejewelled, and begrimed, till I knew them all by -sight and many of them by name and repute. There was Jack Cheetham, the -lord’s son, he who was thrown out of the window at Frascati’s, and killed -the Frenchman in the Bois de Vincennes. There was Captain Dollamore, -who married the rich widow, and was arrested for her milliner’s bill -the week afterwards. There was Charley Skewball; he was called Charley, -but he was a baronet, had once been a gentleman, and was the greatest -rogue unhung. Mr. Thackeray knows these men well. They are his Count -Punters, Major Loders, M. de Caramboles, Hon. Algernon Deuceaces; but -they are extinct among us as a class, O Titmarsh; and simple people, who -read your admirable novels, wonder whom the monsters are that you draw. -They are dead; they are at the hulks; they are feebly punting at the few -remaining gambling places on the Rhine: they flaunted in the bad prime -of their manhood when I was a child. I have outgrown them; and only now -and then, when I am out very late, collecting materials for “Twice Round -the Clock,” I come upon a stray Jack or Charley—ragged and drivelling, -his fine feathers all moulted or smirched, his occupation quite gone—who -sidles up to me and calls me “Your honour,” and with salt-rheumy lips, -whimpers forth a supplication for “A penny towards a night’s lodging.” - -When our dear Queen Victoria was crowned, I began to lose sight of Regent -Street—lost sight of it by degrees altogether, and came not back to it, -as an observer, for many years. I rather avoided the place, for I had a -bitter baptism of physical misery in the beginning of my working life: -wanting food and raiment, not through prodigality (that came afterwards), -but through sheer penury and friendlessness. And Regent Street, for all -my querulous childhood, was associated with too many memories of happier -days gone for ever. You know what the Italian rhymester says— - - “Nessun maggior dolore - Che ricordarsi del tempo felice - Nella Miseria.” - -An Englishman has stolen the thought in some lines about “a sorrow’s -crown of sorrow,” whose summing up I forget; but the sense of the passage -is that the times are exceedingly hard, when, destitute and footsore, you -pass by a house, and glance at the windows once lighted up by feasting -in which you participated; when you think of the rooms, once swept by -the robe of the woman whom you loved, but that now, house, windows, -rooms, are the portion of strangers. I say I went away from Regent -Street, and came not back. There were reasons. I became of the Strand -and Fleet Street a denizen, and Temple Bar entered into my soul. For I -was affiliated to a great mystery of Masonry, called Literature, and had -to follow the behests of my mother lodge. You don’t see much of Regent -Street, during your apprenticeship, if you begin at the lowermost degree, -I can assure you. Now I am a master-mason, free and accepted, and can -hold my own; albeit I shall never be an Office-bearer, or “Grand,” of my -lodge, or rise to the superlatives of the Royal Arch or the Thirty-third. - -Behold Regent Street at two p.m., in the accompanying cartoon. Not -without reason do I declare it the most fashionable street in the world. -I call it not so for the aristocratic mansions it might possess; for -the lower parts of the houses are occupied as shops, and the furnished -apartments are let, either to music or operatic celebrities or to -unostentatious old bachelors. But the shops themselves are innately -fashionable. There was a dash of utilitarianism mingled with the slightly -Bohemian tinge of my Regent Street of twenty years ago; there were -bakers’ shops, stationers, and opticians, who had models of steam engines -in their windows. There was a grocer not above selling orange marmalade, -brown sugar, and Durham mustard. I remember buying a penny cake of -chocolate of him one morning; but I find the shop now expanded into a -magnificent emporium, where are sold wines, and spirits, sweetmeats -and preserves, liqueurs and condiments, Bayonne ham, Narbonne honey, -Bologna sausages, Russian caviare, Iceland moss, clotted cream, and -_terrines_ of _pâté de foie gras_. Indeed, Regent Street is an avenue -of superfluities—a great trunk-road in Vanity Fair. Fancy watchmakers, -haberdashers, and photographers; fancy stationers, fancy hosiers, and -fancy staymakers; music shops, shawl shops, jewellers, French glove -shops, perfumery, and point lace shops, confectioners and milliners: -creamily, these are the merchants whose wares are exhibited in this -Bezesteen of the world. - -[Illustration: TWO O’CLOCK P.M.: HIGH CHANGE.] - -Now, whatever can her ladyship, who has been shopping in Regent Street, -have ordered the stalwart footman, who shut the carriage door with a -resounding bang, to instruct the coachman to drive her to the Bank for? -Her ladyship’s own private bank is in a shiningly aristocratic street, -by Cavendish Square, embosomed among green trees. She does not want to -buy ribbons or lace on Ludgate Hill, artificial flowers in St. Paul’s -Churchyard, or fine linen in Cheapside. No; she has a very simple reason -for going into the city: Sir John, her liege lord, is on ’Change. He will -be there from half-past two to three, at which hour High ’Change, as it -may be called, closes, and she intends to call for him, and drive him to -the West-end again. By your leave, we will jump up behind the carriage, -heedless of the stalwart footman; for we are in the receipt of fern-seed, -and invisible. - -Going on ’Change seems to be but a mechanical and mercantile occupation, -and one that might with safety be entrusted to some confidential clerk; -yet it is not so; and the greatest magnates of commerce and finance, -the Rothschilds, the Barings, the Huths, the legions of London’s -merchant-princes, are to be found chaffering in the quadrangle every -day. In the old Exchange, they used to point out the particular column -against which the elder Rothschild was wont to lean. They called the old -man, too—marvellous diplomatist in financial combinations as he was—the -Pillar of the Exchange. You know that the colonnades—whose ceilings are -painted in such elaborate encaustic, and with such a signal result in -ruin from damp and smoke—are divided into different promenades, variously -designated, according to the nations of the merchants who frequent them. -Thus—there are the Italian Walk, the Spanish Walk, the Portuguese Walk, -the Danish Walk, and—a very notable walk it is too—the Greek Walk. -Here you may see, jabbering and gesticulating, the crafty, keen-eyed, -sallow-faced Smyrnians, Suliotes, Zantrites, and Fanariotes, individuals -much given to speculations in corn, in which, if report does them no -injustice, they gamble most egregiously. - -Three o’clock strikes—or rather chimes—from the bell-tower of Mr. Tite’s -new building. The quadrangle of the Exchange is converted into an -accurate model of the Tower of Babel. The mass of black-hatted heads—with -here and there a white one, like a fleck of foam on the crest of a -wave—eddies with violence to and fro. Men shout, and push, and struggle, -and jostle, and shriek bargains into one another’s ears. A stranger might -imagine that these money and merchandise dealers had fallen out, and were -about to fight; but the beadle of the Exchange looks on calmly; he knows -that no breach of the peace will be committed, and that the merchants and -financiers are merely singing their ordinary pæan of praise to the great -god Mammon. Surely—if there be not high treason in the thought—they ought -to pull down Mr. Lough’s statue of Queen Victoria, which stands in the -centre of the quadrangle, and replace it by a neat effigy of the Golden -Calf. - - - - -THREE P.M.—DEBENHAM AND STORR’S AUCTION-ROOMS, AND THE PANTHEON BAZAAR. - - -The travelled reader has visited that astonishing _atelier_ of mosaics -and _pietra dura_ in Florence maintained at the charges of the late -Grand Duke of Tuscany, (he has been signally kicked off thronedom, since -the first writing of these presents), and has watched with admiring -amazement the patient ingenuity with which the artisans adjust the tiny -little vitreous and metallic fragments, that, firmly imbedded in paste, -make the fruits and flowers, the birds and angels of the mosaic. What -an impossible task it is, apparently, to form the microscopic bits into -comely shapeliness, symmetrical in form and glowing with rich colours! -yet how deftly the artists accomplish their task! how the work grows -beneath their nimble hands! What astonishing memories these _maître_ -mosaicists must have, remembering to a pin’s point where the high lights -on the petals of a rose will fall, and storing up in their minds archives -of the eyelashes of the Madonna, precedents for every scintillation of -the rays in the golden nimbus round His head! The mosaicists of Rome, and -Florence, and Venice—though the glorious art has well-nigh died out in -the Adriatic city—are the real administrative reformers, after all. The -right thing in the right place is their unvarying motto, and they are -never found putting the round men in the square holes, or _vice versâ_. - -I have been led into this train of thought by the contemplation of the -exigencies of “Twice Round the Clock.” Time, my slave for once, though -he has been my stern and cruel master for years and years, and at whom I -mean to throw a dart when this series shall be completed—Time, who is my -bond servant, to fetch and carry, to hew wood and draw water for yet a -span, has culled from the wild garden of Eternity, and thrown at my feet, -a heterogeneous mass of hours, minutes, and seconds, and has said with a -mocking subserviency—“There, my master, there are the hours of the day -and night, and their minutest subdivisions; try and paste them on your -printed calendar; try and reconcile your men and women to them; try and -apportion in its proper measure of time each grain of sand to the futile -rivings and strivings of your conceited humanity. You have stumbled on -from hour to hour since the sun was young, telling, with indifferent -success, the good and bad deeds that are done in London as the relentless -needle pushes round and round the dial. Here, then, is Three o’Clock -in the Afternoon. Take it; see what you can make of it, and much good -may it do you!” And as Time, or the vagrant thought I have embodied for -the nonce, says this, he sticks his tongue into his cheek, as though he -thought that three o’clock in the afternoon were rather a poser to me. - -Old man with the scythe and hour-glass, I defy thee! I will admit that -three o’clock post meridian, requires much deliberation and cogitation, -in order to give the millions of human marionettes, of whom I hold, -temporarily, the strings, their suitable employment; but it is rather -from a profusion than a paucity of scenes and things germane to the -hour that I am embarrassed. At three, ’Change is still going on, though -its busy time, the acmè of its excitement, is over. As the clock -strikes four, the city of London is in full pant; the clerks rush up -Cheapside, and dive down the wealthy narrow lanes, their bursting -bill-books (secured by leather-covered chains tied round their bodies) -charged with “three months after date, please pay to the order,” -which they cram into letter-boxes for acceptance. The private banking -houses in Lombard Street are in an orderly uproar of finance. The -rattling of shovels is incessant; office-boys cast thousands of pounds, -in notes, bills, and money, to the cashier, carelessly, across the -counter, paying vast sums in to their masters’ accounts; and the mighty -partners—in checked neckerchiefs, buff waistcoats, and creaking boots: -tremendous bank-partners, who are baronets, and members of Parliament, -lords even—stalk back from ’Change, pay a farewell visit to the bank -parlour, have a short but solemn confab with confidential subordinates, -relative to coming transactions at the clearing-house, and then enter -their carriages, and are borne to clubs, to the House of Commons, to -Greenwich dinners, or, perchance, if they have a dinner-party at home, -to their magnificent villas at Putney and Roehampton. What a colony -of bankers dwell there! the _sommités_ of the _haute finance_ seem to -entertain as decided a partiality for the banks of the Thames, as the -stockbrokers do for Brixton and Tulse Hill. Rare lives these money -keepers lead—scattering in the West that which they gather in the East. -Graperies, pineries, conservatories, ice-houses, dinner-parties, balls, -picnics; all these do they enjoy: they, their comely wives and handsome -daughters. They marry into the aristocracy! they have countesses and -marchionesses in their list of partners. It is not so many centuries -ago since the bankers were humble sellers of gold plate, dwelling in -Lombard Street and the Chepe, and following the great courtiers round the -quadrangle of the Exchange, intreating their lordships’ honours to be -allowed to keep their cash. Worthy individuals, however, are the majority -of these bankers, and it is but very rarely indeed that they make ducks -and drakes of their customers’ moneys. They are not so very proud either, -for all their splendid carriages and horses; and here, upon my word, is -Baron Lionel de Rothschild tearing up Ludgate Hill in a common Hansom -cab; but he, like the bad man whom Martial in an epigram declares not to -be so much vicious as vice itself, is less a Banker than a Bank. - -As three o’clock grows old, and the tide of business shows unmistakeable -indices of an ebb at no very remote period, so far as the city is -concerned, that same business is at the West-end in its extremest -activity. The shops of the West Strand, Piccadilly, Oxford and Regent -Streets, are thronged with customers, chiefly ladies; the roadway -is encumbered with carts and carriages; and street avocations—the -minor commerce of the mighty mart—are in full swing. Thick-necked and -beetle-browed individuals, by courtesy called dog-fanciers, but who -in many cases might with as much propriety answer to the name of -dog-stealers—forbidding-looking gentry, in coats of velveteen, with large -mother-o’-pearl buttons, and waistcoats of the neat and unpretending -moleskin—lurk about the kerbs of the purlieus of Regent Street and -Waterloo Place (the police drive them away from the main thoroughfares), -with the little “dawgs” they have to sell tucked beneath their arms, made -doubly attractive by much washing with scented soap, and the further -decoration of their necks with pink or blue ribbons. Here is the little -snub-nosed King Charles—I hope the _retroussé_ appearance of his nasal -organ is not due to the unkind agency of a noose of whipcord—his feathery -feet and tail, and his long silky ears, sweeping the clean summer -pavement. Here is the Newfoundland pup, with his bullet head and clubbed -caudal-appendage, winking his stupid little eyes, and needing, seemingly, -an enormous amount of licking into shape. Here is the bull-dog, in his -full growth, with his legs bowed, his tail inclining to the spiral, his -broad chest, thin flanks, defined ribs, moist nozzle, hare lip, bloodshot -eyes, protruding fang, and symmetrical patch over one eye; or else, in -a state of puppyhood, peeping from his proprietor’s side-pocket, all -pink and white like a morose sucking-pig become a hermit. Here is the -delightful little toy English terrier, with his jet-black coat, erect -neck, and tan paws; and here the genuine Skye, gray or brown, like an -unravelled ball of worsted. See, too, grimacing at all who come to view, -like a mulatto at a slave auction, who fancies himself good-looking, the -accomplished French poodle, with his peaked nose, woolly wig, leggings, -and tail band, and his horrible shaved, salmon-coloured body. He can -dance; he can perform gun-drill; he can fall motionless, as though dead, -at the word of command; he can climb up a lamp-post, jump over a stick, -hop on one leg, carry a basket in his mouth, and run away when he is -told that a policeman is coming. You can teach him to do anything but -love you. These, and good store of mongrels and half-breeds that the -dealer would fain palm upon us as dogs of blood and price, frisk and -fawn about his cord-trouser covered legs; but where is the toy-dog _par -excellence_, the playful, snappish, fractious, facetious, charming, -utterly useless little dog, that, a quarter of a century since, was the -treasure of our dowagers and our old maids? Where is the Dutch pug? Where -is that Narcissus of canine Calibanism, with his coffee-coloured coat, -his tail in a ring like the blue-nosed baboon’s, his crisped morsels of -ears, his black muzzle, his sharp, gleaming little teeth, his intensely -red lips and tongue? Is he extinct, like the lion-dog from Malta, the -property of her Majesty the Queen, and the “last of his race,” whom -courtly Sir Edwin Landseer drew? Are there no more Dutch pugs? They must -exist somewhere. Cunning dealers owning _recherché_ kennels in the New -Road or at Battle Bridge, or attending recondite “show clubs,” held at -mysterious hostelries in the vicinity of Clerkenwell, must yet have some -undoubted specimens of the pug for sale. There must be burghers yet, in -the fat comfortable houses at Loo by the Hague, or in the plethoric, -oozy vicinage of Amsterdam—there must be Tietjens, and Tenbroecks, -and van Ramms, and van Bummels, whose pride it is, amidst their store -of tulip bulbs, china vases, cabinet pictures by Breughel and Ostade, -lacquer-work from Japan, and spice-boxes from Java, to possess Dutch -pugs in the flesh. But the creature is seen no more in London streets, -and we must be content with him on Hogarth’s canvases, in Linacre’s -engravings, or modelled in china, as we see him in the curiosity shops. -I have indeed seen the elephant—I mean the Dutch pug—alive and snarling, -once in my life. He was led by a bright scarlet ribbon—scarlet, mind, -not pink or blue—attached to his silver collar; and there must have -been something in the appearance of my youthful legs (I was but five, -and they were bare, plump, and mottled) that excited his carnivorous -propensities, for, long as is the lapse of time, I remember that he -rushed at me like a coffee-coloured tiger. His mistress was a Duchess, -the grandest, handsomest Duchess that had ever lived (of course, I except -Georgina of Devonshire) since the days of that Grace of Queensberry -of whom Mr. Thackeray was good enough to tell us in the “Virginians.” -She, my Duchess, wore a hat and feathers, diamonds, and a _moustache_—a -downy nimbus round her mouth, like that which Mr. Philip insinuates -rather than paints in his delightful Spanish girls’ faces. I see her -now, parading the cliff at Brighton, with her black velvet train—yes, -madam, her train—held up by a page. She was the last duchess who drove -down to Brighton in a coach and six. She was the last duchess who at -Twelfth-night parties had a diamond ring baked in the cake which was to -be distributed by lots. Before she came to her coronet, she had been a -singing woman at a playhouse, had married a very foolish rich old banker, -and, at his death, remarried a more foolish and very poor duke. But she -was an excellent woman, and the relative to whom she left the bulk of her -wealth, is one of the most charitable, as I am also afraid she is one of -the most _ennuyée_, ladies in England. I am proud of my reminiscence. It -is not every one that has seen a Dutch pug and the Duchess of St. Albans -alive. - -Body of me! here am I wasting my time among the dog-fanciers—(when -the name of the man in the iron mask, the authorship of “Junius,” the -murderer of Caspar Hauser, and the date of the laws of Menu, shall be -known, it shall also be patent to all men why trafficking in dogs and -horses seem necessarily connected with roguery)—here am I descanting -on poodles and pug-dogs, when, with quick observant eyes, I should be -noting the hundred little trades that are being driven at three o’clock -in the afternoon. The feverish industry—the untiring perseverance—the -bitter struggle, and all for yon scanty morsel of bread, and a few -inches of space for repose at night in a fourpenny lodging-house! Follow -the kerb-stone from the County Fire Office to St. Martin’s Lane. See -the itinerant venders of catch-’em-alive-o’s, of cheap toys, of quires -of writing-paper, sealing-wax and envelopes, all for the small charge -of one penny; see the industrials who have walking-sticks, umbrellas, -gutta-percha whips, aërated balls, locomotive engines and statuettes -of Napoleon in glass phials, that make us wonder, as with flies in -amber, however they, the engines and statuettes, got there; the women -who have bouquets to dispose of—how many times have they been refreshed -beneath the pump, this droughty day?—the boys and girls in looped and -windowed raggedness striving to sell fruit, flowers, almanacks, pencils, -fusees—anything, to keep the wolf from the door. He is always at the -door, that wolf—always at that yawning portal, and his name is Famine. -The worst of the brute is, that he comes not alone—that he has a friend, -a brother wolf with him, who hankers round the corner, and is always -ready to pop in at the door at the slightest suspicion of a summons. -This wolf is a full-paunched rogue, and liberal, too, of succulent, but -_poisoned_ food to his friends. This is the thief wolf, the gallows wolf, -the Calcraft wolf. _Lupus carnifex_. He keeps up an incessant whining -baying, which, being interpreted, means, “Work no more. See how hard the -life is. What’s the good of working? Come and Steal.” Look here, my lords -and gentlemen—look here, my right honourable friends—look here, my noble -captains—look here, your honours’ worships—come out of your carriages, -come out of your clubs, come out of your shooting-boxes in the Highlands, -and your _petites maisons_ in the Regent’s Park, and look at these faded -and patched creatures. I tell you that they have to rise early and go to -bed late—that they have to work hours and hours before they can turn one -penny. They have never been taught; they are seldom fed, and more seldom -washed; but _they don’t steal_. I declare that it is a wonder they do -not—a marvel and a miracle they do not. They remain steadfastly honest; -for, in the troubled sea of their lives, Almighty Mercy has planted a -Pharos, or light-house. The night is pitchy black oft enough; the light -revolves—is for a time invisible—and the poor forlorn, tempest-torn -man watches the blank horizon in all but mute despair; but the blessed -gladdening gleam comes round again, as we have all seen it many a time on -the ocean, and, sighing, the honest man resolutely keeps on his course. - -Following the kerb-stone myself from the before-mentioned County Fire -Office to St. Martin’s Lane, and passing through Leicester Square—which, -what with the Alhambra “Palace” and its hideous American posters, the -Great Globe, and the monster _cafés chantants_, I begin to be rather -uncertain about recognising—passing, not without some inward trembling, -the stick shop at the corner of the lane, while on either side of the -portal those peculiarly ugly carved clubs—the very Gog and Magog of -walking-stickery—keep watch and ward, I cut dexterously through the -living torrent that is flowing from Charing Cross toward St. Giles’s -(they were villages once, Charynge and Saint Gyles’s—ha! ha!) and -commence the ascent of New Street, a feat well nigh as disagreeable, if -not as perilous, as that of Mont Blanc. I hate this incorrigible little -thoroughfare; this New Street. It is full of bad smells, mangy little -shops, obstructions, and bad characters. There is a yawning gin-palace at -its south-western extremity. The odours of its eating-houses—especially -of a seedy little French _pension bourgeoise_ about half way up—are -displeasing to my nostrils. The cigars vended in New Street are the -worst in London, and the sweetstuff shops are mobbed—yes, mobbed—by -children in torn pinafores who _never_ have any pocket handkerchiefs. -Of late days, photographers have hung out their signs and set up their -lenses in New Street; and if, passing through the street, you escape -being run over by a wagon or upset by an inebriated market-gardener, you -run great risks of being forcibly dragged into the hole tenanted by a -photographic “artist,” and “focussed,” willy nilly. Thoroughfares, almost -inconceivably tortuous, crapulous, and infamous, debouch upon New Street. -There is that Rose Street, or Rose Alley, where, if I be not wrong in my -topography, John Dryden, the poet, was waylaid and cudgelled; and there -is a wretched little haunt called Bedfordbury, a devious, slimy little -reptile of a place, whose tumble-down tenements and reeking courts spume -forth plumps of animated rags, such as can be equalled in no London -thoroughfare save Church Lane, St. Giles’s. I don’t think there are five -windows in Bedfordbury with a whole pain of glass in them. Rags and -filthy _loques_ are hung from poles, like banners from the outward walls. -There is an insolent burgher of Bedfordbury, who says I owe him certain -stivers. Confound the place! its rags, its children, its red herrings, -and tobacco-pipes crossed in the windows, its boulders of whitening, and -its turpentine-infected bundles of firewood! - -The pursuit of New Street, thus maledicted, brings me to King Street, -Covent Garden, a broad, fair, well-conducted public way, against which I -have no particular prejudice; for it leads up to Covent Garden Market, -which I love; and it contains within its limits the Garrick Club. - -Before, however, you come to the Garrick, before you come to the -coffee-shop where there is that strange collection of alarming-looking -portraits; before you come to Mr. Kilpack’s cigar divan and -bowling-alley, you arrive at the door of an unpretending, though roomy -mansion, the jambs of whose portals are furnished with flattering -catalogues relative to “this day’s sale,” and the pavement before whose -frontage is strewn with fragments of straw and shreds of carpeting. It is -strange, too, if you do not see half a dozen or so burly-looking porters -lounging about the premises, and a corresponding number of porter’s -knots, the straw stuffing bulging occasionally from rents in their -sides, decorating the railings, as the pint pots do the iron barriers of -the licensed victuallers. This mansion contains the great auction-room -of Messrs. Debenham and Storr. Let us enter without fear. There is -scarcely, I think, so interesting an exhibition in London; yet, in -contradistinction to the majority of London exhibitions, there is nothing -to pay. - -In this monstrous amalgam of microcosms, London, a man may, if he -will only take the trouble, find that certain places, streets, rooms, -peculiar spots and set apart localities, are haunted by classes of people -as peculiar as the localities they affect, and who are seldom to be -found anywhere else. In the early forenoon, long before business hours -commence, the benches of the piazza of the Royal Exchange have their -peculiar occupants—lank, mystic-looking men, mostly advanced in years, -and shiny in threadbare blackclothdom. They converse with one another -seldom, and when they do so, it is but in furtive whispers, the cavernous -mouth screened by the rugose hand, with its knotted cordage of veins and -its chalkstoned knuckles, as though the whisper were of such commercial -moment that the locutor feared its instantaneous transport to the ears -of Rothschild or Baring, and the consequent uprising or downfalling -of stocks or corn, silk or tallow. Who are these men, these Exchange -ghosts, who haunt the site of Sir Thomas Gresham’s old “Burse?” Are they -commission agents come to decay, bankrupt metal brokers, burnt-out, -uninsured wharfingers, lame ducks of the Stock Exchange, forced even -to “waddle” from the purlieus of Capel Court? There they sit day after -day—their feet (lamentably covered with boots of fastidious bigness, for, -alas! the soles are warped, the sides crack, the heels are irrevocably -lopsided) beating the devil’s tattoo on the stone pavement, their big -cotton umbrellas distilling a mouldy moisture, or a pair of faded Berlin -gloves, quite gone and ruined at the fingers, lying on the bench beside -them. Their battered hats oscillate on their heads through overloading -with tape-tied papers, and oft-times, from the breast-pocket of their -tightly-buttoned coats, they drag leathern pocketbooks, white and frayed -at the edges like the seams of their own poor garments, from which -pocketbooks they draw greasy documents, faded envelopes, sleezy letters, -which have been folded and refolded so often that they seem in imminent -danger of dropping to pieces like an over-used passport at the next -display. With what an owl-like, an oracular, look of wisdom they consult -these papers! What are they all about? The bankruptcy of their owners -thirty years ago, and the infamous behaviour of the official assignees -(dead and buried years since)? their early love correspondence? their -title-deeds to the estates in Ayrshire, and the large pasture lands in -the Isle of Skye? Who knows? But you never see these ghostly time-waiters -anywhere but on ’Change, and out of ’Change hours. Directly the -legitimate business of that place of commercial re-union commences, they -melt away imperceptibly, like the ghost of Hamlet’s father at cock-crow, -coming like shadows and so departing. - -The dreadful night dens and low revelling houses of past midnight London, -the only remnants left among us of the innumerable “finishes” and -saloons and night-cellars of a former age, have also their peculiar male -population, stamped indelibly with the mint-mark of the place, and not to -be found out of it, save in the dock of the adjacent police-court. Where -these _ruffiani_, these copper captains and cozening buz-gloaks, are to -be found during the day, or even up to midnight—for in the gallery even -of any decent theatre they would not be admitted—must remain a secret; -perhaps, like the ghoules and afrits, the bats and dragons of fable, -they haunt ruinous tombs, deserted sepulchres, church-yards sealed up -long since by the Board of Health; but so soon as two or three o’clock -in the morning arrives, they are to be found wherever there are fools to -be fleeced or knaves to plot with. You study their lank hair and stained -splendid stocks, their rumpled jay’s finery and rascal talk, their cheap -canes and sham rings; but they, too, fade away with the dawn—how, no -man can say, for the meanest cabman would scorn to convey them in his -vehicle—and are not beheld any more till vagabondising time begins again. - -“Supers,” too—or theatrical supernumeraries, to give them their full -title—are a decidedly distinctive and peculiar race; and though reported, -and ordinarily believed, to exercise certain trades and handicrafts in -the daytime, such as shoemaking, tailoring, bookbinding, and the like, -my private belief is that no “super” could exist long in any atmosphere -remote from behind the scenes or the vicinity of the stage-door of a -theatre. Look, too, at the audience of a police court: look at the -pinched men who persist in attending the sittings of the Insolvent -Debtors’ Court in Portugal Street, or hang about the dingy tavern -opposite, and who consume with furtive bites Abernethy biscuits and -saveloys, half hidden in the folds of blue cotton pocket-handkerchiefs. -Yes, the proverb reads aright—as many men, so many minds; and each man’s -mind, his idiosyncrasy, leads him to frequent a certain place till he -becomes habituated to it, and cannot separate himself therefrom. There -are your men who delight in witnessing surgical operations, and those -who never miss going to a hanging. There is a class of people who have -a morbid predilection for attending coroners’ inquests, and another -who insist upon going to the Derby, be the weather wet or dry, cold or -hot, though they scarcely know a horse’s fore from his hind legs, and -have never a sixpenny bet on the field. There is a class who hang about -artists’ studios, knowing no more of painting than Mr. Wakley does of -poetry; there are the men you meet at charity dinners, the women you meet -at marriages and christenings. Again, there is a class of eccentrics, -who, like the crazy Earl of Portsmouth, have an invincible _penchant_ for -funerals—“black jobs,” as the mad lord used to call them; and finally, -there are the people who haunt SALES BY AUCTION. - -[Illustration: THREE O’CLOCK P.M.: DEBENHAM AND STORR’S AUCTION-ROOMS.] - -Walk into Debenham and Storr’s long room, and with the exercise of a -little judgment and keenness of observation, you will be enabled to -recognise these amateurs of auctions in a very short space of time, and -to preserve them in your memory. They very rarely bid, they yet more -rarely have anything knocked down to them; indeed, to all appearances, -the world does not seem to have used them well enough to allow them to -buy many superfluities, yet there they stand patiently, hour after hour, -catalogue in hand—they are always possessed of catalogues—ticking off the -amount of the bids, against the numbers of the articles which they never -buy; you should remark, too, and admire, the shrewd, knowing, anxious -scrutiny which they extend to the articles which are hung up round the -room, or which are held up for inspection by the porter, as the sale -proceeds. They seem actually interested in the cut of a Macintosh, in the -slides of a telescope, in the triggers of a double-barrelled gun; they -are the first to arrive at, the last to leave the Sale; and then, in the -close of the afternoon, they retire, with long-lingering footsteps, as -though—like the gentleman for whom a judge of the land and twelve honest -men had settled that a little hanging was about the best thing that could -be done, and who so often fitted the halter, took leave, and traversed -the cart—they were “loath to depart,” which I am willing to believe -they are. I imagine to myself, sometimes, that these men are cynical -philosophers, who delight in the contemplation of the mutabilities of -property; who smile grimly—within their own cynical selves—and hug -themselves at the thought, not only that flesh is grass, that sceptre and -crown must tumble down, and kings eat humble pie, but that the richest -and the rarest gems and gew-gaws, the costliest garments, the bravest -panoplies, must come at last to the auctioneer’s hammer. - -Perhaps you would like to know what they are selling by auction at -Debenham and Storr’s this sultry July afternoon. I should very much -like to know what they are not selling. Stay, to be just, I do not hear -any landed estates or advowsons disposed of: you must go to the Auction -Mart in Bartholomew Lane if you wish to be present at such Simoniacal -ceremonies; and, furthermore, horses, as you know, are in general sold -at Tattersall’s, and carriages at Aldridge’s repository in St. Martin’s -Lane. There are even auctioneers, I am told, in the neighbourhood of -Wapping and Ratcliffe Highway, who bring lions and tigers, elephants and -ourangoutangs, to the hammer; and, finally, I must acquit the respectable -firm, whose thronged sale-room I have edged myself into, of selling by -auction such trifling matters as human flesh and blood. - -But from a chest of drawers to a box of dominoes, from a fur coat to a -silver-mounted horsewhip, from a carpenter’s plane to a case of lancets, -from a coil of rope to a silk neck-tie, from a dragoon’s helmet to a -lady’s thimble, there seems scarcely an article of furniture or wearing -apparel, of use or superfluity, that is not to be found here. Glance -behind that counter running down the room, and somewhat similar to the -narrow platform in a French _douane_, where the luggage is deposited to -be searched. The porters move about among a heterogeneous assemblage of -conflicting articles of merchandise; the clerk who holds aloft the gun -or the clock, or the sheaf of umbrellas, or whatever other article is -purchased, hands it to the purchaser, when it is knocked down to him, -with a confidential wink, if he knows and trusts that customer, with a -brief reminder of “money” and an out-stretched palm, signifying that a -deposit in cash must be forthwith paid in case such customer be not known -to him, or, what will sometimes happen, better known than trusted. And -high above all is the auctioneer in his pulpit, with his poised hammer, -the Jupiter Tonans of the sale. - -And such a sale! Before I have been in the room a quarter of an hour, I -witness the knocking down of at least twenty dress coats, and as many -waistcoats and pairs of trousers, several dozen shirts, a box of silk -handkerchiefs, two ditto of gloves, a roll of best Saxony broadcloth, -a piece of Genoa velvet, six satin dresses, twelve boxes of artificial -flowers, a couple of opera glasses, a set of ivory chessmen, eighteen -pairs of patent leather boots—not made up—several complete sets of -carpenters’ tools, nine church services, richly bound, a carved oak -cabinet, a French bedstead, a pair of china vases, a set of harness, -three boxes of water colours, eight pairs of stays, a telescope, -a box of cigars, an enamel miniature of Napoleon, a theodolite, a -bronze candelabrum, a pocket compass, twenty-four double-barrelled -fowling-pieces (I quote _verbatim_ and _seriatim_ from the catalogue), -a parrot cage, three dozen knives and forks, two plated toast-racks, a -Turkey carpet, a fishing-rod, winch, and eelspear, by Cheek, a tent by -Benjamin Edgington, two dozen sheepskin coats, warranted from the Crimea, -a silver-mounted dressing-case, one of eau-de-Cologne, an uncut copy of -Macaulay’s “History of England,” a cornet-à-piston, a buhl inkstand, an -eight-day clock, two pairs of silver grape-scissors, a poonah-painted -screen, a papier-maché work-box, an assortment of variegated floss-silk, -seven German flutes, an ivory casket, two girandoles for wax candles, an -ebony fan, five flat-irons, and an accordion. - -There! I am fairly out of breath. The mere perusal of the catalogue -is sufficient to give one vertigo. But whence, you will ask, the -extraordinary incongruity of the articles sold? We know when a gentleman -“going abroad” or “relinquishing housekeeping,” and who is never—Oh dear, -no!—in any manner of pecuniary difficulty, honours Messrs. So-and-So with -instructions to sell his effects, what we may look forward to when the -carpets are hung from the windows with the sale-bills pinned thereon, -and the auctioneer establishes a temporary rostrum on the dining-room -table. We know that after the “elegant modern furniture” will come -the “choice collection of pictures, statuary, and _virtù_,” then the -“carefully-selected library of handsomely-bound books,” and then the -“judiciously assorted stock of first-class wines.” But what gentleman, -what tradesman, what collector of curiosities and odds and ends even, -could have brought together such an astounding jumble of conflicting -wares as are gathered round us to-day! The solution of the enigma -lies in a nutshell, and shall forthwith be made manifest to you. The -articles sold this afternoon are all _pawnbrokers’ pledges unredeemed_, -and this is one of Messrs. Debenham and Storr’s quarterly sales, which -the law hath given, and which the court awards. Your watch, which your -temporary pecuniary embarrassments may have led you to deposit with a -confiding relative thirteen months since, which your renewed pecuniary -embarrassments have precluded you from redeeming, and which your own -unpardonable carelessness has made you even forget to pay the interest -upon, may be among that angling bundle of time-pieces which the clerk -holds up, and on which the auctioneer is, at this very moment, descanting. - -The eloquence of the quarterly sale does not by any means resemble the -flowery Demosthenic style first brought into fashion among auctioneers -by the distinguished George Robins. Here are no ponds to be magnified -by rhetoric into fairy lakes, no little hills to be amplified into -towering crags, no shaven lawns to be described as “boundless expanses -of verdure.” The auctioneer is calm, equable, concise, but firm, and the -sums realised by the sale of the articles are reasonable—so reasonable, -in fact, that they frequently barely cover loan and interest due to the -pawnbroker. But that is his risk; and such is the power of competition -in trade, that a London pawnbroker will often lend more upon an article -than it will sell for. In the provinces the brethren of the three golden -balls are more cautious; and in Dublin they are shamefully mean in -their advances to their impoverished clients; but it is in Paris _par -excellence_, that the great national pawning establishment, the Mont de -Piété, manifests the most decided intention, by the microscopic nature of -its loans, of taking care of itself. - -Much noise, much dust, and an appreciable amount of confusion, must -necessarily, my patient friend and companion, exist at every auction, -though it must be admitted, to the credit of Messrs. Debenham and -Storr, that their proceedings are always marked by as much regularity -and decorum as the nature of their transactions will admit of. For -auctioneering is the Bohemianism of commerce; and whether it be the -purser of a man-of-war selling the effects of a deceased Jack Tar before -the mainmast; an impromptu George Robins, with a very large beard, -knocking down red flannel shirts, jack-boots, and gold rocking-cradles at -the Ballarat diggings; my former friends, the fish salesmen, brandishing -their account-books over their piscine merchandise in Billingsgate; or -the courtly Robins, _in propriâ personâ_, eloquently bepuffing the Right -Hon. the Earl of Cockletops’s broad acres, which he has been honoured -with instructions to sell, in consequence of the insolvency of his -Lordship, there always enters into the deed of selling something wild, -something picturesque, and something exciting. It is strange, too, how -soon the virtues of auctioneering are apt to degenerate into vices; and -how thin a barrier exists between its legitimate commercial business and -an imbroglio of roguish chaffering. - -So is it on the turf. There, on the velvet verdant lawn before the Grand -Stand at Epsom, sits, or stands, or reclines, my Lord the immaculate -owner of Podasokus or Cynosure. Betting-book in hand, he condescends to -take the odds from Mr. Jones, who may have been a journeyman carpenter -ten years since, but whose bare word is good now for a hundred thousand -pounds. The peer and the plebeian bet together amicably; they respect -their parole agreements; they would disdain to admit the suspicion of a -fraud in their transactions; they are honourable men both, though they -might, I acknowledge, do something better for a livelihood than gamble -on the speed of a racehorse; yet, all honourable men as they are on the -turf, within two feet of them, _outside_ the Grand Stand railing, are -some hundreds of turfites depending for their existence upon exactly -the same means—betting, but who cheat, and lie, and cozen, and defraud, -and swagger about in an impudent boastfulness of roguery, till the most -liberal-minded member of the non-cheating community must regret, almost, -that the old despotic punishments are gone out of vogue, and that a few -of these rogues’ ears cannot be nailed to the winning post, a few of them -tied up to the railings of the Grand Stand and soundly swinged, and a -few more placed in neat pillories, or commodious pairs of stocks beneath -the judge’s chair. Like the honourable betters inside, and the thievish -touts outside, electioneering is apt to suffer by the same disreputable -companionships; and within a few stones’ throw of Garraway’s, there -may be pullulating an infamous little watch-box of dishonesty, where a -thick-lipped, sham Caucasian auctioneer, is endeavouring, with the aid -of confederates as knavish as he, to palm off worthless lamps, lacquered -tea-trays, teapots of tin sophisticated to the semblance of silver, and -rubbishing dressing-cases, upon unwary country visitors, or even upon -Cockneys, who, were they to live to the age of Methuselah, would never be -thoroughly initiated into the ways of the town. - -And now stand on one side: the auction company—it is nearly four -o’clock—stream forth from Debenham’s. I spoke of the amateurs of -auctions—the people who persist in attending them, but who rarely -appear to become purchasers of anything. There is not much difficulty, -however, in discerning who the people are who are really bidding and -really buying. Here they come, bagged and bundled, and gesticulating and -jabbering. They are Jews, my dear. They are the hook-nosed, ripe-lipped, -bright-eyed, cork-screw ringleted, and generally oleaginous-looking -children of Israel. They cluster, while in the sale-room, round the -auctioneer and his clerk, who (the last) seems to have an intimate -acquaintance with them all. They nod and chuckle, and utter Hebrew -ejaculations, and seem, all the while that the sale is proceeding, to -be in an overboiling state of tremour and nervous excitement. A sale -by auction is to them as good—better—than a play; so is everything on -this earth, in, about, or in the remotest connection with which, there -is something that can be bought, or something that can be sold, or -something that can be higgled for. If ever you attend auctions, my friend -and reader, I should advise you not to bid against the Jews. If it seem -to you that any one of the Caucasian Arabs has set his mind upon the -acquisition of an article, let him bid for it and buy it, a’goodness -name; for if you meddle with the matter, even by the augmentation of a -sixpence, he will so bid and bid against you, that he will bid you, at -last, out of your hat, and out of your coat, and out of your skin, and -out of your bones; even as the cunning man of Pyquag, that Diedrich -Knickerbocker tells of, questioned Anthony van Corlear, the trumpeter, -out of his fast-trotting nag, and sent him home mounted on a vile calico -mare. - -There are some here, who are dissatisfied with the bargains they have -made, and are squabbling in a lively manner on the foot pavement. Mark, -I entreat you, among them, those dusky-faced females, mostly given to -the loose and flabby order of corpulency, who are shabbily dressed, -yet with a certain tendency to the wearing of lace bonnets, and faded -cashmeres, and who have moreover a decided penchant for golden bangles -and earrings, and rings with large stones that do not shine. You cannot -make up your mind at once that they are Jewesses, because they have a -conflicting facial resemblance to Gipsies. During the sale they have been -reclining, not to say squatting, on the broad goods counter in shabby -state, like second-hand sultanas, making bids in deep contralto voices, -or mysteriously transmitting them through the intermediary of glib Jew -boys with curly heads. These commercial females must be reckoned among -the million and one mysteries of London. I imagine them to be the ladies -dwelling in remote suburbs or genteel neighbourhoods gone to decay, who, -in the columns of the “Times,” are always expressing a desire to purchase -second-hand wearing apparel, lace, jewellery, and books, for the purpose -of exportation to Australia, and for which they are always willing to -pay ready money, even to the extent of remitting post-office orders in -immediate return for parcels from the country. They, too, I think, must -keep the mysterious “ladies’ wardrobe shops” known to the Abigails in -aristocratic families, and which are, a little bird has told me, not -altogether unknown to the patrician occupants of the noblest mansions -of the realm. Thus, there seems to be a perpetual round of mutation and -transmutation going on among clothes. The natural theory of reproduction -here seems carried to its most elaborate condition of practice; and, -bidding adieu to Debenham and Storr’s, the chaffering Jews, and the -dusky ladies’ wardrobe women, my mind wanders to Rag Fair, thence to -the emporium of Messrs. Moses and Son, and thence, again, to Stultze, -Nugee, and Buckmaster, and I end in a maze of cogitation upon the “Sartor -Resartus” of Thomas Carlyle. - -Come, let us struggle into the open, and inhale the flower-laden breeze -that is wafted from Covent Garden market. There, we are in King Street; -and, I declare, there is my aunt Sophy’s brougham, with my identical aunt -and my cousin Polly in the interior of the vehicle. They are bound, I -will go bail, either to the Soho Bazaar or to the Pantheon, in Oxford -Street. Jump up behind; fear no warning cry of “whip behind” addressed to -the coachman by malevolent street boy, disappointed in his expectations -of an eleemosynary ride. Remember, we are invisible; and as for the -dignity of the thing, the starched, buckramed, and watchspringed-hooped -skirts of my female relatives take up at least three and a half out of -the four seats in the brougham: the remaining moiety of a place being -occupied, as of right, by my aunt’s terrier, Jip, who threatens vengeance -with all his teeth on any one who should venture to dispossess him. - -I told you so. They have passed Charles Street, Soho, whisked by the -Princess’s Theatre, and alighted beneath the portico of the Pantheon. -The affable beadle (whose whiskers, gold-laced hat-band, livery buttons, -and general deportment, are as superior to those the property of the -beadle of the Burlington Arcade, as General Washington to General Walker) -receives the ladies with a bow. He is equalled, not surpassed, in -polished courtesy, by his brother beadle at the conservatory entrance in -Great Marlborough Street, who bows ladies out with a dignified politeness -worthy of the best days of Richelieu and Lauzun. - -So into the Pantheon, turning and turning about in that -Hampton-Court-like maze of stalls, laden with pretty gimcracks, toys, -and _papier maché_ trifles for the table, dolls and children’s dresses, -wax flowers and Berlin and crotchet work, prints, and polkas, and -women’s ware of all sorts. Up into the gallery, where you may look down -upon a perfect little ant-hill of lively industry. And, if you choose, -into that queer picture-gallery, where works by twentieth-rate masters -have been quietly accumulating smoke and dust for some score years, and -where the only conspicuous work is poor shiftless Haydon’s big nightmare -picture of “Lazarus.” They have lately added, I believe, a photographic -establishment to the picture-gallery of the Pantheon; but I am doubtful -as to its success. It requires a considerable amount of moral courage to -ascend the stairs, or to enter the picture department at all. The place -seems haunted by the ghosts of bygone pictorial mediocrities. It is the -lazar-house of painting—an hospital of incurables in art. - -[Illustration: THREE O’CLOCK P.M.: THE PANTHEON BAZAAR.] - -I am not aware whether any of my present generation of readers—people -are born, and live and die, so fast now-a-days—remember a friend of -mine who dwelt in an out-of-the-way place called Tatty-boy’s Rents, and -whom I introduced to the public by the name of Fripanelli. He was a -music-master—very old, and poor, and ugly; almost a dwarf in stature, -wrinkled, decrepit; he wore a short cloak, and the boys called him -“Jocko;” indeed, he was not at all unlike a baboon in general appearance. -But Fripanelli in his time—a very long time ago—though now brought -to living in a back slum, and teaching the daughters of chandlers’ -shopkeepers, had been a famous professor of the tuneful art. He knew old -Gaddi—Queen Caroline’s Gaddi—well: he had been judged worthy to preside -at the pianoforte at Velluti’s musical classes; and he had even written -the music to a ballet, which was performed with great _éclat_ at the -King’s Theatre, and in which the celebrated Gambalonga had danced. To -me, Frip. had an additional claim to be regarded with something like -curiosity mingled with reverence; for he had positively been, in the -halcyon days of youth, the manager of an Italian opera company, the place -of whose performance was—wherever do you think?—the Pantheon, in Oxford -Street. Now, as I stand in the lively bazaar, with the prattling little -children, and the fine flounced ladies, I try to conjure back the days -when Fripanelli was young, and when the Pantheon was a theatre. From here -in the vestibule—where the ornamented flower-pots, and the garden-chairs -of complicated construction, and the busts with smoky cheeks and noses, -and marvellously clubbed heads of hair, have their _locus standi_—from -here sprang the grand staircase. There was no Haydon’s picture of Lazarus -for our grandfathers and grandmothers in hoops and powder—you must -remember that Fripanelli looks at least two hundred and fifty years of -age, and is currently reported to be ninety—to stare at as they trotted -up the degrees. Yonder, in the haven of bygone mediocrities in the -picture-gallery, may have been the crush-room; the rotunda at the back -of the bazaar, where now the vases of wax-flowers glimmer in a perpetual -twilight, must have been the green-room; the conservatories were -dressing-rooms, and the stage door was undoubtedly in Great Marlborough -Street. How I should have liked to witness the old pigtail operas and -ballets performed at the Pantheon, when Fripanelli and the century were -young. “Iphigenia in Aulis,” “Ariadne in Naxos,” “Orestes and Pylades,” -“Daphnis and Chloë,” “Bellerophon,” “Eurydice,” the “Clemency of Titus,” -the “Misfortunes of Darius,” and the “Cruelty of Nero”—these were the -lively subjects which our grandfathers and grandmothers delighted to have -set to Italian music. Plenty of good heavy choruses, tinkle-tankling -instrumental music, plaintive ditties, with accompaniments on the fife -and the fiddle, and lengthy screeds of droning recitatives, like the -Latin accidence arranged for the bagpipes. Those were the days of the -unhappy beings of whom Velluti and Ambrogetti were among the last whom -a refined barbarity converted into _soprani_. The Italians have not -many things to thank the first Napoleon for; yet to his sway in Italy -humanity owes the abolition of _that_ atrocity. They dig up some of the -worthy old pigtail operas now, and perform them on our modern lyric -stage. A select audience of fogies, whose sympathies are all with the -past, comes to listen, and goes to sleep; and “Iphigenia in Aulis,” or -“Ariadne in Naxos,” is consigned to a Capuletian tomb of limbo. Days of -good taste are these, my masters, when aristocratic ears are tickled by -the melodious naughtinesses of the great Casino-and-Codliver-oil opera, -the “Traviata;” by the Coburg melodrama, mingled with Mrs. Ratcliffe’s -novel, and finished with extracts from Guicciardini’s “Annals”—called -the “Trovatore,” [who was it fried that child, or broiled him, or ate -him: Azucena, Leonora, the Conde di Luna, Mrs. Harris, all or any of -them?] or by the sparkling improbabilities of “Rigoletto,” with its -charming Greenacre episode of the murdered lady in the sack. We manage -those things so much better now-a-days. And the ballets, too; do you -know positively that in the pig-tail opera times, the lady dancers wore -skirts of decent length? do you know that Guimard danced in a hoop -that reached nearly to her ankles, and that Noblet wore a corsage that -ended just below her armpits, and a skirt that descended far below her -knees? Do you know, even, that Taglioni, and Ellsler, and Duvernay, -the great terpsichorean marvels of twenty years since, disdained the -meretricious allurements of this refined and polished age, that calls -garters “elastic bands,” and winces at a grant of twenty pounds a year -for providing living models for the students of the Dublin Academy?—that -strains at these gnats, and swallows the camel of a ballet at the opera! -Oh, stupid old pig-tail days, when we could take our wives and sisters -to hear operas and see ballets, without burning with shame to think that -we should take, or they suffer themselves to be taken, to witness a -shameless exhibition, fit only for the _blasé_ patricians of the Lower -Empire! - -In the memoirs of old Nollekens, the sculptor, you will find that he -was an assiduous frequenter of the Italian Opera at the Pantheon, to -which he had a life admission—it did not last _his_ life though, I am -afraid—and that he sat in the pit with his sword by his side, and a -worsted comforter round his neck. This must surely, however, have been -before the days of Fripanelli’s management. It is hard to say, indeed, -for the Pantheon has been so many things by turns and nothing long. -Once, if I mistake not, there was wont to be an exhibition of wax-work -here; once, too, it was famous as a place for masquerades of the most -fashionable, or, at least, of the costliest description. Here Charles Fox -and Lord Maldon, with dominoes thrown over their laced clothes, and masks -pressed upon their powdered perukes, reeled in from the chocolate houses -and the E. O. tables; here, so the legends say, the bad young prince, who -afterwards became a worse old king, the worthless and witless wearer of -the Prince of Wales’s three ostrich plumes—here George III.’s eldest born -met the beautiful Perdita. He ill-treated her, of course, afterwards, -as he ill-treated his wives (I say wives, in the plural number, do you -understand?) and his mistresses, his father, his friends, and the people -he was called upon to govern. He lied to, and betrayed, them all; and he -was _Dei gratiâ_, and died in the odour of civil list sanctity, and they -have erected a statue to his disreputable memory in Trafalgar Square. - -Soft, whisper low, tread softly: the Pantheon was once a church! Yes, -there were pews in the area of the pit, and free-sittings in the -galleries. There is a singing, buffooning place in Paradise Street, -Liverpool, where they dance the Lancashire clog-hornpipe, yell comic -songs on donkeys’ backs, perform acrobatic feats, juggle, strum the -banjo, clank the bones, belabour the tambourine, stand on their heads, -and walk on the ceiling. This place is called the Colosseum, _but it was -once a chapel_. The pews, with very slight alteration, yet exist, and on -the ledges where the hymn-books were wont to lie, stand now the bottles -of Dublin stout and ginger-pop. I do not like these violent revolutions, -these galvanic contrasts. They are hideous, they are unnatural, they are -appalling. To return to the Pantheon—I still follow the legends—after it -had been a masquerading temple and a wax-work show, and then a church, -it was changed once more into a theatre; but _mark what followed_. One -Saturday night the company were playing “Don Giovanni,” and midnight had -struck before the awful tramp of the Commendatore was heard re-echoing -through the marble corridors of the libertine’s palace, and the last -tube of maccaroni stuck in Leporello’s throat; but when, the finale -being at its approach, and to cap the climax of the catastrophe, twelve -demons in flame-coloured garments, and bearing torches flaming with -resin, rose from trap-doors to seize the guilty Don, the manager, who -had been watching the scene from the wing, rushed on the stage with -a screech of horror, crying out, “_There are thirteen! There are -thirteen!_” And so there were! A solitary demon, with flaming eyes, a -tail of incredible length, and bearing _two_ torches, appeared, no man -knew whence—_he_ hadn’t come up a trap to the foot-lights (the audience -screaming and fainting by scores), danced a ghastly _pas seul_, cut six, -and disappeared in a blaze of livid-coloured fire, which had _not_ been -provided in the usual iron pans by the property man.[6] Whether he took -Don Giovanni or the manager away with him the legend does not state; but -it is certain that the latter went bankrupt a month afterwards, of course -as a punishment for his sins; whereupon the lease of the Pantheon was -purchased by a sober-minded speculator, who forthwith converted it into a -bazaar, as which it has greatly thriven ever since. - -I am very fond of buying toys for children; but I don’t take them to -the Pantheon for that purpose. I fear the price of the merchandise -which the pretty and well-conducted female assistants at the stalls -have to sell. I have been given to understand that incredible prices -are charged for India-rubber balls, and that the quotations for drums, -hares-and-tabors, and Noah’s arks, are ruinously high. I have yet -another reason for not patronising the Pantheon as a toy mart. It -frequently happens that I feel slightly misanthropic and vicious in my -toy-dealing excursions, and that my juvenile friends have sudden fits -of naughtiness, and turn out to be anything but agreeable companions. -Woe betide the ill-conditioned youngsters who cause me to assume the -function of a vicarious “Bogey!” But I serve them out, I promise you. -To use a transpontine colloquialism, ungenteel but expressive, I “warm -them.” Not by blows or pinches—I disdain that; not by taking them into -shops where they sell unwholesome pastry or deleterious sweetstuff—I -have no wish to impair their infantile powers of digestion; though both -processes, I have been given to understand, are sometimes resorted to -by child-quellers; but I “warm” them by taking them into toy shops and -buying them _ugly toys_. Aha! my young friends! who bought you the old -gentleman impaled on the area railing while in the act of knocking at his -own street door, and who emitted a dismal groan when the pedestal on -which he stood was compressed? Who purchased the monkey with the horrible -visage, that ran up the stick? who the dreadful crawling serpent, made -of the sluggishly elastic substance—a compound of glue and treacle, I -believe—of which printers’ rollers are made, and that unwound himself -in a shudderingly, reptile, life-like manner on the parlour carpet? Who -brought you the cold, flabby toad, and the centipede at the end of the -India-rubber string, with his heavy chalk body and quivering limbs, the -great-grandfather of all the irreverent daddy-long-legs who wouldn’t -say their prayers, and were taken, in consequence, by those elongated -appendages, and thrown, with more or less violence, downstairs? This is -about the best method I know for punishing a refractory child. There is -another, an almost infallible and Rarey-like process of taming juvenile -termagants in the absence of their parents; but it entails a slight -modicum of physical cruelty. Say that you are left alone with a child, -too young to reason with, and who _won’t_ behave himself. Don’t slap -him: it is brutal and cowardly on your part; besides, it _leaves marks_, -and you don’t want to make an enemy of his mother. Don’t make faces at -him: it may spoil the beauty of your own countenance, and may frighten -him out of his little wits. _Shake him._ Shake him till he becomes an -animated whirligig. He isn’t appalled; he is only bewildered. He doesn’t -know what on earth the unaccustomed motion means: then wink at him, and -tell him that you will do it again if he doesn’t behave himself; and it -is perfectly wonderful to see to what complete submission you can reduce -him. It is true that a grown person must be a callous brute to try such -measures with a defenceless infant; but let that pass—we can’t get on in -the world without a little ruffianism. I have heard, even, that in the -matrimonial state a good shaking will from time to time—but soft! - -The young ladies who serve behind the counters at the Pantheon, are much -given to working the spiky cobweb collars in which our present belles -delight, and which are worked in guipure, or crotchet, or application, or -by some other process with an astounding name of which I am profoundly -ignorant. To their lady customers they behave with great affability. -The gentlemen, I am pleased, though mortified to say, they treat with -condescension mingled with a reserved dignity that awes the boldest -spirit. It is somewhat irritating, too, to know that they can be as merry -as grigs among themselves when they so choose; and it is a bending of the -brows, a clinching of the fists, and a biting of the lips matter, to see -them flitting from stall to stall, romping with one another in a pastoral -manner, and retailing merry anecdotes, which may possibly be remarks on -your personal appearance. Yet I have known a man with large whiskers -(he went to the bad, and to Australia, and is now either high in the -government or in the police over there) to whom a young lady assistant in -the Pantheon, on a very wet day, once lent a silk umbrella. But he was -always a bold man, and had a winning way with the sex. - -It is time, if you will excuse my mentioning it, that we should quit this -labyrinth of avenues between triple-laden stalls, all crowded with ladies -and children, whose voluminous _jupons_—the very babes and sucklings -wear crinoline now—render locomotion inconvenient, not to say perilous. -Pass the refreshment counter, where they sell the arrowroot cakes, -which I never saw anywhere else, and let us enter the conservatory—a -winter garden built long ere Crystal Palaces or Jardins d’Hiver were -dreamt of, and which to me is as pleasant a lounge as any that exists -in London: a murmuring fountain, spangled with gold and silver fish, -and the usual number of “winking bubbles beading at the brim;” and good -store of beautiful exotic plants and myriad-hued flowers. The place is -but a niche, a narrow passage, with a glass roof and a circle at the end, -where the fountain is, like the bulb of a thermometer; but to me it is -very delightful. It is good to see fair young faces, fair young forms, -in rainbow, rustling garments, flitting in and about the plants and -flowers, the fountain and the gold fish. It is good to reflect how much -happiness and innocence there must be among these pretty creatures. The -world for them is yet a place for flirting, and shopping, and dancing, -and making themselves as fair to view as they and the looking-glass and -the milliner can manage. The world is as yet a delightful Pantheon, -full of flowers—real, wax, and artificial, and all pleasant—sandal-wood -fans, petticoats with worked edges, silk stockings, satin shoes, white -kid gloves, varnished broughams, pet dogs, vanille ices, boxes at the -opera, tickets for the Crystal Palace, tortoise-shell card-cases, -enamelled visiting-cards, and scented pink invitation notes, with “_On -dansera_” in the left-hand bottom corners, muslin slips, bandoline, -perfumes, ballads and polkas with chromo-lithographed frontispieces, -and the dear delightful new novels from Mudie’s with uncut leaves, and -mother-o’-pearl paper knives with coral spring handles to cut them -withal. They have kind mammas and indulgent port-wine papas, who bring -them home such nice things from the city. They sit under such darling -clergymen, with curls in the centre of their dear white foreheads; they -have soft beds, succulent dinners, and softly-pacing hacks, on which to -ride in coquettish-looking habits and cavalier hats. John the footman -is always anxious to run errands for them; and their additional male -acquaintance is composed of charming creatures with white neckcloths, -patent leather boots, irreproachable whiskers, and mellow tenor voices. -Oh! the delightful world; sure, it is the _meilleur des mondes possible_, -as Voltaire’s Doctor Pangloss maintained. It is true that they were at -school once, and suffered all the tyranny of the “calisthenic exercises” -and the French mark, or were, at home, mewed up under the supervision -of a stern governess, who set them excruciating tasks; but, oh! that -was such a long time since, they were so young then—it was ever such a -long time ago. You silly little creatures! it was only the day before -yesterday, and the day after to-morrow——. But “gather ye rosebuds while -ye may,” and regard not old Time as he is a-flying. For my part, I will -mingle no drop of cynicism in the jewelled cup of your young enjoyment; -and I hope that the day after to-morrow, with unkind husbands and -ungrateful children, with physic-bottles and aches and pains, and debts -and duns, may never come to you, and that your pretty shadows may never -be less. - -You see that I am in an unusual state of mansuetude, and feel for the -nonce inclined to say, “Bless everybody”—the Pope, the Pretender, the -Pantheon, the pretty girls, and the sailors’ pig-tails, though they’re -now cut off. Every sufferer from moral _podagra_ has such fits of -benevolence between the twinges of his gout. But the fit, alas! is -evanescent; and I have not been ten minutes in the conservatory of -the Pantheon before I begin to grumble again. I really must shut my -ears in self-defence against the atrocious, the intolerable screeching -of the parrots, the parroquettes, the cockatoos, and the macaws, who -are permitted to hang on by their wicked claws and the skin of their -malicious beaks to the perches round the fountain. The twittering of the -smaller birds is irritating enough to the nervously afflicted; but the -parrots! ugh! that piercing, long-continued, hoarse shriek—it is like a -signal of insane communication given by a patient at Hanwell to a brother -lunatic at Colney Hatch. The worst of these abominable birds is, that -they cannot or will not talk, and confine themselves to an inarticulate -gabble. However, I suppose the fairest rose must have its thorns, and the -milkiest white hind its patch of darker colour; so it is incumbent on us, -in all charity, to condone the ornithological nuisance which is the main -drawback to a very pretty and cheerful place of resort. Only, I should -like to know the people who buy the parrots, in order that I might avoid -them. - -As we entered by Oxford Street, with its embeadled colonnade, it becomes -our bounden duty to quit the building by means of that portal which I -assumed to have been in days gone-by the stage-door of the pig-tail -opera-house, and which gives egress into Great Marlborough Street. I -can’t stand the parrots; so, leaving my aunt (I wish she would lend me -a hundred pounds), and my cousin (I wish she would lend me a kiss, and -more sincerely do I wish that either of them existed in the flesh, or -elsewhere but in my turbid imagination); leaving these shadowy relatives -genteelly bargaining (they have already purchased a _papier maché_ -inkstand and a coral wafer-stamp), I slip through the conservatory’s -crystal precincts, inhale a farewell gust of flower-breeze, pass through -a waiting-room, where some tired ladies are resting till their carriages -draw up, and am genteelly bowed out by affable beadle No. 2. - -And now, whither away? Shall I cross the road, and commence the first -of a series of six lessons in dancing from Miss Leonora Geary? Shall I -visit the harp and pianoforte establishment of Messrs. Erard, and try -the tone of an “upright grand?” Shall I hie me to Marlborough Street -police-court, and see how Mr. Bingham or Mr. Hardwick may be getting -on? No: I think I will take a walk down Regent Street (one cannot too -frequently perambulate that delightful thoroughfare at the height of the -season), turn off by Vigo Lane, and take a stroll—a five minutes’ stroll, -mind, for I have an appointment close to St. George’s Hospital, and Mr. -Decimus Burton’s triumphal arch, as soon after four as possible—down the -Burlington Arcade. - -I remember once refecting myself at a public dinner—the Tenth Anniversary -Festival of the Hospital for Elephantiasis, I think it was—when my next -neighbour to the right (to the left was a rural dean) was a gentleman in -a white waistcoat that loomed large like the lateen sail of a Palermian -felucca, and whose convivial countenance was of the exact hue and texture -of the inside of an over-ripe fig. He took remarkably good care of -himself during dinner time, had twice spring soup, and twice salmon and -cucumber, led the waiters a terrible life, and gathered quite a little -grove of bottles of choice wine round him. I am bound to say that he -was not selfish or solitary in his enjoyment, for he pressed a peculiar -Sautern upon me, and an especial Chateau Lafitte (the landlord must have -known and respected him), with a silver label hanging to its bottle -neck, like the badge of a Hansom cabman. He also recommended gosling to -me, as being the very thing to take after lamb, in a rich husky voice, -that did one good to hear. At the conclusion of the repast, after we -had dabbled with the rosewater in the silver-gilt shield, which it is -the custom to send round, and which nobody knows exactly what to do -with—I always feel inclined to upset it, for the purpose of eliciting an -expression of public feeling, and clearing the atmosphere generally; and -when the business of the evening, as the absurd system of indiscriminate -toast-giving is termed, had commenced, and the professional ladies and -gentlemen were singing something about the “brave and bearded barley” in -execrable time and tune, of course in the most preposterously irrelevant -connection with the health just drank—either the Army and Navy, or the -two Houses of Parliament—my neighbour with the ripe fig countenance -turned to me, and wiping his moist lips with his _serviette_, whispered -these remarkable words: “Sir, a public dinner is the sublimation of an -assemblage of superfluities.” He said no more during the evening, filled -up his name, however, for a handsome amount in the subscription-list (his -name was announced amid thunders of applause by the secretary, but I -really forget whether he was a general or a wholesale grocer), and went -away in anything but a superfluous state of sobriety. But his words sank -deep into my mind, and they bring me at once to the Burlington Arcade. - -Which is to me another sublimate of superfluities: a booth transplanted -bodily from Vanity Fair. I don’t think there is a shop in its _enceinte_ -where they sell anything that we could not do without. Boots and -shoes are sold there, to be sure, but what boots and shoes? varnished -and embroidered and be-ribboned figments, fitter for a fancy ball or -a lady’s chamber, there to caper to the jingling melody of a lute, -than for serious pedestrianism. Paintings and lithographs for gilded -boudoirs, collars for puppy dogs, and silver-mounted whips for spaniels, -pocket handkerchiefs, in which an islet of cambric is surrounded by -an ocean of lace, embroidered garters and braces, fillagree flounces, -firework-looking bonnets, scent bottles, sword-knots, brocaded sashes, -worked dressing-gowns, inlaid snuff-boxes, and falbalas of all -descriptions; these form the stock-in-trade of the merchants who have -here their tiny _boutiques_. There are hair-dressers’ shops too; but I -will be bound that their proprietors would not be content with trimming -a too luxuriant head of hair. They would insist upon curling, oiling, -scenting, and generally tittivating you. They would want you to buy -amandine for your hands, kalydor for your hair, dentifrice, odonto, -_vinaigre de toilette_, hair-brushes with ivory backs, and tortoiseshell -pocket-combs with mirrors appended to them. They would insist that you -could not live without _pommade Hongroise_ and _fixatures_ for the -moustaches, or Frangipani for the pocket-handkerchief. I have very -few ambitions, but one is to become the proprietor of a house in the -Burlington Arcade, and forthwith to open a chandler’s shop in the very -midst of its vanities and its whim-whams. The reproof, I trust, would -be as stern, though I am afraid it would have as little effect, as that -of the uncompromising patriots of the reign of terror, who planted the -parterres of the Tuileries gardens with potatoes. To the end of time, I -perpend, we shall have this hankering after superfluities, and little -princesses will ask their governesses why the people need starve for want -of bread, when there are such nice Bath buns in the confectioners’ shop -windows. - -But the clock of St. James’s warns me that I am due at Hyde Park Corner, -and passing by yet another beadle, I emerge into Piccadilly. - - - - -FOUR P.M.—TATTERSALL’S, AND THE PARK. - - -Was there not a time when Hyde Park Corner was the Ultima Thule of -London, and Kensington was in the country?—when Hammersmith was far -away—a district known only to washerwomen and nursery gardeners—and -Turnham Green and Kew were places where citizens took their wives to -enjoy the perfection of ruralisation? Was it not to the Hercules’ Pillars -at Hyde Park Corner that Squire Western sent his chaplain to recover the -snuff-box, which the worthy landed-gentleman and justice of the peace had -left there when he halted to bait? Was not Hyde Park Corner a rendezvous -for highwaymen, where they listened with eagerness for “the sound of -coaches;” and parted, some towards Fulham, some towards Hounslow, some -towards the Uxbridge road, where they might meet full-pouched travellers, -and bid them “stand and deliver?” I remember, myself, old Padlock House -at Knightsbride, standing in the midst of the roadway, like Middle Row -in Holborn, or the southern block of Holywell Street in the Strand, -with the padlock itself fixed in the grimy wall, which, according to the -legendary wishes of a mythical testator, was never to be pulled down till -the lock rotted away from its chain, and the chain from the brick and -mortar in which it was imbedded. The cavalry barracks at Knightsbride -seemed to have been built in the year One, and we boys whispered that -the little iron knobs on the wall of the line of stables, which are, it -is to be presumed, intended for purposes of ventilation (though I am -not at all certain about the matter yet) were miniature portholes, at -which fierce troopers, with carbines loaded to the muzzle, and ready -pointed, kept guard every day, in order to repel the attacks of the -“Radicals.” Alack-a-day! but the “Radicals” seem to be getting somewhat -the better of it at this present time of writing. Kensington High Street -seemed to belong to a hamlet of immense age; the old church was a very -cathedral—built, of course, by William of Wykeham; and as for Holland -House, there could not be any doubt about that. It came in naturally with -the Conqueror, and the first Lord Holland. - -Hyde Park Corner before the battle of Waterloo must have been a strange, -old-fashioned-looking place. No Apsley House: the site was occupied -by the old woman who kept the apple-stall, or the bun-house, or the -curds and whey shop, and who wouldn’t be bought out, save at enormous -prices, by his late Grace, Field-Marshal Arthur Duke of Wellington. No -triumphal arch; and, thank good taste, no equestrian statue of the late -F. M. Arthur Dux, &c., on the summit thereof. No entablatured colonnade, -with nothing to support, towards the Park. No Achilles statue. A mean, -unpicturesque, common-place spot, I take it. What could you expect of -an epoch in which the Life Guards wore cocked hats and pig-tails, the -police-officers red waistcoats and top boots, when the king _de jure_ -was mad, and the king _de facto_ wore a wig and padded himself? A bad -time. We have a lady on the throne now who behaves as a sovereign should -behave, and London grows handsomer every day. - -I declare that it does; and I don’t care a fig for the cynics—most of -them ignorant cynics, too—who, because they have accomplished a cheap -tour to Paris, or have gone half-way up the Rhine, think themselves -qualified to under-rate and to decry the finest metropolis in the world. -I grant the smoke—in the city—and I confess that the Thames is anything -but odoriferous in sultry weather, and is neither so blue nor so clear as -the Neva; but I say that London has dozens and scores of splendid streets -and mansions, such as I defy Paris, Vienna, Berlin, or St. Petersburg—I -know their architectural glories by heart—to produce. I say that Pall -Mall beats the Grand Canal at Venice; that Regent Street, with a little -more altitude in its buildings, would put the Boulevard des Italiens to -shame; and that Cannon Street makes the Nevskoi Perspective hide its -diminished head. Some of these days, when I can get that balance at the -banker’s I have been waiting for so long, I shall sit down and indite a -book entitled, “A Defence of London, Architecturally Considered,” the -which I shall publish at my own expense, as I am certain no publisher -would purchase the copyright. - -Take Hyde Park Corner. Between the Brandenburg Thor at Berlin and the -Puerta del Sol at Madrid, you will not find a gayer, more picturesque, -more sparkling scene. Ugly and preposterous as is the man in the cocked -hat, who holds the rolling-pin and is wrapped in the counterpane, on -the top of the arch, we are not for ever giving ourselves wry necks -in the attempt to look up at him; and the arch itself is noble and -grandiose. Then, opposite, through the _a giorno_ of Mr. “Anastasius” -Hope’s colonnade, that supports nothing, you catch a glimpse of the leafy -glories of Hyde Park—carriages, horses, horsewomen, Achilles’ statue, -and all. And again, to the right of the arch, is St. George’s Hospital, -looking more like a gentleman’s mansion than an abode of pain; and to -the left the ever-beautiful, ever-fresh, and ever-charming Green Park. -And then far away east stretches the hill of Piccadilly, a dry Rialto -(only watch it at night, and see the magical effects of its double line -of gas-lamps); and westward the new city that the Londoners have built -after their city was finished, beyond the Ultima Thule. Magnificent lines -of stately mansions, towering park gates, bring us to the two gigantic -many-storeyed edifices at Albert Gate, which were for a long time -christened “Gibraltar,” because they were supposed to be impregnable, -no tenant having been found rich or bold enough to “take them.” Taken -they both were at last, however. The further one, or at least its lower -portion, has been for a considerable period occupied by a banking -company; while the near one—ah! that near Gibraltar, has had two strange -tenants—the representatives of two strange fortunes. There dwelt the -Railway King, a gross, common, mean man, who could not spell very well, -Rumour said: but to him—being king of iron roads and stuffed with shares -even to repletion, such shares being gold in those days, not dross—came -the nobles of the land, humbling themselves on their gartered knees, and -pressing the earth with their coroneted brows, and calling him King of -Men, that he might give them shares, which he gave them. So this gross -man was “hail fellow well met” with the nobles, and was drunk at their -feasts and they at his, and he sat in the Parliament House, and made laws -for us; and when he sent out cards of invitation, the wives and daughters -of the nobles rose gladly in the night season, and having painted their -faces and bared their necks, and put tresses of dead men’s hair on their -heads, they drove in swift chariots to Albert Gate, and all went merry as -a marriage bell. - - “But, hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!” - -It was indeed the great knell of universal railway smashdom, the St. -Sepulchre’s boom of found-out humbug. So down went the Railway King, and -down into the kennel toppled the iron crown—not so much of Lombardy, this -time, as of those Lombards whose arms are three golden spheres. An iron -crown to moralise over, that; and of which, as of a red-hot halfpenny, -the motto reads appositely—“_Guai a chi la tocca_,” “Woe be to him who -touches it.” - -Albert Gate, the near house, yet saw lighted rooms, and great revelry -and feasting, and a brave tenant; no other than Master Fialin Persigny, -Ambassador of France. Courtly, witty, _rusé_ Persigny Fialin! the nobles -and princes were as glad to come to his merry-makings as in the old time, -when the now broken-down Railway Stag held high court there. Crafty -Fialin! he must have rubbed his hands sometimes, with a sly chuckle, as, -from the upper chambers of his splendid house, he tried to descry, far -off at Kensington, a now waste spot where once stood GORE HOUSE. And, oh! -he must have sung—“What a very fine thing it is to be Ambassador-in-law -to a very magnificent three-tailed Bashaw of an Emperor, and to live at -Albert Gate.” Not so many years since, though, master and man were glad -to take tea at Gore House, with the beautiful Woman who wrote books, -and the handsome Count who painted portraits; when the Bashaw’s bills -were somewhat a drug in the discount market, and his ambassador did not -precisely know how to make both ends meet. All of which proves that the -world is full of changes, and that fortune is capricious, and that master -and man have made an uncommonly good thing of it. - -Don’t be afraid of a sudden raid on my part towards the lands that lie -beyond Brentford. My present business lies close to Hyde Park Corner, -close to St. George’s Hospital. We have but to turn down Lower Grosvenor -Place, and lo and behold, we are at our destination—TATTERSALL’S. - -I suppose the British Empire could not progress prosperously without -Tattersall’s; so, I suppose, we must cry Tattersall’s and the -Constitution! Tattersall’s and our Ancient Institutions! Tattersall’s -and Liberty! And, indeed, of the last there seems in reality to be much -liberty, and equality, and fraternity in all connected with horse-racing; -and at Tattersall’s, though the resort of the most patrician turfites, -the democratic element is appreciably strong. So long as both parties -pay their bets, dukes and dustmen, Jews and jockeys, seem to meet -upon a cheerful footing of “man to man” at this peculiarly national -establishment. - -The astute prophets who vaticinate in the Sunday newspapers, and who -never can, by the remotest chance of possibility, be wrong in their -calculations, are in the habit of speaking of the sporting transactions -at Tattersall’s as “Doings at the Corner.” I think it would be slightly -more appropriate if they were to characterise them as “Doings at the -Corners,” for of corners, and a multiplicity of them, Tattersall’s seems -made up. It is easy enough to distinguish the whereabouts of the great -temple of horse-racing, for from Hyde Park Corner far down Grosvenor -Place, you will find at FOUR O’CLOCK (business has been going on -throughout the afternoon), a serried line of vehicles, with the horses’ -heads towards Pimlico. Equipages there are here of every description and -grade. Lordly mail phætons, the mettlesome steeds impatiently champing -at the bit, and shaking their varnished, silver-mounted, crest-decorated -harness; slim, trim, dainty gentlemen’s cabriolets (I am sorry to see -that those most elegant of private vehicles are becoming, year after -year, fewer in number), with high wheels and tall gray horses, and -diminutive, topbooted tigers, squaring their little arms over the -aprons; open carriages and pairs, with parasolled ladies within (for -even rank and beauty do not disdain to wait at Tattersall’s while my -Lord or Sir John goes inside to bet, and perhaps also to put something -on the favourite for Lady Clementina or the Honourable Agnes); gigs and -dog-carts, sly little broughams with rose-coloured blinds and terriers -peeping from beneath them, and whose demure horses look as though they -could tell a good many queer stories if they chose; taxed carts, chaise -carts, and plain carts, that are carts and nothing else. I should not be -at all surprised indeed to see, some fine afternoon, a costermonger’s -“shallow,” donkey, greenstuff-baskets and all, drawn up before -Tattersall’s, while its red ’kerchiefed, corduroyed, and ankle-jacked -proprietor stepped down the yard to inquire after the state of the odds. -There is, you may be sure, a plentiful sprinkling of Hansom cabs among -the wheeled things drawn up. The Piccadilly cabmen are exceedingly -partial to fares whose destination is Tattersall’s. Such fares are always -pressed for time, and always liberal; and they say that there are few -Jehus on the stand between the White Horse Cellar and Hyde Park Corner -who do not stand to win or lose large sums by every important racing -event. - -When you arrive at a building called St. George’s School of Medicine, and -at the door of which, at most times of the day, you will find lounging -a knot of medical students, who should properly, I take it, in this -sporting locality, have a racing and “down-the-road” look, but who, on -the contrary, have the garb and demeanour of ordinary gentlemen—(What -has become of the old medical student whom Mr. Albert Smith used to -caricature for our amusement, with his shaggy overcoat, white hat, lank -hair, short thick stick, staring shawl, short pipe, and slangy manners -and conversation? Is he extinct as a type, or did he never exist, save in -the lively imagination of that popular writer, and whom I hope all good -luck will attend?)—When you have passed this edifice, sacred to Galen, -Celsus, Hippocrates, and the rest of the Faculty of Antiquity, it will -be time for you to turn down a narrow lane, very like one leading to an -ordinary livery-stable, and to find yourself suddenly in a conglomeration -of “corners.” At one corner stands a building with a varnished oak -door, that does not ill resemble a dissenting chapel with a genteel -congregation, and fronting this, screened from the _profanum vulgus_ by -a stout railing, sweeps round a gravelled walk, surrounding a shaven -grass-plat of circular form. This is the famous “Ring,” of which you have -heard so much; and the building that resembles a dissenting chapel is -none other than Messrs. Tattersall’s subscription rooms. Within those to -ordinary mortals unapproachable precincts, the privacy of which is kept -with as much severity as the interior of the Stock Exchange, the great -guns of the turf discharge their broadsides of bets. They do not always -confine themselves to the interior, however; but, when the weather is -fine and betting hot, particularly on settling days, when there is an -immense hubbub and excitement possessing every one connected with the -turf, from the smallest stable-boy up to Lords Derby and Zetland, they -come forth into the open, and bet round the grass plat. Now cast your -eyes to the right (you are standing with your back to Grosvenor Place), -and you will see a low archway, passing through which a hand points to -you the spot where Mr. Rarey, the horse-tamer, had his office; while -on the other side is a counting-house, somewhat dark and mysterious in -aspect, where the names and prices of more racers and hunters than you -or I ever heard of are entered in Tattersall’s bulky ledgers. Beyond the -archway stretches a spacious court-yard, the centre occupied by a species -of temple, circular in form, with painted wooden pillars and a cupola, -surmounted by a bust of George IV. Beneath the cupola is the figure of -a fox sedent and regardant, something like the dog of Alcibiades, and -looking, in troth, very cunning and foxy indeed. To the right, looking -from the archway, are stables, with a covered penthouse in front; to the -left, another archway, with more stables and coach-houses. - -[Illustration: FOUR O’CLOCK P.M.: TATTERSALL’S.] - -Tattersall’s is a curious sight at all times, and has something -pervading it quite _sui generis_. Even when the ring is deserted by -the gentleman turfites, and when no sales by auction of race-horses, -hunters, carriage-horses, carriages, or fox-hounds, are proceeding in -the court-yard (the auctioneer’s rostrum is close to the king-crowned, -fox-decorated temple), there is ample food for observation and amusement -in the contemplation of the extraordinary array of hangers-on, who, at -all times and seasons, summer and winter, are to be found about the -purlieus of the Corner. I do not so much speak of the mere grooms, -stable-boys, coachmen, and helpers, who have horses to mind or carriages -to look after. You may find their prototypes down every mews, and in -every livery-stable. The originals to whom I allude are to be seen -only here, and on race-courses, hanging about the grand-stand and -the weighing-house. They are entirely different to the nonchalant -individuals who, in short coats, and a straw in their mouths, haunt -the avenues of Aldridge’s Repository, in St. Martin’s Lane. They would -appertain, seemingly, to a superior class; but from top to toe—laterally, -horizontally, vertically, and diagonally—they are unmistakeably -horse-flesh loving, and by horse-flesh living, men. It is not but you -will find white neckcloths and black broadcloth in their attire, but -there is a cut to the coat, a tie to the neckcloth, that prevents the -possibility of error as to their vocation. They are sporting men all -over. Hard-featured, serious-looking, spare-limbed men mostly, much given -to burying their hands in their coat-pockets (never in their trousers), -and peaceably addicted to the wearing of broad-brimmed hats. Now, the -general acceptation of a “sporting” man would give him a tall, shiny -hat, with a narrow brim, and considerably cocked on one side; yet I do -verily believe that, were these men attired in buttonless drab, brown -beavers, striped worsted hose, and buckles, that they would preserve -the same sporting identity. They are the wet Quakers of the turf. What -the exact nature of their multifarious functions about horses may be, -I am not rightly informed. I conjecture them to be trainers, country -horse-dealers, licensed victuallers with a turn for sporting, gentlemen -farmers who “breed a colt” occasionally, or, maybe, perfectly private -individuals led by an irresistible penchant to devote themselves to the -study and observation of horses, and led by an uncontrollable destiny to -hang, their lives-long through, about the Corner. Hangers-on of a lower -grade there are in plenty. Striped-sleeved waistcoats, corduroy or drab -cloth smalls and leggings; nay, even the mighty plush galligaskins of -coachmanhood, top boots, fur and moleskin caps, sticks with crutches -and a thong at the end, to serve, if needful, as whips; horseshoe scarf -pins, and cord trousers made tight at the knees, and ending in laced-up -boots. These—the ordinary paraphernalia of racing attire—are to be met -with at every step; while the bottommost round of the sporting ladder is -to be found in a forlorn creature in a stained ragged jerkin, that once -was scarlet, matted hair, and naked feet. _He_ hangs about the entrance, -calls everybody “captain,” and solicits halfpence with a piteous whine. -I suppose he is a chartered beggar, licensed to pursue his harmless -mendicancy here. Perhaps he may have kept hounds and harriers, carriages -and horses—may have spent ten thousand a year, gone to the dogs, and -turned up again at Tattersall’s. Who knows? You had better give him the -benefit of the doubt, and, commiserating his ragged-robin appearance, -bestow sixpence on him. - -Now let us take a peep at the magnates who are jotting down the current -state of the odds in betting-books. Look at them well, and wonder. Why, -all the world’s a ring, and all the men and women in it merely betters. -To come more nearly towards exactitude, it seems as though a good portion -of at least the male part of the community had sent representatives to -Tattersall’s, while the genuine sporting element does not seem by any -means so strong as you might reasonably expect. The genus “swell,” with -his long surtout, double-breasted waistcoat, accurately-folded scarf, -peg-top trousers, eyeglass, umbrella, and drooping moustache, is perhaps -predominant. And our friend the “swell” is indeed a “welcome guest,” -in the “ring,” for he has, in the majority of instances, plenty of -money, is rather inclined to bet foolishly—not to say with consummate -imbecility—so long as his money lasts he pays with alacrity, and it takes -a long time to drain him dry even at betting, which is a forcing engine -that would empty another Lake of Haarlem of its contents in far less time -than was employed to drain the first. - -Your anxious sporting man, with lines like mathematical problems in his -shrewd face, is not of course wanting in the assemblage. Here, too, you -shall see the City dandy, shining with new clothes and jewellery, who -has just driven down from the Stock Exchange to see what is going on at -“Tat’s,” and who is a member of the “Ring” as well as of the “House.” -But those, perhaps, who seem the most ardent in their pursuit of the -fickle goddess, as bearing on the Doncaster St. Leger, are certain florid -elderly gentlemen, in bright blue body coats, with brass buttons and -resplendent shirt-frills, and hats of the antique elegant or orthodox -Beau Brummel form and cock. - -Such is the outward aspect of the Ring. Into its penetralia, into the -mysteries of its combinations, I, rash neophyte, do not presume to -inquire. They are too awful for me. I am ignorant of them, nor, if I -knew, should I dare to tell them. I should expect the curtain of the -temple to fall down and overwhelm me, as befell the rash stranger who -ventured to watch from, as he thought, a secure point of espial, the -celebration of the mysteries of Isis at Thebes. Besides, I never could -make either head or tail of a betting-book. _Poeta nascitur non fit_, say -the Latins. _On devient cuisinier mais on nait rôtisseur_—“One may become -a cook, but one is born a roaster,” say the French; and I verily believe -that the betting-man is to the manner born, and that if he does not feel -an innate vocation for the odds, he had much better jump into a cauldron -of boiling pitch than touch a betting-book—which theory I offer with -confident generosity for the benefit of those young gentlemen who think -it a proper thing and a fast thing to make up a book for the Derby or the -Oaks, whether they understand anything about the matter or not. - -To all appearances, the Ring and the Subscription-room, with the adjacent -avenues for the outsiders (you should see the place on the Sunday -afternoon before the Derby) are quite sufficient to take up all the -accommodation which the “Corner” can afford; but there are many other -things done within Messrs. Tattersall’s somewhat crowded premises. There -is the auctioneering business; the sales, when whole studs are brought to -the hammer, and thousands of pounds’ worth of horseflesh are disposed -of in the course of a few minutes. There are the days for the sale of -all manner of genteel wheeled vehicles, which have been inspected on the -previous day by a committee _de haut goût_, of which ladies belonging to -the _élite_ of fashion are not unfrequently members. For the cream of -nobility is, oft-times, not too proud to ride in second-hand carriages. - -One more episode of “Corner” life, and I must quit the queer, motley -scene. Down below the Subscription-room is another corner occupied by an -old-fashioned hostelry, called the “Turf Tap,” and here the commonalty of -Tattersall’s frequenters are to be found at any hour of the day, occupied -with the process of sustentation by liquid refreshment. And yet, though -the place is almost entirely “used” by sporting men, it has very little -the appearance of a “sporting” public-house. No portraits of “coaching -incidents,” or famous prize-fighters, decorate its walls; no glass-cases -containing the stuffed anatomies of dogs of preternaturally small size, -and that have killed unheard-of numbers of rats in a minimum of minutes, -ornament its bar-parlour; no loudly-boisterous talk about the last fight, -or the next race coming off, echoes through its bar; and the landlord -hasn’t a broken nose. The behaviour of the company is grave and decorous, -almost melancholy; and on the bench outside, wary-looking stablemen, -and sober grooms, converse in discreet undertone on “parties” and -“events,” not by them, or by any means, to be communicated to the general -public. Tattersall’s is a business-like place altogether, and even its -conviviality is serious and methodical. - -I think I should like to ride a horse and take a turn in Rotten Row, if I -only knew how to accomplish the equestrian feat; but I am really afraid -to adventure it. There are some people who do things capitally which they -have never been taught; and who ride and drive, as it were, by intuition. -Irishmen are remarkable for this faculty, and I do not regard as by -any means a specimen of boastfulness, the reply of the young Milesian -gentlemen to the person who asked him if he could play the fiddle, that -he did not know, but that he dared say he could, _if he tried_. But I -am afraid that the mounting of the easiest-going park hack would be -too much for your obedient servant, and that the only way of insuring -security, would be to get inside the animal and pull the blinds down; or, -that being zoologically impossible, to have my coat skirts nailed to the -saddle; or to be tied to the body of my gallant steed with cords, in the -manner practised in the remotest antiquity by the young men of Scythia on -their first introduction to a live horse, and their commencement of the -study of equitation. I passed three days once at the hospitable mansion -of a friend in Staffordshire, who, the morning after my arrival, wanted -me to do something he called “riding to hounds.” I said, “Well out of -it,” respectfully declined the invitation, and retired to the library, -where I read Roger de Wendover’s “Flowers of History” till dinner time. -I daresay the ladies, who all rode like Amazons, thought me a milk-sop; -but I went to bed that night without any broken bones. I have an -acquaintance, too, a fashionable riding-master at Brighton, a tremendous -creature, who wears jack-boots, and has a pair of whiskers like the -phlanges of a screw-propeller. He has been obliging enough to say that he -will “mount” me any time I come his way, but I would as soon mount the -topmost peak of Chimborazo. - -[Illustration: FOUR O’CLOCK P.M.: THE PARK.] - -I beg to state that this short essay on horsemanship is _àpropos_ of -Hyde Park and notably of Rotten Row, into which I wander after quitting -Tattersall’s, and where, leaning over the wooden rails, I contemplate -the horsemen and horsewomen caracoling along the spongy road with -admiration, not unmixed with a little envy. What a much better, honester -world it would be if people would confess a little more frequently to -that feeling of envy? For Envy is not always, believe me, grovelling in -a cavern, red-eyed and pale-faced, and gnawing a steak sliced off her -own liver. Envy can be at times noble, generous, heroic. If I see a gay, -gallant, happy, ingenious boy of eighteen, and for a moment envy him his -youth, his health, his strength, his innocence, the golden prospect of a -sunshiny futurity, that stretches out before him, does it follow that I -wish to deprive him of one of those gifts, or that I bear him malice for -possessing them? I declare it does not follow. I say to him—_I, curre_! -“Good luck have thou, with thine honour—ride on;” and as I go home to my -garret, if I envy the bird as he sings, need I shoot him? or the dog as -he lies winking and basking in the sun, need I kick him? or the golden -beetle trudging along the gravel, need I trample on him? But people cry -fie upon the envy that is harmless, and must needs assume a virtue if -they have it not; and concerning that latter quality my private belief -is, that if Virtue were to die, Hypocrisy would have to go into the -deepest mourning immediately. - -I am glad to say that I am not by any means alone as I lean over the -rails. Whether it is that they can’t or won’t ride, I know not; but I -find myself surrounded by groups of exquisites, who, to judge by their -outward appearance, must be the greatest dandies in London. For once in -a day, I see gentlemen dressed in the exact similitude of the emblazoned -cartoons in the “Monthly Magazine of Fashion.” I had always, previously, -understood those pictorial prodigies to be gross caricatures of, and -libels on, at least the male portion of the fashionable world. But I find -that I am mistaken. Such peg-top trousers! such astounding waistcoat -patterns! such lofty heels to the varnished boots! such Brobdignagian -moustaches and whiskers! such ponderous watch-chains, bearing masses -of coins and trinkets! such bewildering varieties of starched, choking -all-round collars! such breezy neckties and alarming scarves! Ladies, -too—real ladies—promenade in an amplitude of crinoline difficult to -imagine and impossible to describe; some of them with stalwart footmen -following them, whose looks beam forth conscious pride at the superlative -toilettes of their distinguished proprietresses; some escorted by their -bedizened beaux. Little foot-pages; swells walking three, sometimes -four, abreast; gambolling children; severe duennas; wicked old bucks, -splendidly attired, leering furtively under the bonnets—what a scene of -more than “Arabian Nights” delight and gaiety! And the green trees wave -around, around, around; and the birds are on the boughs; and the blessed -sun is in the heavens, and rains gold upon the beauteous Danaës, who -prance and amble, canter and career, on their graceful steeds throughout -the length of Rotten Row. - -The Danaës! the Amazons! the lady cavaliers! the horsewomen! can any -scene in the world equal Rotten Row at four in the afternoon, and in -the full tide of the season? Bois de Boulogne, Course at Calcutta, -Cascine at Florence, Prado at Madrid, Atmeidan at Constantinople—I -defy ye all. Rotten Row is a very Peri’s garden for beautiful women on -horseback. The Cliff at Brighton offers, to be sure, just as entrancing -a sight towards the end of December; but what is Brighton, after all, -but London-super-Mare? The sage Titmarsh has so christened it; and the -beauties of Rotten Row are transplanted annually to the vicinity of the -Chain Pier and Brill’s baths. Watch the sylphides as they fly or float -past in their ravishing riding-habits and intoxicatingly delightful hats: -some with the orthodox cylindrical beaver, with the flowing veil; others -with roguish little wide-awakes, or pertly cocked cavaliers’ hats and -green plumes. And as the joyous cavalcade streams past, (I count the male -riders absolutely for nothing, and do not deem them worthy of mention, -though there may be marquises among them) from time to time the naughty -wind will flutter the skirt of a habit, and display a tiny, coquettish, -brilliant little boot, with a military heel, and tightly strapped over it -the Amazonian riding trouser. - -Only, from time to time, while you gaze upon these fair young daughters -of the aristocracy disporting themselves on their fleet coursers, you -may chance to have with you a grim town Diogenes, who has left his tub -for an airing in the park; and who, pointing with the finger of a hard -buckskin glove towards the graceful _écuyères_, will say: “Those are not -all countesses’ or earls’ daughters, my son. She on the bay, yonder, -is Laïs. Yonder goes Aspasia, with Jack Alcibiades on his black mare -Timon: see, they have stopped at the end of the ride to talk to Phryne -in her brougham. Some of those dashing delightful creatures have covered -themselves with shame, and their mothers with grief, and have brought -their fathers’ gray hair with sorrow to the grave. All is not gold that -glitters, my son.” - - - - -FIVE O’CLOCK P.M.—THE FASHIONABLE CLUB, AND THE PRISONERS’ VAN. - - -The English are the only “Clubable” people on the face of the earth. -Considering the vast number of clubs which are more or less understood -to flourish all over the Continent, and in the other hemisphere, it is -within possibility that I shall be accused of having uttered something -like a paradox; but I adhere to my dictum, and will approve it Truth. Not -but that, concerning paradoxes themselves, I may be of the opinion of Don -Basilio in the “Barber of Seville,” expressed with regard to calumny. -“Calumniate, calumniate,” says that learned casuist; “calumniate, and -still calumniate, _something will always come of it_.” So, in a long -course of paradoxes, it is hard but that you shall find a refreshing -admixture of veracity. - -Do you think you can call the French a “clubable” nation, because in -their revolutions of ’89 and ’48 they burst into a mushroom crop of -clubs? Do you think that the gentleman whom a late complication of -political events brought into connection with a committee of Taste, -consisting of twelve honest men assembled in a jury-box, and whom, the -penny-a-liners were kind enough to inform us, was in his own country -known as “Bernard le Clubbiste,” could be by any means considered as what -we called a “club-man?” Could he be compared with Jawkins or Borekins, -Sir Thomas de Boots, Major Pendennis, or any of the Pall Mall and St. -James’s Street bow-window loungers, whom the great master of club -life has so inimitably delineated? No more than we could parallelise -the dingy, garlic-reeking, revolutionary club-room on a three-pair -back at the bottom of a Paris court-yard, with its “tribune,” and its -quarrelsome patriots, to the palatial Polyanthus, the Podasokus or -the Poluphlosboion. French clubs ever have been—and will be again, -I suppose, when the next political smash affords an opportunity for -the re-establishment of such institutions—mere screeching, yelling, -vapouring “pig-and-whistle” symposia; full of rodomontading stump -orators, splitting the silly groundlings’ ears with denunciations of the -infamous oppressors of society—the society that wears pantaloons without -patches, and has one-and-ninepence in its pockets; yelping for communism, -equal division of property, and toothpicks, solidarity, nationalities, -and similar moonshine-and-water ices; “demanding heads,” with fierce -imprecations about universal fraternity, till their own troublesome -bodies—for society’s mere peace and quietness’ sake—are securely -shackled and straight-waistcoated up, and carted away in police-vans -to deep-holded ships, whence, after much salutary sea-sickness, they -are shot out on the shores of conveniently pestilential Cayennes and -Nouka-Hivas. A plague on such clubs and clubbists, say I, with their long -hair, flapped waistcoats, and coffee-shop treasonable practices. They -have done more harm to the cause of Liberty than all the wicked kings and -kaisers, from Dionysius to the late Bomba—now gone to his reward, and who -is enjoying it, I should say, hot and hot by this time—have done to the -true and heaven-ordained principle of royalty. - -In Imperial Paris there are yet clubs of another sort existing, though -jealously watched by a police that would be Argus-eyed if its members -were not endowed with a centuple power of squinting. There are clubs—the -“Jockey,” the “Chemin de Fer,” and establishments with great gilded -saloons, and many servitors in plush and silk stockings; but they are -no more like our frank English clubs than I am like Antinous. Mere -gambling shops and arenas for foolish wagers; mere lounging-places for -spendthrifts, sham gentlemen, gilt-fustian senators, and Imperialist -patricians, with dubious titles, who haunt club-rooms, sit up late, -and intoxicate themselves with alcoholic mixtures—so aping the hardy -sons of Britain, when they would be ten times more at home in their own -pleasant, frivolous Boulevard _cafés_, with a box of dominoes, a glass -of sugar-and-water, and Alphonso the _garçon_ to bring it to them. Such -pseudo-aristocratic clubs you may find, too, at Berlin and Vienna, -scattered up and down north Italy, and in Russia, even, at Petersburg -and Moscow, where they have “English” clubs, into which Englishmen are -seldom, if ever, admitted. Some English secretaries of legation and -long-legged _attachés_, have indeed an _ex-officio_ entry to these -continental clubs, or “_cercles_,” where they come to lounge and yawn -in the true Pall Mall fashion; but they soon grow tired of the hybrid -places; and the foreigners who come to stare and wonder at them, go away -more tired still, and, with droll shrugs, say, “_Que c’est triste_!” -The proper club for a Frenchman is his _café_; for, without a woman to -admire him or to admire, your Monsieur cannot exist; and in the slowest -provincial town in France there is a _dame de comptoir_ to ogle or be -ogled. The Russian has more of the clubable element in him; but clubs -will never flourish in Muscovy till a man can be morally certain that the -anecdote he is telling his neighbour will not be carried, with notes and -emendations, in half an hour, to the Grand Master of Police. As for the -German, put him in a beer-shop, and give him a long pipe with his mawkish -draught, and—be he prince, professor, or peasant—he will desire no better -club; save, indeed, on high convivial occasions, when you had best -prepare him a cellar, where he and his blond-bearded, spectacled fellows -may sit round a wine-cask, and play cards on the top thereof. - -I don’t exactly know how far the English club-shoot has been grafted on -the trunk of American society, but I can’t believe that the club-proper -flourishes there to any great extent. I like the Americans much, -recognising in them many noble, generous, upright, manly qualities; but I -am afraid they are too fond of asking questions—too ignorant or unmindful -of the great art of sitting half an hour in the company of a man whom -you know intimately, without saying a word to him, to be completely -clubable. Moreover, they are a people who drink _standing_, delighting -much to “liquor up” in crowded bar-rooms, and seldom sitting down to -their potations—a most unclubable characteristic. All sorts of convivial -and political _réunions_ exist, I am aware, in the United States, to -a high degree of organisation; and I have heard glowing accounts of -the comfortable, club-like guard-rooms and stations of the New York -volunteers and firemen; but I can’t exactly consider these in the light -of clubs. They are not exclusive enough—not concrete enough—not subject -to the rigid but salutary discipline of that _Imperium in Imperio_, or -rather, _Rempublicam in Republicâ_, the committee of a club. - -In England, the Ancient Order of Druids were undeniably the first -clubmen, keeping things remarkably snug, and delighting much in -house-dinners at the sign of the Misletoe, where a roasted Ancient Briton -was no rare dish. It might aid, too, to clear up the puzzling enigma -of Stonehenge—who built it, and how, and why?—if we were to look upon -Druidism in a purely club-light. I should like to know whence the money -came which the Megatherium or the Mastodon Clubs in Pall Mall cost to -build. We know that Captain Threadbare, late of the Rifles, that the -Hon. Jemmy O’Nuffin, respectively members of those grand _cénacles_, -didn’t find the money; that they never paid anything towards their clubs, -save the entrance fee and the subscription; and that they dine there, -nine months out of the year, for eighteen-pence. Other members did, -do, will do the same; yet there the club stands, stately and superb, -with its columns of multi-coloured marbles, its stately halls, its -sumptuous furniture, its army of liveried lacqueys. A belted earl might -ruin himself in building such a mansion; yet Captain Threadbare and -Jemmy O’Nuffin call it their club, and it is theirs to all intents and -purposes. Cunning men, when you express excusable wonder at the thing, -whisper, “Debentures!” and debentures seem in truth to have been the -seven hundred times seven gifted servants, who have hoisted this Fortunio -of a place to its proud position. Why should not Stonehenge have been -built by debentures? - -The old Saxon Wittenagemotte must have been strongly impregnated with -the club element; and the resemblance of clubs to parliaments has come -down to this day. What, after all, is our much-vaunted British House -of Commons but a club of the first water, somewhat more exclusive than -its brethren of St. James’s, and black-balling its scores of candidates -every general election? It has its reading-rooms, coffee-rooms, and -smoking-rooms; the members lounge in and out, and loll on forms and -benches, just as they would do in Pall Mall; and while some five hundred -members indulge in the real _dolce far niente_ of club life, smoking, and -reading, and dawdling, and dozing, and refreshing themselves, and never -troubling themselves about club matters, save when they are called upon -to vote, the affairs of the club (and of the nation too, by the way) -are managed by a snug little committee, who do all the work and all the -talking, and are continually popping themselves into snug little berths -connected with the management of that other great club which lies beyond -the walls of St. Stephen’s, and is called the Country. - -And the middle ages, sunk as the unthinking believe them to have been in -barbarism, had their clubs, and brave ones too. Thorough clubmen were the -old Freemasons; secret and sturdy, and swift in action; and it’s O! to -see the club-houses they erected in the fanes that are yet the pride and -glory of our cathedral towns. When you look at their crenelated towers, -and at the strange sculptures in the rich spandrils of their arches, in -their groins and corbels, in their buttresses and great rose windows, -and cunningly-traced roodscreens and carved bench-ends, you shall find -copious store of club-marks, and secret signs, and passes only known to -themselves, and, grotesque and frivolous as to the uninitiated they seem, -truly drawn from the innermost arcana of the great mystery of masonry. -The old Vehmgericht, too, with its grim symbols, and warnings of the cord -and dagger—may not that be considered as a club? The Flagellants and -the Rosicrucians, were not those queer sects clubs? and what were the -Council of Trent, and the Diet of Worms, but select clubs, frequented by -ecclesiastical and political “swells?” - -I am not about to confound the convivial club—with its one room and its -quaint rules, ancient or modern—with its latest perfection, all Portland -stone and plate-glass, gas chandeliers, and luxurious ottomans. Before, -however, I come to the fashionable club of 1859, I may be permitted, I -hope, to discourse for awhile on the jovial clubs, high, low, and middle -class, which have made this metropolis cosy and picturesque for at least -two centuries. - -There can be little doubt that the Restoration gave a marvellous -incentive to club-life in London. On the one hand, the sour Puritans -and fierce Independents, driven into holes and corners by the advent of -Charles II., had other places of meeting than the conventicles where -they offered their surreptitious worship; and at these stray places of -re-union, they comforted and refected themselves in their own grim, -uncomfortable fashion. On the other hand, the Cavaliers had their riotous -assemblages, where they met to sing “Down among the dead men,” and -drink their king’s health on their knees; the revival of humorous and -theatrical literature filled the taverns and coffee-houses with wits and -dramatists, instead of pedants and theologians; table companions formed -into knots, and knots into throngs, and these at length formed themselves -into clubs, where they could jest and criticise, argue and carouse, at -their ease, without the fear of interlopers; and though, so late as the -days of Foote and Chatterton, a stranger of good address and brilliant -conversation could form a rallying coffee-house acquaintance with the -most famous wits of the town, it was difficult for him to be admitted -into their inner circle; even as, in our own time, a man may find -plenty of conversation in a railway carriage or an hotel coffee-room, -at a German Spa or a charity dinner, but must not feel surprised if -his voluble acquaintance of the previous evening cut him dead the next -time he meets him. The change of succession at the Revolution gave an -impetus both to the establishment and to the exclusiveness of the clubs. -While William, the Dutchman, held his uneasy, hooked-nose pre-eminence -in this country, innumerable were the dim taverns in whose securest -rooms stealthy clubs, with cabalistic names, were held; where, when -the club-room doors were tightly closed, Captain Henchman, late of -Roper’s horse, turned out to be Father Slyboots, high up in the order -of Jesus, where sympathy was openly avowed for Sir John Fenwick, and -the exiles of St. Germains were yet spoken of as the possessors of the -Crown; and where, after William’s death, the health of “the little -gentleman in black velvet,” meaning the molehill over which, according -to the Jacobites, the king’s horse had stumbled, when William fell and -dislocated his collar-bone, was enthusiastically drunk. It would have -been hard, too, if the days of Queen Anne—the Augustan era in which -Swift, Gay, Pope, Addison, Prior, Bolingbroke, Somers, and Dorset, held -their glorious sway of intellect—had not been fruitful in the production -of clubs; and it is to the first quarter of the eighteenth century that -we may trace the birth of our most famous clubs. The accession of George -the First, embittering as it did a new question of the succession to -the throne, gave a fresh lease of popularity to the Jacobite clubs, -which had languished somewhat during the reign of Anne, for sheer want -of something to conspire about. They were held all over London: in -taverns and mug-houses, in the purlieus of Westminster and the Mint in -Southwark, and in the multitudinous courts and alleys about Cornhill and -the Exchange. How I should like to have seen one of these old honest, -wrong-headed Jacobite club meetings! There was our old friend Captain -Henchman, _alias_ Father Slyboots, grown gray in conspiring; always in -active correspondence with Rome and St. Germains, Douai and St. Omer, -and, as of yore, fiercely hunted by Mr. Secretary’s messengers, from his -Majesty’s Cockpit, at Whitehall. There were old Roman Catholic baronets -and squires, from Lancashire and Cheshire, who would as soon have thought -of surrendering their ancestral faith in the false and fickle Stuarts, as -of abandoning their old shields of arms and trees of descent; there were -hot-headed young counsellers from the Temple; and otherwise steady-going -Jacobite mercers, and goldsmiths, and vintners, whose loyalty to the -dethroned house had somewhat of a commercial tinge in it, as you see -now radical hatters and grocers proud to blazon the Royal arms above -their doors, and the Lord Chamberlain’s warrant in their windows, as -“purveyors, by appointment, to her most Gracious Majesty.” The landlord -was a staunch Jacobite, of course; how, indeed, should he be otherwise? -His grandfather had fought at Naseby field; and his father had furnished -one of King Charles the Second’s madams with clove-gillyflower water, and -had never been paid for it. The drawer was Jacobite to the backbone (he -turned traitor afterwards, it is true; was the means of hanging half the -club, and retired with a handsome competence to the plantations, where -he was exceedingly prosperous in the export of tobacco and the import of -kidnapped children, and died elder and deacon)—but who but he brought in -the great China bowl filled with a clear fluid, across which the company -drank, with clasped hands, the toast of “The king over the water.” Ah, -days of furious party and faction differences, but of self-sacrificing -honour and loyalty, ye shall return no more! It was lucky for the -Jacobite club-men when their convivialities were not interrupted by the -irruption through the window of a party of the Foot Guards, who had -climbed over the adjoining tiles. Traitors were always in their camp: -spies always watching them. The English ambassador in Paris knew of their -goings on, and revealed their bacchanalian machinations to wary Mr. -Secretary at the Cockpit; and every now and then would come a tide of -evil days, and the venue of the club would be changed; Father Slyboots -would go into closer hiding, baffling pursuit as a verger of Westminster -Abbey, compounding with skippers of smuggling luggers for conveyance to -Dunkirk or Fecamp, crouching in the “priest’s hole” of some old Roman -Catholic mansion of the North country, or indeed, good man, as the times -were very bad, purchasing a stout horse and betaking himself to the road -with Captain Macheath and Cornet O’Gibbet, and Duvalising travellers,—of -course confining himself to those who were of the Hanoverian way of -thinking. Not the first honest man who has turned highwayman: besides, -was it not for the greater glory of Church and King? When the club had -its next meeting, it might be in ’16 or in ’46 (for the century was quite -gray-headed before the Jacobite clubs quite died out), there would be a -lamentable hiatus here and there in the list of members. Where was Sir -William Flowerdeluce?—Shot at Sheriffmuir. Where Colonel Belmain?—Hanged -at Carlisle. Where young Christopher Layer, the barrister, gallant, -devoted, enthusiastic?—His head was rotting on a spike, over Temple Bar, -within sight of his old chambers. Where Jemmy Dawson, the pride, the pet, -the pearl of the Jacobites, the dashing swordsman of Townley’s ill-fated -Manchester Regiment?—Go ask the judge and jury, go ask the hangman, go -ask the veiled lady in the black coach, who follows the fatal hurdle to -Kennington Common, and sits out the hideous drama, and when she sees -the heart of him she loves cast into the flames, and his fair limbs -dismembered by the executioner, swoons and dies. - -I have been reading a little old book, bearing the date of 1725, which -professes to give a “Complete Account” of the principal clubs of -London and Westminster. Its authorship is anonymous; yet I think I can -discern traces of a certain fine Roman hand, well-known to me, in its -composition, and I don’t think I am in error in ascribing it to Mr. Ned -Ward, the scurrilous though amusing author of the “London Spy.” Its -contents must be taken, of course, _cum grano salis_, with the other -lucubrations of that diverting vagabond; yet I am ready to believe -that many of his clubs were then existent. Some of them, indeed, have -come down to our own times. According to the writer of the “Complete -Account,” there was the “Virtuous Club,” established as a succursal to -the Royal Society (which, indeed, was little more than a club at its -commencement), at the Golden Fleece, a tavern in Cornhill, whence they -moved to the Three Tuns, in Southwark: a queer locality, indeed, for -the white-neckclothed savants, who now have their habitat in Burlington -House. The chronicler treats them somewhat contemptuously, as collectors -of “pickled maggots and mummies’ toenails,” and seems considerably -to prefer the “Surly Club,” held at some out-of-the-way place near -Billingsgate Dock, whose members had “a stoker to attend their fire”—I -did not know the appellation “stoker” was so old—a skinker to ignify -their pipes, and a chalk accountant to keep a trencher register of the -club reckoning, lest the landlord below should be tempted to augment -the scot by means of a double-notched chalk. The principal feature -of the “Surly Club” appeared to lie in the members being all surly, -ill-tempered, wrangling chuffs, who were bound to abuse each other and -the world generally, at their every time of meeting. I believe that -there are London clubs, not yet extinct, which carry out the principles -of the “Surly Club” in a remarkably undeviating manner. Then there -was the “Split-Farthing Club,” instituted by a society of usurers and -money-spinners, who met together in the dark, in order to avoid the -expense of candle or lamp-light, and of which the Hopkins immortalised by -Pope was a distinguished member. The “Ugly Club” (which yet flourishes, -I believe,) owed its foundation to a superlatively ugly fellow by the -name of Hatchet (whence the term “hatchet-faced”), who had a nose of -such immense size, that he was one day in the street charged by a -butcher-boy with overturning a tray full of meat, when his head was at -least a foot distant therefrom. A violent attempt was made to break up -the “Ugly Club” by a committee of spinsters, who made unheard-of attempts -to marry the members _en masse_, but in vain. Jack Wilkes was elected -perpetual president of the “Ugly Club,” early in the reign of George -III., and Honorè Gabriel Riquetti, Count de Mirabeau, who had some slight -connection with the first French Revolution, was unanimously chosen an -honorary member on his visit to England. I must not forget to mention -the “Unfortunate Club,” held at the sign of the “Tumbledown Dick,” in -the Mint. To have been at least once bankrupt (a fraudulent failure was -preferred), or to have come in some way in collision with the laws of -the country, was a _sine quâ non_ in the qualification for a member of -the “Unfortunates.” The Market Women’s, or “Flat-cap Club,” was at one -time quite a fashionable place of meeting, being frequented by many of -the wild gallants from the Rose, and Tom King’s coffee-house, who treated -the lady company to burnt brandy and flowing “Winchesters” (_i. e._, -Winchester measures) of “powerful three thread”—our modern porter. Then -there was the “Lying Club,” among whose voluminous rules were these, -that the chairman was to wear a blue cap and a red feather, and that if -any member, in the course of an evening, told a lie more impudent and -egregious than he, the chairman, could manage to cap, he was at once -to vacate the chair in favour of the superior Mendax. There was a very -stringent rule, inflicting a severe fine upon any member who should -presume, between the hours of nine and eleven of the clock, to tell one -word of truth, unless, indeed, he prefaced it with the rider of “By your -leave, Sir Harry”—Sir Harry Gulliver being the name of the original -chairman of the club. There was the “No-Nose Club,” the “Beggars’ Club,” -the “Thieves’ Club,” and the “Northern or Yorkshire Tyke’s Club;” and, to -sum up, there was a horrific assembly, founded in the reign of Charles -II., and called the “Man-killing Club.” The members of this savage -corporation were debased Life-guardsmen, broken-down bullies, and old -scarified prize-fighters. The prime qualification for membership was the -commission of homicide. The “Mohocks,” “Scourers,” and “Sweaters” of -Queen Anne’s time, were, as may readily be imagined, highly prominent -members of this murderous fraternity, which might have flourished much -longer but for the interference of the Sheriff’s hangman in ordinary, who -disposed of the members with such amazing despatch and persistence, that -the club could not at last form a quorum, and was so dissolved. - -The “Irish Fortune-hunters’ Club” I am somewhat chary of recognising, for -I am afraid that it existed only in the lively fancy of Mr. Ned Ward or -his imitator. There is, indeed, a copy of some resolutions of the club -appended to the “Complete Account,” but I am inclined to consider them -apocryphal. Leave, by these resolutions, is given to Captain Donahoo to -change his name to Talbot Howard Somerset; Captain Macgarret is empowered -to change the place of his nativity from Connemara to Cornwall; and -Lieutenant Dunshunner is presented with a suit of laced camlet at the -club expense, in order to his successfully prosecuting his suit with -Miss Bridget Tallboys, “with ten thousand pounds fortune; in the event -of which happy consummation, he is to repay the price of the suit with -interest, and moreover to release from his captivity at the Gate-house -the club secretary, therein confined on suspicion of debt.” - -Very different is the bran-new modern club whose interior my faithful -artist has depicted, and whose appearance at five o’clock in the -afternoon I am now called upon to describe. Gentlemen members of clubs, -these gorgeous palaces are but the growth of one generation. Your -fathers had, it is true, their Wattier’s, the Cocoa-Tree, White’s, and -Boodle’s, but those were considerably more like gambling-houses than -clubs. To obtain admission was exceedingly difficult, and to remain a -member was, save to men of immense fortune, absolutely ruinous. Hundreds -of the superior middle-classes, nay, even of the aristocracy, who would -consider themselves social Pariahs now-a-days, if they did not belong to -one or more clubs, were perfectly content, a score of years since, to -frequent the coffee-rooms of hotels and taverns. A modern London club -is the very looking-glass of the time; of the gay, glittering, polished, -improved utilitarian, material age. Nothing more can be done for a -palace than the fitters-up of a modern club have done for it. The march -of upholstering intellect is there in its entirety. It must be almost -bewildering to the modest half-pay captain or the raw young ensign, to -the country gentleman, the book-worm fellow of his college, or the son of -the country squire, fresh from dog-breaking and superintending the drains -on his father’s estate, to find themselves suddenly transferred from -the quiet lodgings in St. Alban’s Place, the whitewashed barrack-room, -the ivy-grown parsonage, the tranquil oak-sporting rooms of “Keys” or -“Maudlin,” the dull comfort of the country mansion-house, to this great -hectoring palace, of which he is the twelve-hundreth part proprietor, -and where he may live on the fatness of the land, and like a lord of -the creation, for twenty guineas entrance fee, and a subscription -of ten guineas a year. He has a joint-stock proprietorship in all -this splendour; in the lofty halls and vestibules; in the library, -coffee-rooms, newspaper and card-rooms; in the secretary’s office in -the basement, and in the urbane secretary himself; in the kitchen, -fitted with every means and appliance, every refinement of culinary -splendour, and from whence are supplied to him at cost prices dishes -that would make Lucullus wild with envy, and that are cooked for him, -besides, by the great _chef_ from Paris, Monsieur Nini Casserole, who -has a piano and a picture-gallery in the kitchen—belongs, himself, to a -club, little less aristocratic than his masters’, and writes his bills -of fare upon laced-edged note-paper. From the gorgeous footmen in plush -and silk-covered calves, which the flunkeys of duchesses could scarcely -rival, to the little foot-page in buttons; from the letter-racks to the -French-polished peg on which he hangs his hat in the hall; from the -books in the library to the silver spoons in the plate-basket; from the -encaustic mosaic on the pavement of the hall to the topmost turreted -chimney-pot—he has a vested interest in all. He cannot waste, he cannot -alienate, it is true; he can but enjoy. Debentures have taken care of -that; yet the fee-simple is in part his; he is the possessor of an -entailed estate; yet, for all purposes of present enjoyment, he sits -under his own roof on his own ground, and eats his own mutton off his -own plate, with his own knife and fork. Oh! the wonderful workings of -debentures, and the inestimable benefits they confer on genteel persons -with expensive tastes and small incomes! Do you know that a man may drink -wines at his club, such as, were he to order them at an hotel, the head -waiter would hold up his hands at the extravagance of the order, or else -imagine that he had Rothschild or Mr. Roupell dining in No. 4 box; nay, -might perchance run round to the chambermaid to ask how much luggage -the gentleman had. Rare ports, “worn-out ports,” grown colourless from -age and strength, that cannot be looked at without winking—wondrous -bitter Sherries—strange yellow Rhine wines, that gurgle in the glass -when poured out—Claret that has made bankrupt the proprietors of the -_vignobles_ who grew them, or else sent them mad to think their stock was -out—indescribable Cognacs—Maraschinos and Curaçoas that filtrate like -rich oil: all these are stored by special wine-merchants in the cellars -of the club. The chief butler himself, a prince among the winepots, goes -forth jauntily to crack sales, and purchases, standing, the collections -of cunning amateurs in wines. You shall smoke such cigars at a club -as would make Senor Cabana himself wonder where they were purchased. -Everything is of the best, and everything is cheap; only the terms are, -as the cheap tailors say, “for ready money.” Tick is the exception, not -the rule, at a club; though there have been Irish members who have run -goodly scores in their time with the cook and the waiter. - -A man may, if he be so minded, make his club his home; living and -lounging luxuriously, and grazing to his heart’s content on the abundant -club-house literature, and enjoying the conversation of club friends. -Soap and towels, combs and hair-brushes, are provided in the lavatories; -and there are even some clubs that have bed-rooms in their upper storeys, -for the use of members. In those that are deficient in such sleeping -accommodation, it is only necessary to have a tooth-brush and an attic in -an adjacent bye-street; all the rest can be provided at the club. Thus -it is that, in the present generation, has been created a type peculiar -thereunto—the club-man. He is all of the club, and clubby. He is full -of club matters, club gossip. He dabbles in club intrigues, belongs to -certain club cliques, and takes part in club quarrels. No dinners are -so good to him as the club dinners; he can read no journals but those -he finds in the club news-paper-room; he writes his letters on the club -paper, pops them into club envelopes, seals them with the club seal, -and despatches them, if they are not intended for postage, by the club -messengers. He is rather sorry that there is no club uniform. He would -like, when he dies, to be buried in a club coffin, in the club cemetery, -and to be followed to the grave by the club, with members of the -committee as pall-bearers. As it is, when he has shuffled off this mortal -coil, his name appears on a board among the list of “members deceased.” -That is his epitaph, his hatchment, his _oraison funêbre_. - -[Illustration: FIVE O’CLOCK P.M.: THE FASHIONABLE CLUB.] - -The great complaint against clubs is, that they tend towards the -germination of selfishness, exclusiveness, and isolation; that they are -productive of neglect of home duties in married men, and of irrevocable -celibacy in bachelors. Reserving my own private opinion on this knotty -point, I may say that it is a subject for sincere congratulation that -there are no ladies’ clubs. We have been threatened with them sometimes, -but they have always been nipped in the bud. It is curious to see how -fiercely this tolerant, liberal, large-headed creature, Man, has waged -war against the slightest attempt to establish a club on the part of the -gentler sex. From the Parisian malecontents of the first revolution, who -broke into the lady assemblies of the _Jacobines_ and _Tricoteuses_, and -broke up the clubs in question by the very expeditious process of turning -the fair members into the street, after subjecting them to a castigation -whose use is ordinarily confined to the nursery; from those ungallant -anti-clubbists (they all belonged to clubs themselves, you may be sure) -to Mr. Mark Lemon, who, in a _petite comédie_, brought the guns of satire -to bear with terrible effect on an incipient agitation for lady clubbism, -such institutions, on the part of the ladies, have always been put down, -either by violence or by ridicule. The Tyrant Man is even, I am informed, -disposed to look with jealousy on the “committees of ladies” which -exist in connection with some deserving charities, and on the “Dorcas -societies” and “sewing circles” of provincial towns; and all meetings to -advocate the rights of woman, he utterly abhors. - -I daresay that you would very much like to know the name of the -particular club, the tableau of which adorns this sheet, and would feel -obliged if I would point out the portraits of individual members: you -would be very much pleased to be told whether it is the Carlton, the -Reform, the Travellers’, the Athenæum, the Union, the United Service -Senior or Junior, the Guards, the Oriental, the Oxford and Cambridge, the -Parthenon, the Erectheum, the Wyndham, Whyte’s, Boodle’s, or the Army -and Navy. No, Fatima; no, Sister Anne. You shall not be told. Clubbism -is a great mystery, and its adepts must be cautious how they explain its -shibboleth to the outer barbarians. Men have been expelled from clubs ere -now for talking or writing about another member’s whiskers, about the cut -of his coat, and the manner in which he eats asparagus. I have no desire -for such club-ostracism; for though, Heaven help me, I am not of Pall -Mall or St. James’s, I, too, have a club whose institutes I revere. “_Non -me tua fervida terrent, dicta, Ferox_:” I fear not Jawkins, nor all the -Borekins in Borekindom; but “_Dii me terrent, et Jupiter hostis_:” I fear -the awful committee that, with a dread complacency, can unclub a man for -a few idle words inadvertently spoken, and blast his social position for -an act of harmless indiscretion. - -Clubs, after all, are rather pleasant institutions than otherwise, yet -they have not escaped the lash of the moralist. Turning over, as I -dismiss the subject, the leaves of my little old book, I come on the -following passage: “Though the Promotion of Trade, and the Benefits that -arise from Conversation, are the Specious Pretences that every Club or -Society are apt to assign as a Reasonable Plea for their Unprofitable -Meetings, yet more Considerate Men have found by Experience that the End -thereof is a Promiscuous Encouragement of Vice, Faction, and Folly, and -the Unnecessary Expense of that Time and Money which might much better be -Employed in their own Business, or spent with much more Comfort in their -Several Families.” I don’t say what the ladies’ verdict will be on this -opinion, though I can divine it; but I take off my hat to the moralist, -capital letters and all, and, leaving him to grumble, will be off to the -club. - -Stay, stay, _siste viator_: I have an appointment. When have I not? I -begin to think that I am the Wandering Jew, and there is decidedly no -rest for the soles of my feet. Still the cry is “onward.” Wherever that -club of mine may be situated, it is clear that I must bend my course -towards Bow Street, Covent Garden. - -And why to Bow Street, an’t please you? To gaze upon the resuscitated -glories of the Royal Italian Opera? To dine at Nokes’s succulent -restaurant, where erst was the “Garrick’s Head?” To obtain an order for -admission to the workhouse from the relieving officer of the Strand Union -Office? To hire theatrical costumes at Mr. May’s? or to bail a friend -out of the station-house? Not so. And yet my business has something to -do with the metropolitan police. I wish to witness the departure of the -PRISONERS’ VAN. - -About five p.m. the ladies and gentlemen who, through the arbitration -of Mr. Hall, Mr. Jardine, or Mr. Henry, stipendiary magistrates, have -settled their little differences with Justice, are conveyed to those -suburban residences, in which, for the benefit of their health, and in -the interests of society, it is judged necessary, _par qui de droit_, -they shall for a stated term abide. The vehicle which bears them to -their temporary seclusion enjoys different names; some technical, -others simply humorous. By some it is called “Her Majesty’s Carriage,” -from the fact that the crown and the initials “V. R.” are painted on the -panels. More far-fetched wags call it “Long Tom’s Coffin.” The police -and the reporters, for shortness, call it “The Van.” In this vehicle the -malefactors who have in the course of the day been arraigned before the -tribunal of the Bow Street Police-court, are conveyed to the various -jails and houses of correction in and about the metropolis, there to -undergo the several terms of imprisonment and hard labour, as the case -may be, to which they have been sentenced. Sometimes the court sits late, -and the van does not take its departure before half-past five; but five -is the ordinary time when the great black, shining, cellular omnibus, -drawn by two strong horses, with its policeman driver, and policeman -conductor in a snug little watch-box, rolls away from Bow Street. It -is a prison on wheels, a peripatetic penitentiary, a locomotive hulk. -Criminals both in and out of prison regard it with a species of terror, -not unmixed with admiration, and, as is their wont, they have celebrated -it in that peculiar strain of ballad poetry for which London roguery has -been so long distinguished. In that celebrated collection of dishonest -epics, the “Drury Lane Garland,” in fit companionship with “Sam Hall,” -“County Jail,” “Seven years I got for priggin’,” and the “Leary Man,” I -find a ballad on the subject of the Bow Street chariot of disgrace, of -which the refrain is— - - “Sing Wentilator, separate cell, - Its long, and dark, and hot as well. - Sing locked-up doors—git out if you can, - _There’s a crusher outside the prisoners’ wan!_” - -A “crusher,” or policeman, there is indeed, not only in the little -watch-box on the exterior, to which I have alluded, but in the narrow -corridor between the cells into which the carriage is divided in the -interior. It is the former functionary’s duty to keep the outer door -securely locked; the latter to take care that no communication takes -place between the passengers confined in this penal omnibus, either -through the ventilators on the roof, or by talismanic tappings at the -panels which divide them. - -[Illustration: FIVE O’CLOCK P.M.: THE PRISONERS’ VAN.] - -When the hour of departure arrives, you see the pavement and carriage-way -of Bow Street studded with a choice assemblage of the raggedry, -ruffianry, felonry, misery, drunkardry, and drabbery, whom the infamous -hundred of Drury, and the scarcely less infamous tithing of Covent, have -cast out into a thoroughfare which, two hours hence, will be re-echoing -to the wheels of carriages bearing noble lords and ladies to listen to -the delicious Bosio (alas!) in the “Traviata,” or the enchanting notes -of Tamberlik in “Otello.” London is full of violent contrasts; but this -is the grimmest in the whole strange catalogue. See, the warder in the -watch-box has descended from his perch, and with a patent key opened -the portal of the van, revealing a second janitor inside. And now the -passengers destined for the lugubrious journey come tumbling out of -the court door, and down the steps towards the van. Some handcuffed, -some with their arms folded, or their hands thrust in their pockets in -sullen defiance; some hiding their faces in their grimy palms for very -shame. There are women as well as men, starved sempstresses, and brazen -courtezans in tawdry finery. There are wicked graybeards, and children -on whose angel faces the devil has already set his indelible brand. -There are ragged losels rejoicing to go to jail as to a place where -they shall at least have bread to eat and a bed to lie on; there are -dashing pickpockets in shiny hats and pegtop trousers braided down the -seams. There are some going to prison for the first, and some for the -fiftieth time. One by one they are thrust rather than handed into the -van. The shabby crowd gives a faint, derisive cheer, the door bangs, -the policeman-conductor ensconces himself in his watch-box, and the -Prisoners’ Van drives off. - -The Pharisee thanked Heaven that he was not “as that Publican.” Down -on your knees, well-nurtured, well-instructed youth, and thank Heaven -for the parents and friends, for the pastors and masters, to whose -unremitting care and tenderness, from your cradle upwards, you owe it -that you are not like one of these miserable Publicans just gone away -in the prisoners’ van. But thank Heaven humbly, not pharisaically. A -change at nurse, the death of a parent—one out of the fifty thousand -accidents that beset life—might have thrown you into the sink of misery -and want, foulness and crime, in which these creatures were reared, -and you might have been here to-day, not gazing on the spectacle with -a complacent pity, but trundled with manacles on your wrists into this -moving pest-house, whose half-way house is the jail, and whose bourne is -the gallows. - - - - -SIX P.M.—A CHARITY DINNER, AND THE NEWSPAPER WINDOW AT THE GENERAL -POST-OFFICE. - - -Some years ago, at the cozy little dining club held in my friend -Madame Basque’s back-parlour, in the Rue de la Michodière, and the -city of Paris, I had the advantage of the friendship of one of the -most intelligent and humorous of the American gentlemen. There is -such a personage—the vulgar, drawling, swearing, black-satin-vested, -stove-pipe-hatted, whittling, smoking, expectorating, and dram-drinking -Yankee loafers, who infest the Continent, notwithstanding; and a very -excellent sample of the accomplished and unpretending gentleman was the -American in question. He had paid a visit to England, in which country -his sojourn had been of about three months’ duration; but he frankly -confessed to me that having come purposely unprovided with those usually -tiresome and worthless figments, letters of introduction—the very -Dead-Sea apples of hospitality, goodly on the exterior, and all dust and -ashes within—he had not, with the exception of his banker, who asked him -to dinner once as a courteous acknowledgment of the ponderosity of his -letter of credit, possessed one single acquaintance, male or female, -during his stay in the metropolis of the world. I asked him whether he -had not felt very lonely and miserable, and sufficiently inclined, at -the end of the first week, to cast himself over any given bridge into -the river Thames. Not in the slightest degree, he replied. I politely -hinted that perhaps, as an American, he possessed the genial facility, -common to his countrymen, of making himself at home wheresoever he -went, and of forming agreeable travelling acquaintances, occasionally -ripening into fast friends, by the simple process of saying “Fine day, -stranger.” Not at all, he replied. He kept himself to himself, and -indeed he was of a disposition, save in casual moments of unbending, -quite surprising for its saturnine taciturnity. At all events, I urged, -he could not have amused himself much by prowling about the streets, -sleeping at hotels, dining in coffee-rooms, frequenting theatres and -singing-rooms, and wandering in and out of museums; but I was wrong -again, he said. He had seldom been so jolly in his life. I began to think -either that he was quizzing me—“gumming” is the proper Transatlantic -colloquialism, I think—or else that he was the Happy Man described in -the Eastern apologue. But then, the Happy Man had, as it turned out, -no shirt; and my American was remarkable for displaying a vast amount -of fine linen, both at breast and wristbands, profusely decorated with -studs, chains, and sleeve-buttons. How was it, then, I asked, giving the -enigma up in sheer bewilderment. “Wall,” answered my friend with his own -peculiar dry chuckle, “I used to ride about all day on the tops of the -omnibuses; and very fine institutions for seeing life in a philosophical -spirit, those omnibuses of yours are, sir.” He said Sir—not “Sirree,” -as Anglo-Americans are ordinarily assumed to pronounce that title of -courtesy. I understood him at once; saw through him; had done the same -thing myself; and admired his penetrative and observant aptitude. - -Never ride inside an omnibus—I apostrophise, of course, the men folks; -for till arrangements are made (and why should they _not_ be made?) for -hoisting ladies in an easy-chair to the breezy roof—they can manage such -things on board a man-of-war—the vehicular ascent is incommodious, not -to say indecorous, for the fair sex. But Ho, ye men, don’t ride inside. -A friend of mine had once his tibia fractured by the diagonal brass rod -that crosses the door; the door itself being violently slammed to, as -is the usual custom, by the conductor. Another of my acquaintance was -pitched head foremost from the interior, on the mockingly fallacious cry -of “all right” being given—was thrown on his head, and killed. Inside -an omnibus you are subjected to innumerable vexations and annoyances. -Sticks or parasols are poked in your chest and in the back of your neck, -as a polite reminder that somebody wants to get out, and that you must -seize the conductor by the skirt of his coat, or pinch him in the calf -of the leg, as an equally polite request for him to stop; you are half -suffocated by the steam of damp umbrellas; your toes are crushed to -atoms as the passengers alight or ascend; you are very probably the next -neighbour to persons suffering under vexatious ailments, such as asthma, -simple cold in the head, or St. Vitus’s dance; it is ten to one but that -you suffer under the plague of babies; and, five days out of the seven, -you will have a pickpocket, male or female, for a fellow-passenger. The -rumbling, the jumbling, the jolting, and the concussions—the lurking ague -in the straw when it is wet, and the peculiar omnibus fleas that lurk in -it when it is dry, make the interior of one of these vehicles a place of -terror and discomfort; whereas outside all is peace. You have room for -your legs; you have the fresh air; you have the lively if not improving -conversation of the driver and the conductor, and especially of the -right-hand box-seat, who is invariably in some way mysteriously connected -with dogs and horses, and a great authority thereupon. Finally, you have -the inestimable advantage of surveying the world in its workings as you -pass along: of being your own Asmodeus, and unroofing London in a ride -from the White Horse Cellar to Hammersmith Gate. The things I have seen -from the top of an omnibus!—more markedly in the narrow streets through -which, from the main thoroughfare being blocked up by the incessant -paving, lighting, sewerage, or electric telegraph communications of -underground London, one is compelled to pass. Now a married couple -enjoying an animated wrangle in a first-floor front; now a servant-maid -entertaining a policeman, or a Life Guardsman, with a heart’s devotion -and cold shoulder of mutton, in a far-down area; now a demure maiden -lacing her virgin bodice before a cracked triangle of a looking-glass, at -an attic window; now lords and ladies walking with parasols and lapdogs, -and children in the private gardens of noble mansions, screened from the -inquisitive pedestrians by sullen brick walls; now domestics hanging out -the clothes in back-yards (seen over the roofs of one-storey houses), -malicious birds of prey waiting, doubtless, round the corner for the -fell purpose of pecking off their noses, while the astute King is in -his counting-house on the second floor counting out his money, and the -Queen, with the true gentleness of womanhood, is in the front kitchen, -eating bread and honey in confident security, recking little of the -four-and-twenty blackbirds baked in a pie, or of the song of sixpence—or -rather of five shillings—which I am this day singing about them all, in -consideration of an adequate pocketful of rye. So shall you look down -and see those things; but chiefly shall you enjoy delectation and gather -experience from the sight of the men and women who are continually -passing beneath you in carriages and in cabs; yea, and in carts and -barrows. Varied life, troubled life, busy, restless, chameleon life. -The philosopher may learn much by reading the tradesmen’s names over -the shop-fronts, which—he will never read them as he passes along the -pavement—will give him quite a new insight into nomenclature. But only -let him consider the carriages and the cabs, and he may learn wisdom in -the ways of mankind in every rood of ground he traverses. - -Sweethearting in cabs and carriages; passionate appeals for mercy; men -brawling and fighting; lunatics being borne away to captivity; felons, -shackled and manacled to the chin, being taken to jail, and perhaps -to death, by stern policemen and jailers; frantic women kneeling on -carriage-floors, women with dishevelled hair, streaming eyes, clasped -hands raised to a Heaven which is never deaf but is sometimes stern, a -weeping child clinging to their disordered dress, and money and jewels -cast carelessly on the carriage cushions; gamblers carding and dicing; -knaves drugging fools; debtors in the charge of sheriff’s officers; -roysterers gone in drink; the “fatal accident” on its way to the -hospital, lying all bruised and bloody across the policeman’s knee; the -octogenarian in his last paralytic fit, and the mother suckling her first -infant. All these dramas on four wheels may be seen by him on the top of -the omnibus, who may, if of a caustic turn, rub his hands, and cry, “Aha! -little do you reck that a chiel is above you taking notes, and, faith, -that he’ll print them!” - -You see, there are some elements of sadness, nay, of deep and terrible -tragedy, in these vehicular panoramas—the unconscious show-vans; but at -Six o’Clock in the Evening the cabs and carriages on which you look down -offer, mostly, a far pleasanter spectacle. They are full of people going -out to dinner. Some in broughams, coupés, double-bodied carriages, and -the occupants of these are ladies and gentlemen, attired in the full -panoply of evening costume, and whom, at the first blush, you might take -for members of the highest aristocracy. But they are not so. They simply -belong to the first-class genteel circles, the very superior middle -ranks; the dwellers in Lower Belgravia—Brompton, Kensington, and Pimlico; -or in Lesser Tyburnia—Bayswater and Notting Hill. They have all the -airs and graces, all the allurements, of the titled and the exclusive; -but they have not the genuine Hall-mark of nobility and fashion; they -are but Britannia metal, electro-gilt in a very superior manner. The -undeniable Patricians, the satraps of our modern Persian splendour, do -not dine (would not supper be a more appropriate term?) till half-past -seven, or even eight, post meridian. They can have, I should imagine, but -scant appetites for their dinner at that advanced period of the evening, -unless, indeed, they partake of it in the ancient Roman manner, lolling -on the _triclinium_, crowning themselves with flowers, and following, -between the courses, the swinish examples of Apicius and Lucullus. -Better, I take it, a mutton chop at the Cock, or the Cheshire Cheese, -than these nasty Ancient Roman repasts. It is true our moderns stay their -aristocratic stomachs early in the afternoon with a copious lunch of hot -meats and generous wines; and they say that her blessed Majesty herself, -like a good, sensible woman, makes her real dinner at two o’clock, with -her little children, in the nursery, and takes but a mere bite and sup at -the grand stall-fed feast of gold plate in the evening. - -But there are plenty of good dinners going on at six o’clock in the -evening, and plenty of good diners-out to attend them. Masters in -Chancery, who are renowned judges of port-wine, dine at six. Six, for -half-past, is the dinner-hour for East India Directors. Let us hope that -their dinners will continue to be as good as of yore, though the new -India Bill leaves them nothing to direct. Members of Parliament, during -the session, dine whenever they can, and sometimes not at all; but on -“no House” days, six o’clock—always taken with a reservation for the -half-past, for “six o’clock sharp” is entirely gone out of fashion, save -with Muswell Hill stock-brokers, Manchester Square proctors, Bedford Row -solicitors, and people who live in Bloomsburia—is the great time for them -to drop into their clubs, sneer over the evening papers, gnash their -teeth because there may happen to be no leading articles eulogistic or -abusive of them therein, and _prendre des informations_, as the French -say (though why I could not just as well say it in English, save that -the cook at the club is a Frenchman, puzzles me), about what there -may be good for dinner. But I must not forget that I am on the top of -an omnibus, looking down on the people in the broughams and the cabs. -Admire that youthful exquisite, curled, and oiled, and scented into a -sufficient semblance of the “Nineveh Bull,” with whom Mr. Tennyson was so -angry in “Maud.” His glossy hair is faultlessly parted down the occiput -and down the cranium behind. White as the fleece of Clarimunda’s sheep -is his body linen. Stiff as the necks of the present generation is his -collar. Black as Erebus is his evening suit. Shining like mirrors are -the little varnished tips of his jean-boots. Severe as the late General -Picton is the tie of his cravat. This _gracilis puer_ is going to dine -in Thurlow Square, Brompton. That gold-rimmed lorgnon you see screwed -into his face, to the damaging distortion of his muscles, will not be -removed therefrom—nor during dinner, nor during wine-taking, nor during -the evening party which will follow the dinner, nor during the “little -music,” the dancing, the supper, the shawling, the departure, and the -drive home to his chambers. He will eat in his eyeglass, and drink in his -eyeglass, and flirt and polk in his eyeglass. I am almost persuaded that -he will sleep in his eyeglass (I knew a married lady who used to sleep -in her spectacles, which led to a divorce: _she_ alleged the cause to -be systematic cruelty, but what will not an enraged woman say?); and I -should not be in the least surprised if he were to die in his eyeglass, -and be buried in his eyeglass, and if the epitaph on his gravestone were -to be “_veluti in speculum_.” - -Down and down again, glance from the omnibus summit, and see in that -snug, circular-fronted brougham, a comfortable couple, trotting out to -dinner in the Alpha Road, St. John’s Wood. Plenty of lobster sauce they -will have with their salmon, I wager; twice of boiled chicken and white -sauce they will not refuse, and oyster patties will they freely partake -of. A jovial couple, rosy, chubby, middle-aged, childless, I opine, which -makes them a _little_ too partial to table enjoyments. They should be -well to do in the world, fond of giving merry, corpulent little dinners -of their own, with carpet dances afterwards, and living, I will be bound -(our omnibus is ubiquitous, remember) at Maida Hill, or Pine Apple Gate. -There is another couple, stiff, starched, angular, acrimonious-looking. -Husband with a stern, Lincoln’s Inn conveyancing face, and pilloried in -starch, with white kid gloves much too large for him. Wife, with all -manner of tags, and tags, and odds and ends of finery fluttering about -her: one of those women who, if she had all the rich toilettes of all -King Solomon’s wives on her, would never look well dressed. I shouldn’t -like to dine where they are going. I know what the dinner will be like. -Prim, pretentious, dismal, and eminently uncomfortable. There will be a -saddle of mutton not sufficiently hung, the fish will be cold, the wines -hot, and the carving-knives will be blunt. After dinner the men will talk -dreary politics, redolent of stupid Retrogression, and the women will -talk about physic and the hooping-cough. Yet another couple—husband and -wife? A severe swell, with drooping moustaches of immense length, but -which are half whiskers. Transparent deceit! A pretty lady—gauzy bonnet -and artificial flowers, muslin jacket, skirts and flounces oozing out at -the sides of the carriage; hair _à la_ Eugénie, and a Skye terrier with -a pink ribbon. I know what _this_ means. Greenwich, seven o’clock dinner -(they are rather late, by the way, but they pass us on London Bridge, and -the coachman will drive rapidly), water souché, whitebait, brown bread -and butter, and iced punch; cigar on balcony, and contemplation of the -moon. Ride on, and be happy. Rejoice in your youth—and never mind the -rest. It will come, O young man, whether you mind it or not. - -Hallo! there he is. I thought so. With a red face, shaven to the -superlative degree of shininess, with gills white and tremendous, with -a noble white waistcoat, and from time to time nervously consulting his -watch, lest he should be half a minute behind time with the spring soup, -rides by in a swift Hansom, the old gentleman who is going to a Charity -Dinner. Blessings on his benevolent, gastronomic old head, he never -misses one. He is going as quick as double fare will convey him to the -London Tavern. Quick! oh thou conductor, let me descend, for I must take -a Hansom too, and follow my venerable friend to the London Tavern; and, -by cock and pye, I will go dine there too. - -I think my readers must be by this time sufficiently acquainted with the -fact that I am endowed with a very nervous temperament. Indeed, were I to -say that I start at my own shadow, that I do fear each bush an officer, -that I am continually in terror of Sudden Death, that I would rather not -go upstairs in the dark, and that (which is not at all incompatible with -a nervous organisation) in circumstances of real moment, in imminent -life-peril, in a storm, in a balloon, in a tumult, and in a pestilence, I -am perfectly master of myself, and, with a complete Trust and Reliance, -am quite contented and happy in my mind: when I state this, I don’t think -I need blush to own that I am as mortally afraid now of the boys in the -street as in the old days when they pelted me with sharp stones because -I preferred going to school quietly instead of playing fly-the-garter in -the gutter. I am afraid of my last schoolmaster (he is quite bankrupt -and broken, and pays me visits to borrow small silver occasionally), -and yet call him reverentially, “Sir.” I am afraid of ladies—not of the -married ones, in whom I take great delight, talking Buchan’s “Medicine,” -Acton’s “Cookery,” and Mrs. Ellis with them, very gravely, till they -think me a harmless fogey, hopelessly celibate, but sensible; not of the -innocent young girls, with their charming _naïveté_ and pretty sauciness; -but of the “young ladies,” who are “out,” and play the piano, and sing -Italian songs—of which, Lord bless them! they know no more than I do of -crochet-work—and who fling themselves, their accomplishments, and their -low-necked dresses, at men’s heads. I am afraid of policemen, lest in -an evanescent fit of ill temper they should take me up, and with their -facile notions of the obligations of an oath, swear that I was lurking -about with intent to commit a felon; and, transcendentally, I am afraid -of waiters. I watch them—him—the Waiter, with great awe and trembling. -Does he know, I ask myself, as he fills my tumbler with iced champagne, -that half-and-half is a liquid to which I am more accustomed? Does he -know that, sumptuously as I dine to-day, I didn’t dine at all yesterday? -Is he aware that Mr. Threadpaper is dunning me for that dress-coat with -the watered-silk facings? Can he see under the table that the soles of my -boots are no better than they should be? Is it within his cognizance that -I have not come to the Albion, or the London Tavern, or the Freemasons’, -as a guest, but simply to report the dinner for the “Morning Meteor?” -Does he consider the shilling I give him as insufficient? Shilling! He -has many more shillings than I have, I trow. He pulls four pounds in -silver from his pocket to change one a crown-piece. To-day he is Charles -or James; but to-morrow he will be the proprietor of a magnificent -West-end restaurant, rivalling Messrs. Simpson and Dawes at the Divan, -or Mr. Sawyer at the London. So I am respectful to the waiter, and fee -him largely but fearfully; and, were it not that he might take me for a -waiter in disguise, I would also call him “Sir.” - -I no sooner arrive at the London Tavern, _pari passu_ with the old -gentleman with the gills and the white neckcloth, than I feel myself -delivered over to the thraldom of waiterdom. An urbane creature, who -might pass for a Puseyite curate, were not the waitorial stigmata -unmistakeably imprinted on him, meets me, and tells me in an oleaginous -undertone, which is like clear turtle-soup, that the Anniversary Festival -of the Asylum for Fatuous Monomaniacs is on the second floor to the -right. A second waiter meets me at the foot of the stair-case, and -whispers discreetly behind the back of his hand, “Two storeys higher, -sir.” A third waylays me benevolently on the first-floor landing, and -mildly ravishes from me my hat and stick, in return for which he gives -me a cheque much larger than my dinner ticket; which last is taken -from me on the second floor by a beaming spirit, the bows of whose -cravat are like wings, and who hands me to a Dread Presence—a stout, -severe man with a gray head, who is in truth the head-waiter at this -Anniversary Festival, and who with a solemn ceremony inducts me into the -reception-room. - -Here, in a somewhat faded, but intensely respectable-looking apartment, -I find about fifty people I don’t know from Adam, and who are yet all -brothers or uncles or cousins-german, at the least, of my rubicund -white-waistcoated friend. And, to tell the truth, I don’t know him -personally, though his face, from meeting him at innumerable festivals, -is perfectly familiar to me. So are those of the other fifty strangers. I -have heard all their names, and all about them; but one is not expected -to remember these things at public dinners. You take wine with your -next neighbour; sometimes converse with him about eating and drinking, -the merits of the charity, the late political tergiversation of the -chairman, the heat of the weather, the fine voice of Mr. Lockey, and the -pretty face of Miss Ransford, and there an end. Your interlocutor may -be to-morrow the lawyer who sues you, the author whose book you will -slaughter in a review, the Commissioner of Insolvency who may send you -back for eighteen months. To have met a man at a public dinner is about -as valid a claim to the possession of his acquaintance, as to have met -him in the Kursaal at Hombourg, or on the steps of the St. Nicholas -Hotel at New York. After some twenty years of public dining together, it -is not, I believe, considered a gross breach of etiquette to make the -gentleman who has been so frequently your fellow _convive_ a very distant -bow should you meet him in the street; but even this is thought to be a -freedom by some rigid sticklers for decorum. - -In genteel society, the half hour before dinner is generally accepted -as a time of unlimited boredom and social frigidity, but there you have -the relief, if not relaxation, of staring the guests out of countenance, -making out a mental list of the people you would not like to take wine -with, and turning over the leaves of the melancholy old albums, every -page of which you have conned a hundred times before. But in the half -hour (and it frequently is a whole one) before a public dinner, you have -no albums or scrapbooks to dog’s-ear. There is no use in staring at your -neighbours: the types of character are so similar—big and crimsoned -sensuous faces looming over white waistcoats, with a plentiful sprinkling -among them of the clerical element. You can’t smoke, you can’t (that is, -I daren’t) order sherry and bitters. If you look out of the window, you -see nothing but chimney pots, leads, and skylights, with a stray vagrant -cat outrunning the constable over them; and the best thing you can do is -to bring an amusing duodecimo with you, or betake yourself to one of the -settles, and twiddle your thumbs till dinner-time. But, joy, joy, here -are quails in the conversational famine; here is a welling spring in the -wilderness. The door opens, and the sonorous voice of the head-waiter -announces THE CHAIRMAN. - -Very probably he is a lord. A philanthropic peer, always ready and -willing to do a kind turn for anybody, and to the fore with his -chairmanship, his set speeches, and his fifty-pound note for “fatuous -monomaniacs,” “intellectual good-for-nothings,” or “decayed bailiffs.” He -may be a regular dining-out lord, a not very rich nobleman, who has grown -gray in taking the chair at charity dinners, and who is not expected -to give anything to the institution save the powerful weight of his -presence and influence. He may be a young lord, fresh caught, generously -eager (as are, I am rejoiced to say, the majority of our young lords -now-a-days) to vindicate the power and willingness for usefulness of his -order; striving to show that there is not so much difference between -his coronet and the Phrygian cap, save that one is made of velvet and -the other of red worsted (ah! that irreconcileable red worsted), very -impulsive, very imprudent, sometimes slightly imbecile, but full of good -intentions and honest aspirations; or he may be a member of Parliament, -a veteran of the back benches, burning to make up for his silence in -the House by his eloquence in the forum of a tavern dinner. He may be -a worthy banker or merchant, who gets through the speech-making before -him in a business-like manner, and does not allow it in the least to -interfere with the consumption of his proper quantum of wine; or he may -be, as is very frequently the case, a lion—the “great gun”—the last blast -of Fame’s trumpet for the hour: a lawyer, a traveller, a philosopher, or -an author, whom the managing committee have secured, just as the manager -of a theatre would secure a dwarf, a giant, a wild beast tamer, a blind -piper, or a sword swallower, to enhance the receipts of the exhibition. - -About thirty of the fifty people I don’t know from Adam gather -immediately in a circle round the chairman. The few who have the honour -to be on speaking terms with him jostle him sociably, and shake hands -with him with a rueful expression of contentment. Those who don’t know -him rub their hands violently, breathe hard, stare fixedly at him, -and whisper to one another that he is very like his portrait, or that -he isn’t at all like his portrait, or that he is getting old, or that -he looks remarkably young, or some equally relevant banalities. The -remaining twenty guests gather in the window-bays, and stare at nothing -particular, or else read the printed prospectus of the Asylum for Fatuous -Monomaniacs, and wonder how many of the fine list of stewards announced -may be present on the occasion. As for the chairman, he takes up a -position with his back safely glued (so it seems) to the mantelpiece, and -preserves a dignified equanimity, working his head from side to side in -his white neckcloth like that waxen effigy of Mr. Cobbett, late M.P. for -Oldham, which terrifies country cousins by its vitality of appearance -(those drab smallclothes and gaiters were a great stroke of genius) at -Madame Tussaud’s. - -By this time a crowd of more people you don’t know from Adam, and -often outnumbering the fifty in the waiting-room, have gathered on the -staircase, the landing, and have even invaded the precincts of the dining -saloon, where they potter about the tables, peeping for the napkins -which may contain the special cards bearing their name and denoting their -place at the banquet. These are the people who _do_ know one another; -these are the stewards, patrons of the charity, or gentlemen connected -with its administration. They are all in a very excellent temper, as men -need be who are about to partake of a capital dinner and a skinful of -wine, and they crack those special jokes, and tell those special funny -stories, which you hear nowhere save at a public dinner. Then, at the -door, you see a detachment of waiters, bearing fasces of long, blue -staves, tipped with brass, which they distribute to sundry inoffensive -gentlemen, whose real attributes are at once discovered, and who are -patent to the dining-out world as Stewards. They take the staves, looking -very much ashamed of them; and, bearing besides a quaint resemblance to -undertakers out for a holiday, and in a procession, which would be solemn -if it wasn’t funny, precede the chairman to his place of honour. - -The tables form three sides of an oblong quadrangle: sometimes the -horse-shoe form is adopted. In the midst, in a line with the chairman, -and as close to his august presence as is practicable, is a table of some -ten or a dozen _couverts_, devoted to some modestly-attired gentlemen -(some of them not in evening costume at all), whose particular places -are all assigned to them; who for a wonder seem on most intimate terms -mutually, and take wine frequently with one another; who are waited upon -with the most sedulous attention, and have the very best on the table, -both in the way of liquids and solids, at their disposal. They apply -themselves to the consumption of these delicacies with great diligence -and cheerfulness; but they do not seem _quite_ sufficiently impressed -with the commanding merits of the Royal Asylum for Fatuous Monomaniacs. -I wonder what special business brings these gentlemen hither. At some -distance from this table, towards the door, but still in a line with -the chairman, you see a pianoforte, and a couple of music-stands; -partially concealed behind a crimson baize screen, beneath the gallery -at the end, sit some stalwart individuals, of martial appearance, and -superbly attired in scarlet and gold lace, whom you might easily, at -first, mistake for staff officers, but whom their brass trombones and -ophicleides speedily proclaim to be members of the band of one of the -regiments of Guards. And high above all, supported on the sham scagliola -Corinthian columns, with the gilt capitals, is a trellised balcony, full -of ladies in full evening dress. What on earth those dear creatures want -at such gatherings,—what pleasure they can derive from the spectacle -of their husbands and friends over-eating and sometimes over-drinking -themselves, or from the audition of stupid speeches, passes my -comprehension. There they are, however, giggling, fluttering, waving tiny -pocket-handkerchiefs, and striving to mitigate the meaty miasma of the -place by nasal applications to their bouquets or their essence bottles; -and there they will be, I presume, till public dinners go out of fashion -altogether.[7] - -[Illustration: SIX O’CLOCK P.M.: A CHARITY DINNER.] - -I do not think I am called upon to give the bill of fare of a public -dinner. I have no desire to edit the next republication of Ude, or -Doctor Kitchener, Soyer, or Francatelli; besides, I could only make your -and my mouth water by expatiating on the rich viands and wines which -“mine host” (he is always mine host) of the Albion, the London Tavern, -or the Freemasons’, provides for a guinea a-head. You remember what I -told you the friend with the face like an over-ripe fig said of public -dinners—that they were the sublimation of superfluities; and, indeed, if -such a repast be not one of those in which a man is called upon to eat -Italian trout, Dutch dory, Glo’ster salmon, quails and madeira, Cherbourg -pea-chicks, Russian artichokes, Macedonian jellies, Charlottes of a -thousand fruits, Richelieu puddings, vanilla creams, Toulouse leverets, -iced punch, hock, champagne, claret, moselle and burgundy, port, sherry, -kirschwasser, and pale brandy, I don’t know the meaning of the word -superfluity at all. - -Some three hours after the company have sate down to dinner; after -the “usual loyal and constitutional toasts,” with the usual musical -honours; after the toast of the evening—“Prosperity to the Royal Asylum -for Fatuous Monomaniacs”—with its accompanying (more or less) eloquent -speech from the noble or distinguished chairman, beseeching liberal -pecuniary support for so deserving an institution; after the prompt and -generous response, in the way of cheques and guineas, from the guests; -after a tedious programme of glees and ballads has been got through, -and the chairman has discreetly vanished to his carriage; after the -inveterate diners-out, who _will_ tarry long at the wine, have received -one or two gentle hints that coffee awaits their acceptance in an -adjoining apartment; and about the time that the feast begins to wear -a somewhat bleared and faded aspect (the lights cannot grow pale till -they are turned off, for these are of the Gas Company’s providing), the -waiters slouch about with wooden trays, full of ruined dessert-plates, -cracked nuts, muddy decanters, and half-emptied glasses; cherry stalks, -strawberry stems, squeezed oranges, the expressed skins of grapes, litter -the tables; chairs are standing at all sorts of eccentric angles; and -crumpled and twisted napkins are thrown pell-mell about. There is an -end to the fine feast: the cates are eaten, the wine drunk. Lazarus the -beggar might have taken his rags out of pawn (had he indeed any such rags -to mortgage), and his thin-limbed little brats might have grown plump and -rosy on a tithe of the money that has been wasted this night in guttling -and guzzling. Wasted? Oh! say not wasted, Cynic; take the mote from thine -own eye. Grumbler, for shame! I have done ill, I think, to caricature -the name even of any public charity. Let the “Fatuous Monomaniacs” be -numbered with the rest of my exploded fantastic conceits. Let this rather -be remembered: that the tavern feast of superfluities is prolific in -generous and glorious results; that from this seemingly gross and sensual -gathering spring charity, love, mercy, and benevolence. Pardon the rich -dinners and rare wines; look over the excess in animal enjoyments; -forgive even the prosy speeches; for _the plate has gone round_. -To-morrow Lazarus shall rejoice in his rags, and blind Tobias shall lift -up his hands for gratitude; the voice in Rama shall be bushed and Rachel -shall weep no more; and all because these good gentlemen with the rosy -faces and the white waistcoats have dined so well. For these dinners are -for the benefit of the sick and the infirm, the lunatic and the imbecile, -the widow and the orphan, the decayed artist and the reduced gentlewoman, -the lame, the halt, the blind, the poor harlot and the penitent thief, -and they shall have their part in these abundant loaves and fishes; and -the sublimation of superfluities must be condoned for the sake of those -_voluntary contributions_ which are the noblest support of the noble -charities in England. Remember the story of the Pot of Ointment. These -superfluities yield a better surplus than though the spikenard was sold -for an hundred-pence and given to the poor. - -A very cream of waiters has taken good care of me during the evening. He -now fetches me my walking gear, and as he pockets my modest “largesse,” -whispers confidentially that he has had the honour of “seeing me afore;” -and, blushing, I remember that I have met him at private parties. It is -well for me if I can slip downstairs quietly, hail a cab, and drive to -one of the operas; for an act of the “Trovatore” or “Lucrezia Borgia” -are, in my opinion, far better than Seltzer water in restoring the -balance of one’s mind after an arduous public dinner. But it oft-times -happens that a man in your memorialist’s position has to pass a _quart -d’heure de Rabelais_, worse than paying the bill, after one of these -festive meetings. For, in a roomy apartment downstairs, lighted by waxen -tapers, such things as pens, ink, and paper, coffee, cognac, and cigars, -are, by the forethought of the liberal proprietors of the establishment, -laid out for the benefit of those merry gentlemen you saw upstairs at the -small table in a line with the chairman, where they were so well taken -care of; and if circumstances compel me to be in a merry mood to-night, -I must hie me into this roomy chamber, and scribble a column or so of -“copy” about the dinner, which will appear to-morrow morning in the -“Meteor.” Rubbing my eyes as I glance over the damp sheet between my own -warm ones in bed, I wonder who ever could have written the report of all -those elegant speeches. It seems at least a year since I dined with the -“Fatuous Monomanaics.” - - * * * * * - -This is again six o’clock p.m., but not by any means on the same evening. -The occasion could have no possible connection with going out to dinner, -for it happens to be six o’clock “sharp:” and, moreover, it is on Friday, -a day on which it is supposed to be as unlucky to go out to dinner as -to go to sea, to marry, to put on a new coat, to commence a new novel, -to cut your nails, or buy tripe. Now, what can I be doing in the city -on this Friday evening? Certainly not to perform any of the operations -alluded to above. Scarcely on business. Bank, Exchange, wharfs, -Custom-house, money-market, merchants’ counting-houses, are all closed, -and the inner city, the narrow winding lanes, that almost smell of money, -are deserted. What am I doing so close to St. Paul’s Cathedral, and why -do I turn off by St. Martin’s-le-Grand? For the simple reason, that -Friday evening is the very best one in the seven to witness the spectacle -I am going to see—Newspaper Fair at the General Post Office. - -In the vast vestibule, or hall, of the establishment so admirably -presided over by Mr. Rowland Hill (for I do not reckon the aristocratic -placeman who is, turn and turn about, Whig or Tory, its nominal chief, -for much), and whose fostering care has made it (with some slight -occasional shortcomings) the best-managed and most efficient national -institution in Europe, you may observe, in the left-hand corner from -the peristyle, and opposite the secretary’s office (tremendous “counts” -are the clerks in the secretary’s office, jaunty bureaucrats, who ride -upon park hacks, and are “come for” by ringlets in broughams at closing -time, but who get through their work in about half the time it would -take the ordinary slaves of the desk, simply because their shrewdness -and knowledge of the world enables them to “see through a case” before -the average man of tape and quill can make up his mind to docket a -letter) a huge longitudinal slit in the panelling above, on which is the -inscription “For newspapers only.” And all day long, newspapers only, -stringed or labelled, are thrust into this incision; and the typographed -lucubrations of the some five hundred men who, for salaries ranging from -twenty shillings to twenty pounds per week, have to think, and sometimes -almost feel, in the Anglo-Saxon tongue, for some sixty millions of people -(I say nothing of the re-actionary influence upon foreign nations), go -forth to the uttermost ends of the earth. But as six o’clock approaches -(and six o’clock sharp is the irrevocable closing time for the departure -of newspapers by the current night’s mail), they open a tall window -above, and the newspapers are no more thrust, but flung in. - -[Illustration: SIX O’CLOCK P.M.: THE NEWSPAPER WINDOW AT THE GENERAL -POST-OFFICE.] - -It is on this congenial ground that I meet those juvenile friends to whom -I introduced a large circle of acquaintances, even in the second hour -of “Twice Round the Clock”—I mean the newspaper boys. In another page -I said, jestingly, that I was afraid of boys. I must except from the -category the newspaper boys. I have been sadly harassed and teazed by -them in their out-of-door or bagful state, when they go round to purchase -newspapers: for I once happened to be editor of a cheap journal, at whose -office there was no editor’s room. I was compelled, occasionally, to read -my proofs behind the counter, in the presence of the publisher and his -assistant, and I have endured much mental pain and suffering from the -somewhat too demonstrative _facetiæ_ of the young gentlemen engaged in -the “trade.” Verbal satire of the most acutely personal nature was their -ordinary mode of procedure; but, occasionally, when the publication (as -sometimes happened) was late in its appearance, their playfulness was -aggravated to the extent of casting an old shoe at me, and on one signal -occasion a bag of flour. Still the newspaper boy is the twin-brother of -the printer’s devil; and, much as I have seen of those patient, willing -little urchins, I should be a brute if I were hard to them, here. - -The newspaper boys are, of course, in immense array at the six o’clock -fair on Friday evening. They are varied, as currants are by sultanas in a -dumpling, by newspaper men, who, where the boys struggle up to the window -and drop in their load, boldly fling bags full, sacks full, of journals -into the yawning casement. There is a legend that they once threw a boy -into the window, newspapers and all. But at six o’clock everything is -over—the window is closed—and newspaper fair is adjourned to the next -Friday. - - - - -SEVEN O’CLOCK P.M.—A THEATRICAL GREEN-ROOM, AND “BEHIND THE SCENES.” - - -Dear friends and readers, we are approaching the sere and yellow leaf -of our peregrinations “round the clock.” As the year wanes, as golden -August points to the culminating glories of the year, but with oft-times -a dark and impetuous storm presaging the evil days of winter that -are to come, so I feel, hour after hour, that our (to me) pleasant -intercommunications are destined to cease. You have been very forbearing -with me, have suppressed a justifiable petulance at my short-comings, my -digressions, my wayward fancies and prejudices, because you know (I hope -and trust) that I am always your faithful servant and willing scribe, -that (errors excepted, as the lawyers say) I have but one aim and end in -these papers—to tell you the truth about London, its life and manners; to -describe what I have seen, to tell you what I know; and to place before -you, very timidly and under all correction, certain things which, in my -opinion, it behoves you, and all who have a faith in the better part of -humanity, to think about. Indeed, it is a very great privilege for a -writer to be placed face to face with a hundred thousand critics every -week, in lieu of half a hundred every half-year or so. He is flouted, and -jeered, and scouted, and scolded, and remonstrated with, every time the -penny post comes in; but he makes friends every week. He knows that his -words are winged; he knows that he appeals to men who will understand -his views, and to women who will sympathise with him; and though he may -be as a pedlar, carrying about petty wares—ribbons, and tags, and small -jewellery, and soap, and sweetstuff—he is vain enough to imagine that -he can carry cheerfulness and content into many households; and that -in speaking our common language of hopes and fears, likes and dislikes, -he does not belie his cognomen of a “Welcome Guest.” If he—if I—thought -otherwise, I would tear this sheet, sell my reversion, buy an annuity -of £20 a year, and join the convent of La Trappe, to wear a cowl, sing -matins and complins, eat black radishes, and dig my own grave, to-morrow. - -Seven o’clock post meridian has brought us at least the artificial -abnegation of daylight, and has subjected us to the _régime_ of gaslight. -You had a twinkle of that unwholesome vapour, under the head of public -dinners; but henceforth Sol will shine no longer on our labours. It is -seven o’clock in the evening, and we are going to the play. - -When I state that the subjects of this article are a Theatrical -Green-Room, and “Behind the Scenes,” I anticipate some amount of -intellectual commotion among the younger, and especially the “fast” -portion, of my readers. Jaunty young clerks, and incipient men about -town, dwelling in decorous country boroughs, will be apt to fancy that I -am about to launch into a deliriously exciting account of those charmed -regions which lie beyond the stage-door; that my talk will be altogether -of spangles, muslin, skirts, and pink tights. Nay, even my young lady -readers may deceive themselves with the idea that I shall draw a glowing -picture of the dangerous, delightful creatures who flutter every night -before theatrical audiences, and of the dear, naughty, wicked, darling -marquises, earls, and baronets who lounge behind the scenes. _Helas! il -n’en est rien._ I know all about green-rooms, wings, and prompt-boxes. I -have been in the artistes’ _foyer_ of the Grand Opera, in the flies of -her Majesty’s, and in the mezzanine floor of the Princess’s. I am not -about to be cynical, but I must be prosaic, and mean to tell you, in a -matter-of-fact way, what the green-room and behind the scenes of a London -theatre are like at seven o’clock. - -It is strange, though, what a fascination these forbidden regions -exercise over the uninitiated. I never knew any one yet who was actuated -by an inordinate desire to visit the vestry-room of a church, or to see -the cupboard where the rector and curate’s surplices are suspended on -pegs, or where the sacramental wine is kept. It is but seldom that I have -seen anybody who evinced a particular curiosity to see a pawnbroker’s -ware-room, at the top of the spout, or to become acquainted with the -arcana of a butcher’s slaughter-house (though I must confess, myself, -to having once, as a schoolboy, subscribed fourpence, in company with -about ten others, to see a bullock killed)—yet everybody wants to go -“behind the scenes.” Some twenty months since, I had business to settle -with a firm of solicitors, haughty, precise, distant, and sternly -business-like, who dwelt in Bedford Row. I think that some one who was -a client of the firm had a judgment against me, to which was witness -one Frederick Pollock, at Westminster; but let that pass. I settled the -matter, and thought myself well out of the firm and its clutches, when -the penultimate junior partner, a middle-aged, respectable man, with a -prematurely-bald head, asked me to dinner at Verrey’s. He was good enough -to allow me to order the repast, and politely deferred to my preference -for _Macon vieux_ over hot sherry; but, towards the cheese, he hinted -that a man of the world, such as I seemed to be, ought never to be in -difficulties (I have been hopelessly insolvent since the year ’27, in -which I was born), and that he would esteem it a very great favour if -I would take him “behind the scenes” some night. Yes; this man of tape -and quill, of green ferret and pounce, of sheepskins and abominable -processes, positively wanted to see the Eleusinian mysteries of the -interior of a London theatre. I showed them to him, and he is grateful -still. I meet him occasionally at places of public resort. He is next -to senior partner now, but he never hints at six-and-eightpence when I -ask a legal question; and his most valuable act of friendship is this, -that whenever the Sheriff of Middlesex is moved to run up and down in -his bailiwick, with a special reference to my disparagement, I receive -a mysterious message, generally conveyed by a battered individual, who -wipes his face on the sleeve of his coat, and is not averse to taking -“something short,” that there is “something out” against me, and that I -had better look sharp. Whereupon I look out as sharp as I can for the -most convenient tenth milestone out of Babylon. - -Now, friend and fellow-traveller of mine, do you mind transforming -yourself for the nonce into the friendly solicitor, and coming with me -“behind the scenes?” I know that with these continual metamorphoses I -am making a very golden ass of Apuleius of you; but it is all, believe -me, for your benefit. I don’t want you to stand a dinner at Verrey’s. I -only want you to put on the slippers of patience and the spectacles of -observation, and to follow me. - -There is, the moralist hath said, a time for all things, and that much -libelled institution, a theatre, has among its Bohemian faults of -recklessness and improvidence, the somewhat rare virtue of punctuality. -Even those events of its daily life which depend for the extent of -their duration upon adventitious circumstances, are marked by a -remarkably well-kept average. Theatrical rehearsals generally commence -at ten o’clock in the morning; and though it will sometimes happen, in -the case of new pieces about to be produced—especially pantomimes and -_spectacles_, that the rehearsal is prolonged to within a few minutes of -the rising of the curtain for the evening performance, the usual turning -of an ordinary rehearsal’s, or series of rehearsals’ lane, is four -o’clock p.m. Then the _répétitêur_ in the orchestra shuts up his fiddle -in its case, and goes home to his tea. Then the young ladies of the -_corps de ballet_, who have been indulging in saltatory movements for the -last few hours, lay aside their “practising dresses”—generally frocks of -ordinary material, cut short in the manner immortalised by that notable -pedlar, Mr. Stout, in his felonious transaction with the little old woman -who fell asleep by the king’s highway—and subside into the long-flounced -garments of common life, which are to be again replaced so soon as -seven o’clock comes, by the abridged muslin skirts and flesh-coloured -continuations of ballet-girlhood. The principal actresses and actors -betake themselves to dinner, or to a walk in the park, or give themselves -a finishing touch of study in the parts they are not yet quite perfect -in, or, it may be, mount the steep theatrical stairs to the mountainous -regions where dwell the theatrical tailor and tailoress—I entreat them to -excuse me, the _costumier_ and the mistress of the robes—with whom they -confer on the weighty subject of the dresses which they are to wear that -evening. The carpenters abandon work; the scene-shifters, whose generic -name in technical theatrical parlance is “labourers,” moon about the back -part of the stage, seeing that the stock of scenery for the evening is -all provided, the grooves duly blackleaded and the traps greased, and all -the “sinks” and “flies,” ropes and pulleys, and other theatrical gear -and tackle, in due working order. For, you see, if these little matters -be not rigidly and minutely attended to, if a rope be out of its place -or a screw not rightly home, such trifling accidents as mutilation and -loss of life are not unlikely to happen. That the occurrence of such -casualties is of so extreme a rarity may be ascribed, I think, to the -microscopic care and attention which these maligned theatrical people -bestow on every inch of their domain behind the scenes. They have to -work in semi-darkness, and under many other circumstances of equal -disadvantage; but, next to a fire-engine station and the ’tween decks -of a man-o’-war, I do not think that I can call to mind a more orderly, -better-disciplined, better-tended place than that part of a theatre which -lies behind the foot-lights. - -Now, mouse-like, from undiscovered holes, patter softly mysterious -females in tumbled mob-caps and battered bonnets, who, by the way, have -been pottering stealthily with brooms and brushes about the pit and boxes -in the morning, disappearing towards noon. They proceed to disencumber -the front of the house of the winding-sheets of brown holland in which it -has been swathed since last midnight. These are the “cleaners,” and when -they have made the house-clean and tidy for the audience of the evening, -dusted the fauteuils, and swept the lobbies, they hie them behind the -scenes, see that the proper provision of soap and towels exists in the -dressing-rooms, perhaps lend a hand to the scene-shifters, who are -completing _their_ afternoon’s labour by scientifically irrigating the -stage with watering-pots; or, if a tragedy is to be performed, spreading -the green baize extending to the foot-lights—that incomprehensible -green baize—that field _vert_ on which Paris dies combatant, and Hamlet -lies rampant, and without whose presence it is considered by many -dramatic sages no tragedy could possibly be enacted.[8] Meanwhile, the -property-man has brought to the verge of the wings, or laid out in trays -and hampers, ready to be conveyed below by his assistants, the necessary -paraphernalia and appurtenances for the pieces in that night’s bill. -Shylock’s knife and scales, Ophelia’s coffin, Claude Melnott’s easel -and maulstick, Long Tom Coffin’s mob-cap; the sham money, sham words, -sham eatables and drinkables of this unreal and fantastic world, are -all prepared. Presently the myrmidons of the wardrobe will take the -required costumes from their frowning presses, and convey them to the -dressing-rooms, ready for the histrionics who are to wear them. High -up above all, above ceiling, and flies, and chandelier, in his lofty -skylighted studio, the scene-painter throws down his “double-tie” brush, -bids his colour-grinder clean his boots, indulges in a mighty wash, and -dresses himself for the outward world. He improves marvellously by the -change. But ten minutes since he was an almost indescribable scarecrow, -in a tattered suit of canvas and list slippers, and bespattered from head -to foot with dabs of colour. And now he turns out a trim gentleman, with -a watch-chain, a moustache, an eye-glass, and kid gloves, and he walks -off as gingerly to the artistic or literary club to which he may belong, -as though he had never heard of size or whitewash in his life. - -By five o’clock the little industries that have prevailed since the -rehearsal ended are mostly completed; and the theatre becomes quite -still. It is a complete, a solemn, almost an awful stillness. All the -busy life and cheerful murmur of this human ant-hill are hushed. The rows -of seats are as deserted as the degrees of some old ruined amphitheatre -in Rome. The stage is a desert. The “flies” and “borders” loom overhead -in cobweb indistinctness. Afar off the dusky, feeble chandelier, looks -like a moon on which no sun condescends to shine; and were it not for -one ray of golden afternoon sunlight, that from a topmost window shines -obliquely through the vast dimness, and rescues the kettle-drums in the -orchestra from tenebrose oblivion, you might fancy this place, which two -hours hence will be brilliantly lighted up, full of gorgeous decorations -and blithesome music, and a gay audience shouting applause to mimes and -jesters and painted bayadères, chasing the golden hours with frolic -feet—you might fancy the deserted theatre to be a Valley of Dry Bones. - -Only two functionaries are ever watchful, and do not entertain the -slightest thought, either of suspending their vigilance, or of leaving -the theatre. At the entrance, in his crabbed little watch-box by the -stage-door, the grim man in the fur cap, who acts as Cerberus to -the establishment, sits among keys and letters for delivery. Of a -multifarious nature is the correspondence at a stage-door. There are -County Court summonses, seductive offers from rival managers to the -popular tragedian of the day, pressing entreaties for orders, pink -three-cornered notes scented and sealed with crests for the _première -danseuse_, frequently accompanied by pinned-up _cornets_ of tissue-paper -containing choice bouquets from Covent Garden. There are five-act -tragedies, and farces, written on official paper for the manager; -solicitations for engagements, cards, bills, and applications for benefit -tickets. But the grim man at the stage-door takes no heed of them, save -to deliver them to their proper addresses. He takes no heed either -(apparently) of the crowds of people, male and female, who pass and -repass him by night and by day, from Monday till Saturday. But he knows -them all well, be assured; knows them as well as Charon, knows them as -well as Cerberus, knows them as well as the turnkey of the “lock” in a -debtor’s prison. Scene-shifter or popular tragedian, it is all one to -him. He has but to obey his _consigne_ to let no one pass his keyed and -lettered den who is not connected with the theatre, or who has not the -_entrée_ behind the scenes by special managerial permission; and in -adhering to that, he is as inflexible as Death. And while he guards the -portal, Manager Doldrum sits in his easy-chair in his manuscript-littered -private room upstairs. The rehearsal may be over, but still he has work -to do. He has always work to do. Perhaps he anticipates a thin house -to-night, and is busy scribbling orders which his messenger will take -care shall permeate through channels which shall do the house no harm. Or -he may be glancing over a new farce which one of the accredited authors -of the theatre has just sent in, and with black-lead pencil suggesting -excisions, additions, or alterations. Or perhaps he tears his hair and -gnashes his teeth in dignified privacy, thinking with despair upon the -blank receipts of the foregone week, murmuring to himself, “Shall I -close! shall I close?” as a badgered and belated Minister of State might -ask himself, “Shall I resign?” - -I wonder how many people there are who see the manager airing his white -waistcoat in his especial stage-box, or envy him as he drives away from -the theatre in his brougham, or joyfully takes his cheque on Ransom’s -for that last “stunning” and “screaming” new farce that forty pounds -were given for, and that ran four nights; I wonder how many of these -outsiders of the theatrical arcana know what a persecuted, hunted dog, -a genteel galley-slave, a well-dressed Russian serf, is the theatrical -manager. He may well be coarse and _brusque_ in his manners, captious and -pettish in conversation, remiss in answering letters, averse to parting -with ready money for manuscripts which are often never acted, and more -often never read. Do you know the life he leads? Mr. Pope’s existence -at Twickenham (or Twitnam), about the period when he instructed “good -John,” his man, to say that he was sick, or dead, was a combination of -halcyon days compared to the life of a theatrical manager. Are there sons -“destined their fathers’ souls to cross,” who “pen a stanza when they -should engross?” are there men with harum-scarum lunatic projects, with -tomfool notions that they are tragedians, with tragedies and farces, to -estimate whose real value one should make a handsome deduction for the -injury done to the paper on which they are written? are there madcap -young ladies, newly-whipped at boarding-school, who fancy that they have -the vocal powers of Grisi or Bosio, or the tragic acquirements of Ellen -Tree or Helen Faucit (excuse the Kean and Martin marital prefixes: the -old names are _so_ pleasant)? are there mad mothers who vehemently insist -that their skimping daughters can dance like Rosati or Pocchini? are -there “guardians,” in other words the proprietary slaveholders of dwarfs -and contorsionists, precocious pianists, and female violoncellists? are -there schemers, knaves, Yankee speculators, foreign farmers of singers -with cracked voices, bores or insipid idlers—they all besiege the -theatrical manager, supplicate, cajole, annoy, or threaten him. If he -doesn’t at once accede to their exorbitant terms, they forthwith abuse -him scurrilously out of doors. He is a robber, an impostor, a miser, a -Jew. He has been transported. He is insolvent. He came out ten years -since in the provinces, and in light comedy, and failed. He beats his -wife. He was the ruin of Miss Vanderplank, and sent men into the house -to hiss and cry out “pickles” when Toobey the tragedian was performing -his starring engagements, because, forsooth, Toobey did not draw. He owes -ten thousand pounds to Miss Larke, the _soprano_. He buys his wardrobe -in Petticoat Lane. He drinks fearfully. He will be hung. I have been an -editor, and know the amenities that are showered on _those_ slaves of the -lamp; the people who accuse you of having set the Thames on fire, and -murdered Eliza Grimwood, if you won’t accept their interminable romances, -and darkly insinuate that they will have your heart’s blood if you -decline to pay for poems copied from the annuals of eighteen hundred and -thirty-six; but to find the acme of persecution and badgering commend me -to a theatrical manager. - -Return we to our muttons. The theatre sleeps a sound, tranquil sleep for -some hundred minutes; but about six it begins to wake again to fresh -life and activity. At half-past six it is wide awake and staring. The -“dressers,” male and female, have arrived, and are being objurgated by -incensed performers in their several _cabinets de toilette_, because they -are slow in finding Mr. Lamplugh’s bagwig, or Mademoiselle Follejambe’s -white satin shoes. The call-boy—that diminutive, weazened specimen of -humanity, who has never, so it seems, been a boy, and never will be -a man—has entered upon his functions, and already meditates a savage -onslaught on the dressing-room doors, accompanied by a shrill intimation -that the overture is “on.” Let us leave the ladies and gentlemen engaged -in the theatre to complete the bedizenment of their apparel, and, pending -their entrance into the green-room, see what that apartment itself is -made of. - -Of course it is on a level with the stage, and within a convenient -distance of that prompt-box which forms the head-quarters of the -call-boy, and where he receives instructions from his adjutant-general, -the prompter. In country theatres, the green-room door is often within -a foot or so from the wing; and there is a facetious story told of -a whilom great tragedian, who, now retired and enjoying lettered -and dignified ease as a country gentleman, was, in his day, somewhat -remarkable for violent ebullitions of temper. He was playing Hamlet; and -in the closet scene with Gertrude, where he kills the old chamberlain, -who lies in ambuscade, and just at the moment he draws his rapier, it -occurred to his heated imagination that an inoffensive light comedian, -ready dressed for the part of Osric, who was standing at the green-room -door within reasonable sword range, was the veritable Polonius himself. -Whereupon the tragedian, shrieking out, “A rat! a rat! dead, for a -ducat—dead!” made a furious lunge at the unhappy Osric, who only escaped -instant death by a timely hop, skip, and jump, and fled with appalling -yells to a sofa, under which he buried himself. Tradition says that the -tragedian’s rapier went right through the wood-work of the half-opened -door; but I know that tradition is not always to be trusted, and I -decline to endorse this particular one now. - -Our present green-room is a sufficiently commodious apartment, spacious -and lofty, and fitted up in a style of decoration in which the Louis -Quinze contends with the Arabesque, and that again with the Cockney -Corinthian. The walls are of a pale sea-green, of the famous Almack’s -pattern; and the floor is covered with a carpet of remarkably curious -design and texture, offering some noteworthy specimens of worsted -vegetation run to seed, and rents and fissures of extraordinary polygonal -form. In one corner there is a pianoforte—a grand pianoforte; at least it -may have been at one time deserving of that high-sounding appellation; -but it is now a deplorable old music-box, with a long tail that would -be much better between its legs, and keys that are yellow and worn -down, like the teeth of an old horse. There is a cheval glass, too, -in tolerably good repair, for the _danseuses_ to arrange their skirts -withal; and over the chimney-piece there is another great glass, with a -tarnished frame and longitudinal crack extending over it, in the sides -of which—the interstices of the frame, I mean, not the crack—are stuck -notices having reference to the rehearsals to be held on the morrow. -“All the ladies of the ballet at ten;” “All the company for reading of -new piece at twelve.” So may run the wafered announcements signed in -the fine Roman hand of the prompter or stage-manager. There are varied -pilasters, in imitation of scagliola, supporting the ceiling; the doors -are handsomely panelled with gilt headings. There are four tall windows -in a row, with cornices wofully dingy, and draped with curtains of -shabby moreen. There is good store of settees and ottomans covered with -faded chintz. Everything about the place bears that “stagey,” unreal, -garish, dream-like aspect, that seems inherent to things theatrical, and -makes us, directly we pass the stage-door, look upon everything, from -the delusive banquet on the imitation marble table, to the paint on the -singing chambermaid’s cheeks, as a mockery and a delusion—as the baseless -fabric of a vision, that will soon fade and leave not a wrack behind. -And yet I have said (_vide ante et supra_) that “behind the scenes is -common-place.” And so it is; but it is the common-place of dreamland, the -every-day life of the realms of Prester John, the work-a-day existence -of the kingdom of Cockaigne, or of that shadowy land where dwell the -Anthropophagi, and men “whose heads do grow beneath their shoulders.” - -[Illustration: SEVEN O’CLOCK P.M.: A THEATRICAL GREEN-ROOM.] - -What shall I assume the first piece that is to be performed this night -to be? Will you have the “Flowers of the Forest,” the “Poor Strollers,” -“Sweethearts and Wives,” “Pizarro,” the “Padlock,” or a “Game at -Romps?” What do you say to a fine old English comedy, such as “John -Bull,” or the “School of Reform,” with a dissipated young squire, -a gouty, ill-tempered, and over-bearing old lord of the manor, an -intensely-virtuous tenant-farmer, a comic ploughman, a milkmaid with a -chintz gown tucked through the placket-holes, and a song, and a spotless -but a persecuted maiden? No; you will have none of these! Suppose, then, -we take our dear old genial friend, the “Green Bushes”—long life and good -luck to Mr. Buckstone, and may he write many more pieces as good for our -imaginary theatre. See; the green-room clock points to ten minutes to -seven—I left that out in my inventory of the furniture. The call-boy has -already warned the ladies and gentlemen who are engaged for the first -scene, that their immediate presence is required, and the erst-deserted -green-room fills rapidly. - -See, here they came—the kindly old friends of the “Green Bushes”—Miami -and Jack Gong, and Master Grinnidge; and yet, dear me, what are these -strange, wild costumes mingled with them? Oh! there is a burlesque after -the drama. It is somewhat early in the evening for those who are to play -in the second piece to come down dressed; but then you are to consider -this as a special green-room, a specimen green-room, an amalgam of the -green-room element generally. This model _foyer_ is to have something -of the Haymarket and something of the Adelphi—the old by-gone, defunct -Adelphi, I mean—a spice of the Olympic, a tinge of the Lyceum, and a -dash of the Princess’s, about it. I except the green-room of Drury Lane, -which never resembled anything half so much as a family vault, and -the green-rooms of the two Operas, which, though splendidly furnished -and appointed, are almost deserted during the performances, the great -_tenori_ and _soprani_ preferring to retire to their dressing-rooms when -any long intervals of rest occur. - -“Things”—to use a bit of “Green Bushes” _facetiæ_, invented, I am willing -to believe, by that incorrigible humourist, Mr. Wright, and which has -grown proverbial—“things isn’t as they used to was;” and the attractions -of green-rooms have deteriorated, even within my time. When I say “my -time,” I mean a quarter of a century; for as I happened to be almost born -in a prompt-box and weaned in a scene-painter’s size-kettle, and have -been employed in very nearly every capacity in and about a theatre—save -that of an actor, which profession invincible modesty and incurable -incompetency prevented me from assuming—I feel myself qualified to speak -about the green-rooms with some degree of authority. To have read a -three-act melodrama to a (scarcely) admiring audience, and to have called -“everybody for the last scene” in a green-room, gives a man, I take it, a -right to be heard. - -But, to tell the truth, green-rooms now-a-days are sadly dull, slow, -humdrum places of resort. In a minor theatre they are somewhat -more lively, as there is there no second green-room, and the young -sylphides of the _corps de ballet_ are allowed to join the company. The -conversation of these young ladies, if not interesting, is amusing, and -if not brilliant, is cheerful. They generally bring their needle-work -with them if they have to wait long between the scenes (frequently to the -extent of an entire act) in which they have to dance, and they discourse -with much _naïveté_ upon the warmth or coldness of the audience with -reference to the applause bestowed, the bad temper of the stage-manager, -and their own temporary indisposition from corns, which, with pickled -salmon, unripe pears, the proper number of lengths for a silk dress, and -the comparative merits of the whiskers and moustaches of the musicians -in the band (with some of whose members they are sure to be in love, -and whom they very frequently marry, leaving off dancing and having -enormous families), form the almost invariable staple of a ballet-girl’s -conversation. Poor simple-minded, good-natured, hard-working little -creatures, theirs is but a rude and stern lot. To cut capers and wear -paint, to find one’s own shoes and stockings, and be strictly virtuous, -on a salary varying from nine to eighteen shillings a week—this is -the pabulum of a ballet-girl. And hark in thine ear, my friend. If -any man talks to you about the syrens of the ballet, the dangerous -enchantresses and cockatrices of the ballet, the pets of the ballet, -whose only thoughts are about broughams and diamond _aigrettes_, dinners -at Richmond, and villas at St. John’s Wood—if anybody tells you that -the majority, or even a large proportion, of our English _danseuses_ -are inclined this perilous way, just inform him, with my compliments, -that he is a dolt and a teller of untruths. I can’t say much of ballet -morality abroad; of the poor _rats de l’opera_ in Paris, who are -bred to wickedness from their very cradle upwards; of the Neapolitan -_ballerine_, who are obliged to wear green _calzoni_, and to be civil -to the priests, lest they should be put down altogether; or of the poor -Russian ballet-girls, who live altogether in barracks, are conveyed -to and from the theatre in omnibuses, and are birched if they do not -behave themselves, and yet manage somehow to make a bad end of it; but -as regards our own sylphides, I say that naughtiness among them is the -exception, and cheerful, industrious, self-denying perseverance in a -hard, ungrateful life, the honourable rule. - -There are yet a few green-rooms where the genus “swell” still finds a -rare admittance. See here a couple in full evening costume, talking to -the pretty young lady in the low-necked dress on the settee; but the -swell is quite a fish out of water in the green-room of these latter -days. Managers don’t care quite so much for his patronage, preferring -to place their chief reliance and dependence on the public. The actors -don’t care about him, for the swell is not so generous as of yore in -taking tickets for the benefits of popular favourites. Actresses mistrust -him, for the swell has given up raising actresses to the peerage. The -ballet-girls are half afraid of him; and when they don’t fear him, -they laugh at him. So the swell wanders in and out of the green-room, -and stares at people uneasily, and at last escapes to his brougham or -his cabriolet at the stage-door. Now and then a wicked old lord of the -unrighteous evil-living school of British peers, now happily becoming -rarer and rarer every day, will come sniggering and chuckling into a -green-room, hanging on the arm of the manager, with whom he is on the -most intimate terms, and who “My Lords” him most obsequiously. He rolls -his scandalous old eyes in his disreputable, puckered face, seeking some -pretty, timid, blushing little flower, whom he may blight with his Upas -gaze, and then totters away to his stage-box, where he does duty for the -rest of the evening with a huge double-barrelled opera-glass. - -Such is the green-room of to-day, quiet, occasionally chatty (for -actresses and actors can be pleasant enough among themselves, in a -cosy, sensible manner, talking about butcher’s meat, and poor’s-rates, -and Brompton omnibuses); but not by any means the glittering Temple -of Radiant Delight that some might feel inclined to imagine it. There -have been days—and I remember them—when green-rooms were very different -places. There were women on the stage then who were Queens as well as -actresses, and had trains of admirers round their flowing robes. There -was a slight nervous man in those days—a famous writer of plays and books -that yet live, and will live while our English language is spoken—a -strange-looking, high-cheek-boned man, with long hair carelessly thrown -away from his forehead, and a piercing eye, that seemed to laugh to scorn -the _lorgnon_ dangling from its ribbon. I have seen him so, his spare -form leaning against the mantel, and he showering—yes, showering is the -word—arrowy _bon mots_ and corruscating repartees around him. He is -dead: they all seem to be dead, those brilliant green-room men—Jerrold, -Talfourd, Kenney, Haynes Bayley, Hook, A’Beckett. They have left no -successors. The modern play-wrights skulk in and out of the manager’s -room, and are mistaken at rehearsal for the property-men. They forsake -green-rooms at night for drawing-rooms, where they can hear themselves -praised, or smoking-rooms of clubs, where they can abuse one another; and -if A. says a good thing, B. books it for his next _petite comédie_, which -does not hurt A. much, seeing that he stole it from C., who translated it -hot-and-hot from Monsieur de D., that great plagiarist from Lope de Vega. - -Come, let us leave the green-room to its simple devices, and see what -they are doing “Behind the Scenes.” You and I, we know, are in the -receipt of fern-seed, and can walk invisible without incommoding ourself -or anybody else, be the pressure ever so great; but I should strongly -advise all swells and other intruders, if any such remain, either to -withdraw into the shadiest recesses of the green-room, or to “get out of -that”—to use an Irishism, without the least possible delay. For “Behind -the Scenes” is clearly no place for them. If I were the manager of a -theatre, I would not admit one single person into the _coulisses_ save -those connected with the night’s performance, nay, nor allow even the -_employés_ of the theatre, till the call-boy summoned them to approach -the wing. Madame Vestris established this Spartan rule of discipline, and -found it answer in making her theatre the best-managed in Europe; but it -will be observed that no such _ordre du jour_ has been promulgated in the -theatre behind whose scenes we find ourselves to-night. What a confusion, -what a hubbub, what a throng and bustle! The _dramatis personæ_, you will -perceive, no longer contemplate the performance of the “Green Bushes.” -Hoops, powder, brocade, black-patches, high-heeled shoes, bag-wigs, -flapped waistcoats, and laced-hats prevail. This must be some Pompadour -or Beau Tibbs piece—“Court Favour,” or “Love’s Telegraph,” or some last -century dramatic conceit by Mr. Planché or Mr. Dance. How the carpenters -scuffle and stamp, entreating the bystanders, not always in the politest -terms, to get out of the way! Now and again the prompter rushes from his -box, and in a hoarse _sotto voce_, that would be a shriek if it were not -a whisper, commands silence. - -[Illustration: SEVEN O’CLOCK P.M.: BEHIND THE SCENES.] - -Upon my word, there is that unlucky old Flathers, the heavy man, who -_never_ knows his part; there he is again, evidently imperfect, and -taking a last desperate gulp of study, sitting in the property arm-chair, -on the very brink of the stage. And see there—don’t blush, don’t stammer, -but make as polite a bow as you can—there is Mrs. Woffington Pegley, -in full Pompadour costume, and such a hoop! She is only twenty-three -years of age; has had two husbands; Count Schrechny-synesky, the -Moldo-Wallachian ambassador, is reported to be madly in love with her; -she rides in the park, she hunts, she drives, she owns a yacht, she -has more diamonds and Mechlin lace than a duchess, and she is the most -charming actress of the day. To be sure, she can’t read very fluently, -and can scarcely write her own name, but _que voulez vous_? - -Don’t you know that queer, quaint passage in good old Dr. Johnson’s life, -where, soon after the production of his tragedy of “Irene,” and when the -lexicographer had even gone to the extent of appearing behind the scenes -of the playhouse in a scarlet coat and laced-hat fiercely cocked, he -suddenly told David Garrick that he could visit him behind the scenes no -more, assigning his own honest sufficient reason? The pretty actresses -were too much for Samuel. He was but mortal man—mortal man. Their rosy -cheeks—never mind whether the roses were artificial or not—their white -necks, and dainty hands and feet, their rustling brocades and laced -tuckers, disturbed the equanimity of our great moralist and scholar. -He fled from the temptation wisely. Who can wonder at it? Who, that is -not a misogynist, can sufficiently case himself in brass to withstand -the Parthian glances of those pretty dangerous creatures? Surely they -dress better, look better, walk better, sit better, stand better, -have clearer voices, cheerier laughs, more graceful curtsies, than any -other women in the world. But they are not for the likes of you or me, -Thomas. See, there is fat, handsome Captain Fitzblazer of the “Heavies,” -the Duke of Alma’s aide-de-camp, pretending to flirt with little Fanny -Merrylegs, the _coryphée_, and the rogue has one eye on Mrs. Woffington -Pegley. I wish some robust scene-shifter would tread on his varnished -toes. The Pegley is aware of the Fitzblazerian _œillade_, I wager, -though she makes-believe to be listening to young Martinmas, the walking -gentleman’s, nonsense. Come away, Thomas, come away, my friend. Let us -strive to be as wise in our generation as Sam Johnson was in his, and -write to Davy Garrick that we will come “behind the scenes” no more. - - - - -EIGHT O’CLOCK P.M.—HER MAJESTY’S THEATRE, AND A PAWNBROKER’S SHOP. - - -I think that I have held out something like a guarantee, in the course -of these papers, that my readers shall be introduced to a fair amount -of fashionable life. How far I have performed my promise it is for them -to judge; but I am not, myself, without misgivings. True it is that, -under my guidance, they have perambulated Regent Street; have dined off -the fat of the land at a Public Dinner; have betted at Tattersall’s; -ridden in the Park; heard the band play at St. James’s; strolled through -the Pantheon Bazaar; and lounged in a theatrical green-room: but then, -have not I, discourteous _cicerone_, cajoled them into visiting strange -unlovely places, dismal to look upon; persuaded them to hang up their -harps by the willows of the Custom-house quay, and listen to the slang -of oyster-boatmen and bargees, at Billingsgate; forced them to haunt -the purlieus of police-courts, and witness the departure of prison-vans -and their felonious cargoes; to keep bad hours, and associate with -newspaper boys, market-gardeners, paupers, and common people who travel -by parliamentary train; to become acquainted, in fact, with scenes and -people distressingly low and unfashionable? It is true that I have not -taken them to the lanes of Petticoat and Field; to Duke, his Place; or -St. Mary, her Axe; or Bevis, his Marks; or Rag, its Fair; or Whitechapel, -its Butcher Row; or Ratcliff, its Highway; or Lock, his Fields; or Somers -Town, its Brill; or Rats, their Castle; or Whetstone, its Park; or -Jacob, his Island; or Southwark, its Mint; or Lambeth, its New Cut; or -St. Giles, its Church Lane and Hampshire Hog Lane. If I have not moved -them so to travel with me, it is not, I fear, through any _laches_ of -intention or deficiency of will, but simply because I have at different -seasons travelled over every inch of the road I have named with other -readers, and that I have a decent horror of repeating myself, and respect -for the maxim of _non bis in idem_. - -Be my demerits granted or disallowed, I have still some time left to me -wherein to make amends. Though it may be my duty, ere we have finished, -to lead you again into dismal and wretched places, you shall have at -least an instalment of fashionable life now; and—follow honest Sancho’s -advice as to not looking the gift-horse in the mouth; be satisfied with -my assurance that this present one is of the pure Godolphin Arabian -lineage, elegant in form, unquestionable in mettle, electrical in -swiftness. The next may be but a sorry nag, spavined, blown, wind-galled, -and sprung. You must take the bad with the good, in this world, and in -all things. - -Ladies and gentlemen, we are going to the Opera—to her Majesty’s Theatre -in the Haymarket; and by eight o’clock it behoves us all to be in our -seats, if we wish to hear the first bars of the overture. It is true that -if we are so fortunate as to possess, or to hire, or to have opera-boxes -given to us, we do not, frequently, make our appearance in the theatre -till past nine o’clock; and that, if we are lessees or renters of stalls, -the ballet has frequently commenced before we condescend to occupy our -seats; but if the pit or the amphitheatre be our destination, we had much -better present ourselves at the entrance immediately the doors open, -and secure seats with what speed we may. It is a peculiarity of her -Majesty’s Theatre that whether the “house” be a good one or a bad one, -there are always, before the termination of the first act of the opera, -some occupants of the pit who are compelled to content themselves with -standing-room. - -Opinions are divided as to the place in the _enceinte_ of the magnificent -theatre where the greatest enjoyment of the performance can be obtained. -To some, a box on the grand tier—vast, roomy, with space for six to sit -abreast—is considered the superlative of operatic felicity. Others hold -out stoutly for the artistic fourth tier, where, they declare, they can -hear and see better than their lowly-placed neighbours. There are many -who abide by the stalls, despite of those who declare that in the front -rows thereof the voices of the singers are drowned by the contiguity of -the braying band. The pit has its defenders, who allege that distance -not only “lends enchantment to the view,” but chastens the instrumental -exuberances of the orchestra; but perhaps the most energetic advocates of -the merits of their own particular seats are the dwellers in the high-up -amphitheatre or gallery, who boldly declare that it is in that elevated -position alone, that you can enjoy, in the full extent of their beauty, -the gems of the opera, and that the sole place fit for the presence -of the genuine amateur is the operatic paradise, ascent to which is -permitted for the sum of three-and-sixpence or half-a-crown. - -Be our election, however, the stalls. From those comfortable _fauteuils_ -let us explore the ample field—see what the open, what the covert yield; -and, as we expatiate over this scene of Man, own that, though “a mighty -maze,” it is “not without a plan.” For there is a plan of her Majesty’s -Theatre in the box-office. - -Am I treading on any one’s toes, disturbing any one’s prejudices, -predilections, or pre-formed opinions, in asseverating that the interior -of Mr. Lumley’s establishment offers, with one exception, the most -magnificent _coup-d’-œil_ of any Opera in Europe that I have seen? Mark -the cunning qualification! I say, _that I have seen_; for they tell me -that there is an Opera at Barcelona (which nutty sea-port I have never -visited), a theatre surpassing in grandeur, and richness of decoration, -all the lyric temples of the continent or of these isles; and so far -as mere _size_ is concerned, the palm must, I believe, be yielded to -Parma, in which caseous Italian city there exists—yet unexplored by -me—a huge tumble-down, ruinous, leaky, mildewed _salle_, which is as -the Tower of Babel of Opera-houses the Great Bonassus of theatres. I -speak of the houses which these weak eyes, in the course of many years’ -wandering, have surveyed, through powerful-lensed lorgnettes. Give -me her Majesty’s. Above the dreary Scala, with its naked tiers above -tiers, its _sediti chuisi_, and the three reserved front rows of the -pit, where the authorities were compelled to put the white-blanketed -Austrian officers, lest they should come to blows (they often squabbled -in the lobbies even) with the spiteful Milanese; the ghastly, dingy, -ill-lighted Scala—(it is bigger by far than her Majesty’s, though)—with -its rabbit-hutch-like private boxes, whose doors are scrawled over with -the penny plain and twopence coloured-like coats of arms of the effete -and decadent Lombardian nobility. Above the boasted Grand Opera at Paris, -tawdry, inconvenient, and chopped up into unreasonable sections. Above -the Burg Theater, at Vienna; the Theatre de la Monnaie, at Brussels. -Above, even, the superb little Opernhaus, at Berlin, which, though a gem -in its way, is but as a diamond _aigrette_ to the Koh-i-noor. Above the -late Royal Italian Opera House, in Bow Street, Covent Garden, London, -which was simply a big theatre, ill-built, and undecorated. For the -solitary exception I have hinted at you must go north, very far north -into Europe, and in the city of Moscow, in the empire of Holy Russia, you -shall find an Italian Opera House unprecedented, I verily believe, for -size, for splendour, for comfort, for elegance, and for taste. It was -not my fortune to be present in Moscow on the occasion of the coronation -_fêtes_, when the theatre I speak of was opened to the public preparatory -to the regular winter season; but for a description of its glories I must -refer those curious in operatic matters to my friend Mr. Henry Sutherland -Edwards, who was resident many months in the city of the Kremlin, and -whom I sincerely wish I could persuade to do, in better part, for Moscow -the holy that which I have myself endeavoured, according to my lights, to -do for St. Petersburg the mundane. - -Look around you, in the vast arena of her Majesty’s. Wonder and admire, -for such a sight it is not permitted to you often to behold. Look around, -and around again, the enormous horseshoe; look from base to summit, at -this magnificent theatre, glorious with beauties and with riches. Here -are gathered the mighty, and noble, and wealthy, the venerable and wise, -the young and beauteous of the realm. The prime minister seeks at the -opera a few hours’ relaxation from the toils of office; the newly-married -peeress there displays the dazzling diamonds custom now, for the first -time, permits her to wear; the blushing maiden of seventeen, “just -out”—that very day, perhaps, presented at Court—smiles and simpers -in a shrine of gauze and artificial flowers. Mark yonder, that roomy -box on the grand tier, which a quiet, plainly-dressed party has just -entered. There is a matronly lady in black, with a few bugle ornaments -in her _coiffure_. She ensconces herself in a corner, her back towards -the audience, screens herself with a curtain, and then calmly proceeds -to take a review of the front rows of the stalls, and the occupants -of the proscenium boxes. It is not considered etiquette to take more -than a cursory glimpse of the matronly lady in black through _your_ -opera-glass. Presently there sits down by the matronly lady’s side, a -handsome, portly, middle-aged gentleman, in plain sober evening dress, -and with a very high forehead—so high, indeed, that I don’t think that -the assumption that the middle-aged gentleman’s head inclined to baldness -would be unreasonable. In the opposite angle of the box sits a demure -young lady—sometimes a couple of demure ones—who doesn’t move much or -speak much; and at the back of the _loge_ are two gentlemen in white -waistcoats, who never sit down, and, from the exquisitely uncomfortable -expression of their countenances, would appear to be standing on one -leg. Now, take the hat of your heart off, for your head, according to -operatic sumptuary laws, must be already uncovered, and with your spirit -salaam thrice three times, for the matronly lady is Victoria Queen of -England, and the middle-aged gentleman, inclined to corpulence and -baldness, is his Royal Highness the Prince Consort. The demure ones are -maids of honour or ladies in waiting; and as for the white-waistcoated -uncomfortables (seemingly) on one leg, one may be the tremendous Gold -Stick himself, and the other—who shall say I—the ineffable Phipps, pride -of chivalry and pearl of privy purses. - -On the same tier, but nearer the stage, there is a narrow box, holding -only two persons _de face_, at whose occupants you may gaze without any -glaring dereliction of the proprieties. See, a lady who screens herself -behind the amber satin drapery, even more completely than her Majesty, -and by her side an elderly gentleman, with a large mouth, a very stiff -white neckcloth, and a very severe aspect, and about whose tendency to -baldness there cannot exist any doubt, inasmuch as his cranium is as -bare and polished as a billiard-ball. It would be a pardonable guess to -presume this individual to be a member of the College of Preceptors, -or a proctor, fresh from Doctors’ Commons; but if you eye him narrowly -through the many-lensed lorgnette, you will perceive that he wears a -little badge of parti-coloured ribands at his button-holes, and on some -evenings you may even discern a brilliant star tacked on the left breast -of his coat. Who is this distinguished bald one? I must not be personal -with less distinguished people than royalty, and so I will content myself -with calling him his Excellency. His Excellency dwells in an enormous -mansion in Belgravia, where he gives grand parties. His own little -cabinet is, I am told, decorated with charming-coloured lithographs, -representing scenes Oriental and operatic; and, indeed, his Excellency -has been throughout his long and ornamental life a consistent and -liberal patron of Terpsichore. He never misses a new ballet night now. -Occasionally, his Excellency has some business to transact with the Baron -Fitzharris, Earl of Malmesbury; but the old fogies of the clubs, and the -chronic alarmists of the newspapers, are haunted by the notion that his -Excellency is perpetually weaving plots, and entangling British statesmen -in the mazes of his dark diplomacy. For my part, I think that very often, -when his Excellency is supposed to be busily occupied in concocting -his Machiavelian plots, the good man is quietly at home snipping away -the outlines of his favourite coloured lithographs, and pasting them -in albums or on screens. You know what the Chancellor Oxenstiern said -to his son anent the small amount of wisdom with which this world is -governed; and I think as much might be said concerning diplomacy. But -his Excellency has a terrible reputation for undermining, plotting, and -counter-plotting, and is supposed to be, intellectually, a compound of -the dark and crooked astuteness of Talleyrand, Metternich, ex-Inspector -Field, and the late Joseph Ady. - -I might tire you out, and exhaust a space already growing limited, by -drawing portraits of the denizens of opera-boxes. Our glances at them -must be, perforce, rapid, for I dare not linger. See, there (he comes -late, does not seem to enjoy the music much, and stays but for an hour) -seventy-three years worth of learning, of genius, of wit, of eloquence, -and patriotism—that glorious edifice of humanity, of which the first -stone was laid by a young north-country advocate, who was a friend of -Jeffrey and Sydney Smith, and wrote stinging articles in the “Edinburgh -Review.” No man so famous as that whilom chancellor has her Majesty’s -Theatre reckoned among its audience, since the days when, in spotless -white waistcoat, and creaseless cravat, with a silver buckle behind, the -great duke was wont to make his bow at the court of Euterpe, not because, -honest man, he cared much for operas, Italian or English, but because he -considered it to be a matter of duty towards that aristocracy of which, -though a premier duke, he was the prince, to show himself in their places -of resort. He went everywhere, the brave old boy, to balls and concerts, -to routs and banquets. In the house of feasting, when the goblets were -wreathed with flowers, and the cymbals clashed, there was Duke Arthur, -long after his gums were toothless, his eyes dim, his joints stiffened, -and the drums of his ears muffled. And, next morning, at eight o’clock, -you would still see him on duty, at early service, in St. James’s Church, -reading out the responses to the Psalms as though they were words of -command. - -[Illustration: EIGHT O’CLOCK P.M.: THE OPERA.] - -There, in her family box, is the still beautiful marchioness, with that -crop of ringlets unequalled in luxuriance. There, in the stalls, is -Captain Fitzblazer, the Duke of Alma’s aide-de-camp, whom we met “behind -the scenes” an hour since. “Jemmy” Fitzblazer—he is always known as -“Jemmy,” though there are not half-a-dozen men of his acquaintance who -would presume thus familiarly to address him to his face—is getting very -middle-aged and gray-headed now. He is not slim enough in the waist. -Adonis is growing fat. Narcissus has the gout. Lesbia’s sparrow is -moulting. A sad reflection, but so runs the world. - -I should be wilfully deceiving you, and unworthy the name I have been -always striving to gain—that of a faithful chronicler—if I were to lead -you to imagine that the brilliant theatre is full only of rank, fashion, -wealth, and happiness. Are any of the terms I have used synonymous, -I wonder. There are many aching hearts, doubtless, beneath all this -jewellery and embroidery; many titled folks who are thinking of pawning -their plate on the morrow, many dashing young scions of aristocracy, -who, between the bars of the overture, are racking their brains as to -how on earth they are to meet Mephibosheth’s bill, and whether a passage -through the Insolvent Court would not be, after all, the best way out -of their difficulties. And in the great equality that dress-coats, bare -shoulders, white neckcloths, and opera-cloaks make among men and women, -how much dross and alloy might we not find among the gold and silver! In -the very next box to the mother of the Gracchi, resplendent among her -offspring, in her severe beauty, is poor pretty lost Mrs. Demmymond, -late Miss Vanderplank, of the Theatres Royal. The chaste Volumnia, who -only comes to the opera once in the season, and always goes away before -the commencement of the ballet, is elbowed in the crush-room by Miss -Golightly, who has one of the best boxes that Mr. Sams can let, and -who comes with a head of flaxen hair one night, and with raven black -tresses the next. Captain Spavin, of the 3rd Jibbers, shudders when he -finds his next-stall neighbour to be his long-suffering tailor; and Sir -Hugh Hempenridge, baronet, is covered with confusion when he feels the -hawk-glance of little Casay, the sheriff’s officer (and none so bravely -attired as he) darted full at him from Fops’ Alley. - -Fops’ Alley! The word reminds me of bygone operatic days, and I sigh -when, looking round the house, I remember how Time, the destroyer, has -left a mark, too, upon these _cari luoghi_. It is true that many of -those reminiscences may not be worth sighing for; but is there not always -something melancholy in the fading away of old associations? Where is -the Omnibus Box? The longitudinal den answering to the _Loge Infernale_ -at Paris, and the _Fosse aux Lions_ at Madrid, yet has its customary -locality over the orchestra, on the Queen’s side of the proscenium; -but where are its brilliant, witty, worthless occupants? But one, the -gay young prince, who, if report says true, kicked, with his own royal -foot, through the panels of the door of communication leading from the -Omnibus Box to the stage, and for that night—the night of the famous -Tamburini and Coletti disturbance—locked by special order of M. Laporte, -has become a Respectable, holds high office, does his work well, and -occupies himself far more with the subjects of soldiers’ kit and barrack -accommodation, than with squabbles between Tweedledum and Tweedledee. But -where are the rest? Where the dashing spirits and impetuous madcaps of -twenty years since? One is in a lunatic asylum, and another is paralytic, -and a third is prowling about the gambling-places on the Rhine, and the -last I saw of a fourth, was once, in 1852, descending the stairs of the -Hotel des Bains, at Dieppe, when a companion, drawing me on one side as -a broken, bowed, decrepit, sunken-eyed, gray-headed, prematurely-aged -man passed us tottering on a stick, whispered to me, “See! there goes -D’Orsay;” who died a fortnight afterwards. - -A Liberal, I hope—a Democrat, if you will—on some not unimportant -public topics, I cannot help a species of meek wailing Conservatism -upon the decadence of some of our social institutions. This is the age -of abolition—of doing away with and putting down. They have robbed our -grenadiers of their worsted epaulettes. The beefeaters in the Tower have -been deprived of those scarlet and embroidered tunics, that contrasted so -quaintly with the pantaloons and highlows of everyday life, and thrust -into buttoned-up coats and brass buttons. The barristers’ wigs will go -next, I suppose, and the cocked-hat of the parish beadle—his red plush -shorts and buckled shoon are already departed. I have fears for the -opera; I tremble for the days when there will be bonnets in the upper -tiers and paletots in the pit. When I mind the opera first, it was a -subaltern’s, and not a sergeant’s, guard that kept watch and ward under -the portico. The officer on duty had a right of entrance _ex officio_ -into the pit, and it was splendid to see him swinging his bearskin and -flashing his epaulettes in Fops’ Alley. The very name of Fops’ Alley is -becoming obsolete now. The next generation will forget its locality. -In those days, on drawing-room nights, the men used to come in their -court suits and uniforms, their stars and badges, the ladies in their -ostrich plumes and diamond necklaces, only taking off their trains. There -were opera-hats in those days—half moon cocked-hats; now the men carry -Gibuses like pancakes. The link boys are disappearing—the leather-lunged, -silver-badged fellows, who shouted so sonorously that Lady Sardanapalias’ -carriage stopped the way. And the glories of the operatic stage; are -not those inconstant singing birds fled now? Can all the Arditis in -the world compensate for Costa, with his coat thrown back, and those -immortal, tight-fitting white kid gloves? He was the first man who ever -succeeded in parting his hair down the back; and now, he too is growing -bald, and he has cajoled Grisi the mellifluous, and Mario the heroic, -to pipe their nightingale notes among the coach-builders of Long Acre, -and the fried-fish shopmen of Drury Lane. Of the glorious unequalled, -unapproachable Four—Grisi, Rubini, Tamburini, and Lablache—who once -electrified the world in the “Puritani,” three are dead: the first is -in Covent Garden provoking malevolent criticism. Where are the other -Four, the Terpsichorean quartett, the immortals who danced the _pas de -quatre_! Ah! Mademoiselle Piccolomini, you are very arch and pretty; ah! -Mademoiselle Marie Taglioni, you are a _spirituelle_ and graceful dancer; -but you are not the giants and giantesses of the old Dead Days. - - “You little people of the skies, - What are you when the sun shall rise!” - -But the sun is set, and there is darkness, and I am afraid that I am -prosing _in re_ her Majesty’s Theatre, as old playgoers will prose about -Jack Bannister, sir, and Dowton, and Munden, and Fawcett. - -There is lately come to town, at least within these latter years, an -Italian gentleman by the name of Verdi, to whose brassy screeds, and -tinkling cymbalics, it is expected that all _habitués_ of the opera -must listen, to the utter exclusion and oblivion of the old musical -worthies who delighted the world with their immortal works before Signor -Verdi was born. I have brought you to her Majesty’s Theatre, and this -is unfortunately a Verdi night. You may listen to him, but I won’t. -Thersites Theorbo, the editor of the “Spinet” (with which is incorporated -that famous musical journal the “Jew’s Harp”), may accuse me of being -“perfunctory,” or of being an ass—no one minds Thersites Theorbo, -knowing him to be a good fellow, much bemused in Cavendish tobacco and -counterpoint; but I will shut my eyes, and muse upon the bygone glories -of the opera. The place is a mass of memories. Things and books, and -scenes and men, and stories, come teeming on my brain as I sit in my -stall, heedless of Signor Verdi and his musical machinations. From -that shelf, well known to me, where nestle my dog’s-eared Rabelais, my -Montaigne, my annotated edition of Captain Grose’s Dictionary of the -Vulgar Tongue, my Shakspeare, and my beloved Jeremy Taylor, I take down -garrulous old Pepys, and read—“Jan. 12, 1667. With my Lord Brouncker -to his house, there to hear some Italian Musique, and here we met Tom -Killigrew, Sir Robert Murray, and the Italian Signor Baptista, who had -prepared a play for the Opera, which Sir T. Killigrew do intend to have -up; and here he did sing one of the acts. He is himself the poet as -well as the musician, and did sing the whole from the words without any -musique prick’d, and played all along on a harpiscon most admirably, and -the composition most excellent.” And then I mind me of an advertisement -in the “London Gazette,” in 1692, setting forth how “the Italian lady -that is lately come over, that is so famous for singing, will sing at the -concerts at York Buildings during the season.” The season! There was a -“season” in William the Deliverer’s time, then. So I call to mind Dick -Steele’s serio-comic announcement in the fourth number of the “Tattler,” -of how “Letters from the Haymarket inform us that on Saturday night last -the opera of ‘Pyrrhus and Demetrius’ was performed with great applause.” -Then from the beginning of Italian opera in England, a grand trunk line -extending to our days, I shunt off on to innumerable little branches and -loop-lines. I see the Faustina and the Cuzzoni coming to blows—Sir Robert -Walpole backing the first, his lady the second. I am, for the nonce, an -ardent partisan of Mrs. Tofts. Then I have a vision of Mrs. Fox Lane, -in a hoop of preternatural size, bidding General Crewe get out of her -house, because he professed his ignorance as to whom Signora Mingotti -was—the Mingotti who told Dr. Burney that she had “been frequently hissed -by the English for having a toothache, a cold, or a fever, to which the -good people of England will readily allow every human being to be liable -except an actress or a singer.” And then I bow down in awe before the -radiant shadow of Farinelli, great and good, unmoved by misfortune, -unspoilt by fame—Farinelli, whose dulcet notes cured a Spanish king of -madness, who was thought worthy to receive the decorations of the orders -of St. Jago and of Calatrava—Farinelli, of whom honest Will Hogarth could -not help falling a little foul in the “Rake’s Progress,” but who was, -nevertheless, as singularly modest and upright as he was unprecedentedly -gifted in his art. Unprecedentedly! recall the word. I bow before a -greater shadow, though of one who wrote, and sang not, save to his pretty -wife.[9] I see a little boy, in a grave court suit, and his young locks -curling like the tendrils of the vine, sitting before the harpsichord in -the orchestra of the great theatre of Milan. It is the first night of a -new opera, and the opera is his—this almost suckling. Upstairs, in a box -near the chandelier, is the little man’s father, sobbing, and smiling, -and vowing candles to the Virgin, if his dear child’s opera succeeds. -And it does succeed, and all Milan is full of that small maestro’s, that -maestrino’s fame, the next day. I see him again, years afterwards, grown -to be a slight, vivacious little personage, in a scarlet pelisse and a -cocked-hat. He is standing behind the scenes at the wing of the Imperial -Theatre at Vienna, and it is again the first night of the performance -of a new opera—his own. There is a singer in a Spanish costume, and who -must be, I take it, a species of barber. When he sings a song, commencing -“_Non più andrai farfallone amoroso_,” the little man in the scarlet -pelisse and cocked-hat begins to beat his palms together in applause, -and murmurs “_Bravo! Bravo!_ Benucci!” But when the singer winds up in -that magnificent exercitation to Cherubino, “_Alla vittoria! Alla gloria -militar!_” the house comes down with applause. The people shout out; the -fat-headed musicians in the orchestra beat their violin bows violently -against their desks, and (quite in defiance of operatic discipline) cry -“_Bravo! Bravo! Viva! viva! grande maestro!_” I see the same little man -lying sick and pining on his bed at Salzburg. The intrigues of Salieri, -the ingratitude of courts, the quick forgetfulness of the public, are -nothing to him now. Little does it matter if he have been indeed poisoned -with _aqua tofana_, or if he be dying of that common, but denied disease, -a broken heart. _He has written the Requiem_ (recreant Sussmayer will -strive to rob him even of _that_ fame after death), and his last hour is -approaching. The poor Swan dies; and then the sluice-gates of my eyes are -opened, and I remember that this was Johann Wolfgang von Mozart. - -Upon my word and honour there is Van Poggi, the chorus-singer, on the -stage. I am recalled at once from dreamland to actualities. There is -an old operatic saying that her Majesty’s Theatre, in the Haymarket, -could not be complete without Van Poggi, and now behold that lyrical -Widdicomb. According to the same tradition—not always trustworthy—Van -Poggi was the identical chorus-singer who assisted Velluti to alight -from his barge the night the last of those male _soprani_ made his first -appearance (in the opera of the “Crociato in Egitto”) before an audience -who had almost forgotten the fame of the Pacchierottis, the Rubinellis, -and the Marchesis. Van Poggi wears wonderfully well. Nobody knows his -exact nationality: whether he is a Dutchman, a Dane, or an Italian. His -residence has never been precisely ascertained. The management have no -occasion to rout him up, for he is always punctual at rehearsal. During -the vacation he retires to Paris, where he tells his friends that he is -to be found between ten and four every day in the Long Gallery of the -Louvre. During the London season you may contemplate Van Poggi between -the same hours in Mr. Zerubbabel’s cigar-shop in the Quadrant, at whose -door he generally stands in a Spanish cloak faced with velvet. He never -sang any better or any worse than he sings now; he was never promoted to -play the smallest separate part, such as is from time to time assigned -to the gentleman who appears in the bills as Signor N. N., or _non -nominato_. It is believed that Van Poggi would faint if he had to deliver -a line of recitative. Yet there is a very general opinion in operatic -circles that her Majesty’s Theatre would come to hopeless grief if Van -Poggi were not among the chorus. At the commencement of the season there -are always anxious inquiries at the box-office as to whether Van Poggi is -secured; and a reply being given in the affirmative, the lovers of the -lyrical drama breathe freely, and the subscription progresses. No one -knows what became of Van Poggi in the dark and dismal interregnum during -which Mr. Lumley was compelled to close his doors. Mysterious offers of -better parts, and better salaries, had, it is reported, been made to Van -Poggi, emanating from a quarter not a hundred miles from Bow Street, -Covent Garden; but the patriotic chorister scornfully refused them. He -was still seen to haunt Mr. Zerubbabel’s cigar-shop at the commencement -of the musical season; then he suddenly disappeared; and whether he went -abroad, or wrapped himself in the Spanish cloak and so lay torpid for two -years like a dormouse, must for ever remain a matter for speculation. But -it is certain that when the Haymarket Phœnix arose from its ashes, and -light once more shone on its amber satin curtains, there was Van Poggi, -at the first chorus rehearsal, as fresh as paint, and looking better -than ever. And it is moreover reported, that when his Excellency, whom a -combination of political difficulties (which began about the time some -English grenadiers were sent out to Gallipoli) had forced to leave this -country, and who did not return for upwards of three years, when his -Excellency Baron —— made his first visit to his beloved opera-house, -the piece of the evening being “Lucia di Lammermoor,” he swept the ranks -of those preposterous sham Highlanders, who are discovered singing a sham -hunting chorus, anxiously with his lorgnette, and at last cried out with -a satisfied accent: “_Bon, voilà_ Van Poggi.” He had recognised that -chorus-singer in his kilt, and was thenceforth persuaded that the opera -season was safe. - -There is a new ballet to-night, in which the enchanting little Pocchini, -most modest and most graceful of modern _danseuses_, is to appear; and -Signor Verdi’s opera is very long, and I am aweary of his figments, and -cannot sit them out. Besides, I want your presence, trusty friend and -companion, always in the interest of “Twice Round the Clock.” We have a -little business to transact; and as it is getting towards nine o’clock, -we had better transact it at once. Leave we then the dazzling temple, -let us hie to an obscure retreat, to your servant known, where we can -leave our opera-glasses, divest ourselves of our white cravats, and throw -paletots over our evening dress. There, a few touches, and the similitude -of swells is taken away from us. Now let us plunge into a labyrinth of -narrow streets to attain our unfashionable goal, for, upon my word, our -destination is a pawnbroker’s shop. - -[Illustration: EIGHT O’CLOCK P.M.: INTERIOR OF A PAWNBROKER’S SHOP.] - -Where the long lane from St. Giles’s to the Strand divides the -many-branching slums; where flares the gas over coarse scraps of meat in -cheap butchers’ shops; where brokers pile up motley heaps of second-hand -wares—from fishing-rods and bird-cages to flat-irons and blankets; -from cornet-à-pistons and “Family Encyclopædias” to corkscrews and -fowling-pieces; where linen-drapers are invaded by poorly-clad women -and girls, demanding penn’orths of needles, ha’porths of buttons, and -farthingworths of thread; where jean stays flap against the door jambs, -and “men’s stout hose” gleam gaunt in the shop-windows; where grimy dames -sit in coal and potato-sheds, and Jew clothesmen wrestle for the custom -of passengers who don’t want to buy anything; where little dens, reeking -with the odours of fried fish, sausages, and baked potatoes, or steaming -with reminders of à-la-mode beef and hot eel soup, offer suppers, cheap -and nasty, to the poor in pocket; where, in low coffee-shops, newspapers -a fortnight old, with coffee-cup rings on them, suggest an intellectual -pabulum, combined with bodily refreshment; where gaping public-houses -receive or disgorge their crowds of tattered topers; where “general -shops” are packed to overflowing with heterogeneous odds and ends—soap, -candles, Bath brick, tobacco, Dutch cheese, red herrings, firewood, -black lead, streaky bacon, brown sugar, birch brooms, lucifer matches, -tops, marbles, hoops, brandy balls, packets of cocoa, steel pens, -cheap periodicals, Everton toffy, and penny canes; where on each side, -peeping down each narrow thoroughfare, you see a repetition only of -these scenes of poverty and misery; where you have to elbow and jostle -your way through a teeming, ragged, ill-favoured, shrieking, fighting -population—by oyster-stalls and costermongers’ barrows—by orange-women -and organ-grinders—by flower-girls and match-sellers—by hulking labourers -and brandy-faced viragos, squabbling at tavern doors—by innumerable -children in every phase of weazened, hungry, semi-nakedness, who -pullulate at every corner, and seem cast up on the pavement like pebbles -on the sea-shore. Here, at last, we find the hostelry of the three -golden balls, where the capitalist, whom men familiarly term “my uncle,” -lends money on the security of plate, jewellery, linen, wearing apparel, -furniture, bedding, books—upon everything, in fact, that is not in itself -of so perishable a nature as to warrant the probability of its rotting -upon my uncle’s shelves. - -The pawnbroker’s shop window—the _étalage_, as our Parisian neighbours -would term it—presents a medley of merchandise for sale; for I suppose -the host of the three balls buys-in sundry articles at the quarterly -sales of unredeemed pledges, of whose aspect you have already had an -inkling in these pages, which he thinks are likely to sell in his -particular neighbourhood. Of course, the nature and quality of the -articles exhibited vary according to the locality. In fashionable -districts (for even Fashion cannot dispense with its pawnbrokers) you -may see enamels and miniatures, copies of the Italian masters, porcelain -vases, bronze statuettes, buhl clocks, diamond rings, bracelets, watches, -cashmere shawls, elegantly-bound books, and cases of mathematical -instruments; but we are now in an emphatically low neighbourhood, -and such articles as I have alluded to are likely to attract but few -purchasers. Rather would there seem a chance of a ready sale for the -bundles of shirts, and women’s gear, and cheap printed shawls; for the -saws, and planes, adzes, gimlets, and chisels; for the cotton umbrellas; -for the heavy silver watches that working men wear (though they, even, -are not plentiful); for the infinity of small cheap wares, for sale at an -alarming reduction of prices. - -Let us enter. Behold the Bezesteen of borrowed money. This, too, might be -compared, with a grim mockery, to the theatre; for hath it not private -boxes and a capacious stage, on which is continually being performed the -drama of the “Rent Day,” and the tragi-comedy of “Lend me Five Shillings?” - -See the pawners, so numerous that the boxes can no longer remain private, -and two or three parties, total strangers to one another, are all crowded -into the same aperture. It is Saturday night, and they are deliriously -anxious to redeem their poor little remnants of wearing apparel for -that blessed Sunday that comes to-morrow, to be followed, however, by -a Black Monday, when father’s coat, and Polly’s merino frock, nay the -extra petticoat, nay the Lilliputian boots of the toddling child, will -have to be pawned again. Certain wise men, political economists and -pseudo-philanthropists, point at the plethora of pawnbrokers’ shops as -melancholy proofs of the poor’s improvidence. But the poor are _so_ poor, -they have at the best of times so very little money, that pawning with -them is an absolute necessity; and the pawnbroker’s shop, that equitable -mortgage on a small scale, is to them rather a blessing than a curse. -Without that fourpence on the flat-iron, there would be very frequently -no bread in the cupboard. - -It is Saturday night, and my uncle, who on other days of the week shuts -at six o’clock in winter and eight in summer time, does not close his -doors, and drives a roaring trade till midnight. The half-pence rattle, -shillings are tested, huge bundles rumble down the spout, and the little -black calico bags, containing the tickets having reference to the goods -desired to be redeemed, and which the assistant will look out in the -warehouse, fly rapidly upwards. It is time now for us to redeem that -trifling little matter which we pawned last Tuesday, on purpose to have -an excuse for visiting the pawnbroker’s shop to-night; and, casting -glances in which curiosity is not unmixed with compassion, go back to -Signor Verdi and her Majesty’s Theatre. Thou, at least, my friend, may -do this—I will leave thee in the vestibule for awhile; for, between the -hours of nine and ten, I have other clock matters to which I must attend. - - - - -NINE O’CLOCK P.M.—HALF-PRICE IN THE NEW CUT, AND A DANCING ACADEMY. - - -An inedited anecdote of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.,—an anecdote passed over or -ignored by Boswell, Croker, Piozzi, and Hawkins,—an anecdote to allude -to which, perhaps, Lord Macaulay might disdain, while Mr. Carlyle might -stigmatise it as an “unutterable sham of mud-volcano gigability,” but in -which I have, nevertheless, under correction, the most implicit faith, -relates that the Sage’s opinion was once asked by Oliver Goldsmith -(Mr. Boswell of Auchinlech being present, of course) as to whether he -approved, or did not approve, of the theatrical institution known as -“half-price?” The Doctor was against it. “Sir,” he reasoned, or rather -decided, “a man has no right to see half an entertainment. He should -either enjoy all or none.” “But, sir,” objected Goldsmith deferentially, -“supposing the entertainment to be divided into equal halves, both -complete in themselves, has not a man a right to suit his pocket and his -convenience, and see only one half?” “Sir, you are frivolous,” thundered -the Doctor; “the man has but Hobson’s choice: the second moiety of the -entertainment. If he go at first price, he must pay whole price.” “But, -sir,” suggested Bozzy with a simper, “how would it stand, if the man -coming at half-price promised the doorkeeper to go away punctually at -nine o’clock, when the second price commenced?” “Hold _your_ tongue, -sir,” said Doctor Johnson, whereat Mr. Boswell of Auchinlech was abashed, -and spake no more till the kindly old Doctor invited him to tea, with -blind Miss Williams and Mr. Levett the apothecary. - -I am sure that it must be a matter of lamentation for any man with a -well-regulated mind to be under the necessity of disagreeing with so -eminent an authority as Doctor Johnson—with the rough, genial, old bear, -who had had so many sorrows of his own when young; had danced upon so -many hot plates, and to the very ungenteelest of tunes; had been so -pitilessly muzzled and baited by mangy curs, that he yet made it his -delight in age and comparative affluence to take the young bears under -his protection, to assuage their ursine sorrows, and lick them with a -lumbering pity into shape. I am equally certain that few would even -_dare_ to differ from the scholar, critic, poet, dramatist, essayist, -moralist, philosopher, and Christian gentleman, whose pure life and -death in an unbelieving age are an answer for all time to the ephemeral -brilliance of the fribble Chesterfield, the icicle Hume, the stalactite -Gibbon, and the flashy Bristol-diamond Voltaire. Still, in the interests -of the British drama (and assuming my anecdote to be otherwise than -apocryphal), I must, perforce, dissent from the Doctor, and pin my -faith to half-price. The absence of a second price is suitable enough -for such exotic exhibitions as the Italian operas and the French plays; -but I deplored the suspension of that dramatic _habeas corpus_ in the -palmy Lyceum days of Madame Vestris’s management. There is something -supercilious, pragmatical, maccaronyish, un-English, in the announcement, -“No half-price.” How immeasurably superior is the fine old British -placard, now, alas! so seldom seen, “Pit full: standing-room only in the -upper boxes!” - -There is a transpontine theatre, situated laterally towards the Waterloo -Road, and having a northern front towards an anomalous thoroughfare -that runs from Lambeth to Blackfriars, for which I have had, during a -long period of years, a great esteem and admiration. This is the Royal -Victoria Theatre. To the neophyte in London I frequently point out a -brick erection, above the cornice of the pediment, and say, “My friend, -in the days when the ‘Vic.’ (it is popularly termed the ‘Vic.’) was known -as the ‘Coburg,’ that brick slip was built to contain at its rise—for it -could not be rolled up—the famous ‘Crystal curtain,’ which ruined one -management to construct, and half ruined another to demolish. The grand -melodramas the Coburg used to give us—real horses, real armour, real -blood, almost real water!” Those were the days of “Ginevra the Impaled -One” and “Manfroni the One-handed Monk.” There are famous dramatists, -actors, scene-painters, who would look rather shame-faced (though I -cannot see why they should be ashamed) were they reminded, now, of -their achievements in the service of transpontine melodrama at the -Coburg. How stupidly absurd people are in repudiating their beginnings! -Buffel, the millionaire contractor, denies stoutly that he ever carried -a hod, although hundreds of us remember him on the ladder. Linning, -the fashionable tailor, would poison any one who told him he once kept -a beer-shop in Lambeth Walk, and afterwards failed as a tea-dealer in -Shoreditch. One of the most accomplished comedians of the day makes a -point of cutting me dead, because I can recollect the time, and knew -him, when he used to colour prints for a livelihood; and I daresay that -Baron Rothschild—with all the philosophy his unbounded wealth should -properly give him—would not ask me to dinner, if I reminded him that his -grandfather was a pedlar in the Juden-Grasse, at Frankfort. The next -Tamworth baronet, I suppose, will strike the beehive and “_Industriâ_” -out of the family escutcheon, and assume the three leeches sable on a -field gules _semée_ or, of his ancestors the De la Pills, who came over -with the Conqueror as barber-chirurgeons to the ducal body. And yet a -certain Emperor and King was not ashamed to talk of the period when he -was a “lieutenant in the Regiment of Lafère;” and the present writer, who -is, on one side (the wrong), of the _sangre azul_ of Spain, is not above -confessing the existence of a tradition in his family, hinting that his -maternal grandmother danced on the tight rope. - -Although I am a devotee of the opera, and am always glad when Drury -Lane doors are open, and mourn over the decadence of the Lyceum, and -wish that the Strand would succeed,[10] and longed for the day when -the resuscitated Adelphi should open its doors, and rejoice at the -prosperity of the Olympic, and think that one of the most rational and -delightful night’s amusements in Europe, may be attained by the sight -of the “Merchant of Venice” at the now closed (so far as Charles Kean -is concerned) Princess’s, I have yet a tenderness, a predilection, an -almost preference, for the Vic. There is a sturdy honesty of purpose, -unity of action, sledge-hammer morality about the rubbishing melodramas, -which are nightly yelled and ranted through on the Victoria stage, that -are productive, I believe, of an intellectual tone, highly healthful and -beneficial. Burkins, the garotter, who is now in hold in Pentonville for -his sins, and is so promising a pupil of the chaplain, (having nearly -learnt the Gunpowder Plot service and the prohibitions of consanguinity -by heart,) has confidentially informed his reverend instructor that to -the melodramas at the Victoria must be ascribed his ruin. It was the -“Lonely Man of the Ocean” that led him to fall on Mr. Jabez Cheddar, -cheesemonger, in Westminster Broadway, at two o’clock in the morning, -split his skull open with a life-preserver, jump upon him, and rob him of -eight pounds twelve, a silver hunting-watch, and a brass tobacco-box; at -which confession the chaplain orders him more beef and books, and puts -him down in the front rank for his next recommendatory report to the -visiting magistrates. Partaking, in company with some other persons, of -the opinion that Burkins adds to the characteristics of a ruffian and -a blockhead, those of a hypocrite and a Liar, I do not necessarily set -much store by the expression of _his_ opinions on the British drama. But -when I find shrewd police-inspectors and astute stipendiary magistrates -moralising over the dreadful effects of cheap theatres, attended as -they are by the “youth of both sexes,” I deem them foemen worthy of my -steel. Good Mr. Inspector, worthy Master Justice, where are the youth -and the adults of both sexes to go in quest of that amusement, which I -suppose you will concede to them, of some nature, the necessity? Are -the churches open on week nights, and to such as they? and would you -yourselves like to sit under Doctor Cumming, or even Mr. Spurgeon, from -Saturday to Saturday? Are they to go to the Opera, to Almack’s, to the -Carlton Club, or to the conversaziones of the Geological Society? You -object, you say, to the nature of the entertainments provided for them. -Come with me, and sit on the coarse deal benches in the coarsely and -tawdrily-decorated cheap theatre, and listen to the sorrily-dressed -actors and actresses—periwigged-pated fellows and slatternly wenches, -if you like—tearing their passion to tatters, mouthing and ranting, -and splitting the ears of the groundlings. But in what description of -pieces? In dramas, I declare and maintain, in which, for all the jargon, -silliness, and buffoonery, the immutable principles of right and justice -are asserted; in which virtue, in the end, is always triumphant, and -vice is punished; in which cowardice and falsehood are hissed, and -bravery and integrity vehemently applauded; in which, were we to sift -away the bad grammar, and the extravagant action, we should find the -dictates of the purest and highest morality. These poor people can’t help -misplacing their h’s, and fighting combats of six with tin broadswords. -They haven’t been to the university of Cambridge; they can’t compete for -the middle-class examinations; they don’t subscribe to the “Saturday -Review;” they have never taken dancing lessons from Madame Michau; they -have never read Lord Chesterfield’s Letters; they can’t even afford to -purchase a “Shilling Handbook of Etiquette.” Which is best? That they -should gamble in low coffee-shops, break each other’s heads with pewter -pots in public-houses, fight and wrangle at street corners, or lie in -wait in doorways and blind alleys to rob and murder, or that they should -pay their threepence for admission into the gallery of the “Vic.”—witness -the triumph of a single British sailor over twelve armed ruffians, who -are about to carry off the Lady Maud to outrage worse than death; see -the discomfiture of the dissolute young nobleman, and the restitution -of the family estates (through the timely intervention of a ghost in a -table-cloth) to the oppressed orphan? And of this nature are the vast -mass of transpontine melodramas. The very “blood-and-murder” pieces, as -they are termed, always end with the detection of the assassin and his -condign punishment. George Cruikshank’s admirable moral story of “The -Bottle” was dramatised at the “Vic.,” and had an immense run. They are -performing “Never Too Late to Mend,” now, over the water, to crowded -houses. If we want genteel improprieties, sparkling immoral repartees, -decorously scandalous intrigues, and artful cobwebs of _double entendre_, -touching on the seventh commandment, we must cross the bridges and -visit the high-priced, fashionably-attended theatres of the West-end. -At a West-end theatre, was produced the only immoral version of an -immoral (and imbecile) “Jack Sheppard,” which is, even now, vauntingly -announced as being the “authorised version”—the only one licensed by -the Lord Chamberlain; and in that “authorised version” occurs the line, -“Jack Sheppard is a thief, but he never told a lie,” a declaration than -which the worst dictum of howling Tom Paine or rabid Mary Wolstoncraft -was not more subversive of the balance of moral ethics. And, at a -West-end theatre, likewise, his Lordship the Chamberlain authorised the -production of a play, whose story, regarded either as a melodrama or -as the libretto of a trashy Italian opera, has not been equalled for -systematic immorality: no, not by Wilkes; no, not by Aphra Behn: no, not -by Crebillon the younger: no, not by Voltaire in the scandalous “Pucelle.” - -And have I brought you all the way over Waterloo Bridge in the evening -only to sermonise you! I deserve to be mulcted in three times the -halfpenny toll; and I must make amends by saying nothing whatsoever -about the shot towers, or the Lion Brewery, the London and South-Western -Terminus, and Hawkstone Hall. Here we are, at the corner of the New Cut. -It is Nine o’Clock precisely (I must have flown rather than walked from -the pawnbroker’s in that lane on the Middlesex side), and while the -half-price is pouring into the Victoria Theatre, the whole-price (there -is no half-price to the gallery, mind, the charge for the evening’s -entertainment being only threepence) is pouring out with equal and -continuous persistence, and are deluging the New Cut. Whither, you may -ask, are they bound? They are in quest of their Beer. - -The English have been a beer-loving people for very many ages. It gives -them their masculine, sturdy, truculent character. Beer and beef, it -has been before remarked, make boys. Beer and beef won the battle of -Waterloo. Beer and beef have built railways all over the world. Our -troops in the Crimea languished, even on beef (it was but hard corned -junk, to be sure) till the authorities sent them beer. There is a _lex -non scripta_ among the labouring English, much more potent than many Acts -of Parliament, and called the “Strong Beer Act.” They have songs about -beer with lusty “nipperkin, pipperkin, and the brown beer” choruses; and -in village parlours you may hear stentorian baritones, of agricultural -extraction, shouting out that “Feayther likes his beer, he does;” that -“Sarah’s passionately fond of her beer, she is;” and denouncing awful -vengeance upon those enemies of the people who would “rob a poor man -of his beer.” Our fingers were brought to the very hair-trigger of a -revolution by the attempted interference of an otherwise well-meaning -nobleman, with the people’s beer; and did not William Hogarth strike -the right nail on the head when he drew those two terrible pictures of -Beer Street and Gin Lane? The authorities of the Victoria Theatre have -preserved, I am glad to say, a wholesome reverence for the provisions of -the Strong Beer Act, and it is, I believe, a clause in the Magna Charta -of the management, that the performances on Saturday evenings shall -invariably terminate within a few minutes of midnight, in order to afford -the audience due and sufficient time to pour out their final libations at -the shrine of Beer, before the law compels the licensed victuallers to -close. - -There are not many gradations of rank among the frequenters of the -Victoria Theatre. Many of the occupants of the boxes sat last night -in the pit, and will sit to-morrow in the gallery, according to the -fluctuation of their finances; nay, spirited denizens of the New Cut will -not unfrequently, say on a Monday evening, when the week’s wages have -not been irremediably dipped into, pay their half-crown like men, and -occupy seats in the private box next the stage. And the same equality and -fraternity are manifest when the audience pour forth at half-price to -take their beer. There may be a few cheap dandies, indeed—Cornwall Road -exquisites and Elephant-and-Castle bucks—who prefer to do the “grand” in -the saloon attached to the theatre; there may be some dozens of couples -sweethearting, who are content to consume oranges, ginger beer, and -Abernethy biscuits within the walls of the house; but the great pressure -is outwards, and the great gulf stream of this human ocean flows towards -a gigantic “public” opposite the Victoria, and which continually drives a -roaring trade. - -I wish that I had a more savoury locality to take you to than the New -Cut. I acknowledge frankly that I don’t like it. We have visited many -queer places in London together, of which, it may be, the fashionables -of the West-end have never heard; but they all had some out-of-the-way -scraps of Bohemianism to recommend them. I can’t say the same for the -New Cut. It isn’t picturesque, it isn’t quaint, it isn’t curious. It -has not even the questionable merit of being old. It is simply Low. It -is sordid, squalid, and, the truth must out, disreputable. The broad -thoroughfare, which, bordered with fitting houses, would make one of the -handsomest streets in London, is gorged with vile, rotten tenements, -occupied by merchants who oft-times pursue the very contrary to innocent -callings. Everything is second-hand, except the leviathan gin-shops, -which are ghastly in their newness and richness of decoration. The broad -pavement presents a mixture of Vanity Fair and Rag Fair. It is the -paradise of the lowest of costermongers, and often the saturnalia of the -most emerited thieves. Women appear there in their most unlovely aspect: -brazen, slovenly, dishevelled, brawling, muddled with beer or fractious -with gin. The howling of beaten children and kicked dogs, the yells of -ballad-singers, “death and fire-hunters,” and reciters of sham murders -and elopements; the bawling recitations of professional denunciators of -the Queen, the Royal family, and the ministry; the monotonous _jödels_ -of the itinerant hucksters; the fumes of the vilest tobacco, of stale -corduroy suits, of oilskin caps, of mildewed umbrellas, of decaying -vegetables, of escaping (and frequently surreptitiously tapped) gas, of -deceased cats, of ancient fish, of cagmag meat, of dubious mutton pies, -and of unwashed, soddened, unkempt, reckless humanity: all these make -the night hideous and the heart sick. The New Cut is one of the most -unpleasant samples of London that you could offer to a foreigner. Bethnal -Green is ragged, squalid, woe-begone, but it is quiet and industrious. -Here, there is mingled with the poverty a flaunting, idle, vagabond, -beggarly-fine don’t-care-a-centishness. Burkins in hold in Pentonville -for his sins assures the chaplain that the wickedness of the New Cut is -due solely to the proximity of the “Wictoriar Theayter, that ‘aunt of -disypashion and the wust of karackters.” For my part, I think that if -there were no such safety-valve as a theatre for the inhabitants of -the “Cut,” it would become a mere Devil’s Acre, a Cour des Miracles, a -modern edition of the Whitefriars Alsatia; and that the Cutites would -fall to plundering, quarrelling, and fighting, through sheer _ennui_. -It is horrible, dreadful, we know, to have such a place; but then, -consider—the population of London is fast advancing towards three -millions, and the wicked people must live somewhere—under a strictly -constitutional government. There is a despot, now, over the water, who -would make very short work of the New Cut. He would see, at a glance, -the capacities of the place; in the twinkling of a decree the rotten -tenements would be doomed to destruction; houses and shops like palaces -would line the thoroughfare; trees would be planted along the pavement; -and the Boulevard de Lambeth would be one of the stateliest avenues in -the metropolis. But Britons never will be slaves, and we must submit to -thorns (known as “vested interests”) in the constitutional rose, and pay -somewhat dear for our liberty as well as for our whistle. - -In the cartoon accompanying this essay, you will find a delineation of -the hostelry—the tavern—bah! it isn’t a hostelry—it isn’t a tavern; it -is an unadulterated gin and beer palace—whither takes place the rush at -half-price for malt refreshment. I have kept you lingering at the door -a long time; I have digressed, parried, evaded the question; discoursed -upon the transpontine drama, and the moot question of its morality; I -have wandered about the New Cut, and have even gone back to the last -century, and evoked the ghost of Doctor Johnson; I have been discursive, -evasive, tedious very probably, but purposely so. I was bound to show -you the place, but it is better that the pen should leave the fulness of -representation to the pencil in this instance. It is humorous enough, -brilliant enough, full of varied life and bustle enough. I could make you -very merry with accounts of the mock Ethiopian serenaders at the door, -with facetious remarks on the gentleman in the sou’-wester, knee-shorts, -anklejacks, and gaiters, who is instructing the lady in the mob-cap in -the mysteries of the celebrated dance known as the “Roberto Polveroso,” -or “Dusty Bob and Black Sal.” I might be eloquent upon the subject of -the sturdy sailor who is hobnobbing with the negro, the Life Guardsman -treating the ladies, like a gallant fellow as he is, and the stream -of honest, hardworking mechanics, their wives, and families, who have -surged in from the “Vic.” to have their “drop of beer.” But the picture -would still be incomplete. In graver pages—in tedious, solemn journals -only—could be told (and I have told, in my time) the truth about a -gin-shop in the New Cut. I will not descant upon the crime and shame, -the age made hardened, the very babies weaned on gin. Let us take the -better part, and throw a veil over this ugly position of the night side -of London. - -[Illustration: NINE O’CLOCK P.M.: HOUSE OF CALL FOR THE VICTORIA -AUDIENCE.] - - * * * * * - -Do you ever read the supplement of the “Times” newspaper? Of course you -do; at least, you must diurnally peruse one column at least of that -succursal to the monster journal, specially interesting to yourself. -Almost every one who can read is anxious to consult the “Times” every -morning for one purpose or other. Either he requires information about a -ship that is going out, or a ship that should be come home; about a purse -he has lost, or a bank-note he has found; about a situation he wants, -or a clerkship he has advertised for competition; about the wife he has -run away from, or the son who has run away from him; about the horse he -wishes to sell, or about the Newfoundland pup he wants to buy; about his -debtor’s bankruptcy, or his own insolvency; about the infallible remedy -for all diseases, for which he has promised to send a recipe on the -receipt of twelve postage-stamps; or the best curative pills advertised -for hypochondriasis and dyspepsia; about the cheapest sherries, and the -best second-hand broughams; about pianofortes for the million, sales by -auction, money to be lent, or money wanted to borrow; and, chiefest of -all, about the “births, deaths, and marriages,” which announcements are -the prime and favourite reading of the female sex. Indeed, I know one -lady—young, comely, accomplished, good-natured, and married—who never -even condescends to glance at a line of the colossal “Times” newspaper, -beyond the “Births, Marriages, and Deaths;” and very good reading she -declares them to be. - -There is a portentous column to which my attention is attracted (I know -not why, for it has never concerned me in the slightest degree), having -reference to dancing. I don’t allude to the casinos, or masquerades, -or public full-dress balls, to which a man may go, lounge about, stare -at the votaries of Terpsichore, and go away again without ever shaking -a leg; but to the advertisements of the professors of dancing and -“drawing-room deportment,” who really mean business, and give instruction -in those elegant and graceful arts, and hold their academies daily and -nightly all over London, from the farthest East to the extremest West. -Now I am myself no dancer. I remember as a boy, in the grim Parisian -_pension_, or school boarding-house attached to the College where I -had my scant Humanities hammered into me, a certain obese professor, -to whom my parents and guardians paid a certain quarterly sum for my -instruction in the poetry of motion. I remember him well, for whenever -we took our walks abroad in Paris, we could scarcely pass a dead wall -without seeing it placarded, or a _porte cochère_ without seeing it -hung, with a little yellow black framed bill, screened with a wire -trellis-work, proclaiming “Boizot” and his “_cours de danse_.” This was -in ’39; yet last winter in Paris the same walls and _portes cochères_ -still sounded the praises of Boizot. He appears to be immortal, like -Cockle of the pills, Grimstone of the eye-snuff, and Elizabeth Lazenby -of the sauce. The square _toqued_ and black-gowned professors of the -College Bourbon—now Lycée Bonaparte—could by dint of locking me up in -cellars, making me kneel across sharp rulers and rapping my knuckles with -ferulas (for corporal punishment never—oh! never—enters into the scheme -of French education), impel me to construe Cæsar indifferently well; but -Boizot, in all his _cours de danse_, failed in teaching me the difference -between _cavalier seul_ and _en avant deux_—between the _pastorale_ and -the _chaine des dames_. A more incorrigible dunce at dancing than your -humble servant, never, I believe, existed. In the attempt to instruct -me in the enchanting and vertigo-giving waltz, Boizot made a most -lamentable _fiasco_, although he resorted to his famous specific of -stamping on the pupil’s toes with heavy-heeled shoes till he made the -right steps to the right time. But our gyrations always ended in my doing -all my waltzing on _his_ toes; and he flung me away from him at last, -denouncing me as a hopeless _butor_, _ganache_, _cretin_, and _cancre_—a -Vandal, a Goth, an Ostrogoth, and a Visigoth—the three first being -terms perfectly comprehensible to the French schoolboy, but for which -it is difficult to find equivalents in this language. I am sure that -Boizot left me with the utmost dislike and contempt, and with the most -sinister forebodings for my future career. Thenceforth I was released -from the dancing-lessons. In after years, I have heard it reported on -good authority that I once danced a hornpipe at the wedding-breakfast of -a maritime relation of mine; but the exploit, if ever accomplished, was -due more, I opine, to the salmon and cucumber of the nuptial feast than -to the _certaminis gaudia_ of dancing. I essayed seriously once more to -waltz at a Kursaal ball at a German watering-place. How I tore a lady’s -dress, how I tripped myself up, how I was covered with shame, and had the -finger of scorn pointed at me, are yet matters of history at Bubbelbingen -Schlaggasenberg. Thither I will return no more. Again, when I visited -Russia, the first letter of introduction I presented on my arrival at St. -Petersburg brought me an invitation to a grand ball. It was—Oh, horror! a -diplomatic ball; there were not half a dozen persons in plain clothes in -the ball-room; and I stood lonely and forlorn among a crowd of brilliant -guardsmen, be-starred and be-ribboned ministers, plenipotentiaries, and -embroidered _attachés_, who are proverbially the best dancers in Europe. -I had not even the miserable safety-valve of crossing over and talking -to the non-dancing dowagers, for, according to Russian custom—one which -would delight the irreverent Mr. Spurgeon—the ladies remain at one end of -the _salon_, and the gentlemen at the other—a relic of Orientalism—and -in strict isolation, during the intervals between the dances. I was in -despair, and about either to rush out or to recite “My name is Norval,” -with a view towards exciting curiosity and inspiring terror, when the -gracious lady who did the honours for the ball-giving minister, who was a -bachelor, asked me if I didn’t dance? I didn’t say that I had a sprained -ankle, that I was hot, or tired, but I told the truth for once, and -said honestly that I couldn’t. “Don’t you smoke, then?” she continued, -glancing at me with a sort of pitying expression, as though she were -thinking, “I wonder what this gawky Englishman _can_ do?” I replied that -I could smoke a little; whereupon, with her own fair hands, she opened -a door and inducted me to an apartment, where a score of Boyards and -secretaries of legation were smoking Havannahs, playing _préférence_, -and sipping whisky-punch, and where I stopped till two o’clock in the -morning, became very popular, and positively sang a comic song. At -evening parties in England, alas! they seldom have a smoking-room, and so -I don’t go to them. A non-dancing man becomes speedily known in society, -and the women shun him. - -I can’t help thinking (of course, on the fox and sour grapes principle), -whenever I see a very accomplished male dancer, as when I look upon a -first-rate amateur billiard-player, on the immense amount of time the man -must have wasted to acquire a useless and frivolous art. Yet I remember -the fox and the grapes, and suppress my rising sneer. Dancing to those -who like it, and can dance gracefully, is an innocent and cheerful -recreation. It does my heart good sometimes to see the little tiny -children in our crowded London courts and alleys waltzing and polkaing to -the Italian organ-grinder’s music; and I shall be sorry for the day when -some new Oliver Cromwell or Puritan government—we may have another in -time—may denounce and put down “public dancing and dancing academies.” - -But why should the dancing academy column in the “Times” advertisements -possess more than general attractions for me? Is it that I have a -sneaking inclination to visit one of these establishments as a pupil; -take six private lessons from Miss Leonora Geary, or Mrs. Nicholas -Henderson—I could never dare to face Madame Mélanie Duval, or the -Semiramis of dancing mistresses, Madame Michau Adelaïde—study the -fashionable steps in secret, and then burst upon the world as an adept -in the _Schottische_, the _Cellarius_, and the _Deux Temps_? Alas! I do -not even know the names of the fashionable dances of the day, and very -probably those to which I have alluded are by this time old fashioned, -out of date, rococo, and pigtaily. But I have a theory that every man -must dance before he dies, and that of the choreographic art we may say -as of love— - - “Whoe’er thou art, thy master see, - Who is, or was, or is to be.” - -And I shall dance, I suppose, some of these days, although my nerves be -shrunk, my blood be cold, and hair white, and Death scrape away on the -fiddle, as in Hans Holbein’s shudder-giving panorama. - -Mr. William M’Connell, however, the young gentleman who is my artistic -_fides achates_ in this horological undertaking, is, I am given to -understand, a complete master of this desirable accomplishment, and a -finished adept in its various mysteries. In this case, therefore, the -leader has become the led, and I am grateful to him for his service as -cicerone in introducing me to the domains of Terpsichore. - -Assume, O reader and spectator—to violate no academical privacy—that we -are in the _salle de danse_ conducted for so many years, and with so much -success, by Mrs. Hercules Fanteague, late of the Royal Operas. Throughout -each day, from morn till dewy eve, does Mrs. Fanteague—a little woman, -who, at no remote period of time, has been pretty—assisted by her -husband, Mr. Hercules Fanteague, a diminutive gentleman, with tight -pantaloons and a “kit,” and a numerous family of sons and daughters, -who all appear to have been born dancing-masters and mistresses, give -private instruction to ladies and gentlemen, who are as yet novices in -the art, or who are too shame-faced to venture upon the ordeal of public -instruction. But, at nine o’clock in the evening, commences the public -academy—the “hop,” as some persons, innocent of the bump of veneration, -call it. There, in the tastefully yet cheaply decorated saloon, with -its boarded floor and flying cupids and sylphides on the panels—there, -where the gas shines, and the enlivening strains of a band, composed -of a harp, piano, and violin, are heard—there, in a remote section -of the apartment—the _pons asinorum_ of the dancing-school—the adult -gentlemen, who are as yet in the accidence or rudiments of dancing, are -instructed in the mysteries of the “positions” and preliminary steps by -Mrs. Hercules Fanteague. The dancing-mistress is obliged to be very firm -and decided, not to say severe, with her awkward pupils; for some are -inclined to blush, and some to laugh and whisper disparaging jokes to one -another, and some to tie their legs into knots and imitate the action -of the old shutter telegraphs with their arms, and some to sink into -a state of stony immobility and semi-unconsciousness, from which they -can only be rescued by sharp words and pushes. When these hopeful ones -are sufficiently advanced in the elements, they are handed over to lady -partners, who, to the sound of the aforesaid harp, piano, and violin, -twirl them about the room till they are pronounced fit to figure in the -_soirées_ of society, and in the Arabian Night-like scenes of Cremorne -and Highbury Barn. - -[Illustration: NINE O’CLOCK P.M.: A DANCING ACADEMY.] - -I once heard a man of the world tell a lady, in gay reproach, that -there were three things impossible of accomplishment to her sex. “Women -can’t throw,” he said, “they can’t jump, and they can’t slide.” The -lady stoutly denied the third postulate, and adduced in proof her own -sliding performances in winter time in the day-room at boarding school. -The first assertion she settled by throwing the peeling of an apple at -him, which fell deftly over his left shoulder, and formed on the carpet, -I am told, the initials of her Christian name. However this may be with -other ladies—for she was fair, and good, and wise, as “Sydney’s sister, -Pembroke’s mother,” though Time has not thrown a dart at her yet, I -know there is one thing a man cannot do. He cannot dance. He may take -lessons of Mrs. Hercules Fanteague till his hair grows out of his hat, -and his nails grow out of his pumps; he may dance the Crystal Platform -at Cremorne to sawdust, but he will never succeed in making himself more -than a capering elephant, or an ambling hippopotamus, with the facial -expression of an undertaker’s man on duty for the funeral of a very -rich “party,” where extra woe is laid on by Mr. Tressels, regardless of -expense. - -Of course I except professional dancers, and I bow reverentially before -the bust of Vestris, “_Diou de la Danse_” and of the late Mr. Baron -Nathan. I do not remember the first. He died years before I was born, -yet I see him in my mind’s eye on the stage of the Grand Opera in -Paris, swelling with peacock-pride and conscious merit—in dancing—in -full court-dress, his sword by his side, his laced and plumed _chapeau -bras_ beneath his arm, his diamond _solitaire_ in his laced shirt-frill, -leading his son to the footlights, on the night of the first appearance -of the youth, and saying, “_Allez_, my son, the Muses will protect you, -and your father beholds you.” Was it this son, or a grandson I—tell -me “Notes and Queries”—that was the Armand Vestris, whom our Eliza -Bartolozzi (the famous Madame Vestris) married, and who was hurried -at that dreadful hole at Naples? I see the _Diou de la Danse_ on a -subsequent occasion at rehearsal, when the same son, being committed -to the prison as Fort l’Evêque by the lieutenant of police (the whole -operatic _troupe_, led by Mademoiselle Guimard, were in a state of -chronic revolt) dismissed him with these magnanimous words: “_Allez_, my -beloved one. This is the proudest day of your life. Demand the apartments -of my friend the King of Poland. Take my carriage. Your father pays for -all!” But the poor baron, with his corkscrew ringlets, turn-down collar, -and limber legs, I can and do remember. I have seen him dance that -undying _pas_, blindfold, among the eggs and tea-things, in the Gothic -Hall at Rosherville. But five Sundays since I was at Gravesend, and over -my shilling tea in the Gothic Hall, I sighed when I thought of Baron -Nathan and of happier days. “Where art thou, my Belinda? There is no one -to pull off my shrimp-heads now.” - -Lo, as I pen these reminiscences of nine o’clock in the evening—pen them -in the “quiet street,” where I am again for a season—though my boat is -on the shore, and my bark is on the sea, and ere you hear from me again -there will be a considerable variation of clocks between London and -Jericho—a fife and tabour announce the advent of a little dancing boy -and girl, with a careworn mother, in the street below. I look from my -window, and see the little painted people capering in their spangles and -fleshings and short calico drawers. It is against conviction, and against -my own written words, and against political economy, and ex-Lord Mayor -Carden; but I think on Mr. Carrick’s picture of “Weary Life,” and must -needs take some pence from the clock-case, and throw them out to these -tiny mummers. Life is _so_ hard, my brother! - - - - -TEN O’CLOCK P.M.—A DISCUSSION AT THE “BELVIDERE,” AND AN ORATORIO AT -EXETER HALL. - - -Exists there, in the whole world, civilised or uncivilised, a nation -of such inveterate grumblers as the English? We grumble at everything. -We are five-and-twenty millions of bears afflicted with perpetually -sore heads. Are we charged sixpence extra for a bed? is the tail of -our mutton-chop underdone? does our mockturtle soup disagree with us? -is a railway train late? or the requisite amount of hop deficient in -our pale ale? does an Italian itinerant split our ears while we are -endeavouring to solve the Seventh Problem in the First Book of Euclid? -does the editor or manager refuse to return the manuscript of our poems -or our farces? do we buy a silk dress that turns out to be nine-tenths -cotton? are we surcharged by the commissioners of income-tax, (_they_ -say I make a thousand a year, I say I don’t _make_ a hundred and -fifty; but may difference of opinion never, et cetera)? forthwith we -call for pen, ink, and paper, and indite a letter to the “Times,” that -providential safety-valve for the great legion of grumblers. What are our -public meetings but organised arenas of grumbling? what the “leaders” -in our Sunday newspapers but extra facilities for grumbling after we -have been grumbling all the week? I think it was Mr. Horace Mayhew, in -his “Model Men and Women,” who told the story of a waiter at a city -tavern, who took but one holiday in the course of the year, and then -enjoyed himself by paying a visit to another waiter at another tavern, -and assisting him in laying the knives and forks. In like manner the -ordinarily-understood holiday for the gentlemen of the daily press—there -being no diurnals published on Sunday—is Saturday; whereupon, after -lying in bed somewhat longer than usual on the sixth day’s morning, they -indulge in the _dulce desipere in loco_, by writing stinging leading -articles in the journals which publish editions on the Sabbath. This is -due to their inveterate propensity for grumbling. And, mark me, this -licensed and acknowledged grumbling is the surest safeguard of our -liberties, and the safest guarantee for our not drifting from our snug -roadstead of constitutionalism, where we can ride at anchor, and smile -at the timid argosies and caravels of despotism, moored and chained in -the grim granite basins of the inner port, and all without launching -into the troubled oceans, full of breakers and white squalls, of utter -democracy. We seize upon a wrong, and grumble at it, till, after a few -months’, and sometimes a few years’ grumbling, we find that the wrong -exists no more, and that we have gained another Right. But we have had no -barricades _ad interim_, no fusillades, no bombardment of private houses, -no declarations of the “solidarity” of anybody, no confiscations, no -deportations, and no guillotinings. Our rulers, grown wise by experience -of smashed windows, pelted heads, and occasional (when the people were -very hard driven) political annihilation, and hurling into the limbo -of red tapism, have of late years placed few or no restrictions upon -grumbling. The noble lord at the head of the Government daily receives -deputations, who grumble at his measures, or at the measures he won’t -guarantee to propose, fearfully. In the Parliament House, no sooner does -our gracious Queen, in her silver bell-like voice, speak the speech -that others have written down for her (I daresay she could write a -much more sensible discourse herself), than Lords and Commons begin to -grumble about the sense of her words, and move amendments to the address -which is to be presented to her. Downstairs, all through the session, -parliamentary committees are grumbling at witnesses, and witnesses are -grumbling at the committee; and in outlying boroughs vicious electors are -grumbling at the members of the Commons’ House of Parliament. The country -newspapers and the London newspapers grumble. The barristers grumble at -the judge, and the judge at the jury. The public grumbles at the way -soldiers are treated by the officers, and the soldiers (who are about -the only citizens who are not addicted to grumbling) go out and fight -and win battles, at which we at home grumble, because so many lives have -been lost. And I daresay the Prime Minister grumbles because he has the -gout, and the Queen on her throne grumbles because “Punch” caricatures -the Prince Consort, and “Punch” grumbles because the Prince Consort does -not often enough give occasion to be grumbled at. I grumble at being -obliged to write for your amusement, and you grumble because I am not -half amusing enough. We grumble at the cold dinners at school, at the -price of the marriage license, at the doctor’s bill for our first child’s -measles, at the cost of the funeral of Uncle John, who left us all his -money. We grumble because we have to live, and grumble when the physician -tells us that we must die. Does it not all resolve itself into our purer, -better Fielding’s aphorism in “Vanity Fair”—“Ah! _vanitas vanitatum_? Who -of us has not his hobby, or, having it, is satisfied?” Yet there is much -virtue in having at least liberty to grumble. - -These thoughts come over me as I wend my way at Ten o’Clock at night -along the New Road—what do they call it now? Euston Road, Pancras -Road, Paddington Road—_que scais-je_—towards the suburban district of -Pentonville. It won’t be suburban much longer; for Clerkenwell and -Islington, Somers Town and Finsbury, are hemming it in so closely that it -will be engulphed some of these days by a brick-and-mortar torrent, like -the first Eddystone Lighthouse. A pleasant spot once was Pentonville, -haunted by cheery memories of Sir Hugh Myddleton, the New River Head, -Sadlers’ Wells Theatre, and the “Angel” at Islington—which isn’t (at -least now-a-days, and I doubt if it ever was) at Islington at all. They -began to spoil Pentonville when they pulled down that outrageously -comic statue of George IV., at Battle Bridge. Then they built the Great -Northern Railway Terminus—clincher number one; then an advertising -tailor built a parody of the Crystal Palace for a shop—clincher number -two (I am using a Swivellerism). The pre-ordinate clincher had been the -erection of the hideously lugubrious penitentiary. However, I suppose it -is all for the best. The next step will be to brick up the reservoir, and -take down that mysterious tuning-fork looking erection, which no doubt -has something to do with the water supply of London, and the New River -Head; then they had better turn the Angel into a select vestry-room or -a meeting-house for the Board of Works; and then, after that, I should -advise them to demolish the “Belvidere.” - -Whose connection with grumbling you shall very speedily understand. At -this famous and commodious old tavern, one of the few in London that -yet preserve, not only a local but a metropolitan reputation, there -is held every Saturday evening—ten o’clock being about the time for -the commencement of the mimic Wittenagemotte—one of those meetings for -political discussion, and the “ventilation” of political questions, whose -uninterfered with occurrence, not only here, but in Fleet Street, in -Bride Lane, and in Leicester Square, so much did rouse the ire of the -_sbirri_, and _mouchards_, and unutterable villany of Rue de Jérusalem -spydom, in the employ of his Imperial Majesty, Napoleon III. - -I have run the gauntlet of most of these harmless symposia of political -talk; and with all, save the Westminster Forum, I can claim acquaintance. -I have been one of the Alumni of “Cogers” or “Codger’s” Hall, Bride -Lane, where the gentleman who occupied the chair was addressed as “My -Noble Grand” by the speaker. I have attended a meeting at the Forum, -held at the Green Dragon,[11] Fleet Street, where visitors are invited -to join in the discussion; and where, one evening, joining in the -discussion as a stranger, the meeting objected to my political views, and -a vote passed the chair that I was to be thrown out of the window; from -which ignominious exodus I was only rescued by the advent of a friendly -Templar, who had dropped in from chambers to the Forum to oil his rusty -eloquence in time for the coming Western Circuit. I have dropped in, too, -occasionally, at Mr. Wyld’s Reading-Room, in Leicester Square, and have -listened to much drouthy eloquence on subjects home and foreign. But -nowhere have I seen such tableaux as the governmental journals of Paris -have depicted, in the gloomiest of colours, as images of the political -discussion meetings of _perfide Albion_. Nowhere have I seen a bowl of -blood on the table, the chairman sitting on a barrel of gunpowder—to -be subsequently used for the conflagration of the Thames—the orator -addressing his hearers from the summit of a pile of ball-cartridges -erected on a coffin; or dissentient members launching _abuses_, charged -with fulminating mercury, at an unpopular speaker’s head. Dark and -dangerous meetings, of dark and dangerous men, do certainly take place -in London. Oppressed, despairing, starving, outlawed, outraged exiles, -do meet in holes and corners, do plot and conspire, do hurl, in speech, -denunciation and sarcasm, at despots. But you must not go to Fleet -Street, to Bride Lane, to Leicester Square, nor, least of all, to -Pentonville, to find them. The doors of those mysterious meeting-places -are “tiled” as securely as Freemasons’ lodges. Now and then a traitor, -by lies and hypocrisy, gains admittance, but woe to the traitor if he be -discovered in his treason. He dies within the year. - -[Illustration: TEN O’CLOCK P.M.: A DISCUSSION AT THE “BELVIDERE.”] - -The “Belvidere” is distinguished above its kindred discussion halls, -by its eminently respectable aspect. The subjects broached are bold -enough, and are as boldly treated; but you are puzzled to reconcile -the full-blown democracy of some of the speakers, with their mild, -bank-account-possessing, rate-and-tax-paying, housekeeping appearance. -They bark but do not bite. The usages and prestige of the place, too, -demand a certain amenity in discussion and forbearance in reply, which -throws an extra tinge of respectability over the whole. Looking at -this spacious, handsome room, panelled and pillared, comfortably and -brilliantly lit, with its doubled rows of mahogany tables covered with -bottles and glasses full of steaming compounds that do comfort the -flesh outwardly and rejoice the spirit inwardly—in strict moderation, -mind; looking at this burly, substantial auditory, ensconced in their -cosy chairs, smoking their cigars, and listening with attentive ears -to the orator; looking at the thoughtful waiter slipping from table to -table, administering refreshment and receiving orders with a subtle -swiftness, yet taking, I will be bound, an ardent mental interest -in the discussion; looking at the grave chairman in his comfortable -high-raised _fauteuil_—you might fancy this to be one of the parochial -“representative councils,” as vestries are now queerly christened, -or a freemasons’ lodge, when, “labour” being over, “refreshment” -commences, or an ordinary club of middle-class men accustomed to meet -one another, and talk upon the topics of the day over a social glass. -And, in truth, were you to suppose this, you would not be so very far -out in your calculation. These are, indeed, vestrymen—or representative -councillors—freemasons, benefit-club, middle-class men. But the topic -of the night is invested with authority, and its discussion is subject -to rules; and the highest compliment I can pay to the “Belvidere” is -that, if in that other Discussion Hall, held between the months of March -and August, in a green-leather and oak-carving furnished chamber, nigh -unto the crypt of St. Stephen’s Chapel, Westminster, as much sobriety, -decorum, and persistence in adhering to the matter in hand were shown, as -in this convivial parliament, the business of the nation would progress -much better, and we should have much less cause to grumble at most things. - -See a speaker on his legs—a fluent speaker, somewhat of a florid speaker, -occasionally somewhat of a violent speaker, though his violence is -strictly confined to words and gesticulations. What withering sarcasms he -hurls at kings and ministers! How eloquently he tells those tyrannical -puppets that, when they are forgotten, when the force and direction of -personal satire is no longer understood, and measures are felt only in -their remotest consequences, his words shall still be found to contain -principles worthy of being transmitted to posterity! How sneeringly -he assures our rulers that they have but a copyhold interest in the -state, that they cannot waste, that they cannot alienate, and that -the fee-simple is in us! How menacingly he assures the monarchs of the -earth that the crowns which were gained by one revolution may be lost -by another! and how much, listening to his impassioned exordium, to -his whirlwind argument, to his scathing peroration, I become impressed -with a notion that the orator has a capital memory, and has been an -assiduous student of certain letters, which were addressed, in our -great-grandmothers’ time, to Mr. Woodfall, the printer of the “Public -Advertiser,” by a mysterious correspondent—a correspondent whose motto -was, “_Stat nominis umbra_” and who chose to assume the pseudonym of -“JUNIUS.” - -In these orations you are sure to hear a good deal about Catholic -Emancipation, the Test and Corporation Acts, the Spa Fields Riots, -the Peterloo Massacre, the “Piccadilly Butchers,” the “Dorsetshire -Labourers,” Queen Caroline’s Trial, Richmond the Spy, and similar topics. -They are not very amusing, perhaps, but they are of infinite service in -keeping juvenile politicians _au fait_ with the political _memorabilia_ -of thirty or forty years since. I have even heard an ardent reformer, -with scarcely so much as a tuft on his chin, declaim in burning accents -upon the great case of Horne Tooke _versus_ the House of Commons—“Once -a priest forever a priest”—on Jack Wilkes, Number Forty-five, and the -question of general warrants, on the cruelty of Lord Ellenborough to -William Hone, the trial of Colonel Despard, and the eventualities which -might have followed the successful assassination of Lord Sidmouth by -Arthur Thistlewood. - -A staid, middle-aged gentleman follows the reformer, and proceeds, -genteelly, to demolish him. He is a staunch upholder of our ancient -institutions, and sneers at the presumptuous and levelling tendencies of -the age. He has some neat things to say about the “Pig and Whistle” style -of oratory, at which the ardent reformer winces, chews the end of his -cigar, and empties his glass indignantly; and he concludes with a glowing -eulogium on church and state, our glorious constitution, and our noble -aristocracy. - -Ere I leave these placid tribunes of Pentonville Hill, discharging their -harmless philippics at men high in place and power, I muse a little -over the tavern itself, and call to mind a certain story I once heard -respecting it, possessing what foundation of truth I know not, but which, -if not true, is assuredly _ben trovato_. Thus runs the dubious legend: -You remember the fair young daughter of England, the good princess, the -virtuous daughter of a wicked father, and in whom, from her cradle to -her marriage, the hope and love of this stolid but strong-feeling nation -were centred. You remember her husband: he is a king at Brussels now. You -remember how, when she died, all England burst into a passionate lament; -how thousands went into voluntary mourning; how clergymen wept in the -pulpit, when they discoursed on her virtues; how an awful darkness and -despair seemed to overshadow the ill-governed land when the news came -that the Princess Charlotte was dead. There is little need to say that -her husband (who, I am glad to believe, loved her very truly and fondly) -was at first inconsolable for her loss, and grieved long and bitterly -for her. But time was good to him, and heaven merciful, and by degrees -his sorrow wore away. Still he was melancholy, pre-occupied, and loved -nothing so much as to be left alone. It was about this time that the -then landlord of the Belvidere began to notice that about eleven o’clock -almost every forenoon during the week a gentleman in deep mourning, and -on horseback, would stop at the door of the tavern, leave his horse in -charge of his groom, enter the large room, call for a pipe and a pint -of ale, and quietly enjoy those refreshments for about the space of one -hour. The room would be at that early hour of the day almost deserted. -The one or two tradesmen who would occasionally drop in for a crust of -bread and cheese, and a peep at the “Times,” would be bidden a civil -“good morning”—in a slightly foreign accent—by the stranger; but he -never entered into conversation; he never read the newspaper; he “kep -hisself to hisself,” the waiter said. But he was so punctual and so -regular in his attendance, that the people of the house came to look out -for his daily visit in his suit of sables, and a special pipe was laid, -a special dish of tobacco prepared, and a special chair and spittoon -arranged, every day for his use. So things went on for many weeks; till -one luckless morning, just after the departure of the black horseman, a -customer of the house—I believe he was a commercial traveller, who had -just returned from a journey in the west of England, and who had been -enjoying his pipe and pint in the society of the taciturn stranger—called -the landlord on one side. - -“Do you know who that chap is?” he asked. - -“Not a bit,” answered the host. “Comes here every morning regular. Pint -of mild sixpenny; bird’s-eye; gives the waiter twopence, and goes away. -Groom has a glass of ale sitting on his horse. Pays his way like a -gentleman.” - -“He’s somebody,” said the commercial traveller, significantly. - -“So I should think,” returned the landlord, quietly. - -“He’s a high fellow,” added the bagman, mysteriously. - -“I shouldn’t wonder,” said the landlord, tranquilly. - -“Why, bless your heart, man alive!” broke out, impatiently, his -interlocutor, “can’t you guess who he is? He’s Prince Leopold of -Saxe-Coburg. I have seen his Royal Highness a hundred times, and know him -by sight as well as I do you.” - -The next forenoon, when the sable horseman arrived, he found a roll of -crimson baize laid down from the pales before the tavern to the doorway, -which was lined by American aloes in tubs. The staircase was freshly -carpeted; in the stranger’s customary place was a table covered with a -crimson cloth, backed by a crimson chair with gilt legs. The landlady, -her daughter, and the barmaid, were all in holiday attire, and when the -unknown rang the bell, the landlord himself, in a blue coat and brass -buttons, and his hair newly powdered, brought him the beer in a silver -tankard, and a wax candle at which to light his pipe. The black horseman -said nothing, drank his ale, and smoked his tobacco, paid his reckoning, -made his way downstairs amidst a profusion of bows and curtsies, mounted -his horse, and—never came again. So runs the legend. The commercial -traveller may have been wrong in his assertion, or may have been hoaxing -the landlord; but I incline to the belief that this was really Prince -Leopold. Why not? The incident is trifling enough; yet there is something -touching in the picture of the good-natured young German brooding over -his bereavement, yet consoling himself in the simple German fashion, over -his pipe and beer. - - * * * * * - -Friend of mine, if you have the slightest hope or thought that whither -I am now taking thee is one of the gay and merry scenes of London -night-life, prithee dismiss the thought, for thou art in error. Prithee -pull up the collar of thy coat, stiffen thy neckcloth as much as -possible, take that wicked cigar from thy mouth, cast down thine eyes, -and assume a decorum, if thou have it not. We are going to Exeter Hall. - -Don’t be alarmed: this is not the month of May or the season for meetings -in aid of missions to the Quashiboos, the Rumbatumbas, or the Oolalooloo -cannibals. We are not going to hear John B. Gough lecture on temperance. -We are going to hear an oratorio, conducted by Mr. Costa—an oratorio in -which Mr. Sims Reeves, Mr. Weiss, Miss Dolby, and Madame Clara Novello, -are to sing—and to listen to a band and chorus brought to a degree of -perfection which only the genius of such a conductor could insure, or the -gigantic resources of the Sacred Harmonic Society command. - -There would seem to be in an oratorio something essentially germane to -the English mind and character. The sounding recitative and swelling -hymns, the rolling choruses and triumphant bursts of exultant music, -have a strange affinity with the solemn, earnest, energetic English -people, slow to move to anger or to love, but, when moved, passionately -enthusiastic in their love, bloody and terrible in their great wrath. The -French can no more understand oratorios than they can understand blank -verse. I remember going to see Mendelssohn’s “Elijah” once in Paris. It -was winter time, and the performances took place in Franconi’s great, -windy, for-summer-built horse-riding circus in the Champs Elysées. The -band and chorus shivered as they scraped and sang; the _prima donna’s_ -nose and lips were blue, and the music paper quivered in her hand; the -_contralto_ looked exquisitely uncomfortable at not having to wear a -page’s dress and show her legs. As for the audience, the ladies sat -muffled up in shawls and furs—it was a morning performance—and whispered -among themselves; the men sucked the knobs of their canes, twirled their -moustaches, stared up at the chandeliers, and murmured, _Quelle drôle de -musique_! They didn’t repeat that oratorio, and I don’t wonder at it. -To the French it was neither fish nor flesh, neither ecclesiastical nor -secular. If the first, they might argue, give us the chanting priests, -the swinging censers dispensing fragrant clouds, the red-cassocked altar -boys, the twinkling tapers, the embroidered canopies, and the swelling -pæans of the concealed choristers. If the last, let us have a drinking -chorus, a laughing chorus, and a dagger chorus, a _prima donna_ to make -her entrance on horseback, a _contralto_ in tights, a ballet in the -second act, and some red fire at the end. But this is neither mass nor -opera. - -They think differently in England. To the seriously-inclined middle -classes the oratorio supplies the place of the opera. And it behoves you -to consider what a vast power in the state those serious middle-class -men and women are. It is all very well for us, men and citizens of the -world, yet living in a comparatively contracted circle of acquaintances -as cosmopolitan as ourselves; it is all very well for us, who see “no -harm” in sitting at home and reading the newspaper, while our wives -go to church; who support Sunday bands, Sunday steamboats, and Sunday -excursion trains, and are agitating now for the opening of museums, -and galleries, and palaces on the Sabbath; who talk lightly on serious -topics, and call clergymen parsons; it is all very well, I say, for -us, travelled, and somewhat cynical as we may be, to pretend that the -“serious” world is an amalgam of bigotry, hypocrisy, and selfishness, -and to ignore the solemn religious journals that denounce hot dinner -on Sundays, or a walk after it, or the perusal of a secular book on -the sacred day, as intolerable sins. Yet how many thousands—how many -millions—of sober, sincere, conscientious citizens are there, who are -honestly persuaded of the sinfulness of many things which we consider -harmless recreations! who would shrink back in horror, if they heard -a tithe of the conversations that go on every night in hundreds of -well-conducted London drawing-rooms! who look upon dancing as an -irreligious and Babylonish pastime! whose only light reading consists -of tracts, missionary chronicles, and memoirs of sainted cheesemongers, -and the beatified daughters of dairymen! I declare that I never see a -theatre in a country town—where, at least, two-thirds of the population -consist of such as I have described—without wondering at the lunacy of -the person who built it, without marvelling at the idiocy of every fresh -speculator who enters on the management. We may pretend to despise the -Puritan world, write books and farces against them, and quiz the “Record” -or the “Wesleyan;” but it is folly to ignore the vast numerical strength -of these same Puritans. They purchase such books as “Memorials of Captain -Headly Vicars” by thousands; they subscribe thousands of pounds yearly -in an almost insane hope of converting heathen barbarians to a better -faith; they give away millions of tracts; they flood the platform and the -auditory of every public meeting. It won’t do to ignore them. Cromwell’s -Ironsides and Sir Harry Vane’s Fifth-Monarchy Men have made too deep a -mark upon the people of England to be lightly passed over. - -But the serious world, and that section who are worldly, meet on -neutral ground at an Exeter Hall oratorio. The religionists see no sin -in listening to sacred music; the mundane come to listen with delight -to the immortal strains of Handel, of Haydn, and of Mendelssohn. “When -shall their glory fade” asked Tennyson, singing of the Six Hundred at -Balaclava. When shall the glory of our great oratorio writers decay? -Never—I hope. - -A resident at Bethlehem Hospital—he wasn’t either a doctor or a -keeper, but wore, habitually, a strait-waistcoat, took shower-baths -very frequently, and kept his head close shaved—once divided the world -into two classes: people who were mad, and people who would be mad. I, -too—but out of Bedlam, thank heaven!—have made a somewhat analogous -classification. I divide the world into people who have and have not -seen Ghosts. I belong myself to the first class. I am continually seeing -ghosts. I shake hands in the street with friends who have been dead -these ten years. A dear dead sister comes and sits by me at night when -I read, and tells me, with a kiss, that I am a good boy for coming home -so early. I was troubled some years ago with a man with his head off, -who, in that unseemly position, and holding his head on his knees, sat -continually before me. I dismissed him at last as being an unworthy -hallucination, and not a genuine ghost. I meet a good many ghosts -now—friendly ghosts, pleasant ghosts—but chiefly do they favour me with -their company at places of public entertainment. It may be that I am a -bad listener to music or theatrical dialogue, that I am absent in mind, -and _distrait_; but so surely as I go to a theatre or concert, so surely -do I fall a conjuring up mind-pictures, till the theatre or the hall, and -its occupants, quite fade away, and I find myself in entirely different -company, talking to people who are mouldering in their graves, or who are -thousands of miles away. - -And so the oratorio goes on, the assemblage paying a grave and -decorous attention to the music, and bearing themselves far more like -a congregation than an audience. They are so devotedly rapt in the -magnificent performance, that I expect every moment to hear the vast -mass of them join in the choruses; and when, at the first bar of the -sublime “Hallelujah Chorus,” the hearers all _stand up_, the singers -in the orchestra seem to me like priests. In truth, I think that to -hear an oratorio, chastens and purifies the mind, and that we go away -from those grand performances wiser and better men. There is a natural -disinclination to return—at least, immediately—to frivolous and trivial -pursuits, after listening to those solemn and ennobling strains. I know -that some exist upon whom music has no effect whatsoever; but I believe -that the vast majority of mankind are influenced for good or evil by -the sound of music. The most heartless woman in the world whom I know, -cries when she hears “Kathleen ma vourneen.” Napoleon could never listen -to “_Lascio ch’io piango la cruda sorte_,” without crossing himself. -How grandly does John Dryden set forth this theory in his immortal St. -Cecilian Ode! with what exquisite art has he shown us Alexander moved to -alternate joy, pride, shame, weeping, frenzy, as old Timotheus sweeps the -lyre in varied strains! - -[Illustration: TEN O’CLOCK P.M.: AN ORATORIO AT EXETER HALL.] - -Now, in sober broughams and in hack-cabs—driven, I hope, by regenerated -cabmen, who give tickets before they are asked for them, and never charge -more than thirty per cent. above the legal fare—or haply, if the night be -fine, on foot, the serious audience, well cloaked and bonneted, leave the -hall. For half an hour afterwards, the Exeter Hall side of the Strand, -both east and west, is dotted with serious groups in search of the last -omnibus, or, perchance, boldly walking home. I wonder how many of the -serious ones know anything of the thoroughfare. They may traverse it at -noonday, or pass down it every morning for twenty years in omnibuses on -their way to the city; but do they know anything of the night aspect of -that most mysterious of London thoroughfares? It is better, perhaps, that -they should not. - -Minute by minute they grow scarcer, and by ten minutes to eleven there -are no serious groups in the Strand. They are all gone home to supper—hot -ones, very probably, for the serious world is not at all unaddicted -to good living—and sober. I, too, have liberty to go and sup, if I so -choose; but not, alas! to bed. Still have I work to do, and for some -hours. - - - - -ELEVEN O’CLOCK P.M.—A SCIENTIFIC CONVERSAZIONE, AND AN EVENING PARTY. - - -It is Eleven o’Clock post meridian, and I am once more thrown, with my -clock on my hands, on the great world of London. The insatiable, restless -metropolis is as busy in the night as in the day season; there is no -respite, no cessation, in its feverish activity. One set or class of -mortals may, quite worn and worried out, cast themselves on beds more or -less hard, and sleep; but, forthwith, another section of the population -arise like giants refreshed—the last hour of the night to some is the -commencement, the opening day, to others; and an innumerable army of -conscripts are ready to relieve one another in mounting the guard of -London Life. - -Eleven o’clock, and thousands are yet in the streets, tens of thousands -still in the pursuit of the avocations by which they earn their daily -(or nightly) bread, hundreds of thousands awake, busy, and stirring. The -children of the aristocracy and some sections of the middle classes are -gone to bed—save those who have been so good that their fond parents have -taken them to the play, which entertainment they are now enjoying, with -delightful prospects superadded of “sitting up” to supper, perchance of -oysters, afterwards. But the children of the poor do not dream of bed. -They are toddling in and out of chandlers’ shops in quest of ounces of -ham and fragments of Dutch cheese for father’s supper; they are carrying -the basket of linen—mother takes in washing—to the residences of clients; -they are eliminating the most savoury-looking bits of plaice or flounders -from the oleaginous pile in the fried-fish shop; they are fetching the -beer and the “clean pipe” from the public-house; nay—not unfrequently, -alas! assisted by a lean baby in arms—they are fetching father himself -home from the too-seductive establishment of the licensed victualler. -Eleven o’clock at night is the great supper-time of the working classes; -then, by the steady and industrious mechanic, the final calumet is -smoked, the borrowed newspaper read, the topics of the day, the prospects -of the coming week, discussed with the cheery and hard-working helpmate -who sits by the side of her horny-handed lord, fills his pipe, pours out -his beer, and darns the little children’s hose. - -Eleven o’clock: theatrical audiences are at their apogee, and the last -piece is “on.” Convivial clubs are in full action, and the waiters at the -supper-rooms, very tumbled and drowsy during the day, put on their most -highly-starched neckcloths, and begin to rub their eyes, in preparation -for the labours of the night. The linen-drapers’ shopmen, who have -been strolling about Regent Street and Oxford Street since the shops -closed at nine, and who “live on the premises,” begin to turn in; the -proprietors tolerate no gadding about after eleven, and persistence in -keeping bad hours to the extent of hearing the chimes at midnight, out of -doors, would entail reprimand, and perhaps expulsion, on the offender. -At eleven o’clock close the majority of the coffee, chop houses, and -reading-rooms. There are some that will remain open all night; but they -are not of the most reputable description. At eleven the cheap grocer, -the cheesemonger, and the linen-draper, in low-priced neighbourhoods, -begin to think of putting up the shutters; and, by half-past eleven, the -only symposia of merchandise open will be the taverns and cigar-shops, -the supper-rooms and shell-fish warehouses, the night coffee-houses, and -the chemists—which last shops, indeed, never seem to be quite open, or -quite closed, at all, and may be said to sleep with one eye open. - -Eleven o’clock at the West-end is, morally speaking, broad day-light. -Midnight will be high noon. Fashionable life’s current riots through the -veins of West-end streets; mirth, and gaiety, and intrigue, are heard on -staircases and at street corners. And pre-eminently wide awake, busy, -active, and restless just now is the great and mysterious country of -Bohemia, both Upper and Lower. You are beginning to hear of Bohemia, oh, -reflective reader! and of its shady denizens. Recondite, half-reluctant -allusions are made to it in solemn reviews and portentous magazines. An -arch-Bohemian proposed the other day to write a novel concerning the -present condition of his country. The book actually appeared, but its -author stumbled on the threshold of his own subject. Either he dared not -say that which he knew, or he had over-estimated his knowledge of things -Bohemian: and he drew, not the real country, but an impalpable region -full of monsters. But his was no easy task. After all, who shall say, who -can tell, where Bohemia really is, and who really are Bohemians? They -are secretly affiliated, and to each other known, like freemasons, like -the Illuminati and Brethren of the Rosy Cross of the last century, like -Balzac’s “Treize;” but the outside world knows them not, and oft-times -mistakes for a Bohemian a vile Illyrian, a contemptible Styrian, a -worthless Croat, or a base Bezonian. Is there a king of Bohemia? or is -it an oligarchy, a theocracy, or a red republic? How does a man become -a Bohemian, and can he ever renounce his allegiance to the “friends of -Bohemia,” and become an ordinary citizen of the world? Yet Bohemianism is -ubiquitous. The initiated ones are everywhere. In the House of Commons, -at this very moment, a free and accepted Bohemian is pounding away at -the ministry, and a past grand-master of Bohemianism is descending the -steps of the Carlton. A Bohemian is dancing the Schottische in Westbourne -Terrace, and his brother is passing underneath Temple Bar, in a cab and -in custody, on his way to Mr. Slowman’s caravanserai in Cursitor Street. -There is a Bohemian, in white kid gloves and a white cravat, sitting -in his opera-stall, and he whispers to his companion to order a Welsh -rabbit and a pint of half-and-half for him at the Club. Some Bohemians -are drinking claret at the Wellington, and others are sleeping among -the vegetable baskets under the tarpaulins in Covent Garden Market. -Bohemian No. one has just won a hundred pounds at _écarté_. Bohemian -No. two has just pawned his great-coat. A Bohemian has just gone home -to read Plato, and take a basin of arrow-root for supper. Another has -let himself out with his latch-key, and is on his way to the Haymarket. -Oh, marvellous land! Oh, people yet more marvellous! Despised, derided, -abused by men, ye are yet a power in the state. Bootmakers combine -against ye; but you can turn out governments. Clerks of county courts -issue judgment summonses against ye; but you dine at princes’ tables. -Lands you have not, nor jewels, nor raiment, nor fine linen, nor pieces -of gold, nor pieces of silver; still do ye travel first-class express; -still do you clamour for green fat at mighty banquets, and turn up your -Bohemian noses if the venison be not hung to your liking; still do you -pride yourselves upon being good judges of Rhine wine and Habana cigars. -A peculiar race! And the most astonishing thing about the Bohemian is -this: that he does not—as the non-Bohemian charitably supposes and -reports—die in an hospital, to be saved from dissection, and humbly -buried, only by a subscription among his Bohemian associates. If he be an -ass and a profligate, he goes to the bad, and serve him right; but the -Bohemian, dying, frequently leaves a great deal more money behind him -than yonder starched man of business, who professed to regard him, during -his lifetime, with a shuddering, pitying horror. The Bohemian, brought, -as it would seem, to the lowest and forlornest state of impecuniosity -and discredit, suddenly starts up as Attorney-General of Yellow-Jack -Island with twelve hundred a year, as Judge-Advocate of the Meridional -Quashiboos, or Consul-General to the Tontine Republic. - -While thus discoursing to you on things in general, I have been keeping a -sharp look-out for the most notable things that are to be seen in London -at eleven p.m. But as we shall have to sit up very late to-night—or -rather early to-morrow morning—I think it right that we should pass -the time till midnight in a quiet and decorous manner. Not but that we -have been exceedingly well-behaved ever since the commencement of our -peripatetics; but life is life, and one can scarcely go twice round the -clock in London without some moral and physical wear and tear. Suppose we -drop in at a Conversazione. - -This (more or less) social _réunion_ is an institution of purely modern -invention. It is the latest device of the fantastically despotic -organisation we call “society,” with the exception of _the dansante_, -or dancing tea. It might be alleged, but the allegation would be open -to the imputation of hypercriticism, that the first conversazione on -English record was the meeting of the Royal Society at which King Charles -II. propounded the famous problem of the live fish in the pail of water: -and another semblance of a conversazione might be found in the assemblage -of antiquaries at the christening of Martinus Scriblerus. But the real -conversazione is quite another affair, and wholly modern. It is not much -more than twenty years old, its establishment following close on the -heels of the fashionable “rout,” which again succeeded the “assemblies” -of our grandmothers and the “drums” of our great-grandmothers. The -modern conversazione means a room or a suite of rooms thrown open for -the reception of a miscellaneous mob of fashionables or of celebrities, -foreign and native, political, literary, scientific, or artistic. It -is a vast menagerie, a “happy family” on a monster scale, a Noah’s ark -upon dry ground, and the birds, beasts, and fishes crowd and elbow -each other, and roar, or yell, or howl, or bark, or low, or grunt, -or squeak, or crow, or whistle, or scream, or pipe, to the infinite -delectation of the host and hostess. The only sounds proper to the -animal or ornithological kingdom are those which might be supposed to -be produced by billing and cooing; for the guests are not—or do not in -general look—very good-tempered, and a favourite manner of passing the -time at a conversazione is to scowl at your neighbour, and wonder who -the deuce he is. But one of the chief advantages connected with these -bringings-together of celebrities, lies in the moderate sum for which the -thing can be done. The conversazione is eminently cheap. They don’t give -these lions any shinbones of beef; tea, coffee, macaroons, and, at very -hospitable houses, sandwiches and wishy-washy negus, are all that you can -reckon upon in the way of refreshment at a conversazione. - -Of late days, conversaziones, which were ordinarily given by private -persons—the Mrs. Leo Hunters of the _beau monde_—have been held by -societies literary and learned, nay, even by commercial and financial -companies. I remember myself receiving on one occasion an invite -to a “conversazione” at which the novel principles of a new life -assurance company, and the immense advantages offered to shareholders, -assurers, and annuitants, were to be fully developed and explained. The -conversazione was held at the bran-new offices of the company, smelling -very strongly of recent varnish, putty, and French polish, and of calf -ledgers and day-books yet innocent of entries. There were plenty of -ladies in evening dress, and plenty of gentlemen in white waistcoats, -and flirtation and gallantry were oddly mixed up with the Northampton -Tables and the Institute of Actuaries. We had a neat lecture by a stout -gentleman, in a blue coat buttoned up to the chin, upon the inestimable -blessings of life assurance. Tea and coffee were handed round in the -intervals of his discourse upon bonuses, paid-up capital, and the -purchase of reversions; and an immense sensation was created at the -termination of the lecture by the recitation, on the part of the orator, -of a neat little copy of verses, of which the commencing stanzas, so far -as my recollection will serve me, ran somewhat thus:— - - “When dear papa went up to heaven, - What grief mamma endured! - And yet that grief was softened, for - Papa he was assured. - - “He never lodged his policy, - He left it to mamma; - The office paid most cheerfully, - How happy now we are!” - -This touching effusion was received with great waving of handkerchiefs, -and some sobs, indeed, on the part of the ladies, and I have no doubt -that many of those fair ones on returning home did that night incite, -command, and compel their liege lords and masters forthwith to assure -their lives in the “Amiable and General Fire and Life Assurance Company” -(with which are incorporated the “Good-natured and Law Life,” the -“Equitable and Jocular Fire,” and the “Compassionate and Confidential -Deposit and Loan Association”). The friendly meeting of the “Amiable -and General” was distinguished above other conversaziones by the fact, -that when the ladies had taken their departure, a capital cold supper, -and abundant libations of champagne, were provided for the directors -and their friends, at which repast, which lasted to a very advanced -hour, everybody drank everybody else’s health with all the honours, and -everybody was made a preferential shareholder. I know that I was; though -I am not quite aware at the present moment of the exact locality of the -“Amiable and General’s” offices, or, indeed, whether that most promising -company is still in existence. - -The strange conversaziones a man may from time to time visit! I have -been to one at the Hanover Square Rooms given by the confraternity of -dentists. Slim gentlemen of Carker-like dental developement held forth -on the transcendant merit of the art of pulling out people’s teeth, and -fiercely denounced the quacks and impostors who ignorantly tampered with -the jaws of her Majesty’s subjects; the room itself was hung round with -the most hideous coloured cartoons, representative of diverse phases of -dental surgery, and I came away haunted by visions of pink beeswax, thin -gold plates, morocco easy chairs, springs, _dents osanores_, artificial -gums, and those dreadfully clean hands, the wrists garnished by -wristbands as clean, which seem to be the exclusive property of dentists. -I congratulated myself, too, on my departure, on the fact that no visitor -to the conversazione had, for the pure love of art, pulled out one of -my few remaining teeth, just as, after dining with a schoolmaster, I -felicitate myself for having escaped a caning. There is something in the -whiteness of a dentist’s hand, and in the twinkling of a schoolmaster’s -gray eye, that would make me tremble were I Lord Chancellor of Great -Britain. - -But the oddest conversazione I ever attended was not in this country, -but in a foreign land. It was in Paris—and I am speaking seriously—a -conversazione of _coiffeurs_, of barbers, hair-dressers, and wig-makers. -I declare that I have seldom passed a more agreeable evening in my -life. Everything was conducted on the most intensely genteel footing, -and everybody was ceremoniously polite; although I must be candid -in admitting that a decided odour of pomatum and freshly-frizzled -curls pervaded the _salon_, which was, indeed, the upstairs room of a -_restaurant_ at Montmartre. There were ladies present, too; and after -some pleasant little discourse, all tending to the glorification of -hair-dressing, an eminent professor of the philocomal art there present -proceeded to a series of practical and illustrative experiments on -the heads of some of the young ladies, in order to show the different -styles of dressing and arranging the head which had prevailed from -the time of François, _premier jusqu’ à nos jours_, to our own days. -The ladies submitted with charming equanimity to the operation, and -the experimentalist was enabled to submit to public inspection and -admiration a full-blown Ninon d’Enclos, a Mademoiselle de Montpensier, -a Duchesse de Longueville, a Madame de Maintenon, together with several -Du Barris, De la Vallières, Pompadours, Madame Talliens, Mademoiselle -Mars, Charlotte Cordays, and Théroigne de Méricourts. At the conclusion -of the experiments, there was a grand procession of the ladies variously -_coiffées_ round the room, followed by the triumphant hair-dressers, -waving their tongs and combs, and redolent of puff-powder; then we had -_orgeat_ and _anisette_; and then I went and supped in the _restaurant_ -downstairs with one of the hair-dressers, who went me halves in a bottle -of Beaune, and swore eternal friendship to me over a _Mayonnaise de -homard_. - -But to return to the conversazione world of London. Suppose we take -a literary one to begin with: say one of Mrs. Van Umbug’s Thursdays. -Mrs. Van Umbug lives at that classically severe mansion, the “Arena. -Gladiator’s Crescent, Nero Square.” Mr. Van Umbug is a member of -Parliament, and sits on the Liberal side of the House, but nobody takes -much notice of him, and he is usually alluded to as Mrs. Van Umbug’s -husband. If you ask the coachman in the adjacent mews whose horses are -those the helper is harnessing to the brougham, he will probably answer, -“Mrs. Van Umbug’s.” The servants in the house in Gladiator Street, talk -continually of “Missus” (who makes her presence not only seen but felt), -but scarcely ever mention “Master.” The tradespeople usually send in -their bills to Mrs. Van Umbug; and it is certain that it is that lady -who issues the invitations and receives the company at her Thursday -conversaziones. Mr. Van Umbug, M.P., is scarcely ever seen at those -gatherings, and when he is, rarely, manifest, it is in a very meek and -subdued manner. He sneaks in and out as if the house didn’t belong to -him (which, indeed, it does not), and appears desperately afraid of the -portly man in black with the white Berlin gloves who hands round the tea -and coffee. - -Mrs. Van Umbug’s mansion is supposed to be furnished in the highest style -of taste and virtu. Hers is quoted as an abode of all that is elegant, -_recherché_, and _distingué_. What are taste and virtu, I wonder? -what makes things elegant, _distingué_, and _recherché_? Do chairs -that you can’t sit down upon, and spindled-shanked tables, tottering -beneath the weight of gaudily-bound books, containing specimens of -chromo-lithography? do a sham pre-Raphaelite picture or two, in which a -long-legged swain is courting a lady with yellow hair and a striped dress -falling in unnatural folds, under the lee of a marvellously-executed -waterbutt—a curiously-manipulated mangold-wurzel, and a minutely -finished frying-pan occupying the foreground? do scraps of armour and -oak-carvings, supposed to be ancient, but in reality manufactured the -week before last in Wardour Street? do odds and ends, and Chinese -monsters in porcelain, and a Louis Quinze clock, and the model of a Swiss -châlet in box-wood, and an imitation grotto and aquarium in an ante-room? -I suppose these things do. - -This present Thursday at Mrs. Van Umbug’s is a great literary one. - -The lions of literature are present in the flesh. Here is the -distinguished Snortup, author of “The Common Objects of the Back-yard,” -“Geology in Joke,” “Trigonometry Judged by Taxation,” “The Extinct -Animals of Eel-pie Island,” and other erudite and ponderous scientific -works. Snortup, who is a Doctor of Philosophy of the University of -Schinckelbrauen, is a heavy man, with a black wig and a huge black satin -stock, in which gleams a cameo bearing a curious resemblance to an -oyster. He snuffs a great deal, and when he speaks he does not belie his -name, but literally snorts. Near him is young Twiddles, with his auburn -hair, his turn-down collar, and Byron tie, his speckled silk stockings -and low shoes, his baby face and falsetto voice. Twiddles, who writes -under the pseudonym of Swedenborg Scanderberg, has just published a -volume of poems of the ultra-spasmodic order. In passages replete with -burning eloquence, he has spoken of the “moonbeam’s frosty rime, that -hoars the head of nature, and makes last summer’s sapling patriarchal -white.” His grand passage in “Ladye Babbynetta,” in which he alludes to -“the hot and rabid ice, that burns and sears by force of congelation,” -has been enthusiastically spoken of by Sidney Muffins, editor of the -“Tomfool” (with which is incorporated the “Pinchbeck News”) weekly -journal. Muffins is not a poet yet, but he hopes to be one when his -whiskers grow and he has read “Cassel’s Popular Educator.” Meanwhile, he -swears by Twiddles, and fiercely abuses, in print and in person, those -who can’t avoid the conviction that Twiddles is a donkey. - -Do you see that man with the enormous red beard, the black velvet cuffs, -collars, and facings to his coat, and the fez cap? That is O’Roarer. -O’Roarer is a special correspondent to the “Howl” daily newspaper. -O’Roarer went to the Crimea for the “Howl,” during the war; he quarrelled -with a major in a marching regiment, and challenged him to mortal -combat. The general commanding the division was compelled to request -O’Roarer to select some other locality for his hut, and terrific were -the criticisms upon that divisional general’s military conduct, which -subsequently appeared in the “Howl.” Little Eggles, who was a clerk in -the Commissariat Department, who hates O’Roarer, declares that he was -found in Balaclava once returning from a carouse on board ship, and -_Bacchi plenus_, that he was taken to the main-guard, and in the morning, -notwithstanding his protestations that it was “all a mistake,” and his -assertions of his “responsible position,” he received the customary -hospitality of the main-guard, namely, two dozen lashes. Eggles adds, -with a knowing wink, that the provost-marshal was not General ——’s nephew -for nothing. - -Besides Mr. O’Roarer and his fellows already described, there is the -Honourable Simperkin Blushington, that pleasing novelist and Oriental -traveller. A little to the left, and scowling at the Honourable Simperkin -fearfully, is Leathers, the author of “A Jaunt to Jericho” and “Seven -Years in a Penal Settlement.” Leathers wears a huge cut-velvet waistcoat, -that looks like a fragment from some tapestried window-curtain. He is -not at all clever, is Leathers—has no humour, observation, or power of -description; but he has got a name among the book-selling trade, somehow, -as a “good travelling hand”—a safe man for two volumes royal octavo -with plates and a map—and so soon does any foreign country, from Canton -to British Columbia, begin, from political or other causes, to attract -public attention, so soon is Leathers commissioned to write his two -bulky volumes of travels therein. Ill-natured people say that he keeps -particulars relative to geography pigeon-holed in his library, and that -he never went further than Boulogne, in the days of the five-shilling -fares; but Leathers gets his price, and can afford to laugh at the -evil-speaking. Bonassus, the publisher, of Bumpus Street, will have -Leathers’s portrait in the next edition of “Rambles in the Island of -Perim.” - -I am sure it is very ungallant in me to have been so long silent -regarding the ladies who grace the literary conversazione with -their presence. A man must be, indeed, a brute who could pass over -the charms of Miss Withers, aged forty, authoress of “Crackings of -the Heartstrings,” “Shudderings of the Soul,” “Crinklings of the -Spirit-skin,” “Eyeball Darts,” and other pathetic lyrics. Miss Withers -once kept a boarding-school, but gradually languished into poetry. She -attained considerable celebrity in the time of the Annuals, but on the -downfall of those amusing ephemerides, she betook herself to history, and -is the writer of “Lives of the Wet Nurses of the Princesses of England,” -“Memorials of celebrated Bedchamber Women,” and “The Silversticks in -Waiting before the Conquest”—all works replete with critical acumen, -and brimful of historical lore, though following a little too closely -in the footsteps of a lady who has written an admirable and genuine -History concerning some Queens of England. Miss Withers, however, has -done very well for her publishers and for herself. She is one of those -authoresses who, dying, would never wish to blot out a line they had -written, simply because Heaven has gifted them with a happy mental -cecity that prevents them from discerning that nine-tenths of their -works should never have been written at all. You may see Miss Withers -any day in the British Museum Reading-room, vigorously compiling away -at the desk marked “for ladies only.” She has piles of books around -her; she makes the attendants’ lives a torment to them with the flying -squadrons of book-tickets she deposits at the bar; she walks about -the india-rubber flooring with one pen behind her ear and another in -her mouth. She, being tall, bony, severe of aspect, and much given to -snuff-taking, is generally feared by the Museum frequenters. She wrenches -volumes of the catalogue from mild young clergymen in spectacles and -M. B. waistcoats. She follows line after line of the printed page with -her heavy inkstained forefinger. Once Dedman the pedigree-hunter, who -was filling up his ticket opposite Miss Withers, was venturous enough -to ask her the day of the month. She called him, in a hollow voice, -“fellow,” on the spot, snuffed indignantly, and afterwards spoke of him -to the attendant with the red moustache as an “impertinent jackanapes.” -The only person with whom she condescends to be conversational in the -reading-room, is Eglintoun Beaverup, the famous novelist, satirist, poet, -traveller, Quarterly Reviewer, essayist, epigrammatist and politician, -who stood for the Macbeth district of burghs last general election, and -proved in an article in the “Rampant Magazine,” that the present Duke of -Sennacherib’s grandfather was a pork butcher in Liquorpond Street, and -that Sir Ranulph De Brie’s papa (who was a pawnbroker) owed his baronetcy -to a loan of ten thousand pounds, advanced by him to the Prince Regent -on the security of a pinchbeck watch, which that improvident scion of -royalty, having no other available pawnable property, had borrowed for -the nonce from one of the helpers in his stable. Beaverup is himself -descended from Brian de Bois Guilbert on the father’s side, and from the -original Thane of Cawdor, who slew Duncan, on that of the mother. Miss -Withers will sometimes exchange deadly whispers with him relative to the -mushroom characteristics of our modern peerage, and the departed glories -of soccage and villeinage, infang theof and outfang theof. - -Ah! and you are there, too, at Mrs. Van Umbug’s conversazione, little -Fanny Gillytin. Even so! behold Fanny in a black satin dress and a laced -_berthe_, and her yellow wavy hair parted on one side like a man, seated -on an ottoman in deep conversation with Professor Sventurato, that -red-hot republican, formerly one of the tribunes of the Ultramontane -Republic; next, under the name of Kibaub Bey, a colonel in the Turkish -service, warring against the Moscovs in Anatolia; then deputy-assistant -quartermaster-general under the immortal Walker, liberator of Nicaragua; -next, an actor at the Variétés Theatre, New Orleans; next, keeper of an -oyster and lager bier saloon, in One-Hundred-and-Twenty-seventh Street, -Ginslingopolis, in the United States of America; next, of Paris, Milan, -Turin, Vienna, and Pesth, travelling as a broom-girl, an old woman, a -Jesuit priest, a waiter at a _café_, a Franciscan friar, and a clown to -a circus; now of the Whetstone Park College for Ladies (by whom he is -adored), professor of modern languages; during the foregoing time, and -occasionally, a prisoner in divers cells, wards, casemates, underground -dungeons, _oubliettes_, _piombi_, _ergastoli_, and penal colonies, from -all of which he has escaped by means little short of miraculous. Fanny, -they say, is madly in love with Sventurato, and would marry him, were not -the professor already allied to a Moldo-Wallachian lady, the daughter of -a Kaïmakan, whose heroism effected his escape from the citadel of Comorn, -and who afterwards essayed to poison him in his coffee. Fanny is no less -mad after liberty, by which she means universal democracy, universal -spoliation, and universal smash. She has some private fortune, which she -dispenses liberally among necessitous refugees; and in furtherance of the -sacred cause of liberty—as she understands it—she has written piles of -books. She is the authoress of that flaming epic, “The Tyrant’s Entrails, -or a Maiden’s Wish;” “Crowns and Coffins, or Oligarchs and Ogres,” an -historical retrospect; “Mazzini the Shiloh,” and “Victory and Vitriol,” -those soul-stirring pamphlets. She signs revolutionary bank-notes; she -applauds regicide; she is in correspondence (in a complicated cipher -which every police official from Paris to Petersburg understands and -laughs at) with foreign revolutionary committees. She visits the -Continent sometimes to distribute funds and ammunition. She would be -ready to assume man’s clothes for the benefit of her adored liberty—as -she understands it. Ah! Fanny, Fanny, pause; ah! rash and foolish girl, -for whom to be whipped and sent to bed would be the better portion, -forbear to play with these edged tools! No second-sight is necessary -for the result of these miserable machinations to be manifest. I see -the portico of a theatre brilliantly lighted up; for a Tyrant and his -young innocent wife come hither to-night. He is hemmed in by guards and -police-agents; yet, for all his escort, desperate men rush forward and -throw hand-grenades beneath his carriage-wheels. A horrible explosion, -and then scores of peaceful men, women, and children, are borne, dead -or frightfully mutilated, to the hospitals; and the Tyrant, safe and -sound, bows to a cheering audience from his box. I see four downcast -men sitting between gensd’arme on the criminals’ bench of a crowded -court-house, before stern judges who have doomed them to death before -the very reading of the indictment. I see a straight-waistcoated wretch -sitting in his chair in a gloomy cell, his head bent down, the governor -and the priest standing by, while the executioner cuts off his hair and -shaves the back of his neck. I see a grim, gray winter’s morning in the -fatal Place of the Roquette. A space is kept clear by thousands of horse, -foot, artillery, and police; and, thrust to the furthermost limits of the -place, is a pale-faced crowd surging like a sea. Then the drums beat, and -the dismal procession issues from a prison to a scaffold. Then, tottering -between priests and turn-keys, come two bare-footed men, with long white -shirts over their garments, and their faces concealed by hideous black -veils. But the veils are removed when they mount the scaffold, when -one by one a distorted, livid face, with white lips, appears, when the -executioner seizes the pinioned criminal, and flings him—yes, flings him, -is the word—on the plank. Then I see the horrible gash in the face as the -moribund strives to shape his mouth to utter his last words on earth; -the last up-turning of the starting eye-balls; but the plank reverses, -the rollers revolve, the slide closes, the spring is touched, the KNIFE -falls, the blood spouts, and the heads drop into the sawdust of the red -basket. Liberty, equality, and fraternity, flaming epics, soul-stirring -pamphlets, and complicated ciphers, have come to this miserable end. The -Tyrant is borne through the streets, the people shouting, and the maidens -strewing flowers at his feet. The telegram has been despatched from the -revolutionary committee to the Roquette, and the answer is a corpse that -quivers, the parricide’s shroud, and the headsman’s bloody axe. - -Of course there are some titled folks at Mrs. Van Umbug’s conversazione: -it would not be complete without a literary lord—a harmless nobleman, -generally, who has translated Horace, invented a new metre, or discovered -a new butterfly; and a literary lady—if separated from her husband all -the better, who paints him in the darkest of colours, as the hero of -every one of her novels. And, equally of course, Ethelred Guffoon is -here. Ethelred Guffoon is everywhere. He is one of Mrs. Van Umbug’s -special favourites. She calls him by his Christian name. He hunts up new -lions for her; occasionally he officiates as peacemaker, and prevents -the lions from growling and fighting among themselves. He rushes from -Mrs. Van Umbug’s conversazione to the Pontoppidan Theatre, to see a new -face, which he must criticise; after that he will sit up half the night -to review Mr. Gladstone’s Homer, for the “Daily Scratcher,” and will be -at Somerset House by punctual office hours the next morning. A man of the -age, Ethelred Guffoon—a man of the time, a good fellow, but frivolous. - -I wonder whether the celebrities one sees at this shadowy conversazione -really represent the literary world—the real people who write the books -and think the thoughts. I am afraid they do not. I fear that to find -the princes of the pen, the giants of the land of letters, I must go -further afield. Lo, here is Great Tom of Chelsea, sitting cosily, in -his back parlour, smoking a pipe of bird’s-eye with Eglintoun Beaverup, -and telling him he is about having his ceilings whitewashed. Here is -Lord Livy poring over Restoration and Revolution broadsides by his -reading-lamp in his lonely chambers in the Albany;—no, not lonely, the -spirits of the old historic men come from their dusty shelves and clap -him on the shoulder, and cry, “Go on and prosper, Thomas Babington, -Lord Livy.” The great Mr. Polyphemus, the novelist, is bidden to the -Duke of Sennacherib’s, and as he rolls to Sennacherib House in his -brougham, meditates satiric onslaughts on “Tom Garbage” and “Young -Grubstreet”—those Tom Thumb foes of his[12]—in the next number of the -“Pennsylvanians.” Mr. Goodman Twoshoes is reading one of his own books -to the members of the Chawbacon Athenæum, and making, I am delighted -to hear, a mint of money by the simple process. Goldpen, the poet, has -taken his wife and children to Miss P. Horton’s entertainment; Bays, the -great dramatist, is sitting in the stalls of the Pontoppidan Theatre -listening with rapt ears to the jokes in his own farce; and Selwyn Cope, -the essayist, is snoring snugly between the sheets, having to rise very -early to-morrow morning in order to see a man hanged. And where are the -working-men of literature, the conscripts of the pen, doomed to carry -Brown Bess, for sixpence a day, all their lives? Where are Garbage and -Grubstreet? In the worst inn’s worst room, with racing prints half hung, -the walls of plaster and the floors of sand, at once a deal table but -stained with beer, sits Garbage playing four-handed cribbage with an -impenitent hostler, a sporting man who has sold the fight, and a potboy -who is a returned convict? Sits he there, I ask, or is he peacefully -pursuing his vocation in country lodgings? And Grubstreet, is he in some -murky den, with a vulture’s quill dipped in vitriol inditing libels upon -the great, good, and wise of the day? Wonder upon wonders, Grubstreet -sits in a handsome study—listening to his wife laughing, over her crochet -work, at Mr. Polyphemus’s last attack on him, and dandling a little child -upon his knee! Oh! the strange world in which we live, and the post that -people will knock their heads against! - -[Illustration: ELEVEN O’CLOCK P.M.: A SCIENTIFIC CONVERSAZIONE.] - -From a literary to a learned or scientific conversazione, at one of which -we are about to take a transient peep, there is but one step; indeed, -literature is always welcome among the good-natured old Dryasdusts, who -are continually raking and rummaging, and rocking the “placers” and -“prospects” of knowledge, and turning up huge masses of quartz, from -which the nimble-fingered chymists of the pen extract flakes of shining -gold. Presto! we leave the Republic of Letters, and are in the handsome -rooms of the Royal Inquiring Society. This meritorious association -(incorporated by Royal charter) is perpetually asking questions, and, -though it often receives insufficient, if not ridiculous responses, yet -manages, at the close of every year, to accumulate a highly-respectable -stock of information on almost every imaginable topic. The members, I -will assume (would that such a society in strict reality existed), are -draughts from all the learned, scientific, philosophical, antiquarian, -and artistic societies in London; and on the first Thursday in every -month during the season, they meet to gloze over curiosities exhibited -for their inspection, to shake hands and crack jokes with one another—I -have even seen the friendly dig in the ribs, accompanied by the sly -chuckle, occasionally administered—and to ask questions and receive -answers. They are “Notes and Queries” (chattiest, most quaintly-erudite -of periodicals) incarnated. But they abjure not the presence of the -gentler, unscientific sex. These rare old boys of learning and science -thread their way through the rooms (sometimes almost inconveniently -crowded, for the Royal Inquiring Society is very popular) with blooming -wives and daughters on their arms. The young ladies delight in these -conversaziones—for a change. They are so strange, so peculiar, they -say. You don’t meet anybody to dance with or to talk about the weather, -or the Crystal Palace, or crinoline, or the Botanical Gardens; but you -see such nice old gentlemen, with dear, shiny, bald heads, and such -wonderful intellectual-looking beings, with long hair, turn-down collars, -and large feet, who smell musty bones with unpronounceable names, and -make extraordinary instruments to whiz round, and point out places upon -maps, and talk _so_ cleverly (but so incomprehensibly to you, my dears) -about rusty coins and the backbones of fishes, and battered saucepans, -which _they_ say are helmets. And then there are the nice stereoscopes -to peep through, and the beautiful water-colour drawings and photographs -to look at, and the old gentlemen are so quiet and so polite, and so -different from the young men one meets in society, who either stammer and -blush or are superciliously rude and put their hands in their trousers’ -pockets. Yes, young ladies, the bald-headed old gentlemen, the careworn, -long-haired, slovenly-looking men, are quiet and polite. They were, many -of them, poor and humble once; but they have hewn out steps from the rock -of knowledge, whereby they have mounted to that better fortune—European, -Worldwide fame. That quiet man with gray hair, smiles when ministers -press upon him a knighthood or a baronetcy: “_Cui bono?_” he says; “I -would rather be a corresponding member of the Academy of Honolulu. When -I am old and broke, and past work, you may give me enough for a little -bread in my old days: I take it as a Right, not as a favour,” just as -Turner the painter left in his will the simple direction that he was to -be buried in the Cathedral Church of St. Paul.—“St. Paul’s is for the -painters and the warriors, as Westminster Abbey is for the poets and -statesmen; but I want not your honours and titles. Such as you have, you -bestow on your lawyers and your lacqueys; but your captains are almost -ashamed to take the decorations that are shared by footmen and backstairs -cringers.” - -You have readily divined, I hope, why I have instructed the dexterous -limner who illustrates these pages to select for his subject the -scientific, rather than the literary, conversazione. The men of science -do not obtrude their personalities upon the public. Their fame is known, -their influence felt from London to Louisiana, but their portraits seldom -meet the public eye. Those of General Tom Thumb or the Christy Minstrels -would attract more crowds to the print-shop windows, and sell better. -But, good lack! what a commotion there would be if the portraits of a -series of _littérateurs_, in their habits as they live, appeared in -“Twice Round the Clock!” I should be denounced, repudiated, vilified, -abused, for the artist’s misdeeds. The great Mr. Polyphemus would crush -me mercilessly beneath his iron heel; Grubstreet would (threaten to) -kick me; Garbage would have me on the hip; O’Roarer smite me beneath -the fifth rib; Leathers devise devices against me to make my existence -intolerable; and Ethelred Guffoon castigate me terribly in his popular -paper, “The Half-penny Cane.” No; let me deal only with the shadows; and -those that the cobweb cap fits, e’en let them wear it. - - * * * * * - -At Eleven o’Clock in the evening, the social institutions known as -Evening Parties assume their gayest and most radiant aspect. I think -that I have already hinted in these pages that I am not a very frequent -visitor at these entertainments. The truth must out: the people don’t -like me. At the last _soirée_ I attended, a fashionable physician, coming -in very late, and throwing out for general hearing the fact that he had -been dining with an earl, I meekly suggested that he should allow me to -rub myself up against him, in order to catch some of his aristocracy. All -the women laughed, but the men looked as though they would have very much -liked to throw me out of the window. There was one exception—a gentleman -with one eye, and a face like a glass case full of curiosities, so many -different phases of expression were there in it, who came across to me -and made friends at once. But I shall never be asked to that house again; -and if I am ill, I won’t send for the fashionable physician. _Timeo -Danäos_, and the pills they give you. - -Thus circumstanced, I feel it becoming my degree to stay on the outside -of great houses, and, herding among the crowd and the link-men, to -witness the setting down and the taking up of the carriages coming to -or going from evening parties. It has always been my lot so to stand on -the kerb, to be a continual dweller on the threshold. I have stood there -to see people married, to see people buried, and have murmured: “My -turn must come next, surely;” but my time has not come yet. A king has -patted me on the head, and I have sate, as a child, on the knee of the -handsomest woman in Europe. I have been on the brink of many a precipice; -I have attained the edge of many a cloud. But I have stopped there. I -have always been like the recalcitrant costermonger’s donkey, “going for -to go,” but never accomplishing the journey in its entirety. - -I spoke of link-men. I might tell you a not uninteresting story regarding -those industrials, in these gas-lit days growing day by day rarer and -rarer. The tarred-rope made links are indeed, save on extraneous foggy -nights, grown quite extinct, and are replaced by neat lanterns; and -the time will come when the old red jackets, famous as a class from -Grosvenor Square to the Horticultural Gardens at Chiswick, from the -club-house fronts, on _levée_ days, to the doorways of evening parties, -shall become quite obsolete. But there is a grand old admiral living -now—titled, high in office, before whom even his equals in rank bow, and -who can make post-captains wait in his ante-chambers—who owes at least -half his advancement and social position to the services of the link-men. -Thirty years ago this officer was a young stripling, cast upon the ocean -of London society. He was of good family, but his acquaintances in the -fashionable world were few and far between, his influence was _nil_, and -his promotion was therefore more than dubious. But at the Opera, then the -King’s Theatre, he happened to form a shilling-giving on the one side, -cap-touching on the other, acquaintance with a link-man—Silver Tom, I -think he was called, from a silver badge he always wore, presented to him -by a noble marquis whom he had saved from being prematurely scrunched on -a certain dark night between his own carriage wheels and those of the -equipage of a duchess, his grandmamma. “Silver Tom,” moved by gratitude, -and experienced by his (outside) knowledge of the fashionable world, -put the then young and poor lieutenant up to what is vernacularly -known as “a thing or two.” Not a grand entertainment could be given in -Fashionabledom, but on the lieutenant’s arrival in full evening costume, -“Silver Tom” bawled up his name to the footman in attendance on the -door-step (the _régime_ of cards was not so strictly attended to as it is -now); he on the door-step halloaed it out to the powdered attendant on -the first landing; he, in his turn, gave it to the black-vestmented groom -of the chambers, who proclaimed it to the world in general in sonorous -tones, and the bold lieutenant was inducted to the saloons of reception. -Who was to know whether he had been invited to the feast or not? Not, -certainly, the hostess, who, perhaps, did not know two hundred and fifty -of her five hundred guests by sight. Some had been asked by her husband, -some by herself. Not certainly the guests, who would not have been -much surprised if they had met the Hottentot Venus or the King of the -Cannibal Islands. The lieutenant made his bow and himself comfortable; -was sure to meet some lady or gentleman in society whom he knew, and -probably departed with a list of half-a-dozen newly-formed and valuable -acquaintances. He went on and prospered. Gradually, from being met and -liked at great houses, he received genuine invitations, and, as I have -premised, he made a good end of it at the Admiralty. I hope he pensioned -“Silver Tom.” - -[Illustration: ELEVEN O’CLOCK P.M.: AN EVENING PARTY.] - -Who is dead by this time, most probably; but I can still stand by the -side of his successor, at the door of the great house, by the lamp -and lantern’s glare, and see the gay company pass in and out. How the -horses champ! how the dresses rustle! how the jewels shine! and what -fair women and brave men are here congregated! Messrs. Weippert’s or -Collinet’s band are upstairs; Messrs. Gunter’s men have brought the -ices; there are flirtations in the conservatories, and squeezings of -hands interchanged on the stairs. Vows of love are spoken, flowers from -bouquets are given; and is it not, after all, the same old, old story, -that boys and girls will love one another, and that the old people will -look on with pretended severity, but with real contentment in their -hearts, and that there will be present a few jealous and cankered ones, -who will look on to envy the others because they are so happy? Drive envy -from your hearts, ye who ride not in gilded chariots, and move not in -the “fashionable circles.” There is as much truth, love, and gaiety at a -“sixpenny hop,” between maid-servants and journeymen bakers, as at the -most refined evening parties. - - - - -MIDNIGHT.—THE HAYMARKET, AND THE SUB-EDITOR’S ROOM. - - -Midnight: an awful sound. Supposing you were to be hanged at three -o’clock in the morning, as I am doomed to be, in a literary sense, how -would you like to hear twelve o’clock sound? But three hours more to -live! In three hours “the sheriff he will come,” and the chaplain, and -the hangman, as they came to Mr. Samuel Hall _en route_ for Tyburn. In -three hours the clock will run down; the pendulum shall oscillate no -more; Time shall rest on his scythe; the last grain of sand shall run -out, and of these ephemeral papers you shall say _fuit_. We have clomb -the hill together, and we will rest together at the foot. - -Glancing over my map of London, and retracing the course of our -peregrinations, I find, with some complacency, that we have not, after -all, left many parts of the metropolis unexplored. We have been to -Camberwell and to Hyde Park Corner; to Pentonville and to London Bridge; -to Billingsgate and to Euston Square. It is true, that we have not yet -penetrated to the interior of Buckingham Palace, or the condemned cell at -Newgate, nor do I think that I shall assume the part of the Boy Jones or -a visiting magistrate for your amusement; but we have been “behind the -scenes” of more places than theatres since this clock was first wound up. -It is not without regret now, that I linger over and dally with my few -remaining hours. They have been very pleasant ones for me. I shall miss -the printer’s boy (for, be it known, I am about to abandon literature and -go into trade, though I have not yet settled the precise business—corn, -or coals, or commission agency). I shall miss, beyond aught else, the -daily deluge of letters from anonymous correspondents—praising, blaming, -complaining, or inquiring, but all, I am glad to say, very appreciative -readers of my shiftless writings. - -But we have come to the complexion of midnight, and the hour must be -described. It is fraught with meaning for London. You know that in -poetical parlance midnight is the time when church-yards yawn (they -had need to be weary now, for the Board of Health won’t allow them to -receive any occupants _intra muros_), and graves give up their dead. And -there be other grave-yards in London town—yards where no tombstones or -brick vaults are—that at midnight yawn and send forth ghosts to haunt -the city. A new life begins for London at midnight. Strange shapes -appear of men and women who have lain a-bed all the day and evening, -or have remained torpid in holes and corners. They come out arrayed in -strange and fantastic garments, and in glaringly gaslit rooms screech and -gabble in wild revelry. The street corners are beset by night prowlers. -Phantoms arrayed in satin and lace flit upon the sight. The devil puts a -diamond ring on his taloned finger, sticks a pin in his shirt, and takes -his walks abroad. It is a stranger sight than even the painter Raffet -imagined in his picture of Napoleon’s midnight review, and it is, I -think, a much better thing to be at home and in bed, than wandering about -and peeping into the mysteries of this unholy London night life. - -I know this book (to my sorrow) well; have conned its grim pages, and -studied its unwholesome lore, attentively. But I am not about to make -you a too-recondite participant in my knowledge. Were it not that -the appointed hours were meted out to me, and that from one of the -hours—midnight—the Haymarket is inseparable, the wicked street should -find no place here; but I must be faithful to my trust, and the bad -thoroughfare must be in part described. - -Foreigners have frequently pointed out to me a peculiar aspect of London, -and one which appeals strongly to the observant faculties, and which, -nevertheless, may escape us Cockneys who are to the metropolitan manner -born. It is the duality of the huge city, not so much as regards its -night and day side, as in its Sunday and week-day appearance. And this -is not wholly to be ascribed to the shop shutters being closed. The -Strand on Ash Wednesdays and Good Fridays is still the Strand; but on the -Sabbath it would seem as though every house in the West and East ends had -put on its special Sunday suit, and had decorated itself with a certain -smug spruceness quite marked and distinct. You have a difficulty in -recognising your most familiar streets. Regent Street is quite altered. -The aspect of Piccadilly is entirely changed; and Cheapside is no more -like the Cheapside of yesterday than Hamlet is like Hecuba. The people, -too, are not by any means the same people you meet on week-days. Not only -their clothes are different, but their faces, their manners, their very -gait and bearing, seem changed. You meet people out walking on Sundays, -who during the week are confined to places where they are hidden from -the public gaze, or are at most but half visible. You see the bar-maids’ -skirts and the pawnbrokers’ legs on Sundays. From Monday to Saturday you -can see but their busts. You may nod to a sheriff’s officer on Sunday -without entertaining any apprehensions as to the piece of paper he may -have against you in that dismal black leather pocket-book of his. The -omnibus roofs are covered, the steamboats’ decks are crowded, the cabs -full, the pavement thronged, the very saddle-horses bestridden by men who -seem of a different race to the outside world of the previous four and -twenty hours. Dirty streets look clean; disreputable streets decorous; -and thoroughfares that were as still as mice during the week, become -quite noisy on Sundays with carriage and cab wheels, as sinners of wealth -and distinction rattle up to the doors of the fashionable chapel. - -It is the privilege of the unique Haymarket to be like its week-night -self on Sunday; but in the six mundane days to be a totally different -Haymarket from the street which it becomes immediately after midnight. -True, by daylight, and during the early part of the evening, it is that -which it will remain all night: a broad thoroughfare inclining slightly -downhill northward; a theatre on its eastern, a colonnaded opera-house -on its western side; a thoroughfare containing a sufficiency of shops -for the sale of general merchandise, but, predominating above these, -a crowd of hotels, _restaurants_, cigar-divans, coffee-houses, and -establishments for the sale of lobsters, oysters, and pickled salmon, -according to the seasons in which those dainties are considered most fit -to be enjoyed. But it is not the same—no, not at all the same—Haymarket -to which it will suddenly turn, when the clock of St. Martin’s church -shall proclaim the hour of midnight. The change, at first imperceptible, -is yet in a moment more immense. As though Harlequin had smitten the -houses—and the people also—with his wand, the whole Haymarket wakes, -lights, rises up with a roar, a rattle, and a shriek quite pantomimic, -if not supernatural. The latter image would, I think, be the most _vrai -semblant_. “Hey for fun!” “How are you to-morrow?” and “How are you?” are -the cries and the pass-words. The painted Clown (in mosaic jewellery, -and all-round collar, an astonishing cravat, and a variegated shirt) -grins his grin and tumbles on the pavement. He is not above stealing an -occasional sausage, bonneting a policeman, overturning an image-boy’s -stock in trade, or throwing the contents of a fishwoman’s basket about. -Harlequin in a mask and patchwork-suit is here, there, and everywhere, -conjuring money out of people’s pockets, and perpetually pursued by a -vindictive Sprite, habited in the garb of a police constable. The lean -and slippered Pantaloon hobbles over the flags, and grimaces, with his -wicked old countenance, beneath the gas-lamps. And Columbine, _Wallah -billah!_ Columbine in muslins, spangles, and artificial flowers, is here, -there, and everywhere, too, and dances her miserable jigs to the sorry -music of the fife, viol, and tabor, squeaking, scraping, and thumping at -the gin-shop by the corner of the court. - -Midnight: the play is over, and the audience pour from the Haymarket -Theatre. The aristocratic opera season is concluded by this time of the -year, and the lovers of the drama have it all their own way. Crowds of -jovial young clerks and spruce law students cluster beneath the portico, -yet convulsed by the humours of Mr. Buckstone. Happy families of rosy -children, radiant in lay-down collars, white skirts and pink sashes, trot -from the entrance to the dress-circle under the wing of benevolent papa -and stout good-humoured mamma, with a white burnous, and a tremendous -fan; their healthy countenances all beaming and mantling with smiles, -and joyously recalling the jokes of that funny old man in the farce, or -expatiating on the glories of the concluding _tableau_, with its tinsel -and gold leaf, its caryatides of ballet girls, and its red and blue -fire, in Mr. Talfourd’s last sparkling burlesque. Happy, happy days -and frame of mind, when the theatre can give such delights as these. -Isn’t it better to sit amazed and delighted in the front row of the -dress-circle, or on the third row of the pit, roaring at the stalest Joe -Millerisms, and clapping the hands at the tomfool feats of tumbling, than -to lie _perdu_ in a private-box, now scowling, and now sneering, like -Stricknine, the great theatrical critic, who will go and sup afterwards -at the Albion, on an underdone mutton-chop, and, calling for pen, ink, -and paper, slaughter the inoffensive burlesque mercilessly. Stricknine -can’t write burlesques himself. He can’t write books; he can only -slaughter, and must have been apprenticed in his youth to Bannister or -Slater. And, slaughterer as he is, he is not equal to the manly business -of knocking down a bullock with a pole-axe. Give him a long keen knife, -and he will puncture the neck of a lamb, and that is all. - -Ethelred Guffoon (who has been to three theatres to-night) bustles out -from his stall with his lorgnette in its shagreen case. Mr. Kickeroe, -Q.C., comes from the pit, shouldering his umbrella. Kickeroe has been a -constant visitor to the pit of the Haymarket any time these twenty years, -though he could easily afford a private box once if not twice a week. -His greatest extravagance is to purchase four upper-box tickets when Mr. -Buckstone takes his benefit. He is an ardent admirer of the Haymarket -five-act comedies; and people say that many of his most effective and -jury-touching perorations have been drawn from the sentimental “tags” -of the Haymarket dramatists. Trotting down the box-stairs, too, comes -vivacious, learned, chatty, kindly, abusive Mr. Boblink, with his head -prematurely white, but his heart as green as it was thirty years since. -Mr. Boblink is generally beloved, though regarded with a humorous -terror for his vituperative qualities. He expatiates on the necessity -of breaking butterflies on the wheel, although, good man, he would not -harm a particle of pollen on their wings. His fierce language is but the -bellow of the blunderbuss: here is no bullet, not so much as a bit of old -hat for wadding in his gun. He strikes with a wooden sword, and scourges -malefactors with a knout whose lash is made of floss-silk. He wears the -mask of a Gorgon horrible to see; but the mask is transparent as glass, -and you may descry the honest genial face of the man wreathed with sly -smiles behind it. So he goes through life—a _bourru bienfaisant_—hitting -men sounding thwacks with a bladder full of peas, and recording sentence -of literary death against culprits, knowing full well that the sentence -will never be carried out. To hear Boblink talk, you would think him -the most malevolent creature breathing. He is so different from smooth, -quiet, smiling Mr. Stricknine, (_he_ only scowls when he is alone) who -presses your hand warmly, and immediately betakes himself to the Albion, -there to make a neat _fricassée_ of your reputation, and, in the most -polished and classical language, insinuate that you are a hopeless fool -with dishonest propensities. And yet Mr. Boblink has a deadly armoury of -his own at home, and knows the _tierce_ and the _carte_ and the “_raison -démonstrative_,” and has, when exasperated, proved himself so cunning -of fence, that I would see him hanged before I would fight with him in -earnest. - -Supper is now the great cry, and the abundant eating and drinking -resources of the Haymarket are forthwith called into requisition. -Bless us all! there must be something very dusty and exhaustive in the -British drama to make this Haymarket audience so clamorous for supper. -By the ravenous hunger and thirst displayed by the late patrons of the -theatre, you would imagine that they had gone without dinner for a week. -You may sup in the Haymarket as your taste would lead, or as the state -of your finances would counsel—if people followed such counsel—you to -sup. You may cut your coat according to your cloth. Are you rich—there -is Dubourg’s, the Hôtel de Paris, and the upstairs department of the -Café de l’Europe. There is no lack of cunning cooks there, I warrant, -to send you up pheasants and partridges _en papillotte_; _filets_, with -mushrooms or truffles, culinary gewgaws that shall cost five shillings -the dish. Yea, and cellarers will not be wanting to convey to you the -Roederer’s Champagne, the fragrant Clos Vougeot, the refreshing Lafitte, -and the enlivening Chambertin with yellow seal; smooth waiters to attend -to your minutest wishes, and bring you the handsome reckoning on an -electro-silver plateau, and, with many bows, return you what odd change -there may be out of a five-pound note. I do not say that the Haymarket -contains such gorgeous supper-houses as the Maison Dorée, the Café de -Paris, the Café Anglais, or Vachette’s; but I have seen some notable -_parties fines_ within its precincts. The Haymarket never was virtuous; -so there is never any question about the cakes and ale, and the ginger -that is hot in the mouth, to be found therein. - -If still your taste leads you towards French cookery—though you wince -somewhat at the idea of claret, Burgundy, and Champagne to follow—there -exists a second-class French _restaurant_ or two where succulent suppers -may be obtained at moderate prices. If unpretending chops, steaks, -kidneys, sausages, or Welsh rabbit, washed down by the homely British -brown stout, and followed perchance by the soothing cigar, and the jorum -of hot anything-and-water: if such be your ambition, I should advise you -not to sup in the Haymarket at all; but to wait till one o’clock and sup -with me. I will show you the whereabouts. Such chops and steaks and _et -ceteras_, you may indeed obtain in the neighbourhood, but I like them -not. If your funds and your credit be very low, why, you can enter one -of the taverns—if you can reach the bar for the crowd of Bacchanalians -that are gathered before it, and sup on the quarter of a pork pie, a -sausage roll, and a Banbury cake, washed down by a glass of pale ale; -nay, if you be yet lower in pocket, and your available wealth be limited -to the possession of the modest and retiring penny, you may, at the -doors of most of the taverns, meet with an ancient dame, of unpretending -appearance, bearing a flat basket lined with a fair white cloth. She -for your penny will administer to you a brace of bones, covered with a -soft white integument, which she will inform you are “trotters.” There -is not much meat on them; but they are very toothsome and succulent. It -is no business of yours to inquire whether these be sheep’s trotters or -pigs’ trotters, or the trotters of corpulent rats or overgrown mice. They -are trotters. Look not the gift-horse in the mouth; for the penny was -perhaps a gift, however strictly you may have purchased the trotters. -Eat them, and thank heaven, and go thy ways, and take a cooling drink -at the nearest pump with an iron ladle chained to it, which is, if I am -not mistaken, over-against St. James’s Church in Piccadilly. Or, perhaps -you are fond of ham-sandwiches. The unpretending dame with the basket -will straightway vend you two slices of a pale substance, resembling in -taste and texture sawdust pressed into a concrete form, between which is -spread a veneer of inorganic matter, having apparently a strong affinity -to salted logwood. This is ham! The concrete sawdust is bread! The whole -is a sandwich! These luxuries are reckoned very nice by some persons, and -quite strengthening. - -Or, “another way,” as old Mrs. Glasse says in her cookery book. At the -Coventry Street extremity of the Haymarket stands that celebrated and -long-established institution known as the Royal Albert Potato Can. At -that three-legged emporium of smoking vegetables, gleaming with block tin -painted red, and brazen ornaments, the humble pilgrim of the Haymarket -may halt and sup for a penny. For a penny? What say I? for a halfpenny -even, may the belated and impoverished traveller obtain a refreshment at -once warm, farinaceous, and nourishing. Garnish your potato, when the -Khan of the Haymarket has taken him from his hot blanket-bed, and cut -him in two—garnish him with salt and pepper, eschew not those condiments, -they are harmless, nay, stimulating; but ho! my son, beware of the -butter! it is confusion. Better a dry potato and a contented mind, than -dreadful Irish salt grease—for butter I dare not call it, which may give -you a bilious attack that will last for a month. - -I should like to know what has been the use of my recommending these -various grades of supper to you, from the lordly Café de l’Europe to the -humble Potato Can, when I should have known all along, and as it were -intuitively, that your mind was bent upon oysters, and that oysters after -the play you were determined to have. Come along, then, a’ goodness’ -name, and if oysters are to be the order of the night, e’en let us have -them. - -The London oyster, or rather shell and cured fish shop, for the sale -of lobsters, crabs, pickled and kippered salmon, bloaters, and dried -sprats, is combined with that of the delicious molluscs of which so -many thousands are nightly consumed; the London oyster-shop, and -particularly the Haymarket one, stands, and is a thing apart, among -the notabilia of this metropolis. You know how the French eat oysters. -There is the _belle écaillère_, generally a hideous old woman of about -sixty, with a snuffy-looking pocket-handkerchief twisted round her -head, who sits at the _restaurant_ door amid a grove of oyster-shells -and hanks of straw, and, in the intervals of oyster-opening, darns -worsted stockings. The nimble _garçons_ come skipping from the gilded -saloons of the _restaurant_ within, and demand their required dozens and -half-dozens from the _écaillère_ without. The bearded frequenters of -the _restaurant_ evidently think it an epicurean and fashionable thing -to commence, or rather precede dinner, by swallowing so many oysters. -There are enterprising _bon vivants_ who will even go so far as their -two dozen: but I dissent from them, for three reasons: The first, that, -in my opinion, oysters should be eaten either alone—of themselves, by -themselves, or for themselves—or that they should be consumed full twenty -minutes before the repast; for the second, that all French oysters, -whether of Ostend, Maremnes, or Canale, are to me utterly abominable, -having—even when they are fresh, which is seldom—a certain coppery -flavour, superlatively nauseous; for the third, that in the best French -_restaurants_, it is difficult, if not impossible, to procure Cayenne -pepper; and, without that rubicund condiment, I would give no more for -the best “natives” than for a plate of cold boiled veal without salt. The -_écaillère_ element is the only one prevalent in France relative to the -sale of oysters, and the consumers pick them off the shells with little -silver pitchforks, squeeze lemon over them, and eat them daintily in many -mouthfuls. Fie upon such miminy-piminy ways! Oyster-shops the French -don’t seem to understand at all. At Chevet’s, that vast comestible shop -in the Palais Royal, they keep oysters, and lobsters, and prawns, and -shrimps—keep them as a show in the windows for a week or two, when, their -novelty beginning to wear off, they are disposed of, I presume, to the -nobility and gentry. They tell a story of a Frenchman, who hoarded up his -money, in order to purchase _un homard magnifique_, which he had seen at -Chevet’s, and to which he had taken a fancy. - -[Illustration: MIDNIGHT: SUPPER-ROOMS IN THE HAYMARKET.] - -Americans tell me that though the oyster attains high perfection, -and is held in culinary reverence as high, in the States, anything -resembling our Haymarket oyster-shop is not to be found in New York. But -on Broadway Pavement, during the gay night, brilliant lamps, sometimes -coloured in fantastic devices, invite you to enter underground temples -of oyster-eating. These are called oyster-cellars. Some are low and -disreputable enough, and not impassible to imputations of gouging, -bowie-kniving, and knuckle-dusting; but others are really magnificent -suites of apartments, decorated with mirrors and chandeliers, and glowing -with gilding, mahogany, and crimson velvet; and here you may consume -oysters as small as periwinkles or as large as cheese-plates—oysters -of strange and wondrous flavours—oysters with _bizarre_ and well-nigh -unpronounceable names—oysters cooked in ways the most marvellous and -multifarious: stewed, broiled, fried, scolloped, barbacued, toasted, -grilled, and made hot in silver chafing dishes like the delicious -preparation known as “despatch lobster.” You wash down suppers in -oyster-cellars such as these with Hock and Champagne; yet for all the -splendour and the rarity of the cooking, and the variety of oysters, -I will abide by the Haymarket oyster-shop, rude, simple, primitive as -it is, with its peaceful concourse of customers taking perpendicular -refreshment at the counter, plying the unpretending pepper-castor, and -the vinegar-cruet with the perforated cork, calling cheerfully for crusty -bread and pats of butter; and, tossing off foaming pints of brownest -stout, (pale ale—save in bottles, and of the friskiest description—is, -with oysters, a mistake) contentedly wipe their hands on the jack-towel -on its roller afterwards. - - * * * * * - -As in this real life of ours, Old Age and Infancy often meet on neutral -ground, and the prattle of the child goes forth with hand out-stretched -to meet the graybeard’s maundering: so, oh reader, do I find the -beginning and the end of these papers drawing closer and closer together. -Ere many hours they will meet; and their conjunction shall be the signal -for their decay. You will remember how, when the day was very young, -the morning scarce swaddled, and kicking in his cradle with encrimsoned -heels (Aurora, the nurse, had chafed them), we visited a great newspaper -office, and saw the publication of the monster journal. Now, when -midnight itself is fallen into the sere and yellow, we stand once more -within the precincts of journalism. This is not, however, the monster -journal that has all Printing House Square to roar and rattle in. No: -our office is in the Strand. We are free of the charmed domains. We pass -up a narrow court running by the side of the office, push aside a heavy -door, ascend the creaking staircase, and discreetly tapping at a door, -this time covered with green baize, find ourselves in the presence of Mr. -Limberly, the sub-editor of the “Daily Wagon.” - -Let us cast a glance round the room. What a litter it is in, to be -sure! what piles of newspapers, home and country ones, mangled and -disembowelled by the relentless scissors, cumber the floor! More -newspapers on shelves—old files, these—more on the table; letters -opened and unopened, wet proof-sheets, files of “copy,” books for -review, just sent by the publishers, or returned by the reviewers, -after they have duly demolished the contents and the authors. And all -about the room are great splashes and dried-up pools of ink, and the -ceiling is darkened with the smoke of innumerable candles—gas was, until -very lately, considered anything but orthodox in a newspaper office, -and many sub-editors still find its sharp, harsh, flickering, though -brilliant light, far inferior to the honest, though evil-smelling, old -tallow-candles, in their tin sconces and japanned shades. The “Daily -Wagon,” be it understood, is a newspaper of the good old Conservative -way of thinking—no Liberal notions, or humbug of that sort: Church -and State, strict constitutional and social discipline (including -game-laws, religious disabilities, church-rates, unequal taxation, rural -justices’ justice, and flogging in the army and schools)—the True Blue -British line of politics, in fact. Thus situated, the “Wagon,” one of -whose proprietors is said to be a peer, another a bishop, and a third -a brewer—nothing could be more respectable—sticks to its old office, -its old rooms, and its old staff. The two former have not been painted -within the memory of man; though it must be admitted that the latter -wash quite as frequently as the _employés_ of the “Morning Cracker,” -with its bran-new offices, its bran-new furniture, its bran-new type, -paper, machines, writers—bran-new everything but ideas. The “Daily -Wagoners” affect to sneer at the “Morning Cracker,” which, in its turn, -laughs the “Wagon” to scorn; but both combine in abusing the monster -journal of Printing House Square. “Wagoner” and “Cracker” are both -high-priced journals. So, of course, they both feel bound to ignore -even the existence of a journal called the “Daily Bombshell,” which -somehow manages to keep up a better staff of writers, and a larger -establishment, to give fresher news, more accurate intelligence, more -interesting correspondence, and reflections on public events incomparably -more powerful, than its high-priced contemporaries, all for the small -sum of one penny. The “Wagon” and the “Cracker” are in a chronic state -of rage at the “Bombshell,” though they pretend to ignore its existence; -but one day the bishop who is interested in the “Wagon,” hearing that -the circulation of the abhorred “Bombshell” exceeded fifty thousand, -while that of his own beloved journal fluctuated between five and seven -hundred, drove down in almost delirious excitement to the offices of the -“Wagon”—drove down in his own carriage, with his mitre on the panels—and -suggested to Mr. Fitzfluke, the editor, that the price of the paper -should forthwith come down to one penny. But Mr. Fitzfluke shook his -head in respectful deprecation of the proposition, and summoned to his -aid Mr. Limberly, who likewise shook his head, and whispered the magic -word “advertisements.” A grand consultation between the proprietors took -place next day, whereat the brewer came out in a rabidly conservative -point of view, and declared, striking a leathern-covered table, that he -would sooner see his own “Entire” retailed at a penny a pint, than submit -to an imitation in price of the “rubbishing prints” of a set of “dam -radicals.” So the “Daily Wagon” keeps up its price, and manages to crawl -on in a tortoise-like manner, supported by its advertisements. It sleeps -a good deal, and doesn’t want much to eat; and will bear being trodden -on, stumbled over, nay, occasionally jumped upon, without seeming in the -least to mind it. - -[Illustration: MIDNIGHT: THE SUB-EDITOR’S ROOM.] - -Mr. Limberly sits, then, in his sub-editorial throne—an unpretending -cane-bottomed arm-chair—surrounded by his _attachés_ and myrmidons, his -good men and true. The electric telegraph messenger—a spruce lad in the -not unbecoming uniform of that recently-formed corps—has just arrived, -bearing a message which may announce either war in the East or Peace in -China, either a fluctuation in the funds at St. Petersburg, or a murder -at Haverfordwest; either the wreck of a steamer, with all hands lost, -on the north-west coast of Ireland, or the arrival in the Mersey of a -clipper ship from Australia, with a few score thousand ounces of gold in -her treasure-room, to say nothing of the nuggets, the gold dust, and the -bankers’ receipts in the pockets of her wide-awake-hatted passengers. -But all is fish that comes to Mr. Limberly’s net. Leading article -and literary criticism, theatrical notices and prices of railway and -mining shares, advertisements and letters from eulogistic or indignant -correspondents, telegrams and foreign tittle-tattle, fires, murders, -fatal accidents, coroners’ inquests, enormous gooseberries, showers of -frogs, the acceptances of the St. Leger, and the prices of hops in the -Borough Market: he looks upon all these items but as so much “copy,” -for which the master printer is waiting, and which are required to fill -the ever-yawning columns of the “Daily Wagon.” Snipping and pasting, -extracting, excising, revising, and correcting, Mr. Limberly will work -late into the night and early into the morning; but he will not dream -of retiring to rest till the paper itself be “put to bed,”—_i.e._, laid -on the printing machine for the requisite number of copies to be struck -off; and even then he will probably go and smoke a cigar at the “Crimson -Hippopotamus,” in the Strand, hard by—the great house of call for morning -journalists—before he hails his matutinal cab, the driver of which waits -for him on the stand, and looks out for him quite as a regular customer, -and rattles over Waterloo Bridge to his well-deserved bed. - - - - -ONE O’CLOCK A.M.—EVANS’S SUPPER-ROOMS, AND A FIRE. - - -In the bleak, timbery city of Copenhagen, so terribly maltreated at the -commencement of the century by Admiral Lord Nelson, K.C.B.; in that -anything-but-agreeable capital of Denmark, where raw turnips sliced -in brandy form a favourite whet before dinner,—where they blacklead -(apparently) the stairs in the houses, and three-fourths of every -apartment are sacrificed to the preposterous exigencies of the Stove; -where the churches are mostly of wood, and the streets are paved with a -substance nearly resembling petrified kidney potatoes; in Copenhagen, -then, I formed, some thirty months since, a transient acquaintance with -an old gentleman in green spectacles. He was a Dane, formerly commercial, -now retired from business. He came every day, and with unvarying -regularity, to take his post-prandial coffee and _petit verre_ in the -_speise saal_ of the hotel then afflicted with my custom: he generally -indulged in the refreshment by dipping a large lump of sugar in the hot -liquid, sucking it, replenishing it, occasionally replacing the lump, -till the cup was emptied; and he snuffed eternally. These are not such -peculiar characteristics of a foreign gentleman that I have any special -cause to dwell upon them here; but as the hotel was very empty, and I -was very dull, I made this old gentleman—as my incorrigible habit is—a -study and a theme. I converted him into a mental clothes-prop, and hung -an infinity of fantastic notions, theories, and speculations upon him. -We soon became, thanks to the French language and constant proximity, -tolerably good friends. Of course the old gentleman did not delay long -in asking me why I had come to Copenhagen. _That_ question is invariably -asked you—_ad nauseam_, too—throughout the North of Europe. They begin -at Hamburg, continue at Berlin, return to it in Denmark and Sweden, and -end at St. Petersburg. If a man be not a commercial traveller, or a -diplomatist, a spy, or a negotiator of forged bank-notes, these Northern -people seem utterly bewildered as to his object in coming to such -latitudes. The Rhine, the Mediterranean, the Bosphorus, the Holy Land, -Switzerland, the Tyrol, good; but the North: _que diable!_ what does he -want in that galley? I confess that I was somewhat at a loss to give a -straightforward answer to the old gentleman in green spectacles. I might -have told him that I had come to see the birthplace of Hans Christian -Anderson; but then I was not quite certain as to whether that delightful -Danish writer first drew breath in Copenhagen. It would have been equally -disingenuous to have adduced a wish to see the famous Thorwaldsen’s -Museum as the reason for my visit; for with shame I acknowledge that, -having no guide-book with me, I had entirely forgotten that the Danish -metropolis contained that triumph of plastic art. It is true that, by -attentive study of the glorious museum, I subsequently atoned for my -mnemonic shortcomings. So, being on the horns of a dilemma, I elected to -tell the truth—not a bad plan under any circumstances—and said that I had -come to Copenhagen for the simple reason that I did not know what to do -with myself, and would have gone with equal alacrity to Nova Zembla or to -Katamandu; which candid avowal placed me on a most confidential footing -with the old gentleman in green spectacles, and materially assisted the -progress of our intercourse. - -Now, whatever can this Danish old gentleman and his verdant spectacles -have to do with One o’Clock in the morning, and Evans’s Supper-rooms? -You must have patience, and you shall hear. In subsequent chatty -interviews, it came out that the old gentleman had once upon a time—a -very long while ago, more than a quarter of a century—been in England. -His reminiscences of our country were very dim and indistinct by this -time. His knowledge of the English language, I take it, had not at any -time been very extensive, and it was reduced now to a few phrases and -interjections; some trifling oaths, a few facetious party-cries, current, -I presume, at the time of his visit, and having, mainly, reference to -Catholic Emancipation and the Reform Bill; these, with some odds and -ends of tattered conversation, formed his philological stock in trade. -But, even as “single-speech Hamilton” had his solitary oration, Mrs. -Dubsy’s hen her one chick, and Major Panton his unique run of luck at the -card-table, so my old gentleman had his one story which he persisted in -delivering in English. It was a mysterious and almost incomprehensible -legend; and began thus: “’Ackney Rod! Aha!” Then he would snuff and suck -his lump of sugar, and I would look on wonderingly. Then he would explain -matters a little. “’Ackney Rod. I live there so long time ago. Aha!” This -would lead to a renewed series of snuffings and suckings, and he would -proceed—“Vontleroy he not ’ang. He rich man, banquier in America. He ’ang -in a sospender basket. Aha!” For the life of me, I could not for a long -time understand the drift about “Vontleroy” and the “sospender basket;” -but at length a light broke in upon me, and I began to comprehend that -this wondrous legend related to Henry Fauntleroy, the banker, who was -hanged at Newgate for forgery, and concerning whose apocryphal rescue -from strangulation—by the means, according to some, of a silver tube in -his windpipe, and, according to others, of an apparatus of wicker-work, -which, suspending him from the waist, so took the strain off his -neck—rumours were current at the time of his death and for a considerable -period afterwards. This cock-and-bull story was well-nigh all the poor -man could recollect about England, and he decidedly made the most of it. - -And, after all, I have only introduced him as a species of -gentleman-usher to another foreign acquaintance—with whom my intercourse -was even more transient, for I met him but once in my life, and then -had only about seven minutes’ conversation with him on the deck of a -steamer—whose knowledge of English and recollection of England were even -more limited. “Ver fine place,” he remarked, referring to my native land. -“Moch night plaisir, London. Sing-song ver good. Ev’ns magnifique.” -There, the secret of my digression is out now, and I land you—somewhat -wearied with the journey, it may be—under the Piazza of Covent Garden -Market. - -Mr. Charles Dickens once declared in print that were he to start a horse -for the Derby, he would call that horse Fortnum and Mason: the delightful -hampers of edibles and drinkables vended by that eminent firm about the -period of Epsom Races being connected with the most pleasurable of his -impressions concerning that exciting sporting event. I have no doubt -that my steamboat acquaintance was not by any means solitary in his -enthusiastic estimate of the “magnifique” nature of Ev’ns, or EVANS’S, -and its “sing-song;” and his opinion is, I have reason to believe, -shared by many hundreds of English country gentlemen who patronise the -Bedford, the Tavistock, the Hummums, and other kindred Covent Garden -hotels, and who at Evans’s find their heartiest welcome and their most -inexhaustible fund of amusement. Nor can I see myself, exactly, how this -great town of ours could manage to get on without the time-honoured Cave -of Harmony; for be it known to all men—at least to so many as do not know -it already—Evans’s, though Captain Costigan is no longer permitted to -sing his songs there, and even Colonel Newcome, were he to volunteer to -oblige the company with a song, would be politely requested to desist by -a waiter—is the “Cave,” and the “Cave” is Evans’s. It is not without a -certain sly chuckle of gratulation that I record this fact. Those friends -of mine who have adopted the highly honourable pursuit of hiding round -corners in order to throw, with the greater security, jagged stones at -me as I pass, those precious purists and immaculate precisians who cry -hard upon a writer on London life in the nineteenth century, because he -describes things and places which every man knows to exist, and whose -existence he for one has not the hypocrisy to deny—these good gentlemen -will scarcely be angry with their poor servant, Scriblerus, for giving a -word-picture of a place of amusement which is immortalised in the first -chapter of “The Newcomes.” And please to observe, gentlemen, that I am -not about to venture on the very delicate ground with respect to the -quality of the songs once sung at Evans’s, and so boldly trodden by Mr. -Thackeray. I have the less need to do so, as that delicate or indelicate -ground has long since—and to the honour of the present proprietor, Mr. -Green—been ploughed up and sown with salt, and the musical programme -rendered as innocuous as the bill of fare of a festival in a cathedral -town. - -And now for the place itself. About a century since, when the shadowy -hero of the “Virginians” was beating the town with my Lords Castlewood -and March, and Parson Sampson, and his black man Gumbo was flirting with -Colonel Lambert’s servant-maids; about a century since, when in reality -Johnson—not so long since emancipated from sleeping on bulks with that -other homeless wretch, and man of genius, Savage—was painfully finishing -his gigantic work, the “Dictionary;” when Goldsmith was “living in Axe -Lane among the beggars,” or starving in Green Arbour Court; when honest -Hogarth dwelt at the sign of the Golden Head, in Leicester Fields (he -had set up his coach by this time, worthy man, was Serjeant-painter to -the King, and had his country-house at Chiswick); when the wicked, witty -Wilkes was carousing with other “choice spirits” as wicked and as witty -as he, at Medmenham Abbey; when the furious Churchill was astonishing -the town with his talent and his excesses; when Lawrence Sterne was yet -fiddling, and painting, and preaching, while his friend Hall indited the -“Crazy Tales;” when George II., hitherto considered as a heavy, morose -German king, who did not like “boetry and bainting,” and could not see -the fun of the “March to Finchley,” but now for the first time revealed -to us by Mr. Carlyle as a dapper, consequential little coxcomb—the “_mein -bruder der comödiant_,” “my brother the playactor” of Friedrich-Wilhelm, -was Sovereign of Great Britain, by the grace of the Act of Settlement -and the madness of the Stuarts—this town of London was full of choice -holes and corners, known under the generic name of “night cellars.” You -may see in Liverpool to this day—and I am told, also, in New York—some -flourishing specimens of these inviting localities, but they have -almost died out in London. The White Horse Cellar in Piccadilly is now -a booking-office; the Shades in Leicester Square (underneath Saville -House), once Pennant’s “pouting house for princes,” is a _restaurant_; -the cellar of the Ship at Charing Cross is yet a tavern, but is used -more as a waiting-room for passengers by the Kent Road and Deptford -omnibuses; and a whole nest of cellars were swept away by the Adamses -when the Adelphi Terrace, with a worse range of cellars beneath, as -it afterwards turned out, was constructed. But the night cellars of a -hundred years ago! What dens, what sinks, what roaring saturnalia of -very town scoundrelism they must have been! We have but two reliable -authorities extant as to their manners and appearance: Hogarth’s prints, -and the pages of the Old Bailey Sessions Papers. The former are the -engraven testimony of a man to whose honest nature it was utterly -abhorrent and intolerable to bear false witness; the latter is a record -that _cannot lie_. I don’t mean by these Sessions Papers the collection -of trials known as the “Newgate Calendar.” In these, crimes are dressed -up with all manner of romantic and adventitious details, and occasionally -spiced with moral reflections by the ordinary of Newgate. I mean the -real Sessions Papers, the _verbatim_ reports of the trials—from murder -to pot-stealing—taken officially in short-hand by the Gurneys and their -predecessors, and which, in their matchless _extenso_, remain, to the -inestimable advantage of our historians and our painters of manners. They -date from the time of Judge Jeffreys, to the last session of the Central -Criminal Court—it may have been the day before yesterday. - -The cellars come out with a perfectly livid radiance in the reports of -these trials. You see the “brimstone” woman, whom Hogarth pointed out -to his friend and sketched upon his thumbnail, spurting brandy from her -mouth at the enraged virago her companion. You see Kate Hackabout passing -the stolen watch to Tom Idle, who is under the unseen surveillance of -one of Justice de Veil or Harry Fielding’s runners, and the luckless -Thomas will be laid by the heels by daybreak to-morrow. Kate will go to -Bridewell, there to be whipped and to pick oakum. Foote’s Mother Cole -is here, you may be sure; and Tom Rakewell, spending his last guineas -among the gamblers and ruffians. Who else are there? Ferdinand Count -Fathom, you may sure; poets and hack-writers—for Grub Street existed then -in spirit and in truth—making my lord’s gold pieces, which he gave for -that last foolishly-fulsome dedication, fly. Yes; Mr. Peregrine Pickle, -and you are spending your night in the cellar. And Mr. Thomas Jones, -fresh from the western counties,—you, too, are here, with a laced coat -bought out of my Lady Bellaston’s last bank-note. Ah! Thomas! Thomas! -if pure-minded Sophy Western could but see you in this bad place, among -these ruffianly companions!—among horse-jockeys, highwaymen-captains, -unfrocked parsons; deboshed adventurers, redolent of twopenny ordinaries -and Mount Scoundrel in the Fleet; disbanded lieutenants of phantom -regiments; scriveners struck off the rolls, ruined spendthrifts, -Irish desperadoes enthusiastic for the Pretender and other men’s -pence, bankrupt traders, French and Italian rascals flagrant from the -galleys of foreign seaports, and all, according to their own showing, -distressed patriots; German swindlers and card-sharpers, who declare -themselves to be Counts of the Holy Roman Empire, Jew coin-clippers and -diamond-slicers, riverside vagabonds in the pay of the commanders of -press-gangs on the look-out for benighted journeymen, or dissolute lads -who have run away from their apprenticeship or quarrelled with their -parents, recruiting crimps for both sexes, usurers looking for prodigals -who have yet money to lose, bailiffs’ followers looking for prodigals -who have lost all and owe more; and, scattered among all this scum of -frantic knavery and ragabosh, some gay young sprigs of aristocracy, some -officers in the regiment of Guards, some noisy young country squires of -the Western type. This, all garnished with dirt and spilt liquors, with -the fumes of mum, Geneva, punch, wine, and tobacco smoke, with oaths -and shrieks and horrid songs, with the clatter of glasses and tankards, -the clash of rapiers and verberations of bludgeons—is the London night -cellar of a hundred years ago. Round Covent Garden such places positively -swarmed. The Strand, the neighbourhood of Exeter ’Change, Long Acre, and -Drury Lane, reeked with dens of this description. For hereabouts were -the playhouses, and in their purlieus, as in those of cathedrals, you -must expect to find, and do find, in every age, the haunts of vice and -dissipation. It may be profane to say _ubi apis ibi mel_: but such is the -sorry fact. - -I am to give you notice that this article was originally intended -to be intensely topographical—nay, _sant soit peu_, antiquarian and -archæological. It was my desire to give you a minute description of the -hostelry called Evans’s Hotel, and whose basement contains the saloon -known as Evans’s supper-room, from the earliest period of authentic -research to the present time. How it emerged from a state of brawling -night-cellarhood, to the dignity of a harmonic meeting; who first ordered -“chops to follow,” and what ingenious spirit originally suggested the -curious principle now in practice, of paying for your refreshment at -the door on quitting the establishment; who instituted the glee-choir, -introduced books of the words, and discovered that baked potatoes are -necessarily associated with bumpers of stout, poached eggs, and liberally -cayenned kidneys; who formed the gallery of portraits which now graces -the walls of the ante-saloon, and who first dreamed of such an Arabian -Night’s succedaneum as a ladies’ gallery. All these things it was my -firm intention to record, in Roman type, for your amusement, if not -your edification. “Who knows,” I asked myself enthusiastically, “if I -take sweet counsel (hot and strong as well as sweet, sometimes) of Mr. -Paddy Green, most urbane of nocturnal Bonifaces, and sit reverentially -at the feet of Mr. Peter Cunningham, who, it is rumoured, in the matter -of London localities, could, an he chose, rival the marvellous feat -of memory ascribed to old Fuller of the ‘Worthies,’ who could repeat -backwards, and without book, the names of all the tavern signs on both -sides of the way from Temple Bar to Ludgate: who knows,” I repeated, -“but that I shall be able to submit to the readers of ‘Twice Round the -Clock,’ a copy of an unpaid score left by Oliver Goldsmith at some -Evans’s of the past; or put it upon record that Sir Thomas Lawrence and -Major Hanger had claret-cup together here, on the night that Thurtell was -hanged, or that on the fatal evening when the Catholic Bill passed the -Lords, a live bishop—a hackney coachman’s many-caped coat over his apron -and shorts—descended Evans’s well-worn stairs, ordered a Welsh rabbit, -partook of two ‘stouts,’ and, the tears coursing down his right reverend -cheeks, murmured—‘Britain! oh my country! _Delenda est Carthago!_’ by -way of chorus to Captain Costigan’s favourite ditty of ‘The Night before -Larry was stretched?’” - -In the famous gardens of the Villa Pallavicini, near Genoa, there is an -artificial piece of water winding between rocks, at the extremity of -which the mimic river seems to lose itself in the blue waters of the -Mediterranean. Nothing of the sort is the case: the sea is, in reality, -more than three hundred yards distant; but the intervening ground has -been so dexterously sloped and masked with groups of plants, that the -optical delusion is marvellous. Of such are the aspirations of mankind. -In such disappointment ended my castles in the air with respect to -Evans’s. It was from across the ocean that I had to respond to the -printers’ wail for “copy:” this article was commenced in view of the -Castle of Rolandseck, on board a Rhine steamer, whose worn-out engines -throbbed as irregularly as though they had palpitation of the heart. It -is being continued now at the sea-side, in bed, gruel on the one side, -sweet spirits of nitre on the other: and where it will be finished, -who can tell? Old Æsop told the soldiers, when they asked him whither -he was going, that he did not know, whereupon they arrested him for an -impertinent. “Was I not right?” he cried; “did I know that I was going -to jail?” “_Sait on où l’on va?_” echoes Diderot. How do I, how do you, -how does your lordship, how does your grace, how does your majesty, -know what will happen the moment after this? Therefore, take heed of the -present time, and make your wills: the best will, in my humble thinking, -that a man can make, being that strong will and determination to act as -justly as he can in each moment in the which he is permitted to live. - -So you understand, now, why I was compelled to dispense with the -assistance of Mr. Paddy Green and Mr. Peter Cunningham, and why I am -reduced to a dependence on my own personal reminiscences with respect -to Evans’s, without the adventitious aid of recondite anecdote and -historical data. Here is the place as I remember it. - -One o’clock in the morning. Of course we are supposed to be spending -just a fortnight in town, and putting up at the Bedford, or it would -never do to be so early-late abroad. We have been to the play, and have -consumed a few oysters in the Haymarket; but the principal effect of -that refreshment seems to have been to make us ten times hungrier. The -delicate bivalves of Colchester have failed in appeasing our bucolic -stomachs. We require meat. So, says the friend most learned in the ways -of the town to his companion—“Meat at our hotel we eschew, for we shall -find the entertainment of the dearest and dullest. We will go sup at -Evans’s, for there we can have good meat and good liquor at fair rates, -and hear a good song besides.” Whereupon we walk, till the piazza, about -which I have kept you so long lingering, looms in sight. A low doorway, -brilliantly lit with gas, greets our view. We descend a flight of some -steps, pass through a vestibule, and enter the “Cave of Harmony.” - -Push further on, if you please. You are not to linger in this -ante-chamber, thickly hung with pictures, and otherwise, with its -circular marble tables, much resembling a Parisian _café_, minus the -mirrors and the rattle of the dominoes. This ante-chamber will be treated -of anon; but your present business is with chops and harmony. - -Passing, then, through this _atrium_, the visitor finds himself in a -vast music-hall, of really noble proportions, and decorated not only -with admirable taste, but with something nearly akin to splendour. You -see I am at a loss for authorities again, and I cannot tell you how much -of the hall is Corinthian, and how much composite; whether the columns -are fluted, the cornices gilt or the soffits carved, and whether the -Renaissance or the Arabesque style most prevails in the decorations -employed. All I know is, that it is a lofty, handsome, comfortable room, -whose acoustic properties, by the way, are far superior to those enjoyed -by some establishments with loftier philharmonic pretensions. At the -northern extremity of the hall is a spacious proscenium and stage, with -the grand pianoforte _de rigueur_, the whole veiled by a curtain in -the intervals of performance. As for the huge area stretching from the -proscenium to a row of columns which separate it from the ante-chamber -_café_, it is occupied by parallel lines of tables, which, if they do not -groan beneath the weight of good eatables and drinkables piled upon them, -might certainly be excused for groaning—to say nothing of shrieking, -yelling, and uttering other lamentable noises, evoked by the unmerciful -thumping and hammering they undergo at the conclusion of every fresh -exercitation of harmony. - -Still, the eatables and drinkables do merit a paragraph, and shall have -one. To the contemplative mind they are full of suggestions, and evidence -of the vast digestive powers of the English people. To any but a race of -hardy Norsemen, sons of Thor and Odin, hammerers of steel, welders of -iron, and compellers of adverse elements, men who are sometimes brought -to live when on shipboard upon weevily biscuit that breaks the teeth, and -salted leather, humorously nicknamed beef; or in trenches, upon rancid -pork, toasted on bayonet or ramrod tips; to any but that unconquerable, -hard-headed, and strong-stomached people, of whom it is sometimes said -that they would eat a donkey if they were allowed to begin at the hind -legs, this post-midnight repast at Evans’s would be full of menace of -perturbed slumbers, distraught dreams, nay, even ghastly nightmares. Your -Frenchman, when he sups, takes his cold salad, his appetising fruit, -his succulent partridge, his light omelette, or, at most, his thin weak -_bouillon_, with a lean cutlet to follow. He drinks sugar-and-water, -wine-and-water, or, on high holiday nights, a glass or two of champagne; -puffs his mild cigars, and goes to bed, simpering that he has _bien -soupé_. And even then, sometimes, your Frenchman has dreams, and rising -in bed, with the hair of his flesh standing up, vows that he will sup no -more. Your Italian sups on his three-halfpennyworth of maccaroni. Your -Spaniard rubs a piece of bread with garlic, and eats it, blesses heaven, -and goes to sleep with a cigarette in his mouth. Your gross German -affects the lighter kind of cold meats and salads at supper, and washes -down his spare repast—to be sure, it is the fourth within the twelve -hours—with some frothy beer. The Americans can’t be said to sup, any -more than they breakfast, lunch, or dine. They are always over-eating, -over-drinking, and over-smoking themselves; and were it not for their -indomitable pluck and perseverance, their tendency to dyspepsia would be -an insurmountable obstacle to their ever becoming a great people. _For -the great peoples have always had strong stomachs._ Homer’s heroes ate -beef undone. When the Romans took to made-dishes and kick-shaws, then -came their decadence, and the strong-stomached barbarians of the North -overran them. To make an end of foreign wanderings, Russian suppers, -among the people, are just no suppers at all. One—or at most two—meals -a day, is the rule with the moujik. In elegant society, the cook might -as well provide for supper painted chickens and lobster salads made -of sealing-wax and cut paper, as any genuine viands. A supper at St. -Petersburg, means champagne and gambling till the next morning. - -But see the suppers set forth for the strong-stomached supporters of -Evans’s. See the pyramids of dishes arrive; the steaming succession of -red-hot chops, with their brown, frizzling caudal appendages sobbing -hot tears of passionate fat. See the serene kidneys unsubdued, though -grilled, smiling though cooked, weltering proudly in their noble gravy, -like warriors who have fallen upon the field of honour. See the hot -yellow lava of the Welsh rabbit stream over and engulf the timid toast. -Sniff the fragrant vapour of the corpulent sausage. Mark how the russet -leathern-coated baked potato at first defies the knife, then gracefully -cedes, and through a lengthened gash yields its farinaceous effervescence -to the influence of butter and catsup. The only refreshments present open -to even a suspicion of effeminacy are the poached eggs, glistening like -suns in a firmament of willow-pattern plate; and those too, I am willing -to believe, are only taken by country-gentlemen hard pressed by hunger, -just to “stay their stomachs,” while the more important chops and kidneys -are being prepared. The clouds of pepper shaken out on these viands are -enough to make Slawkenbergius sneeze for a fortnight; the catsup and -strong sauces poured over them are sufficient to convince Sir Toby Belch -that there are other things besides ginger, which are apt to be “hot -i’ the mouth,” and, as humble servitors in attendance on these haughty -meats, are unnumbered discs of butter, and manchets of crustiest bread -galore. - -[Illustration: ONE O’CLOCK A.M.: EVANS’S SUPPER-ROOMS.] - -Pints of stout, if you please, no puny half-measures, pints of sparkling -pale ale, or creaming Scotch, or brownest Burton, moisten these sturdy -rations. And when the strong men have supped, or rather before they -have supped, and while they have supped, and indeed generally during -the evening, there bursts out a strong smell of something good to -drink; and presently you perceive that the strong men have ordered -potent libations of spirituous liquors, hot whiskey-and-water being the -favourite one; and are hastily brewing mighty jorums of punch and grog, -which they undoubtedly quaff; puffing, meanwhile, cigars of potency and -fragrance—pipes are tabooed—taken either from their own cigar-cases, or -else recently laid in from the inexhaustible stores of the complaisant -Herr von Joel. - -“Who will always be retained on this establishment,” the proprietor -good-naturedly promises, and more good-naturedly performs. “Why,” asks -the neophyte, “is it necessary for my well-being, or the prosperity of -this establishment, that the services of Herr von Joel should always be -retained thereon? Why this perpetual hypothecation of Joel? Can no one -else sell me cigars? What am I to Joel, or what is Joel to me? Confound -Joel!” To which I answer: “Rash neophyte, forbear, and listen. In the -days when thou wert very young and foolish, wore lay-down collars, -and had no moustaches, save the stickiness produced by much-sucked -sweetstuff on the upper lips—in the days when thou wert familiar, indeed, -with Doctor Wackerbarth’s seminary for young gentlemen, but not with -Evans’s—Herr von Joel, young and sprightly then, was a famous Mimic. -In imitating the cries of birds, Herr von Joel was unrivalled, and has -never been approached. In the old days, when he was famous, and did -the lark and the linnet so well, he brought crowds of visitors to the -old supper-rooms, who laughed and wondered at his mimicry, supped and -drank, and smoked, and paid fat scores. So Joel, in his generation, was -a benefactor to Evans’s. And now, when the thorax is rusty, and the -larynx no longer supple, the faithful servant rests upon “his well-earned -laurels”—of tobacco-leaves—among the old faces of old friends. “His -helmet is a hive for bees”—and Havannah cigars, and “his services will -always be retained in this establishment.” One would shudder to think -of Wellington’s old charger, Copenhagen, being sent to Cow Cross, to -the knackers, instead of ending his days peacefully in a paddock at -Strathfieldsaye. No one likes to hear of Sophie Arnould or Mademoiselle -Camargo (the ballet-dancer who introduced short petticoats) being brought -to indigence in their declining years. Guilbert in the hospital, Camöens -starving, blind Belisarius begging for an obolus, these are pitiable; and -to this day I think the country might have done something for the widow -of Ramo Samee. We give pensions to the families of those who use their -swords well, but I should like to know how many can swallow them as Ramo -did? - -All the while the company have been supping and I have been prosing, -the “Cave of Harmony” has not belied its name. A bevy of fresh-coloured -youths, of meagre stature, of curly hair, in broad collars and round -jackets, such as distinguished you and me, neophyte, when we were pupils -at Dr. Wackerbarth’s, have made themselves manifest on the stage, and -in admirable time and tune have chanted with their silver-bell voices -those rare old glees which were written by the honest old masters before -the Father of Evil had invented Signor Guiseppe Verdi. Thersites Theorbo -(who is an assiduous frequenter of the Cave at hours when men of not -so transcendent a genius are in bed) Thersites Theorbo, down yonder in -the _café_ ante-saloon, glowering over his grog, cannot forbear beating -time and wagging his august head approvingly when he hears the little -boys sing. May their pure harmony do the battered old cynic good! Honest -old glees! though your composers wore pigtails and laced ruffles. And -none the worse, either, because we owe some of the most beautiful of -them to an Irish nobleman. Do you know who that nobleman was? Go ask Mr. -Thackeray, who, in an absurd copy of verses, written in barbarous Cockney -slang, has brought the “unaccustomed brine” to these eyes many and many a -time. He describes a stately lady sitting by an open window, beside the -“flowing Boyne,” with a baby on her lap. It is a man child, and not far -off is the father, - - “... Most musical of Lords, - A playing madrigals and glees - Upon the harpsichords.” - -And this child’s father was old Lord Mornington, whose son was Arthur, -Duke of Wellington. - -If you scrutinise the faces of these juvenile choristers somewhat -narrowly, and happen yourself to be a tolerably regular attendant at the -abbey church of St. Peter’s, Westminster, it is not at all improbable -that you may recognise one or two young gentlemen whom, arrayed in snowy -surplices, you may have heard trilling forth in shrill notes their parts -of the service among the gentlemen choristers and minor canons of the -Abbey. I wonder if it is very wicked for them to be found at Evans’s -thus late. I don’t mean at one o’clock in the morning, for they mostly -disappear about midnight. Perhaps not so wicked, for I know there are -some people so very religious that they only think of religion on -Sundays; and fancy that week-day transactions can’t have the slightest -connection with the Sabbath. However this may be, I must mention it as -a curious fact in relation with the moral economy of Evans’s, that in -the old days, when Captain Costigan or one of his peers, was about to -sing anything approaching to a _chanson grivoise_, the juveniles were -invariably marched out of the room by a discreet waiter, in order that -their young ears might not be contaminated. - -With respect to the remaining harmonic attractions of Evans’s, I shall -be very brief. I believe that on some evenings individuals of the -Ethiopian way of thinking, and accoutred in the ordinary amount of -lamp-black, Welsh wig, and shirt-collars, and provided with the usual -banjo, accordion, tambourine, and bones, are in the habit of informing -the audience that things in general are assuming an appearance of “Hoop -de dooden do;” also of lamenting the untimely demise of one Ned, an -aged blackamoor, who stood towards them in an avuncular relation, and -of passionately demanding the cause of their master effecting the sale -of their persons, by auction or otherwise, on the day on which they -entered into the state of matrimony. I am given to understand that a -gentleman with an astonishing falsetto voice is a great favourite among -the _habitués_, and that some screaming comic songs by popular vocalists -are nightly given with immense applause; but I candidly confess that I am -not qualified to speak with any great degree of certitude with respect to -these performances. I go to Evans’s generally very late, and as seldom -venture close to the proscenium. I am content to bide in the ante-saloon, -and to muse upon Thersites Theorbo, glowering over his grog. - -This iracund journalist—to borrow an epithet from Mr. Carlyle—is not by -any means solitary in his patronage of the marble-tabled, portrait-hung -_café_. To tell the honest truth, as, in Paris, if you wish to see the -actors in vogue, you must go to the Café du Vaudeville—if the authors, -to the Café Cardinal or the Café du Helder—if the artists, to the Café -des Italians—if the students, to the Café Belge—and if the dandies, -to the Café de Paris; so in London, if you wish to see the wits and -the journalist men about town of the day, you must go to Evans’s about -one o’clock in the morning. Then those ineffables turn out of the -smoking-rooms of their clubs—clique-clubs mostly—and meet on this neutral -ground to gird at one another. _Autres temps, autres mœurs._ A century -since it used to be Wills’s or Button’s, or the Rose; now it is Evans’s. -I should dearly like to draw some pen-and-ink portraits for you of the -wits as they sit, and drink, and smoke, at one o’clock in the morning; -but I dare not. As for Thersites Theorbo, he is a shadow. You know what -I told you about clubs; and this place also is a prison-house to me. It -is true, Heaven help me, that I am not affiliated to witcraft myself, -that I am neither priest nor deacon. Still I have been one of the little -boys in red cassocks, who swing the censers, and I dare not reveal the -secrets of the sacristy. But I may just whisper furtively in your ear, -that Ethelred Guffoon is never seen at Evans’s. It makes his head ache. -Mr. Goodman Twoshoes, also, is but a seldom visitor to the Cave of -Harmony. He prefers his snug corner-box at the Albion, where he can brew -his beloved ginger-punch. It is not that the wits despise the “Cave.” Mr. -Polyphemus, the novelist, not unfrequently condescends to wither mankind -through his spectacles from one of the marble tables; and I have seen the -whole “Times” newspaper—proprietors, editors, special correspondents, and -literary critics—hob-nobbing together at—— _Will_ you hold your tongue, -sir? - -One trifling indiscretion more, and I have done with Evans’s. “It is not -generally known,” as accurate, erudite, and amusing Mr. John Timbs would -say, that the sly gallantry of Mr. Green, the proprietor of the Cave of -Harmony, caused him, when his new and sumptuous music-hall was in course -of construction, to move the architect to build some cunning loop-holes -and points of espial connected with commodious apartments—in other words, -with private boxes, somewhat resembling the _baignoires_ in the Parisian -theatres, whence ladies could see and hear all that was going on without -being seen or heard. A somewhat similar contrivance exists, it will be -remembered, in our House of Commons; I only wish that the fair ones who -there lie _perdues_ during a late debate, were doomed to hear as little -trash as meets their ears from the secluded bowers overhanging Evans’s. -What passport is required to ensure admission into these blissful regions -I know not; but I have it on good authority that ladies of the “very -highest rank and distinction”—to use a “Morning Postism”—have on several -occasions graced Evans’s with their presence, and with condescending -smiles looked down upon the revelries of their lords. - - * * * * * - -Tell me, you who are so quick of hearing, what is that noise above -our heads—it must be in the street beyond—and which dominates the -revelry as the sound of the cannon did the music of the Duchess of -Richmond’s ball before Quatre Bras. It grows louder and louder, it -comes nearer and nearer, it swells into a hoarse continually-jarring -roar, as I sit smoking at Evans’s. The sham blackamoor on the stage -pauses in his buffoonery, forbears to smite his woolly pate with the -tambourine; his colleague’s accordion is suspended in the midst of a -phthisic wheeze, and the abhorred bones quiver, yet unreverberate in -the nicoto-alcholoicho-charged air. The rattle of knives and forks, the -buzzing conversation, cease; a hundred queries as to the cause of the -noise rise on as many lips; the waiters forget to rattle the change, -the toper forgets to sip his grog: there is intromission even in the -inspiration of tobacco fumes: then comes the mighty answer—comes at once -from all quarters—caught up, echoed and re-echoed, and fraught with -dread, the momentous word—FIRE! - -Man, it has been somewhere pertinently observed, is a hunting animal. The -delight in having something to run after: whether it be a pickpocket, -who has just eloped with a watch or a silk handkerchief; a dog with a -kettle tied to his tail, a hare, a deer, a woman, a fugitive hat, a -slaver, a _prima donna_, a lord’s tuft, an oriental traveller, a deformed -dwarf—something to chase, something to scour and scud after, something -to run down, and ultimately devour and destroy: such a pursuit enlivens -and comforts the heart of man, and makes him remember that he has the -blood of Nimrod in his veins. The schoolboys at Eton have their “paper -chases,” and course miles through the pleasant playing-fields, crossing -brooks, and tearing through hedges, after a quire of foolscap torn up -into shreds. The child chases a butterfly; the adult exhausts himself and -his horse in racing after a much-stinking fox; and the octogenarian frets -his palsied old limbs, and bursts into a feverish snail’s gallop, after -a seat on the Treasury Bench, or a strip of blue velvet embroidered with -“_honi soit qui mal y pense_” in gold, and called a garter. There is a -wild, engrossing excitement and pleasure in hunting; the fox-hound, the -otter, the “harmless necessary cat,” would tell you so, were their speech -articulate; but of all things huntable, chasable, rundownable, I doubt if -there be one that can equal a Fire. - -“Fire! fire!” It matters not how late the hour be, how important the -avocations of the moment, that magic cry sets all legs, save those of -the halt and the bed-ridden, in motion—strikes on every tympanum. “Fire! -fire!” as the sound rolls earwards, the gambler starts up from the -dicing-table, the bibber leaves the wine-pots, the lover rises from his -mistress’s feet, the blushing maiden forgets half of that last glowing -declaration, the captive runs to his grated window, the sluggard sits -up on his couch, the sick man turns his head on his pillow to whence -issues the portentous cry. Hundreds of impulses are bound up in the -uncontrollable desire that prompts us to run at once after the “Fire!” -Fear: it may be our own premises that are blazing, our own dear ones that -are in peril. Hope and cupidity: we may be rogues, and there may be rich -plunder from a fire. Duty: we may be policemen, firemen, or newspaper -reporters. Generous emulation, brave self-devotion: there may be lives -at stake and lives to save. Curiosity: it is as good to see a house -burned (when it doesn’t happen to be your own) as a bear baited or a man -hanged. All these may prompt us to follow the howl of the fire-dogs; but, -chiefest of all, is the vague, indefinite, yet omnipotent desire to swell -a pursuing crowd, to join in a hue and cry, to press to the van of the -chasers: to hunt something, in fact. - -I never could understand where a London crowd comes from. Be the hour -ever so late, were the street ever so deserted a moment before, a man -quarrelling with his wife, or cry of Fire, will be sufficient to evoke -the presence of a compact and curious crowd, growing instantaneously -thicker and noisier. Whether they start from the sewers or the -cellar-gratings, or drop from the chimney-pots or the roof-copings, -is indeterminate; yet they gather somehow, and jostle, squeeze, yell, -stamp, and tear furiously. No conscription, no mustering of the _posse -comitatis_, no summoning of ban and _arrière_ ban, no “call of the -House,” no sending forth of the “fiery cross,” no beacon signalling, no -Vehmgericht convening under penalty of the cord and dagger, could be -half so successful in calling multitudes together as the one word—FIRE! -A minute past, I was at Evans’s, tranquilly conversing with the veteran -Herr von Joel, and now I find myself racing like mad up St. Martin’s -Lane, towards St. Giles’s. How I found my hat and donned it I haven’t -the slightest idea, and I sincerely hope that I didn’t forget to pay the -waiter for my chop, kidney, stout, and etceteras. All I know is, that -I am running after that hoarse cry, and towards that awful Redness in -the sky; that I tread upon unnumbered corns; that I hold cheap as air, -innumerable punches and thrusts which I receive from my neighbours; and -that I will not by any means undertake to make oath that I am not myself -also vociferating, “Fire! Fire!” with the full strength of my lungs. - -I thought so. There goes the “Country Fire Office.” There it goes, -dashing, rattling, blazing along—only the very strongest adjective, -used participle-wise, can give a notion of its bewildering speed—there -it goes, with its strong, handsome horses, champing, fuming, setting -the pavement on fire with their space-devouring hoofs, and seeming to -participate in the fire-hunting mania. They need no whip; only the -voices of the firemen, clustering on the engine like bees, the loose -rattle of the reins on their backs, and the cheers of the accompanying -crowd. The very engine, burnished and glistening, flashing and blushing -in its scarlet and gold in the gaslight, seems imbued with feeling, -and scintillating with excitement—(Oh! critics of fishy blood, oyster -temperament, and tortoise impulses, pardon my heedless exuberance of -epithet)—so gleaming and glittering, and its catherine-like wheels -revolving, and the moon just tipping the burnished helmets and hatchets -of the fire-men, who will have a ruddy glare on those accoutrements -shortly, goes screaming through the night, the County Fire-engine. The -Northern Express blazing over Chatmoss at speed is a terrible sight -to see: that fiery messenger has subdued the wilderness, and made the -waste places, whilom the haunts of bats and dragons, tremble; but the -fast-tearing fire-engine is nobler and more Human. It cleaves its -way through the sleeping city; it bears the tidings of succour and -deliverance. Yon express-train may convey but a company of chapmen and -pedlars, thirsting to higgle in the cheapest so that they may haggle in -the dearest market; but the five-engine is freighted with brave manly -hearts, braced—with little lust of lucre, God knows! for their pay is but -a pittance—to the noble task of saving human life. That they do so save -it, almost every night throughout the year, save it in the midst of peril -to their own, in the ever-imminent peril of a sudden, hideous, unrewarded -death, Mr. Braidwood and the fire companies know full well. That the best -of the young British painting men, John Everett Millais, should have -chosen the every-day, but none the less glorious, heroism of a fireman -for the theme of a magnificent picture, is good to know; and the very -thought of the picture goes far towards making us forgive the painter -for his asinine “Sir Isumbrasse,” or whatever the abortion was called; -but it would be better if the knowledge of our firemen’s good deservings -were extended beyond Mr. Braidwood and the fire companies. The deeds of -those plain men with the leathern helmets and the trusty hatchets, have -received neither their full meed of praise, nor a tithe of their meed of -reward. I have yet to hear of the Fireman’s Order of Valour; I have yet -to learn that our bounteous Government, so prompt to recognise diplomatic -demerit, to reward political worthlessness, and to ennoble military -failure, have thought it worth their while to bestow even the minutest -modicum of a pension on a fireman. To be sure, these worldly, unwise men, -are, for their own interests’ sake, disastrously and inexcusably modest, -unobtrusive, and retiring. There is no trumpeter attached _ex-officio_ -to the fire brigade. Would you believe it, that these unambitious men, -their glorious labours over, are content to retire to the sheds where -their engines stand at livery, where they eat bread-and-cheese with clasp -knives, read cheap newspapers, and teach tricks to their dogs? Their -principal recreation is to scrub, polish, tickle, and frictionise the -brass and wood work of the fire-engines to a Dutch pitch of cleanliness, -and they are much given, I am sorry to say, to the smoking of long clay -pipes. This is, in itself, sufficient to ruin them in the estimation of -such sages and public benefactors as ex-Lord Mayor Garden. Let us hope -that it is not his ex-Lordship’s house that is being burned down this -November morning. - -[Illustration: ONE O’CLOCK A.M.: A FIRE.] - -No—the fire is in the very thickest part of St. Giles’s. Unfaithful -topographers may have told you that the “Holy Land” being swept away and -Buckeridge Street being pulled down, St. Giles’s exists no more. _Ne’n -croyez rien._ The place yet lives—hideous, squalid, decrepit—yet full -of an unwholesome vitality. Splendid streets have been pierced through -the heart of this region—streets full of mansions four and six storeys -high—affluent tradesmen display their splendid wares through glistening -plate-glass windows. But St. Giles’s is behind, round about, environing -the new erections, sitting like Mordecai in the gate on the threshold of -the brick and mortar and stucco palaces with which cunning contractors -and speculative builders have sought to disguise the most infamous -district in London. The proof of what I have asserted is very easy. You -have but to be invited to dinner in Gower Street, or to have a morning -call to make in Bedford Square. Take a walk from young Mr. Barry’s -bran-new opera-house in Bow Street, and walk straight a-head—nearly a -measured mile to the Square of Bedford. You pass the gigantic carriage -factory, which I will call by its ancestral name of Houlditch’s—for it -always seems to be changing proprietors—at the corner of Long Acre. You -ascend Endell Street, and greet with satisfaction such signs of advancing -civilisation as baths and wash-houses, and a bran-new dispensary. I -had forgotten to mention that you might have had a back view of St. -Martin’s Hall. Then you cross the area of High Street, St. Giles’s, or -High Street, Holborn, whichsoever you may elect to call it. Then, still -straight a-head, you mount Charlotte Street, Bloomsbury, a thoroughfare -dignified by any number of churches, belonging to any number of -persuasions. And then you are at your journey’s end, and are free to call -in Bedford Square, to dine in Gower Street, or to go see the Nineveh -Marbles in the British Museum, _comme bon vous semble_. - -But throughout this pilgrimage, passing by edifices erected in the newest -Byzantine, or early English, or Elizabethan, or sham Gothic style, you -have had St. Giles’s always before, behind, and about you. From a hundred -foul lanes and alleys have debouched, on to the spick-and-span-new -promenade, unheard-of human horrors. Gibbering forms of men and women -in filthy rags, with fiery heads of shock hair, the roots beginning an -inch from the eyebrows, with the eyes themselves bleared and gummy, with -gashes filled with yellow fangs for teeth, with rough holes punched in -the nasal cartilage for nostrils, with sprawling hands and splay feet, -tessellated with dirt—awful deformities, with horrifying malformations of -the limbs and running sores ostentatiously displayed; Ghoules and Afrits -in a travestie of human form, rattling uncouth forms of speech in their -vitrified throttles. These hang about your feet like reptiles, or crawl -round you like loathsome vermin, and in a demoniac whine beg charity from -you. One can bear the men; ferocious and repulsive as they are, a penny -and a threat will send them cowering and cursing to their noisome holes -again. One cannot bear the women without a shudder, and a feeling of -infinite sorrow and humiliation. They are so horrible to look upon, so -thoroughly unsexed, shameless. Heaven-abandoned and forlorn, with their -bare liver-coloured feet beating the devil’s tattoo on the pavement, -their lean shoulders shrugged up to their sallow cheeks, over which falls -hair either wildly dishevelled or filthily matted, and their gaunt hands -clutching at the tattered remnant of a shawl, which but sorrily veils -the lamentable fact that they have no gown—that a ragged petticoat and a -more ragged undergarment are all they have to cover themselves withal. -With sternness and determination one can bear these sights; but, heavens -and earth! the little children! who swarm, pullulate—who seem to be -evoked from the gutter, and called up from the kennel, who clamber about -your knees, who lie so thickly in your path that you are near stumbling -over one of them every moment, who, ten times raggeder, dirtier, and -more wretched-looking than their elders, with their baby faces rendered -wolfish by privation, and looking a hundred years old, rather than not -ten times that number of days, fight and scream, whimper and fondle, -crawl and leap like the phantoms a man sees during the access of -_delirium tremens_. I declare that there are babies among these miserable -ones—babies with the preternaturally wise faces of grown up men; babies -who, I doubt little, can lie, and steal, and beg, and who, in a year or -so, will be able to fight and swear, and be sent to jail for six months’ -hard labour. Plenty of the children are big enough to be “whipped and -discharged.” Yes; that is the pleasant tee-totum: “six months’ hard -labour,” “whipped and discharged,” the merry prologue to Portland and -the hulks, the humorous apprenticeship to the penal settlements and the -gallows. And yet people will tell me that St. Giles’s is “done away -with”—“put down,” as the worshipful Sir Peter Laurie would say. Glance -down any one of the narrow lanes you like after passing Broker’s Row. See -the children coming out of the gin-shops and the pawnbrokers’. Ask the -policeman whether every court in the vicinity be not full of thieves, -and worse. Look at the lanes themselves, with the filthy rags flaunting -from poles in the windows in bitter mockery of being hung out to dry -after washing; with their belching doorways, the thresholds littered -with wallowing infants, and revealing beyond a Dantean perspective of -infected backyard and cloacan staircase. Peep, as well as you may for the -dirt-obscured window panes, and see the dens of wretchedness where the -people whose existence you ignore dwell—the sick and infirm, often the -dying, sometimes the dead, lying on the bare floor, or, at best, covered -with some tattered scraps of blanketing or matting; the shivering age -crouching over fireless grates, and drunken husbands bursting through the -rotten doors to seize their gaunt wives by the hair, and bruise their -already swollen faces, because they have pawned what few rags remain to -purchase gin. But then St. Giles’s doesn’t exist! It has been done away -with! It is put down! “Stunning Joe Banks” and Bamfylde Moore Carew have -been subdued by civilisation and the march of intellect! Of course. - -Notwithstanding all which there is a terrific fire in the very midst -of St. Giles’s to-night; and that conflagration may do more in its -generation towards the abolition of the district, than all the astute -contractors and speculative builders. The fire is at an oilman’s shop, -who likewise manufactures and deals in pickles, and from the nature of -the combustible commodities in which he trades, you may anticipate a rare -blaze. Blaze! say an eruption of Mount Vesuvius rather; far high into the -air shoot columns of flame, and hanging thickly over all are billows upon -billows of crimson smoke, the whole encircled by myriads of fiery sparks -that fall upon the gaping crowd and make them dance and yell with terror -and excitement. - -The police have very speedily made a sanitary _cordon_ round about the -blazing premises, and let none pass save those who have special business -near the place. The firemen are “welcome guests” within the magic -_cordon_, as also the fussy, self-important sergeants and inspectors -of police, who often do more harm than good with their orders and -counter-orders. There are some other gentlemen, too, who slip in and out -unquestioned and unchallenged. They don’t pump at the fire-engines, and -they don’t volunteer to man the fire-escape. But they seem to have an -undisputed though unrecognised right to be here, there, and everywhere, -and are received on a footing of humorous equality by the police, the -fire-escape men, the firemen, and the very firemen’s dogs. They are -not official-looking persons by any means. They wear no uniforms, they -carry no signs of authority, such as truncheons, armlets, or the like. -They are rather given, on the contrary, to a plain and unpretending, -not to say “seedy,” style of attire. Napless hats, surtouts tightly -buttoned up to the throat and white at the seams, pantaloons of undecided -length, unblackened bluchers, and umbrellas, seem to be the favourite -wear among these gentlemen. They are, not to mince the matter, what -are termed “occasional reporters” to the daily newspapers, and, in -less courteous parlance, are denominated “penny-a-liners.” It is the -vocation of these gentlemen (worthy souls for the most part—working very -hard for very little money) to prowl continually about London town, -in search of fires, fallings in and down of houses, runnings away of -vicious horses, breakings down of cabs, carriages, and omnibuses; and, -in fact, accidents and casualties of every description. But especially -fires. Fatal accidents are not unnaturally preferred by the occasional -reporters, because they lead to coroners’ inquests, which have of -course also to be reported; and, in the case of a fire, a slight loss -of life is not objected to. It entails “additional particulars,” and -perhaps an inquiry before the coroner, with an examination of witnesses -relative to the cause of the fire; nay, who knows but it may end in a -trial for arson? There was—and may be now—a gentleman attached to the -combustible department of the press, who was so well known and practised -a hand at reporting conflagrations, that he was christened, and to -some extent popularly known as, the “Fire King.” It was facetiously -suggested that he was unconsumable, made of asbestos, not to be affected -by heat, like Signor Buono Cuore at Cremorne Gardens. According to -the legend current in London newspaper circles, the “Fire King” had -his abode next door to a fire-engine station in the Waterloo Road, -and further to guard against the possibility of missing one of these -interesting, and, to him, remunerative events, he caused to be inscribed -on the door-jamb, in lieu of the ordinary injunction to “ring the top -bell,” this solitary announcement on a neat brass plate, “Fire Bell.” -So, when a fire was signalled within the beat of that portion of the -brigade stationed in the Waterloo Road—or, indeed, anywhere else if of -sufficient magnitude, for the brigade are not by any means particular -as to distances, and would as lief go down the river to Gravesend or up -it to Henley if occasion required—a stalwart brigadier, his helmet and -hatchet all donned, would pull lustily at the fire-bell, accompanying the -tintinnabulation by stentorian shouts of “Wake up, Charley!” Charley, -the “Fire King,” perhaps at that moment serenely dreaming of new Great -Fires of London, Temples of Diana at Ephesus, and Minsters at York, -ignited by Erostatratuses and Jonathan Martins yet unborn, would sing -out of the window a sonorous “All right!” hastily dress, descend, jump -on the ready-harnessed engine, and be conveyed jubilantly, as fast as -ever the horses could carry him, to the scene of the fire. But two stains -existed on the “Fire King’s” otherwise fair escutcheon. It was darkly -rumoured that on one occasion—it was a very fat fire at a patent candle -manufactory—he had offered to bribe the turncock, so tampering with the -supply of water; and that on another, it being a remarkably cold winter’s -night, he expressed a hope that the main might be frozen. And yet a more -tender-hearted man—“additional particulars,” and the claim of a wife and -large family being put out of the question—than the Fire King, does not -exist. - -Meanwhile the oil and pickle man’s house blazes tremendously. The -houses on either side must go too; so think the firemen. Fears are -entertained for the safety of the houses over the way, already scorched -and blistering, and the adjoining tenements within a circle of a hundred -yards are sure to be more or less injured by water, for the street is -wretchedly narrow, and the houses lean-to frightfully. One extremity of -the thoroughfare has been shored up for years by beams, now rotting. The -oil and pickle man is heavily insured, so is the contractor for army -clothing over the way, so is the wholesale boot and shoe manufacturer -next door. It would be a mercy if the whole decayed stack of buildings -were swept away by the devouring, yet purifying element. Yes, a mercy, -surely a mercy. But the miserable inhabitants of the crumbling tenements -that cling like barnacles to the skirts of the great shops and factories, -are they insured? See them swarming from their hovels half naked, -frenzied with terror and amazement, bearing their trembling children in -their arms, or lugging their lamentable shreds and scraps of household -goods and chattels into the open. Are _they_ insured? The fire will -send them to the workhouse, or, maybe, to the workhouse dead-wall—for -they have no legal settlement there, or they are not casual paupers, or -they haven’t seen the relieving-officer, or they are too early, or too -late—there to crouch and die. To be sure, they ought never to have been -born. _They_ are not necessary for the prosperity of the wholesale trade -in boots and shoes, oil, pickles, and army clothing. Why cumber they the -earth? - -And still the fire leaps up into the cold morning air. The house will be -gutted out and out, the police now say authoritatively. Happily there is -no danger to be apprehended now for human life within the blazing pile. -The oil and pickle chandler does not dwell in his warehouse. He has a -snug villa at Highgate, and is very probably now contemplating the motley -sky from his parlour-window, and wondering wherever the fire can be. The -only living person who had to be rescued was an old housekeeper, who -persisted in saying that she had lived in the house “seven and thirty -year,” and wouldn’t leave it while one stone remained on another; which -was not so very difficult a task, seeing that the premises were built -throughout of brick. She had to be hustled at last, and after much to -do, into the fire-escape; but for hours afterwards she led the firemen a -terrible life respecting the fate of a certain tom-cat, of extraordinary -sagacity, called Ginger, which she averred to have left sitting on -the lid of the water-butt, but which very soon afterwards appeared in -the flesh, so scorched that it smelt like burnt feathers, and clawing -convulsively at the collar of a police-constable of the F. division. It -is, perhaps, scarcely worth while to state that in the course of the -fire a poor woman is carried from one of the adjoining hovels dead. She -was close upon her confinement, and the child and she are gone to a more -peaceable and merciful city, where lives, at least, are assured for ever. - -Towards two o’clock, the columns of flame begin to grow slenderer, less -continuous, more fitful. The clanking of the fire-engines does not -decrease, however, in the least, though the firemen joyfully declare -that the fire is “got under.” The surrounding publicans—who, though they -closed at midnight, have all taken down their shutters with marvellous -alacrity—are doing a roaring trade in beer, which is distributed to the -volunteers at the pumps in sufficiently liberal quantities, a check being -kept upon the amount consumed by means of tickets. Where the tickets -come from I have no means of judging, but this wonderful fire-brigade -seem prepared for everything. - -So, feeling very hot and dry, and dazed about the eyes with constant -contemplation of the flames, I leave St. Giles’s and the oil and pickle -vender’s warehouse, which, when daylight comes, will be but a heap of -charred, steaming ruins, and wander westward, musing over the fires I -have seen and the fires I have read of. I think of the great fire of -London in Charles’s time—the fire that began at Pudding Lane and ended -at Pye Corner, and in commemoration of which they built that strange -monument, with the gilt shaving-brush at the top— - - “... London’s column, pointing to the skies, - Like a tall bully, lifts its head and lies.” - -I think of the great fire at the Tower of London in 1841, of which I was -an eye-witness, and which consumed the hideous armouries built by William -III. and their priceless contents. I think upon the great scuffle and -scramble to rescue the crown and regalia from the threatened Jewel House, -such a scuffle and scramble as had not taken place since Colonel Blood’s -impudent attempt to steal those precious things. Then my mind reverts to -the monster conflagration by which the winter palace at St. Petersburg -was destroyed in 1839; of the strange discovery then made, that dozens of -families lived on the roof of the palace—lived, and roosted, and died, -and kept fowls and goats there, of whose existence the court and the -imperial household had not the remotest idea; of the sentinel who died at -his post, notwithstanding the imperial command to leave it, because he -had not been relieved by his corporal; and of the Czar himself watching -with compressed lips the destruction of his magnificent palace, and -vainly entreating his officers not to risk their lives in endeavouring -to save the furniture. One zealous aide-de-camp could not be dissuaded -from the attempt to reach a magnificent pier-glass, framed in gold and -malachite, from a wall, whereupon his Imperial Majesty, seeing that -injunction, entreaty, menace were all in vain, hurled, with the full -force of his gigantic arm, his opera-glass at the sheet of crystal, which -was shivered to atoms by the blow. Not an uncharacteristic trait of -Nicholas Romanoff. - - - - -TWO O’CLOCK A.M.—A LATE DEBATE IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS, AND THE TURNSTILE -OF WATERLOO BRIDGE. - - -I never could understand politics (which difficulty of comprehension of a -repulsive topic I share, I am delighted to know, with the whole charming -female sex, for a woman who is a politician is to me no woman at all). -I never could be consistent in public matters. If my remembrance serve -me correctly, I think I began life as a flaming Conservative. I am now -as flaming a Radical; but I admit that I am most deplorably deficient -in consistency. I find myself, while straining every nerve to defend -the cause, to advocate the rights, to denounce the oppressors of that -English people of whom I am one, frequently halting on ground where -Eglintoun Beaverup, the Conservative _par excellence_, and I can shake -hands; I find myself acknowledging that “blood is thicker than water,” -and that gentle birth will hold its own in the midst of sarcasms against -the tenth transmitters of foolish faces. I find myself actuated now (as -ever in that I have been consistent) by the same dislike and contempt -for the cruel, capricious, ruffian, unteachable Mob—the base _decamisado -canaille_, who are not the working classes, or the lower classes, or any -other class, but the Father of confusion and anarchy’s—the scurvy mob who -pelt a Castlereagh to-day and tear a John de Witt in pieces to-morrow; -who slaughtered Rienzi, and yelped for joy when Madame Roland went to the -guillotine; who cried for “justice” upon Charles Stuart, and danced round -the Tyburn tree from which dangled the rotting corpse of Cromwell; who -would trample on Henry Brougham or John Russell at the present writing, -and rend their vitals, if _their_ mobbish majesty were crossed in one of -its wild-baboon whims. - -With this candid confession of my political shortcomings (I mean to -stand some day for the borough of Weathercock), and having thus, I hope, -disarmed criticism, I shall now venture into the (to me) perilous region -of politics. It is Two o’Clock in the morning; we will even be present in -the spirit at a late debate in the “House.” - -Which august assembly has already been designated by some irreverent wag -as a “large house which keeps bad hours.” In truth, one needs to be -very intimately acquainted, not only with the framework, but with the -minuter organisation of English society and institutions—(how sick I am, -and you must be, of those eternally-recurring words “institutions” and -“society!”)—to understand the causes of the immoderately late hours kept -sometimes by the Lords, but with much greater frequency by the Commons’ -House of Parliament. At the first blush, there seems no earthly reason -why the legislative business of the nation should not be got over during -the day, or, at the outside, before the night were spent. The French -Deputies, Conventionalists, or Representatives in the National Assembly, -in their stormiest and most prolonged debates, seldom heard the chimes at -midnight; and, ardent parliamentarians as are the Americans, it is only -towards the immediate close of the session that Congress keeps for two -or three days and nights a sort of Saturnalia of untimely sittings. If -report speaks true, the members of the United States Legislature are only -enabled to bear these unwonted vigils by incessant recurrence to powerful -stimulants. “Quislings,” “Fiscal Agents,” “Stone Fences,” “Bullocks’ -Milk,” and the innumerable tribe of “Cocktails,” are at a premium during -these abnormally protracted debates; the benches of the House and the -desks of the members stand in imminent danger of being whittled away -during the excitement of discussion; the amount of tobacco masticated -is sufficient to ruin the digestive powers of the nation; the spittoons -overflow, and the fretfulness and irritation not unnaturally engendered -by nervous excitement, occasionally finds relief in cowhiding in the -committee-rooms, gouging in the lobbies, and “stand up and drag out” -fights on the august floor itself, occupied by the conscript fathers of -the republic. Thus I have been informed; but it may be that report tells -a fib, after all. - -When we arrive, however, at a just understanding and appreciation of the -mechanism of this wondrous British constitutional watch, jewelled in ever -so many holes as it is, with its levers, and escapements, and unnumbered -compensation balances, the lateness of our legislative hours will not be -by far so much of a mystery to us. We are altogether a sitting-up late -people. The continental theatres are all closed by eleven. We dismiss -our audiences sometimes at midnight, oftener at half-past, or a quarter -to one in the morning. Our fashionable balls commence when those of -other nations are terminating. We may not dine so late, but then we sup -heavily, hours afterwards. Night life in London does not condescend to -commence till the “small hours;” yet, in dissipated Paris, you may -count the _cafés_ and supper-rooms on your fingers whose portals are -open at one o’clock in the morning. The “Journal des Debats” goes to -press at four in the afternoon; eight hours later, there is yet often -a leader to be written for the forthcoming number of the “Times.” The -only capital that can equal London in the faculty of “keeping it up” to -any number of hours, is St. Petersburg. There the antipathy which the -Russians entertain for going to bed is solely surpassed by their aversion -to getting up. They turn night into day; but the sturdy, strong-willed, -perverse English work or dissipate nearly “twice round the clock.” They -make the little children go to bed; yet the ambition even of those -younglings is to “sit up late” like the grown people. - -A French senator gets a thousand pounds a year for wearing a blue livery -coat with a stand-up collar, the whole handsomely embroidered in gold; -kerseymere small clothes, and silk stockings. He drives down to the -Luxembourg in his brougham, about three in the afternoon, dozes for -a couple of hours on a well-stuffed bench, goes home to dine, drink -coffee, play tric-trac, read the “Gazette de France,” or receive a -select circle of pensioned fogies like himself. He wakes up some fine -morning to find himself complimented in the “Moniteur,” and the gratified -recipient of the grand cross of the Legion of Honour. A member of the -French _Corps Législatif_ receives his wages in a comparative ratio, and -pursues an analogous cycle of “duties.” But look at an English member -of Parliament. He receives nothing a year, and in many cases has little -more than that problematical income, sometimes humorously characterised -as “midshipman’s half-pay,” to live upon. If he be rich, so much the -better; but wealth will not take away a tittle from his hard work. In the -early morning, over his tea and toast, he has an ocean of correspondence, -often frivolous, always wearisome, to wade through. Then he has his -blue-books to dive into, his authorities to consult, his statistics to -cram, his speeches to “coach,” his grievances to hunt up, his exordia to -study, his perorations to practise. Comes the hour of morning calls when -he must be at home, and give audience to the great army of Askers and -the legionary tribe of bores, men who will take no denial, importunate -clients, who want berths in the Post-office for themselves, or reversions -of tide-waiterships for their cousins’ cousins. Happily for the member -of Parliament, Mr. Rowland Hill’s penny-postage system has abolished the -frank-hunting torture, which brought many M.P.’s to death’s door, and -made more bitterly regret that they had ever been taught to write their -own names. And woe be to the legislator if he receive not his visitors -with courtesy! They probably are constituents, and a curt answer will -frequently send them away charged with the deadliest schemes against -that member’s vote and interest at the ensuing general election. As a -diversion during the morning calls, the M.P. has to receive some dozens -of applications for orders of admission to the Strangers’ Gallery of -the House, he having always a couple at his disposal. After this, he -has, perhaps, to wait upon the Prime Minister, in Downing Street, at -the head of a deputation respecting the disputed right in a cess-pool; -or he may be the chairman of some parliamentary committee, sitting, _de -die in diem_, to inquire into the hideous turpitude of a contractor -who has sewn so many pairs of soldiers’ boots without cobblers’ wax. -Then, he has to take a cab to attend the great public meeting for the -Evangelisation of Chinese beggars, held at the Mansion House. He is due -about this time in the board-room of the public company of which he is -a director; and at the special committee of the Benevolent Institution -in which he takes so much interest. A pretty hard day’s work this, you -will acknowledge. Add that the English member of Parliament has to be, -over and above all this, a man of business or pleasure: with a wife -and family very often, with a turn for literature, or art, or science, -or natural history. He is a merchant or banker, and must drudge in his -counting-house, like the meanest of his clerks, or gabble on ’Change -with the nimblest-tongued bill-broker. He is a great counsel: he cannot -plead the cause of “Stradlings _versus_ Styles,” by deputy, or allow -his junior to sum up in the great will case. He is a celebrity of the -fashionable world: he must pay his morning visits, ride in the Park, show -himself at the “Corner,” lounge through his clubs, drop in at the opera -at night; and, after all this, or rather in the midst of all this, and -pervading it like a nightmare, there is the real business of his life—the -“House.” He possesses some six hundred other colleagues, who are to the -full as busily occupied as he is during the day, yet manage, somehow, to -find themselves behind the Speaker’s chair, or at the gangway, at five -o’clock in the afternoon. He had better not be unpunctual or remiss in -his attendance. Those constituents of his, at Shrimpington-super-Mare, -will call him to a strict account of his stewardship at the end of the -session, and it may go hard with him at the Mechanics’ Institution or the -Farmers’ Ordinary. Under all these circumstances, do you think it so -very extraordinary that there should be occasionally a late debate in the -House of Commons? - -You will remark that I have preserved, throughout, a decorous reticence -with regard to the House of Lords. Goodness forfend that I should have -to judge their Lordships by the same business-like work-a-day standard -which I have presumed to apply to the Lower House. Their Lordships meet -early and separate early, as becometh their degree; yet even the Lords -have their field-days, and their occasions when they sit up late o’ -nights. Then the right reverend bishops come down, booted and spurred, -to vote against the heathen; and paralytic old peers are borne to the -House in litters, there to wheeze forth, in tremulous accents, their -unalterable attachment to Church and State, so dangerously menaced in -“another place,” and from their most noble pockets they pull forth -“proxies,” signed by other peers more paralytic than themselves. But -these field-days of the Lords are few and far between, and the _otium -cum dignitate_ is the easy, comfortable rule with their Lordships. It -is but doing them justice to say, however, that many peers have been -members of the Lower House in their time, and have sat up as late, -and battled in debate as fiercely, as any middle-aged member of her -Majesty’s Opposition. Nor are they all idle, parliamentarily, in the -day time. There are some noblemen—legal peers mostly—who disdain to -rest upon their laurels, and are content to spend the long forenoons in -listening to dreary disquisitions about the wrongs of Parsee traders, -and the visionary pedigrees of claimants to dormant peerages. The -Lords’ committee hear appeals, and it is a wondrous sight to see those -old boys snoozing and twiddling their thumbs on the crimson benches -of their golden chamber. They seem not to listen to the elaborate -word-entanglements of the bewigged pleaders; yet they make remarks full -of sense and pregnant with acumen. You are a young man or woman, dear -reader of this, I hope. You have not much time to lose. Go straight down -to Palace Yard, pass through Westminster Hall, and up the stone stairs, -by the giant brazen candelabra and the great stained-glass window. So on -through the Gothic vestibules and corridors—never mind the frescoes of -Messrs. Dyce and Company, they are not worth looking at just now. Hie -you quickly to a door-way half-screened by crimson drapery, and edge -your way into the House of Lords. An you take off your hat and hold your -tongue, you may stare about you as much as ever you please, and hear -your fill of the edifying, if not amusing, appeals. You may wonder at -the Lord Chancellor’s wrinkles and at his ruffles; you may listen to -Floorem, Attorney-General, and Botherem, Q.C., till your eyes begin to -wink, and your head to nod, and your whole mental framework to grow -desperately weary; but you must not go entirely to sleep. Somnolence -may entail a fall on the floor of the House, which would cause a noise, -and would never do; so, unless you are gifted, like a horse, with the -power of going to sleep standing, I would counsel you to take a cup -of strong green tea before you enter the House, and so string your -nerves up to wakefulness. For diversion, turn away your eyes from the -verbose barristers in their horse-hair, silk, and bombazine, and look -at their Lordships. There are not often more than half-a-dozen of them -present—seldom so many as that. You shall scarcely fail, however, to miss -that noble senator—a capital working man of business he is too—who is -possessed by the curious idiosyncrasy of dressing in the exact similitude -of his own butler: blue coat and brass buttons, yellow waistcoat, -pepper-and-salt pantaloons—not trousers, mind—and low shoes. I think, -even, that his Lordship’s head is powdered. You may object that there is -no reason why a gentleman of the old school, wedded to traditions and -reminiscences of _le bon vieux temps_, should not wear such a costume -as this, and yet look every inch a nobleman. Nor is there, indeed; -but glance for a moment at Lord Aspendale, and you will confess that, -from hair-powder to shoe-string, there is a permeating flavour of the -side-board and the still-room. Whether his Lordship likes it, or whether -his Lordship can’t help it, it matters little; but the fact is there, -plain and obvious. - -Standing in the narrow Gothic railed-off space reserved for the -public—the throne at the opposite extremity of the House—you may see -on one of the benches to the right, almost every forenoon—Saturday and -Sunday excepted—during the session, a very old man with a white head, -and attired in a simple frock and trousers of shepherd’s plaid. It is -a leonine head, and the white locks are bushy and profuse. So, too, -the eyebrows, penthouses to eyes somewhat weak now, but that can flash -fire yet upon occasions. The face is ploughed with wrinkles, as well it -may be, for the old man will never see fourscore years again, and of -these, threescore, at the very least, have been spent in study and the -hardest labour, mental and physical. The nose is a marvel—protuberant, -rugose, aggressive, inquiring, and defiant: unlovely, but intellectual. -There is a trumpet mouth, a belligerent mouth, projecting and -self-asserting; largish ears, and on chin or cheeks no vestige of -hair. Not a beautiful man this on any theory of beauty, Hogarthesque, -Ruskinesque, Winckelmanesque, or otherwise. Rather a shaggy, gnarled, -battered, weatherbeaten, ugly, faithful, Scotch-colley type. Not a soft, -imploring, yielding face. Rather a tearing, mocking, pugnacious, cast -of countenance. The mouth is fashioned to the saying of harsh, hard, -impertinent things: not cruel, but downright; but never to whisper -compliments, or simper out platitudes. A nose, too, that can snuff the -battle afar off, and with dilated nostrils breathe forth a glory that -is sometimes terrible; but not a nose for a pouncet-box, or a Covent -Garden bouquet, or a _flacon_ of Frangipani. Would not care much for -truffles either I think, or the delicate aroma of sparkling Moselle. -Would prefer onions or strongly-infused malt and hops: something honest -and unsophisticated. Watch this old man narrowly, young visitor to the -Lords. Scan his furrowed visage. Mark his odd angular ways and gestures -passing uncouth. Now he crouches, very doglike, on his crimson bench: -clasps one shepherd’s plaid leg in both his hands. Botherem, Q.C., is -talking nonsense, I think. Now the legs are crossed, and the hands -thrown behind the head; now he digs his elbows into the little Gothic -writing-table before him, and buries the hands in that puissant white -hair of his. The quiddities of Floorem, Q.C., are beyond human patience. -Then with a wrench, a wriggle, a shake, a half turn and half start -up—still very doglike, but of the Newfoundland rather, now, he asks a -lawyer or a witness a question. Question very sharp and to the point, -not often complimentary by-times, and couched in that which is neither -broad Scotch nor Northumbrian burr, but a rebellious mixture of the two. -Mark him well, eye him closely: you have not much time to lose. Alas! -the giant is very old; though with frame yet unenfeebled, with intellect -yet gloriously unclouded. But the sands are running, ever running. Watch -him, mark him, eye him, score him on your mind tablets: then home; and in -after years it may be your lot to tell your children, that once at least -you have seen with your own eyes the famous Lord of Vaux; once listened -to the voice that has shaken thrones and made tyrants tremble, that has -been a herald of deliverance to millions pining in slavery and captivity; -a voice that has given utterance, in man’s most eloquent words, to the -noblest, wisest thoughts lent to this Man of Men by Heaven; a voice that -has been trumpet-sounding these sixty years past in defence of Truth, and -Right, and Justice—in advocacy of the claims of learning and industry, -and of the liberties of the great English people, from whose ranks he -rose; a voice that should be entitled to a hearing in a Walhalla of wise -heroes, after Francis of Verulam and Isaac of Grantham; the voice of one -who is worthily a lord, but who will be yet better remembered, and to all -time—remembered enthusiastically and affectionately—as the champion of -all good and wise and beautiful Human Things—HARRY BROUGHAM. - -But I must not forget, as I am sorely tempted to do in Westminster -Hall, that it is two o’clock in the morning. This is the last night—the -honourable House are positively determined to divide to-night, even if -the Ministry go out—of the adjourned debate on the Gulliver Indemnity -Bill. The honourable House have been speechifying at a tremendous rate -for the last fortnight on the vexed question as to whether Samuel -Gulliver, master mariner, is or is not to have an indemnity. Lord -Viscount Palmerston, head of the government, says he shall. The Right -Hon. Benjamin Disraeli, ex-Chancellor of the Exchequer, and head of the -Opposition, says he sha’n’t. Honourable members in formidable numbers -range themselves on either side. Night after night the House has been -ringing with eulogies and denunciations of Gulliver and his indemnity. -The country is in a ferment, the press in arms, on the Titanic topic. A -monster meeting at Manchester has pledged itself, amid deafening cheers -in the Lancashire dialect and rounds of “Kentish fire,” to support the -indemnification of Gulliver by every legal and constitutional means. -The “Times” newspaper, on its part, declares the indemnity an impudent -swindle, and plainly announces that if Gulliver be indemnified, Great -Britain must be content to remain henceforth and for ever a second-rate -Power. The funds are going up and down like a see-saw, all with reference -to Gulliver. More bets are made in the clubs and sporting localities -_in re_ Gulliver than on the coming Derby, or that other vexed question -whether Bludgin Yahoo, who murdered the old lady with the crowbar (they -say he is beautifully penitent in Newgate, and that the sheriffs cry -to see him eat his daily beefsteak) will be hanged or not. The Emperor -of Brobdignag is vitally interested in Gulliver, and there were two -_attachés_ from the Lilliputian embassy in the Speaker’s gallery the -night before last. Never mind who Gulliver was, or what was the nature -of the losses for which he sought to be indemnified. It matters as -little now as whether Bolgrad was a hamlet or a town; and even while the -conflict was raging, I very much question whether a hundred members of -the House of Commons knew anything about Gulliver personally, or cared -two pins about him or his indemnity. In some respects politics are like -fox-hunting. You want a fast-running, doubling, artful question—the more -powerful in odour the better—to start with; but once run down the fox, -and the question goes for nothing. Sometimes Reynard is scarce; but even -then a red herring will serve at a pinch to bark at and run after. - -We are in a spacious chamber, not very vast, not very lofty—for there -is a false roof of ground glass, for acoustic reasons—and not very -handsome. A sufficiency of oaken panelling, and windows veiled with -velvet curtains, brilliant but cunningly tempered light—the absolute -lamps invisible. Altogether a comfortable, well-to-do-place—say something -like an enlarged edition of the coffee-room of a terminus hotel, as they -are building terminus hotels now-a-days, or the newspaper-room of a club -fitted up for a general meeting of the members. A tinge of Gothicism -pervades the decorations, here and there tending to the Elizabethan, but -altogether leaning more to the “convenient” style of ornament. Everything -that skill and ingenuity (duly patented) can devise for the promotion -of light, warmth, general comfort, &c., are here. Enthroned on high, -slender galleries above him, is the Speaker. “Jove in his chair, of the -skies lord mayor,” is a sufficiently tremendous Pagan image. He must -find it a somewhat hard task to keep order on Olympus’ top occasionally. -Vulcan will be wrangling with Apollo and eyeing Mars askant: Venus -will be having high words with Juno, and Minerva boring the celestial -company generally with her strongmindedness; to say nothing of Bacchus, -in the plenitude of fermented grape-juice, volunteering a stave when -nobody wants one; Mercury, labouring under his eternal disability to -keep his hands out of the other gods’ and goddesses’ pockets; and the -arch mischief maker, Cupid, wantoning about on his flyflapper wings, and -setting everybody by the ears. But Jupiter-Speaker has a thrice more -difficult task! Fancy having to preserve discipline among six hundred -and a half gentlemen—young, old, and middle-aged gentles, all fond of -the sound of their own voices; many of whom have dined copiously, to the -making of them noisy; some who have not dined at all, to the making of -them fretful and peevish, not to say quarrelsome. Poor Mr. Speaker! how -weary he must be of the honourable House and of its honourable members -in general, and of the Gulliver’s Indemnity Bill in particular! Yet -there he sits, the image of urbanity and equanimity, graceful, composed, -dignified, though taciturn; his wig unmoved, his bands and ruffles -uncrumpled. How devoutly he must wish that the bill were “in committee,” -when the mace might lie under the table, and he himself “leave the -chair!” But, alas! the atrocious measure has not yet been read a second -time. The country need be liberal and the House courteous to the Speaker. -Surely, if any man deserves a handsome salary, free quarters, and a -peerage on retirement, it is that Right Honourable Gentleman. To have to -listen, night after night, to drowthy verbosities, phantasm statements, -nightmare gibberings of incoherent statistics, inextricable word-chaoses -of statements and counter-statements, sham declarations of sham -patriotism bellowed forth with sham energy; to have to hear these tales, -full of sound and fury, told by honourable idiots full of unutterable -“bunkum” (an Americanism I feel constrained to use, as signifying -nothingness, ineffably inept and irremediably pin-perforated windbaggery, -and sublimated cucumber sunbeams hopelessly eclipsed into Dis)—these -must be trials so sore that they need the highest of wages, the best of -living, to be endured even. To induce a man to keep a turn-pike or a -lighthouse, to work in a gunpowder mill, or to accept the governorship -of Cape Coast Castle, you must offer heavy reward. Of old, in France, -glass-blowing was considered to be a trade so dangerous, and requiring -so much abnegation of self, that its professors were not ranked with the -meaner sort of mechanics. Your glass-blower was entitled to wear a sword, -a privilege extended since, I believe, to printers: (it is lucky they -do not exercise it now, or I should be run through and through a dozen -times a day by compositors infuriate at illegible spider manuscript.) -He could blow glass without tarnishing his ’scutcheon, and was called -“_Gentilhomme Verrier_.” Touching the Speakership, I think that the mere -obligation of hearing men who hate each other, bandying the epithet of -“honourable friend” so many hundred times in a night, is in itself worth -two thousand a year. - -The House has commenced. The peers’ gallery, ambassadors’ seats, -strangers’, Speaker’s gallery, all full of attentive listeners. -“Distinguished foreigners” are present. The Emperor of Brobdignag’s -ex-Minister for Foreign Affairs has come down from the Travellers’, -where he has been playing whist with the Hospodar of Wallachia’s _Chargé -d’Affaires_, and lurks in ambush behind the Speaker. The sparkling -eyes of ladies, seeing but unseen, look down, as at Evans’s, upon the -hall. The members’ benches—oaken covered with green leather, carved -ends—are full. The members’ gallery (stretching along both sides of -the House) is, to tell the truth, not full, but it is possibly occupied -by honourable members who have retired thither to—listen to the debate, -of course. Oddly enough, they find that the assumption of a horizontal -position is the very best for hearing that which is going on below; or, -perhaps, they only imitate in this Fortunio’s gifted servant. To turn -the face to the wall, also, seems a favourite method of stimulating the -auditory nerve; and some honourable gentlemen are so engrossed in the -exciting debate proceeding in the House, that, at two o’clock in the -morning, they sometimes give vent to their overworked-up feelings in a -deep stertorous nasal sound resembling a snore. - -Up in the reporters’ gallery there, the gentlemen who submit to “work on -an intellectual treadmill for three hundred pounds a year,” are having -hard times of it. The “turns” of stenography are getting shorter and -shorter; but, alas! they have been terribly frequent during the debate. -How unmerciful have been the maledictions bestowed on Gulliver and his -indemnity since five p.m. when the Speaker was at prayers! Gulliver -would be a bold man to venture into the cushion-benched chamber behind -the gallery where the gentlemen of the Press retire to transcribe their -notes. O’Dobbin of the “Flail” has been dying to hear Tamberlik in -“Otello” these six weeks past. His chief gave him a stall this morning. -Gulliver sits in it like a ghoule on a grave. Dollfus, of Garden Court, -Temple, was invited to Jack Tritail, the newly-made barrister’s, “call” -carouse in Lincoln’s Inn Hall. Gulliver is sitting at the hospitable -board, gulping down the claret like Garagantua. Little Spitters, who was -always a ladies’ man, was to have been a “welcome guest” at a neat villa -not far from Hammersmith Broadway. The fiend Gulliver is at this moment -being called a “droll creature,” and is flirting with the eldest Miss -Cockletop. - -[Illustration: TWO O’CLOCK A.M.: A LATE DEBATE IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS.] - -The great chief of the Opposition has spoken. Gloomy, saturnine, -isolated, yet triumphant, sits the eloquent and sarcastic Caucasian. -Those once brilliant black corkscrew ringlets are growing slightly gray -and wiry now, the chin tuft has disappeared, and time and thought have -drawn deep lines in the sallow visage of Benjamin Disraeli, ruler of the -Opposition. His attire, too, is sober compared with the myriad-hued garb, -the flashing jewellery, and vests of many colours, with which Benjamin -was wont to dazzle our eyes in the days before he slew Robert Peel, and -hired himself to the Protectionists—all in a parliamentary sense. People -say, when he wrote “Venetia” and the “Revolutionary Epic,” he used to -wear laced ruffles at his wrists and black velvet inexpressibles. He is -wiser now. He has turned the half century, and only wears a vest of many -colours when he dons his gold robe as Chancellor of the Exchequer. He has -worn it once, and would very much like to wear it again. He has made a -very long, telling, brilliant speech, in which he has said a multitude of -damaging things against Gulliver, his indemnity, and especially against -the noble Viscount at the head of the Government. He has never been -abusive, insulting, coarse, virulent—oh, never! he has not once lost -his temper. He has treated the noble Viscount with marked courtesy, and -has called him his right honourable and noble friend scores of times; -yet, hearing him, it has been impossible to avoid the impression that if -any man was ever actuated by the conviction that his right honourable -and noble friend was an impostor and a humbug, with a considerable dash -of the traitor; and that—without hinting anything in the slightest -degree libellous—his right honourable and noble friend had been once -or twice convicted of larceny, and had failed in clearing himself from -the suspicion of having murdered his grandmother, that man was Benjamin -Disraeli, M.P. for the county of Bucks. He did not begin brilliantly. -He was not in the slightest degree like Cicero or Demosthenes, Burke -or Grattan, or like thee, my Eglintoun Beaverup, when thou descantest -upon the “glorious old cocks,” the “real tap, sir,” of antiquity. He -was, on the contrary, slow, laboured, downcast, and somewhat ponderous; -nor even at the conclusion of his magnificent harangue, did he throw -his arms about, smite his breast, stamp his foot, or cast his eyes -up to heaven—and the ceiling. The days of weeping and gesticulation, -of crumpling up sheets of paper, cracking slave-whips, flinging down -daggers, and smashing the works of watches, seem to have departed from -the House of Commons. Yet the eminent Caucasian contrived to create a -very appreciable sensation, and certainly shot those barbed arrows of -his—arrows tipped with judicious sarcasm and polite malevolence—with -amazing dexterity and with murderous success. He has made his noble -friend wince more than once, I will be bound. But you cannot see the -workings of that stateman’s face, for (save while addressing the House) -he wears his hat; and the light coming from above causes the friendly -brim to cast the vice-comital countenance into shadow. - -A noticeable man this Hebrew Caucasian, Benjamin Disraeli, with his -byegone literary nonsenses, and black-velvet-trousered frivolities. Not -at all an English Man, trustworthy, loveable, nor indeed admirable, -according to our sturdy English prejudices. Such statesmen as -Shaftesbury, Ximenes, De Retz, any minister with a penchant for “dark -and crooked ways,” would have delighted in him; but to upright, albeit -bigoted, William Pitt, he would have had anything but a sweet savour. -Even Tory Castlereagh and Tory Sidmouth would but ill have relished -this slippery, spangled, spotted, insincere Will-o’-the-wisp patriot. I -should like very much to have known what manner of opinion the late Duke -of Wellington entertained of Benjamin Disraeli. It is, of course, but -matter of speculation; but I can’t help thinking, too, that if Arthur -Wellesley had had Benjamin in the Peninsula, he would have hanged him to -a certainty. - -Hush! pray hush! Silence, ye cackling juniors on the back benches; wake -up, ye sluggards—only they don’t wake up—the noble Viscount at the head -of the Government is speaking. He begins confidently enough, but somewhat -wearily, as though he were thoroughly tired of the whole business. But -he warms gradually, and he, in his turn, too, can say damaging things -about _his_ right honourable friend, head of the Opposition. But he never -says anything spiteful—is at most petulant (loses his temper altogether -sometimes, they say), and flings about some _bon mots_ that, were they -published in this week’s “Punch,” would cause a well-grounded complaint -of the growing dulness of that periodical. He speaks long, and to the -purpose, and you can see at once in what stead have stood to him his -long official career, his immense parliamentary experience. Recollect -that John Henry Temple, Viscount Palmerston, has sat in Parliament for -half a century, was Secretary-at-War while Wellington was yet wrestling -with Napoleon’s marshals in Spain, was one of the authors of the “New -Whig Guide,” has formed part of scores of administrations; and—one -of the hardest-worked men of his time—has yet found leasure to be a -beau and lion of fashion in Grosvenorian circles, and to be called -“Cupid”—Grosvenorian circles rather chap-fallen, crow’s-footed, rheumy -about the eyes by this time, rather fallen into the sere and yellow leaf, -now hessians and short waists have gone out, hoops and pegtops come in. -Drollest of all, to think that this smug elderly gentleman, voluble in -spite of tongue-clogging seventy, and jaunty in spite of evident gout, -but quite a decorous, father-of-family, select vestryman-looking ancient, -should be the “_terrible Palmerston_” the firebrand of the Continent, the -bugbear of foreign oligarchs, the grim “_Caballero Balmerson_” naming -whom Spanish contrabandistas cross themselves, the abhorred “Palmerstoni” -whom papal gensd’arme imagine to be an emerited brigand who has long -defied the pontifical authority from an inaccessible fastness in the -Apennines. I need not tell you anything more about his speech. You will -find it all in Hansard; and the newspapers of the day gave an accurate -summary of the cheers, the counter-cheers, the ironical cheers, the -“Hear, hears,” and the “Oh, oh’s” which accompanied the harangue, -together with the “loud and continuous cheering” (from his own side of -the House) which greeted its conclusion. - -The longest lane, however, must have a turning; and this desperately long -drawn-out parliamentary avenue has its turning at last. There have been -frenzied shrieks of “Divide—divide!’ numerous bores who have essayed -to speak have been summarily shut up and coughed down; and at length -strangers are ordered to withdraw, and the division bell rings. - -“On our re-admission,” we quote from the “Times” newspaper of 185—, the -results of the division were announced as follows:— - - For the second reading of the bill 284 - Against it 307 - --- - Majority against the Government 23 - -The bill was consequently lost. - -Next day the Government presided over by the noble Viscount who wears -his hat, goes out of office—the “Times” giving it a graceful kick at -parting, and hinting that it was never anything more than a disreputable, -shameless, abandoned clique, whose nepotism had grown intolerable in the -nostrils of the nation. The Right Honourable Caucasian, who doesn’t wear -his hat, is sent for by a certain friend of his—a noble Earl, who is -generally considered a first-rate hand at making up a book for the Derby. -He in his turn is sent for by his Most Gracious Sovereign; and, for the -next three or four days, there is nothing but running about and getting -upstairs between Buckingham Palace, St. James’s Square, and Grosvenor -Gate; and at the end of that time, the right honourable Caucasian finds -himself snugly ensconced in Downing Street, with full liberty to wear his -gold robe again. - -[Illustration: TWO O’CLOCK A.M.: THE TURNSTILE OF WATERLOO BRIDGE.] - -Past, long past two in the morning. The much-suffering House of Commons -at last shut up, and deserted save by the police and the night watchmen. -The last cabs in Palace Yard driven away: the charioteers grumbling -horribly on their boxes, for they have members of Parliament inside, who -never pay more than the legal fare. Irish members walked round the corner -to Manchester Buildings or Victoria Street, there dwelling. Some members -do all but sleep in the House. As for the noble and defeated Viscount, -he trots cheerily home—scorning either cab or carriage—shouldering his -umbrella, as though nothing in the world had happened to ruffle his -equanimity. - - * * * * * - -And now, for the first time since this clock was set in motion, something -like a deep sleep falleth over London. Not that the city is all hushed; -it never is. There are night revellers abroad, night prowlers a-foot. -There is houseless wretchedness knowing not where to hide its head; -there is furtive crime stalking about, and seeking whom it may devour. -Yet all has a solemn, ghastly, unearthly aspect; the gas-lamps flicker -like corpse candles; and the distant scream of a profligate, in conflict -with the police, courses up and down the streets in weird and shuddering -echoes. - -The Strand is so still that you may count the footsteps as they -sound; and the pale moon looks down pityingly on the vast, feverish, -semi-slumbering mass. Here we stand at length by Upper Wellington Street; -a minute’s walk to the right will bring us to the “Bridge of Sighs.” - -Which never sleeps! Morning, and noon, and night, the sharp, clicking -turnstile revolves; the ever-wakeful tollman is there, with his -preternaturally keen apron. I call this man Charon, and the river which -his standing ferry bridges over might well be the Styx. Impossible, -immobile, indifferent, the gate-keeper’s creed is summed up in one -word—“A halfpenny!” Love, hope, happiness, misery, despair, and -death—what are they to him? “A halfpenny for the bridge” is all he asks! -but “a halfpenny for the bridge” he must have. - -“Please, sir, will you give me a halfpenny for the bridge?” A phantom in -crinoline lays her hand on my arm. I start, and she hastens through the -turnstile— - - “Anywhere, anywhere, - Out of the world,” - -perhaps. But I may not linger on the mysteries of the Bridge of Sighs. -They are among the “Secrets of Gas,” and the pictured semblance of the -place here must content you. - - - - -HOUR THE TWENTY-FOURTH AND LAST—THREE A.M.—A BAL MASQUE, AND THE NIGHT -CHARGES AT BOW STREET. - - -When the bad Lord Lyttelton lay on his last bed—thorn-strewn by -conscience—and haunted by the awful prediction of the phantom which -appeared to him in the semblance of a white dove, telling him that at a -certain hour on a certain night he should die, some friends who had a -modicum of human feeling, and wished that wicked lord well, thinking that -his agony was caused by mere terror of an impending event—half nervous, -half superstitious—advanced the hands of the clock One Hour, and when -the fatal one, as it seemed, struck, his Lordship started up in bed, -apparently much relieved, and cried out joyfully that he had “jockeyed -the ghost.” But when the _real time_ arrived, and the _real hour_ was -stricken on the bell, the prediction of the white dove was verified, and -the bad Lord Lyttelton, shrieking, gave up the ghost. - -Moral: there is not the slightest use in playing tricks with the clock. -Were it otherwise, and were I not deterred by this awful warning in the -case of Lord Lyttelton, I would entreat some kindly friend to stand on -tiptoe, and just push the hour-hand of this clock of mine back, were it -but for one poor _stunde_ of sixty minutes. But in vain. As well ask Mr. -Calcraft to postpone his quarter-to-eight visit with a new rope, when the -law has consigned you to the tender mercies of that eminent functionary. -As well may Crown Prince Frederick entreat the Governor of Cüstrin to -defer the execution of wretched Lieutenant Katte, “till he can write to -the king.” As well may the unfortunate little Pants, hopelessly embroiled -for the fifth time this morning with his Greek Delectus, implore the -terrible Doctor Budd to spare him the rod this once. As well might I -write to the Postmaster-General to say that it will not be convenient for -me to deposit the last batch of newspapers in the window till half-past -six p.m.; or beg the London and North-Western Railway Company to delay -the departure of the Manchester night express till I have finished my -wine and walnuts at the Victoria Hotel, Euston Square. The fiat has gone -forth. _Missa est._ Judgment is over, and execution is come; and I may -say, with Lord Grizzle in “Tom Thumb:” - - “My bodye is a bankrupt’s shop, - My grim creditor is death,” - -who, like a stern sergeant, lays his hand on my collar, and bids me -follow him to jail in the king’s name. I wish I were Punch, for he not -only “jockeyed” the ghost, but the hangman, and the beadle, and Mr. -Shallabalah, and his wife, and the very deuce himself. I wish I were in a -land where time is indeed made for slaves, or where there are no clocks -to cast honest men off their hobbies. - - “I wish I were a geese, - For they lives and dies in peace, - And accumulates much grease, - Over there.” - -But I am not a Punch nor a “geese,” to endorse the touching transatlantic -locution, however much I may merit the singular application of the name. -I am only your humble servant to command, and this is the last hour of -“Twice Round the Clock,” so I must e’en essay to make a good end of it. - -We have not been so badly off for public amusements during -our journeyings. We have been to the opera, to the theatre, a -dancing-academy, and to hear an oratorio. We have supped at Evans’s, and -“assisted” at a late debate in the House of Commons; yet I acknowledge, -mournfully, that scores of places of recreation exist in London to which -I could have taken you, and where we might have enjoyed ourselves very -rationally and harmlessly. I should have liked to induct you to the -mysteries of Canterbury Hall, the Polytechnic, Christy’s Minstrels, -and Madame Tussaud’s waxwork show. For I hold to this creed, sternly -and strongly, that public amusements—indoor and outdoor amusements—are -eminently conducive to public _morals_, and to the liberty and happiness -of the people. Music, dancing, and dramatic representations, free from -grossness and turbulence, are as healthful and innocent recreations as -Temperance Halls, lectures on the comet’s tail, or monster meetings -dedicated to the deification of the _odium theologicum_. From my little -parlour window at Brighton, I can see a huge yellow placard disfiguring -a dead wall with this inscription:—“Protestants! attend the Great -Meeting to-night!” Bother the Protestants, (on platforms) I say, and the -Pope of Rome too. What have we done that we are to be perpetually set -together by the ears by belligerent Protestants and rampant Romanists? -Is the whole framework of society to be shaken by controversies about -the cardinal’s red stockings or the rector’s shovel hat? They had best -both be swept into the dust-hole, I think, as having no more to do with -religion than my poodle, Buffo, has with the Gunpowder Plot. Will all -these roaring meetings—Protestants and Romanist, or Mumbo-Jumboical—where -blatant stump-orators, paid for their theology by the night, rant, and -stamp, and cook up those eternal Smithfield fires, help the sacred cause -of Christianity one iota? It is long since Sheridan expressed a hope that -there might be no more “scandal about Queen Elizabeth,” and now, I see, -they can’t let that poor old woman rest in her grave. Some zealous people -want to get up a sort of rider to “Guy Fawkes’s Day,” to commemorate the -tri-centenary of her accession. You stupid firebrands! Of course “the -Reformation was a blessing;” but do you know what will be the result of -this raking up of the Elizabethan scandal? Do you know that there are -such books as “Cobbett’s Legacy to Parsons,” and “Lingard’s History,” -besides “Foxe’s Martyrs,” and a “Thunderbolt for Rome”? Do you know that -it may be proved just six of one and half-a-dozen of the other about -Queen Bess? that while to some she is the Great Protestant Sovereign, the -Egeria of the Reformation, the Heroine of Tilbury Fort, to others she -is a vain, cruel, arrogant old beldame, no better than she should be? -who butchered Mary Stuart, and had Leicester poisoned; and who for every -Protestant her gloomy sister burned, had at least two Papists hanged, -drawn, and quartered, with the pleasant addition of their entrails -being torn out and consumed before their eyes! _Eh! laissons la_ these -horrible reminiscences, and thank Heaven that we live under the sway of -good Victoria, not that of ruthless Elizabeth or bloody Mary. Did the -wise, and merciful, and bounteous Creator, who made this smiling earth, -who has gladdened us with an infinity of good things for our solace and -enjoyment, and for all quit-rent has laid this law upon us that we should -love one another, in testimony of our greatest love for Him, who is -all love and tenderness; did He send us here to squabble and fight and -predict eternal perdition to one another, because there fall into our -hearts a differently-coloured ray of the divine Effulgence? There is a -flaming Protestant here with a broad-brimmed hat, and who is a vessel of -much consequence among his fellow-bigots, who told an honest butcher some -days since that if the Maynooth grant were renewed we should have “the -thumbscrews in three months;” whereupon the affrighted butcher plastered -all his joints over with handbills of the great Protestant Meeting, thus, -of course, losing all his customers of the other persuasion. I wish those -bells which are eternally jangling invitations for us to come and thank -Heaven that we are not “as that publican,” would ring a little tolerance -and charity into men’s hearts; would ring out a little more oblivion -of phylacteries and pew-rents in high places, and of the sepulchral -whitewash brushes. If the people who make all this noise and clamour, -and who howl out against rational amusements, led pure and virtuous -lives, and set good examples to their neighbours, this voice should not -be raised; but, alas! here is brother Dolorous at the bar of the court -of Queen’s Bench for peculation; here is Sister Saintly scourging her -apprentice; here are Messrs. Over-righteous in trouble for adulteration -of their wares. - -It is by no means incompatible, I hope, with the broad line of argument -I have striven to adopt in these papers, if I honestly declare that the -tableau I am about to describe has not in any way my approval, nay is, in -many respects, much to be reprobated and deplored. I describe it—in its -least repulsive details—simply because it is a very noticeable feature -in modern London life. To have passed it over would have been dishonest -and hypocritical, and I set it down in my catalogue of subjects at the -outset of my task, actuated then, as I am now, by a determination to -allow no squeamishness to interfere with the delineation of the truth—so -long as that truth could be told without offence to good manners and -in household language. A modern masquerade in London is, to tell the -honest truth, anything but an edifying spectacle. There is certainly no -perceptible harm in some hundreds of persons, of both sexes, accoutred -in more or less fantastic dresses, meeting together in a handsome -theatre, and, to the music of a magnificent band, dancing till three -or four o’clock in the morning. But the place is not harmless: people -go there to dissipate, and _do_ dissipate. The _salle de danse_ of a -grand masquerade is a re-union of epicurean passions—an epitome of vice -painted and spangled. And I take a masquerade triumphantly as an argument -against the precisians and sour-faces, who would curtail the amusements -of the people, and viciously thwart them in their every effort to amuse -themselves. Look you here, gentlemen of the vestry—arch moralists of the -parish! look you here, good Mr. Chaplain of Pentonville, who have got -your pet garotter safe in hold for his sins! This is no penny-gaff, no -twopenny theatre, no cheap concert or dancing academy—not so much as a -“free-and-easy” or a “sixpenny hop.” Shopboys don’t rob the till to come -to a _bal masqué_ at her Majesty’s Theatre. Your pet garotter didn’t -throttle the gentleman in the Old Kent Road in order to procure funds to -dance with Mademoiselle Euphrosine de la Galette, of the Rue Nôtre Dame -de Lorette, Paris, and attired in a ravishing _débardeur_ costume. There -is, to be sure, a floating population of Bohemians—citizens of the world -of London, belonging to the theatres, _enfants perdus_ of the newspaper -press, and so on, who are admitted gratis to a masquerade: these last -Zouaves of social life, have free admission to coroners’ inquests, public -dinners, ship launches, private views of picture exhibitions, night -rehearsals of pantomimes, and royal marriages. The modern newspaper man -is, in print, the embodiment of Mr. Everybody; in private he is Mr. -Nobody, and doesn’t count at all. Lord Derby is afraid of the journalist -in print, but in the flesh his Lordship’s footman would look down upon -him. “Honly a littery man, let him knock agin,” Jeames would say. So we -go everywhere, even as though we were in the “receipt of fern seed.” Even -the House of Commons has invented a pleasant fiction for the benefit of -the gentlemen of the press, and humorously ignores their presence during -the debates. The Empress Julia bathed before her male slave. “Call _that_ -a man,” she cried, contemptuously. In the like manner, no account is -taken of the journalist’s extra card of admission or extra knife and -fork. He goes under the head of “sundries,” though he makes sometimes a -rather formidable figure in the aggregate. - -But to the general public—the social Zouaves are but a drop of water in -the sea—a _bal masqué_ is a very expensive affair, and a luxury not to be -indulged in without a liberal disbursement of cash. First, ticket, half -a guinea. Mademoiselle de la Galette’s ticket, if you be _galant homme_, -five shillings more, if she be in costume; half a guinea if in domino. -Next, costume for yourself, variable according to its extravagance—a -guinea at least. At any rate, if you are content to appear in plain -evening dress, there are clean white kid gloves and patent leather -boots to be purchased. And the supper; and the wine, for champagne -is _de rigueur_, at twelve and fifteen shillings a bottle! (You will -observe that whenever I grow fashionably dissipated, I begin to chatter -French.) And Mademoiselle de la Galette’s _bouquet_, and the intermediate -refreshments, ices, coffee, lemonade, and what-not; and the cabs and the -wild revelry in the wicked Haymarket purlieus afterwards. You see I -have led you to the very end of the chapter, and that a night at a _bal -masqué_ will make an irremediable hole in a ten-pound note. - -For this reason the persons (of the male sex) who visit such a gathering -must be divided into three classes: theatrical and literary nobodies, -coming there for nothing and not caring much about the place now they -are come; young bucks about the town with more money than wit, who will -exist, I am afraid, in every civilised age; and lastly and chiefly, -the “Swells.” I use the term advisedly, for none other can so minutely -characterise them. Long, stern, solemn, languid, with drooping tawny -moustaches, with faultlessly made habiliments, with irreproachable white -neckcloths, with eyes half-closed, with pendant arms, with feet enclosed -in mirror-like patent boots, the “swells” saunter listlessly through the -ball-room with a quiet consciousness that all these dazzling frivolities -are provided for their special gratification—which indeed they are. As -it is _l’œil du maître qui engraisse le cheval_, so it is the “swell” -who makes the _bal masqué_ pay. Never so many orders may Mr. Nugent give -away; but if the “swell” be not in town or muster not in force on the -eventful night, there will be wailing in her Majesty’s Theatre, and woe -in M. Jullien’s cash-box. It must be somewhat of a strong till that can -stand this _tiraillement_. As regards the ladies who are the partners -in the mazy dance of these splendid cavaliers, I may say, once for all, -that they are Daughters of Folly; Mademoiselle de la Galette and her -condisciples, English and French, are there, multiplied five-hundred -fold. I don’t think your pet garotter, good Mr. Chaplain, would be very -successful as a Hercules at the feet of these Omphales. - -[Illustration: THREE O’CLOCK A.M.: A BAL MASQUE.] - -I wonder how many sons and scions, or cousins or nephews, or -multitudinous misty offshoots of the titled men who govern us, who own -our lands, our waters, and the birds of the air, the beasts of the -field, and the fish of the sea, are here. I wonder how many threads of -connection there are in this ball-room theatre between these butterflies -and the ermine and the lawn of the House of Peers. How many, how much? -Bah! There is young Reginald Fitzmitre, the Bishop of Bosfursus’s son, -talking to that charming _titi_ in the striped silk skirt and crimson -satin trousers. Reginald is in the Guards. Bishops’ sons are fond of -going into the Guards. Yonder is little Pulex, whose brother, Tapely -Pulex, is Under-Secretary for the Egregious Department. There Lord Claude -Miffin has just stalked in with Sir Charles Shakeypegs (who is old enough -to know better); and upon my word, here comes that venerable sinner -Lord Holloway, with little Fanny Claypainter on his arm. It won’t do, -my Lord; you may disguise yourself as closely as you will in a domino -and a mask with a long lace beard, but I know you by that side-wise -waggle of your Lordship’s head. The Earl of Holloway has been a very -gay nobleman in his time. He married Miss Redpoll, the famous English -_contraltro_, drew her theatrical salary with very great punctuality -every Saturday afternoon at three o’clock, and beat her, people said. He -was the honourable Jack Pilluler then. Years elapsed before he came into -the title and Unguenton Park. _She_ died. Advance, then—advance then, my -noble swells—to adopt the style of the gentlemen with the thimble and -pea. Advance, this is all for your delectation. Meanwhile, let your most -noble and right reverend fathers, brothers, uncles, and cousins meet -in either House of Parliament, meet at Quarter Sessions, or on borough -bench, and make or expound laws against the wicked, thriftless, hardened, -incorrigibly dissipated Poor. No beer for them, the rogues! No fairs, -no wakes, no village feasts, no harvest-homes, no theatres, concerts, -dances, no tobacco, no rabbits, no bowls, no cricket—but plenty of law, -and plenty of nice hard labour, and wholesome gruel, and strengthening -stone-breaking, and plenty of your sweet aristocratic wives and daughters -to force their way into poor men’s cottages, ask them questions for -which I wonder they don’t get their ears boxed, pry into their domestic -concerns, peep into their cupboards, and wonder at their improvidence in -not having more to eat and drink therein. - -Stand we in the orchestral hemicycle, and watch the garish, motley scene. -Questions of morality apart, one must have jaundiced eyes to deny that, -as a mere spectacle, it is brilliant and picturesque enough. All that -M. Jullien’s _bizarre_ taste and fancy could suggest, or the cunning -skill of experienced scenic decorators carry out, has been done here -to make the place gay, dazzling, and effective. Wreaths of artificial -flowers, reflecting the highest credit upon the paper-stainer and the -paper-cutter’s art, mask the somewhat _fanées_ ornaments of the tiers of -boxes; homely corridors and staircases are pleasantly disguised under a -plentitude of scarlet baize and drugget; the chandelier is of abnormous -size, for any number of glittering festoons have been added to its -crystal abacot; devices in glass and devices in gas twinkle and radiate -on every side: nor is music’s voluptuous swell wanting to incite us to -“chase the glowing hours with flying feet,” and make all things go “merry -as a marriage bell.” - -Truly, that well-packed orchestra deserves a more dignified arena for -its exertions than this vulgar dancing-place. A jangling harp, a wheezy -flute, and a cracked-voice violin, with perhaps a dingy old drum, with -two perpetual black eyes in its parchment cheeks where the stick hits -them, like the wife of an incorrigibly drunken cobbler—instruments -such as you may hear tortured any night outside the Moguls in Drury -Dane: these would be quite good enough for the _ruffiani_ (by which -I do not at all mean “ruffians”) and _bona robas_ of a masquerade to -dance to. But this orchestra, numerous as it is, is composed of picked -men: it is an imperial guard of veterans in fiddling, bassooning, and -cornet-à-pistoning. Even the gentleman who officiates at the triangle, -is a solo player; and the fierce-looking foreigner who attends to the -side-drums, is the most famous _tambour_ in Europe. At beating the -_chamade_ he stands alone, and his roll is unrivalled. With shame I -speak it: you shall find among these artists in wind and artists in -string instruments, horns, and clarionettes, tenors and second violins, -who, during the operatic season, are deemed not unworthy to be ruled -by the Prospero wand of the kid-gloved Costa or swayed by the magic -fiddlestick of the accomplished Alfred Mellon. A pretty vocation for -them to have to fiddle and blow for the amusement of ne’er-do-weels in -tom-fools’ costumes, and bold-faced jigs in velvet trousers! Why, they -could take their parts in the symphonies of Beethoven and the masses of -Mozart. And thou, too, Jullien the Superb, _maestro_ of the ambrosial -ringlets, the softly-luxuriant whiskers and moustaches, _gracilis puer_ -of the embroidered body-linen, the frogged pantaloons, the coat with -_moire antique_ facings, the diamond studs and sleeve buttons! couldst -thou not find a worthier tilt-yard for thy chivalrous gambadoes? Alas! -to some men, howsoever talented, charlatanism seems to adhere like a -burr, and will not depart. Jullien must have caught this stain at the -battle of Navarino or at the Jardin Turc, and it has abided by him ever -since. There is not the slightest necessity for this clever, kindly, and -really accomplished musician—to whom the cause of good and even classical -music in England owes much—to be a quack; but I suppose he can’t help -it. He was born under a revolving firework star, and would introduce -blue fire in the Dead March in “Saul.” So it is with many. They could be -Abernethies, but they prefer being Dulcamaras; they could be Galileos or -Copernici, they prefer the fame of Cagliostro or Katterfelto. There was -poor dear Alexis Soyer, as kind a hearted Christian as you might find, an -admirable cook, an inventive genius, a brave, devoted, self-denying man, -who served his adopted country better in the Crimea than many a starred -and titled C.B. He had no call to be a quack; there was no earthly reason -why he should inundate the newspapers with puffs, and wear impossible -trousers, or cloth-of-gold waistcoats, cut diagonally. The man had a vast -natural capacity, could think, ay, and _do_ things; yet he quacked so -continually, that many people set him down as a mere shallow pretender, -and some even doubted whether he could cook at all. He was, nevertheless, -a master of his difficult art, though in his latter days he did not -exercise it much. Grisier grew tired of fencing. Wordsworth did not write -much after he was laureate. Sir Edwin’s brush is passing idle now. But -I have partaken of succulent dainties cooked in their daintiest manner -by the cunning hands of the illustrious _chef_: and I tell you that he -could cook, when he chose, like St. Zita, the patroness of the Genoese -_cuisinières_. And I think I know, and that I can tell, a _compôte_ from -a cow-heel, having dined as well and as ill, in my time, as any man of my -age and standing. - -What shall I say of the moving, living, kaleidoscope, twinkling and -coruscating in the vast _enceinte_? Indeed, it is very difficult to say -anything a bout the outward similitude of a _bal masqué_ that has not -been said a hundred times before. You have taken for granted the very -considerable admixture of plain evening costume, worn by the swells _et -autres_, which speckles the galaxy of gay costumes with multitudinous -black dots. After this, we all know what to expect, and whom to find. -Paint, patches, spangles, and pearl-powder, tawdry gold and silver -(more brassy and pewtery, rather, I opine), and sham point lace. Sham -fox-hunters, mostly of a Hebrew cast of countenance, in tarnished scarlet -coats, creased buckskins, and boots with tops guiltless of oxalic acid, -brandishing whips that have oftener been laid across their own shoulders -than on the flanks of the “screws” they have bestridden; and screening -their mouths with palms covered by dubious white kid gloves, or with bare -dirt-inlaid knuckles protuberant with big rings of mosaic jewellery, -shouting “Yoicks,” and “Hark-away,” in nasal accents. Undergraduates, -in trencher caps and trailing gowns, worn by jobbernols, who know far -more about Oxford Street than the University of Oxford. Barristers, more -likely to be pleaded for than to plead. Bartlemy-Fair Field Marshals, -in costumes equally akin to his who rides on the lamentable white horse -before the Lord Mayor’s gingerbread coach, and Bombastes Furioso in -the farce. Charles the Seconds, with all the dissolute effrontery of -that monarch, but of his wit or merriment none. Red Rovers and Conrad -Corsairs, whose nautical adventures have been confined to a _fracas_ on -board a penny steamboat; Albanian, and Sciote, and Suliote Chiefs, with -due fez, kilt, yataghan, and lambrochines, in orthodox “snowy camise -and shaggy capote,” and who act their characters in a likelier manner -than their comrades, for they are, the majority, arrant “Greeks.” A few -Bedouin Arabs—a costume picturesque yet inexpensive: a pen’north of -Spanish liquorice to dye the face withal; a couple of calico sheets, -for caftan and burnous, with the tassel of a red worsted bell-pull -or so to finish off with, and you have your Abd-el-Kader complete. -Half-a-dozen Marquises, of Louis the Fifteenth’s time. Plenty of Monks: -robes and _cagoules_ of gray linen, a rope for a girdle, a pennyworth -of wooden beads for a rosary, and slippers cut down into sandals—these -are as cheap as effective. A Knight, in complete armour (pasteboard -with tin-foil glued thereupon); a Robinson Crusoe, always getting into -piteous dilemmas, with his goatskin (worsted) umbrella; a Bear, a Demon, -and a Chinese Mandarin. When I have enumerated these, I find that I -have noticed the _travestisements_ most prevalent among the English -male portion of the costumed mob. But there is another very appreciable -element in these exhibitions: the foreign one. A century has passed -since Johnson told us, in his mordant satire of “London,” that England’s -metropolis was— - - “The needy villain’s general home, - The common sew’r of Paris and of Rome.” - -It is astonishing to find how much foreign riff-raff and alien -scoundrelry will turn up at a masquerade. Leicester Square and Panton -Street, the _cloaques_ of the Haymarket and Soho, disgorge the bearded -and pomatumed scum of their stale _pot-au-feu_-smelling purlieus on -this dancing floor. They come with orders, and don’t sup; rather hover -about the Daughters of Folly and Sons of Silliness, to wheedle and -extort odd silver sums, with which to gamble at atrocious “nicks,” and -tobacco-enveloped gambling dens in Leicesterian slums, yet unrooted out -by lynx-eyed policemen. Homer not unfrequently nods in Scotland Yard. -“None are so blind as those that won’t see,” whisper the wicked. These -foreigners—shameless, abandoned rogues, mostly throwing undeserved -discredit upon honest, harmless _forestieri_; fellows who are “known -to the police” in Paris, and have a second home at the _Depôt de la -Prefecture_—affect the cheap, but thoroughly masquerade costume of -the _Pierrot_. Very easy of accomplishment, this disguise. About one -and ninepence outlay would suffice, it seemeth to me. Jerkin of white -calico, with immoderately long sleeves, like those of a _camisole de -force_ unfastened; galligaskins of the same snowy cheapness, and scarlet -slippers; any number of tawdry calico bows of any colour down the sides, -a frill round the neck, where the “jougs” of the pillory or the collar -of the garotte should be; the face, that should be seared with the -hangman’s brand, thickly plastered with flour, so that there would be -no room for the knave to blush, even if the light hand of a transient -conscience smote him on the cheek and bade him remember that he once -had a mother, and was not always aide-de-camp in waiting to Beelzebub; -a conical cap of pasteboard, like an extinguisher snowed upon; here you -have the _Pierrot_. The Englishman sometimes attempts him, but generally -fails in the assumption. In order to “keep-up” the character well, it -is necessary to play an infinity of monkey-tricks, to bear kicking with -cheerful equanimity, to dance furiously, and to utter a succession of -shrill screams at the end of every dance. Else you are no true _Pierrot_; -and these elegancies are foreign to our phlegmatic manners. - -Another favourite costume with the _bal masqué_ is that of the “Postillon -de Longjumeau.” He is as well-nigh extinct in France, by this chiming, -as our own old English post-boys. Railways shunted him off on to -oblivion’s sidings with terrible rapidity. Only, his Imperial Highness -Prince Jerome Napoleon—whom the Parisians persist in calling “l’Oncle -Tom,” because, say they, Napoleon I., his brother, was “_le grand -homme_” Napoleon III., his nephew, “_le petit homme_” so this must be -necessarily “_l’oncle-t-homme_”—or Tom—this mediocre old gentleman, who -throughout his long life has always been fortunate enough to be lodged, -and boarded, and pensioned at other peoples’ expense (they positively -carved out a kingdom for him once), still keeps up a staff of _postillons -de Longjumeau_, who, with much bell-ringing, whip-cracking, and “ha! -heu hooping!” guide his fat, white, hollow-backed Norman post-horses, -when his Imperial Highness goes down to St. Cloud or Chantilly in his -travelling carriage. It is a quaint, not unbecoming costume: glazed -hat, the brim built at an angle, broad gold band, cockade as big as a -pancake, and multicoloured streamers of attenuated ribbon; short wig, -with club well powdered; jacket with red facings and turn-up two-inch -tails; saucepan-lid buttons, and metal badge on the left arm; scarlet -vest, double breasted; buckskins, saffron-dyed; high boots with bucket -tops, and greased, mind, not blacked; long spurs, and whip insignificant -as to stock and tremendous as to lash. This is his Imperial Highness’s -postilion, and this, minus the spurs, is the postilion of the _bal -masqué_. - -And the ladies? I am reticent. I am nervous. I draw back. “I don’t -like,” as the children say. Hie you to the National Gallery, and look at -Turner’s picture of “Phryne going to the bath as Venus.” Among the wild -crew of _bacchantes_ and _psoropaphæ_ who surround that young person, you -will find costumes as extravagant of hues, as variegated, as strike the -senses here. Only, among the masqueraders you must not look for harmony -of colour or symmetry of line. All is jarring, discordant, tawdry, and -harlequinadish. You are in error if you suppose I am about to descant at -length on the glittering semi-nudities gyrating here. Go to, you naughty -queans! you must find some other inventory-maker. Go and mend your ways, -buy horsehair corsets, “disciplines” and skulls if you will, and repair -to the desert, there to mortify yourselves. Alas! the hussies laugh at -me, and tell me that the only manner in which they choose to tolerate -horsehair is _en crinoline_. Go to, and remember the fate of a certain -Janet Somebody—I forget her surname—condemned by some Scotch elders, -in the early days of the Reformation, to stripes and the stocks, for -assuming a “pair of breeks.” Alack! the _débardeurs_ only mock me, and -tell me that I am a fogey. - -Three quasi-feminine costumes there are, however, that shall be -pilloried here. There is the young lady in a riding-habit, who is so -palpably unaccustomed to wearing such a garment, who is so piteously -ill-at-ease in it, not knowing how to raise its folds with Amazonian -grace, and tripping herself up at every fourth step or so, that she is -more ridiculous than offensive. There is the “Middy:” a pair of white -trousers, a turn-down collar, a round jacket, and a cap with a gold-lace -band, being understood to fulfil all the requirements of that costume. -The “middy” sneaks about in a most woeful state of sheep-leggedness, -or, at most, essays to burst into delirious gymnastics, which end in -confusion and contumely. And last, and most abhorrent to me, there is -the “Romp.” Romps in their natural state—in a parlour, on a lawn, in -a swing, at a game of blind-man’s-buff, or hunt-the-slipper—no honest -man need cavil at. I like romps myself, when they don’t pull your hair -too hard, have some mercy on your toes, and refrain from calling you a -“cross, grumpy, old thing,” when you mildly suggest that it is very near -bed-time. But a romp of some twenty-five years of age, with a cadaverous -face, rouged, with a coral necklace, flaxen tails, a pinafore, a blue -sash, Vandyked trousers, bare arms, and a skipping-rope: take away that -romp, I say, quickly, somebody, and bring me a Gorgon or a Fury, the -Hottentot Venus or the Pig-faced Lady! Anything for a change. Away with -that romp, and cart her speedily to the nearest boarding-school where a -lineal descendant of Mother Brownrigge yet wields her birchen sceptre. - -It is on record that Thomas Carlyle, chiefest among British prose writing -men, once in his life was present, in this very theatre, at a performance -of the Italian Opera. He stayed the ballet, even, and went away full of -strange cogitations. I would give one of my two ears (for be it known -to you I am stone-deaf on the left side, like most men who have led -evil lives in their youth, and could, wearing my hair long, well spare -the superfluous flap of flesh and gristle) if I could persuade Thomas -to visit a masquerade. There would be a new chapter in the next edition -of “Sartor Resartus” to a certainty. For all these varied fopperies -and fineries, dominoes, battered masks with ragged lace, sham orris, -draggle-tailed feathers, tin-bladed rapiers, rabbit-skin and rat’s-tail -ermine, cotton velvet, “pinked” stockings, frayed epaulettes, mended -skirts—all suggest pregnant thoughts of the Bag. _Tout cela sent son -marchand d’habits._ Not to be driven away is the pervading notion of -Old Clothes of Vinegar Yard and the ladies’ wardrobe shop, of the -ultimate relegation of these sallow fripperies to Petticoat Lane and -Rag Fair. Nor without histories—some grave, some gay, some absurd, some -terrible—must be these mended shreds of gaudy finery. They have been -worn by aristocratic striplings at Eton Montem—defunct saturnalia of -patrician “cadging.” Those dim brocades and Swiss shepherdess _corsages_, -have graced the forms of the fair-haired daughters of nobles at fancy -balls. Great actresses, or _cantatrici_, have declaimed or sung in those -satins, before they were disdainfully cast by, abandoned to the dresser, -sold to the Jew costumier, cut down into tunics or pages’ shoulder -cloaks, furbished up with new tags and trimmings. Real barristers and -gay young college lads have worn those wigs and gowns and trencher caps; -real captains have flaunted at reviews in those embroidered tunics and -epaulettes; swift horses have borne those scarlet coats and buckskins -across country, but with real fox-hunters inside. Where are the original -possessors? Drowned, or shot to death, or peacefully mouldering, -insolvent, or abroad, gone up to the Lords, or hanged. Who knows? -Perhaps they are lounging here as Swells, not recognising their old -uniforms and academics, now worn by sham Abraham men and _franc-mitous_. -Who can tell? Where is the pinafore of our youth, and the first shooting -jacket of adolescence? “_Où sont les neiges d’antan?_” Where are the last -winter’s snows? - -But Thomas Carlyle wouldn’t come to this place, at his age and at this -time in the morning; and, between you and me, I think it high time -that we too should depart. In truth, the place is growing anything -but orderly. Champagne and incessant exercise on the “light fantastic -toe” have done their work. Dances of a wild and incoherent character, -reminding one of the “_Chaloupe_” the “_Tulipe Orageuse_,” and the -much-by-municipal-authorities-abhorred “_Cancan_” are attempted. The -masters of the ceremonies seem laudably desirous of clearing the _salle_. -Let us procure our great-coats, and flee from Babylon before the masquers -grew unroarious. - -A stream of masquerading humanity, male and female, begins to pour -through the corridors and so out beneath the portico. It is time. Cabs -and broughams—the “swells” came in the broughams—sly, wicked little -inventions; policemen hoarsely shout and linkmen dart about. - - * * * * * - -I thought so. I knew how it would end. A row, of course. That big -_Postillon de Longjumeau_ has borne it with admirable temper for hours; -but the conduct of the Charles the Second Cavalier has been beyond human -forbearance. She—the cavalier is a she—has incited the _Pierrot_ (an -Englishman, for a wonder, and hopelessly gone in champagne) to knock the -postilion down. He wept piteously at first, but, gathering courage, and -not liking, perhaps, to be humiliated in the eyes of a _débardeur_ in -claret-coloured velvet, he kicked up wildly at the aggressor with his -boots. Then the cavalier scratched his face; then the claret-coloured -_débardeur_ fainted; then Mr. Edward Clyfaker, of Charles Street, Drury -Lane, thief, cut in cleverly from between the wheels of a carriage, and -picked Lord Holloway’s pocket of Miss Claypainter’s cambric handkerchief; -then A 22 drew his truncheon and hit an inoffensive fox-hunter a violent -blow on the head; then four medical students called out “Fire!” and an -inebriated costermonger, who had not been to the masquerade at all, but -was quietly reeling home, challenged Lord Claude Miffin to single combat; -then Ned Raggabones and Robin Barelegs, street Arabs, threw “cart-wheels” -into the midst of the throng; then the police came down in great force, -and, after knocking a great many people about who were not in the -slightest degree implicated in the disturbance, at last pitched upon -the right parties, and bore the pugnacious _Pierrot_ and the disorderly -Cavalier off to the station-house. It is but due to the managers of the -masquerade to state, that no such scandalous _melées_ take place within -the precincts of the theatre itself. The masters of the ceremonies and -the police on duty take care of that: but such little accidents will -happen, outside, after the best-regulated masquerades. - -[Illustration: THREE O’CLOCK A.M.: THE NIGHT CHARGES AT BOW STREET.] - -To the station-house, then, to the abode of captivity and the hall of -justice. The complaining postilion and his friends, accompanied by a -motley procession of tag-rag and bob-tail, press triumphantly forward. -Shall we follow also? - -In a commodious gas-lit box, surrounded by books and papers, and with -a mighty folio of loose leaves open before him—a book of Fate, in -truth—sits a Rhadamanthine man, buttoned up in a great-coat often; -for be it blazing July or frigid December, it is always cold at three -o’clock in the morning. Not a very pleasant duty his: sitting through -the long night before that folio, smoking prohibited, warm alcoholic -liquids only, I should suppose, to be surreptitiously indulged in: -sitting only diversified by an occasional sally into the night air, to -visit the policemen on their various beats, and learn what wicked deeds -are doing this night and morning—a deputy taking charge of the folio -meanwhile. Duty perhaps as onerous as that of the Speaker of the House of -Commons: but, ah! not half so wearisome. For the Rhadamanthine man in the -great-coat has betimes to listen to tales of awful murder, of desperate -burglaries, of harrowing suicides, of poverty and misery that make your -soul to shudder and your heart to grow sick; and sometimes to more jocund -narratives—harum-scarum escapades, drunken freaks, impudent tricks, -ingenious swindles, absurd jealousy, quarrels, and the like. But they -all—be the case murder, or be it mouse-trap stealing—are entered on that -vast loose folio, which is the charge-sheet, in fact; Rhadamanthine man -in great-coat being but the inspector of police on night duty, sitting -here at his grim task for some fifty or sixty shillings a week. Harder -task than sub-editing a newspaper even, I am of opinion. - -He has had a busy time since nine last evening. One by one the “charges” -were brought in, and hour after hour, and set before him in that little -iron-railed dock. Some were felonious charges: scowling, beetle-browed, -under-hung charges, who had been there many times before, and were likely -to come there many times again. A multiplicity of Irish charges, too: -beggars, brawlers, pavement-obstructors—all terribly voluble and abusive -of tongue; many with squalid babies in their arms. One or two such -charges are lying now, contentedly drunken heaps of rags, in the women’s -cells. Plenty of juvenile charges, mere children, God help them! swept -in and swept out; sometimes shot into cells—their boxes of fusees, or -jagged broom-stumps, taken from them. A wife-beating charge; ruffianly -carver, who has been beating his wife with the leg of a pianoforte. The -wretched woman, all blood and tears, is very reluctant, even now, to give -evidence, and entreats the inspector to “let Bill go; he didn’t mean no -harm.” But he is locked up, departing to durance with the comforting -assurance to his wife that he will, “do for her,” at the first convenient -opportunity. I daresay he will, when his six months’ hard labour are -over. There was a swell-mob charge, too, a dandy _de première force_, -who swaggered, and twisted his eye-glass, and sucked his diamond ring -while in the dock, and declared he knew nothing of the gentleman’s watch, -he was “shaw.” He broke down, however, while being searched, and on the -discovery of the watch—for he had missed the confederate who usually -“covered” him—subsided into bad language, and the expression of a hope -that he might not be tried by “old Bramwell,” meaning the learned judge -of that name. Short work has been made with some of these charges, while -the disposal of others has occupied a considerable time. As the night -grew older, the drunk and disorderly and drunk and incapable charges -began to drop in; but one by one they have been disposed of in a calm, -business-like manner, and the “charges” are either released, or, if -sufficient cause were apparent for their detention, are sleeping off -their liquor, or chewing the cud of sweet and bitter fancies, in the -adjacent cells. - -“I thought the _ball masky_ would bring us some work,” the inspector -remarks to the sergeant, as the _Pierrot_ is carried, and the cavalier -is dragged, and the postilion and his friend stalk indignantly—the whole -accompanied by a posse of police, into the station: “Now, then, F 29, -what is it?” - -F, or X, or Z, or whatever may be his distinguishing letter or numeral, -gives a succinct narrative of the row, so far as he is acquainted with -its phases, very much in the style of the _Act d’Accusation_ of a French -_procureur imperial_, which is always as damaging as it conveniently -can be made against the person in custody. The postilion follows with -_his_ statement, the cavalier breaks in with an indignant denial of -all he has said, violently insists upon charging the postilion with -murder and assault, and ultimately expresses a desire to know what he, -the inspector, thinks of himself, a wish to tear F 29’s eyes out, and -ardent ambition to “polish off the whole lot.” “Don’t all speak at -once,” remonstrates the inspector, but they _will_ all speak at once, -and the _Pierrot_, waking up from an intoxicated trance, asseverates, in -broken accents, that he is a “p-p-p-p-pro-f-f-fessional man, and highly -res-pe-pe-p-pectable,” and then sinks quiescent over the front of the -dock, in an attitude very much resembling that sometimes assumed by the -celebrated Mr. Punch. - -“There, take him away,” says the municipal functionary, pointing with -sternly contemptuous finger to the _Pierrot_. “And take _her_ away,” he -adds, designating the cavalier. “And you, sir,” he continues, to the -postilion, “sign your name and address there, and take care to be at the -court at ten in the morning. And I should advise you to go straight home, -or you’ll be here again shortly, with somebody to take care of you. I -wonder whether we shall have any more,” he says wearily, to his sergeant, -as the captives are removed, and the room is cleared. - - * * * * * - -It does not so much matter, for the third hour is gone and past, and -as we emerge into the street, the clock of St. Paul’s strikes FOUR. -There! the twenty-four hours are accomplished, and we have progressed, -however lamely and imperfectly, “Twice Round the Clock.” Good-bye, dear -readers—pleasant companions of my labours. Goodbye, troops of shadowy -friends and shadowy enemies, whose handwriting—in praise, in reproach, -in condolence, in sympathy, in jest, and in earnest—is visible enough -to me on many pages laying open before me at this moment, but whose -faces I shall never see on this side the grave. Your smiles and frowns -henceforward belong to the past, for my humble task is achieved, and the -Clock is Stopped. - - -THE END. - - - - -FOOTNOTES - - -[1] A post-prandial paper, called the “Evening Mail,” rarely seen in the -metropolis, but extensively circulated in the provinces, and especially -in the colonies, and in the United States, is published as a species of -vesper thunderer at the “Times” office. - -[2] “The Chimes.” - -[3] This old man’s name was “Corney,” at least I never knew him by any -other appellation. He had been a collegian for years; and being a Briton -who “stood upon his rights,” and was for “freedom of opinion,” gave -the governor an immense amount of trouble. I think one of the happiest -days of Captain Hudson’s life must have been the one on which “Corney” -(who, it turned out, ought never to have been imprisoned at all) got his -discharge. He took lodgings immediately, I have heard, at a neighbouring -coal shed, and brought an action (_in formâ pauperis_) against the -governor for false imprisonment, and wrongful detention of property, -about once a fortnight. - -[4] Free-grown sugar in the first two: slave-grown sugar in boxes. - -[5] See page 30. - -[6] I am afraid that this legend must be regarded as what the “Times” -newspaper called, in reference to old Peter Thellusson’s delicate sense -of honour, in providing for a possible restitution of property left -in his charge by the ancient noblesse of France—a “modern myth.” An -analogous story, relative to the appearance of a _real_ demon on the -stage, in addition to those forming part of the _dramatis personæ_, is -related in connection with Edward Alleyn, the actor; and the supernatural -visitation, it is said, caused him to quit the stage as a profession, and -found Dulwich College. - -[7] The ladies appear in the gallery before dinner, quit it after grace -has been said, and are regaled in ante-chambers with ices, coffee, -and champagne. They return when the speech-making, wine-bibbing, and -song-singing commence. - -[8] This absurd remnant of a candle-snuffing age, and which is about as -consistent with dramatic proprieties as the performance of the character -of Macbeth by Garrick in the costume of a Captain in the Guards, was -abolished—so far as his admirable Shakspearian revivals were concerned—by -Mr. Charles Kean. - -[9] Who married again, and extinguished herself. So did Maria Louisa, so -did Mrs. Shelley. They _will_ marry again, those unconscionable feminines. - -[10] This pretty little theatre has succeeded, thanks to the genius and -perseverance of Miss Swanborough, aided by an admirable company. - -[11] There is a curious story anent this “Green Dragon” tavern, a dim -record, embosomed in the musty records of the “State Trials.” In a note -to one of those chronicles of crimes and suffering, it is hinted at that -the daughter of the executioner of Charles the First was a barmaid at the -Green Dragon in the reign of Queen Anne. - -[12] “He made the giants first, and then he killed them.”—_Fielding’s -“Tom Thumb.”_ - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TWICE ROUND THE CLOCK *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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