Читать книгу Real Life In London, Volumes I. and II - Egan Pierce - Страница 16

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What shows! and what sights! what a round of delights

You'll meet in the gay scene of London;

How charming to view” amusements still new,

Twenty others you'll find soon as one's done.

At the gay scene at Court—Peers and gentry resort,

In pleasure you'll never miss one day:

There's the Opera treat, the parade in Bond Street,

And the crowd in Hyde Park on a Sunday.

TOM, whose wardrobe was extensive, found no difficulty, and lost no time in preparing for the promenade; while, on the other hand, Tallyho was perplexed to know how to tog himself out in a way suitable to make his appearance in the gay world of fashion. Dashall had therefore rapidly equipped himself, when, perceiving it was half-past eleven, he was the more perplexed to account for the absence of Sparkle; for although it was an early hour, yet, upon such an occasion as that of initiating a new recruit, it was very extraordinary that he should not have been prompt. However, he entered Tallyho's room, and found him looking out of the window in a posture of rumination, probably revolving in his mind the events of the morning.

“Come,” said Tom, as he entered, “'tis time to be on the move, and if Sparkle don't show in a few minutes, we'll set sail and call in upon him at Long's, in Bond Street. Perhaps he is not well, or something prevents his appearance—we'll make it in our way, and we have a fine day before us.”

“I am at your service,” replied Bob, who could not help viewing the elegance of his Cousin's appearance: the style of his dress, and the neatness with which his garments fitted him, were all subjects of admiration, and formed so strong a contrast with his own as almost to excite envy. He had however attired himself in a way that befits a fashionable country gentleman: a green coat, white waistcoat, buckskin breeches, and boots, over which a pair of leggings appeared, which extended below the calf of the leg and half up the thigh, surmounted with a Lily Shallow. Such was the costume in which he was destined to show off; and thus equipped, after a few minutes they emerged from the house in Piccadilly on the proposed ramble, and proceeded towards Bond Street.

The first object that took their particular attention was the Burlington Arcade. “Come,” said Tom, “we may as well go this way,” and immediately they passed the man in the gold-laced hat, who guards the entrance to prevent the admission of boys and improper persons. The display of the shops, with the sun shining through the windows above, afforded much for observation, and attracted Bob from side to side—to look, to wonder and admire. But Tom, who was intent upon finding his friend Sparkle, urged the necessity of moving onward with more celerity, lest he should be gone out, and consequently kept drawing his Cousin forward. “Another and a better opportunity will be afforded for explanation than the present, and as speed is the order of the day, I hope you will not prove disorderly; we shall soon reach Long's, and when we have Sparkle with us, we have one of the most intelligent and entertaining fellows in the world. He is a sort of index to every thing, and every body; his knowledge of life and character, together with a facetiousness of whim and manner, which he has in delineating them, are what we call in London—Prime and bang up to the mark. There is scarcely a Lane, Court, Alley, or Street, in the Metropolis, but what he knows, from the remotest corners of Rag-Fair, to the open and elegant Squares of the West, even to Hyde Park Corner. Memory, mirth, and magic, seem at all times to animate his tongue, and, as the Song says,

“He is the hoy for bewitching 'em,

Whether good-humour'd or coy.”

Indeed, he is the admiration of all who know him; wit, whim, frolic, and fun, are constant companions with him, and I really believe, in a dungeon or a palace, he would always appear the same.”

By this time they had reached Bond Street, in their way to which, each step they had taken, the streets and avenues of every description appeared to Bob to be crowded to an excess; the mingling cries which were vociferated around them produced in his mind uncommon sensations. The rattling of the carriages, the brilliance of the shops, and the continual hum of the passengers, contributed to heighten the scene.

“Bond Street,” said Dashall, “is not one of the most elegant streets in the vicinity of London, but is the resort of the most fashionable people, and from about two o'clock till five, it is all bustle—all life—every species of fashionable vehicle is to be seen dashing along in gay and gallant pride. From two to five are the fashionable shopping-hours, for which purpose the first families resort to this well-known street—others, to shew their equipage, make an assignation, or kill a little time; which is as much a business with some, as is the more careful endeavours of others to seize him in his flight, and make the most of his presence. The throng is already increasing; the variety, richness, and gaiety of the shops in this street, will always be attractive, and make it a popular rendezvous of both sexes. It will shortly be as crowded as Rag Fair, or the Royal Exchange; and the magic splendour has very peculiar properties.

“It makes the tradesman forget—while he is cheating a lovely and smiling Duchess—that in all probability her ladyship is endeavouring to cheat him. It makes the gay and airy, the furbelowed and painted lady of the town, forget that she must pay a visit to her uncle,{1} in order to raise the wind before she can make her appearance at the theatre at half-price. It makes the dashing prisoner forget, that while “he is sporting his figure in the bang-up style of appearance, he is only taking his ride on a day-rule from the King's Bench. It makes the Lord who drives four-in-hand forget his losses of the night before at some of the fashionable gaming-houses. It makes one adventurer forget that the clothes in which he expects to obtain respect and attention, are more than likely to be paid for in Newgate; another for a time forgets that John Doe and Richard Roe have expelled him from his

1 My Uncle is a very convenient and accommodating sort of

friend, who lives at the sign of the Three Balls, indicative

of his willingness to lend money upon good security, for the

payment of enormous interest. The original meaning of the

sign has puzzled the curious and antiquarians, and the only

probable meaning they can discover is, that it implies the

chances are two to one against any property being redeemed

after being once committed to the keeping of this tender

hearted and affectionate relative.

lodgings; and a third that all his worldly possessions are not equal to the purchase of a dinner. It is an ignis fatuus—a sort of magic lantern replete with delusive appearances—of momentary duration—an escape to the regions of noise, tumult, vanity, and frivolity, where the realities of Life, the circumstances and the situation of the observer, are not suffered to intrude.

“But to be seen in this street at a certain hour, is one of the essentials to the existence of haut-ton—it is the point of attraction for greetings in splendid equipages, from the haughty bend or familiar nod of arrogance, to the humble bow of servility. Here mimicry without money assumes the consequential air of independence: while modest merit creeps along unheeded through the glittering crowd. Here all the senses are tantalized with profusion, and the eye is dazzled with temptation, for no other reason than because it is the constant business of a fashionable life—not to live in, but out of self, to imitate the luxuries of the affluent without a tithe of their income, and to sacrifice morality at the altar of notoriety.”

“Your description of this celebrated street, of which I have heard so much,” said Tallyho, “is truly lively.”

“But it is strictly true,” continued Tom.

They had now arrived at Long's, and found a barouche and four waiting at the door. Upon entering, the first person they met was Lord Cripplegate, whom they passed, and proceeded to the coffee-room; in one of the boxes of which Tom immediately directed his Cousin's attention to a well-dressed young man, who was reading the newspaper, and sipping his coffee—“Take notice of him,” said Tom.

Bob looked at him for a moment, marked his features, and his dress, which was in the extreme of fashion; while Tom, turning to one of the Waiters, enquired for his friend Sparkle.

“He has not been here since yesterday morning!” said the Waiter.

“I have been waiting for him these two hours!” exclaimed the young Sprig of Fashion, laying down the newspaper almost at the same moment, “and must wait till he comes—Ah! Mr. Dashall, how d'ye do?—very glad to see you—left all well in the country, I hope!—Mr. Sparkle was to have met me this morning at eleven precisely, I should judge he is gone into the country.”

“It must have been late last night, then,” said Dashall, "for he left us about half-past ten, and promised also to meet us again this morning at eleven; I can't think what can have become of him—but come,” said he, taking Bob by the arm, “we must keep moving—Good morning—good morning.” And thus saying, walked directly out of the house, turning to the right again towards Piccadilly.

“There is a remark made, I think by Goldsmith,” said Tom, “that one half of the world don't know how the other half lives; and the man I spoke to in the coffee-room, whose name I am unacquainted with, though his person is recognized by almost every body, while his true character, residence, and means of subsistence, remain completely in obscurity, from what I have seen of him, I judge is what may be termed a hanger on.”

“A hanger on,” said Bob—“what can that mean? I took him for a man of property and high birth—but I saw you take so little notice of him.”

“Ah! my good fellow, I have already cautioned you not to be duped by appearances. A hanger on is a sort of sycophant, or toad-eater, and, in the coffee-houses and hotels of London, many such are to be found—men who can spin out a long yarn, tell a tough story, and tip you a rum chant—who invite themselves by a freedom of address bordering on impudence to the tables and the parties of persons they know, by pretending to call in by mere accident, just at the appointed time: by assuming great confidence, great haste, little appetite, and much business; but, at the same time, requiring but little pressure to forego them all for the pleasure of the company present. What he can have to do with Sparkle I am at a loss to conceive; but he is an insinuating and an intriguing sort of fellow, whom I by no means like, so I cut him.”

Bob did not exactly understand the meaning of the word cut, and therefore begged his Cousin to explain.

“The cut,” said Tom, “is a fashionable word for getting rid, by rude or any means, of any person whose company is not agreeable. The art of cutting is reduced to a system in London; and an explanatory treatise has been written on the subject for the edification of the natives.{1} But I am so bewildered to think what can have detained Sparkle, and deprived us of his company, that I scarcely know how to think for a moment on any other subject at present.”

1 Vide a small volume entitled “The Cutter.”

"It is somewhat strange!” cried Bob, “that he was not with you this morning.”

“There is some mystery in it,” said Tom, “which time alone can unravel; but however, we will not be deprived of our intended ramble.” At this moment they entered Piccadilly, and were crossing the road in their way to St. James's Street, when Dashall nodded to a gentleman passing by on the opposite side, and received a sort of half bow in return. “That,” said Tom, “is a curious fellow, and a devilish clever fellow too—for although he has but one arm, he is a man of science.”

“In what way?” enquired Bob.

“He is a pugilist,” said Tom—“one of those courageous gentlemen who can queer the daylights, tap the claret, prevent telling fibs, and pop the noddle into chancery; and a devilish good hand he is, I can assure you, among those who

——“can combat with ferocious strife,

And beat an eye out, or thump out a life;

Can bang the ribs in, or bruise out the brains,

And die, like noble blockheads, for their pains.”

“Having but one arm, of course he is unable to figure in the ring—though he attends the mills, and is a constant visitor at the Fives Court exhibitions, and generally appears a la Belcher. He prides himself upon flooring a novice, and hits devilish hard with the glove. I have had some lessons from this amateur of the old English science, and felt the force of his fist; but it is a very customary thing to commence in a friendly way, till the knowing one finds an opportunity which he cannot resist, of shewing the superiority he possesses. So it was with Harry and me, when he put on his glove. I use the singular number, because he has but one hand whereon to place a glove withal. Come, said he, it shall only be a little innocent spar. I also put on a glove, for it would not be fair to attack a one-armed man with two, and no one ought to take the odds in combat. To it we went, and I shewed first blood, for he tapped the claret in no time.

“Neat milling we had, what with clouts on the nob, Home hits in the bread-basket, clicks in the gob, And plumps in the daylights, a prettier treat Between two Johnny Raws 'tis not easy to meet.”

"I profited however by Harry's lessons, and after a short time was enabled to return the compliment with interest, by sewing up one of his glimmers.

“This is St. James's Street,” continued he, as they turned the corner rather short; in doing which, somewhat animated by the description he had just been giving, Tom's foot caught the toe of a gentleman, who was mincing along the pathway with all the care and precision of a dancing-master, which had the effect of bringing him to the ground in an instant as effectually as a blow from one of the fancy. Tom, who had no intention of giving offence wantonly, apologized for the misfortune, by—“I beg pardon, Sir,” while Bob, who perceived the poor creature was unable to rise again, and apprehending some broken bones, assisted him to regain his erect position. The poor animal, or nondescript, yclept Dandy, however had only been prevented the exercise of its limbs by the stiffness of certain appendages, without which its person could not be complete—the stays, lined with whalebone, were the obstacles to its rising. Being however placed in its natural position, he began in an affected blustering tone of voice to complain that it was d——d odd a gentleman could not walk along the streets without being incommoded by puppies—pulled out his quizzing glass, and surveyed our heroes from head to foot—then taking from his pocket a smelling bottle, which, by application to the nose, appeared to revive him, Tom declared he was sorry for the accident, had no intention, and hoped he was not hurt. This, however, did not appear to satisfy the offended Dandy, who turned upon his heel muttering to himself the necessity there was of preventing drunken fellows from rambling the streets to the annoyance of sober and genteel people in the day-time.

Dashall, who overheard the substance of his ejaculation, broke from the arm of Bob, and stepping after him without ceremony, by a sudden wheel placed himself in the front of him, so as to impede his progress a second time; a circumstance which filled Mr. Fribble with additional alarm, and his agitation became visibly' depicted on his countenance.

“What do you mean?” cried Dashall, with indignation, taking the imputation of drunkenness at that early hour in dudgeon. “Who, and what are you, Sir?{1} Explain instantly, or by the honour of a gentleman, I'll chastise this insolence.”

1 “What are you?” is a formidable question to a dandy of the

present day, for

“Dandy's a gender of the doubtful kind;

A something, nothing, not to be defined;

?Twould puzzle worlds its sex to ascertain,

So very empty, and so very vain.”

It is a fact that the following examination of three of

these non-descripts took place at Bow Street a very short

time back, in consequence of a nocturnal fracas. The report

was thus given:

“Three young sprigs of fashion, in full dress, somewhat

damaged and discoloured by a night's lodging in the cell of

a watch-house, were yesterday brought before Mr. Birnie,

charged with disorderly conduct in the streets, and with

beating a watchman named Lloyd.

“Lloyd stated that his beat was near the Piazza, and at a

very late hour on Thursday night, the three defendants came

through Covent Garden, singing, and conducting themselves in

the most riotous manner possible. They were running, and

were followed by three others, all in a most uproarious

state of intoxication, and he thought proper to stop them;

upon which he was floored san-ceremonie, and when he recovered his legs, he was again struck, and called 'a b——yCharley,' and other ungenteel names. He called for the assistance of some of his brethren, and the defendants were with some trouble taken to the watch-house. They were very jolly on the way, and when lodged in durance, amused themselves with abusing the Constable of the night, and took especial care that no one within hearing of the watch-house should get a wink of sleep for the remainder of the night. Mr. Birnie.—“Well young gentleman, what have you to say to this?” The one who undertook to be spokesman, threw himself in the most familiar manner possible across the table, and having fixed himself perfectly at his ease, he said, “The fact was, they had been dining at a tavern, and were rather drunk, and on their way through the Piazza, they endeavoured by running away to give the slip to their three companions, who were still worse than themselves. The others, however called out Stop thief! and the watchman stopped them; whereat they naturally felt irritated, and certainly gave the watchman a bit of a thrashing.” Mr. Birnie.—“How was he to know you were not the thieves? He did quite right to stop you, and I am very glad he has brought you here—Pray, Sir, what are you?” Defendant.—“I am nothing, Sir.” Mr. Birnie (to another).—“And what are you?” Defendant.—“Why, Sir, I am—I am, Sir, nothing.” Mr. Birnie.—“Well, this is very fine. Pray, Sir, (turning to the third, who stood twirling his hat) will you do me the favour to tell what you are?” This gentleman answered in the same way. “I am, as my friends observed, nothing.” Mr. Birnie.—“Well, gentlemen, I must endeavour to make something of you. Here, gaoler, let them he locked up, and I shall not part with them until I have some better account of their occupations.” We have heard it asserted, that Nine tailors make a man. How many Dandies, professing to be Nothing, may be required to accomplish the proposed intention of making Something, may (perhaps by this time) be discovered by the worthy Magistrate. We however suspect he has had severe work of it.

"Leave me alone,” exclaimed the almost petrified Dandy.

“Not till you have given me the satisfaction I have a right to demand,” cried Tom. “I insist upon an explanation and apology—or demand your card—who are you, Sir? That's my address,” instantly handing him a card. “I am not to be played with, nor will I suffer your escape, after the insulting manner in which you have spoken, with impunity.”

Though not prepared for such a rencontre, the Dandy, who now perceived the inflexible temper of Tom's mind—and a crowd of people gathering round him—determined at least to put on as much of the character of a man as possible, and fumbled in his pocket for a card; at length finding one, he slipped it into Tom's hand. “Oh, Sir,” said he, “if that's the case, I'm your man, demmee—how, when, or where you please, ?pon honor.” Then beckoning to a hackney coach, he hobbled to the door, and was pushed in by coachee, who, immediately mounted the box and flourishing his whip, soon rescued him from his perilous situation, and the jeers of the surrounding multitude.

Tom, who in the bustle of the crowd had slipped the card of his antagonist into his pocket, now took Bob's arm, and they pursued their way down St. James's Street, and could not help laughing at the affair: but Tallyho, who had a great aversion to duelling, and was thinking of the consequences, bit his lips, and expressed his sorrow at what had occurred; he ascribed the hasty imputation of drunkenness to the irritating effects of the poor creature's accident, and expressed his hope that his cousin would take no further notice of it. Tom, however, on the other hand, ridiculed Bob's fears—told him it was a point of honour not to suffer an insult in the street from any man—nor would he—besides, the charge of drunkenness from such a thing as that, is not to be borne. “D——n it, man, drunkenness in the early part of the day is a thing I abhor, it is at all times what I would avoid if possible, but at night there may be many apologies for it; nay in some cases even to avoid it is impossible. The pleasures of society are enhanced by it—the joys of love are increased by the circulation of the glass—harmony, conviviality and friendship are produced by it—though I am no advocate for inebriety, and detest the idea of the beast—

“Who clouds his reason by the light of day,

And falls to drink, an early and an easy prey.”

“Well,” said Bob, “I cannot help thinking this poor fellow, who has already betrayed his fears, will be inclined to make any apology for his rudeness to-morrow.”

“If he does not,” said Tom, “I'll wing him, to a certainty—a jackanapes—a puppy—a man-milliner; perhaps a thing of shreds and patches—he shall not go unpunished, I promise you; so come along, we will just step in here, and I'll dispatch this business at once: I'll write a challenge, and then it will be off my hands.” And so saying, they entered a Coffee-house, where, calling for pen, ink and paper, Tom immediately began his epistle, shrewdly hinting to his Cousin, that he expected he would act as his Second. “It will be a fine opportunity for introducing your name to the gay world—the newspapers will record your name as a man of ton. Let us see now how it will appear:—On—— last, the Honourable Tom Dashall, attended by his Cousin, Robert Tallyho, Esq. of Belleville Hall, met—ah, by the bye, let us see who he is,” here he felt in his pocket for the card.

Bob, however, declared his wish to decline obtaining popularity by being present upon such an occasion, and suggested the idea of his calling upon the offender, and endeavouring to effect an amicable arrangement between them.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Tom with surprise, as he drew the card from his pocket, and threw it on the table—“Ha, ha, ha—look at that.”

Tallyho looked at the card without understanding it. “What does it mean?” said he.

"Mean,” replied Tom, “why it is a Pawnbroker's duplicate for a Hunting Watch, deposited with his uncle this morning in St. Martin's Lane, for two pounds—laughable enough—well, you may dismiss your fears for the present; but I'll try if I can't find my man by this means—if he is worth finding—at all events we have found a watch.”

Bob now joined in the laugh, and, having satisfied the Waiter, they sallied forth again.

Just as they left the Coffee-house, “Do you see that Gentleman in the blue great coat, arm in arm with another? that is no other than the——. You would scarcely conceive, by his present appearance, that he has commanded armies, and led them on to victory; and that having retired under the shade of his laurels, he is withering them away, leaf by leaf, by attendance at the hells{1} of the metropolis; his unconquerable spirit still actuating him in his hours of relaxation. It is said that the immense sum awarded to him for his prowess in war, has been so materially reduced by his inordinate passion for play, that although he appears at Court, and is a favourite, the demon Poverty stares him in the face. But this is a vile world, and half one hears is not to be believed. He is certainly extravagant, fond of women, and fond of wine; but all these foibles are overshadowed with so much glory as scarcely to remain perceptible. Here is the Palace,” said Tom, directing his Cousin's attention to the bottom of the street.

Bob was evidently struck at this piece of information, as he could discover no mark of grandeur in its appearance to entitle it to the dignity of a royal residence.

“It is true,” said Tom, “the outside appearance is not much in its favour; but it is venerable for its antiquity, and for its being till lately the place at which the Kings of this happy Island have held their Courts. On the site of that palace originally stood an hospital, founded before the conquest, for fourteen leprous females, to whom eight brethren were afterwards added, to assist in the performance of divine service.”

“Very necessary,” said Bob, “and yet scarcely sufficient.”

1 Hells—The abode or resort of black-legs or gamblers,

where they assemble to commit their depredations on the

unwary. But of these we shall have occasion to enlarge

elsewhere.

"You seem to quiz this Palace, and are inclined to indulge your wit upon old age. In 1532, it was surrendered to Henry viii. and he erected the present Palace, and enclosed St. James's Park, to serve as a place of amusement and exercise, both to this Palace and Whitehall. But it does not appear to have been the Court of the English Sovereigns, during their residence in town, till the reign of Queen Ann, from which time it has been uniformly used as such.

“It is built of brick; and that part which contains the state apartments, being only one story high, gives it a regular appearance outside. The State-rooms are commodious and handsome, although there is nothing very superb or grand in the decorations or furniture.

“The entrance to these rooms is by a stair-case which opens into the principal court, which you now see. At the top of the stair-case are two rooms; one on the left, called the Queen's, and the other the King's Guard-room, leading to the State-apartments. Immediately beyond the King's Guard-room is the Presence-chamber, which contains a canopy, and is hung with tapestry; and which is now used as a passage to the principal rooms.

“There is a suite of five rooms opening into each other successively, fronting the Park. The Presence-chamber opens into the centre room, which is denominated the Privy-chamber, in which is a canopy of flowered-crimson velvet, generally made use of for the King to receive the Quakers.

“On the right are two drawing-rooms, one within the other. At the upper end of the further one, is a throne with a splendid canopy, on which the Kings have been accustomed to receive certain addresses. This is called the Grand Drawing-room, and is used by the King and Queen on certain state occasions, the nearer room being appropriated as a kind of ante-chamber, in which the nobility, &c. are permitted to remain while their Majesties are present in the further room, and is furnished with stools, sofas, &c. for the purpose. There are two levee-rooms on the left of the privy-chamber, on entering from the King's guard-room and presence-chamber, the nearer one serving as an ante-chamber to the other. They were all of them, formerly, meanly furnished, but at the time of the marriage of our present King, they were elegantly fitted up. The walls are now covered with tapestry, very beautiful, and of rich colours—tapestry which, although it was made for Charles II. had never been used, having by some accident lain unnoticed in a chest, till it was discovered a short time before the marriage of the Prince.

“The canopy of the throne was made for the late-Queen's birth-day, the first which happened after the union of Great Britain and Ireland. It is made of crimson velvet, with very broad gold lace, embroidered with crowns set with fine and rich pearls. The shamrock, emblematical of the Irish nation, forms a part of the decorations of the British crown, and is executed with great taste and accuracy.

“The grand drawing-room contains a large, magnificent chandelier of silver, gilt, but I believe it has not been lighted for some years; and in the grand levee-room is a very noble bed, the furniture of which is of Spitalfields manufacture, in crimson velvet. It was first put up with the tapestry, on the marriage of the present King, then Prince of Wales.

“It is upon the whole an irregular building, chiefly consisting of several courts and alleys, which lead into the Park. This, however, is the age of improvement, and it is said that the Palace will shortly be pulled down, and in the front of St. James's Street a magnificent triumphal arch is to be erected, to commemorate the glorious victories of the late war, and to form a grand entrance to the Park.

“The Duke of York, the Duke of Clarence, the King's servants, and many other dignified persons, live in the Stable-yard.”

“In the Stable-yard!” said Bob, “dignified persons reside in a Stable-yard, you astonish me!”

“It is quite true,” said Tom, “and remember it is the Stable-yard of a King.”

“I forgot that circumstance,” said Bob, “and that circumstances alter cases. But whose carriage is this driving with so much rapidity?”

“That is His Highness the Duke of York, most likely going to pay a visit to his royal brother, the King, who resides in a Palace a little further on: which will be in our way, for it is yet too early to see much in the Park: so let us proceed, I am anxious to make some inquiry about my antagonist, and therefore mean to take St. Martin's Lane as we go along.”

With this they pursued their way along Pall Mall. The rapidity of Tom's movements however afforded little opportunity for observation or remark, till they arrived opposite Carlton House, when he called his Cousin's attention to the elegance of the new streets opposite to it.

“That,” said he, “is Waterloo Place, which, as well as the memorable battle after which it is named, has already cost the nation an immense sum of money, and must cost much more before the proposed improvements are completed: it is however, the most elegant street in London. The want of uniformity of the buildings has a striking effect, and gives it the appearance of a number of palaces. In the time of Queen Elizabeth there were no such places as Pall Mall, St. James's-street, Piccadilly, nor any of the streets or fine squares in this part of the town. That building at the farther end is now the British Fire-office, and has a pleasing effect at this distance. The cupola on the left belongs to a chapel, the interior of which for elegant simplicity is unrivalled. To the left of the centre building is a Circus, and a serpentine street, not yet finished, which runs to Swallow Street, and thence directly to Oxford Road, where another circus is forming, and is intended to communicate with Portland Place; by which means a line of street, composed of all new buildings, will be completed. Of this dull looking place (turning to Carlton House) although it is the town-residence of our King, I shall say nothing at present, as I intend devoting a morning, along with you, to its inspection. The exterior has not the most lively appearance, but the interior is magnificent.”—During this conversation they had kept moving gently on.

Bob was charmed with the view down Waterloo Place.

“That,” said his Cousin, pointing to the Arcade at the opposite corner of Pall Mall, “is the Italian Opera-house, which has recently assumed its present superb appearance, and may be ranked among the finest buildings in London. It is devoted to the performance of Italian operas and French ballets, is generally open from December to July, and is attended by the most distinguished and fashionable persons. The improvements in this part are great. That church, which you see in the distance over the tops of the houses, is St. Martin's in the fields.”

“In the fields,” inquired Bob; “what then, are we come to the end of the town?”

"Ha! ha! ha!” cried Tom—“the end—no, no—I was going to say there is no end to it—no, we have not reached any thing like the centre.”

“Blood an owns, boderation and blarney,” (said an Irishman, at that moment passing them with a hod of mortar on his shoulder, towards the new buildings, and leaving an ornamental patch as he went along on Bob's shoulder) “but I'll be a'ter tipping turnups{l} to any b——dy rogue that's tip to saying—Black's the white of the blue part of Pat Murphy's eye; and for that there matter,” dropping the hod of mortar almost on their toes at the same time, and turning round to Bob—“By the powers! I ax the Jontleman's pardon—tho' he's not the first Jontleman that has carried mortar—where is that big, bully-faced blackguard that I'm looking after?” During this he brushed the mortar off Tallyho's coat with a snap of his fingers, regardless of where or on whom he distributed it.

The offender, it seemed, had taken flight while Pat was apologizing, and was no where to be found.

“Why what's the matter?” inquired Tom; “you seem in a passion.”

“Och! not in the least bit, your honour! I'm only in a d——d rage. By the mug of my mother—arn't it a great shame that a Jontleman of Ireland can't walk the streets of London without having poratees and butter-milk throw'd in his gums?”—Hitching up the waistband of his breeches—“It won't do at all at all for Pat: its a reflection on my own native land, where—

“Is hospitality,

All reality,

No formality

There you ever see;

The free and easy

Would so amaze ye,

You'd think us all crazy,

For dull we never be.”

These lines sung with an Irish accent, to the tune of “Morgan Rattler,” accompanied with a snapping of his fingers, and concluded with a something in imitation of

1 Tipping Turnups—This is a phrase made use of among the prigging fraternity, to signify a turn-up—which is to knock down.

an Irish jilt, were altogether so truly characteristic of the nation to which he belonged, as to afford our Heroes considerable amusement. Tom threw him a half-crown, which he picked up with more haste than he had thrown down the mortar in his rage.

“Long life and good luck to the Jontleman!” said Pat. “Sure enough, I won't be after drinking health and success to your Honour's pretty picture, and the devil pitch into his own cabin the fellow that would be after picking a hole or clapping a dirty patch on the coat of St. Patrick—whiskey for ever, your Honour, huzza—

“A drop of good whiskey

Would make a man frisky.”

By this time a crowd was gathering round them, and Tom cautioned Bob in a whisper to beware of his pockets. This piece of advice however came too late, for his blue bird's eye wipe{l} had taken flight.

“What,” said Bob, “is this done in open day?” “Are you all right and tight elsewhere?” said Tom—“if you are, toddle on and say nothing about it.—Open day!” continued he, “aye, the system of frigging{2}

1 Blue bird's eye wipe—A blue pocket handkerchief with white spots. 2 A cant term for all sorts of thieving. The Life of the celebrated George Barrington, of Old Bailey notoriety, is admirably illustrative of this art; which by a more recent development of Hardy Vaux, appears to be almost reduced to a system, notwithstanding the wholesomeness of our laws and the vigilance of our police in their administration. However incredible it may appear, such is the force of habit and association, the latter, notwithstanding he was detected and transported, contrived to continue his depredations during his captivity, returned, at the expiration of his term, to his native land and his old pursuits, was transported a second time, suffered floggings and imprison-ments, without correcting what cannot but be termed the vicious propensities of his nature. He generally spent his mornings in visiting the shops of jewellers, watch-makers, pawnbrokers, &c. depending upon his address and appearance, and determining to make the whole circuit of the metropolis and not to omit a single shop in either of those branches. This scheme he actually executed so fully, that he believes he did not leave ten untried in London; for he made a point of commencing early every day, and went regularly through it, taking both sides of the way. His practice on entering a shop was to request to look at gold seals, chains, brooches, rings, or any other small articles of value, and while examining them, and looking the shopkeeper in the face, he contrived by sleight of hand to conceal two or three, sometimes more, as opportunities offered, in the sleeve of his coat, which was purposely made wide. In this practice he succeeded to a very great extent, and in the course of his career was never once detected in the fact, though on two or three occa-sions so much suspicion arose that he was obliged to exert all his effrontery, and to use very high language, in order, as the cant phrase is, to bounce the tradesman out of it; his fashionable appearance, and affected anger at his insinuations, always had the effect of inducing an apology; and in many such cases he has actually carried away the spoil, notwithstanding what passed between them, and even gone so far as to visit the same shop again a second and a third time with as good success as at first. This, with his nightly attendance at the Theatres and places of public resort, where he picked pockets of watches, snuff-boxes, &c. was for a length of time the sole business of his life. He was however secured, after secreting himself for a time, convicted, and is now transported for life—as he conceives, sold by another cele-brated Prig, whose real name was Bill White, but better known by the title of Conky Beau.

will be acted on sometimes by the very party you are speaking to—the expertness with which it is done is almost beyond belief.”

Bob having ascertained that his handkerchief was the extent of his loss, they pursued their way towards Charing Cross.

“A line of street is intended,” continued Tom, “to be made from the Opera House to terminate with that church; and here is the King's Mews, which is now turned into barracks.”

“Stop thief! Stop thief!” was at this moment vociferated in their ears by a variety of voices, and turning round, they perceived a well-dressed man at full speed, followed pretty closely by a concourse of people. In a moment the whole neighbourhood appeared to be in alarm. The up-stairs windows were crowded with females—the tradesmen were at their shop-doors—the passengers were huddled together in groups, inquiring of each other—“What is the matter?—who is it?—which is him?—what has he done?” while the pursuers were increasing in numbers as they went. The bustle of the scene was new to Bob—Charing Cross and its vicinity was all in motion.

“Come,” said Tom, “let us see the end of this—they are sure to nab{l} my gentleman before he gets much

1 Nabbed or nibbled—Secured or taken.

farther, so let us brush{1} on.” Then pulling his Cousin by the arm, they moved forward to the scene of action.

As they approached St. Martin's Lane, the gathering of the crowd, which was now immense, indicated to Tom a capture.

“Button up,” said he, “and let us see what's the matter.”

“Arrah be easy” cried a voice which they instantly recognized to be no other than Pat Murphy's. “I'll hold you, my dear, till the night after Doomsday, though I can't tell what day of the year that is. Where's the man wid the gould-laced skull-cap? Sure enough I tought I'd be up wi' you, and so now you see I'm down upon you.”

At this moment a Street-keeper made way through the crowd, and Tom and Bob keeping close in his rear, came directly up to the principal performers in this interesting scene, and found honest Pat Murphy holding the man by his collar, while he was twisting and writhing to get released from the strong and determined grasp of the athletic Hibernian.

Pat no sooner saw our Heroes, than he burst out with a lusty “Arroo! arroo! there's the sweet-looking jontleman that's been robbed by a dirty spalpeen that's not worth the tail of a rotten red-herring. I'll give charge of dis here pick'd bladebone of a dead donkey that walks about in God's own daylight, dirting his fingers wid what don't belong to him at all at all. So sure as the devil's in his own house, and that's London, you've had your pocket pick'd, my darling, and that's news well worth hearing”—addressing himself to Dashall.

By this harangue it was pretty clearly understood that Murphy had been in pursuit of the pickpocket, and Tom immediately gave charge.

The man, however, continued to declare he was not the right person—“That, so help him G——d, the Irishman had got the wrong bull by the tail—that he was a b——dy snitch{2} and that he would sarve him out{3}—that he wished