The British Newspaper Archive. Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.
"What do you mean by hussies?" interrupts a champion of the other party, who has evinced a strong inclination throughout to get up a branch fight on her own account ("Hoo-roar," ejaculates a pot-boy in a parenthesis, 'put the kye-bosh on her, Mary.") "What do you mean by hussies?" reiterates the champion. "Niver mind," replies the opposition expressively, "niver mind; you go home, and, ven you're quite sober, mend your stockings." This somewhat personal allusion, not only to the lady's habits of intemperance, but also to the state of her wardrobe, rouses her utmost ire, and she accordingly complies with the urgent request of the by-standers to "pitch in," with considerable alacrity. The scuffle became general, and terminates, in minor play-bill phraseology, with "arrival of the policemen—interior of the station-house, and impressive denouement." In addition to the numerous groups who are idling about the gin shops, and squabbling in the centre of the road, every post in the open space has its occupant, who leans against it for hours, with listless perseverance. It is odd enough that one class of men in London appear to have no enjoyment beyond leaning against posts. We never saw a regular bricklayer's labourer take any other recreation—fighting excepted. Pass through St. Giles's in the evening of a week day—there they are in their fustian dresses, spotted with brick-dust and whitewash—leaning against posts. Walk through Seven Dials on Sunday morning: there they are again—drab or light corduroy trousers, blucher boots, blue coats, and great yellow waistcoats—leaning against posts. The idea of a man dressing himself in his best clothes, to lean against a post all day! The peculiar character of these streets, and the close resemblance each one bears to its neighbour, by no means tends to decrease the bewilderment in which the unexperienced wayfarer through "the Dials" finds himself involved. He traverses streets of dirty, straggling houses, with here and there an unexpected court, composed of buildings as ill-proportioned and deformed as the half naked children that wallow in the kennels. Now and then, is a little dark chandler's shop, with a cracked bell hung up behind the door, to announce the entrance of a customer, or betray the presence of some young gentleman in whom a passion for shop tills has developed itself at an early age. Handsome, lofty buildings usurp the places of low dingy public-houses; long rows of broken and patched windows expose plants that may have flourished when "the Dials" were built, in vessels as dirty as "the Dials" themselves; and shops for the purchase of rags, bones, old iron, and kitchen stuff, vie in cleanliness with the bird-fanciers' and rabbit-dealers', which one might fancy so many arks, but for the irresistible conviction that no bird in its proper senses, who was permitted to leave one of them, would ever come back again. Brokers' shops, which would seem to have been established by humane individuals as refuges for destitute bugs, interspersed with announcements of day schools, penny theatres, petition-writers, mangles, and music for balls or routs, complete the "still life" of the subject; and dirty men, filthy women, squalid children, fluttering shuttlecocks, noisy battledores, reeking pipes, bad fruit, more than doubtful oysters, attenuated cats, depressed dogs, and anatomical fowls, are its cheerful accompaniments.
If the external appearance of the houses, or a glance at their inhabitants, presents but few attractions, a closer acquaintance with either is little calculated to alter one's first impression. Every room has its separate tenant, and every tenant is—by the same mysterious dispensation which causes a country curate to "increase and multiply" most marvellously—generally the head of a numerous family. The man in the shop, perhaps, is in the baked "jemmy" line, or the fire-wood and hearth-stone line, or any other line which requires a floating capital of eighteen-pence or thereabouts; and he and his family live in the shop, and the small back parlour behind it. Then there is an Irish labourer and his family in the back kitchen; and a jobbing man—carpet-beater and so forth—with his family in the front one. In the front one-pair there's another man with another wife and family, and in the back one-pair, there's "a young ooman as takes in tambour-work, and dresses quite genteel," who talks a good deal about "my friend," and "can't abear anything low." The second floor front, and the rest of the lodgers, are just a second edition of the people below, except a shabby-genteel man in the back attic, who has his half-pint of coffee every morning from the coffee-shop next door but one, which boasts a little front den called a coffee-room, with a fire-place, over which is an inscription, politely requesting that, "to prevent mistakes," customers will "please to pay on delivery." The shabby-genteel man is an object of some mystery, but as he leads a life of seclusion, and never was known to buy anything beyond an occasional pen, except half-pints of coffee, penny loaves, and ha'porths of ink, his fellow-lodgers very naturally suppose him to be an author; and rumours are current in the Dials, that he writes poems—for Mr Warren.
Now anybody who passed through the Dials on a hot summer's evening, and saw the different women in the house gossiping on the steps, would be apt to think that all was harmony among them, and that a more primitive set of people than the native Diallers could not be imagined. Alas! the man in the shop ill-treats his family; the carpet-beater extends his professional pursuits to his wife; the one-pair front has an undying feud with the two pair front, in consequence of the two-pair front persisting in dancing over his (the one-pair front's) head, when he and his family have retired for the night; the two-pair back will interfere with the front kitchen's children; the Irishman comes home drunk every other night, and attacks everybody; and the one-pair back screams at everything. Animosities spring up between floor and floor; the very cellar asserts his equality. Mrs A. smacks Mrs B.'s child for "making faces." Mrs B. forthwith throws cold water over Mrs A.'s child for "calling names." The husbands are embroiled—the quarrel becomes general—an assault is the consequence, and a police-office the result.
The British Newspaper Archive. Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.
The British Newspaper Archive. Some rights reserved. This work permits non-commercial use, distribution, and reproduction in any medium, provided the original author and source are credited.
We can fancy one of these parties, we think, as well as if we were duly dress-coated and pumped, and had just been announced at the drawing-room door. Take the house with the green blinds for instance. We know its a quadrille party, because we saw some men taking up the front drawing-room carpet while we sat at breakfast this morning; and if further evidence be required, and we must tell the truth, we just now saw one of the young ladies "doing" another of the young ladies' hair, near one of the bedroom windows, in an unusual style of splendour, which nothing less than a quadrille party could possibly justify. The master of the house with the green blinds is in a public office—we know the fact by the cut of his coat, the tie of his neckcloth, and the self-satisfaction of his gait—the very green blinds themselves have a Somerset-house air about them. Hark!—a cab! That's a junior clerk in the same office—a tidy sort of young man, with a tendency to cold and corns, who comes with a pair of boots with black cloth fronts, and his shoes in his coat pocket, which shoes he is at this very moment putting on in the hall. Now he is announced by the man in the passage to another man in a blue coat—who is a disguised messenger from the office—on the first landing; and the man on the first landing precedes him to the drawing-room door. "Mr. Winkles!"shouts the messenger. "How are you, Winkles?" says the master of the house, advancing from the fire, before which he has been standing, talking politics and airing himself. "My dear, this is Mr Winkles (a courteous salute from the lady of the house). "Winkles, my eldest daughter Julia, my dear, Mr. Winkles; Mr. Winkles, my other daughters—my son, Sir;" and Winkles rubs his hands very hard, and smiles as if it were all capital fun, and keeps constantly bowing and turning himself round, till the whole family have been introduced, when he glides into a chair at the corner of the sofa, and opens a miscellaneous conversation with the young ladies upon the weather and the theatres, and the old year and its lions—Captain Ross and the silent system—O'Connell and Mr. Balfe—the voluntary principle and the comet—the Jewess and the Orange Lodges. More double knocks! What an extensive party! what an incessant hum of conversation and general sipping of coffee! We see Winkles now in our mind's eye, in the height of his glory. He has just handed that stout old lady's cup to the servant, and now, he dives among the crowd of young men by the door, to intercept the other servant, and secure the muffin-plate for the old lady's daughter, before he leaves the room; and now, as he passes the sofa on his way back, he bestows a glance of recognition and patronage upon the young ladies, as condescending and familiar as if he had known them from infancy. Charming person that Mr. Winkles —perfect ladies' man. Such a delightful companion, too! Laugh!—nobody ever understood Pa's jokes half so well as Mr. Winkles, who laughs himself into convulsions at every fresh burst of facetiousness. Most delightful partner!—talks through the whole set; and although he does seem at first rather gay and frivolous, so romantic and with so much feeling!—quite a love. No great favourite with the young men, certainly, who sneer at, and affect to despise him; but everybody knows that's only envy, and they needn't give themselves the trouble of attempting to depreciate his merits at any rate; for Ma says he shall be asked to every future dinner-party, if it's only to talk to people between the courses, and distract their attention when there's any unexpected delay in the kitchen. At supper, Mr Winkles shows to still greater advantage than he has done throughout the evening, and when Pa requests every one to fill their glasses for the purpose of drinking happiness throughout the year, Mr. Winkles is so droll, insisting on all the young ladies having their glasses filled, notwithstanding their repeated assurances that they never can, by any possibility, think of emptying them and subsequently begging permission to say a few words on the sentiment which has just been uttered by Pa, when he makes one of the most brilliant and poetical speeches that can possibly be imagined, about the old year and the new one. After the toast has been drunk, and when the ladies have retired, Mr. Winkles requests that every gentleman will do him the favour of filling his glass, for he has a toast to propose; on which all the gentlemen cry "hear! hear!" and pass the decanters accordingly, and Mr. Winkles being informed by the master of the house that they are all charged, and waiting for his toast, rises, and begs to remind the gentlemen present how much they have been delighted by the dazzling array of elegance and beauty which the drawing-room has exhibited that night, and how their senses have been charmed, and their hearts captivated by the bewitching concentration of female loveliness which that very room has so recently displayed [loud cries of hear!]. Much as he (Winkles) would be disposed to deplore the absence of the ladies, on other grounds, he cannot but derive some consolation from the reflection that the very circumstance of their not being present enables him to propose a toast which he would have otherwise been prevented from giving—that toast he begs to say is—"The Ladies!'"[great applause].—The ladies, among whom the fascinating daughters of their excellent host are alike conspicuous for their beauty, their accomplishments, and their elegance. He begs them to drain a bumper to "The Ladies," and a happy new year to them [prolonged approbation, above which the noise of the ladies dancing the Spanish dance among themselves, over head, is distinctly audible]. The applause consequent on this toast has scarcely subsided when a young gentleman in a pink under waistcoat, towards the bottom of the table, is observed to grow very restless and fidgetty, and to evince strong indications of some latent desire to give vent to his feelings in a speech, which the wary Winkles at once perceiving determines to forestal by speaking himself. He, therefore, rises again, with an air of solemn importance, and trusts he may be permitted to propose another toast [unqualified approbation, and Mr. Winkles proceeds]. He is sure they must all be deeply impressed with the hospitality—he may say the splendour—with which they have been that night received by their worthy host and hostess [unbounded applause]. Although this is the first occasion on which he has had the pleasure and delight of sitting at that board, he has known his friend Dobble long and intimately; he has been connected with him in business—he wishes everybody present knew Dobble as well as he does [a cough from the host]. He (Winkles) can lay his hand upon his (Winkles) heart, and declare his confident belief that a better man, a better husband, a better father, a better brother, a better son, a better relation in any relation of life, than Dobble, never existed [loud cries of "Hear!"]. They have seen him to-night in the peaceful bosom of his family; they should see him in the morning, in the trying duties of his office. Calm in the perusal of the Morning Paper, uncompromising in the signature of his name, dignified in his replies to the inquiries of stranger applicants, deferential in his behaviour to his superiors—majestic in his deportment to the messengers [cheers]. When he bears this merited testimony to the excellent qualities of his friend Dobble, what can he say in approaching such a subject as Mrs Dobble? Is it requisite for him to expatiate on the qualities of that amiable woman? No; he will spare his friend Dobble's feelings; he will spare the feelings of his friend—if he will allow him to have the honour of calling him so—Mr Dobble, Junior. [Here Mr Dobble Junior, who has been previously distending his mouth to a considerable width, by thrusting a particularly fine orange into that feature, suspends operations, and assumes a proper appearance of intense melancholy]. He will simply say—and he is quite certain it is a sentiment in which all who hear him will readily concur—that his friend Dobble is as superior to any man he ever knew, as Mrs. Dobble is far beyond any woman he ever saw (except her daughters), and he will conclude by proposing their "worthy host and hostess, and may they live to enjoy many more new years." The toast is drunk with acclamation—Dobble returns thanks—and the whole party rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room. Young men who were too bashful to dance before supper, find tongues and partners; the musicians exhibit unequivocal symptoms of having drunk the new year in, while the company were out; and dancing is kept up until far in the first morning of the new year.
We have scarcely written the last word of the previous sentence, when the first stroke of twelve peals from the neighbouring churches; there is something awful in the sound. Strictly speaking, it may not be more impressive now than at any other time, for the hours steal as swiftly on at other periods, and their flight is little heeded. But, we measure man's life by years, and it is a solemn knell that warns us we have passed another of the boundaries which stand between us and the grave; disguise it as we may, the reflection will force itself on our minds that when next that bell announces the arrival of a new year, we may be insensible alike of the timely warning we have so often neglected, and of all the warm feelings that glow within us now.
But twelve has struck, and the bells ring merrily out which welcome the new year. Away with all gloomy reflections. We were happy and merry in the last one, and will be, please God, in this. So as we are alone, and can neither dance it in, nor sing it in, here goes our glass to our lips, and a hearty welcome to the year one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six say we.
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Mr. Samuel Wilkins was a carpenter—a journeyman carpenter, of small dimensions; decidedly below the middle size—bordering perhaps upon the dwarfish. His face was round and shiny, & his hair carefully twisted into the outer corner of each eye, till it formed a variety of that description of semi-curls, usually known as "haggerawators." His earnings were all-sufficient for his wants—varying from eighteen shillings to one pound five, weekly; his manner undeniable—his sabbath waistcoats dazzling. No wonder that with these qualifications Samuel Wilkins found favour in the eyes of the other sex; many women have been captivated by far less substantial qualifications. But Samuel was proof against their blandishments, until at length his eyes rested on those of a being for whom from that time forth he felt fate had destined him. He came and conquered—proposed and was accepted —loved and was beloved. Mr. Wilkins "kept company" with Jemima Evans. Miss Evans (or Ivins, to adopt the pronunciation most in vogue with her circle of acquaintance) had adopted in early life the harmless pursuit of shoe-binding, to which she had afterwards superadded the occupation of a straw-bonnet maker. Herself, her maternal parent, and two sisters, formed an harmonious quartett in the most secluded portion of Camden-town; and here it was that Mr. Wilkins presented himself one Monday afternoon in his best attire, with his face more shiny and his waistcoat more bright than either had ever appeared before. The family were just going to tea, and were so glad to see him. It was quite a little feast; two ounces of seven and sixpenny green, and a quarter of a pound of the best fresh; and Mr. Wilkins had brought a pint of shrimps, neatly folded up in a clean belcher, to give a zest to the meal, and propitiate Mrs. Ivins. Jemima was "cleaning herself" up-stairs: so Mr. Samuel Wilkins sat down, and talked domestic economy with Mrs. Ivins, whilst the two youngest Miss Ivins's poked bits of lighted brown paper between the bars, under the kettle, to make the water boil for tea. "I vos thinkin'" said Mr. Samuel Wilkins, during a pause in the conversation, "I vos a thinkin' of takin' J’mima to the Eagle to-night." "O my!" exclaimed Mrs. Ivins. "Lor! how nice!" said the youngest Miss Ivins. "Well; I declare!" added the youngest Miss Ivins but one. "Tell J’mima to put on her white muslin, Tilly," screamed Mrs. Ivins, with motherly anxiety; and down came J’mima herself soon afterwards in a white muslin gown, carefully hook-and-eyed, and little red shawl plentifully pinned, and white straw bonnet trimmed with red ribbons, and a small necklace and large pair of bracelets, and Denmark satin shoes, and open-work stockings, white cotton gloves on her fingers, and a cambric pocket-handkerchief carefully folded up in her hand—all quite genteel and ladylike. And away went Miss Jemima Ivins, and Mr. Samuel Wilkins, and a dress cane, with a gilt knob at the top, to the admiration and envy of the street in general, and to the high gratification of Mrs. Ivins, and the two youngest Miss Ivinses in particular. They had no sooner turned into the Pancras-road, than who should Miss Jemima Ivins stumble upon by the most fortunate accident in the world, but a young lady as she knew, with her young man, and—it is so strange how things do turn out sometimes—they were actually going to the Eagle too. So Mr. Samuel Wilkins was introduced to Miss Jemima Ivins’s friend’s young man, and they all walked on together, talking, and laughing and joking away like anything; and when they got as far as Pentonville, Miss Ivins’s friend’s young man would have the ladies go into the Crown to taste some shrub, which, after a great blushing and giggling, and hiding of faces in elaborate pocket-handkerchiefs, they consented to do. Having tasted it once, they were easily prevailed upon to taste it again; and they sat out in the garden tasting shrub, and looking at the Busses alternately 'till it was just the proper time to go to the Eagle; and then they resumed their journey, and walked on very fast, for fear they should lose the beginning of the concert in the Rotunda.
"How ev’nly!" said Miss J’mima Ivins and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend both at once, when they had passed the gate, and were fairly inside the gardens. There were the walks beautifully gravelled and planted; and the refreshment boxes painted and ornamented like so many snuff-boxes, and the variegated lamps shedding their rich light upon the company’s heads, and the place for dancing ready chalked for the company’s feet, and a Moorish band playing at one end of the gardens, and an opposition military band playing away at the other. Then the waiters were rushing to and fro with glasses of negus, and glasses of brandy and water, and bottles of ale and bottles of stout; and ginger-beer was going off in one place, and practical jokes were going on in another; and people were crowding to the door of the rotunda, and in short the whole scene was, as Miss J’mima Ivins, inspired by the novelty, or the shrub, or both, observed— "one of dazzlin excitement." As to the concert room, never was anything half so splendid. There was an orchestra for the singers, all paint, gilding, and plate glass; and such an organ! Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man whispered it had cost "four hundred pound," which Mr. Samuel Wilkins said was "not dear neither"—an opinion in which the ladies perfectly coincided. The audience were seated on elevated benches round the room, and crowded into every part of it, and every body was eating and drinking as comfortably as possible. Just before the concert commenced, Mr. Samuel Wilkins ordered two glasses of rum-and-water "warm with," and two slices of lemon, for himself and the other young man, together with "a pint o’ sherry wine for the ladies, and some sweet carraway-seed biscuits;" and they would have been quite comfortable and happy, only one gentleman with large whiskers would stare at Miss J’mima Ivins, and another gentleman in a plaid waistcoat would wink at Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend; on which Miss Jemima Ivins’s friend’s young man exhibited symptoms of boiling over, and began to mutter about "people’s imperence" and "swells out o’ luck," and to intimate in oblique terms a vague intention of knocking somebody’s head off, which he was only prevented from announcing more emphatically by both Miss J’mima Ivins and her friend, threatening to faint away on the spot if he said another word. The concert commenced—overture on the organ. "How solemn!" exclaimed Miss J’mima Ivins, glancing, perhaps unconsciously, at the gentleman with the whiskers. Mr. Samuel Wilkins, who had been muttering apart for some time past, as if he were holding a confidential conversation with the gilt knob of the dress-cane, breathed very hard;—breathing vengeance perhaps, but said nothing. "The Soldier tired," Miss somebody, in white satin. "Ancore!" cried Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend. "Ancore!' shouted the gentleman in the plaid waistcoat immediately, hammering the table with a stout bottle. Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man eyed the man behind the waistcoat from head to foot, and cast a look of interrogative contempt towards Mr. Samuel Wilkins. Comic song, accompanied on the organ. Miss J’mima Ivins was convulsed with laughter—so was the man with the whiskers. Everything the ladies did, the plaid waistcoat and whiskers did, by way of expressing a unity of sentiment and congeniality of soul; and Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend grew lively and talkative, as Mr. George Wilkins and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man grew morose, and surly in inverse proportion.
Now, if the matter had ended here, the little party might soon have recovered their former equanimity; but Mr. Samuel Wilkins and his friend began to throw looks of defiance upon the waistcoat and whiskers; and the waistcoat and whiskers, by way of intimating the slight degree in which they were affected by the looks aforesaid, bestowed glances of increased admiration on Miss J’mima Ivins and friend. The concert and vaudeville concluded—they promenaded the gardens. The waistcoat and whiskers did the same, and made divers remarks complimentary to the ancles of Miss J’mima Ivins and friend, in an audible tone. At length, not satisfied with these numerous atrocities, they actually came up, and asked Miss J’mima Ivins and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend to dance, without taking no more notice of Mr. Samuel Wilkins and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, than if they was nobody! "What do you mean by that, scoundrel?" exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins, grasping the gilt-knobbed dress cane firmly in his right hand. "What’s the devil's the matter with you, you little humbug?" replied the whiskers. "How dare you insult me and my friend?" inquired the friend’s young man. "You and your friend be damned," responded the waistcoat. "Take that!" exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins. The ferrule of the gilt-knobbed dress cane was visible for an instant, and then the light of the variegated lamps shone brightly upon it, as it whirled into the air, cane and all. "Give it him," said the waistcoat. "Luller-li-e-te," shouted the whiskers. "Horficer!" screamed the ladies. It was too late. Miss J’mima Ivins’s beau and the friend’s young man, lay gasping on the gravel, and the waistcoat and whiskers were seen no more. Miss J’mima Ivins and friend, being conscious that the affray was in no slight degree attributable to themselves, of course went into hysterics forthwith; declared themselves the most injured of women; exclaimed, in incoherent ravings, that they had been suspected—wrongfully suspected—oh, that they should ever have lived to see the day, &c.; suffered a relapse every time they opened their eyes, and saw their unfortunate little admirers; and were carried to their respective abodes in a hackney-coach in a state of insensibility, compounded of shrub, sherry, and excitement.
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Of all the dancing academies that ever were established, there never was one more popular in its immediate vicinity than Signor Billsmethi’s, of the "King’s Theatre." It wasn't in Spring Gardens, or Newman-street, or Berner's-street, or Gower-street, or Charlotte-street, or Percy street, or any other of the numerous streets which have been devoted time out of mind to professional people, dispensaries, and boarding-houses; it was not in the West-end at all, it rather approximated to the eastern portion of London, being situated in the populous and improving neighbourhood of Gray’s-inn-lane. "It wasn't a dear dancing academy—four and sixpence a quarter is decidedly cheap upon the whole. It was very select, the number of pupils being strictly limited to seventy-five; and a quarter’s payment in advance being rigidly exacted. There was public tuition and private tuition—an assembly-room and a parlour. Signor Billsmethi’s family were always thrown in with the parlour, and included in parlour price; that is to say, a private pupil had Signor Billsmethi’s parlour to dance in, and Signor Billsmethi’s family to dance with; and when he had been sufficiently broken in, in the parlour, he began to run in couples in the Assembly-room.
Such was the dancing academy of Signor Billsmethi when Mr. Augustus Cooper of Fetter-lane, first saw an unstamped advertisement, walking leisurely down Holborn-hill, announcing to the world that Signor Billsmethi of the King’s Theatre intended opening for the season with a Grand Ball.
Now, Mr. Augustus Cooper was in the oil and colour line—just of age, with a little money, a little business, and a little mother, who having managed her husband and his business in his lifetime, took to managing her son and his business after his decease; and so somehow or other he had been cooped up in the little back parlour behind the shop on week days, and in a little deal box without a lid (called by courtesy a pew) at Bethel Chapel on Sundays; and had seen no more of the world than if he had been an infant all his days, whereas Young White, at the Gas Fitter’s over the way, three years younger than him, had been flaring away like winkin’—going to the theatre—supping at harmonic meetings—eating oysters by the barrel, drinking stout by the gallon—even stopping out all night, and coming home as cool in the morning as if nothing had happened. So Mr. Augustus Cooper made up his mind that he would not stand it any longer, and had that very morning expressed to his mother a firm determination to be blowed, in the event of his not being instantly provided with a street door key. And he was walking down Holborn-hill thinking about all these things, and wondering how he could manage to get introduced into genteel society for the first time, when his eyes rested on Signor Billsmethi’s announcement, which it immediately struck him was just the very thing he wanted; for he should not only be able to select a genteel circle of acquaintance at once, out of the five and seventy pupils, at four and sixpence a quarter, but should qualify himself at the same time to go through a hornpipe in private society, with perfect ease to himself, and great delight to his friends. So he stopped the unstamped advertisement—an animated sandwich, composed of a boy between two boards—and having procured a very small card, with the Signor’s address indented thereon, walked straight at once to the Signor’s house—and very fast he walked too, for fear the list should be filled up, and the five and seventy completed, before he got there. The Signor was at home, and what was still more gratifying, he was an Englishman! Such a nice man—so polite; really so much more than one has any right to expect from a perfect stranger! The list wasn't full, but it was a most extraordinary circumstance that there was only just one vacancy, and even that one would have been filled up that very morning, only Signor Billsmethi was dissatisfied with the reference, and being very much afraid that the lady wasn’t select, wouldn’t take her.
"And very much delighted I am, Mr. Cooper," said Signor Billsmethi, "that I did not take her. I assure you, Mr. Cooper,—I don’t say it to flatter you, for I know you’re above it;—that I consider myself extremely fortunate in having a gentleman of your manners and appearance, Sir." "I am very glad of it too, Sir," said Augustus Cooper. "And I hope we shall be better acquainted, Sir," said Signor Billsmethi. "And I’m sure I hope we shall too, Sir," responded Augustus Cooper; and just then the door opened, and in came a young lady with her hair curled in a crop all over her head, and her shoes tied in sandals all over her legs.
"Don’t run away my dear," said Signor Billsmethi;" for the young lady didn’t know Mr. Cooper was there when she ran in, and was going to run out again in her modesty, all in confusion-like. "Don’t run away, my dear," said Signor Billsmethi, "this is Mr. Cooper. Mr. Cooper, of Fetter-lane. Mr. Cooper, my daughter, Sir, Miss Billsmethi, Sir, who, I hope, will have the pleasure of dancing many a quadrille, reel, minuet, gavotte, country dance, fandango, double hornpipe, and farinagholkajingo with you, Sir. She dances them all, Sir; and so shall you, Sir, before you’re a quarter older," Sir & Signor Bellsmethi slapped Mr. Augustus Cooper on the back, as if he had known him a dozen years, so friendly; and Mr. Cooper bowed to the young lady, and the young lady curtseyed to him; and Signor Billsmethi said they were as handsome a pair as ever he’d wish to see, upon which the young lady exclaimed, "Lor, Pa!" and blushed as red as Mr. Cooper himself—you might have thought they were both standing under a red lamp at a chemist’s shop; and before Mr. Cooper went away it was settled that he should join the family circle that very night—taking 'em just as they were: no ceremony, nor nonsense of that kind—and learn his positions, in order that he might lose no time, and be able to come out at the forthcoming ball. Well, Mr. Augustus Cooper went away to one of the cheap shoemakers’ shops in Holborn, where gentlemen’s dress-pumps are seven and sixpence, and men’s strong walking just nothing at all, and bought a pair of the regular seven-and-sixpenny, long-quartered, town-mades, in which he astonished himself quite as much as his mother, and sallied forth to Signor Billsmethi’s. There were four other private pupils in the parlour, two ladies and two gentlemen. Such nice people! Not a bit of pride about 'em. One of: he ladies in particular, who was in training for a Columbine, was remarkably affable, and she and Miss Billsmethi took such an interest in Mr. Augustus Cooper, and joked, and smiled, and looked so bewitching, that he got quite at home, and learnt his steps in no time. After the practising was over Signor Billsmethi and Miss Billsmethi, and Master Billsmethi, and a young lady, and the two ladies and the two gentlemen, danced a quadrille—none of your slipping and sliding about, but regular warm work; flying into corners, and diving among chairs, and shooting out at the door, something like dancing. Signor Billsmethi in particular, notwithstanding his having a little fiddle to play all the time, was out on the landing every figure; and Master Billsmethi, when everybody else was breathless, danced a hornpipe with a cane in his hand, and a cheese-plate on his head, to the unqualified admiration of the whole company. Then Signor Billsmethi insisted, as they were so happy, that they should all stay to supper; and proposed sending Master Billsmethi for the beer and spirits, whereupon the two gentlemen swore, "strike ’em wulgar if they’d stand that;" and they were just going to quarrel who should pay for it, when Mr. Augustus Cooper said he would, if they’d have the kindness to allow him—and they had the kindness to allow him; and Master Billsmethi brought the beer in a can, and the rum in a quart pot; they had a regular night of it; and Miss Billsmethi squeezed Mr. Augustus Cooper’s hand under the table; and Mr. Augustus Cooper returned the squeeze, and returned home too, at something to six o’clock in the morning, when he was put to bed by main force by the apprentice, after repeatedly expressing an uncontroullable desire to pitch his revered parent out of the second-floor window, and to throttle the apprentice with his own neck-handkerchief.
Weeks had worn on, and the seven-and-sixpenny town-mades had nearly worn out, when the night arrived for the grand dress-ball, at which the whole of the five-and-seventy pupils were to meet together for the first time that season, and to take out some portion of their respective four-and-sixpences in lamp-oil and fiddlers. Mr. Augustus Cooper had ordered a new coat for the occasion—a two-pound-tenner from Turnstile. It was his first appearance in public; and after a grand Sicilian shawl-dance by fourteen young ladies in character, he was to open the quadrille department with Miss Billsmethi herself, with whom he had become quite intimate since his first introduction. It was a night! Everything was admirably arranged. The Sandwich boy took the hats and bonnets at the street-door; there was a turn-up bedstead in the back parlour, on which Miss Billsmethi made tea and coffee for such of the gentlemen as chose to pay for it, and such of the ladies as the gentlemen treated; red port wine negus and lemonade were handed round at eighteen-pence a head; and in pursuance of a previous engagement with the public-house at the corner of the street, an extra pot-boy was laid on for the occasion. In short nothing could exceed the arrangements, except the company. Such ladies! Such pink silk stockings! Such artificial flowers! Such a number of cabs! No sooner had one cab set down a couple of ladies, than another cab drove up, and set down another couple of ladies, and they all knew, not only one another but the majority of the gentlemen into the bargain, which made it all as pleasant and lively as could be. Signor Billsmethi in black tights, with a large blue bow in his button-hole, introduced the ladies to such of the gentlemen as were strangers; and the ladies talked away - and laughed they did—it was delightful to see 'em. As to the shawl-dance, it was the most exciting thing that ever was beheld. Such a whisking, and rustling, and fanning, and getting ladies into a tangle with artificial flowers, & then disentangling 'em again; and as to Mr. Augustus Cooper’s share in the quadrille, he got through it admirably; he was missing from his partner now and then certainly, and discovered on such occasions to be either dancing with laudable perseverance in another set, or sliding about in perspective, apparently without any definite object; but, generally speaking, they managed to shove him through the figure, till he turned up in the right place. Be this as it may, when he had finished, a great many ladies and gentlemen came up and complimented him very much, and said they had never seen a beginner do anything like it before; and Mr. Augustus Cooper was perfectly satisfied with himself, and everybody else into the bargain, and "stood" considerable quantities of spirits and water, negus, and compounds, for the use and behoof of two or three dozen very particular friends, selected from the select circle of five-and-seventy pupils.
Now, whether it was the strength of the compounds, or the beauty of the ladies, or what not, it did so happen that Mr. Augustus Cooper encouraged rather than repelled the very flattering attentions of a young lady in brown gauze over white calico, who had appeared particularly struck with him from the first; and when the encouragements had been prolonged for some time, Miss Billsmethi betrayed her spite and jealousy thereat, by calling the young lady in brown gauze a "creeter," which induced the young lady in brown gauze to retort, in certain sentences containing a taunt founded on the payment of four-and-sixpence a quarter, and some indistinct reference to a "fancy man," which reference Mr. Augustus Cooper, being then and there in a state of considerable bewilderment, expressed his entire concurrence in. Miss Billsmethi, thus renounced, forthwith began screaming in the loudest key of her voice, at the rate of fourteen screams a minute; and being unsuccessful, in an onslaught on the eyes and face, first of the lady in gauze, and then of Mr. Augustus Cooper, called distractedly on the other three-and-seventy pupils to furnish her with oxalic acid for her own private drinking, and, the call not being honoured, made another rush at Mr. Cooper, and then had her stay-lace cut, and was carried off to bed. Mr. Augustus Cooper, not being remarkable for quickness of apprehension, was at a loss to understand what all this meant, till Signor Billsmethi explained it in a most satisfactory manner, by stating to the pupils that Mr. Augustus Cooper had made and confirmed divers promises of marriage to his daughter on divers occasions, and had now basely deserted her, on which, the indignation of the pupils became universal; and as several chivalrous gentlemen inquired rather pressingly of Mr. Augustus Cooper, whether he required anything for his own use, or, in other words, whether he "wanted anything for himself," he deemed it prudent to make a precipitate retreat. And the upshot of the matter was, that a lawyer’s letter came next day, and an action was commenced next week; and that Mr. Augustus Cooper, after walking twice to the Serpentine for the purpose of drowning himself, and coming twice back without doing it, made a confidante of his mother, who compromised the matter with twenty pounds from the till, which made twenty pounds four shillings and sixpence paid to Signor Billsmethi, exclusive of treats and pumps: and Mr. Augustus Cooper went back and lived with his mother, and there he lives to this day; and as he has lost his ambition for society, and never goes into the world, he will never see this account of himself, and will never be any the wiser.
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Damon and Pythias were undoubtedly very good fellows in their way: the former for his extreme readiness to put in special bail for a friend, and the latter for a certain trump-like punctuality in turning up just in the very nick of time, scarcely less remarkable. Many points in their character have now obsolete. Damons are rather hard to find, in these days of imprisonment for debt (except for sham ones, and they cost half a crown); and, as to the Pythiases, the few that have existed in these degenerate times have had an unfortunate knack of making themselves scarce, at the very moment when their appearance would have been strictly classical. If the actions of these heroes, however, can find no parallel in modern times, their friendship can. We have Damon and Pythias on the one hand—Potter and Smithers on the other; and lest the two last-mentioned names should never have reached the ears of our unenlightened readers, we can do no better than make them acquainted with the owners thereof.
Mr. Thomas Potter, then, was a clerk in the city, and Mr. Robert Smithers was a ditto in the same; their incomes were limited, but their friendship was unbounded. They lived in the same street, walked into town every morning at the same hour, dined at the same slap-bang every day, and revelled in each other’s company very night. They were knit together by the closest ties of intimacy and friendship; or, as Mr. Thomas Potter touchingly observed, they were "thick-and-thin pals, and nothing but it." There was a spice of romance in Mr. Smithers’s disposition—a ray of poetry—a gleam of misery;—a sort of consciousness of he didn’t exactly know what coming across him, he didn’t precisely know why—which stood out in fine relief against the off hand, dashing, "come up to the scratch" kind of manner, which distinguished Mr. Potter in an eminent degree. The peculiarity of their respective dispositions, extended itself to their individual costume. Mr. Smithers generally appeared in public in a surtout and shoes, with a narrow black neckerchief, and a brown hat, very much turned up at the sides—peculiarities which Mr. Potter wholly eschewed: for it was his ambition to do something in the celebrated "kiddy" or stage-coach way, and he had even gone so far as to invest capital in the purchase of a rough blue coat with wooden buttons, made upon the fireman’s principle, in which, with the addition of a low-crowned, flower-pot, saucer-shaped hat, he had created no inconsiderable sensation at the Albion, and divers other places of public resort.
Mr. Potter and Mr. Smithers had mutually agreed that, on the receipt of their quarter’s salary, they would jointly and in company "spend the evening"—an evident misnomer—the spending applying, as everybody knows, not to the evening itself, but to all the money the individual may chance to be possessed of on the occasion to which reference is made; and they had likewise agreed that, on the evening aforesaid, they would "make a night of it"—an expressive term, implying the borrowing of several hours from to-morrow morning, adding them to the night before, and manufacturing a compound night of the whole. The quarter-day arrived at last—we say at last, because quarter-days are as eccentric as comets, moving wonderfully quick when you've a good deal to pay, and marvellously slow when you have a little to receive: and Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers met by appointment to begin the evening with a dinner, and a nice, snug, comfortable dinner they had, consisting of a little procession of four chops and four kidneys, following each other, supported on either side by a pot of the real draught stout, and attended by divers cushions of bread, and wedges of cheese. When the cloth was removed, Mr. Thomas Potter ordered the waiter to bring in two goes of his best Scotch whiskey, with warm water and sugar, and a couple of his very mildest Havannahs, which the waiter did. Mr. Thomas Potter mixed his grog, and lit his cigar; Mr. Robert Smithers did the same; and then Mr. Thomas Potter jocularly proposed as the first toast, "the abolition of all offices whatsomever" (not sinecures, but counting-houses), which was immediately drank by Mr. Robert Smithers, with enthusiastic applause; and then they went on talking politics, puffing cigars, and sipping whiskey and water, until the "goes"—most appropriately so called—were both gone, which Mr. Robert Smithers forthwith perceiving, immediately ordered in two more goes of the best Scotch whiskey, and two more of the very mildest Havannahs; and the goes kept coming in, and the mild Havannahs kept going out, until what with the drinking, and lighting, and puffing, and the stale ashes on the table, and the tallow-grease on the cigars, Mr. Robert Smithers began to doubt the mildness of the Havannahs, and to feel very much as if he had been sitting in a hackney-coach, with his back to the horses.
As to Mr. Thomas Potter, he would keep laughing out loud, and volunteering inarticulate declarations that he was "all right," in proof of which he feebly bespoke the evening paper after the next gentleman, but finding it a matter of some difficulty to discover any news in its columns, or to ascertain distinctly whether it had any columns at all, he walked slowly out to look for the comet, and after coming back quite pale with looking up at the sky so long, and attempting to express mirth at Mr. Robert Smithers having fallen asleep, by various galvanic chuckles, he laid his head on his arm, and went to sleep also; and when he awoke again, Mr. Robert Smithers woke too, and they both very gravely agreed that it was extremely unwise to eat so many pickled walnuts with the chops, as it was a notorious fact that they always made people queer and sleepy; indeed, if it hadn't been for the whiskey and cigars, there was no knowing what harm they mightn’t have done ’em. So they took some coffee, and after paying the bill, twelve and two-pence the dinner, and the odd ten-pence for the waiter, thirteen shillings, started out on their expedition to manufacture a night. It was just half-past eight, so they thought they couldn’t do better than go half-price to the slips at the City Theatre, which they did, accordingly. Mr. Robert Smithers, who had become extremely poetical after the settlement of the bill, enlivening the walk by informing Mr. Thomas Potter, in confidence, that he felt an inward presentiment of approaching dissolution, and subsequently embellishing the theatre by falling asleep with his head and both arms gracefully drooping over the front of the boxes.
Such was the quiet demeanour of the unassuming Smithers, and such were the happy effects of Scotch whiskey and Havannahs on that interesting person; but Mr. Thomas Potter, whose great aim it was to be considered as a "knowing card," a "fast-goer," and so forth, conducted himself in a very different manner, and commenced going very fast indeed—rather too fast at last for the patience of the audience to keep pace with. On his first entry he contented himself by earnestly calling upon the gentlemen in the gallery to "flare up," accompanying the demand with another request expressive of his wish that they would instantaneously "form a union," both which requisitions were responded to in the manner most in vogue on such occasions. "Give that dog a bone," cried one gentleman in his shirt sleeves. "Vere have you been having half a pint of intermediate?" cried a second. "Tailor!" screamed a third. "Barber’s clerk!" shouted a fourth. "Throw him o-ver," roared a fifth, while numerous voices concurred in desiring Mr. Thomas Potter to return to the arms of his maternal parent, or in common parlance to "go home to his mother." All these taunts Mr. Thomas Potter received with supreme contempt, cocking the low-crowned hat a little more on one side, whenever any reference was made to his personal appearance; and standing up with his arms a-kimbo, expressing defiance most melodramatically. The overture—to which these various sounds had been an ad libitum accompaniment—concluded: the second piece began, and Mr. Thomas Potter emboldened by impunity, proceeded to behave in a most unprecedented and outrageous manner. First of all he imitated the shake of the principal female singer; then, groaned at the blue fire, then affected to be frightened into convulsions of terror at the appearance of the ghost; and lastly, not only made a running commentary in an audible voice upon the dialogue on the stage, but actually woke Mr. Robert Smithers, who hearing his companion making a noise, and having a very indistinct notion of where he was, or what was required of him, immediately by way of imitating a good example, set up the most unearthly, unremitting, and appalling howling that ever audience heard. It was too much. "Turn 'em out," was the general cry. A noise as if shuffling of feet, and men being knocked up with violence against wainscoting, was heard: a hurried dialogue of "come out"—"I won’t"—"You shall"—"I shan’t"—"Give me your card Sir"—"Punch his head," and so forth succeeded; a round of applause betokened the approbation of the audience; and Mr. Robert Smithers and Mr. Thomas Potter found themselves shot with astonishing swiftness into the road without having had the trouble of once putting foot to ground during the whole progress of their rapid descent.
Mr. Robert Smithers being constitutionally one of the slow-goers, and having had quite enough of fast going, in the course of his recent expulsion, to last 'til the quarter-day then next ensuing at the very least, had no sooner emerged with his companion from the precincts of Milton-street, than he proceeded to indulge in circuitous references to the beauties of sleep, mingled with distant allusions to the propriety of returning to Islington, and testing the influence of their patent Bramahs over the street door locks to which they respectively belonged. Mr. Thomas Potter, however, was valorous and peremptory. They had come out to make a night of it; and a night must be made. So Mr. Robert Smithers, who was three parts dull and the other dismal, despairingly assented: and they went into a wine-vaults to get materials for assisting them in making a night, where they found a good many young ladies, and various old gentlemen, & a plentiful sprinkling of hackney-coachmen & cab-drivers, all drinking & talking together; & Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers drank small glasses of brandy, and large glasses of soda, till they began to have a very confused idea either of things in general or anything in particular, and when they had done treating themselves they began to treat everybody else; and the rest of the entertainment was a confused mixture of heads and heels, black eyes and blue uniforms, mud and gas-lights, thick doors, and stone paving. Then, as standard novelists expressively inform us—"all was a blank," and in the morning the blank was filled up with the words "Station-house," and the station-house was filled up with Mr. Thomas Potter, Mr. Robert Smithers, and the major part of their wine-vault companions of the preceding night, with a comparatively small portion of clothing of any kind. And it was disclosed at the Police-office, to the indignation of the Bench, and the astonishment of the spectators, how one Robert Smithers, aided and abetted by one Thomas Potter, had knocked down and beaten, in divers streets at different times, five men, four boys, & three women; how the said Thomas Potter had feloniously obtained possession of five door-knockers, two bell-handles, and a bonnet; how Robert Smithers, his friend, had sworn, at least forty pounds’ worth of oaths at the rate of five shillings apiece, terrified whole streets-full of his Majesty’s liege subjects with awful shrieks, and alarms of fire, destroyed the uniforms of five policemen, and committed various other atrocities too numerous to recapitulate; and the Magistrates after an appropriate reprimand of considerable length, fined Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Thomas Smithers five shillings each for being, what the law vulgarly terms "drunk," with the trifling addition of thirty-four pounds for seventeen assaults, at forty shillings a-head, with leave to speak to the prosecutors. The prosecutors were spoken to; and Messrs. Potter and Smithers lived on credit for a quarter as best they could; and although the prosecutors expressed their readiness to be assaulted twice a week on the same terms, they have never since been detected "making a night of it."
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If we had to make a classification of society, there are a particular kind of men whom we should immediately set down under the head of "Old Boys;" and a column of most extensive dimensions the old boys would require. To what precise causes the rapid advance of old boy population is to be traced, we are unable to determine; it would be an interesting and curious speculation, but, as we have not sufficient space to devote to it here, we simply state the fact that the numbers of the old boys have been gradually augmenting within the last few years, and are at this moment alarmingly on the increase. Upon a general review of the subject, and without considering it minutely in detail, we should be disposed to subdivide the old boys into two distinct classes—the gay old boys, and the steady old boys; the gay old boys, are punchy old men in the disguise of young ones, who frequent the Quadrant and Regent-street in the day-time, and the theatres (especially theatres under lady management) at night, assuming all the foppishness and levity of boys, without the excuse of youth or inexperience: the steady old boys are certain stout old gentlemen of clean appearance, who are always to be seen in the same taverns, at the same hours every evening, smoking and drinking in the same company. There was once a fine collection of old boys to be seen round the circular table at Offley’s every night, between the hours of half-past eight and half-past eleven. We have lost sight of them for some time, but there are still two splendid specimens in full blossom at the Rainbow, who always sit in the box nearest the fire-place, and smoke immense long cherry-stick pipes, which go under the table, with the bowls resting upon the floor. Grand old boys these are—fat, red-faced, white-headed old fellows, always there—one on one side the table, and the other opposite—puffing and drinking away like regular good ones, and never a bit the worse for it— everybody knows 'em, and it is supposed by some people that they're both immortal.
Mr. John Dounce was an old boy of the latter class (we don’t mean immortal, but steady)—a retired glove and brace-maker, a widower, resident with three daughters—all grown up, and all unmarried—in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane. He was a short, round, large-faced, tubbish sort of a man with a broad-brimmed hat, and a square coat; and had that grave, but confident, kind of roll peculiar to old boys in general. Regular as clock-work—breakfast at nine—dress & tittivate a little—down to the Sir Somebody’s Head—glass of ale and the paper—come back again and take the daughters out for a walk—dinner at three—glass of grog and a pipe—nap—tea—little walk—Sir Somebody’s Head again—capital house;—delightful evenings! There were Mr. Harris, the law-stationer, and Mr. Jennings, the robe-maker (two jolly young fellows like himself), and Jones, the barrister’s clerk—a rum fellow that Jones—capital company—full of anecdote; and there they sat every night till just ten minutes before twelve, drinking their brandy and water, and smoking their pipes, and telling stories, and enjoying themselves with a kind of solemn joviality, particularly edifying. Sometimes Jones would propose a half-price visit to Drury Lane or Covent Garden, to see two acts of a five-act play, & a new farce, perhaps, or a ballet, on which occasions the whole four of them went together: none of your hurrying and nonsense, but having their brandy and water first, comfortably, and ordering a steak and some oysters for their supper against they came back, and then walking coolly into the pit, when the "rush" had gone in, as all sensible people do, and did when Mr. Dounce was a young man, except when the celebrated Master Betty was at the height of his popularity, and then, Sir,—then, Mr. Dounce perfectly well remembered getting a holiday from business, and going to the pit doors at eleven o’clock in the forenoon, and waiting there till six in the afternoon, with some sandwiches in a pocket-handkerchief, and some wine in a phial, and fainting after all with the heat and fatigue before the play began, in which situation he was lifted out of the pit into one of the dress boxes, Sir, by five of the finest women of that day, Sir, who compassionated his situation and administered restoratives, and sent a black servant, six foot high, in blue and silver livery, next morning with their compliments, and to know how he found himself, Sir—by God! Between the acts Mr. Dounce, and Mr. Harris, and Mr. Jennings used to stand up, and look round the house, and Jones—knowing fellow that Jones—knew every body—pointed ou the fashionable and celebrated Lady So-and-So in the boxes, at the mention of whose name Mr. Dounce, after brushing up his hair, and adjusting his neck-handkerchief, would inspect the aforesaid Lady So-and-So through an immense glass, and remark, either, that she was a "fine woman—very fine woman, indeed," or that "there might be a little more of her —Eh, Jones? just as the case might happen to be. When the dancing began, John Dounce, and the other old boys, were particularly anxious to see what was going forward on the stage, and Jones—wicked dog that Jones—whispered little critical remarks into the ears of John Dounce, which John Dounce retailed to Mr. Harris and Mr. Harris to Mr. Jennings; and then they all three laughed, 'till the tears ran out of their eyes. When the curtain fell they walked back together, two and two, to the steaks and oysters, and when they came to the second glass of brandy and water, Jones— hoaxing scamp, that Jones—used to recount how he had observed a lady in white feathers in one of the pit boxes, gazing intently on Mr. Dounce all the evening, and how he had caught Mr. Dounce, whenever he thought no one was looking at him, bestowing ardent looks of intense devotion on the lady in return; on which Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings used to laugh very heartily, and John Dounce more heartily than either of 'em, acknowledging, however, that the time had been when he might have done such things; upon which Mr. Jones used to poke him in the ribs, and tell him he had been a sad dog in his time, which John Dounce, with chuckles, confessed. And after Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings had preferred their claims to the character of having been sad dogs too, they separated harmoniously, & trotted home.
The decrees of Fate, and the means by which they are brought about, are mysterious and inscrutable. John Dounce had led this life for twenty years and upwards, without wish for change, or care for variety, when his whole social system was suddenly upset and turned completely topsy-turvy—not by an earthquake, or some other dreadful convulsion of nature, as the reader would be inclined to suppose, but by the simple agency of an oyster, and thus it happened. Mr. John Dounce was returning one night from the Sir Somebody’s Head, to his residence in Cursitor-street—not tipsy, but rather excited, for it was Mr. Jennings’s birth-day, and they had had a brace of partridges for supper, and a brace of extra glasses afterwards, and Jones had been more than ordinarily amusing—when his eyes rested on a newly-opened oyster shop on a magnificent scale, with natives laid one deep in circular marble basins in the windows, together with little round barrels of oysters directed to Lords and Baronets, and Colonels and Captains, in every part of the habitable globe. Behind the natives were the barrels, and behind the barrels was a young lady of about five-and-twenty, all in blue, and all alone—splendid creature, charming face, and lovely figure. It is difficult to say whether Mr. John Dounce’s red countenance, illuminated as it was by the flickering gas-light in the window before which he paused, excited the lady’s risibility, or whether a natural exuberance of animal spirits proved too much for that staidness of demeanour which the forms of society rather dictatorially prescribe; certain it is, that the lady smiled, then put her finger upon her lip, with a striking recollection of what was due to herself; and finally retired, in oyster-like bashfulness to the very back of the counter. The sad-dog sort of feeling came strongly upon John Dounce: he lingered —the lady in blue made no sign. He coughed—still she came not. He entered the shop—"Can you open me an oyster, my dear?" said Mr. John Dounce. "Dare say I can, Sir," replied the lady in blue, with enchanting playfulness. And Mr. John Dounce eat one oyster, and then looked at the young lady, and then eat another, and then squeezed the young lady’s hand as she was opening the third, and so forth, until he had devoured a dozen of those at eight-pence in less than no time. "Can you open me half a dozen more, my dear?" inquired Mr. John Dounce. "I’ll see what I can do for you, Sir," replied the young lady in blue, even more bewitchingly than before; and Mr. John Dounce eat half-a-dozen more of those at eight-pence and felt his gallantry increasing every minute. "You couldn’t manage to get me a glass of brandy and water, my dear, I suppose?" said Mr. John Dounce, when he had finished the oysters, in a tone which clearly implied his supposition that she could. "I’ll see, Sir," said the young lady; and away she ran out of the shop, and down the street, her long auburn ringlets shaking in the wind in the most enchanting manner; and back she came again, tripping over the coal-places like a whipping top, with a tumbler of brandy and water, which Mr. John Dounce insisted on her taking a share of, as it was regular ladies’ grog—hot, strong, sweet, and plenty of it. So the young lady sat down with Mr. John Dounce, in a little red box with a green curtain, and took a small sip of the brandy and water, and a small look at Mr. John Dounce, and then turned her head away, and went through various other serio-pantomimic fascinations, which forcibly reminded Mr. John Dounce of the first time he courted his first wife, and which, taken conjointly with the hot brandy and water and the oysters, made him feel more affectionate than ever; in pursuance of which affection, and actuated by which feeling, Mr. John Dounce sounded the young lady on her matrimonial engagements, when the young lady denied having formed any such engagements at all—she couldn’t abear the men, they were such deceivers; thereupon Mr. John Dounce inquired whether this sweeping condemnation was meant to include other than very young men; on which the young lady blushed deeply—at least she turned away her head, and said Mr. John Dounce had made her blush, so of course she did blush—and Mr. John Dounce was a long time drinking the brandy and water; and the young lady said "Ha' done, Sir," very often; and at last John Dounce went home to bed, and dreamt of his first wife, and his second wife, and the young lady, and partridges, and oysters, and brandy and water, and disinterested attachments. The next morning John Dounce was rather feverish with the extra brandy and water of the previous night; and, partly in the hope of cooling himself with an oyster, and partly with the view of ascertaining whether he owed the young lady anything, or not, went back to the oyster-shop. If the young lady had appeared beautiful by night, she was perfectly irresistible by day; and, from this time forward a change came over the spirit of John Dounce’s dream. He bought shirt-pins; wore a ring on his third finger; read poetry; bribed a cheap miniature-painter to perpetrate a faint resemblance to a youthful face, with a curtain over his head, six large books in the background, and an open country in the distance (this he called his portrait); "went on" altogether in such an uproarious manner, that the three Miss Dounces went off on small pensions, he having made the tenement in Cursitor-street too warm to contain them; and in short, comported and demeaned himself in every respect like an unmitigated old Saracen, as he was. As to his ancient friends, the other old boys, at the Sir Somebody’s Head, he dropped off from them by gradual degrees; for, even when he did go there, Jones—vulgar fellow that Jones—persisted in asking "when it was to be?" and "whether he was to have any gloves?" together with other inquiries of an equally offensive nature, at which not only Harris laughed, but Jennings too; so he cut the two altogether, and attached himself solely to the blue young lady at the smart oyster-shop.
Now comes the moral of the story—for it has a moral after all. The last mentioned young lady, having derived sufficient profit and emolument from John Dounce’s attachment, not only refused, when matters came to a crisis, to take him for better for worse, but expressly declared, to use her own forcible words, that she wouldn’t have him at no price; and John Dounce, having lost his old friends, alienated his relations, and rendered himself ridiculous to every body, made offers successively to a schoolmistress, a landlady, a feminine tobacconist, and a housekeeper; and, being directly rejected by each and every of them, was accepted by his cook, with whom he lives now, a hen-pecked husband, a melancholy monument of antiquated misery, and a living warning to all uxorious old boys.
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To recapitulate all the improvements introduced by this extraordinary man into the omnibus system - gradually, indeed, but surely—would occupy a far greater space than we are enabled to devote to this imperfect memoir. To him is universally assigned the original suggestion of the practice which afterwards became so general—of the driver of a second buss keeping constantly behind the first one, and driving the pole of his vehicle either into the door of the other, every time it was opened, or through the body of any lady or gentleman who might make an attempt to get into it—a humorous and pleasant invention, exhibiting all that originality of idea, and fine bold flow of spirits, so conspicuous in every action of this great man. He has opponents of course; for what man in public life has not? but even his worst enemies cannot deny that he has taken more old ladies and gentlemen to Paddington who wanted to go to the Bank, and more old ladies and gentlemen to the Bank who wanted to go to Paddington, than any three men on the road: and however much malevolent spirits may pretend to doubt the accuracy of the statement, they well know it to be an established fact, that he has forcibly conveyed a variety of ancient persons of either sex, to both places, who had not the slightest or most distant intention of going anywhere at all. Mr. Barker was the identical cad who nobly distinguished himself, sometime since by keeping a tradesman on the step—the omnibus going at full speed all the time—till he had thrashed him to his entire satisfaction, and finally throwing him away when he had quite done with him. Mr. Barker it ought to have been who honestly indignant at being ignominiously ejected from a house of public entertainment, kicked the landlord in the knee, and thereby caused his death. We say it ought to have been Mr. Barker, because the action was not a common one, and could have emanated from no ordinary mind. We regret being compelled to state that it was not he—would, for the family credit, that we could add it was his brother!
It is in the exercise of the nicer details of his profession, that Mr. Barker's knowledge of human nature is beautifully displayed. He can tell at a glance where a passenger wants to go to, and shouts the name of the place accordingly, without the slightest reference to the real destination of the buss; he knows exactly the sort of old lady that will be too much flurried by the process of pushing in, and pulling out of the caravan, to discover where she has been set down until too late; has an intuitive perception of what is passing in a passenger's mind when he inwardly resolves to "pull that cad up to-morrow morning;" & never fails to make himself agreeable to female servants whom, if he can place next the door, he talks to all the way. Human judgment is never infallible, and it has occasionally happened that Mr. Barker has experimentalised with the timidity or forbearance of the wrong sort of person, in which case a summons to a Police-office, has been the consequence, and a committal the finish. It is not for trifles such as these, however, to subdue a spirit like that which swells beneath the waistcoat of this heroic man. You may confine the body between four stone walls, or between four brick walls and a stone coping, which is much the same in effect—he cares not—you may cramp his body by confinement, or to prevent his body's getting the cramp, you may exercise his legs upon the mill—he defies your tyranny: he appeals from your oppressive enactments to the Paddington committee: and flies back to his profession with an ardour which persecution and involuntary abstinence have in no wise diminished. Like many other great men, Mr. Barker is a rigid predestinarian, or to advert once again to his own pointed and eloquent form of speech, he resons thus:—"If I am to get into trouble for this here consarn, I may as vell get into trouble for somethink as for nothink."—and acting upon this logical mode of reasoning, he sacrifices at the altar of philosophy any little scruples he might otherwise entertain, and gets into trouble with great ease and coolness getting out of it as well as he can; and losing no opportunity of getting into it again.
Such are a few traits in the character—such are a few incidents in the chequered life—of this remarkable man. Would that we could have conscientientiously entitled this hasty sketch a full account of his amiable existence up to the moment at which we are writing. We cannot do so. With "Some Account of an Omnibus Cad" we must be contented, and we hope our readers may be so too.
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Miss Amelia Martin was pale, tallish, thin, and two-and-thirty—what ill-natured people would call plain, and police reports interesting. She was a milliner and dressmaker, living on her business, and not above it. If you had been a young lady in service, and wanted Miss Martin, as a great many young ladies in service did, you'd just have stepped up in the evening to number forty-seven, Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square, and after casting your eye on a brass door-plate, one foot ten, by one and a half, ornamented with a great brass knob at each of the four corners, and bearing the inscription "Miss Martin; millinery and dressmaking in all its branches;" you’d just have knocked two loud knocks at the street door, and down would have come Miss Martin herself, in a merino gown of the newest fashion, black velvet bracelets on the genteelest principle, and other little elegancies, of the most approved description. If Miss Martin know'd the young lady as called, or if the young lady as called had been recommended by any other young lady as Miss Martin knew, Miss Martin would forthwith show her up-stairs into the two-pair front, and chat she would—so kind, and so comfortable—it really wasn’t like a matter of business, she was so friendly; and, then Miss Martin, after contemplating the figure and general appearance of the young lady in service with great apparent admiration, would say how well she would look, to-be-sure, in a low dress with short sleeve, made very full in the skirts, with four tucks in the bottom, to which the young lady in service would reply in terms expressive of her entire concurrence in the notion, and the virtuous indignation with which she reflected on the tyranny of "Missis," who wouldn’t allow a young girl to wear a short sleeve of an ar'ternoon—no, nor nothing smart, not even a pair of ear-rings, let alone hiding people’s heads of hair under them frightful caps; at the termination of which complaint, Miss Amelia Martin would distantly suggest certain dark suspicions that some people were jealous on account of their own daughters, and was obliged to keep their servants’ charms under, for fear they should get married first, which was no uncommon circumstance—leastways she had known two or three young ladies in service as had married a great deal better than their missises, and they was not very good-looking either; and then the young lady would inform Miss Martin, in confidence, that how one of their young ladies was engaged to a young man, and was a-going to be married, and Missis was so proud about it there was no bearing her; but she needn’t hold her head quite so high neither, for, after all, he was only a clerk; and, after expressing a due contempt for clerks in general, and the engaged clerk in particular, and the highest opinion possible of themselves and each other, Miss Martin and the young lady in service would bid each other good night, in a friendly but perfectly genteel manner, and the one went back to her "place," and the other to her room on the second floor front.
There is no saying how long Miss Amelia Martin might have continued this course of life; how extensive a connection she might have established among young ladies in service, or what amount her demands upon their quarterly receipts might have ultimately attained, had not an unforeseen train of circumstances directed her thoughts to a sphere of action very different from dress-making or millinery. A friend of Miss Martin’s who had long been keeping company with an ornamental painter and decorator’s journeyman, at last consented (on being at last asked to do so) to name the day which would make the aforesaid journeyman a happy husband. It was a Monday that was appointed for the celebration of the nuptials, and Miss Amelia Martin was invited, among others, to honour the wedding dinner with her presence. It was a charming party; Somers-town the locality, and a front parlour the apartment. The ornamental painter and decorator’s journeyman had taken a house—no lodgings or vulgarity of that kind, but a house—four beautiful rooms and a delightful little wash-house at the end of the passage— most convenient thing in the world; for the bridesmaids could sit in the front parlour and receive the company, and then run into the little wash-house and see how the pudding and boiled pork were getting on in the copper, & then pop back into the parlour again as snug and comfortable as possible. And such a parlour as it was too! beautiful Kidderminster carpet–six bran new caned bottomed stained chairs—a pink shell, and three wine glasses on each sideboard—a farmer’s girl and a farmer’s boy on the mantel-piece: one tumbling over a stile and the other spitting himself on the handle of a pitch-fork—long white dimity curtains in the window—and, in short, every thing on the most genteel scale imaginable. Then, the dinner—baked leg of mutton at the top—boiled leg of mutton at the bottom—pair of fowls and leg of pork in the middle—porter pots at the corners—pepper, mustard, and vinegar in the centre—vegetables on the floor—and plum-pudding and apple-pie, and tartlets without number, to say nothing of cheese and celery and water-cresses, and all that sort of thing. As to the company! Miss Amelia Martin herself declared on a subsequent occasion, that much as she had heard of the ornamental painters' journeyman’s connexion, she never could have supposed it was half so genteel. There was his father, such a funny old gentleman—and his mother, such a dear old lady—and his sister, such a charming girl—and his brother, such a manly-looking young man—with such a eye! But even all these were as nothing when compared with his musical friends, Mr. & Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, from White Conduit, with whom the ornamental painter’s journeyman had been fortunate enough to contract an intimacy, while engaged in decorating the concert-room of that noble institution. To hear them sing separately was divine, but when they went through the tragic duet of "Red Ruffian, retire!" it was, as Miss Martin afterwards remarked, "thrilling;" and why (as Mr. Jennings Rodolph observed) - why were they not engaged at one of the patent theatres? If he was to be told that their voices were not powerful enough to fill the house, his only reply was, that he'd back himself for any amount to fill Russell-square—a statement in which the company, after hearing the duet, expressed their full belief; so they all said it was shameful treatment; and both Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph said it was shameful too, and Mr. Jennings Rodolph looked very serious, and said he knew who his malignant opponents were, but they had better take care how far they went, for if they irritated him too much, he had not quite made up his mind whether he wouldn’t bring the subject before Parliament; and they all agreed that it ”ud serve ’em quite right, and it was very proper that such people should be made an example of;" and Mr. Jennings Rodolph said he’d think of it. When the conversation resumed its former tone, Mr. Jennings Rodolph claimed his right to call upon a lady, and the right being conceded, trusted Miss Martin would favour the company—a proposal which met with unanimous approbation, whereupon Miss Martin, after sundry hesitatings and coughings, with a preparatory choke or two, and an introductory declaration that she was frightened to death to attempt it before such great judges of the art, commenced a species of treble chirruping containing constant allusions to some young gentleman of the name of Hen-e-ry, with an occasional reference to madness, and broken hearts. Mr. Jennings Rodolph frequently interrupted the progress of the song, by ejaculating "beautiful;"—"charming!"—
"brilliant!"—"oh! splendid," &c. and at its close the admiration of himself and his lady knew no bounds. "Did you ever hear so sweet a voice, my dear?" inquired Mr. Jennings Rodolph of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. "Never; indeed I never did, love;" replied Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. "Don’t you think Miss Martin with a little cultivation would be very like Signora Marra Boni, my dear?" asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph. "Just exactly the very thing that struck me, my love," answered Mrs. Jennings Rodolph; and thus the time passed away; first one sang, and then another; Mr. Jennings Rodolph played tunes on a walking stick, and then went behind the parlour-door and gave his celebrated imitations of actors, edge-tools, and animals; Miss Martin sang several other songs with increased admiration every time, and even the funny old gentleman began singing; his song had properly seven verses, but as he couldn’t recollect more than the first one, he sang that over seven times, apparently very much to his own personal gratification. And then all the company sang the national anthem with national independence—each for himself, without reference to the other—and finally separated, all declaring that they never had spent so pleasant an evening; and Miss Martin inwardly resolving to adopt the advice of Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and to "come out" without delay.
Now, "coming out," either in acting, or singing, or society, or facetiousness, or anything else, is all very well, and remarkably pleasant to the individual principally concerned, if he or she can but manage to come out with a burst, and being out to keep out, and not go in again; but it does unfortunately happen that both consummations are extremely difficult to accomplish, and that the difficulties of getting out at all in the first instance, and if you surmount them of keeping out in the second, are pretty much on a par, and no slight ones either. And so Miss Amelia Martin shortly discovered. It is a singular fact (there being ladies in the case) that Miss Amelia Martin’s principal foible was vanity, and the leading characteristic of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph an attachment to dress. Dismal wailings were heard to issue from the second-floor front of number forty-seven, Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square; it was Miss Martin practising. Half suppressed murmurs disturbed the calm dignity of the White Conduit orchestra at the commencement of the season. It was the appearance of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph in full dress that occasioned them. Miss Martin studied incessantly—the practising was the consequence. Mrs. Jennings Rodolph taught gratuitously now and then—the dresses were the result. Weeks passed away; the White Conduit season had begun, had progressed, and was more than half over. The dress-making business had fallen off from neglect, and its profits had dwindled away almost imperceptibly. A benefit-night approached; Mr. Jennings Rodolph yielded to the earnest solicitations of Miss Amelia Martin, and introduced her personally to the "comic gentleman" whose benefit it was. The comic gentleman was all smiles and blandness—he had composed a duet, expressly for the occasion, and Miss Martin should sing it with him. The night arrived; there was an immense room—ninety-seven goes of gin, thirty-two small glasses of brandy and water, five-and-twenty bottled ales, and forty-one neguses; and the ornamental painters' journeyman with his wife, and a select circle of acquaintance were seated at one of the side-tables near the orchestra. The concert began. Song-sentimental–by a light-haired young gentleman in a blue coat, and bright basket buttons [applause]. Another song, doubtful, by another gentleman in another blue coat, and more bright basket buttons - increased applause. Duet, Mr. Jennings Rodolph and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, "Red Ruffian, retire!"— [great applause.] Solo Miss Julia Montague (positively on this occasion only)—"I am a Friar"—[enthusiasm.] Original duet, comic—Mr. H. Taplin (the comic gentleman) and Miss Martin— "The Time of Day"—"Brayvo!—Brayvo!" cried the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party, as Miss Martin was gracefully led in by the comic gentleman. "Go to work Harry," cried the comic gentleman’s personal friends. "Tap-tap-tap," went the leader’s bow on the music-desk. The symphony began, and was soon afterwards followed by a faint kind of ventriloquial chirping, proceeding apparently from the deepest recesses of the interior of Miss Amelia Martin—"‘Sing out"—shouted one gentleman in a white great coat. "Don’t be afraid to put the steam on, old gal," exclaimed another. "S-s-s-s-s-s"—went the five-and-twenty bottled ales. "Shame, shame!" remonstrated the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party— "S-s-s" went the bottled ales again, accompanied by all the gins and a majority of the brandies.—"Turn them geese out," cried the ornamental painters’ journeyman’s party, with great indignation. "Sing out," whispered Mr. Jennings Rodolph.—"So I do," responded Miss Amelia Martin. "Sing louder," said Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. "I can’t," replied Miss Amelia Martin—"Off, off, off," cried the rest of the audience. "Bray-vo!" shouted the painter’s party. It wouldn’t do—Miss Amelia Martin left the orchestra, with much less ceremony than she had entered it, and as she couldn’t sing out, never came out. The general good humour was not restored until Mr. Jennings Rodolph had become purple in the face, by imitating divers quadrupeds for half an hour without being able to render himself audible; and, to this day, neither has Miss Amelia Martin’s good humour been restored, nor the dresses made for and presented to, Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, nor the vocal abilities which Mr. Jennings Rodolph once staked his professional reputation she possessed.