Real Life In London, Volumes I. and II.
say, that she has manifested certain pawnbroking inclinations, and has
shewn a partiality in partnership at Almack's, to the golden balls.
“That fine young woman, leaning out of the carriage window, whose glossy
ringlets are of the true golden colour, so much admired by the dandies
of old Rome, is his Lordship's wife. He's not with her. But you know he
shot Honey at Cumberland Gate, when he was two hundred miles off, and
therefore he may be in the carriage, though he's away.
“The person in the shabby brown coat is the Duke of Argyle. The pair
of horses that draw his carriage is the only job that Argyle ever
condescended to engage in.”
“And who is that fat ruddy gentleman, in the plain green coat, and the
groom in grey?”
~~356~~~ “What, you're not up to the change of colour? That's our old
friend the Duke again, and the grey livery augurs, (if I mistake not),
a visit to Berkeley square. His R------ H------ must take good care,
or that bit of blood will be seized while standing at the door of the
Circe, as his carriage was the other day, by the unceremonious nabman.
But that's nothing to what used to occur to the Marquis of W------. They
say, that if he deposited a broach, a ring, or a watch upon his table,
a hand and arm, like that of a genius in a fairy tale, was seen to
introduce itself _bon-gre, mal-gre_, through the casement, and instantly
they became 'scarce.'”
“But I have heard,” said Bob, “of a fashionable nabman asking the Duke
the time, and politely claiming the watch as soon as it was visible.”
The most prominent characters of the lounge had now disappeared, and
Tom and Bob pursuing their course, found themselves in a few minutes in
Covent Garden, from whence, nothing occurring of notice, they directed
their steps towards Bow-street, with the view of deriving amusement from
the proceedings of justice in the principal office on the establishment
of the metropolitan police, and in this anticipation they were not
disappointed.{1}
1 More Life in St. Giles's.--Mr. Daniel Sullivan, of
Tottenham Court Road, green-grocer, fruiterer, coal and
potatoe merchant, salt lish and Irish pork-monger, was
brought before the magistrate on a peace-warrant, issued at
the suit of his wife, Mrs. Mary Sullivan. Mrs. Sullivan is
an Englishwoman, who married Mr. Sullivan for love, and has
been “blessed with many children by him.” But
notwithstanding she appeared before the magistrate with her
face all scratched and bruised, from the eyes downward to
the tip of her chin; all which scratches and bruises, she
said, were the handy-work of her husband.
The unfortunate Mary, it appeared, married Mr. Sullivau
about seven years ago; at which time he was as polite a
young Irishman as ever handled a potatoe on this side the
Channel; he had every thing snug and comfortable about him,
and his purse and his person, taken together, were
“ondeniable.” She herself was a young woman genteely brought
up--abounding in friends and acquaintance, and silk gowns,
with three good bonnets always in use, and black velvet
shoes to correspond. Welcome wherever she went, whether to
dinner, tea, or supper, and made much of by every body. St.
Giles' bells rang merrily at their wedding--a fine fat leg
of mutton and capers, plenty of pickled salmon, three ample
dishes of salt fish and potatoes, with pies, pudding and
porter of the best, were set forth for the bridal supper;
all the most “considerablest” families in Dyott Street and
Church Lane, were invited, and every thing promised a world
of happiness--and for five long years they were happy. She
loved, as Lord Byron would say, “she loved and was beloved;
she adored and she was worshipped;” but Mr. Sullivau was too
much like the hero of the Lordship's tale--his affections
could not “hold the bent,” and the sixth year had scarcely
commenced, when poor Mary discovered that she had “outlived
his liking.” From that time to the present he had treated
her continually with the greatest cruelty; and, at last,
when by this means he had reduced her from a comely young
person to a mere handful of a poor creature, he beat her,
and turned her out of doors.
This was Mrs. Sullivan's story; and she told it with such
pathos, that all who heard it pitied her, except her
husband.
It was now Mr. Sullivan's turn to speak. Whilst his wife was
speaking, he had stood with his back towards her, his arms
folded across his breast to keep down his choler; biting his
lips and staring at the blank wall; but the moment she had
ceased, he abruptly turned round, and, curiously enough,
asked the magistrate whether Mistress Sullivau had done
spaking.
“She has,” replied his worship; “but suppose you ask her
whether she has any thing more to say.”
“I shall, Sir!” exclaimed the angry Mr. Sullivan. “Mistress
Sullivan, had you any more of it to say '!”
Mrs. Sullivan raised her eyes to the ceiling, clasped her
hands together, and was silent.
“Very well, then,” he continued, “will I get lave to spake,
your Honour?”
His Honour nodded permission, and Mr. Sullivan immediately
began a defence, to which it is impossible to do justice; so
exuberantly did he suit the action to the word, and the
word to the action. “Och! your Honour, there is something
the matter with me!” he began; at the same time putting two
of his fingers perpendicularly over his forehead, to
intimate that Mrs. Sullivan played him false. He then went
into a long story about a “Misther Burke,” who lodged in his
house, and had taken the liberty of assisting him in his
conjugal duties, “without any lave from him at all at all.”
It was one night in partickler, he said, that he went to bed
betimes in the little back parlour, quite entirely sick with
the head-ache. Misther Burke was out from home, and when the
shop was shut up, Mrs. Sullivan went out too; but he didn't
much care for that, ounly he thought she might as well have
staid at home, and so he couldn't go to sleep for thinking
of it. “Well, at one o'clock in the morning,” he continued,
lower-ing his voice into a sort of loud whisper; “at one
o'clock in the morn-ing Misther Burke lets himself in with
the key that he had, and goes up to bed--and I thought
nothing at all; but presently I hears something come tap,
tap, tap, at the street door. The minute after comes down
Misther Burke, and opens the door, and sure it was Mary--
Mistress Sullivan that is, more's the pity--and devil a bit
she came to see after me at all in the little back parlour,
but up stairs she goes after Misther Burke. Och! says 1, but
there's some-thing the matter with me this night! and I got
up with the night-cap o' th' head of me, and went into the
shop to see for a knife, but I couldn't get one by no manes.
So I creeps up stairs, step by step, step by step,” (here
Mr. Sullivan walked on tiptoe all across the office, to show
the magistrate how quietly he went up the stairs), “and when
I gets to the top I sees 'em, by the gash (gas) coming
through the chink in the window curtains; I sees 'em, and
'Och, Mistress Sullivan!' says he: and 'Och, Misther Burke,'
says she:--and och! botheration, says I to myself, and what
shall I do now?” We cannot follow Mr. Sullivan any farther
in the detail of his melancholy affair; it is sufficient
that he saw enough to convince him that he was dishonoured:
that, by some accident or other, he disturbed the guilty
pair, whereupon Mrs. Sullivan crept under Mr. Burke's bed,
to hide herself; that Mr. Sullivan rushed into the room, and
dragged her from under the bed, by her “wicked leg;” and
that he felt about the round table in the corner, where Mr.
Burke kept his bread and cheese, in the hope of finding a
knife.
“And what would you have done with it, if you had found it?”
asked his worship.
“Is it what I would have done with it, your honour asks?”
exclaimed Mr. Sullivan, almost choked with rage--“Is it what
I would have done with it?--ounly that I'd have digged it
into the heart of 'em at the same time!” As he said this, he
threw himself into an attitude of wild desperation, and made
a tremendous lunge, as if in the very act of slaughter.
To make short of a long story, he did not find the knife;
Mr. Burke barricadoed himself in his room, and Mr. Sullivan
turned his wife out of doors.
The magistrate ordered him to find bail to keep the peace
towards his wife and all the King's subjects, and told him,
that if his wife was indeed what he had represented her to
be, he must seek some less violent mode of separation than
the knife.
There not being any other case of interest, Tom and Bob left
the office, not, however, without a feeling of commiseration
for Mr. Sullivan, whose frail rib and her companion in
iniquity, now that the tables were turned against them by
the injured husband's “plain unvarnished tale,” experienced
a due share of reprobation from the auditory.
~~558~~~ Pursuing their course homeward through St. James'-square:
“Who have we here?” exclaimed Tom; “as I live, no other than the
lofty Honoria, an authoress, a wit and an eccentric; a combination
of qualities which frequently contribute to convey the possessor to a
garret, and thence to an hospital or poor house. It is not uncommon to
find attic salt in the first floor from heaven, but rather difficult
to find the occupier enabled to procure salt whereby to render porridge
palateable. The lady Honoria, who has just passed, resides in a lodging
in Mary-le-bone. She having mistaken stature for beauty, and attitude
for greatness, a tune on her lute for fascination, a few strange
opinions and out of the way sayings for genius, a masculine appearance
for attraction, and bulk for irresistibility, came on a cruise to London
with a view to call at C------House, where she conceived she might be
treated like a Princess.
“She fondly fancied that a certain dignified personage who relieved her
distress, could not but be captivated with the very description of her;
in consequence of which, she launched into expenses which she was but
ill able to bear, and now complains of designs formed against her and of
all sorts of fabulous nonsense. It must, however, be acknowledged, that
an extraordinary taste for fat, has been a great som-ce of inconvenience
to the illustrious character alluded to, for corpulent women have been
in the habit of daily throwing themselves in his way under some pretence
or other; and if he but looked at them, they have considered themselves
as favourites, and in the high road to riches and fame.
“It is well known that a certain French woman, with long flowing black
hair, who lived not an hundred miles from Pimlico, was one who fell into
this error. Her weight is about sixteen stone--and on that account she
sets herself down as this illustrious person's mistress; nay, because he
saw her once, she took expensive lodgings, ran deeply in debt, and now
abuses the great man because he has not provided for her in a princely
style, “_pour se beaux yeux_;” for it must be admitted, that she can boast
as fine a pair of black eyes as ever were seen. The circumstance of
this taste for materialism, is as unfortunate to the possessor, as a