Real Life In London, Volumes I. and II.
drayman's ponderous sandals, to say nothing of the pleasing effect thus
produced upon your toes, and in having the coat torn off from your back,
I would freely resign to the admirers of such pleasure the full benefit
of its enjoyment.”
“Accidents wull happen ony where and in ony situation,” replied the
garrulous wife; “ye may be thankfu', gentlemen, that its nae waur,--and,
for the matter o' the rent frock, my guid man wull repair it in sic a
way that the disaster wull no be seen, and the coat wull look as weel as
ever.”
The promise was verified; the reparation was made with equal neatness
and celerity; something beyond the required remuneration was given; and
Dashall inquiring if the worthy dame of _Auld Reekie_ would take a drop
of cordial, the friendly offer was accepted, and the glass of ~345~~
good fellowship having been drank, and civilities interchanged, the
strangers departed.
They were now in Whitecross Street, where sojourned their acquaintance
of the morning, the distressed Poet; and, from the accuracy of
description, had no difficulty in ascertaining his place of residence.
It was in a public-house; a convenient lodging for the forlorn
being, who, exiled from friendship, and unconnected by any ties of
consanguinity, can dress his scanty meal by a gratuitous fire, and where
casual generosity may sometimes supply him with a draught of Hanbury's
exhilarating beverage.
At the bar, directly facing the street door, the strangers, on inquiring
for the Poet by name, were directed by the landlord, with a sarcastical
expression of countenance, to “the first floor _down the chimney_!”
while the Hostess, whose demeanour perfectly accorded with that of
the well-manner'd gentlewoman, politely interfered, and, shewing the
parlour, sent a domestic to acquaint her lodger that he was wanted below
stairs.
The summons was instantaneously obeyed; but as the parlour precluded the
opportunity of private conversation, being partly occupied by clamorous
butchers, with whom this street abounds to redundancy, the Poet had no
other alternative than that of inviting the respectable visitants to
his attic, or, as the Landlord facetiously named the lofty domicile, his
first floor down the chimney!
Real Life in London must be seen, to be believed. The Hon. Tom Dashall
and his friend Tallyho were reared in the lap of luxury, and never
until now formed an adequate conception of the distressing privations
attendant on suffering humanity.
With a dejection of spirits evidently occasioned by the humiliating
necessity of ushering his polished friends into the wretched asylum of
penury, the Poet led the way with tardy reluctancy, while his visitors
regretted every step of ascent, under the appalling circumstance of
giving pain to adversity; yet they felt that to recede would be more
indelicate than to advance.
The apartment which they now entered seemed a lumber room, for the
reception of superfluous or unserviceable furniture, containing not
fewer than eleven decayed and mutilated chairs of varied description;
and the limited space, to make the most of it in a pecuniary point of
view, ~346~~ was encroached upon by three uncurtained beds, of most
impoverished appearance,--while, exhibiting the ravages of time in
divers fractures, the dingy walls and ceiling, retouched by the trowel
in many places with a lighter shade of repairing material, bore no unapt
resemblance to the Pye-bald Horse in Chiswell-street! Calculating on its
utility and probable future use, the builder of the mansion had given
to this room the appendage of a chimney, but evidently it had for many
years been unconscious of its usual accompaniment, fire. Two windows had
originally admitted the light of heaven, but to reduce the duty, one
was internally blocked up, while externally uniformity was preserved. A
demolished pane of glass in the remaining window, close to which stood
a small dilapidated table, gave ingress to a current of air; the
convenient household article denominated a clothes-horse, stood against
the wall; and several parallel lines of cord were stretched across the
room, on which to hang wet linen, a garret being considered of free
access to all the house, and the comfort or health of its occupant held
in utter derision and contempt!
Here then,--
“In the worst Inn's worst room, with cobwebs hung,
The walls of plaster and the floors of dung,”
entered Dashall and his Cousin Tallyho. The latter familiarly seating
himself on the ricketty remains of what had once been an arm-chair, but
now a cripple, having lost one of its legs, the precarious equilibrium
gave way under the unaccustomed shock of the contact, and the 'Squire
came to the ground, to his no small surprise, the confusion of the poet,
and amusement of Dashall!
With many apologies for the awkwardness of their very humble
accommodation, and grateful expression of thanks for the honour
conferred upon him, the Poet replaced Tallyho in a firmer seat, and a
silence of some few moments ensued, the two friends being at a loss in
what manner to explain, and the Poet unwilling to inquire the object of
their visit.
Dashall began at last, by observing that in pursuit of the knowledge of
Real Life in London, he and his accompanying friend had met with many
incidents both ludicrous and interesting; but that in the present
instance their visit was rather influenced by sympathy than ~347~~
curiosity, and that where they could be serviceable to the interest of
merit in obscurity, they always should be happy in the exercise of a
duty so perfectly congenial with their feelings.
Many years had elapsed since the person, to whom these remarks were
addressed, had heard the voice of consolation, and its effect was
instantaneous; his usual sombre cast of countenance became brightened by
the glow of cheerful animation, and he even dwelt on the subject of his
unfortunate circumstances with jocularity:
“The elevated proximity of a garret,” he observed, “to the sublimer
regions, has often been resorted to as the _roost of genius_; and why
should I, of the most slender, if any, literary pretensions, complain?
And yet my writings, scattered amongst the various fugitive periodical
publications of this and our sister island, if collected together, would
form a very voluminous compilation.”
“I have always understood,” said Bob, “that the quality, not the
quantum, constituted the fame of an author's productions.”
“True, Sir,” answered the Poet; “and I meant not the vanity of
arrogating to myself any merit from my writings, with reference either
to quantum or quality. I alluded to the former, as merely proving the
inefficacy of mental labour in realizing the necessaries of life to an
author whom celebrity declines acknowledging. Similarly situated, it
would appear was the Dutchman mentioned by the late Doctor Walcot,
“My Broder is te poet, look,
As all te world must please,
For he heb wrote, py Got, a book
So big as all this cheese!”
“On the other hand, Collins, Hammond, and Gray, wrote each of them but
little, yet their names will descend to posterity!--And had Gray, of his
poems the _Bard_, and the _Elegy in a Country Church Yard_, written
only one, and written nothing else, he had required no other or better
passport to immortality!”{1}
1 Of that great and multitudinous writer, Doctor Samuel
Johnson, the following anecdote is told: “Being one morning
in the library at Buckingham House honoured with the
presence of Royalty, the King, his late Majesty, inquired
why he, (Mr. Johnson) did not continue to write. “May it
please your Majesty,” answered the Doctor, “I think I have
written enough.”--“I should have thought so too,” his
Majesty replied, “if, Doctor Johnson, you had not written so
well.”
~348~~ In this opinion the visitants, who were both well conversant with
our native literature, readily acquiesced.
“Have you never,” asked Dashall, “thought of publishing a volume by
subscription?”
“I meditated such intention,” answered the Poet, “not long ago; drew
up the necessary Prospectus, with a specimen of the Poetry, and
perambulated the Metropolis in search of patronage. In some few
instances I was successful, and, though limited the number, yet the high
respectability of my few Subscribers gave me inexpressible satisfaction;
several of our nobility honoured me with their names, and others, my
patrons, were of the very first class of literature. Nevertheless,
I encountered much contumelious reception; and after an irksome
and unavailing perseverance of a month's continuance, I was at last
compelled to relinquish all hope of success.
“Having then on my list the name of a very worthy Alderman who lately
filled the Civic Chair with honour to himself and advantage to his
fellow-citizens, I submitted my prospectus in an evil hour to another
Alderman, a baronet, of this here and that there notoriety!
“Waiting in his Banking-house the result of my application, he
condescended to stalk forth from the holy of holies, his inner room,
with the lofty demeanour of conscious importance, when, in the presence
of his Clerks and others, doubtless to their great edification and
amusement, the following colloquy ensued, bearing in his hand my unlucky
Prospectus, with a respectful epistle which had accompanied it:--
“Are you the writer,” he asked in a majesterial tone, “of this here
letter?”
“I am, Sir W*****m, unfortunately!”
“Then,” he continued, “you may take them there papers back again, I have
no time to read Prospectuses, and so Mister Poet my compliments, and
good morning to you!!!”
“These literally were his words; and such was the astounding effect they
produced on my mind, that, although I had meant to have passed through
the Royal Exchange, I yet, in the depth of my reverie, wandered I knew
not where, and, before recovering my recollection, found myself in the
centre of London Bridge!”
~349~~ The detail of this fact, so characteristic of rude, ungentlemanly
manners, and the barbarian ignorance of this great man of little soul,
excited against him, with Dashall and his friend, a mingled feeling of
ridicule, contempt and reprobation!
“Real Life in London still!” exclaimed Talltho; “intellect and indigence
in a garret, and wealth and ignorance in a banking-house!--I would
at least have given him, in deficiency of other means, the wholesome
castigation of reproof.”
“I did,” said the Poet, “stung to the quick by such unmerited contumely,
I retired to my attic, and produced a philippic named the Recantation:
I cannot accommodate you at present with a copy of the Poem, but the
concluding stanzas I can repeat from memory:--
“C****s, thy house in Lombard Street
Affords thee still employment meet,
Thy consequence retaining;
For there thy Partners and thy Clerks
Must listen to thy sage remarks,
Subservient, uncomplaining.
And rob'd in Aldermanic gown,
With look and language all thy own,
Thou mak'st thy hearers stare,
When this here cause, so wisely tried,
Thou put'st with self-applause aside,
To wisely try that there.
Nor can thy brother Cits forget
When thou at civic banquet sate,
And ask'd of Heaven a boon,
A toast is call'd, on thee all eyes
Intent, when peals of laughter rise--
A speedy peace and soon!
Nor yet orthography nor grammar,
Vain effort on thy pate to hammer,
Impregnable that fort is!
Witness thy toast again,--Three Cs;
For who would think that thou by these
Meant Cox, and King, and Curtis