Real Life In London, Volumes I. and II.
he desired the waiter to bring him his bill, which he did,
and the first item that presented itself was the moderate
charge of one pound ten shillings for his bed; and then
followed, amongst many others, sixpence for a pen, a
shilling for wax, a shilling for the light, and two and
sixpence for other lights; so that the bill amounted in the
whole to the sum of two pounds one shilling for his night's
lodging! To this very exorbitant charge he had refused to
submit; in consequence of which he had been put to great
inconvenience by the detention of his luggage. The
magistrate animadverted with much severity on such
extravagant charges on the part of the tavern-keeper, and
advised that upon the gentleman paying fifteen shillings,
the things might be immediately delivered up. To these
terms, however, Mrs. Hickinbottom refused to accede, adding
at the same time, that the gentleman had only been charged
the regular prices of the house, and that she should insist
upon the whole amount of the bill being paid, for that the
persons who were in the habit of coming to their house never
objected to such, the regular price of their lodgings being
ten guineas per week! The magistrate lamented that he had
no power to enforce the things being given up, but he
recommended the complainant to bring an action against the
tavern-keeper for the detention.
~3~~ These were the observations directed by Dashall to his friend,
as they passed, one morning, the _Hotel de la Sabloniere_ in Leicester
Square.
“Doubtless,” he continued, “in those places of affluent resort, the
accommodations are in the first style of excellence; yet with reference
to comfort and sociability, were I a country gentleman in the habit of
occasionally visiting London, my temporary domicile should be the snug
domesticated Coffee-house, economical in its charges and pleasurable in
the variety of its visitors, where I might, at will, extend or abridge
my evening intercourse, and in the retirement of my own apartment feel
myself more at home than in the vacuum of an hotel.”
The attention of our perambulators, in passing through the Square, was
attracted by a fine boy, apparently about eight years of age, dressed in
mourning, who, at the door of Brunet's Hotel, was endeavouring with
all his little strength and influence to oppose the egress of a large
Newfoundland dog, that, indignant of restraint, seemed desirous in a
strange land of introducing himself to ~4~~ canine good fellowship. The
boy, whose large dark eyes were full of animation, and his countenance,
though bronzed, interestingly expressive, remonstrated with the dog in
the French language. “The animal does not understand you,” exclaimed
Tallyho, in the vernacular idiom of the youth, “Speak to him in
English.” “He must be a clever dog,” answered the boy, “to know English
so soon, for neither him nor I have been in England above a week, and
for the first time in our lives.”--“And how is it,” asked Tallyho,
“that you speak the English language so fluently?” “O,” said the little
fellow, “my mother taught it me; she is an English woman, and for that
reason I love the English, and am much fonder of talking their language
than my own.” There was something extremely captivating in the boy. The
dog now struggling for freedom was nearly effecting his release,
when the two friends interposed their assistance, and secured the
pre-meditating fugitive at the moment when, to inquire the cause of the
bustle, the father of the child made his appearance in the person
of Field Marshal Count Bertrand. The Count, possessing all the
characteristics of a gentleman, acknowledged politely the kind attention
of the strangers to his son, while, on the other hand, they returned
his obeisance with the due respect excited by his uniform friendship and
undeviating attachment to greatness in adversity. The discerning eye
of Field Marshal Bertrand justly appreciated the superior rank of the
strangers, to whom he observed, that during the short period he had then
been in England, he had experienced much courtesy, of which he should
always retain a grateful recollection. This accidental interview was
creative of reciprocal satisfaction, and the parties separated, not
without an invitation on the part of the boy, that his newly found
acquaintances would again visit the “friends of the Emperor.”{1}~5~~
1 LINES SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY
THE EX-EMPEROR NAPOLEON IN HIS LAST ILLNESS.
Too slowly the tide of existence recedes
For him in captivity destined to languish,
The Exile, abandon'd of fortune, who needs
The friendship of Death to obliviate his anguish.
Yet, even his last moments unmet by a sigh,
Napoleon the Great uncomplaining shall die!
Though doom'd on thy rock, St. Helena, to close
My life, that once presag'd ineffable glory,
Unvisited here though my ashes repose,
No tablet to tell the lone Exile's sad story,--
Napoleon Buonaparte--still shall the name
Exist on the records immortal of Fame!
Posterity, tracing the annals of France,
The merits will own of her potent defender;
Her greatness pre-eminent skill'd to advance,
Creating, sustaining, her zenith of splendour;
Who patroniz'd arts, and averted alarms,
Till crush'd by the union of nations in arms!
I yield to my fate! nor should memory bring
One moment of fruitless and painful reflection
Of what I was lately--an Emperor and King,
Unless for the bitter, yet fond recollection
Of those, who my heart's best endearments have won,
Remote from my death-bed--my Consort and SON!
Denied in their arms even to breathe my last sigh,
No relatives' solace my exit attending;
With strangers sojourning, 'midst strangers I die,
No tear of regret with the last duties blending.
To him, the lorn Exile, no obsequies paid,
Whose fiat a Universe lately obey'd!
Make there then my tomb, where the willow trees wave,
And, far in the Island, the streamlet meanders;
If ever, by stealth, to my green grassy grave
Some kind musing spirit of sympathy wanders--
“Here rests,” he will say, “from Adversity's pains,
Napoleon Buonaparte's mortal remains!”
We have no disposition to enter into the character of the
deceased Ex-Emperor; history will not fail to do justice
alike to the merits and the crimes of one, who is inevitably
destined to fill so portentous a page on its records. At the
present time, to speak of the good of which he may have been
either the intentional or the involuntary instrument,
without some bias of party feeling would be impossible.
“Hard is his fate, on whom the public gaze
Is fix'd for ever, to condemn or praise;
Repose denies her requiem to his name,
And folly loves the martyrdom of fame.”
At all events, he is now no more; and “An English spirit
wars not with the dead.”
“The Count,” said Dashall to his Cousin, as they pursued their walk,
“remains in England until he obtain ~6~~ permission from the King of
France to return to his native country: that such leave will be given,
there is little doubt; the meritorious fidelity which the Count has
uniformly exemplified to his late unfortunate and exiled Master,
has obtained for him universal esteem, and the King of France is too
generous to withhold, amidst the general feeling, his approbation.”
Passing through Long Acre in their progress towards the British Museum,
to which national establishment they had cards of admission, the two
friends were intercepted in their way by a concourse at a coach-maker's
shop, fronting which stood a chariot carefully matted round the
body, firmly sewed together, and the wheels enveloped in hay-bands,
preparatory to its being sent into the country. Scarcely had these
precautionary measures of safety been completed, when a shrill cry,
as if by a child inside the vehicle, was heard, loud and continuative,
which, after the lapse of some minutes, broke out into the urgent and
reiterated exclamation of--“Let me out!--I shall be suffocated!--pray
let me out!”
The workmen, who had packed up the carriage, stared at each other in
mute and appalling astonishment; they felt conscious that no child was
within the vehicle; and when at last they recovered from the stupor of
amazement, they resisted the importunity of the multitude to strip the
chariot, and manfully swore, that if any one was inside, it must be
the Devil himself, or one of his imps, and no human or visible being
whatsoever.
Some, of the multitude were inclined to a similar opinion. The
crowd increased, and the most intense interest was depicted in every
countenance, when the cry of “Let me out!--I shall die!--For heaven's
sake let me out!” was audibly and vehemently again and again repeated.
The impatient multitude now began to cut away the matting; when the
workmen, apprehensive that the carriage might sustain some damage from
the impetuosity of their proceedings, took upon themselves the act of
dismantling the mysterious machine; during which operation, the cry of
“Let me out!” became more and more clamorously importunate. At last
the vehicle was laid bare, and its door thrown open; when, to the utter
amazement of the crowd, no child was there--no trace was to be seen of
aught, human or super-human! The ~7~~ assemblage gazed on the vacant
space from whence the sounds had emanated, in confusion and dismay.
During this momentary suspense, in which the country 'Squire
participated, a voice from some invisible agent, as if descending the
steps of the carriage, exclaimed--“Thank you, my good friends, I am very
much obliged to you--I shall now go home, and where my home is you will
all know by-and-by!”
With the exception of Dashall and Tallyho, the minds of the spectators,
previously impressed with the legends of superstition and diablerie,
gave way under the dread of the actual presence of his satanic majesty;
and the congregated auditors of his ominous denunciation instantaneously
dispersed themselves from the scene of witchery, and, re-assembling in
groupes on distant parts of the street, cogitated and surmised _on the
Devil's visit to the Coachmakers of Long Acre!_
Tallyho now turned an inquisitive eye on his Cousin, who answered the
silent and anxious enquiry with an immoderate fit of laughter, declaring
that this was the best and most ingenious hoax of any he had ever
witnessed, and that he would not have missed, on any consideration
whatsoever, the pleasure of enjoying it. “The Devil in Long Acre!--I
shall never forget it,” exclaimed the animated Cousin of the staring and
discomfited 'Squire.
“Explain, explain,” reiterated the 'Squire, impatiently.
“You shall have it in one word,” answered Dashall--“Ventriloquism!”{1}
1 This hoax was actually practised by a Ventriloquist in the
manner described. It certainly is of a less offensive nature
than that of many others which have been successfully
brought for-ward in the Metropolis, the offspring of folly
and idleness.--“A fellow,” some years ago, certainly not “of
infinite humour,” considering an elderly maiden lady of
Berner Street a “fit and proper subject” on whom to
exercise his wit, was at the trouble of writing a vast
number of letters to tradesmen and others, magistrates and