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ANGELO. With an Introduction by Lord 
Howard de Walden. 

In 2 vols. Imperial 8vo. Now for the first time 
Illustrated with 68 plates in Mezzotint and Photo- 
gravure, 45 of which are in Colours, after Sir 
Joshua Eeynolds, Sir Thomas Lawrence, Down- 
man, Cosway, Bartolozzi, Eowlandson, Gillray, 
Morland, J. E. Smith, Engleheart and many 
others. £6 6s. net. 

Also a hand-made paper edition with a portfolio con- 
taining 10 Portraits and 2 Extra Plates on Imperial 
4to Whatman Paper printed in Colour by hand, 
the Portraits being duplicated in the book in 

Limited to 75 numbered copies for England and the 
United States. £10 10s. net. 


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(by his grace’s kind permission) 


BY HIS grace’s 





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Many are the stories told of the families of the emigres who 
flocked into England from France and Italy in the latter half 
of the eighteenth century, but few exceed in interest that of 
the Angelo family. They Avere Italians. Their surname, 
however, was not x'ingelo, but Tremamondo. It is a name 
suggestive of long descent and the deadly shock of volcanic 
forces ; it means a tremor of the world ; it implies some sort 
of universal earthquake. And their motto and armorial 
bearings, Avhether theirs by long inheritance, or theirs by the 
invention of some modern genealogist, carry out the same 
idea, being quite in the manner of the canting heraldry of old 
times. In direct allusion to the name Tremamondo the shield 
is azure with a thunderbolt striking a mountain, and the motto, 
ingeniously adapted from a verse in the Psalms, is Tremat 
mnndus. “ Tremamondo,” hoAvever, would probably be found 
to be the name of a more than ordinarily uneasy locality in the 
volcanic province of Naples, from Avhich the family originally 
came, and the earliest form of the personal name was doubtless 
not “Tremamondo” but “di Tremamondo;” yet Avhatever 
their antiquity, Avhatever their origin in the long-vanished past 
— Avhether or not, as alleged by them, descended from one of the 
Pagani, followers of Tancred in the Holy Wars — in the more 

* For the whole of the evidences for the statements made in this 
Introduction, excepting statements now made for the first time, the 
reader is referred to my History of the Angelo Family, published in The 
Ancestor (Vol. viii., pp. 1-72). 



recent times of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries this 
family, like many other families of noble origin, had become 
identified with the trading and commercial classes, so that 
now, I understand, the name Tremamondo is not to be found 
on any existing roll of Italian nobility. And the earliest 
member of the family to settle in England, in or immediately 
after the year 1753, seems to have been fully conscious of that 
fact ; because when he first burst upon the highly conventional 
world of George II.’s reign, in all the glory of his fame and 
skill as a matchless fencer and rider, he appears to have been 
curiously oblivious of his own patronymic, and to have used 
by preference that of his mother, who was a Malevolti, a 
member of that once famous family of Siena. Thus in his 
marriage register he is entered as Domenico Angelo Malevolti. 
Again, his son Henry, the subject of this notice, in the record 
of his baptism, is stated to be son to Angelo Domenico Malevolti; 
and later on, when he was one of the best known men in 
London, the inscription engraved on the three-bottle silver 
goblet which was given to him by Garrick was, “ Pegno d'ami- 
cizia di David Garr’ich al suo amico Angelo Malevolti.” Even 
in his son Henry’s account of him he figures gloriously as 
Dominico Angelo Malevolti Tremamondo. But a different story 
presents itself when we turn to the Rate-books of St James, 
Westminster, and of St Anne’s, Soho. In those formal business 
documents the name Malevolti does not come in at all. In 
them he is entered as Dominico Angelo Tremamondo^ or else as 
Domenick Angelo merely. Again, when he witnesses his 
daughter Caroline’s marriage, in 1785, he writes his own 
name D. Angelo Tremamondo. Yet again, when witnessing the 
marriage-register of his daughter Catherine, in 1790, he writes 
the name simply as Dom°°‘ Angelo. In the midst of all this 



confusion, this darkening of counsel, we are driven to his own 
baptismal register in the cathedral-church of Leghorn (the 
facade of which, by the way, was the work of Inigo Jones 
when a pupil of Palladio), where the secret is disclosed, and 
we find that his full, true, and undoubted name, stripped of 
all disguises, was Angiolo Domenico Maria Tremamondo. 
Such a tremendous name as this, however, was found to be 
quite inadmissible. So, for practical purposes, for daily use, 
acting also under the advice of Lord Pembroke, and of others 
of his noble patrons — he gradually, though reluctantly as the 
records prove, discarded both the names Malevolti and 
Tremamondo, and fell back on his own first Christian name of 
Angiolo or Angelo as a convenient and manageable surname. 
Hence “ Angelo,” standing severely alone, though not without 
a suggestion of the marquisate lurking behind it, is the one 
name appended to the dedication of his superb folio-volume 
on the art of fencing, and hence also, among the public 
generally, from King George HI. down to the humblest stable- 
boy in the manege, Angelo was the name by which he and his 
brethren gradually became known then, and it is the name by 
which they and their descendants are known to the present 

Angelo Domenick Maria Tremamondo was the son of a 
prosperous merchant of the Via Giardino in Leghorn, having 
been the eldest of six brothers born in that city to James 
Tremamondo and Catherine Angela Malevolti his wife, a 
daughter of Nicolas Malevolti, of the same place. Evidently 
he derived his first Christian name, Angelo, from his mother, 
as he derived his second, Domenich, from his grandfather, 
and his third, Maria, from his godfather, and it was 
from his mother Angela, therefore, that the surname Angelo, 



which is now the common property of all his descendants, 
both direct and collateral, originally came. He was born on 
February 6th, 1717, and baptized in the cathedral-church the 
next day. His father, James Tremamondo, was a native of 
Foggia in the kingdom of Naples, and a son of Domenick 
Tremamondo of the same city and province. His godfather 
was Francis Maria Lorenzi. His younger brothers, five in 
number, were Francis Xavier, born December 4th, 1720; 
Joseph, born November 13th, 1721 ; John Xavier (afterwards 
of Edinburgh), born September 22nd, 1723 ; Leonard Maria 
(afterwards of London), born September 6th, 1725 ; and Sante 
Gaetano, born November 1st, 1732. There were also several 
sisters, of whom one, Santa Caterina, ultimately became the 
superior of a convent in or near Florence. An inspection of 
the registers (quoted verbatim in The Ancestor) indicates that, 
of the brothers, one, Joseph, possibly died on the day of his 
birth, because he was at once baptized the same day, his 
sponsor being apparently the medico in attendance, the 
“ Excellent Signor Doctor John Batta Gameno.” It is also 
more than likely that as Santa Caterina became a nun, so 
Sante Gaetano was destined for and became a priest or a 
monk. There would remain therefore just four brothers to 
account for, which exactly agrees with the statement of Henry 
Angelo in his Reminiscences, namely : — “ There were four 
brothers, all dead in 1827.” Of these four, three, at any rate, 
namely, Angelo Domenick, John Xavier, and Leonard Maria, 
all riding-masters and fencers, ultimately found their way to 

In view of Henry Angelo’s perfectly natural boast that he 
was descended from the Malavoltis of Siena, it may be well 
to say here a few words upon that illustrious stock. 



According to some authorities, the most noble family of 
Malavolti was by origin French, and came to Italy with 
Charlemagne. Others say that they were originally Bolog- 
nese, adding that between Bologna and the Apennines there 
is a place very delicious named Malavolti, and that in the 
churches of St. Domenick and St. Francis, in Bologna, are many 
monuments of the Malavolti. But Gigli argues that the 
Malevolti were in Siena before the others were in existence, 
and that therefore either there were two families or else a 
member of the Malavolti went and settled in Bologna. And 
indeed to this day, as I have seen, there is an ancient chapel in 
the church of St. Domenico in Siena, that is known as the 
Malavolti chapel. Gigli also states that the family had their 
habitation in a gloomy valley near Siena, which was infested 
by bandits, and therefore named Malavolti. Noble Frenchmen 
he says were on guard there, and five castles were erected, 
which were also called “ of the Malavolti,” and the hill, too, 
began to be named II Poggio di Malavolti, retaining that name 
to the present day. These Malavolti made of themselves an 
illustrious stock which in time rose to great power and wealth 
“ Furono le mitre e i grandi militari, e togati quasi domestici 
nella schiatta de Malavolti. ” They divided into three 
principal branches, first the Malavolti Orlandi, next the 
Mala^volti Egidei or Gigliensi, so called from the church of 
St. Egidius (Giles) built by them in that region, and thirdly, 
the Malavolti Fortebracei, who, from the castle of Selvoli, which 
they captured in Avar, Avere called Selvolesi. In Siena the 
Malavolti had three castles and a magnificent loggia, and there 
they flourished for many generations. 

The Angelo registers at Leghorn afford us the following 
pedigree : — 



Domenick Tremamondo = wife 
of Foggia. 

James Tremamondo of Foggia, = Catherine Angela, 

and then of Leghorn. d. of Nicolas Malevolti 

of Leghorn, married 1713. 

Angelo Domenick Maria, 

Francis Xavier, Joseph, 

b. 1717. 

b. 1720. b. 1721, 

(d. 1721). 

John Xavier, 
b. 1723. 

Leonard Maria, 
b. 1725. 

b. 1732, probably 

Sante Gaetano, 

a priest. 

The three members of this family who afterwards visited 
England, but especially the eldest, Angelo Domenick, became 
widely celebrated as masters in the arts of both riding and 
fencing. Of such exceptional skill as was theirs the founda- 
tions surely must have been laid very early in life, and it 
is a fair hypothesis to assume that from boyhood they were 
placed in the hands of capable instructors. In point of fact 
there was then living in Leghorn the very man for the 
purpose. This was Andrew Gianfaldoni, of Pisa, renowned 
as a fencing-master, who kept a fencing school at Leghorn, at 
which city his far more famous son Joseph, whose tragic fate 
at Lyons aroused the sympathy of all Europe, was born on 
January 6th, 1739. Under Gianfaldoni we can imagine 
the “ Angelo ” brothers gradually acquiring some of the 
marvellous power which afterwards distinguished them, and 
when they had graduated in Gianfaldoni’s school we can 
imagine them also going forth on their travels to other centres 
famous for other maitres d’escrimes. Domenick certainly did 
so, as we learn from Henry Angelo’s Reminiscences. He 
visited various capitals in turn, probably Florence, Turin, 



Milan, Naples and Rome, and he lived for a time at Venice, 
where, having also studied painting himself, he was intimate 
with Canaletto. At the age of twenty-seven or thereabouts 
he came to Paris, where he is said to have spent ten years in 
close study of the art of fence under various masters of the 
Academie, but especially the elder Teillagory, with whom also 
he constantly rode in the m,anege. That master was perhaps 
the most celebrated swordsman of the age. He was likewise 
the most scientific horseman in Europe, and occupied as 
prominent a place in the Manege Royal as he did in the 
Academie d'Armes. In better hands the Angelos (for I believe 
the brothers kept together) could not have been. There 
Domenick became the favourite protege of the Duke de 
Nivernais, that amiable and courteous nobleman who subse- 
quently visited this country at the close of the Seven Years’ 
War in the character of Ambassador Extraordinary and 
Plenipotentiary from His Most Christian Majesty Louis XV. 

From Paris “ Domenick Angelo ” passed on to London, at 
the instance of Peg Woffington, his chere amie for some two 
years, where he founded that renowned family of masters 
which made the “ Angelo School of Arms ” a household- word 
among men of rank and fashion in the days of our grandsires. 
It is not necessary in this place, however, to make mention of 
all the recorded episodes which distinguished the career of the 
elder Angelo, as he came to be called. For these episodes the 
reader must consult the present volume, and Henry Angelo’s 
larger work, The Reminiscences, recently re-issued uniform 
with it. We pass on to Domenick’s marriage. His wife was 
named Elizabeth Johnson and Peg Woffington herself has the 
credit of having brought the two together. She was a 
step-daughter of Captain Master of the Royal Navy, then 



deceased, who had once been in command of the , Chester’. 
They were married on February 25th, 1755, by Archbishop’s 
licence, at St. George’s, Hanover Square, in the presence of 
the bride’s mother, Elizabeth Johnson, and of John Morris, a 
friend of the Masters, and a distinguished naval officer, who 
when in command of the Br istol was mortally wounded in the 
unsuccessful attack on Sullivan’s Island, off Charlestown, on 
June 26th, 1776. 

Elizabeth Johnson at that time was very young, not more 
than seventeen. She was one of the beauties of that age, and 
in 1 7 60, when she was twenty-two, her picture was painted by 
Sir Joshua Reynolds, a reproduction of which will be found in 
the first volume of The Beminiscences (1904). Her father was 
probably, like her step-father, a naval officer, and she is said 
to have been related to Admiral Byng. “ All my mother’s 
relatives,” writes her son Henry in his Beminiscences, “ were 
brought up to the sea, and from her information she was 
related to Admiral Byng.” It is not improbable that we have 
her father and mother in the following; note of an entrv in the 
register of St. George’s, Hanover Square : — “ Richard Johnson 
and Elizabeth Harvey married in St. George’s, Hanover 
Square, 1728.” 

Before passing on to the issue of Domenick Angelo by 
Elizabeth Johnson, it may be well to mention here that in 1755 
Domenick was residing in the parish of St. George’s, Hanover 
Square, that from 1758 to 1760 he had a house in St. James’ 
Place, off St. James’ Street, that in 1760 he was provided with 
premises for a school of fencing and riding by the Princess of 
Wales in Leicester Square, within two doors of Hogarth’s 
house in the east corner, and that soon after he moved to 
Soho, where he bought Carlisle House, standing in King’s 



Square Court (now Carlisle Street), from Lord Delaval. In 
this building, in 1763, he opened his fencing-school, and in the 
garden at the back he erected stables and a manege which 
extended to Wardour Street, and there, in Carlisle House, his 
children were born and there he resided till the day of his death. 
House and school soon became the resort of all the wealth and 
fashion of London. Here he took in his boarders, “young 
men of fashion,” who paid him each one hundred guineas a 
year, and who spent their time in riding, fencing, and dancing, 
and here he earned his handsome income of £4,000 a year, 
which “ he spent like a gentleman.” 

In 1763 Angelo published his grand folio in French, 
L’J^cole des Armes. It is a magnificent specimen of con- 
temporary binding and letterpress, and the engravings are of 
the highest possible order, the work of Hall and Ryland. It 
is especially interesting from the fact that Angelo himself 
stood for the drawings, so that in them we see him as he looked 
when handling the foils. In 1765, during the summer 
vacation, he visited Turin, having received a commission from 
the King of Sardinia for sixty hunters, which he sent on before 
him, probably in charge of young iLithony Tremamondo who 
afterwards kept a riding-school in Calcutta. The date of this 
visit, in which his wife accompanied him, is fixed by the fact 
that when in Paris, on his way to Turin, he received a letter 
from Garrick, bearing date July, 1765. 

Domenick Angelo died in comparative poverty, due to his 
own lavish generosity. The date of his death was July 11th, 
1802, and he died, probably in the house of his daughter. 
Dame Sophia Angelo, at Eton, in his eighty-sixth year. His 
will at Somerset House is dated May 11th, 1797, and it was 
proved August 4th, 1802. Everything he possessed he left 



“ to his dear wife, Elizabeth Angelo,” and he styles himself 
“ Domenico Angelo Tremamondo, of Carlisle Street, Soho.” 
The affidavit was made by George Frederick Angelo 
Tremamondo, of his Royal Highness the Duke of York’s office. 
Horse Guards, the natural and lawful grandson, which George 
Frederick was the eldest son of Henry Angelo, the author of 
this book, who finds no mention in his father’s will. His 
widow, letting her house in Carlisle Street, soon after moved 
to Rathbone Place, quite close by, to the north of Soho 
Square, and there in Upper Charlotte Street, within a stone’s 
throw of the house of Anthony Angelo, the once beautiful and 
genial hostess of Carlisle House breathed her last, on 
January 11th, 1805. In her will, which bears date July 13th, 
1802, and in which she styles herself Elizabeth Angelo 
Tremamondo, of Eton, Bucks, and Carlisle Street, Soho, no 
mention again is found of her son Henry Angelo, an omission 
eloquent of Henry’s behaviour to his parents in their declining 

Of Domenick’s brothers, John Xavier opened a manege in 
Edinburgh, which in 1776 received a royal charter. He 
taught fencing as well as riding. He left no issue, his 
daughter, by Marie Francoise Justine Dubourg, who was 
painted by Sir Joshua Reynolds in 1759, having pre-deceased 
him. He died at Edinburgh on March 16th, 1805, at the 
age of 84. Leonard, Domenick’s third brother, seems to have 
been a man of but little ambition. He was content to spend 
his life at the Soho establishment, assisting his brother in 
both riding and fencing, but I have found no record of his 
family or of the place and date of his death. 

Domenick Angelo’s picture was painted several times, once 
at least by Sir Joshua Reynolds, and once by Sir William 



Beechey, while at Wilton, the seat of the Earl of Pembroke, 
there was an equestrian portrait of him, the horse by Morier 
and the figure by Brompton. Domenick was also immor- 
talized (by grace of George II.) in West’s famous picture of 
“ The Battle of the Boyne,” and in the equestrian statue of 
William HI. at Dublin, in both which works, though the 
horseman’s head is that of King William, the figure, [for 
which he posed, is that of Angelo, and the horse the model of 
Angelo’s famous white charger, “ Monarch.” 

We now come to Domenick Angelo’s children, among whom 
we find the loquacious Henry, of The Reminiscences and The 
Picnic. They were at least six in number, namely : — 

1. Henry Charles William, born April 5th, 1756. 

2. Florella Sophia, born in 1759. 

3. Anne Caroline Eliza, born October 14th, 1763. 

4. Catherine Elizabeth, born August 27th, 1766. 

5. Elizabeth Tremamondo, born June 13th, 1768. 

6. George Xavier Tremamondo, born May 10th, 1773. 

These last two entries in the Soho registers differ curiously 

from any of the former. That of Elizabeth, for instance, 
runs thus: — “ 1768. Elizabeth Tremamondo, d. of Angelo 
Dominico and Elizabeth [Tremamondo]. Bapt. June 20th. 
Bom June 13th.” The child’s surname is entered as Trema- 
mondOf not Angelo, and Domenick’s name Angelo appears in 
its right place, namely, as the first of his Christian names. 

Let us speak of his famous son Henry last of all. 

Of the rest, the other son, George Xavier, must have died 
young, as did also his youngest sister, Elizabeth. His eldest 
sister, Florella Sophia, never married. She grew up a pretty 
brunette, becoming a special favourite of the young Prince of 
Wales, afterwards George IV., who provided for her well for 



life, since owing to his influence she was appointed a Dame of 
Eton, a position held by her for about seventy years. She 
died at Eton April 7th, 1847, aged 88, the oldest and most 
celebrated Dame of that royal foundation. 

Henry’s second sister, Anne Caroline Eliza, like all her 
sisters educated by the Ursalines of Lisle, grew up equally 
accomplished and equally captivating, marrying in 1785, in 
her twenty-second year. Captain William St. Leger, then of 
the 17th Dragoons, at St. x\nn’s, Soho. Captain St. Leger 
lived to become famous in war, both in America and in India, 
receiving the thanks of Parliament. He died in 1818, his 
monumental inscription still existing in Marylebone Parish 
Church. His wife survived him many years, dying in 1833, 
leaving issue. 

Henry’s third sister, Catherine Elizabeth, was the beauty 
of the family, and sat for her portrait to Sir Joshua Reynolds. 
She fell to an English clergyman, the Reverend Mark Drury, 
second master at Harrow, whose brother. Dr. Joseph Drury, 
immortalized in Byron’s Childe Harold, was at that time the 
head-master. Catherine Drury is stated to have died on 
November 28th, 1825, aged 59, leaving issue, now represented 
by the Harnages, of county Salop. Catherine Drury’s beautiful 
picture by Sir Joshua was sold by her descendant, Mrs. 
Wayne, and is now in the collection of Lord Rothschild. 

Finally we come to our author, Henry Charles William, 
Domenick Angelo’s eldest son. As we have seen, he was born 
in May, 1756, his baptismal register at St. George’s, Hanover 
Square, running thus: — “Baptism, 16 May, 1756, Henry 
Charles William, son of Angelo Domenico Malevolti and 
Elizabeth [Malevolti]. Born 5th April, 1756.” 

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Domenico’s Christian names, “ Angelo ” appearing in its proper 
place ; (2) The complete absence of the name “ Tremamondo ” ; 
and (3) the fact that the child is named neither Angelo nor 
Tremamondo, but Malevolti. According to his baptismal 
certificate, in fact, Henry Angelo, afterwards under that name 
to be so widely known, was really Henry Charles William 
Malevolti. The name “ Angelo ” is nowhere — it was subse- 
quently assumed, as Malevolti was subsequently ignored. So 
characteristic an instance of the Angelo manner invites 
remark, and helps to explain many curious discrepancies. 

According to his oAvn account Henry’s “ godfathers were 
George III. (at that time heir apparent), the late Dukes of 
Cumberland, York, and Kent, and the Duke of Gloucester.” 
Surely no child was ever ushered into the world Avith grander 
prestige ! 

He seems to have been intended for the Navy, and, as a 
matter of fact, he Avas actually enrolled by Captain Augustus 
Harvey, Lady Harvey’s second son, on the books of the 
Dragon man-of-Avar in the capacity of midshipman, thereby 
becoming entitled at an extremely early age to some twenty- 
five guineas prize-money. 

Henry Angelo’s first school was that of Dr. Rose, the trans- 
lator of Sallust, at ChisAvick. Thence he Avas sent, in 1 7 64, to 
Eton, Avhere his father Avas fencing-master. From Eton, in 
1777, in his seventeenth year, he Avent to Paris to study 
fencing under the renoAvned Motet, the champion pareur of 
the Continent, and to learn French. For a time he liA'^edAvith 
M. Liviez, AV'ho had been a dancer and a ballet-master at 
Drury Lane. His Avife Avas English, and he had fallen in love 
Avith her at the Percy Chapel in Charlotte Street, Soho. The 
lady Avas then a spinster no longer young, and M. Liviez was 



under the impression that she gazed upon him from her pew 
with admiring looks, which, however, was by no means the 
case, for her principal charm was a squint, and she was really 
glancing in another direction. Notwithstanding, her figure 
was so admirably formed that she had posed for the model of 
Roubilliac’s figure of Eloquence on the Argyll tomb in the 
south transept of Westminster Abbey. On Henry Angelo 
this devoted couple showered kindness, not even modified by 
seasons of hypochondria induced by too generous feeding, 
when M, Liviez would fancy himself Apollo, and fiddle to the 
nine muses typified by a circle of chairs. At the Revolution 
M. Liviez and his wife appear to have sought refuge in 
England and were sponsors to Anthony Tremamondo’s first 

Henry Angelo returned to London in 1775, and at once 
took his place in his father’s academy in Carlisle Street as a 
finished maitre d’escrime. In 1778, in his twenty-third year, 
he married a beautiful north-country girl, Mary Bowman 
Swindon, who hailed from West Auckland, in the county of 
Durham. They were married by licence on October 23rd at 
St. Anne’s, and one of the witnesses was Isaac Taylor of the 
famous family of artists and engravers. In 1785 he took over 
his father’s fencing-academy, but I think there must have 
been friction and trouble, and so he took himself oft’ in the 
nineties to the Opera-House-buildings at the corner of the 
Haymarket, almost facing the Orange Coftbe-house, then a 
favourite resort of young bloods, as well as of foreigners of 
every description. His skill was unrivalled, he had public and 
scholastic appointments, and the list of his “ Own Boastings,” 
of his pupils that is to say of noble and professional rank, is 
a most imposing one. In 1813 he was appointed naval 



instructor in the use of the cutlass, introducing much needed 
reforms, as his father in the British cavalry, and his kinsman 
Anthony Tremamondo in the Bengal Cavalry, had similarly 
introduced reforms as greatly needed. 

In 1789, Henry Angelo’s school was burnt down, and he 
appears to have moved then to Old Bond Street (living at 
Bolton Row), and there he established another school, of which 
his son, a second Henry, took over charge in 1817. Then, in 
a year undefined, save by the phrase “ the year of Kean’s 
benefit,” perhaps 1827, he strained his left thigh, when that 
great actor and himself were together fencing, which com- 
pelled him to “ bid adieu to the practical exertions of the 
science.” His remaining days he spent in the enjoyment of 
a small annuity at some village near Bath, that city which his 
father, Domenick, in more prosperous times, when he was 
proverbially known as “ one of the most elegant men of the 
age, the gayest of the gay,” used to visit from time to time 
in the palmy days of Beau Nash. There our hero died, 
probably in the year 1839, and in the 83rd year of his age. 

Henry Angelo, like his father, Domenick, was a member of 
the Somerset House Lodge of Freemasons, and the following 
notices of him in the records of Freemason’s Hall are now 
for the first time published : — 

1. Henry Angelo, Gent., Carlisle St., made in Somerset House Lodge, 
November 8th, 1790. 

2. 1802. Henry Angelo, President of the Board of Grand Stewards, 
Freemasons’ Hall. 

But a more important discovery made since the publication 
of my history of the Angelo family lies in the circumstance 
that Henry Angelo must have had an elder brother, that is to 
say, a half-brother, his father Domenick’s son by a previous 

xxiii b 


connection formed abroad, the particulars of which are still 
unknown to us. That brother, as I believe him to have been, 
was born, we know, in the year 1747-8, so that he must have 
been about eight years of age when Domenick first came to 
England, and his name was Anthony (Angelo) Tremamondo, 
11 Marchese, as his descendants speak of him, whose parentage, 
on purely conjectural evidence, I had assigned to John Xavier 
Tremamondo of Edinburgh. This was that member of the 
Angelo family who, in the year 1778, left London for Calcutta 
as a cadet in the Honourable East India Company’s Infantry 
of Bengal, who became an officer in Warren Hastings’ troop 
of the Body Guard, and who, while so employed, opened a 
riding-school under official auspices in Calcutta, where he 
rapidly amassed a large fortune, enabling him to retire from 
the Company’s service and to return to London in affiuent 
circumstances in 1785. In London he married a certain 
Martha Bland, a cousin of Mrs. Jordan, herself a beautiful 
actress I think of the Haymarket, becoming by her the 
ancestor of a distinguished line of descendants, most of whom 
have served in the Indian Army. 

The evidence for this fresh fact in the varied story of the 
Angelos (if fact it is, as I cannot but believe it to be), now 
published for the first time, is contained in a letter noAv lying 
before me, in which Anthony (Angelo) Tremamondo’s eldest 
grandson. General John Anthony Angelo, of Mussoorie, Avho 
died at that place in 1896, makes the following state- 
ments : — 

(1) That he himself (General Angelo) was the eldest son 
of the eldest son, and that his father, John WiUiam Thomas 
Angelo Tremamondo, was the eldest son of the eldest son, and 
so on back for several generations. 



2. That General William St. Leger, who held a high 
command in Bengal early in the nineteenth century, was his 
father’s uncle, as whose aide-de-cavip he originally came to 

These statements are very important. Thus, as regards the 
first : — 

1. We know very well that Domenick Angelo, the famous 
fencing-master, was his father’s eldest son, and the senior 
representative of the Angelos in his own generation. It follows 
that if Anthony Angelo, of the Bengal Body Guard, was 
eldest son of the eldest son, according to the testimony of his 
o'wn son as quoted by his grandson. General Angelo, his father 
can scarcely have been other than Domenick Angelo. 

Then as regards the second statement of General Angelo : — 

2. General William St. Leger could only have been Anthony 
Angelo Tremamondo’s son’s uncle in one way, namely, as 
having himself married into the Angelo family. He could 
only have been his uncle by marriage, and, as Ave have shoAvn, 
General St. Leger’s Avife was Domenick Angelo’s second 
daughter, Anne Caroline Angelo, a circumstance which entirely 
satisfies General Angelo’s claim, and shoAA'-s quite clearly how 
the alleged relationship may have come about. 

This double testimony, now newly adduced, also elucidates 
and explains the mysterious Latin entry made by Father Gafiy, 
in the baptismal register of St. Patrick’s, Soho Square, about 
the year 1806, concerning certain of Anthony Angelo 
Tremamondo’s children, Avhich perplexed me so much Avhen 
discussing Anthony Angelo’s parentage in The Ancestor. 
Father Gafiy Avas a contemporary of Domenick Angelo, and 
lived opposite to him in Soho Square. The entiy or note in 
question is this : — 



Duodecim proles Dom. Angelo invenientur pag. 349-350. 

The new evidence justifies us in translating this brief note 
in its natural straightforward sense, namely : — 

Twelve of the descendants or progeny of (the famous) Domenick Angelo 
will be found on pages 349-350. 

Thus the note of Father Gafiy becomes equivalent to a state- 
ment that the children of Anthony Angelo referred to were 
the grandchildren of Domenick who at that time had been 
dead some four or five years. It is true Henry Angelo terms 
Anthony his cousin, but that statement on the part of Henry 
Angelo is one that does not require a very close examination, 
at least in this place, for, that Domenick Angelo had con- 
tracted a previous alliance of some sort in Italy or France, I 
have no doubt whatever, from the evidence now quoted, and 
the mother is traditionally stated to have been a Contessa di 
Pescara, a lady of quite illustrious descent. 

Of the death of Henry Angelo’s wife, Mary Bowman 
Swindon, I have no record. By her he appeared to have had 
at least four sons, namely : — 

(1) George Frederick, the eldest, who was born on July 
10th, 1779, and baptized at St. Ann’s, Soho. He was a great 
protege of both the Prince Kegent and the Duke of York, and 
in 1794 was offered a commission as Lieutenant in the 31st 
Light Dragoons. He preferred, however, a civil appointment, 
and was for many years the Commander-in-Chief’s confidential 
clerk at the Horse Guards, retiring with the rank of Captain 
in the West India Rangers in 1821, on a pension of £300 a 
year, and settling at Hill House, Southampton. His first 
wife, Elizabeth McCoy, whom he married in 1801, died in 
Carmarthen Street, Fitzroy Square, in 1817, leaving two sons, 
John Angelo, Avho died young, and William St. Leger Angelo, 



who died unmarried, an officer in the 3rd West India 
Kegiment, in 1850. 

(2) Henry Angelo (II.), a professional swordsman like his 
father, and Superintendent of Sword-exercise to the Army. 
I do not possess his baptismal certificate, but the following 
entry at Freemason’s Hall fixes the year of his birth as 

Henry Angelo, Jr., Bolton Eow, aged 20 (made in Somerset House 
Lodge), March, 1801. 

In the lamentable family divisions between Henry Angelo I. 
and his father Domenick, which existed to the last, it is 
evident that Henry Angelo II. took sides with his father, 
while his elder brother, George Frederick, was equally firm in 
his devotion to his grandfather. And from his father he learnt 
the art of fence, becoming a master, and so carried on the 
famous school of masters founded by Domenick. He took 
over charge of his father’s academy in 1817, and in 1830 
moved it to St. James’ Street. Many still surviving will 
remember it well. Among his more famous pupils were the 
King of Hanover and the late Duke of Cambridge. In 1833 
he was appointed Superintendent of Sword-exercise to the 
Army, in succession, I think, to his younger brother. Colonel 
Edward Authony Angelo, and that post he held to the last. 
He died on October 14th, 1852, at Brighton, aged 72, being 
described as Henry Angelo, Esq., Superintendent of Sword- 
exercise to the Army. In his brief informal will at Somerset 
House he styles himself Henry Angelo, of Upper Wimpole 
Street. He leaves all his effects to his wife, Mary Ann Angelo. 
She was sister to General William Samuel Heathcote and 
granddaughter to Sir William Heathcote, of Hursley, the first 
Baronet. She was baptized at St. Bride’s, Fleet Street, 



January 6tli, 1779, and married to Henry Angelo some time 
between 1831 and 1841, but his children appear to have been the 
issue of a former marriage. She died also in Wimpole Street. 

Henry Angelo II. is described in the Gentlemans Magazine, 
vol. 38, as “ sociable and amiable in private life, endearing 
himself to all.” One of his contemporaries also writes of him, 
“ Henry seemed to me a model man in stature, mien, looks, 
dress, and in manners too.” With such a tribute to his 
excellence we may safely leave him to his repose in Kensal 
Green. He was succeeded in St. James’ Street by his son 
Henry Angelo III., or in full, Henry Charles Angelo, a record 
of whose birth I do not possess, but he was married as Henry 
Charles Angelo, bachelor, on December 26th, 1832, to 
Elizabeth Mary Bungay, spinster, a minor, of Brighthelm- 
stone, Sussex. To him. Dame Sophia Angelo, of Eton, in 
1847, left the interest of her house in Carlisle Street, Soho 
Square — the old Carlisle House, the home for so many years 
of old Domenick — and he, too, it must have been who, as 
Charles Henry Angelo, published The Bayonet Exercise, in 
1853. He is stated to have left four sons; (1) Charles 
Heathcote, who went to Australia; (2) Arthur Angelo, a 
protege of Lord Frederick Eitz-Clarence and Colonel Yorke’s, 
who was born on March 23rd, 1836, was gazetted Ensign in 
the 6th Foot on October 13th, 1854, and Lieutenant in the 
74th on January 15th, 1858. He retired on sale of his 
commission on March 5th, 1861, and went to New Zealand; 
(3) Michael Angelo, born January 12th, 1838, a clerk in the 
War Office (1855-1872); and (4) Stewart Angelo, who also 
went to New Zealand ; and one daughter, still living. 

The third son of Henry Angelo I. (the author, that is to 
say, of this volume) was — 



Edwaed Anthony Angelo, who received a direct com- 
mission from H.R.H. the Duke of York. He had a most 
distinguished and varied career which the reader will find 
fully detailed in The Ancestor. He was born in or about the 
year 1787, and was gazetted an Ensign in the 28th Regiment 
on July 9th, 1803. He made a famous though a disastrous 
runaway match with Pauline, a daughter of the Marquis de 
Choiseul, on July 11th, 1816. He died a Knight of Windsor 
on August 26, 1869, aged about eighty. 

Colonel Edward Anthony Angelo had a son, Edward 
Augustus Angelo, who was gazetted to the 10th Foot on 
January 15th, 1845, but he threw up his commission, and I 
know not what became of him. There were also three daugh- 
ters, Georgina, Matilda, and Bertha Angelo, who are, I hear, 
living in Paris. 

The fourth and last son of our Henry Angelo I. was 
William Henry Angelo. Since he died on January 19, 1855, 
aged 66, he must have been bom in or about the year 1789. 
He is said to have married a lady named Cope, and to have 
had issue another William Angelo. Of his career all we know 
is that for a time he was settled at Oxford, where he kept a 
fencing school. Subsequently he became the manager of his 
brother’s and nephew’s fencing academy, in St. James’ Street. 
He is the “Old William” whom many will still remember, 
an excellent master of fence, even to the last, when, in 
consequence of an injury, his weapon had to be bound to 
his hand. 

His will at Somerset House is dated August 22nd, 1840, 
and it was proved March 2nd, 1855. In it he styles himself 
“ William Angelo, otherwise William Henry Angelo, formerly 
of Oxford, and of 21, Hill Street, Westminster, fencing- 



master.” His “wife Elizabeth Sarah Angelo,” to whom he 
left his estate, was sole executrix. 

With Henry Angelo III. and this his uncle William Angelo, 
that is, in 1855, the school of fencing, the once celebrated 
Angelo School of Masters, came to an end, for though for a 
time it was carried on by McTurk in the interests of the 
widow, it was never the same thing again. It met one of the 
needs of the time, it became immensely the fashion, and, when 
the fashion changed with the changing years, it gradually 
died away and ceased to exist. But in the story of the science 
of fencing reduced to a fine art, the Angelo School will always 
be remembered as one of the most famous Schools of Masters 
in all Europe. 

Charles Swynnerton, F.S.A. 





A MAN is somewhat like an almanack, he has, like it, his 
day and date, his coming out, and his going out. The novelty 
of seeing him gives him a starting point ; the world goes with 
him in his progress, but age, like a relentless creditor, arrests 
him. He is then out of date, neglected, and laid on the shelf. 
Thus I have found it too ; but let me further follow the simile, 
why is it thus with us both ? Because mankind only praise us 
for what they can get out of us ; they consult us for their own 
information, to assist their memory, or to pass an idle moment. 
When a successor comes out in fresh print, well tagged with 
gilding and morocco, a new picture, a fresh face, — farewell old 
friend and old almanack ; the last impression is like a 
prosperous man rising into notice ; or, like the ghost in 
Macbeth, it pushes us without ceremony from our stools. The 
new almanack is to be found in everybody’s drawing-room, at 
the breakfast table, on the sofa by lady fair, by the fire-side, or 
is carried about like a vade mecum by Prince and Peer, by 
Lord and Commoner, by rich and poor. The young thriving 
man, in like manner, is welcome at every board, admitted to 
stately library and elegant boudoir, the arm companion of the 
gay, and, in short, known to all the town. “ Ah, Angelo ! and 
so it used to be with thee. Where do you dine to-day ? Shall 
we see you at our party ? Do you go to Covent Garden, Old 
Drury, the Opera, or Promenade, to-night ? Can you spare 



us a few tickets for the Masquerade, or will you take some for 
the benefit Concert ? ” Such was the order of the day, and my 
round of amusements. Angelo, with a good cook, and a full 
cellar, was almost an Angelo indeed to youths with keen 
appetites and trencher friends ; but, when out of date, might go 
al Diavolo, and shake himself. How often have I sauntered 
down Bond Street, St. James’s Street, and Pall Mall, in 
search of side dishes at my table, id est, for stray friends, 
and those to whom roast beef and bright port might be 
an object, to edge in round my dinner table. That was the 
time of day; but now “You have really the advantage of 
me, when had I the pleasure of seeing you ? My memory 
really betrays me as to your name ” (and well it is, if 
not betrayed for thee). “ I quite forget your face.” This 
is the language of the almanack of other years, of the Angelo 
out of date ; but it is more the altered features of the case than 
of the face which produce this species of oblivion, of “ friend 
remembering not.” 

But I am not going to turn old proser, or quarrel with the 
world. No ! I shall rather tell a short story of an impudent 
guest of mine in bygone years, and with it conclude my 
philosophic reflections, grateful that some patrons have still 
stuck to me, and anxious that my Pic-Nic, made up as it is by 
abler hands than mine, and furnishing better fare than my 
poor brains can afford, may be both in time and in good odour 
with my indulgent customers, and that my old stories may 
serve as a foil (this savours of the shop) to more valuable 
modem ones, and that poor Angelo may not, like the fallen 
Angelos of old, be consigned to utter social darkness and 

In my usual court-end of the town, my Sunday’s lounge 



wandering about, not seeking whom I might devour, like the 
rooks of the day, but seeking for persons to fill up my table, I 
fell in with the son of a certain general officer, and, as usual, 
offered him pot luck, which he accepted, yet still remained in 
a stationary attitude at a post planted at the corner of 
a street. I now looked at my watch, and perceiving the hour 
of attack on roast beef and plum pudding approaching, I urged 
him to come away ; still he lingered, and, when harder pressed, 
confessed that there was still a chance of a great man’s riding 
by, this being near his time and beat, who gave splendid 
dinners and copious libations of French wine, and that he did 
not like to throw away a chance. I left him indignantly, but 
he appeared when dinner was begun, and so talked me into 
good humour that I forgave him ; and he made up for lost 
time on my sirloin, where there was cut and come again. 
— A word to the wise — there are many guests of the same 

A Young Huntek. 

Previous to my father’s building a riding-house in Carlisle 
Street (then King’s Square Court), and publicly teaching 
equitation, his time was totally devoted to Lord Pembroke, 
who had a manege at his mansion in Whitehall. His lordship, 
who had long been known for his gallantry, and his opera 
manoeuvre when abroad with the beautiful Signora Crevelli, 
the first dancer at the Scala, Milan (which excited the mirth of 
all the English there), and who was the great attraction of the 
Italian Noblesse, &c. ; but the care of the mother, Avho like 
the many who bring their daughters here for sale, depending 
on the best bidder, the mercenary madre expecting to raise her 
price, each shared alike that refusal, no one could say che 



felicita. Lord Pembroke, who well knew no time was to 
be lost, and ever fond of a frolic, especially when un tour 
d' amour, while the audience were all waiting for her appear- 
ance, his Lordship only waited till she was dressed, all 
expectation, when, instead of seeing her ^‘■fantastic toe ” on the 
boards, she had stepped into his Lordship’s carriage, which was 
in readiness to take her away to Florence, leaving the Italians 
to swear cose petto di Bacco, questo poco d’Inglese. Pleased 
as he was with this adventure, having outwitted the mother, 
and the disappointed bidders, supplanting them, at his return 
to England, though this might have been considered merely a 
theatrical false step, another that followed soon after was 
a far different step, though a fashionable one then, which has 
lasted to this day, and at the time made not a little noise in 
the gay world. 

Miss Hunter, who was the general admiration of every one. 
Lord Pembroke, though then a Benedict, ran away with her ; 
the consequence was, a son, who, after, was my schoolfellow 
and crony at Eton, and went by the name of Repkombe 
(the letters of his father’s name), afterwards changed to 
Montgomery, and died a captain in the navy. This elopement 
filled the newspapers with anecdotes of his Lordship’s amours, 
mentioning the Signora Crevelli, and the following lampoon, 
which I perfectly remember hearing many years ago, and only 
lately repeated to me, as my father’s name was mentioned, and 
coupled with Lord Pembroke’s, it will show the lessons of the 
latter were not confined to riding in a house only : — 

With Angelo, Pembroke had taken much pains 
To keep a good seat, and manage his reins — 

But to ride this Young Hunter, he found it a hardship. 

For she swallowed the bit, and ran off with his Lordship. 




1. Angelo’s Picnic, by George Cruikshank . . . Frontispiece 

Description of Vignette : — 

B. B. — Always finish your Sentences 


Angelo. — Cockloft .... 


Hook. — Boots .... 


Bulwer. — Puck’s Tale 



CoLMAN. — Oikomania 


Peake. — Jervis’s Ghost 



W. Linley. — Alderman’s Dream 



Horace Smith. — George Barnwell . 



2. Harry Angelo, 1769, by Sir Joshua Eeynolds , 

3. Lord Byron, by R. Westall, R.A., engraved by C. 

Turner . 

4. Madlle. La Chevaliere d’Eon de Beaumont Fencing 

AT Carlton House, April 9th, 1787 

5. Caricature of George, Prince op Wales (Geo. IV.), 

by James Gillray 

6. Mr. Hewardine 

7. St. George and the Dragon and Mdlle. d’Eon 

“ Riposting ” 

8. The Marlborough Theatricals, “False Delicacy,’’ 

by John Roberts, engraved by J. Jones . 

9. John Jackson (Gentleman Jackson), by B, Marshall, 

engraved by C. Turner ...... 

10. Eton College, from the original drawing by T. Row- 


11. Thomas Simmons, by Angelo, etched by Rowlandson . 

To face xxi 













12. A Snug Angling Party, from the original draioing hy 

T. Kowlandson To face 73 

13. A Eivee Scene, from the original drawing by T. 

Kowlandson . . 91 

14. Oberon and Puck, by George Cruikshank . . ,, 97 

15. Kowlandson and His Fair Sitters, from the original 

draioing by T. Kowlandson . . . . . ,, 122 

16. Mrs. Hartley, painted and engraved by J. H. Sherwin ,, 142 

17. Mrs. Tickell, by K. Cosway, K.A 164 

18. H.K.H. George Augustus Frederick, Prince of 

Wales, drawn and engraved by Edmund Scott . ,, 172 

19. A Hint to Young Officers, by James Gillray . . ,, 177 

20. Grace Dalrymple Elliott (Dally the Tall), by 

E. Cosway, K.A ,, 180 

21. Kichard Kempenfelt, Esq., by Tilley Kettle, en - 

graved by Kichard Earlom . . . . . ,, 213 

22. Kowlandson, from the original drawing by J, Banister ,, 239 

23. Mrs. Jordan as “ The Eomp,” by G. Eomney, engraved 

by John Ogborne ,, 254 

24. Mrs. Garrick 257 


Thomas Kowlandson ...... 

Emjia, Lady Hamilton, by Eomney . 





In putting forth the following pages, in continuation of his 
Reminiscences, the Author regrets that he has to speak so 
much of himself ; but, circumstanced as he is, he has no 
alternative. There are some incidents in real life more 
romantic than romance itself ; and this remark will be found 
to apply to many of the narratives which follow. He has 
no scruples on this head, however, in laying them before 
the public, being conscious of no deviation from the truth. 
He is merely anxious to excuse himself for that awkward- 
ness which always, more or less, attends a narrative of 
personal anecdotes and adventures, although they may be 
of a kind highly interesting to the public. 


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{Kotv first published) 


Far distant rose those walls upon the light, 

The stately walls, with tapestry richly dight. 

Of th’ Abbot’s banquet-hall, where, as on throne, 
He sat at the high dais, like Prince, alone. 

Save when a Royal Guest was there, 

Or papal Legate claimed a chair. 

Here marble platforms, flight o’er flight. 

Slow rising through the long-lined view. 

Showed tables, spread at different height, 

Where each for different rank he knew. 

And with pleased glance, adown the hall. 

Saw Bishops in their far-sought palle 
The Abbey’s noble Seneschal, 

Barons and Earls, in gold array. 

And warrior knights, in harness grey. 

There was the Prior’s delegated sway. 

The grave Archdeacon sat below. 

And th’ hundred Monks, in row and row ; 

Not robed in dismal sable they 
Upon R high and festal day, 




But all in copes most costly and most gay. 
There, too, the Abbey-Marshal shone. 

And there, beside the Abbot’s throne, 
Chaplain of Honour from the Pope, alone. 


Thus the Lord-Abbot, were he proud. 

Might muse upon the checkered crowd ; 

Nor always did his mind disdain 
The worldly honours, though so vain. 

His board with massive plate was laid. 

And rare inventions it displayed ; 

Each Sewer-Monk his homage paid. 

With bended knee and bowed head ; 

And Latin verse, half sung, half said 
On every platform, as he rose 
Through the long hall to its high close. 
Where frankincense from golden urns 
In light wreath round the Abbot burns. 

The chaunted Latin Grace was sung 
With pomp of instruments that rung 
The arched roofs, galleries, and screens among. 
And, when a royal guest was there. 

The Abbot rising from his chair. 

Blest with spread hands, the ordered feast, 
While reverend stood each princely guest, 
And far adown the hall might see 
Knights, Bishops, Earls, on bended knee. 


And when came up, at old Yule-Tide, 

The boar’s head, trimmed with garlands gay, 
With shining holly’s scarlet pride 
And the sweet-scented rosemary, 

0 ! then what merry carols rung ! 

What choral lays the Minstrels sung ! 



Marching before it through the hall, 
lied by the stately Seneschal. 

- This was the joyous Minstrel’s call, 

In Leonine with English strung : 

“ Caput Afri defero. 

The boar’s head here in hand bring 1, 
With garlands gay, and rosemary ; 

I pray you all sing merrily, 

Qui estis in convivio." 


Then every voice in chorus joined 
Of those who sat in festal row. 

You might have heard it on the wind — 
Heard it o’er hills of desert snow. 

That sudden chorus sweeping high, 

Then sinking on the wild waste, die. 

As if the winter- wind would sigh 
Some sad, lamenting prophecy 
O’er all — Qui erant in convivio ! 

And from these hills of desert snow 
Oft have been seen, in vale below. 

Through windows of that Banquet-hall, 

The mighty Yule-Clough blazing clear. 
And the Yule-tapers, huge and tall. 

Lighting the roofs with timely cheer. 

But ere a few brief hours were sped. 

The blaze was gone — the guests were fled ; 
And heavy was the winter’s sigh. 

As those lone walls it passed by. 


Now, ere the Abbot’s feast began. 

Or yet appeared the crane and swan. 

The solemn carver, with his keen 
Knife, and well armed with napkins clean. 
Scarf-wise athwart his shoulder placed. 

And cn each arm and round his waist, 



Came, led by Marshal, to the dais. 

There every trencher he essays, 

O’er the great-salt makes flourishes, 
Kisses each spoon and napkin fair, 
Assaying whether ill lurk there. 

Ere he present it to the lord. 

Or offer it at the rewards ; 

The Sewer, half- kneeling on his way. 

Of every dish receives assaye 

At the high board, as guard from guile. 

The Marshal waiting by the while. 

And ancient carols rising slow 

From the young Choir and Monks below. 

And thus, as every course came on, 

These pomps an awful reverence won. 


Soon as the last high course was o’er, 
The Chaplain from the cupboard bore 
The alm’s-dish to the Abbot’s board. 
With viands from the tables stored, 

And ample loaf, and gave it thence. 

With due form and good countenance, 
That the Almoner might it dispense. 
Next came the cup-bearers with wine. 
Malmsey and golden metheglin. 

With spice-cake and with w'afers fine. 
This o’er, when surnaps all were drawn. 
And solemn Grace again was sung, 

Came golden ewer and bason, borne 
In state to the high board along. 


But at high-tide, ere all was past. 
Marched the huge wassail-bowl the last, 
Obedient to the Abbot’s call. 

Borne by the Steward of the hall, 



The Marsha], with his wand before, 

And streamers gay and rosemary, 

And choral carols sounding o’er. 

’Twas set beside the father’s dais. 

Where oft the Deacon in his place. 

Who bearer of the Grace-cup was. 

Filled high the cordial Hippocras 
From out that bowl of spicery. 

And served the Abbot on his knee ; 

Thus sent around to every board 
This farewell-wassail from his lord. 

The Abbot, tasting of the wine. 

Rose from his chair, in wonted sign 
The feast was o’er ; yet stood awhile 
In cheerful converse, with high guest, 
Who from the table round him pressed. 
Then with a kind and gracious smile. 

The wassail and the board he blessed. 

Ere yet he left the gorgeous scene, 

And sought the tranquil shade within. 


Here, with proud grace, did Wolsey stand. 
Signing forth blessings with his hand, 
And oft the Grace-cup had allowed 
To move among the willing crowd. 
Grandeur sat on his steadfast brow, 

’Mid high Imagination’s glow. 

He seemed to feel himself the lord 
Of all who sat beside his board. 

And whether peer, or prince, or king, 

’Twas meet to him they homage bring ; 
And homage willed they since his pride 
Had genius, judgment, taste, for guide, 
Which held it in such fine control. 

Pride seemed sublimity of soul. 


Lord Byron. 

Although so much has already been written about Lord 
Byron, including the most trivial anecdotes of his childhood, 
I will venture to let one of mine take its chance Avith the 
public, along Avith its many predecessors, some true, some 
doubtless fabricated, and if mine lacketh good telling, the 
truth of it must make amends for the style ; for I have ahvays 
thought with the great satirist Boileau, 

“ II n’y a rien beau que le vrai, le vrai seul est aimable.” 

I have already had occasion to speak frequently of his 
Lordship, and recollections are continually recurring to my 
mind of by-gone years, when I felt honoured by the notice 
Avhich he conferred upon me. Yes ; I cannot omit this trait 
of his personal courage, Avhich might have been of very serious 
consequence ; and though it may seem told merely to in- 
troduce his name, nHmporte, I shall not hesitate to insert it ; 
having, in fact, been present at the occurrence. In the year 
1806, one night in the month of July, I was seated AAuth Lord 
Byron in the last roAV of the front boxes, at Coleman’s 
Theatre ; the heat was so intense as to oblige us to keep the 
box-door open during the intervals of the acts, when a young 
man, Avith a blustering air and noli me tangere look, intruded 
himself on the same seat. As soon as the curtain drew up, 
his Lordship told him, in a firm yet polite manner, that the 
box Avas already full ; he nevertheless tenaciously persisted in 
keeping his place : some Avords ensued, but seeing that he 
AA^as still determined to maintain his position. Lord Byron, 
being next the door, pushed him sans ceremonie into the 
lobby. Having Avatched his behaviour, and hearing him 

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mutter something to himself on this/uiVe reciiler, ending with, 
“ I know who you are, I know ; ” — I followed him out, and 
insisted upon his explaining what he meant. Oh ! you are 
Angelo,” said he, “ that taught my brother to fence, and I am 
an officer,” with other bullying expressions. I was by this 
time surrounded by a number of my friends, who were 
laughing at the man’s arrogance, as if his military rank 
entitled him to insult me. Considering it as coupled with his 
insolent intrusion, and not to be excused by the humiliation 
of being thrust out of the box, I here demanded his name, but 
he endeavoured to evade the question, by quitting the theatre. 
This, however, did not prevent me from following him into 
Pall Mall, where, apologizing, by saying that he did not mean 
to offend me, he informed me that he was a cornet in a 
regiment of light cavalry, and that his name was Hanson. 
Some time afterwards, I recollect reading his name in the list 
of the killed, in an action in Spain ; and I found by my book 
that his brother had been a scholar of mine, in the city. I 
have since heard that his father was an orange-merchant. 

William the Fourth. 

A striking instance of skilful seamanship in his present Majesty, William 
the Fourth, when, in the year 1790, his Eoyal Father’s ship, the 
Valiant, was distinguished by bearing on her books the name of the 
then Duke of Clarence, as Captain. 

It Avill appear by the books of the above ship of the line, 
that, from the 12th of May, 1790, to the 27th of November 
following, the Illustoious Duke was borne on her books as 
Captain, and continued on board nearly the Avhole of that 
time, cruising in the chops of the Channel, and several leagues 



to the westward, with a view of exercising her crew, and 
giving expertness to such of the people as had newly entered. 
It may be here observed, that during the preceding period an 
armament was in progress against Russia, for aggressions in 
the British district, and seas of Nootka Sound. 

Early in November, the Empress of Russia had the 
discretion and good sense to authorize her ministers to offer 
such atoning explanations, and assurances, as led to a termi- 
nation of all our hostile preparations ; and, in consequence, 
the Valiant was one of the ships ordered to be paid off, and 
laid up. As she was at Portsmouth, her Royal Commander 
received orders to proceed thither. It, however, occurred to 
his Royal Highness, upon the approach of the Valiant to the 
destined port, that, in consequence of sudden unfavourable 
appearances in the weather, it would be advisable for the ship 
to proceed through the Needles ; and orders were accordingly 
issued to that effect : but the Duke having learnt that the 
master had never taken a ship of the line through that Channel, 
and had become alarmed at so important a charge (as at that 
period such an undertaking Avas deemed), lost not a moment 
in relieving the master from his apprehensions, by saying, in 
the presence of the entire ship’s company, that he Avould 
HIMSELF navigate the ship, Avith the blessing of Providence, 
to her anchorage. And to the high gratification of the 
officers and men, the Valiant Avas ably piloted through the 
Narrows and brought to her berth at Spithead. 

His Royal Highness soon afterAvards departed for London, 
leave of absence having been lodged Avith the Port Admiral, 
the Avorthy veteran Roddam, who wrote next day to the Earl 
of Chatham, extolling the skill and conduct of the Royal 
Seamen, Avhich letter that excellent nobleman communicated 



immediately afterwards to our then Venerable Monarch, 
George the Third. 

Memoirs of Monsieur de St. George. 

After the flatterino- encourao-ement I received from the 

O O 

many who were my late scholars, and pleased with the 
fencing anecdotes in my “ Reminiscences,” already having 
spoken of the Dieu de Dance Vestris ; though “ Othello’s 
occupation’s gone,” still sticking to the shop, I cannot say 
too much of the Dieu d’Armes, St. George. Some vears 
ago, I published my Extiacts, and the medical opinions on the 
utility and advantages of Fencing; although in print, these 
are extinct, except the few copies in possession of those 
who received them from me. 

The following is a narrative of the Chevalier de St. George, 
which I sent for purposely, to my friend. Monsieur Saint Ville, 
at Paris. 

His memoirs cannot fail to be acceptable to those who have 
only heard of his skill ; but more particularly to the amateurs 
of the art, the life of a man that was universally admired for 
his many accomplishments. 

Life of the Chevalier de St. George. 

The Chevalier de St. George was born at Guadaloupe. He 
was the son of M. de Boulogne, a rich planter in the colony, 
and who became the more fond of him as he was the result of 
an illicit connexion, by no means uncommon in the West 
Indies. His mother was a negress, and was known under the 
name of the handsome Nanon. She was justly considered as 
one of the finest women that Africa had ever sent to the 
plantations. The Chevalier de St. George united in his own 



person the grace and features of his mother, with the strength 
and firmness of M. de Boulogne. The youth’s vigour was 
highly pleasing to the father, who frequently laughed, and 
said he thought to have produced a man, but in fact he had 
produced a sparrow. This sparrow, however, grew into an 
eagle. No man ever united so much suppleness to so much 
strength. He excelled in all the bodily exercises in Avhich he 
engaged — an excellent swimmer and skater. He has been 
frequently known to swim over the Seine with one arm, and 
to surpass others by his agility upon its surface in the Avinter. 
He Avas a skilful horseman, and remarkable shot — he rarely 
missed his aim Avhen his pistol Avas once before the mark. 
His talents in music unfolded themselves rapidly; but the 
art in which he surpassed all his contemporaries and 
predecessors was fencing : no professor or amateur ever 
showed so much accuracy, such strength, such length of 
lunge, and such quickness. His attacks Avere a perpetual 
series of hits ; his parade Avas so close that it was in vain to 
attempt to touch him — in short, he was all nerve. St. George 
had not attained his 21st year when his father proposed him 
to go to Rouen, and to fence with M. Picard, a fencing 
master of that place, Avith a promise, that if he beat him he 
should have, on his return, a little horse and a pretty 
cabriolet. Like Ctesar, he came, saw, and conquered, and St. 
George had his cabriolet. This Picard had been formerly in 
the army, and harangued very foolishly against the science. 
St. George, Avhom he called the Mulatto of Laboissiere, Avould, 
he publicly asserted, soon give way to him ; but he was 
mistaken, for Laboissiere’s pupil beat him with ease. 

M. de Boulogne survived but a short time this first triumph 
of his son ; he left him an annuity of 7 or 8,000 francs, and 


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an adequate pension to his handsome Nanon, whom he brought 
to Paris. The remainder of his immense fortune went to a 
daughter of his, by a creole woman ; but the various talents 
of St. George were like a mine of gold ; he might have 
amassed considerable wealth, if he had united prudence to his 
other qualities. He was very liberal in money matters, and 
indulged freely in all the pleasures which then made Paris 
such a delightful residence : he mixed in every circle, and yet 
seemed to neglect nothing. His concertos, symphonies, 
quartettes, and some comic operas, are the best proofs of his 
extraordinary progress in music. Though he was very young, 
he was at the head of the concert of amateurs ; he conducted 
the orchestras of Madame de Montesson and the Marquis of 

In 1779 he was received as an inmate in the house of the 
Duke of Orleans, and held the rank of Lieutenant de Chasse 
de Pinci ; he lost this place at the Duke’s death : — this post 
of honour and of profit was obtained by St. George through 
no mean intrigue — no underhand proceedings. The loss was 
serious to him, and he felt it, and he was reduced again to 
apply himself to his favourite art. He came to London, and 
had the honour of fencing before His Royal Highness the 
Regent, with Fabian, a celebrated professor at Paris, and 
thrusting Carte and Tierce with Madame le Chevalier D’Eon. 
He returned to this country in 1780, and was again received 
by His Royal Highness at Brighton, and Avent to London, 
under an idea of establishing himself in this country ; but 
his plans were so badly laid, that he Avas altogether 

On his return to France, it was with difficulty he could 
avoid uniting in that astonishing impulse, Avhich then 



animated twenty millions of people. He went with the 
torrent, and was soon elevated by the prevailing party to a 
very high rank in the revolutionary army. He was presented 
with the colonelcy of a regiment of Hussars, and in this character 
served under General Dumourier, in Brabant ; but St. George, 
who was perfectly ignorant of the details of a military life, 
became a victim of the intrigues and arts of individuals. 
His regiment charged, and, notwithstanding its bravery, was 
overpowered by the number and discipline of their opponents. 
He was defeated, and his first steps in the career of glory 
were the area of his downfall. He never after held up his 

The Chevalier de St. George died at Paris, in 1810 or 1811, 
regretted by his friends, and by the few who know how to 
feel for, or excuse, the imperfections of humanity — qualities 
from which none of us can hope to be exempt. 


Resuming my pen again about fencing, a few words of a 
CONTRIVANCE, un jeu convenu, between a late fencing-master 
here, named Goddard, though his merits (we both practised 
at the same time together at Paris) were not to be disputed 
as an instructor, yet, to excel all his competitors, not con- 
tented at his return to this country when boasting his 
superiority to all others in the profession ; his putfs in the 
papers, assuming the name of Piecass (French charlatanerie), 
the better to attract the attention of John Bull, but he must 
fence with St. George, publicly challenging him in the 
newspapers, exciting that curiosity, and to give eclat to the 
assaut, the Pantheon was announced for their meeting. I 



should first premise, previous to the time of the contrivance, 
St. George on his second visit to this country, what with the 
expenses at the time, living in extravagance at Grenier’s 
Hotel, Jermyn Street (so few then in London), which was as 
fashionable as the Clarendon, at the time surrounded Avith 
fencers of all descriptions, amateurs, masters, flatterers (many 
depending on his liberality), fiddlers included, their continual 
reception at his table, and that profusion of Champagne, 
Burgundy, &c. — so reduced, and not able to continue his 
prodigality. Not a doubt existed but Goddard’s proposal 
(with the expectation of promoting this business) that the 
money received at the door (tickets half a guinea each), and 
the money of those who had previously, out of curiosity, Avith 
their guineas visited him for a ticket, he (St. George) Avas to 
possess the Avhole, Avell accounts for Avhat folloAved ; the hits 
Avere to be equal, making it appear their abilities Avere the 
same. The day fixed, and the room croAvded, “ impatient for 
the fray.” Myself a spectator, I trust, professionally speaking, 
my opinion may have some little Aveight, hoAvever I might have 
boAved to St. George’s superior judgment. Not one of those 
subterfuges, or false attacks, Avhich I have taught during 
fifty years, the fausse attaque to discover your adversary’s 
intentions, that instruction which emanated from my father 
and the first fencing-master at Paris, it appeared to me 
St. George, from the commencing of the assaut, never once 
adopted ; on the contrary, suffered Goddard to stretch out his 
arms, instead of defending himself. Had he Avaited but half 
a second, other resources might have deranged his opponent, 
the fraissement, coup de fouet, etc., Avhich he avoided, and, to 
my utter astonishment, the umpires decided the fencing- 
match — Hits equal — Fartie eqale. St. George neglected, on 



his first allotKjemenf, the great advantage, “ such a length of 
lunge ” (as mentioned in his memoirs), that extension, his 
adversary so inferior in size, he must have been out of measure. 
In fact, after the remarks I have made, as far as my opinion 
may agree with amateurs or instructors of the science, little 
doubt appeared to me, but, that from the first attack to the 
last, the whole was a contrivance ; the ambition of one, and 
the hesoin of the other, speaks for itself. The next day 
St. George left London to return to the continent. I need 
not say, as long as fencing is considered the science of attack 
and defence, it is the person attacked to defend himself, 
especially if opposed to a sword. To stretch out his arm 
then, he must be foolhardy indeed, to have recourse to such 
an alternative. 

Sir Thomas Lawrence. 

Soon after his arrival in London, from the intimacy sub- 
sisting between his family and Mrs. Lindley, I had an 
opportunity of introducing Sir Thomas to my father. Young 
Lawrence had a peculiar mildness in his deportment and 
manners, which was irresistibly pleasing. Mrs. Lindley often 
brought with her a sister of his, a beautiful girl of about 
seventeen. I met the then Mr. Lawrence, some twenty years 
after the period mentioned, at the house of a Mr. Mai ton, 
Avhere we spent the evening, and where the great artist sang 
a duet in a most amoroso and affetuoso style, with a very 
lovely young lady (now living), who seemed to attract him. 
very much, if one might judge par le langage des yeux. 
Mr. Malton was a celebrated instructor in perspective, and 
lived in the neighbourhood of Covent Garden. Some time 



after this, Sir Thomas applied to me, to give him lessons for 
exercise, when I resided near Soho Square ; but the time was 
not fixed, and the lessons never took place. Two or three- 
summers ago I paid him a visit in Russell Square, and 
remained with him half an hour ; I reminded him of our 
meeting at Malton’s and of the duet sung so completely con 
amove, at which he laughed heartily ; it was indeed all amour 
et tendresse, but 

Si I’amour passe avec le temps, 

Le temps passe avec I’amour. 

Talking of the race of time, mine has been a long one, yet it 
seems but of a day ; how rapidly in succession do the weeks, 
months, and years, pass, and though long in prospect, hotv 
short in the retrospect ! And such is life ! — and I am to-day 
old Angelo, whose father was old Angelo a fetv seasons back, 
and yet Ave all talk of killing time, whilst time is killing us. 


Letter from J. Heath, Esq. 

My dear Sir, — I Avill give you, as you desire, the par- 
ticulars of my acquaintance with Mr. Lawrence. When I 
first knetv him he Avas a boy Avith his hair about his shoulders, 
and I believe near eighteen years of age. We lived very near 
each other, he in Leicester Fields, and I in Leicester Street. 
We saAv each other several times a Aveek. During our 
acquaintance I frequently remonstrated Avith him about his 
painting nothing but little crayon portraits, for which he 
received five guineas a piece. He said he was perfectly con- 
tented, as he had as many to do as he Avished. But one 



morning he called on me, and said he had something to show 
me which he thought would please me, and upon going to his 
lodgings he surprised me with a portrait of himself, done in 
oil, as large as life. I expressed myself much pleased, and 
promised him a sitter, a Mr. Dansey — who at my recom- 
mendation sat to him ; and this was the first portrait he ever 
painted in oil. It was so well done, that it was universally 
admired, and he promised me that he never would paint 
another picture in crayons, which promise he faithfully per- 
formed. He then told me he could not draw the human 
figure, upon which I recommended a master, who afterwards 
attended twice or thrice a week, till he thought himself quite 
completed. He then painted a picture of Homer reading his 
verses to the Greeks, after which he rose to such eminence as 
to be patronized by the King, and visited almost all parts of 
Europe, to paint the Pope, and the different monarchs of 

James Heath. 

Charles Macklin. 

In the fashion of his day, this Veteran directed his satire 
against the natives of Scotland ; and in two dramatic 
characters, Sir Archy M‘Sycophant and Sir Pertinax, he has 
attributed to them, with little consistency, a love of sarcasm, 
and the practice of sycophancy. In whatever proportion the 
Scottish man of the world may possess or practise these 
qualities, Macklin himself was wholly addicted to sarcasm. — 
A\"here he for a moment intended to flatter, some unlucky 
word or other defeated his design ; his nature prevailed 
against his interest, his praise became ironical, and his very 



preference suspected. I am about tc) relate one of his 
attempts to minister the “ sweet poison of the age’s tooth,” to 
no less a man than David Garrick. But in order to do this 
with suitable effect, I must recall from the partial oblivion 
which near a century has thrown upon it, the fact, that the 
Shylock of Shakspeare, Charles Macklin, in the year 1754, 
established in the Piazza, Covent Garden, an Ordinary and 
ScJlooI of Criticism under the same roof. In the former, he 
brought in the first dish himself, placed it upon the table, and, 
profoundly bowing to his guests, retreated to the side-board ; 
then, by signs, he directed his dumb waiters, who never spoke 
but to answer a question from one of the guests. On the 
removal of the cloth, and the covering the table with the 
Ijottles and glasses, Macklin himself tied a bell-rope to the arm 
of the president’s chair, and, again bowing profoundly to the 
company, quitted the room, leaving them to the enjoyment of 
their port or claret. The charge for each guest was three 
shillings. As soon as the dinner was served, the outer door 
was closed. Here the great actor was nothing more than the 
head servant, and as such, he appeared with the servile badge, 
a clean napkin, crossing his left arm. 

But, in whatever changes he may indulge, the actor’s pride 
is in strict preservation of character. The quondam professor 
of silent obedience soon, in turn, imposed silence upon his 
guests ; and in full dress became himself the orator of what 
was called the British Inquisition. Of the peripatetic school, 
j\Iacklin now assumed to be the modern Aristotle, and to 
lecture upon the Drama, ancient and modern, though of either 
Greek or Latin he was entirely ignorant ; and, as he read no 
language but his own, he was unable to acquire even the im- 
perfect acquaintance with antiquity that French translation 

17 c 


placed within the reach of the polite. From Dennis and 
Dryden, however, something was to be picked up. Shakspeare 
he may be presumed to have read, as players commonly read 
him, in the interpolated copies ; but as to his fables, Mrs. 
Lenox had, the very year before he started, published two 
volumes, containing the novels and histories on which his plays 
had been founded, with her own critical and not very gentle 
remarks. Yet these, with a confident brow, an emphatic 
utterance, the practice of public speaking, and an established 
reputation, kept the young Templars for some time in hopes 
of improvement, and the tavern dreamers in the notion of his 
authority, upon all subjects at least connected with the 

And now we are arrived at the moment to relate our 
incident. The rival Romeos of Garrick and Barry had shaken 
the scenic world to the very centre ; and, though the public 
contest had dropt, the critical strife was likely long to 
continue. Macklin, in fact, had been the adviser of Barry, in 
his desertion of Garrick, and the competition between them ; 
and, as his countryman and sworn friend, is likely to have 
really preferred the more material requisites of Barry, his 
beautiful person and harmonious voice, to the energy and 
consummate professional skill of Mr. Garrick. But he took 
an opportunity to communicate to the little manager that he 
was at length in a station which enabled him at once to close 
all debate upon the subject of the Romeos, and decide the 
point for ever in Mr. Garrick’s favour. “Eh! How?” 
exclaimed Garrick, “ my dear Mack — Eh I how can you 
contrive to bring this about?” — “Sir,” returned Macklin, 
“ the British Inquisition shall settle the matter ; I shall 
discuss the play.” — “ Why, eh ! to be sure, my dear Mack, no 



man in the world can be more competent than yourself to do 
this ; but I don’t conceive the mode exactly of exhibiting the 
the — the differences of conception and manner ! ” — “ I’ll tell 
you, Sir,” rejoined the critic, “I mean to show your very 
different deportment and utterance in the Garden Scene ; — 
the Garden Scene itself is decisive of the whole business. 
Barry comes into it, Sir, as a great Lord, swaggering about 
his love, and talking so loud, that, by G — , Sir, if we don’t 
suppose the servants of the Capulet family almost dead with 
sleep, they must have come out, and tossed the fellow in a 
blanket.” — “ To be sure,” said Gari'ick. 

“Well, Sir, having fixed the attention of my auditors to 
this part, then, I shall ask them — * But how does Garrick act 
this ? ’ Why, Sir, sensible that the family of the Capulets are 
at enmity with him, and all his house, he comes in cree'ping 
upon his toes^ whispering his love, and cautiously looking 
about him, jMsi lihe a thief m the night” 

At this unlucky illustration, Garrick could hold no longer. 
He thanked Macklin for his good intentions, but begged he 
would decline his purpose ; “it might seem invidious to poor 
Barry ; and besides, after all, was it not a question better left 
to the decision of an audience in the theatre, than to become 
the subject of a lecture, however able the Professor ? ” 

That Macklin enjoyed this, I know, for he used to tell the 



Like the too many frequenters of the Theatre, whose pre- 
possession and partiality for the old school, they consider the 



present inferior. However, I may fancy myself competent, 
from long experience, of comparatively expressing my oj)inion. 
Ivesiding these last twelve years far distant from the seat of 
amusements, lost to the “ mirror up to nature ” — eminent as 
those performers of the day ; deprived as I have been of that 
gratification (free of the Theatres) when an evening seldom 
intervened that I Avas absent ; recollection noAv is only left me 
of those bright stars that once shined ; though I Avas young 
at the time, yet my memory has not failed me. Referring, 
first, to that great planet, Garrick — 

“ A Garrick’s excellence engaged his lays, 

And claimed the fairest wreath of critic praise.” 


I may venture to afiirm from Lear to Abel Drugger, I have 
seen him in all his characters, to his final conge. Powell’s 
Castalio, Barry’s Romeo, Woodward’s Bobadil, Mrs. Yates’s 
I.ady Macbeth, Mrs. CraAvford’s Lady Randolph and Alicia, 
■Mrs. Clive’s Kitty, in High Life beloAv Stairs. These I 
mention as seniors, previous to the many others that folloAved, 
Avho Avere the favourites of the day, eminent as they Avere, not 
forgetting King’s Lord Ogilvie. I may never expect to 
“ look on the like again.” 

The Keep Line Clue. 

At the Keep Line Club, so often mentioned by Reynolds, 
in his “ Life and Times,” Fitzgerald, the patriot poet, so 
admirably shoAAm up in the Rejected Addresses, made a very 
conspicuous figure. One of this gentleman’s earliest pro- 
ductions Avas his Prologue to Morton’s Drama of Columbus, 
with Avhich, as with most other of his lucubrations, he AA’-as 



himself so well satisfied, that he was long in the habit of 
reciting it to all companies, and on all occasions. This was 
very well once in a way ; but his prose contributions to the 
“ Keep the Line ” were of a much more formidable character ; 
and Angelo, who liked a little of “ the Table Talk ” to himself, 
was sometimes tempted to hreaJc the line, steer a-head of him 
in his awful career, and pour in a broadside of raillery, for the 
protection of the rest of the party, Avhich Fitzgerald returned 
with more weight of metal, though his guns were not so 
sharply served. This at all events operated a diversion, in 
every sense of the word, and the dialogue certainly went otf 
with more applause than the poet’s monologue. When the 
latter, however, which was sometimes the case, became 
irritable and personal, the Fencer generally closed the contest, 
exclaiming, “Well, never mind, Fitz, keep your temper, and 
tip us the Prologue to Columbus.” 


The r.ATE Mr, Holcroet 

Was an excellent reader of his plays, and always believed that 
he should have succeeded as an actor. Asking Lewis if he 
remembered him on the stage, and what was his success ; “I 
remember him,” said Lewis, “ only when acting with him, as 
the original representative of Figaro, in his own play of the 
‘ Follies of a Day,’ on which occasion, at the fall of the curtain, 
old Harris came up with great good-humour, and shaking 
him by the hand, said, ‘ I give you joy, the play has got over 
your acting, and nothing can give a stronger proof of its 
intrinsic merits.’ ” 




Chaeles Lamb, 

Whose ready wit and rich vein of humour are well known, 
was staying at Paris, with his friend Kenney, when Talma 
invited them, with Howard Payne, to come and see an 
original picture of Shakspeare, on an old pair of bellows, 
which he had purchased for a thousand francs, and which 
proved to be a well-known imposture, of which the great 
tragedian had recently become the victim. After admiring 
his supposed acquisition, the party announced their intention 
of seeing him that evening, in the play of Regulus, and invited 
him to sup with them afterwards, to which he assented. 
Lamb, however, could not at all enter into the spirit of 
French acting, and in his general distaste made no exception 
in favour of his intended guest. This, however, did not 
prevent their mutual and high relish of each other’s character 
and conversation, nor was any allusion made to the perform- 
ance, till, on rising to go. Talma inquired, “ how he liked it ? ” 
Lamb shook his head, and smiled. “ Ah ! ” said Talma, “ I 
was not very happy to-night ; you must see me in Sylla.” — 
“ Incidit in Scyllam,” said Lamb, “qui vult vitare Charybdim.” 
— “ Ah ! you are a rogue ; you are a great rogue,” said Talma, 
shaking him cordially by the hand, as they parted. We 
cannot paint the good-natured tone and look, which took all 
sting out of this joke, as it does out of all others uttered by 
the same distinguished humorist. 


George Colman. 

On a ramble with Jack Bannister and George Colman, we 
passed an evening at the Castle at Richmond. After supper, 


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Colman, inquiring of the waiter about his master, was in- 
formed, that very day he had hung himself in the cellar. 
Though my endeavours were often very inferior at a pun, I 
could not help saying, “Very low, very low indeed ! ” When, 
to my surprise, he laughed, at the same time observing — 
“ That’s not bad, Angelo ! ” Ever since, I have occasionally 
made an attempt to pun ; and what is far from encouraging 
to my attempts, have often been obliged to explain them. 
When looking for a laugh, not the least notice ! However, I 
have this comfort left — I can boast that I have often excited 
the smiles of Lord Byron, who was most pleased Avith those 
which he said were “ far-fetched.” 


Whether wit, pun, or repartee, if not in print, to those 
that never heard the anecdote lately told me, I leave it for 
their perusal. At a fete given by our late Majesty George 
the Fourth, the costume as worn at the coronation, on that 
occasion, was introduced. George Colman, who Avas one of 
the Exons of the King’s guards, his dress so adorned, attracted 
the notice of the Duke of Wellington, Avho laughing, said, 
“ Why, Colman, you look like Pam.” — “ Do I, your Grace ? 
then 1 am the hero of Loo." 

The Minuet. 

Referring to the old school. Of the many changes, the 
present is now considered superior ; though but feAv years 
have intervened, I cannot omit alluding to the gentlemen of 
the pump — dancing masters. Considering my late profession 



not only as a science, but personal improvement, promoting 
the expansion of the chest, the graceful attitudes of the form, 
whilst it gives motion and activity to every part of the body — 
speaking technically of the beneficial effects, not merely as 
an accomplishment ; such an inducement was my sheet 
anchor, I experienced, during fifty years. Universally 
patronised by the nobility and gentry, and, if in quoting Lord 
Chesterfield, in his letters to his son, I may be acquitted of 
vanterie puffing my late profession, though now long inde- 
pendent, having grounded my arms — “ I am very glad you 
have taken a fencing master ; that exercise will give you 
some manly, firm, and graceful attitudes, open your chest, 
place your head upright, and plant you well on your legs.” 

However I may give offence to the Artistes of the “ fantastic 
toe,” a new term adopted by the French. Following their 
example here, a seller of oysters, in large letters, calls himself 
a purveyor ; so is a cook-shop, to any passer by. Having, as 
well as my father to his late Majesty, when Prince of Wales, 
shown some hundreds how to make their bow, little practised 
now, a sailor’s shake by the hand being more preferable, 
particularly to the ladies, the squeeze, “ How are you ? ” the 
general salutation. After what I have seen of the present 
system, though not an artiste (the toe no compliment to the 
brush), it appears to me the reverse to those advantages ; 
dancing would give a finish, united with fencing — both 
accomplishments. As to the curtsey, I cannot but remai’k, 
instead of the body erect, the shoulders back. Madam, or Miss, 
stooping forward, with her arms extended, holding her gown, 
one leg at a distance behind the other, almost to the ground, 
makes her reverence. 

As to the minuets I have seen at the dancing masters’ balls, 



the boarding school fry, from the position of their arms, that 
distance holding their dress from them, the more they must 
contract their shoulders. Is this graceful ? Is it not contrary 
to improve the shapes, or open the chest ? I should be sorry 
to olfend the gentlemen of the Kit ; but whilst no blame can 
possibly be attached to them, obliged as they are to follow the 
fashion of the day, probably the novelty was introduced by 
some of the Corps de Ballet here, besides pleasing the papas 
and mamas. However I may be considered no foil to the 
artistes of Terpsichore, they cannot deny, but the fencing 
master’s opinions are pointed. 

An Old Acquaintance. 

On a visit lately to Brighton, I was agreeably surprised at 
meeting an old acquaintance I had instructed above forty 
years ago, at the late Doctor Burney’s, who at that time had 
an academy at Hammersmith, called Fairlawn House. When 
I mention the name of Barrett, those of the last century, who 
have either frequented Bath or Brighton, must recognise the 
name as that of the child of nature, or more appropriately as 
Lubin. His general knowledge was great, having, when a 
pedestrian, visited the first courts in Europe, and obtained 
various acquirements, speaking fluently the different languages. 
His company was universally courted ; having known him from 
his youth, though the traits of his character then might appear 
eccentric, still, to do him justice, it was a proof of his perse- 
verance to excel in improving his mind, as well as his accomplish- 
ments. At the time (then growing to manhood) when he was 
at the Doctor’s, who, after Parr, was considered with George 
Glass the two best Grecians, not content with one good master. 


certain days in the week he left his Omega at school to learn 
new derivations in London from another. After the erudite 
abilities of the names of Burney, the Tourist, the Grecian, and 
Novelist, my feelings caused no alarm ; however proud I may 
have been of my name, Avhich to many, looking up to theirs, 
have been a “ tower of strength,” a father’s previous abilities, 
the son following his profession. Like Dr. Burney’s scholar, 
so it was with me ; my instruction alone was not sufficient ; 
the fencing schools in town were such inducements, my lessons 
were not enough to keep him to myself. At that time there 
were many academies (previous to the Revolution), continual 
new visitors making their dehut, soi-disant fencers of the 
premiere force from Paris, merely les oiseaux de passage, who, 
boasted of their abilities ; my young Here was the first in 
these schools to put their abilities to the test, especially at 
Olivier’s, who taught in Bell Yard, Lincoln’s Inn, a favourite 
with the benchers, where he was much encouraged. Lord 
Macdonald (who for years attended mine) Avas considered the 
strongest fencer, and occasionally exhibited an assaut to the 
visitors ; his lordship Avas above six feet, and a difficult 
antagonist {un pen baroque). On those occasions, Barrett was 
always his opponent ; yet, AAdiatever his pursuits were to 
improve himself abroad, nevertheless, he AV'as a constant 
attendant to my fencing room, at that time at the Opera 
House, a favourite Avith all, where Sir Francis Burdett gave 
him the preference, and AAffio Avas the best fencer I ever 
instructed, particularly for that coolness and presence of mind 
so very necessary when depending on science and judgment. 
When opposed to these vaunting foreigners, Avith their fan- 
faronade, and intimidating noises, nothing could flurry him, or 
put him off" his guard ; and though not from quickness, but 



skill, few were able to cope with him, leaving no great proof 
of their premiere force. My old scholar Barrett, still retaining 
that activity and strength, which years ago gave him such 
superiority, was as anxious as myself to engage with these 
grands tireurs, from the grand metropolis. However their 
abilities (some excellent fencers) might have entitled them to 
encouragement, their dissipated conduct, their extravagance, 
was such, that few remained here long enough to establish 
themselves ; and the French revolution folloAving, those that 
remained, as aliens, were sent to the right about, leaving me 
the champs de hataille to myself ; and I may venture to say, I 
kept it till the year 1821, when I then grounded my arms. 
Lerideau est tonihe^ “ Othello’s occupation’s gone.” My father, 
when in his eighty-sixth year, but a few days before his 
decease, gave lessons. Could / have continued to this time, 
though my health is good, yet many are the advantages I have 
been deprived of promoting it, forbid ever to use that exercise 
again. I did hope to follow my father’s example, “ Helas ! on 
n’est pas heros partout.” Whilst I was at Brighton, my 
friend informed me that Mr. Leslie, who, in my opinion (for 
many years past he preferred my room to practise in, having 
received his previous instructions at Brussels), was by far the 
best fencer there, both for science and quickness, and with 
that calmness, the more hits his opponents received, the more 
his sang-froid displeased them, some en tete fancying them- 
selves his equal, during the time he was at Brighton -with 
Sir Michael Stewart, encouraging the exercise there. Sir 
Michael, when a boy, having been my scholar, and following 
it up since, whose excellence not only with the foil but the 
Scotch broadsword was always a great acquisition to my 
academy. These two gentlemen forming a party, with my 



singular eleve, they occasionally met to fence together, and to 
keep up the science, setting the example to the many who, 
though they may have had the best masters — it is not merely 
the lesson can make them excel, without the absolute necessity 
of keeping up the practice, at the same time promoting that 
health, Avhich otheiuvise they might be deprived of, without that 
sudorific j^roduced by the foil in preference to master Galen. 

Hearing that a Monsieur Micheles, fencing master at 
Brighton, Avas patronized by Mr. Leslie, to me Avas a sufficient 
estimation of his abilities ; and being informed he Avas much 
taken notice of by the nobility and gentry there. Desirous to 
be introduced to him, my friend took me to his house, AA'here, 
after a civil reception, having been previously informed of my 
intended visit, he exhibited before me, fieuret a la main ; not 
Avith one of his scholars, or inferior antagonists, but Avith a 
French amateur, Avhose scientific knowledge and execution 
must have been acquired from long practice abroad. Pleased, 
seeing the correctness and science of the old school, the veritable 
attack and defence, if not so strictly attended to noAv, no 
disparagement to the efforts of the present school, Avhen some 
learn for a feAV months, only because it is genteel, and they 
have had the first masters ; some for a good SAveat, and, like 
the school-boy, impatient to read before he can say his 
ABC, fence loose before they can thrust carte and tierce ; no 
wonder they are ferailleurs, far different to those Avho not 
only learn for amusement, but, strictly attending to the master, 
become scientific and good sAvordsmen. As I have as yet 
said A’’ery little of the art, my intention being to Avrite more at 
a future time, I cannot refrain from mentioning one of my 
former scholars, Avho had practised at my room for a number 
of years, adopting a method peculiar only to himself, and A^ery 



unpleasant to those he fenced with. Not succeeding in liis 
attack, sooner than defend himself (no matter if he is hit) 
against the rispode (return), instead of replacing himself on 
his defence, kept pushing (more appropriate poking) on. This 
is not the science of the attack and defence, and quite the 
reverse to the use of the sword. If I have been prolix, 
dwelling so much on my late shop, I trust those who read 
my opinions will excuse my pen wandering, referring to those 
days when I had the general esteem and friendly notice of my 
scholars ; it was not my pen then, but “ my voice is in my 
sword.” Referring to Monsieur ]\Iicheles ; on taking my leave, 
he would not suffer me to depart without first partaking of a 
goide with him, when we were all ushered up stairs, where I 
found a table set out, with a large Perigord French pie, and 
different sorts of wine, Avhen the foil gave way to the fonr- 
rhefte ; the latter, if not so quick, not a little in motion, 
assisted by the exertion of the former, to promote the appetite. 
After, coffee, and chasse cafe liqueurs, beholding his portrait 
in a costly hussar dress, covered Avith silver, and the cross of 
the Legion d’honneur, I Avas informed he had been a captain 
in Buonaparte’s guard ; and judging from his affable manners, 
and his civilities to me, the more I Avas pleased Avith my 
introduction, and at passing such a morning’s agreeable 
lounge so unexpectedly. In mentioning my recollections of 
many years ago, what I have said of my accomplished friend, 
his indefatigable perseverance to improve his mind and his 
person (no compliment either to the Grecian savant or his 
fencing master), I should hope, knoAving his goodness of heart, 
he cannot be offended with me. His father, Avhom I had long 
knoAvn, and had often seen at my house, having formerly been 
an officer in the blues, Avas considered one of the first horsemen 



of the regiment, and a strong fencer, was not without pecu- 
liarities, as well as the son. Often Avhen attending my schools, 
at the time he resided at Knightsbridge, I have seen him 
walking to town followed by four dogs, his attachment to one 
having originated in saving his life, when attacked by a mid- 
night assassin ; and, strange as it may appear, I have heard 
that, at his decease, he left 4S)l. per annum for their main- 

More Beefsteaks. 

During the short interval that Louis XVIII. returned to 
France, I passed a feAv days at Brighton. Dining one day in 
the coffee room, facing where the packet from Dieppe anchored, 
four Englishmen entered, who had just landed from the vessel, 
after damning the French parlez-vous and their country, 
saying that they had been starved ; impatient for their dinners, 
first calling for pots of porter, desired to have plenty of beef- 
steaks ; this was about seven in the evening. Having dined, 
and drank my coffee previous to taking my Avalk, I was pleased 
to listen to their uncouth remarks of what they had seen, and 
Avaited till their beefsteaks appeared ; when on the table, I 
left them silent, no longer abusing the mounseers and their 
damned maigre soups, their voracious appetites “ eager for the 
fray.” It appeared the excursion they had made did not 
exceed Dieppe, remaining there only till the packet returned. 
Leaving them to take my evening promenade, at my return, 
an hour after, I found them still calling out, “ Are the beef- 
steaks coming?” Travelling often may create an appetite, 
but not to be compared with such complaining John Bulls, 
“ as if increase of appetite had groAvn on Avhat it fed on ” — 


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beefsteaks. After dinner, I left them singing — “ Oh the roast 
beef of Old England ! ” 


With whom I have passed many a pleasant and convivial hour, 
and having professionally en ami obliged him. However, his 
songs d la Morris proved lucrative to him, and amusing to the 
many who have listened to them. He voluntarily offered to 
write one for me, as a select and exclusive, that no person 
should sing it, first, but myself. Leaving me the choice of the 
air, I fixed on “ Poll, dang it how do ye do ? ” the Sailor-boy 
capering on shore. The following week I was to have it, 
when, alas ! poor fellow, he was no more. His social company 
— his humour — and courted society, that dissipation exceeding 
his stamina, and no resolution to recruit it, by absence from 
those who gratified their own amusement, hastened him, at an 
early age, to his grave. 

Charles Dibdin. 

Some little distance beyond Bear Hill, where the late Duke 
of Kent once resided, Dibdin had his country house, where 
John Bannister and myself passed our evenings. This was 
during his summer residence. Till supper, I was amused hear- 
ing some of his new compositions, preparatory to his exhibit- 
ing them at his theatre in Leicester Street. It was in his 
summer-house he told us that “ Poor Jack,” and the greater 
part of his favourite songs, were composed. His harpsichord, 
I think, he told us, belonged to Handel. After supper, the 
song following, when it came to my turn, /jar complaisance to 



our musical host, I sang “ Meg of Wapping,” and occasionally 
was favoured with his smiles ; however my endeavours might 
liave failed, n’importe, it Avas his composition. My friend 
Bannister, who was in high spirits, and Avho had kept us tlie 
whole evening amused Avith his drollery and imitations, sang 
the “ Rushlight,” then the favourite comic song of the day, 
Avritten by Colman. HoAvever diverting Avere Dibdin’s ballads, 
for eccentric humour they Avere not to be compared to the 
ridiculous idea of putting out a candle, by Avhich Bannister 
had so often created such roars of laughter, in the different 
attempts, holding it in his hands to no purpose. AW our 
lauerhinff did not alter a muscle of Dibdin’s countenance, 
Avhen, out of patience, stopping him in the middle of his song, 
he found fault Avith the words, “ rushlight and crushlight. 
Ha ! ha ! AA^hat nonsense ; too bad ! too bad. Jack.” L’ amour 

Sir Vicary Gibbs. 

M^HoAvarth, Avho was an amateur of the Highland Broad- 
sAVord exercise, liaAung wrote an excellent treatise on that 
science, AAdiich Avas so much admired, being pirated by a book- 
seller, near St. Paul’s, Avas sold in numbers, at a A'ery inferior 
price, and caused a very considerable loss to him. When an 
action Avas brought at the Guildhall, in the city, against the 
invader of his rights, I aa’rs subpmnaed as a Avitness, being a 
professional man of that science. Counseller GarroAv, aa’Iio 
pleaded for the defendant, and cross-examined me, Avas en- 
deavouring to puzzle me Avith questions about my profession 
(his son could have done it better, Avho Avas once one of my 
scholars), Avhich it appeared to me he Avas little acquainted 


with ; but when he persisted in some questions, and feeling 
myself hurt, just as I was going to answer. Sir Vicary Gibbs, 
who was counsel on the other side, and who sat near, said 
something aside to him, then smiling and addressing me, 
“ Mr. Angelo, I remember you many years ago, at Eton, we 
were old school- fellows.” Soon after, no longer subjected to 
be cross-examined, and opposed in my replies, I was released 
from my unpleasant situation, and much to my pride and 
satisfaction the notice conferred on me so many years after by 
such a high legal character. In referring to a list I have by 
me of those who were at Eton in the year 1767, I find the 
name of Gibbs in the fifth form, a few boys above the present 
Rev. Dr. Randolf, the late Dr. R. Rennell, of the Temple, and 
the late John Reeves, Parliament Place, all collegers on the 
foundation, and must have been about seventeen, when I was 
at the lower part of the school. 


If the recollection of many years ago, anecdotes of my 
younger days and since, the various situations my pursuits 
have placed me in these last fifty years, so weU knoAvn sur le 
pave, my ent7'e free to all public places, received at the tables 
of my superiors, the notice of the many, including those 
authors, artists, &c., who have distinguished themselves by 
their superior abilities, my “ Reminiscences ” have derived 
material information ; and, after the approbation bestowed on 
my second volume, I flatter myself my scribbling efforts again 
may not be unacceptable, at least to those I am known to, 
either as a professional man, or an old acquaintance ; and 
when late in life to have recourse to memory, recording those 




events, the issue of many years gone by, if I fail with my pen, 
having ever wielded the foil in preference to the book-making 
trade. However, the many who have succeeded mi fait to 
Avriting iictious stories of the dead, characters that emanated 
from the author only nemine contradicente. Of the many I 
have spoken of, the greater part Avhom I was personally knoAvn 
to, nobility, gentry, &c. now living, I leave them to say, if in 
one instance I have deviated from the truth. Indeed, bold as 
I have been to venture my lines for the press, such embellish- 
ments as fiction, however they may amuse, are far beyond my 
endeavours to impose by invention, or impose on those who 
have patience to read my Reminiscences ; and whatever may 
be the opinions of my friends, should they put the question t(3 
me ponrquoi, what could possibly tempt me to become an 
author, a fencing master too, and to Avrite about himself, they 
are Avelcome to my reply, “ It Avas my poverty, not my Avill 
consents.” Ghaciin doit penser d soi. 


Retired in a village for seA'^eral years, those I Avas kuoAvn 
to there Avere surprised (though only tAvo miles from Bath) at 
my Avant of curiosity to go to the theatre, especially Avhen 
Ausited by London actors, leading stars, astonishing the 
country, being a Paysan. During the space of seven years, 
only three times they had my company ; it Avas far different 
years ago, AAdien my constant practice (living in Bolton Row), 
particularly on Tuesdays and Saturdays (having my entree at 
all the theatres), on those nights in my Avay visiting the opera, 
attracted by the Bravura song in the first act, and the dance 
(ahvays then tAvo ballets, pastoral and serieux) ; next, Drury 



Lane, to see Kemble in the last act, taking Covent G-arden in 
time for the after-piece, and in my way home making the 
Opera House my finale for the grand ballet. “ Helas, tempora 
mntanfur." And what I may judge of the many (some like 
myself) of the present day, indulging their amusements sans 
payer; others, who were renters, sure nightly visitors 
opinidtres, are attached only to the actors of last century, and 
fastidious of what they have seen. However those who excel 
now, and whose transcendent abilities are sure of filling the 
house, and though curiosity could not excite them to judge, 
they will even persist that the performers now are far inferior ; 
and, unless Garrick and his contemporaries could tread the 
boards again, no inducement could possibly tempt them to 
visit the theatres. “ Dire et faire, soiit deux chases Men 

An Honest Blackleg. 

Soubise, whom I have already mentioned in my first volume 
of “ Reminiscences,” a blackamoor, except Mr. Holwell (son of 
Governor Holwell of Black Hole memory) who had been in 
India, and boarded at my father’s house in Carlisle Street, was 
the only one who refused to sit doAvn at the same table with 
him. However, my mother soon persuaded him to the con- 
trary. Although Soubise’s sooty complexion was objection- 
able, yet his insinuating manners, his accomplishments, his 
drollery, were such, and that amusement from his endeavours 
to do the agreahle, he became the general favourite. Of his 
eccentricities, if I may so call them (this must have been above 
fifty years ago), I remember seeing him, when presenting a 



chair to a lady, if from some distance, make three pauses, 
pushing it along some feet each time, skipping with an entre- 
chat en avant, then a pirouette when placed. One of his 
songs, truly ridiculous, his black face and powdered woolly 
head not suitable to the words, was a Vauxhall song then, 
“ As noAV my bloom comes on apace, the girls begin to tease 
me ” ; when he came to tease, making a curtsey to the ground, 
and affecting to blush, placing his hands before his face, an 
encore was sure to follow. As an orator, his favourite exhibi- 
tion was Romeo in the garden scene. When he came to that 
part, “ 0 that I were a glove upon that hand, that^ I might 
touch that cheek,” the black face, the contrast of his teeth, 
turning up the white of his eyes as he mouthed, a general 
laugh always ensued, which indeed was not discouraging to 
his vanity, and did not prevent him pursuing his rhetorical 
opinions of himself. Fancying he was admired by the ladies, 
he boasted much of his amours, and his epistolary correspond- 
ence. At the time, I sketched, on copper, a caricature of him, 
called the Mungo Macaroni, which was exhibited in Daiiey’s 
shop, in Rupert Court, St. Martin’s Lane ; his portrait, by 
Zofani, which belonged to the Duchess of Queensberry, given 
to my mother, I made a present to my friend, Mr. Burgess, 
Solicitor, Curzon Street. 


Extract from the Morning Herald, April 9th, 1787. 

On Monday, a grand assault was made at Carlton House, 
before the Prince of Wales, the Due de Lausanne, Madame 
d’Eon, and a few of his Highness’s select friends. The principal 




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competitors were M. St. George, M. Fabian, M. Moge, and 
Mr. H. Angelo. The assault between M. St. George and M. 
Fabian had every claim to admiration ; the quickness of the 
first-mentioned gentlemen was incredible ; to the praise of 
M. Fabian, we must also add that he discovered very consider- 
able skill. The Prince did M. St. George the honour to thrust 
■with him, in carte^ and in carte and tierce, and astonished 
every beholder with his amazing grace ; whenever his 
Royal Highness put himself on his guard, his attitudes were 
highly elegant and easy. From the sanction of the Prince to 
this polite exercise, many of our young nobility have begun to 
apply with uncommon attention to the practice of defence. 
The Prince avowed himself highly diverted with the various 
encounters, which continued between the different parties, 
from two o’clock till past four. 


St. George having made me a present of his portrait, painted 
by Mather Brown, I was proud to place it over my chimney- 
piece in my fencing room ; and as many of my scholars 
solicited me to permit them to have a copy, which I refused, I 
employed Ward, a famous mezzotinto scraper, to make a print. 
When finished, pre'vdous to its being made public, the first 
proof I sent to St. George, who was then at Paris, when I 
received, by return of post, a letter to delay its appearance 
till he sent me some lines to put under. A few days after I 
received the following poetical effusions of his friend the 
fencing master, M. De la Boussiere, not a little flattering, to 
please the vanity of his scholar. 



M. St. George. 

From an Original Picture at Mr. Angelo’s Academy. 

Dans les armes jamais on ne vit son egal, 

Musicien charmant, compositeur habile, 

A la nage, au patin, a la chasse, a cheval, 

Tout exercise enfin, pour lui semble facile, 

Et dans tout, il decouvre un mode original. 

Si joindre a ses talens autant de modestie, 

Est, le nec plus ultra de Hercule Frangais ; 

C’est que son bon esprit exempt de jalousie 
N’a trouve le bonheur en cette courte vie, 

Que dans les vrais amis que son coeur s’etoit fait. 

The above eloge is not a trait of his “ autant de modestie,’’ 
verses written purposely to be placed under his portrait ! 
What ! a fencing master ? I may say, “ Would the gods had 
made me poetical.” As a fencer he certainly was considered 
for a number of years far superior to all the others ; many 
who travelled expres to Paris to oppose him, returned back 
beaten; and, except his abilities as a musician, a thorough 
master of music, his other accomplishments may have been 
superficial. Two years after, he returned to this country ; 
which happening in the month of August, the usual period of 
my vacation, I followed him to Brighton, where he resided at 
that time, and took up my abode in the same house, by which 
means I had the opportunity of practising with him every 
morning. On his return to France, during the revolution, he 
was presented with the colonelcy of a regiment of hussars (the 
greater part des tireurs d' armes). In this character he served 
under General Dumourier ; but St. George, who was perfectly 
ignorant of the details of a military life, became a victim of 
intrigues, and of the arts of individuals. His regiment charged, 



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and, notwithstanding its bravery, was overpowered by the 
numbers and discipline of their opponents ; he was defeated, and 
his first career of glory was the era of his do’wnfall ; he never 
after held up his head. The Chevalier St. George was born at 
Guadaloupe ; he was the son of M. de Boulogne, a rich planter 
in the colony ; his mother was a negress, and was known 
under the name of the handsome Nanon. St. George died in 
Paris, in 1810 or 1811, regretted by his friends, and the few 
who knew how to feel for and excuse the imperfections of 
humanity, qualities from which none of us can hope to be 

Piety in Pattens. 

A private party of theatrical amateurs having selected 
Foote’s burlesque interlude of Piety in Pattens (first performed 
at his primitive puppet show, 1774, Little Theatre, Hay- 
market), a piece I have often seen him play the Squire 
Western, and Thomas the butler. I once attempted the part 
of the latter, by far the most comic, interlarded with a deal of 
dry humour. O’Keefe, in his Life, speaking of it, alludes to the 
taste of the day, “ To ridicule the sentimental comedies, the 
piece consisted of the most trifling and commonplace thoughts, 
wrapt up in a bundle of grand phrases and high-flown words, 
and had its full effect as a burlesque on sentiment.” A worthy 
friend of mine, whose acting once delighted the whole town, 
and whose ready wit and repartee were proverbial, to give a 
zest, and to add to my finale as a butler, introducing his 
technical ideas, purposely wrote the following song for 
me : — 



Attend, my dear Polly, attend to my song. 

And as ’tis a short one, it cannot be long ; 

The Squire, my dear Polly, is full of deceit. 

As full, my dear Polly, as an egg’s full of meat. 

Derry down, &c. 

An egg, if once cracked, will never be sound, 

And its virtue, dear Polly, oft falls to the ground ; 

With yoti, it will be, should the Squire prevail. 

For virtue, when cracked, from that moment is frail. 

Derry down, &c. 

Say your virtue’s as sound as bottled brown stout. 
Which nought but the corkscrew of wedlock draws out ; 
On your side, like a bottle, unless that's the case, 

You’ll lie safe and sound, till the parson says grace. 

Derry down, &c. 


Pure maids and pure liquor for ever will please. 

But damaged, grow stale, like wune on the lees ; 

Then wire down your honour for virtuous use, 

Or else it may burst, like a bottle of spruce. 

Derry down, &c. 

My Watch. 

Six years ago, at one of the pugilistic benefits in Windmill 
Street, in expectation of meeting my old acquaintance, Jack- 
son, I was one of the melange de haul en has — such they proved 
to me. I had been but a few minutes in the place, which was 
densely croAvded, and was endeavouring to advance to the 
temporary stage, when a whiskered dandy, in a braided blue 
frock coat, was continually placing himself in my way. 
Although I tried to avoid him, if possible, he seemed still 


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determined to keep me back : no sooner had he quitted me, 
than, to my surprise, I missed my ivatch. Considering myself 
an old stager, and too knowing, as I thought, for the light- 
fingered gentry, never before having experienced such a loss 
— enraged at the moment, I vociferated aloud, “ Take care of 
your pockets, thieves and blackguards ! plenty of them here.” 
Furieux, I could not contain myself, but continued my com- 
plaints so pertinaciously, that a friend, who was with me, was 
frightened away by the noise. Two days after, calling on a 
gentleman who was an amateur of the fist, I mentioned the 
circumstance to him. Knowing the greater portion of the 
ring, this friend said, “ I’ll speak to Frosty Faced Fogo, I dare 
say he’ll find it out for you.” As I had another watch, and 
although the chain and seals of the lost one were gold, I Avas 
not inclined to purchase them back of a thief. I regretted, 
indeed, the loss of a mourning ring given to my father, who 
was included in one of the coaches, a mourner at Garrick’s 
funeral. This ring I very much valued. HoAvever, thanking 
him for his kind offer to serve me, I said I should be happy to 
pay for the ring, could I possibly procure it again, — and I 
entertained not the least idea then of ever seeing it. To my 
astonishment, on calling at his house, he had obtained it for 
me, having paid a sovereign ; truly rejoiced I was to get back 
such a valuable memento. According to Fogo’s account : 
“ Knowing a gemman that was acquainted with a thief, who 
knew another gemman, it was traced to Duke’s Place, where 
my watch was found deposited cum mulHs aHis." No matter 
who were the gemmen, the ring since then has ever remained 
on my finger. Having been from a child so well knoAvn to 
Garrick, the loss to me, of this valued memorial of such a friend 
as the Roscius, would have been most severe. 



No Grecian. 

Upon the examination for the Remove at Eton (that part of 
the school between the fourth and fifth form), which takes 
place every half year, though I succeeded with my Theme and 
Verses, I was not so fortunate when tried in Greek. Doctor 
Foster, who was then head master, having called me up to 
derivate (Eton term) the Greek word BaWo), and the boy before 
me a Colleger, brother to Sir Hanbury Williams, next to me 
the Honourable Charles Monson, the two, des ignorans, 
all three indeed of one feather, I stood no chance of 
being prompted, or of having a side whisper to assist me ; 
answering BaWco, BaWd>, BakeKa, instead of Ba/3\€Ka, I was 
ordered to sit down — previously, as I surmised, to a good 
flogging. Charles Monson, who was called up next, replied 
no better than myself, but, being an honourable, escaped the 
vapulation. However, as I was the Fencing Master’s son 
(my father at that time attending Eton), I got my remove 
into the fifth form. “ Nemo mortalium omnibus horis 

Eton Montem. 

One year there was a mock Montem among the inhabitants 
of the town, at Eton. The elder Williams, the carpenter, was 
marshal, who strutted at the head of the Homines de Metier, 
holding his baton ; Avho the captain was, I do not recollect ; 
my Dilly Stevens who let horses to the boys, the two Pipers, 
and Gill their boats, Frank Wetheridge the bricklayer, famous 
for his slang, were the most conspicuous characters of the 
motley crew in the procession to the Brocas (those old 


Eton Eoiileg-e, 

'I'lliK* i'fjiii Noii , 
J'ull;-! ill Ihr wusa* rjd'E’iM'tiluii Hi' tin* itod. 


Etonians who read this, may remember their convenient 
acquaintance for boats and horses when running tide), a clump 
of high trees near the river, facing Windsor, where a collation 
with plenty of beer and punch enlivened their sham festival, 
much to the amusement and fun of the Etonians, who 
assembled around them, listening to their songs and 
merriment alfresco. 

Eton and Westminster. 

The Etonians, who ever distinguished themselves at cricket, 
were challenged, near forty years ago, by the Westminsters to 
play a match. It was accepted ; Uxbridge was fixed for the 
field of trial, and it took place in the August vacation. 
Invited by the Westminsters to the dinner there, and the 
match in the early part of the day being won by the Etonians, 
this hastened dinner, and a very pleasant agremen followed. 
The songs and hilarity which accompanied, keeping the rival 
discipuli in high cheer — indeed, after the exertion and the 
fatigue of the bat the wine did not a little “ set the table in 
a roar.” On our return to town at a late hour, particularly 
when we got into the Bath Road, at Hammersmith, there were 
plenty of windows smashed, as a memento of the day’s sport. 
However, the Westminsters may justly value their skill at 
cricket, when the disadvantage they labour under is computed ; 
fixed in the metropolis, they have little time to improve, the 
distance to the fields is so far, and they are so often obliged to 
fight the Vulgars (as they call them) for the ground, it is then 
no wonder they are inferior to those where the fields are 
adjacent to the College. 



The Hopeful. 

Judging from the appearance of Morland, this truly 
eminent artist’s works retain more the appearance of the stable 
than the parlour. Hone, the portrait-painter, told me a story 
of him when a boy. One winter morning calling on his father, 
who resided at Paddington, young Morland, then not more 
than twelve years old, was in the room during the time, when 
the father was called out on some business. Directly, the boy 
placing himself, and holding up his clothes, turned his back to 
the fire, and began whistling. Hone, surprised at the conse- 
quence he assumed, asked him where he went to school, when 
he replied, “ None of your schools for me.” What do you do 
at home ? “ Kiss the maids, demme ! ” At that moment the 

father entered, saying, “ Well, don’t you think my son a nice 
little fellow ? ” Oh yes ! a very nice little fellow indeed. The 
dress, as described of him to me, then a boy, had the resem- 
blance of a groom or jockey to a pony race ; a green coat, 
striped waistcoat, tight leather breeches, yellow topped boots, 
and a coloured handkerchief round his neck. Such talents, 
thrown away, left to record his name ! 

Fat and Lean. 

Whilst I was on a visit to Lord Barrymore’s in August, 
1799, who then resided on the Steine, at Brighton, the 
conversation after dinner was about Pedestrianism. Bullock 
(at the time well known on the turf), a heavy and corpulent 
man, was of the party, who offered to start against his 
lordship, on foot, for one hundred guineas — a hundred yards, 
provided he would give him thirty-five, at the same time he 



(Bullock) was to choose the ground. The bet was instantly 
accepted, and the following day Avas fixed for this grand 
exploit. The Prince, Avho was ever pleased Avith the many 
diversions (Lord Barrymore kept the place on the qui vive), 
was present, with a numerous assemblage, many bets, on both 
sides, depending ; the odds against Bullock, who did not 
hesitate to take them, when to the surprise of Lord Barrymore 
(who did not weigh ten stone, the other eighteen) Avho, 
considering himself sure of winning his Avager, had fixed on 
one of those narrow alleys (only room for one person to Avalk), 
a high wall on each side, Avell known at Brighton, on the east 
side of the toAvn ; and as the previous Avager Avas specified and 
witnessed on paper, no objection could possibly be made. At 
starting, each party took his place, Bullock thirty-five yards 
in advance, and though Lord Barrymore soon got close to 
him, the other by his contrivance, what with his breadth of 
shoulders, his arms extended, and being the most poAverful, 
keeping the other behind, laughing, with ease took his time 
to Avin, to the annoyance of the many who lost their money. 


At the time I attended at the East India College, at 
Hertford, a shocking murder Avas committed at Hoddesdon, 
in Hertfordshire, on the Friday evening, October 20, 1807, 
by Thomas Simmons, a clown about twenty (through jealousy 
of a maid-servant he courted, Avho lived Avith a Mr. Boreham, a 
Quaker). Frantic at the time, he AAmnted to murder all avIio 
came in his Avay. The unfortunate victim Avith the former 
Avas a Mrs. Warner, an inmate in the house; he Avas so 
exasperated, brandishing a knife he held, that with difficulty 



he was overpoAvered, and secured. Being confined in the 
county gaol at Hertford, curiosity excited me to see him. I ' 
was ushered into the kitchen of the governor’s house, at the 
end of Avhich was a windoAv, with iron bars, that looked into 
the prison yard ; placing myself there, I had to wait till he 
was called for. After the gaoler loudly repeated his name, 
calling “Tom ! Tom ! ” as if a dog, Tom made his appearance, 
placing himself before me, a lank-looking figure (middling 
size), in a ploughman’s smock frock, an ugly countenance, and 
prominent pointed nose ; seizing the moment, having my 
pencil, and procuring some paper, I sketched a likeness of 
him, as he stood some time motionless before me ; the back- 
ground Avas the prison, and a group of felons. 

The Citizen. 

Having had a general invitation to Benham, in Berkshire, 
the Margravine’s residence, mentioning to her Highness how 
very fond I was of fishing, and her domains being famous for 
that sport, T had her leave to take a friend with me. To 
gratify the pride of a Bourgeois gentilhomme, the son and 
partner of a Avealthy hop factor in the Borough, AA'-ell known 
at that time (some years ago) by the nickname of Young 
Dashem, vulgarly called, up to anything. Favourite as he 
Avas with his acquaintance, none could keep pace with him in 
extravagance. Of one trait, which must have been more for 
boasting and talk, Avere his hunters, horses Avhich he kept at 
Epsom, for the Derby Hunt ; and seldom, I have heard him 
say, had he occasion for them, other amusements interfering. 
Each time that he hunted during the season, the expenses 
attending, must have cost him thirty guineas, fancying it 


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gave him the consequence du premier pas. By Avay of a show 
off, when we had been playing at three-card loo, till six in 
the morning, a post-chaise and four have been waiting to take 
him to cover. Dissipated and extravagant, he was glad at all 
times for me to take him out on a fishing excursion, having 
cards of permission for the different Avaters ; on those occasions 
I took on myself to be the Sir Clement Cotterell, those con- 
ditions as master of the ceremonies, point d' extravagance. 
Pleased as he was to go Avith me to enjoy his favourite sport, 
the order of the day Avas, Live well — not too well. Master 
Dashem was then obliged to leave his ostentatious city 
manners at home, I, the piscatorial ami, taking him by the 
hand ; it was vasano-piano, sIoav and sure ; Ave then Avere ever 
d'accord. Such was my friend Avho accompanied me to 
Benham ; and as my gig-horse Avas not good enough, his (as 
he said) having cost eighty guineas, and could trot sixteen 
miles within the hour, his chaise of the last fashion, so 
preferable to mine ; besides the bedizened livery of groom, so 
vastly genteel ; our appearance would be more gentlemanlike 
and respected. He should have said, that on the road Ave 
should be more Avelcome as a couple of Flats to the inn- 
keepers, for the good of the house. However, I did not 
oppose his offer ; though, being encumbered Avith his groom, 
it Avould have been cheaper for me (fifty-four miles), as we 
divided our expenses, to have made one day’s journey, and 
paid my share for a post-chaise. Leaving toAvn about tAvelve, 
our first stage Avas to the Windmill, Salt Hill. Forgetting 
myself at the time Avhat a genteel companion I had Avith me, 
Avhen I ought to have knoAvn better, I left him to order 
dinner ; instead of for tAvo, as if his eyes Avere larger than his 
stomach, he must have ordered dinner for six — such a display 



of dishes — claret, &c. When I travel, leaving eating at home, 
to me a veal cutlet is as good as a feast ; and many a day, 
when I have been fishing, and only got a nibble, one comfort 
was left, a bite at the bread and cheese I carried with me in 
my pocket. When the bill was called, I might have fancied 
myself at the other inn, formerly the Castle, and in the same 
situation. Samuel Foote was there (though an old story, it 
may be new to the reader), when finding fault with the bill, 
he desired to see his master, and asking his name, when told 
Partridge, the Avit replied, “ By the length of your hill, 1 
should have taken it for Woodcock.” However, judging of 
the expensive commencement, so vastly genteel, at night, when 
we arrived at Newbury, I took care to order the supper, a 
roast fowl and one jorum after ; he Avould have called for red 
and Avhite wine ; here I put in a negative, “ ce qui vieiit par 
la flute, sen va avec le tambour The next morning, in our 
fishing costume, we sallied forth to the Margravine’s, about 
half a mile from the inn. Her Highness was not there, and 
the Margrave was taking his ride. However, I left my card, 
at the same time desiring the servant to say I was gone to 
the river, about a quarter of a mile from the house, to fish. 
As it was not the first time, I Avas Avell acquainted Avhere the 
best and largest fish Avere — trout, pike, and perch. Pre- 
ferring our sport to a dinner, intending to make a day of it, 
Ave provided ourselves Avith sandwiches, and remained fishing 
till eight o’clock, then the month of June, when my friend, 
Avho Avas some little distance from me, called out, “ Here’s a 
queer old farmer coming, to call us aAvay,” thinking Ave had 
got beyond where Ave Avere alloAved to fish ; “ Ay, and he 
Avill take away our rods.” Before Ave could put up our 
tackle, he approached us. “ Mr. Angelo, I am glad to see 



you ; ” and -with that cordiality as if Ave had been old 
acquaintances. ‘‘Have you had any sport?” not a little to 
the surprise of my brother fisherman, particularly so, ‘when 
replying, “Famous, your Highness.” When introducing him 
— This is my friend, I have taken the liberty to bring with me 
to fish in your domains. Such a meeting Avas so unexpected 
to the abashed citizen, Avho, but a moment before, Avas abusing 
the old felloAv (fearful his rod Avould be taken from him, and 
SAvore he Avould push him into the AA^ater first), noAv felt 
himself “ a fish out of Avater,” and seemed to be at a loss how 
to make his obeissance. HoAvever, the Margrave’s extreme 
affability, shaking hands Avith him, saying hoAV Avelcome he 
Avas, removed all that mauvaise hoiite Avhich otherAvise his 
presence might have flurried him into, how to behave, the 
first time he found himself in company Avith a prince. Had 
we been fishing in private property, and any one had attempted 
to take aAvay his fishing tackle, I have not the least doubt but 
he Avould have pushed him in the Avater, to boast after to his 

friends in the city, Avhat d d good fun he had, pushing the 

farmer in the water. The introduction over, and the Mar- 
grave telling us dinner Avould be ready at our return, I took 
upon myself to put up the fish and tackle, Avhen he took 
young Dashem by the arm, with as much good nature as if 
they had long knoAvn each other. No haute noblesse here. 
His condescension Avas proverbial ; loved by all his neigh- 
bours, ever accosting them with all the ease and freedom of a 
country gentleman — not the least appearance, either in dress 
or language. Leaving them to Avalk together, I remained till 
a servant came to carry aAvay the fish. At my return, the 
Margrave had ordered our things from NeAvbury to be placed 
in our bedrooms, and Ave had only to go there to disrobe 




ourselves of our fishing dress, and by the time we had finished, 
dinner would be ready for us. Descending to the drawing- 
room (far different to the situation we were in an hour before, 
when hungry and ready for our dinner, which we must have 
made at supper), a few minutes after the servant announced 
dinner was ready ; when, making our bows, we retired. 
Here was an excellent repas of two courses, solely prepared 
for us. Champagne, hock, &c. (the latter had long been the 
Brandenburgh small beer to me). This was a new sight to 
the young cit, smacking his lips at the dessert, a pine apple 
before him — the servants absent. — “ Here’s a go, what will 
they say to this, when I tell them what the prince has done 
for me ? ” Whilst we passed the glass, talking over our 
fishing day’s sport, what a change was here : such a sumptuous 
dinner, instead of a mutton chop, which I told him might be 
our fare, had we gone to the inn. Our dinner finished, and 
on our presenting ourselves to the Margrave, who, with his 
visitors, several emigre French noblemen, were at cards. 
Some I was well known to at Brandenburgh House, having 
seen me perform there. — Counts Montalembert, Le Chasse, 
and Daller, the Margrave’s chamberlain. About eleven, 
sandwiches were passed round ; hon-soir followed. The next 
morning, after breakfast, the Margrave and Master Dashem, 
who now, “ ’twas hail, fellow, well met.” The latter had not 
a little boasted of his hunters, and the sums he had given for 
them ; and the other, having a fine stud of horses, took him 
to his stables, to show him, and was so pleased with his gig 
horse, which was brought from the inn, and the stories he 
told — what an excellent trotter he was, that he accompanied 
him in his gig, to try his paces, and was so well pleased Avith 
my introduction, that every day during our continuance they 



took their rides out together, Dashem having the choice of any 
of his horses. As to myself (having been my father’s rough 
rider when he had his manege), I had too much of the saddle 
to like riding again ; my time was more pleasingly engaged 
in fishing, till the dinner hour. This lasted a week ; and if 
grandeur, crowded with every luxury, were inducements not 
to quit our princely reception, my Bourgeois spark would have 
been glad to cast his sheet anchor there. But business calling 
me to tovvm, not all his persuasions to stop longer could prevail 
on me to come in snacks for the “ good things,” as he called 
them, much to his regret. Making our (ierotVs for the honours 
conferred on us, we took our leave. This excursion was his 
constant theme after. The dinners — wines — the notice the 
Prince took of him (not Margrave), honouring him with 
his presence in preference to me for his companion to ride 
out Avith ; these absorbed his thoughts ; for a long time he 
talked of nothing else. His hunters noAv Avere laid upon the 
shelf ; all was, that “ some have greatness thrust upon them.” 
Returning to our late pursuits, I to the foil, the other to his 
hops (no dancing master) ; ’TAvas “ Stick to the shop, and the 
shop Avill stick to you.” 

The Fleas. 

During the August holidays, when I Avas a school-boy, my 
father and mother took my tAvo eldest sisters to place them in 
a convent in French Flanders, having fixed on the Ursulines, 
at Lisle. On our arrival there, a grand fete was given (that 
lasted during our stay), on the occasion of its being the com- 
pletion of the first hundred years subsequent to the city being 
re-taken from the Spaniards. The festivities consisted of 
fireAvorks, jets du vin (fountains of Avine) for the populace, 



firing of cannon for prizes, a general illumination, &c. On 
our visit to the convent, Ave Avere received at the gate by the 
prioress, a tall handsome English lady, a Mrs. Skerratt, Avhom 
they called St. EdAvard, and there my sisters Avere left. 
Among the amusements that made the most impression on me, 
though a boy, not understanding a Avord of French, was the 
opera of the TJesertenr ; it Avas so Avell acted, that with 
diflSculty I could refrain from crying : Avhen often seeing it 
since, Avhether the mind Avas dissipated with variety of 
amusements I know not, and though perfectly acquainted with 
denouement, they were not like my juvenile feelings. At our 
return to England, we left Lisle for Dunkirk. Arrived there 
in the evening, walking on the quay, Ave were informed that a 
vessel Avas to leave the port that night, at twelve o’clock. 
Having permission from the swperintende'ut to quit after the 
gates Avere closed, Ave Avere punctual at the time to embark. 
Captain George, an Englishman, having the command, though 
a small vessel, yet assured us he could give us excellent 
accommodation. To relate them would be the reverse of our 
expectations, a very small cabin, and cots, with blankets only. 
The first two hours, however, Ave reconciled ourseh^es {par 
force), but our patience Avas afterAvards exhausted ; such a 
heavy sea rolling over us, close confined under deck, huddled 
together, that, Avhat with the heat and the pitching of the 
vessel, being sick the whole time, feeling continual tAvinges 
all over me, impatient too for daylight, my situation was 
affreux, myself most afflicted AAuth the motion, was, as the 
French called it, the first to payer le tribut, accompanied as I 
found myself when daylight appeared, no candles being 
suffered during the night. I found that all sorts of vermin 
were my bedfelloAvs, fleas, &c. &c. My Avhite stockings 



(having lain in my clothes), where I had pinched my visitors, 
were covered with red spots. The wind having subsided at 
an early hour, we were admitted on deck ; it appeared an 
elysium to us, when the truth accounted for my troublesome 
companions ; our conveyance was laden with rags, the refuse 
of the hospitals, of which mendicants were inmates. At 
eleven o’clock we got to Northfleet, when my father, my 
mother, and a lady who was of our party, went on shore (the 
tide at the time being against us) ; there a dejeuner a la 
fourchette, beefsteaks and tea ; the previous night had not 
taken away the appetite. I, who was still too ailing to join 
them, was sent forward to make my way to town, but was 
first loaded with lace, which our female compagnon de voyage 
had purchased and smuggled at Lisle. All my clothes being 
lined with this handsome lace, not having met with a convey- 
ance, I had to tramp as far as Greenwich, when a stage coach 
took me to town ; the party leaving soon after their breakfast, 
when the tide served, proceeded in the vessel to the Tower, 
and were at home on my arrival there, madam not a little 
pleased to receive her lace safe. Some time after, my father 
having procured a situation in the Custom House for Captain 
George, he, happy to show his obligations when anything was 
wanted from France, was ever ready to smuggle for my 
father ; French pies, game, &c., were often got very cheap ; 
and I remember my mother saying, that among the articles 
of hair powder, perfumes, &c., with one guinea she has 
procured what in England would have cost four. 

Too MUCH Physio. 

Young Dashem, of whom I have already spoken in 
our fishing excursion to the Margrave’s, how proud he was 



being introduced to a prince, the notice conferred on him ; 
there it was, “ all honours heaped ” ; all was pleasant then ; 
not so the next place I took him to, “ the sun does not always 
shine.” Having a card of admission for myself and friend to 
fish at Lord George Cavendish’s at Latimer’s, in Hertfordshire, 
as he Avas to meet me there, and three more added, to make 
up the party cheerful, at the same time, spectators to see our 
fishing exploits, our place of rendezAmus Avas six miles distant 
from Avhere we Avere to fish, RickmansAvorth. Previous to our 
meeting at dinner, I Avas the avant courier^ to have every 
thing in readiness, and order the dinner to be on table at six 
o’clock. Leaving toAvn at an early hour in the morning, and 
the Avaters at Rickmansworth being famous for trout, it Avas 
my intention, as a proof of my skill, to produce some of my 
catching for their dinner ; but the sun being bright, and the 
Aveather intensely hot (July), there Avas no chance of sport. 
Being no fly fisher, I declined the chance of catching anything ; 
Avhen, stripping off my coat, I laid myself on the bed, a 
decanter of Avhite Avine, and a bottle of spring water being 
placed by me. Reposing myself, there I lay till they all 
arrived ; surprised to find me on the bed, it was a subject for 
them to quiz me, Avhen I told them it was my Asiatic repose, 
my otium cum dignitate. They all acknowledged, exhausted 
as they Avere, travelling in the heat of the day in their gigs, 
that had they arriAmd sooner they would have done the same. 
HoAvever, dinner soon relieved our complaints of the heat, and 
the cool breezes of the evening entirely refreshed us till supper 
time ; then folloAved the song and the punch, Avhose spirits 
added the more to our oAvn, “ merry men all,” till a late hour. 
During the time, one of the party, my old friend Maynard, a 
Proctor in Doctors’ Commons, who never missed taking a 



■wine glass every night of Daffy’s Elixir, coming -without his 
usual recipe, a bottle was procured from the country apothe- 
cary, when pouring out a glassful, drinking to our sports on 
the morrow, and cheerfulness to follow, out of compliment 
(how polite ! except Dashem and myself), the other two took 
bumpers of his medicine, with ■wry faces, calling out. Hip ! 
hip ! hip ! success to fishing, little thinking at the time what 
would be the result of the toast. As I drank punch but once 
a year, my brother fisherman and I drank negus ; here we 
were fortunate enough to escape what followed ; the two Daffy 
Elixir gentlemen, instead of accompanying us the next day, 
were the whole time confined to their beds, through showing 
their politeness to the proctor, who felt no ill effects from 
what he had been long accustomed to, and was much amused 
watching our fishing ; while the other two, from the effects of 
the punch, were left to regale themselves with mutton broth. 
At our return back in the evening, my camarade pecheur, not 
contented with the trout he had caught himself, as they lay 
on the table to exhibit our day’s sport, was purloining some of 
my largest ; this I objected to, and the scramble that ensued 
caused such a quarrel, that the remainder of the time we 
were together not one word was exchanged ; and what made 
it the more disagreeable, we lay in a two-bedded room, two 
orator mums, not a little to the risibility of the others. 

Fere la Chaise, 

The last time when 1 was at Paris, meeting with an old 
acquaintance I had kno-wn many years, who, from being a 
horse dealer, and providing carriages, had made an ample 
fortune and retired to Paris, where he had long resided. In 



the course of talking of the different places of amusement, and 
the numerous sights, I mentioned Pere la Chaise, the one 
most impressive to my feelings. To my surprise, he had 
never been there ; that had excited the curiosity of every 
stranger, when observing — “ What, not yet been to see Pere 
la Chaise ? ” Still sticking to his shop, he replied, “ Poh ! 
Pere la Chaise, give me a chaise and pair.” 

The Thrashing Machine. 

An amateur, as I have long been, of caricatures, Rowland- 
son having been my instructor, for in my opinion it is a 
dangerous amusement. Of the many I once exhibited in the 
shops, I have ever avoided giving offence, and have only 
sought those characters who were known only for their 
singularity, and who were pleased that their likenesses were 
made public, notoriety being their sole aim. So far, to them, 
I made myself useful. Latterly, having sketched the contour 
and resemblance of a schoolmaster, well known for his morose 
disposition and austerity, his fondness for the thrashmg 
machine and the on dit, not only the pleasure he seemed to 
enjoy at the writhen countenance of his victim, as he lays on 
his cuts with all his force, but boasting of the number he had 
flogged before breakfast. An old pupil of his, to whom I have 
given the sketch, who had contributed his share towards his 
old schoolmaster’s amusement, taking out his pencil, wrote 
underneath “ sanguineos occulos, virgamque requiretP Should 
Sir Francis Burdett’s motion succeed, the army and navy be 
exempt from flogging, and the schools follow the example, 
this utendum est cetate, which this magisterial amateur of 
the thrashing machine has so long amused himself, however, 



I 'jy -.j,* 



Tm Tura^oisu M4ISfu(B. 


it . p>a^ ylfMiosement) and 
ii>ned fVltr^ the one 

^'fcelingTL sorpriiie, he had 

>a ||lna^, ^hat had exciud’ ;ht curiowif of 
< ci|«|[^g— ** What, not* yet bean 4o 

^ ‘ atieking to kii shopj'^he tnr|diei,v«l»<4i f"" 

T > nite me a chaise and pair .'*,§•«» ^ j 

♦ I 

4 * • . ^ 


4»^aaettr, aa I have^kmip iie«u of rarka^oee, Kowif^* 
mi h«pv^ be«i my ihatructoi:. ter hi «\ '>ptaion it ia a 
amu^ioiDiqii^ Of the shh^ t alMii nxtehHed is the 
<'hof«k t have evw avoided giyhai; a^ have 

ihoie charo«t4!||« who ajpv«vf^ he* their 

ift^iknty, ahd whe were plM ee d ^ite Mr 4mm 

?j|fcuirle ;vublic. noten% being their Mde aiaCf Bo 6ir; to ehiSi, 
t uiadf^ mywdf iiauftil* Latterlyi having sket6lled>^‘‘^e contonr 
4hd retambUnee of a jv:lioolmaat|y, well known for his moroie 
diapofii^.o and •‘oateritjri" hi«^ fondneaa for the thrashmg' 
m»A;\trm and tha^^m 4it, not only tho pleasure he seemed to 
Wtiif x {ha- wnthea< ' ounienance of h^ia eahe lays on 

- ^ # 4 t| ail his <b^ but boasts^ of ttuTn umber he bad 

• 'fere hreakdtst. , An ohi pHfi4l of hit, to whoaj I haw* 
>h«< «h«4rh, wilt had dtn^hntad hU ahajra.tewaaii M 
»4* Himmf nt'u totoaemeiil; Uhh^ 

»v4i»- va^ “ •atefei,* rtV^wn /va wif ^ ** 4^«hi 

^ ^rdett’a cu^n snesifedt the nraay i»d Haw he 

■"fli'Wh!''' ♦1'^ amJ the achoda* follow the waiHfda, 

- hk < v<*ate» as< w4^^' this magisterial aaiav^iir 

H-. 1-1 Mihiha has so long amoaod himaeH; howen 

V '“ii 

# . ■' 4r ■ 

W » 


r . # 

t, ' 


that deprivation may be a disappointment to him. After my 
former attempts at caricaturing, I should be sorry to expose 
any one publicly, or remind those who, in their juvenile days, 
felt the process of the thrashing machine. 


Soon after I left Eton, I became assistant to my father. 
Of the many I recollect to have instructed near the same 
period, were five youths in the navy ; one a lieutenant, the 
others, four midshipmen. The former. Lord Robert Manners, 
was killed on the 12th of April, when captain of the Resolution^ 
in Rodney’s engagement with De Grasse, Mr. Halliburton (Lord 
Moreton’s brother), who, going on shore with the crew in the 
long boat, to Long Island, during the American War, was 
found the next morning with the others in a bog, frozen to 
death ; — the Hon. Mr. Lumley (Lord Scarborough’s brother), 
when captain of the Isis, lost his life engaging with Suffrein, 
after the gallant defence, the East Indiamen made at Port 
Prayer; — Young Falconer whom I had known when a child, 
in an action in the West Indies, captain of a frigate, who, 
whilst opposed to another of superior force, on the bowsprit, 
in the act of splicing them together, received a mortal wound ; 
— the fifth is now the only one surviving. Lord Maryborough, 
then a midshipman. Lord Moreton (who was one of my 
cronies at Eton) told me that a monument was erected to the 
memory of his brother, in Long Island, and that in the 
beginning of the French revolution, when equality was the 
order of the day, some French sailors, who had landed there, 
seeing a coronet, with the other insignia, not only defaced 
them, but the inscription. — So much for liberty and equality. 


R. S. V. P. 


Of the various characters I assumed at the masquerades, 
some where the head was to keep pace (tongue) with the head, 
one was a dancing paysan. Here silence occasionally gave way 
to the heels, a pas de deux different to all others. D’Egville 
(the father of our excellent ballet master, we were all indebted 
to for so much amusement, as well as his numerous scholars, 
who exhibited their graces) dressed as a French cook, myself 
en jupon, a Flemish woman, both of us en sabots (wooden 
shoes), danced the fricassee, a favourite amusement of 
the French peasants, the noise of our sabots keeping pace 
with the music ; whilst at intervals, the clapping of our hands, 
and our grotesque costume, such a novelty was the more 
pleasing, as varying the evening’s amusements. Old D’Egville, 
Avho, although he had been many years in this country, was 
not merely contented with displaying the “ fantastic toe,” but 
by way of keeping up his character as a Frenchman, must 
speak broken English ; his attempt, not so well as he spoke 
it in the morning. Many of the John Bulls there, would 
have beat the Frenchman at his own game, whilst I was 
continually in motion, preferring the sound of wooden shoes 
to the patois flamand. 

R. S. V. P. 

When Sir was introduced to the honours of the metro- 

politan shrievalty and of knighthood, he became drawn out of 
that close application to business to which he had laudably 
devoted his earliest days. The first fashionable invitation he 

received, was from Lady B , a civic dame, the wife of a 

former sheriff. It was to an “ At Home ; ” and at nine o’clock 

Sir waited on my lady, to express his regret that he 



could not attend the invitation. “ I need not tell you, my 
lady (said the knight), that business must be attended to, 
before anything else. We have a large order to pack uj), 
which I fear will not be done before half-past nine o’clock, so 
you see I should be half an hour too late for your party ; but 
I’ve brought the ticket back, that you may scratch out my 
name, and then it will do for another. Now, my lady, I hope 
you will excuse me, but do tell me the meaning of this word 
in the corner, it has puzzled us all at our house exceed- 
ingly — R. S. V. P. ; my mother says it is a French word, but 
I think it no word at all. I think it is what they call initials, 

“ a Regular Small Whist Party. Now tell me. Lady B , 

which of us is right ? ” 

B. B T. 

Long Bills 

and low bows. The landlord of the principal inn at Henley- 
upon-Thames had retired from the cares of business a few 
years since, with a handsome competency, and took up his 
abode at an agreeable distance from town. An old frequenter, 
seeing him at the gate of his garden, took occasion to compli- 
ment him on his having had the merit to realize a liberal 
independence in much less time than was usual, and to express 
his surprise how he had been able to effect it. “ All done by 
long hills and loiv hows, Sir,” answered ex-Boniface, Esq. — 
“Yes, Sir, always took care to charge as liberally as I thought 
my customers would bear ; and if they found fault, which they 
sometimes did, rather outrageously, I always mollified them 
with low bows. — Besides, tithes, taxes, rent, and corn laws, 

were no bad excuse, you know.” — “ But Mr. , I think you 

must have made a pretty profit of your wine, for, between our- 



selves, now the game is over, I may say, it used to be d d 

bad.” — “ Always bought the best wine I could for the price I 
gave ; that, to be sure, was not much ; in fact, I made a little 
fortune out of three pipes of port, which you have often 
tasted. They were rather on the queer, to be sure, but a great 
bargain : — as often as you or anybody else damned the wine, 
I made a low bow, and offered to change it with the utmost 
pleasure ; that was civility, you know. Anything may be done 
by civility, and a low bow. If any one damned the wine, as 
being doctored and fiery, I made a low bow, and said, ‘ I per- 
ceive it is too full bodied a wine for your palate ; ’ then I took 
the bottle away, — emptied as many glass fulls out of it as he 
liad given damns, and fiUed it up with water. Returning 
with a fresh bottle, ‘ There, Sir,’ said I, ‘ that is an older 
wine, which I flatter myself will meet Avith your approbation.’ 
This, delivered with a look of modest assurance, and a low 
boAv, seldom failed. If, on the contrary, he called it damned 
stuff, and said there was no spirit in it, I used to bow, and 
say — ‘ Sir, I see you like a fuller bodied wine ; that is too 
light, too old, wine ; ’ then left the room, poured a little out, 
and refilled it with a glass, or half a glass, of the best British 
brandy. A bow, and a confident look, were again sure to 
procure approbation. My best wine customers were the young 
gentlemen from Oxford. They generally preferred Claret. 
Port from the same pipes, with low bows, long-necked bottles, 
one-third water, a little older Avine, and a squeeze of lemon, 
made excellent Claret ; and the same things, with the second 

squeeze of the lemon, and a few drops out of Mrs. ’s 

Bergamot bottle, for the bouquet, made equally excellent 
Burgundy. The young gentlemen were just as happy in 
sniffing the bouquet, as I was in pocketing their twelve shillings 



a bottle for a mixture that cost me little more than one. Yes, 
Sir, three pipes of port were a little fortune to me ; but long 
bills and low bows were the great secret.” 

B. B T. 

Cause of Death. 

On the explosion of the Columbian Loan Bubble, in 1827, 
Mr. Zea, the Columbian minister in this country, who was 
said, together with certain jobbers in our good city of London, 
to have devised the scheme, and enriched themselves with the 
spoil of the credulous dupes, the minister, was so sadly beset 
by the disappointed bond-holders, and certain accounts were 
required, Avhich he was unable or unwilling to furnish, when 
lo, he was suddenly called to render his last account, where 
finesse would be unavailing. 

His unexpected decease, at such a crisis, naturally gave 
rise to reports that he had destroyed himself ; the only 
difference in these accounts being as to the means used. At 
a meeting of the dii'ectors of the Provident Life Office, the 
gentlemen were busy in discussing these contradictory 

rumours, when Dr. M made his appearance, who, it was 

known, had been attending Mr. Zea’s family. All eyes were 
immediately turned to him ; and several voices exclaimed, 

together, “ You, Dr. M , can settle the question, no 

doubt — What was really the cause of Mr. Zea’s death ? ” — 
“Most certainly,” replied the doctor, “ I attended him!” — 
A short pause was succeeded by a general laugh, and the 
doctor was not a little disconcerted, when he found that 
his answer had been taken, before he knew that he had 
delivered it. 


B. B T. 


Certainty of the Medical Science, 

The answer of another learned member of the faculty pro- 
duced a hearty laugh in the Court of King’s Bench. On a 
question of life and death, it became necessary to fix the 
precise time at which a person had died ; for which purpose, 
there was an examination of his medical attendant. “ Pray 
state, as nearly as you possibly can, doctor, at what hour 

Mr. died .” — “ Let me see,” said the doctor, “ I attended 

him at eleven o’clock ; then I was called to him again at two — ■ 
yes, the last time I prescribed for him was at two. Then he 
must have died, as nearly as possible, at six o’clock.” — “ I see, 
doctor,” said the opposing counsel, “You can calculate the 
exact time when your medicine produces its effect.” — “ Most 
certainly,” said the son of Esculapius, with becoming gravity ; 
and it was some time before he could be made to understand 
how he, without being mirthful himself, should be the cause of 
mirth in others, 

B. B T. 

Always Finish Your Sentences. 

At the Surrey quarter sessions, a good-for-nothing appren- 
tice Avas found guilty of robbing his master ; when the 
chairman was about to pass sentence, the fellow muttered a 
sort of cry, in which there was more of dislike of punishment 
than sincerity of repentance. The chairman proceeded to 
expatiate upon the aggravation of theft in this case, he being 
in duty bound to protect his master’s property, instead of 
despoiling him of it ; and remarking on his Avhimpering, he 
declared his disbelief of his having any remorse of conscience. 



“ There,” said the chairman, “ you stand, with your hands in 
your breeches pockets, like a crocodile : ” upon which frightful 
comparison, the felloAv’s master, fearing that some severe 
punishment would follow, jumped up, and implored for mercy, 
assuring the worthy magistrate he had such hopes of the 
prisoner, that if, after a shoi-t imprisonment, he were set at 
liberty, he would take him again into his service. The thread 
of the chairman’s discourse being thus broken, he had occasion 
to ask his brethren where he had left off, when one of them 
audibly supplied the broken end, by saying, “ You told him 
that he stood with his hands in his breeches pockets, like a 
crocodile'' The chairman could scarcely believe his ears, and 
disputed the expression, amidst the giggle of the court, until 
he recollected that the words “ pretending to cry,” had been 
wanting to complete the sentence. 

B. B T. 


In accompanying a friend, one day, to Westminster Hall, 
we happened to stroll into the Committee Rooms of the House 
of Commons, when we observed this very awkward notice, 
alRxed to one of the doors, which excited much mirth among 
the beholders — “ Committee of Irish Lunatics.” 

B KE. 

Horne Tooke, 

Hearing that a young man, possessing great abilities as a 
public speaker, but uneducated, was most anxious to study, 
particularly history, and the learned languages, but totally 



■without means, very generously offered him two guineas per 
week, for a time, that he might devote himself exclusively to 
his studies. Being informed that there were many malicious 
paragraphs in the papers against Horne Tooke, and that they 
were mostly written by this same genius ; he would not 
believe it, till almost forced to the printers of the paper, and 
shown the hand-writing of the scripts, he was convinced. 
Some time afterwards, he called on the ingrate, asked him if 
he had profited by the trifling assistance, and if he had arrived 
at a state of information to enable him to act for himself. 
The young man’s reply was, “ Yes, I thank you for it.” 
What was Mr. Tooke’s reply, think you ? Oh ! bitter enough, 
no doubt. Only “ Good morning. Sir,” and no more. If this 
is not beneficence, what is ? 

F ES. 

Strange Notices. 

At York, “ Lodgings for genteel young men, who are taken 
in, and done for.” 

In a shoemaker’s shop window, in Cavendish-street, 
Brighton, appeared this ludicrous bill, “ Wanted here, a 
respectable woman’s man.” 


Don Saltero’s Coffee House. 

Of my summer rambles, three places the same day, were 
often my favourite resorts, some forty years ago. The first 
was Don Saltero’s Coffee House, situated in Cheyne Row, at 



Chelsea, facing the river. Of what I have read since, describ- 
ing this singular abode, — “ It commenced as far back as 1695, 
and was opened by one Saltero, who had been the servant of 
Sir Hans Sloane. In addition to merelv a coffee room, a 
collection of curiosities were deposited, in glass cases, which 
consisted of a great variety of animals, preserved in spirits, 
some stuffed birds, snakes, shells, &c. &c. The greater part 
was furnished by his master, with whom he had travelled. 
For the information of the visitors, a catalogue of the whole 
was printed, with the names of the donors affixed.” 

Jean Jaques Rouelle’s, 

Distinguished by the name of Rousseau’s, situated facing the 
Chelsea Bun House. Here was an extensive garden, and at 
an early hour a table- d’hote, as a restaurateur, I believe the 
only one at the time. For French dishes, this house Avas a 
favourite receptacle of the epicures for the ijJats choisis. As 
an attraction, it Avas called “Jean Jaques Rousseau.” 

Jenny’s Whim. 

This Avas a tea garden, situated, after passing over a Avooden 
bridge on the left, previous to entering the long avenue, the 
coach Avay to where Ranelagh once stood. This place was 
much frequented, from its novelty, being an inducement to 
allure the curious, by its amusing deceptions, particularly on 
their first appearance there. Here was a large garden, in 
different parts of Avhich Avere recesses ; and if treading on a 
spring, taking you by surprise, up started different figures, 
some ugly enough to frighten you ; — a harlequin, a Mother 

65 F 


Shipton, or some temfic animal. In a large piece of water, 
facing the tea alcoves, large fish, or mermaids, were showing 
themselves above the surface. This queer spectacle was first 
kept by a famous mechanist, who had been employed at one 
of the winter theatres, there being then but two. 

My Flute. 

Previous to Newmarket Races, the younger brothers of 
Lord Barrymore — Cripplegate, and Newgate — if much com- 
pany were assembled at table, after dinner, made a general 
sale, and put up to auction anything of value they had got 
from any one on trust, to “ raise the wind ” for their intended 
race speculation. But on one occasion, to add to the resources 
of the youngest, unfortunately I was his jackal, to furnish 
him the needful. As the flute at that time was my favourite 
instrument, I occasionally accompanied his sister, Lady Mel- 
fort, who played on the pianoforte. Having left my flute at 
the house, a valuable one to me, with many keys, the next 
day it disappeared, and with it the young gentleman of the 
turf ; nor did I hear what became of it for above a year after. 
A German, who called himself “ Joe, the Conjurer,” an adept 
at all games of cards (four-herie), and an instructor to those 
roolcs who are upon the daily look out for pigeons, at all times 
was welcome to the Adelphi, they having been his worthy 
pupils. Joe had remarkably long hair, of which he was proud 
to sjDort a long queue, which, after inebriating him with 
brandy, the two hopefuls cut off, and threw out of window. 
Joe threatened to go to Bow Street, and make an exposure — 
he had taught Jhem to cheat at cards, which he refused to 
conceal ; a douceur only could prevail on him, after his loss 



of hair, not to proclaim his having been their cheating in- 
structor. Discarded from the house, no longer admitted, he 
acquainted me that Newgate had pawned my flute the day 
before he went to Newmarket, at a pawnbroker’s in Jermyn 
Street ; when making inquiries there, the year had expired 
three weeks, when it was publicly sold by auction. Here I 
may say, like the conjurer — Presto, begone. 

Two Collegians, 

Who had lived on friendly terms in college, left the university 
at the same time ; both, soon after, entered into Holy Orders, 
one being appointed to a curacy in London, and the other to 
a similar situation in Cornwall. The distance, however, made 
no alteration in their mutual good feeling, which they con- 
tinued to keep alive by frequent and friendly correspondence. 
Many invitations passed between them, which neither could 
avail himself of, in consequence of the distance. At last, a 
favourable opportunity offered to the London Curate, and he 
lost no time in visiting his kind friend in Cornwall, by Avhom 
he was most joyfully welcomed, and the two friends were 
rendered perfectly happy in each other’s society. In the 
course of a few days, the London Curate perceived that his 
friend had very little time to spare, being continually em- 
ployed in christenings, burials, marriages, and writing- 
sermons. It struck him that he might be useful in taking 
some of the trouble off his friend’s hands, and particularly 
proposed preaching a sermon on the following Sunday. The 
other friend thanked him heartily, but said, “ Really the 
people here are so little informed, that your sermon must be 
carefully worded, or it will not suit their slender comprehen- 



sions.” The London Curate said he was perfectly assured 
that he could compose a sermon to suit all capacities. The 
proposal was accepted, and he preached accordingly. After 
the service was over, he asked his reverend friend, “ How he 
thought he had acquitted himself?” The other replied — 
“ Extremely well ; — still, I am sure, there were some words 
that they could not understand.” — “Name them,” said the 
other. “ Why,” the Cornwall Curate replied, “ you mentioned 
the word felicity ; now, had you said happiness, they would 
have known your meaning, but the word felicity is totally 
unknown to many of them. Suppose, however, to prove this 
assertion, I call my man of all work, and question him?” 
The man making his appearance, the following dialogue 
took place: — Curate — “Well, William, I suppose you were 
very much satisfied with the sermon you heard this Reverend 
Gentleman preach to-day?” William — “Eez, Zur, I was 
indeed ; one of the finest zurmons I ever did hear.” Curate — 
“Now, tell me, William, do you know what felicity means ?” 
William — “ Why, Zur, I think it to be zummut of the inside 
of a pigf 

J. B — — K. 

Olfactory Nerves. 

About forty or fifty years ago, Maberly, a coachmaker, in 
Queen Street, in consequence of a varnish he continued to 
make (which greatly offended the olfactory nerves of the 
neighbourhood), was indicted for a nuisance. The trial took 
place in Westminster Hall, when Lord Mansfield was the 
Lord Chief Justice. Several witnesses were examined, who 
declared the varnish to be so very offensive, that the disagree- 



able smell had obliged many of the inhabitants to quit their 
houses. One man only, on being questioned, said, “The 
varnish did not offend his nostrils, and that he smelt nothing 
unpleasant at any time.” This appearing so singular to his 
Lordship, he observed — “ It is very extraordinary, that after 
so many persons have declared the smell of the varnish to be 
nearly overpowering, you should not have been in the least 
annoyed by it ; do you live near the spot ? ” — “ At the back 
of the house, my Lord,” said the witness, “ where the varnish 
is made.” “ Pray, friend,” added his Lordship, “ who, and 
what are you?” — “I am a nightman, my Lord,” replied the 

J. B R. 


During Lord Mansfield’s time, who was the leading and 
most popular counsellor in Westminster Hall, but in examina- 
tion was occasionally too sarcastic, in which vein he indulged 
rather too freely, in the case of an uncertificated bankrupt, 
which came before him, whom he called a King’s Bench 
Collegian, and asked him why he went to that college ? 
“ Why, Sir,” replied the poor broken-down bankrupt, “ I 
went there to avoid the impertinence of Dunning” 

J. B R. 

Funeral Sermon. 

A journeyman ship-carpenter, belonging to one of the dock- 
yards at Portsmouth, was very much afflicted at the loss of 
his wife, for whom he had the most sincere affection; and, 



anxious to prove it to the extent of his power, felt bound, in 
gratitude for long past acts of kindness, to have a funeral 
sermon preached at her burial. In consequence of this deter- 
mination, he went to the parson of the parish ; and relating 
his circumstances, and the loss he had sustained by the death 
of his dear wife, begged to know what additional expense it 
would be to have a funeral sermon preached. The Reverend 
Gentleman informed him, “ that the customary fee was a 
guinea.” — “ That’s a large sum,” said the poor carpenter, 
“ for a man with small wages to put do'wn ; but as I loved my 
wife dearly, and wished to pay her this last mark of attention, 
I hope your Reverence, in consideration of my want of means, 
will be kind enough to preach a funeral sermon for half a 
guinea. “ Half a guinea ! ” said the Portsmouth Parson, “ why, 
it is contrary to all precedent ; but as you are so anxious, and 
urge your request so pathetically, on this occasion I will, in 
consideration of your being a poor man, preach a funeral 
serm.on for half a guinea, but really it won’t be worth 

J. B . 


Two young ladies, actresses, who took lessons in fencing of 
me, at least the Graces. The first was Mrs. Jordan’s daughter, 
Mrs. Alsop, preparatory to two characters : she was to assume 
the male attire. My attendance one day, reminds me of my 
disappointment, hvice being in company with two of the first 
literary characters of the day, without the gratification of being 
introduced. Of the former. — On one of my visits to Mrs. 
Alsop, he was there some time ; after he had taken his leave, 



I was informed it was Mr. Campbell, the poet. But a few 
days after, waiting on a lady, Avho had been governess to the 
late Mr. Dumergue, the dentist, at whose house Miss 
Charpentier, whom I had known from a child, formerly 
resided, and, at the time, married to a person I am going to 
speak of, — a tall man, whose conversation for some time I 
listened to with attention. After he was gone, to my surprise 
and regret, I was told the tall man was Walter Scott: — this 
was previous to his being made a baronet. 

My other young Thespian elhve was a beautiful girl, about 
eighteen, and like those good of sale, whose papas (speculators) 
send their daughters to India to get husbands, and, the better 
to promote the traffic, endow them with every accomplishment. 
This girl was not intended to travel so far. No East Indiaman 
here. A hackney would save that expense. A shilling to 
Drury Lane Theatre, in preference to an Indian Bazaar. 
Foolishly, I should say, her first dehut was at the Circus, dis- 
appointed of an engagement elsewhere. Receiving a note from 
the mother, inquiring my terms, I waited on her, who autrefois, 
had been a handsome woman ; but neither the males, nor the 
females, who smell the lamp, many as I have instructed, were 
ever on my book as scholars, all en ami ; as such, the young 
lady was welcome to my professional visits, which were 
accepted. If the graceful person, aided by beauty. La Belle 
des Belles, the little trouble, the rapid improvement that 
ensued, every time I attended ; it was not the time that 
engaged me elsewhere, but the pleasure of having such a 
pupil, whose most engaging manners and modest diffidence, 
caused me a genuine sorrow when I took my leave. The 
mother, as I considered the lady I received the note from, was 
called the aunt ; but from the exact resemblance, the very 



contour comme deux gouttes d’eau, not a doubt existed ; it was 
mamma’s objection to be thought old enough to be the mother 
of a girl of eighteen — what amour propre ! “ All eyes but 

your own can see you are no younger.” However, I took care 
to have the politesse not to offend her juvenile feelings, ever 
addressing her as the aunt. As to accomplishments ; of the 
young lady’s acquirements (from the aunt’s information), in 
French, Italian, music, and dancing, she was aufaM, and no 
expense was spared. The master who taught the harp (1 saw 
there an expensive one) was an eminent performer from Paris ; 
nine guineas for twelve lessons. Bravo, Monsieur ! All this for 
her future elevation. Sums lavished to “ build castles in the 
air.” Those fortunate damsels of the theatre must have 
turned aunty’s head, fancying her daughter would be trap for 
another stage-struck amoureux. Poor woman, here she fails ; 
beauty alone, unless a prominent actress, is but a poor specu- 
lation. It is years since I saw the beautiful expectant, then 
in an inferior situation at Astley’s Theatre, and I never heard 
of her again. 

The Cock-loft. 

At Easter, the trout streams at Rickmansworth were my 
usual resort. While on a ramble there, I prevailed on my 
friend John Bannister, with our old crony, James Heath, the 
artist, to accompany me. Bannister, Avhose time had always 
been better engaged than standing for hours by the water-side, 
encouraged by my telling him I Avas well acquainted with all 
the places where the largest fish were to be found, and that he 
might be sure to fill his bag, and astonish his family at his 
return home, Avith such sport ; replied — “ So I was told Avhen 


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Wr^A^yiiii VMrt iQ«»hirl^Mbd4tjyiiJ^ ft'^BiunW of }>tE4i 
I When^ licrtk tlj^ gun 

mfji tuftTof mr finders did not,TeUuu^^ej^ mt Ho\Tov^*i*;:|^ Ij^ 
t«k6 you ftt your wofd, the theafp? ii wmk. Ko 

deBge^r mrWj unless I tumWe in the end iih» Idtcnrs but 

I a second Walton^ ^But whut is a fjifciisWfctt without 
• ^pshall godtrectly, . Two tr -w way 

—I always drees in character.'’' iU'ebrdin^ly, |i|ru . fi(^ 

^■|K>rtmg jacket— equipped'wnth a naK fiahaq^ ^ * 1 ^ a 
•< large bag, and landing neiC <i4|^«.*!<aly garrVia>^j. ••Jflt- Wim ui 
my chaise — Heath Tin hiv~<otf wo naliild'W . pgj^DitAc 
'Arrived there in the esa^rihig, we.yatl^eNiw Iw4blb* * ^ 

: of hours. But Baiitu<i‘r,.ob|jac4|i!)|l^atMia^^ 
defer it tiU the ttext day, be wpwv«0^ . 
his pretty jacket^ b^idw hia j^e«* iljiwr.^%>- 
the fttb, he was sure of an /w ^ w ^ ^ f# 

icy - 

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.exhibited on th# 

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Wood,” yrben sealed «n 
expron-iott at the lum nf .^bifg: 
in hia hand, sunding by 

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expreesuw of tragedy omI V «i«a|nd W Mnug 

n»Ae^~tehiug iia, ^ the wi^ 

Mtives. Turk Gregory ^He^icAdsetk** Pepper being 

announced, and iamb (^mjpe their e|ipeiiraoc«^. having 

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Wroughton lent me his Spanish gun, what a number of birds 
I should bring home. When, instead of birds, the gun burst- 
ing, two of my fingers did not return Avith me. HoAvever, I’ll 
take you at your word, the theatre is shut this Aveek. No 
danger now, unless I tumble in the water, and Avho knoAvs but 
I may be a second Walton. But what is a fisherman without 
a jacket ? Snip shall go directly to Avork. You knoAv my way 
— I ahvays dress in character.” Accordingly, pleased with his 
sporting jacket — equipped Avith a new fishing rod, lines, a 
large bag, and landing net, expressly purchased, Avith me in 
my chaise — Heath in his, — off we sallied to RickmansAvorth. 
Arrived there in the evening, we yet had time to fish a couple 
of hours. But Bannister, objecting, said that it Avas better to 
defer it till the next day, he Avas certain then to fill his bag ; 
his pretty jacket, besides his first appearance, Avould so attract 
the fish, he was sure of an overfiowing audience : Ave had better 
give the large fish a respite till to-morrow. No time Avas lost, 
for, with his eccentric humour, he amused us till supper ; 
giving us, as he called them (not Le Brun’s Passions), the 
Fisherman’s Passions. Attention — Looking at the float. Hope 
— a nibble. Disappointment — No fish, — Anger — The hook 
entangled in a weed. Joy — A bite. Astonishment — A large 
trout. This exhibition of countenance so often he has 
exhibited on the stage, especially in the “ Children in the 
Wood,” Avhen seated in the chair, Avith a frantic state of 
expression at the loss of them. He would often, Avith the rod 
in his hand, standing by the waterside, give us the different 
expressions of tragedy and comedy. This he called his fishing 
rehearsal — telling us, “To-morroAV I’ll astonish the watery 
natives. Turk Gregory never did such deeds.” Supper being 
announced, and lamb chops making their appearance, having 



lunched at an early hour, previous to our departure from 
town, two other passions now followed — Hunger and Pleasure. 
The first, our supper ; the next, the glass. When in high 
spirits, singing “ Fishermen all,” enter chambermaid, to tell us 
there were only two beds for the three fishing gentlemen. 
The idea of a bed-fellow was instantly scouted. Three must 
be provided. Knowing that a company of a marching regi- 
ment had come into the town that morning, and that the 
officers quartered there had chosen their beds, no choice was 
left us ; it was seniores priores. What were we to do ? Still 
persisting on another bed, when the landlord informed us, 
that, to accommodate the officers, who were to remain there 
some days, for another party that was expected, he had been 
obliged to give up his o^vn bed ; how very sorry he was ; but 
if one of us would put up with hoot-hetchers, he would make 
the room as comfortable as possible. No alternative left us. 
“ Hobson’s choice,” that or none ; we had to wait till it was in 
readiness. In the meantime, we proposed drawing lots, to 
decide who was to take the place of Boots, two blanks to the 
chamber prize, when our merry companion was the fortunate 
to displace him. This was a thunder-bolt ; no sham passion 
of anger now ; to have fallen into the water could not have 
been a greater damper to his spirits. At first, he refused, and 
glad would he have been to have paid for the supper, and our 
beds, if we would resign one to him. Here he stood no chance 
mth all his comic characters ; this sudden transition, though 
no laughing one here, certainly was the most shining one, sup- 
planting another performer in his shining way. Having for 
years experienced his jokes, when I have been the subject, as 
chacun a son tour, it was my turn now, and plenty of scope 
for my attempt at retort ! But seeing him, thus chop-fallen, 



enact the knight of the sorroAvful countenance, my feelings were 
such, that I had not the heart to hurt him, though I am sure 
his good nature would not have been offended. Indeed, I 
could have almost resigned my bed to him ; but on the decision 
of his fatal lot, he threatened to take possession of my bed in 
his boots. Directly, I took care to lock the door ; nor was it 
opened till Heath and myself had seen him to his snoozing ken 
(a term suited to his apartment). The denouement that 
succeeded was laughable. With a serious countenance we 
followed the chambermaid to the end of the yard, where a 
ladder was the only staircase for him to ascend to a cock-loft. 
Whilst mounting it, all before which was penseroso, now jper- 
forming the allegretto, laughing, “ Damme I’ll be ranger ; up 
I go, up I go.” — Aye, “Go to bed, Basil, go to bed.” Still 
keeping up his spirits ; on opening his room door, he wished 
us a good night, singing, not sotto voce, more the piano, 
“Fishermen all.” The next morning it was a theatrical 
appeara7ice at breakfast, I rather think his first in that line. 
When expecting to hear him complain of his night’s lodging, 
too cunning for us, aware of the advantage we had secured, in 
procuring our beds, and considering our inquiries were more 
to laugh than sympathize, all gaiete had his prompt repartees 
at the moment. Addressing him, “ Great Angler, how have 
you slept?” — “ Never better in ray life. It was the heavy 
dew of slumber.” — “ But your room ? ” — “ The cabin is con- 
venient ! ” — “ Surely it must have been a filthy one ? ” — 
“ Whatever it was, it did not forbid me to ‘ steep my senses 
into forgetfulness ; ’ my slumbers would not have been better 
‘ in the perfumed chambers of the great.’ ” Here he was too 
much for us, turning all our questions, with his quotations, 
into ridicule, and humouring our curiosity. Whatever incon- 



veniences he must have had, he cunningly kept them to him- 
self. Now for the fishing. The morning, unfortunately, was 
so windy and boisterous (a cold March and easterly wind), 
that we had little hopes, and no chance of catching a fish. 
However, we were determined to try our luck. After two 
hours, shivering by the water-side, without a bite, or even a 
nibble, we might have remained the whole day, and verified 
the old saying, whilst holding our rods — “ A fool at one end, 
and a worm at the other.” Following my advice, the sooner 
we got back to town, the better ; we should, at least, be sure 
of a good bite at our OAvn table, with little chance of the 
weather altering : our tavern bill paid, we were heartily glad 
to get away. Bannister, not forgetting his lodging to boot, 
sang, “ Adieu, thou dreary Pile.” The few hours our fishing 
excursion had lasted, if two ounces only had been caught, it 
would have cost above 21. As to the Mr. Walton, en second, 
what with his new jacket, fishing tackle, &c., and tavern 
expenses, he must have been five guineas minus ; enough to 
sicken him for another fishing excursion. He made me a 
present of his jacket ; it was a memento years after, of the 
Three Jolly Anglers. 

If in fishing you take great delight, 

In a punt you may shiver from morn to night ; 

And if endowed with patience, Job had of old, 

The Devil a thing will you catch, but a cold. 


An Incident. 

It is now a good many years since, as indeed the point, if 
point there be, of this incident of my life will sufficiently 



declare, that I had been passing some time at the house of one 
of the most amiable and agreeable men in the world (now alas 
out of it), who lived a little way beyond the tar-smelling town 
of Gosport ; and having fulfilled my engagement with him, had 
resolved to go from Portsmouth to Brighton, at which place I 
proposed passing the winter. In pursuance of this plan, I de- 
spatched my servant, the evening before, with all my luggage, 
excepting one portmanteau, a bag, and a dressing-case, in order 
that he might secure me lodgings at the Castle Inn, which 
then existed, or in Dorset Gardens, which at that period of 
my life was my most favourite residence in Brighton. 

Having so far proceeded in the execution of my plan, I 
next day, at about five o’clock, month of November, weather 
wet and windy, took leave of my kind host, and stepped into 
his carriage, which was first to convey me, my portmanteau, 
bag, and dressing-case, to the landing, or rather, in my 
instance, the embarking place at Gosport, thence to return, to 
take him and his amiable wife to some dinner party in their 
neighbourhood ; their engagement at which terminated my 
visit in the afternoon of that day, rather than on the morning 
of the next. 

All that had been projected in the programme was duly put 
into execution, up to my departure per ferry-boat to Point. 
A short delay on the part of the boatmen, and a delicacy on 
mine, in keeping my friend’s carriage so long as to be too late 
for his use, left me shivering and shaking for some minutes on 
the Gosport shore, in company with my before-mentioned 
portmanteau, bag, and dressing-case. At length, however, I 
and my accessories were afloat, and after ten minutes’ drench- 
ing in the heaviest rain I ever felt, I did, what was extremely 
satisfactory to myself, come to the Point, where I was assailed 



by various porters, and others, who proffered their services 
to carry my never-to-be-forgotten portmanteau, bag, and 
dressing-case, to any hostelry or lodging I might choose to 

In those days the Crown was in high favour, and to the 
Crown I directed my nautical mercury with the luggage, and 
thither I proceeded myself. I reached it in safety ; but, with 
regard to drapery, dripping somewhat like a male Musidora ; 
it was nearly dark, and the wind whistled out of the gateway 
of the CroAvn right in my teeth. I pulled a bell — the sound 
seemed lost in the breeze ; but having made a second effort, a 
pale-faced waiter made his appearance. 

“ I want dinner, and a bed,” said I. 

“ This way, Sir,” said he ; and forthwith he showed me 
into what was called a coffee-room. The chimney and the 
company were both smoking, the floor was sanded, and 
several gentlemen were grouped at narrow tables placed in 
little slips, separated from each other, having, on the tops of 
the partitions Avhich divided them, brass rods and red fustian 
curtains, like those by Avhich, in a country church, the church- 
Avarden’s peAv is specially distinguished. 

I Avas tired, Avet, and uncomfortable ; I had left a house 
Avhere comfort and hospitality reigned Avith unmitigated sAvay. 
Three weeks of social intercourse Avith a friend I loved, and 
his family Avhom I esteemed, had spoiled me for this sudden 
change to boisterous mirth, strange faces, and unsavoury 
smells. I sought to be alone, to think over my past visit, to 
dwell on the pleasures I had experienced, and rest my mind 
for a few hours after the constant excitement in Avhich the 
events of the last tAventy days had kept me. 

“ Can I have no sitting-room ? ” said I, draAving back. — 



“ This is the cofFee-room,” said the waiter, which, no doubt, 
as a matter of technicality, is a sufficient reason for eating 
dinners in it. — “ I don’t think,” — added he, looking first at 
my miserably dripping hat and cloak ; and secondly, and in 
vain, for my servant, and the proportion of luggage adequate 
to the wants of a gentleman who had the vanity and pre- 
sumption to wish to dine by himself — “ I don’t think we have 
a sitting-room disengaged ; I’ll see. Have you any luggage. 
Sir ? ” 

Upon my answer to this question, I was convinced much 
depended ; and what had I to boast ? A small portmanteau, 
a bag, and a dressing-case. 

“ The porter has it,” said I. 

And the waiter went to the porter, and took my luggage, 
and they whispered together ; and I could see contempt and 
disinclination fill the waiter’s countenance, while he called 
“chambermaid,” to take “the gentleman’s things to a bed- 
room.” Having done which, he proceeded to the head of 
some other department, to know whether I might be allowed 
to put five or six shillings extra into the landlord’s pocket by 
enjoying my o’wn proper fire and wax candles. 

I then had an opportunity of surveying the chambermaid 
herself. Maid, thought I — Gorgon — to call a patriarch, who 
at seventy-two, shakes himself over the saddle of a post-horse, 
post-toy, is not more preposterous, than to call thee maid. 

“ Sally,” screamed the Brobdignagian, “ What bedrooms is 
disengaged ? Here’s a gentleman, come by the Gosport ferry, 
wants a bed.” 

This was called up to somebody on the floor above us ; the 
answer came down like thunder — “ There’s only number 
two hundred and eighteen.” 



“ Oh,” replied my huge conductress, “ this way, if you 

“ I’ll just stop one moment, to see if I can have a room to 
dine in,” said I. 

“Yes, Sir, you can,” said the waiter; “I’ll show you the 
parlour, now, Sir.” 

And he did indeed shoAv me a parlour, opening directly 
from the gate-way, shaped liked a cocked-hat box, and half 
covered with a carpet, which, as it was agitated by the wind 
drifting under the door, undulated like a play-house sea. 

I saw complaint was useless, so I politely asked to have a 
fire lighted, ordered a boot-jack, and with considerable force, 
which was absolutely necessary to get them off in their limpid 
state, got rid of my boots ; and having invested myself in a 
pair of accommodating slippers, ordered some fish and a 
broiled fowl, with mushroom, for dinner, proceeded to my 
dormitory, my six feet Thais leading the way. 

We began to mount the stairs as the clock was striking six, 
and continued to ascend in nearly a perpendicular direction 
for a considerable time ; we then appeared to me to take a 
south-westerly direction, and shortly after rose rapidly up a 
precipitous ladder railed on either side, and reached what, 
when the door was opened, appeared to me to be the lantern 
of a dight-house. It was a four-sided room, three sides of 
which were windows ; on the fourth side was the bed, and on 
the fifth side the door. This teas number 218. 

“ Why, there is no fire-place here,” said 1. 

“ No, Sir. Should you want a fire,” said Thais, “ this is 
the only room we have — it is uncommon pleasant. I’m sure, 
in the day-time — why, in clear weather. Sir, you can see 
from the Nab to the Needles with the naked eye.” 



The idea of anything naked in such a room, at such a 
season, made me shudder. I said, “ This is not very snug for 
the time of year.” 

“ There isn’t no other room, I know, Sir,” said my 
patroness ; saying which, she banged down the candlestick 
upon a painted deal table, which stood at one of the shutter- 
less windows ; and, having deposited by its side one solitary 
towel, retired, shutting the door after her with a noise which 
made all the frames of my winter conservatory rattle. 

In this distant and desolate spot I changed my dress, and 
although the climate was none of the mildest, I soon began to 
feel the comforts of dry clothing ; and thus, young in years, 
and buoyant in spirits, the little ills by which I was encom- 
passed became matters of mirth, and I could scarcely help 
laughing at my own miseries. In some twenty or tive-and- 
twenty minutes, having completed my toilette, I, to use the 
phrase of Messrs. Green, Sadler and Co. the aeronauts, “ began 
to descend ; ” but as there were no finger posts in the passage, 
I was compelled to proceed cautiously ; guided by a natural 
instinct for food, I suppose, rather than by any knowledge of 
the carte du pays, I reached what might be considered the 
habitable part of the Crown, and at the end of a passage 
leading to the front rooms on the first floor, I saw a group of 
pretty faces smiling — and when does a face look so pretty 
as when it smiles on one, and looking earnestly at one — 
one personally with considerable interest not unmoved with 
veneration, a tribute for which, at my time of life, I o^v^l I 
was not quite prepared. I proceeded on my way, and met 
the huge Glumdalia, who had escorted me to the light-house. 
She glided by me with a low curtsey, and seemed to sink at 
least two feet into the earth as she passed. 




Onward I went, until I reached the head of the staircase, 
which, by the stiff breeze which blcAv upwards, I knew to be 
the one which led to my salle a manger ; judge my surprise 
at being stopped on the first step by a prodigiously large, well 
powdered, gentlemanly-looking man, with a broad white 
waistcoat and black unmentionables. 

“ This is the way, Sir,” said the landlord — for it was he 
who spoke — “ this is the way to your dining-room.” 

“No,” said I, “ I believe you mistake; my room is down- 
stairs, I — ” 

“ I beg your pardon, Sir,” replied mine host — “ I did 
mistake, Sir ; but that is rectified — this way, Sir — lights there 
— this way.” 

The door of a handsome drawing-room flew open, and I 
discovered, before a blazing fire, such as would have consumed 
my little three-cornered room under the gateway, a table 
served with such taste, and fit for an emperor, was placed for 
my reception ; while a huge sofa had been removed from its 
ordinary resting place to a position at right angles with the 
fire-place, before which was drawn a sofa table, whereon lay 
sundry books, the day’s newspapers from London, a silver 
inkstand, and all the comfortable accessions to reading and 

“ This is a better room than the other,” said I, with the 
confident air of a man who utters an incontrovertible truism. 

“ I thought. Sir,” said the landlord, bowing very low, 
“ you might, perhaps, have letters to write — our post does not 
leave till late — I hope. Sir, you will find everything as com- 
fortable as we can make it.” 

“ I thank you,” said I. “ Let me have dinner as soon as 
you can.” 



“ Immediately, Sir,” was the answer, and mine host 

True to his word, five minutes had not elapsed before he 
reappeared, bearing in his hands a huge tureen of soup, which 
I had not ordered, but which he deposited upon the table 
himself, a trail of waiters following — one with a lemon, another 
with a hash, a third with a plate, and a fourth with something 

“ I ventured to add the soup, Sir,” said the landlord — “ his 
Highness the Stadtholder, who has been here, approved of it 

I bowed ; my landlord retired to a respectful distance, and, 
under the attentive surveillance of himself and his three aides, 
I swallowed what appeared to me to be a particularly dis- 
agreeable broth ; however, the attention of mine host was not 
to be so repaid ; when I had finished, I said, “ Excellent soup, 

I ordered some sherry — the landlord vanished. I had 
scarcely compounded the fish sauce, when, like Aladdin’s 
Genius, he stood again before me, holding in his hand a bottle 
of the desired wine ; I was startled at the quantity, and 
implied that a pint of sherry would have been enough. 

“Oh, Sir,” said the landlord, “it makes no difference hoAv 
much you drink of it — it would be a pity to divide it — it is 
Gordon’s wine, fifteen years old in my house. Sir — I have very 
little of it, I assure you. Fetch a glass here,” added he, in a 
loud tone, to one of the waiters. “ Allow me, Sir, to pour 
it out.” 

I submitted to his overweening kindness, and felt quite 
relieved when he went to fetch, with his own proper hand, 
my broiled fowl, which I found, to my surprise, accompanied 



by two entrees of cutlet and fricandies, and moreover, ushered 
in with an announcement from mine host, that the time had 
been so short, it was impossible to do more, but that he had 
ventured to add a couple of woodcocks, by way of a second 

Thus feted, I nearly sank under the attentions proffered 
me, which had a still more powerful effect upon me, from the 
contrast they afforded to my first reception ; cheese over, 
and a bottle of claret put down (for I in vain mentioned 
port, and suggested a pint), I asked one of the waiters, still 
occupied in arranging the fire, if there was a play acted 
that night. 

The answer was in the affirmative ; Mr. Pope, of Covent 
Garden Theatre, acted Alexander the Great. 

“ What time does it begin ? ” said I. 

“ It has begun. Sir,” replied the man. 

“ Should I find room, if I Avent after I have finished my 
wine ? ” 

“ Oh, Sir,” said the man, “ my master will take care there 
shall be a place secured for you, Sir.” 

This I thought particularly civil, because it must be totally 
disinterested ; I thanked him, and said I Avould avail myself 
of his attention. 

I finished my wine, rang the bell, and announced myself in 
readiness for the play. “I should like a candle,” said I; 
“ I must get myself a handkerchief I left on the table in my 
bedroom, or perhaps you will get it for me ; number 218.” 

‘‘ I beg your pardon. Sir,” said the waiter, “ your sleeping 
room is next to this, numbered three, Sir — this is the door.” 

I followed his instructions, and entered the apartment, 
which contained appendages of every possible comfort. I 



stared — wondered — said nothing — took my handkerchief — 
and walked down-stairs. 

At the bar a small number of persons were assembled, 
evidently to look at me, which they did with the same marks 
of respect and admiration as those had evinced at the top of 
the staircase, before dinner. One old lady I distinctly heard 
say, “ God bless him.” I still went on, and found at the door 
my landlord again, attended by two persons with lanterns, 
who, as I quitted the threshold, moved forward towards the 
theatre, mine host walking a little in advance of me. 

We reached the Thespian fane, and I found myself, as if by 
magic, transported by some side door and passage into a 
remarkably comfortable private box, where I was left by 
my guide and another gentleman, who, however presently 
returned, and, with a profound salute, gave me a bill of the 
play. I then established myself snugly, and enjoyed the 
excellent acting of the now veteran Pope, in peace and 
quietude. There were sundry disturbances in the pit, and 
some junior marine officers had located themselves in one of 
the boxes up stairs, over the stage, with long four-horse 
whips, with which, at stated periods, they commenced certain 
evolutions, not exactly calculated for the interior of a theatre, 
but still extremely amusing to me, from its novelty. 

When the play was over, I felt that I had had enough of 
pleasure for once, and did not stay to see the farce. Lucky 
was it for the lantern-bearers, the English Musolgees, who 
had lighted me thither ; for when I came out of the door, 
there I found them, ready to return before me ; I naturally 
availed myself of their services, and reached mine inn. 

I met, in the passage, two remarkably pretty girls, whose 
faces I recognized as having been among the group on the 



top of the stairs. I was struck with the laughing and joyous 
expression of their countenances, which appeared to me to be 
in some degree damaged by the tint of two bright orange- 
coloured handkerchiefs, which they wore over their shoulders ; 
a momentary glance from my eye suffused one of them with 
blushes, and dropping a profound curtsey, as if she was afraid 
her beauty had been too presumptuous, she shrank into the 
bar, followed by her whom I imagined to be her sister. 

At bed-time, when I retired to rest, no Grlumdalia was to be 
seen ; a fair small-featured blue-eyed personage, with a pro- 
fusion of light hair, held in her trembling hand a bedchamber 
candlestick ; she, like her young mistresses, wore an orange- 
coloured bow in her cap ; so I set down the prevalence of the 
taste to the results of a recent election, in which orange had 
been the distinguishing colour of one of the candidates. I 
bade my chaperon good night, but she seemed to me to be too 
much alarmed to enjoy the smallest civility : she retired, and 
so did I, wearied by my day’s exploits, and delighted with the 
courtesy of the landlord, and the extensive comfort of his 

The breakfast next morning was after the same school ; and 
at eleven, I desired the waiter to order me a chaise and pair 
to Chichester. He went — but in a few moments came my 
landlord, to say that he had ventured to order the horses to 
be put into a chariot which belonged to a gentleman who was 
in the Isle of Wight, and had left it there, but who would be 
too happy that I should use it. 

It seems to me, that when the current is setting smoothly 
along in the direction we wish, it would be the height of 
absurdity to throw pebbles into it, and check its course, or 
disturb its tranquillity ; so I merely bowed assent, and, 



naturally, preferring an easy carriage to a rattling “ yellow,” 
permitted my kind landlord to go his own way to work. 

The bill struck me to be considerable ; but then the accom- 
modations were commensurate ; one charge, however, puzzled 
me, because, in addition to every other doubt I might have 
had as to its reasonableness, there was the fact, that I had not 
been made aware of its having been incurred — “ Ringers, 
£l Is.” — I ventured to inquire the meaning of this item, and 
was informed that the beUs of the parish church had been 
rung in my honour (luckily for me, before I awoke in the 
morning) . I thought it odd, and foolish ; but it was done ; 
bells cannot be unrung, said I to myself, and accordingly 
settled the account, to the no small deterioration of my 
property, and stepped into the carriage of the unconscious 
gentleman in the Isle of Wight, amidst a profusion of bows 
and curtseys, my landlord standing at the door uncovered, the 
powder from his head flying up High Street like drifting 
snow before the wind. 

At Chichester I stopped to pay a visit, and the link between 
me and Portsmouth was, for the time, broken, and I amused 
myself by reciting to my friends the particulars of my 
adventure at the CroAvn ; the moral of my tale being the 
exhibition of the difference of accommodation to be found at 
the same inn ; and there the matter rested. I went on to 
Brighton, took up my residence in Dorset Gardens, rather 
dissatisfied that the people of Brighton did not emulate the 
people of Portsmouth in their endeavours to make the 

But time unravels more things — Junius will be discovered 
at last. One morning, a friend did me the pleasure to partake 
of my breakfast, after which meal he proposed our usual walk 



till lunclieon time. I, too lazy to go upstairs to my dressing- 
room, called my servant to bring me my boots ; he did so, but 
not the pair I intended to put on ; see on what trifles great 
cou7its turn. He went for another pair, leaving those which 
he had previously brought. 

“ Those are handsome boots,” said my friend the colonel, 
who, at the same time was no colonel at all. “ Who made 
them ? ” 

“A man of the name of Paget Daly O’Shaugnessy, in 
St. James’s Street,” said I. 

“ Very nice boots, indeed.” 

“ Yes,” said I ; “ and they fit me remarkably well, although 
they were not made for me. He had promised me a pair of 
boots for the day I left town ; and when my man went for 
them, he had not finished them ; but he sent these, which he 
had made for the Prince of Orange, and they suited me better 
than any he had ever made for me purposely.” 

“ That’s odd,” said the colonel ; “ but if I had been you I 
should have made my servant scratch out the Prince’s name, 
which is written on the inside of them, else it might appear 
that you had appropriated His Highness’s property to your 
own use.” 

“ What ! ” cried I, “is the Prince’s name in the boots ? ” 

“ Here,” said the colonel, “ read ; ” and so I did, and sure 
enough there were the words, H.8.H. the Prince of Orange, 
2,789,465 ; the figures meaning to imply that Mr. Paget Daly 
O’Shaugnessy had himself made two million, seven hundred 
and eighty-nine thousand, four hundred, and sixty-five pair 
of boots. 

“ Now,” said I, “I see it all ; now do I account for my 
promotion from the conservatory, from the sky-light, to the 



drawing-room at the Crown ; now do I know why I was looked 
at with veneration and respect ; now do I see why the girls 
wore orange handkerchiefs, and the fair chambermaid 
trembled ; now do I understand why I was blessed by old 
ladies, and lighted to the play with lanterns ; now do I com- 
prehend why the bells rang in mine honour, and why I was 
drenched with soup the Stadtholder loved. Those, my dear 
colonel, those are the boots saturated and dried at Portsmouth ; 
from those boots did they derive their notions of my character 
and consequence, and to those boots am I indebted for being 
indebted to the landlord of the Crown five pounds more than I 
should have owed him if I had worn anonymous leggings.” 

“ xlh,” said the colonel, “ as Titus Andronicus says, if you 
had gone all bootless into them, they would not have heeded 

“ I confess,” replied I, “ my vanity is a little wounded ; but 
no matter, I was well lodged, the landlord was well paid, and 
I never will use the Avord boots reproachfully as long as I 

Theodore Hook. 

Jack Bannister. 

HaAung arranged, in the month of July, a ramble to 
Latimers, the seat of Lord George Cavendish, who honoured 
me often with a card to take a friend to fish with me in his 
park, Bannister and John Johnstone, who were engaged at the 
Little Theatre, Haymarket, and, being in the bills the follow- 
ing evening, I promised to be at Rickmansworth (a few miles 
from Latimers) the night before, at the same time to provide 
a cold coUation for the next day, which I usually took to 



Hyat’s, the gamekeeper, or in the park, in sight of the rods 
left by the side of us in the water. The following day, whilst 
I was fishing, at a Weir close to the road-side, Johnstone in 
his gig, with my friend Bannister, approached me, when 
Johnstone’s first words were — “Harry, my boy, what have 
you got for dinner ? ” — “ Cold lamb and salad.” — “ Augh ! 
and why did you not get mutton ? ” — “ What, mutton at this 
time of the year, in preference to lamb ? Pooh ! ” Directly 
flying into a violent passion, “I won’t eat lamb.” — “Then I 
will.” — “ Have you got plenty of potatoes? ” — “I’ve forgot.” 
This was too much for the disappointed Hibernian, outrageous, 
whipping his horse, away he flew. Although I had ever, on 
our previous fishing excursions, taken care to provide his 
kingdom’s favourite, with their coats on, this time I failed ; 
such a national disappointment was too much, and, when told 
dinner would be ready at four, “ I won’t dine at four. I’ll dine 
at six.” — “ Gomme il vous plaira, there’s French for you, I 
have ordered it at four, and shall not alter the hour, as I have 
to travel above twenty miles this evening to town — a dark 
night, and a robbing road, your mutton taste shall not alter 
mine, so, if you prefer fishing to your dinner, Master Father 
Mac Shane (my usual appellation), you may dine with Duhe 
Humphrey The consequence was, Bannister, myself, and a 
friend I had taken in my gig, at four o’clock, nearly devoured 
all the lamb, when I heard after, at six o’clock, his repast was 
a fat eel, the game-keeper had provided for him, and bread 
and cheese, so that our mutton difference, that shocking 
mistake, forgetting the pratees, though for years previous we 
passed pleasantly many fishing days together in perfect 
harmony, listening to his Irish songs, this lamb v. mutton 
threw such cold water as to prevent fish biting, had we ever 


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Thomas Kowjla^^bsok 


^ iHMr logeUMMT — thin vns oar iooW. '' In uue 4^ ^ 

(Hhi^r thiiUlM^witli the~ rod^ Johnstone, at Trell m myM, ImI 

lha ^irnrili^ tiOca « friend wiHi Wm to Molbcome', 
water, BrDelrei Hal). While angiing ooe day Atnmill'tjilt 
frh^ tk« frmter was wnry rapid, which is aJwmya piwl^hUx 
better when dihing for trout ; the wind being eesUoly. we hod 
been a long time fiebin^ to no p«r)*m'. noie bile or oibbU«. 
, o&i Irish peasant, whe had Iwen idl Ib^ itnfr steMUn|r by, 
^ ^ )o<ddng"^ on. and out cd pj^-jifrmi . MSibi ** eo Mr no fr«b, 
Adaimeti. *^A2)d do ye»: I wWa he afrer 

laying eC"— And why > *l[||itil<aarhw » * < esatb^ water 

h oddere their heade mj wua^fr 

BhmtMMA efia tewrt^ f rwify «r«« enareoDr 

eaiDpsadtaw te erfr TteMtaiw arwa tewa ; ww* 

Tva^mailly fm^f •» <l|»NSw^ hu 

-■'* rrMat, Unlfrter sidp^!t««g sArate »«» «o the aaKc^'da^s 
of Molors. Tha> titi disfi«4a •i ch# Crcrwt. and 
tempted te to a ^eeip agy him there. CNxr eaeumcna aaew 
gtoarofty lams time b<^>ro dinner; when stasMiing: nate Mm 
wa wart omased, whilst hit poncil was engaged de)m«aihi(p the 
varkwe 4>)«r|s, ships piasing, and sketchhig Ui« ditf^reM 
^ duuaciMre collated, that exeHad hit attention, whleh. ^rbeu 
finishe*!, ’ware not unworthy the geniiip of a teeood Bogarth. 
" One hot evening, whiW oittatg at th^ wtwlow, viewing the 
asssels at they sailed by, Bannister nia»ti<m»d that the Alhi&n 
East iDdUnum was at Blsohwall fositwiml bonnd), ami that he 
was aeq^mkit'^i with the teat mol# ; we thersfonii propueefl fo 
- .*^vary ^the evening, by gocof on board. Having* a boat, the 
* tidciteTwg about five, we wnre welcomed on deck. 1 need 
LvJ^ fii . 



fished after together — this was our finale. In one of our 
fishing duettos with the I'od, Johnstone, as well as myself, had 
the privilege to take a friend with him to Lord Melbourne’s 
water. Brocket Hall. While angling one day at a mill-tail, 
where the water was very rapid, which is always preferable, 
better when fishing for trout ; the wind being easterly, we had 
been a long time fishing to no purpose, not a bite or nibble, 
an Irish peasant, who had been all the time standing by, 
looking on, and out of patience, seeing us catch no fish, 
exclaimed, “ And do you call that fishing ? I would be after 
laving off.” — “ And why ? ” said Johnstone. “ Case the Avater 
bodders their heads too much.” 

Moee Sail than Ballast. 

Bannister, myself, and Rowlandson, for years were constant 
companions in our rambles near town ; the latter was 
frequently making his sketches at Greenwich, his favourite 
resort, both for shipping and scenes relative to the assemblage 
of sailors. The fish dinners at the Crown and Sceptre often 
tempted us to accompany him there. Our excursions were 
generally some time before dinner ; when standing near him 
we were amused, whilst his pencil Avas engaged delineating the 
various objects, ships passing, and sketching the different 
characters collected, that excited his attention, which, Avhen 
finished, were not unworthy the genius of a second Hogarth. 
One hot evening, while sitting at the Avindow, vieAving the 
vessels as they sailed by, Bannister mentioned that the Albion 
East Indiaman Avas at Blackwall (outward bound), and that he 
was acquainted with the first mate ; Ave therefore proposed to 
vary the evening, by going on board. Having a boat, the 
tide serving about five, Ave were Avelcomed on deck. I need 



not observe bow Jack Bannister’s ajDpearance was hailed ; so 
much so, that it materially added to our hearty reception ; 
suffice it to say, in a few minutes all of us were as sociable 
and acquainted as if we had been together a five months’ 
voyage from India. What with the wine, Bannister’s choice 
songs, merriment, and humour, we must have kept laughing 
and singing three hours. Mr. Laurie (late partner with 
Whittle the printseller in Fleet Street) and a friend, who were 
received previous to our meeting, were of the party. About 
nine o’clock they left us, taking Rowlandson with them, then 
pretty well, “ how came you so ? ” Bannister’s friend pre- 
vailed on us to remain, so pressingly, that we could not resist, 
although we were already quite enough gone, thoughtless of 
the consequence of remaining, and the many miles, at a late 
hour, to return home. Soon after. Arrack Punch, Indian 
sweetmeats, and biscuits, were placed on the table ; and what 
with the wine, acids, and sweets that followed, “ now safe 
moored, with bowl before us,” it was past twelve o’clock when 
we were put on shore. At that hour there was no conveyance 
from Blackwall, and we had to walk all the way to town, 
occasionally falling down, carrying too much sail in our fore- 
tops, and holding, as ive thought, fast of each other, we always 
fell together ; about three, after our many tumbles, our clothes 
covered with mud, our hats left behind, fortunately a coach 
in the Minories conveyed us safe home. The next morning, 
feeling the ill effects of the previous night’s carouse, I re- 
collected my reception, already described, on board the 
Victorious, man-of-war, at Chatham ; this naval visit proved a 
warning to me never after to venture myself after dark to 
heave a hand at the punch bowl, with such friendly mess- 
mates, without carrying more ballast. 



Puck’s Tale ; oe, the Love of a Spieit. 

“ Puck — Puck, where are you ? ” — “ Here, most royal 
Oberon ! ” — “ Here ! ” repeated the first voice, in a sharp key 
of irascibility. “ How, in Mab’s name, can I tell where hei'e 
is ? ” — “ Ha — ha — ha — ! ” — “ Ho, laughest — thou loyal ! ” 
cried Oberon, in high wrath. “ Come forth instantly, or I 
will shut thee up in an oak tree for seven ages ; even as I 
would serve the reptile that mortals term a toad.” * — “ If I 
come forth, shall I have pardon full and free ? ” — “ The great 
are merciful ! ” answered Oberon. “ I love not general 
observations,” replied the voice. “ SomehoAv or other, they 
never apply to particular instances ! ” — “ Well then, I promise 
thee, by my croAvn and sceptre, that thou shalt have full 
pardon.” “ Behold me, then,” was the answer ; and suddenly 
the inverted acom-cup, upon Avhich his majesty of all the 
fairies Avas sitting, began to heave in so rebellious a manner 
as to dislodge its royal occupier, with a greater abruptness than 
Avas at all agreeable to the dignity of that personage. “ How 
now, thou naughty fay,” cried the king, in extreme displeasure, 
as a small figure crept out of the acorn-cup ; “ how noAV ? ” 
Puck saAv he had proceeded too far. “ Forgive me, mighty 
Oberon ! ” said he, kneeling, and settling his features into an 
air of repentant gravity. The good-natured monarch was 
easily appeased. “ Rise ! ” said he. “ But Avhat work hast 
thou been employed in — see, thou hast a great rent in thy 
best bees’-Aving jacket, and thy cobAveb inexpressibles are all 
over dust ? ” — “ I got these tokens of toil and labour,” 
ansAvered Puck, rising, and throAving back his head with the 

* This threat accounts for one of the most singular facts in Natural 
History ! 



air of a Talma, “in defending your majesty from your enemies, 
the ants ; it was for this, that I pursued them into the acorn- 
cup, where they were laying a snare to attack you ! ” — 
“ Ants ! ” repeated the king, with a brave look. “ Ants ! 
what care we for ants ? ” — and so saying, the monarch placed 
his hand upon his sword, made of a hornet’s sting, of the most 
approved metal, and turned his eye round with an air, in 
Avhich, perhaps, caution was not altogether unmingled Avith 
defiance. At a short distance, he beheld, slowly approaching 
towards him, three ants of the largest dimensions. “ Puck,” 
said the king, with a quick tone, “ this is an untoward spot — 
catch me yon May-fly, we will have a ride ! ” The May-fly 
was caught, and Oberon mounted. “ Where shall I tell him 
to go ? ” said Puck, touching his hat, made out of a beetle’s 
Aving. “ To the fountain,” said the king ; and to the fountain 
they Avent. It was a beautiful spot, in the midst of a wood. 
The fountain was small, but of the clearest and most glassy 
Avater ; the banks were covered with wild thyme and hare- 
bells, and the sun-loving cowslip. Here and there, at the 
shallow edge of the water, were clusters of reeds and Avater 
lilies. A feAv fish, of the silver-scaled species of the roach, 
Avere basking in the sunniest parts of the fountain ; and the 
Avind, which came from the south, and Avas very faint, broke 
out through the undulating boughs which hung over the 
Avaters, and made the happy waves dance indolently to its 
music. Just over the spot on which the fairy equipage rested, 
a large dragon fly had been Avandering, and brushed out Avith 
his wings a thousand odours, too faint for mortal sense, but 
Avhich were like breathings from a ruby to the fairies. They 
alighted from their steed, and gave him, in reward for his 
labour, a charm to preserve him from his great enemy, the 



trout, for the rest of his life. Nay, I have heard that it 
extended even to a universal protection from the whole finny 
race ; even from the lust of the salmon, to the volatile 
flippancy of the dace. “ This is pleasant ! ” said Oberon, throw- 
ing himself under the shade of a young sweet-briar ; Avhile 
Puck seated himself, at the head of the king, upon a beautiful 
large daisy. “Fetch me,” said Oberon, “ a cup of May-dew ; 
by Mab’s under lip, I am exceeding thirsty.” Puck gathered 
a harebell, and carrying it into a cool brake, which the sun 
had not yet pierced, filled it with three drops of the most 
transparent dew. Oberon took a most hearty draught ; and 
then, settling himself once more under his sweet briar, said — 
“ Thanks, good Puck ; and now tell us a story.” — “ A story ? ” 
said Puck. “ Your majesty must really excuse me ; I never 
had the least voice for reciting ! and besides, I am so terribly 
hoarse, with a severe cold I got the other night, by falling into 
a damp tankard in a gudewife’s cupboard, I had not an oppor- 
tunity of changing my clothes for three hours afterwards.” — 
“ Pooh ! ” said Oberon. “ Thou art more full of airs than 
Mab’s eldest and ugliest maid of honour ; come, begin.” — 
“ Well,” said Puck, hemming thrice, and using a violet leaf by 
way of a fan ; “ well, what sort of a story will your majesty 
have ? ” — “ Not melancholy,” replied Oberon, “ for I love not 
weeping ; nor gay, for it is too warm for laughter : but some- 
thing humdrum, and sober, and love-sick, as befits the day.” 
— “ Your majesty shall be obeyed,” said the fairy, and 
accordingly, he thus began. 

“ Your majesty must know that, about fifty years since, 
according to the chronology of mortals, there lived a youth, 
named Psychus. He was a strange, wild, solitary youth, that 
loved to wander alone till he came to some spot less familiar 



to him than those he had passed, and then he would throw 
himself, like your majesty, beside some tree, and look listlessly 
at the green boughs playing with the young west winds and 
the idle sunbeams. But as he was approaching towards man- 
hood, a singular change became visible in his appearance — his 
complexion softened into a more delicate and transparent hue 
— a golden light diffused itself over the rich chesnut locks 
which fell over his forehead — his form became more fragile, 
but more exquisitely proportioned, than that of any other 
mortal existing ; and yet he possessed such strength, that he 
could fell the buffalo with a blow, and almost pluck up the 
young tree, which bore the acorn your majesty Avas sitting on 
when your servant vanquished your enemies the ants — and 
over the youth’s eyes and lips, and cheeks, there was spread a 
beauty so dazzling, and yet so indefinite and dissimilar from 
that of earth, that none could look upon it* Avithout love, 
mingled Avith Avonder, not only at its excess, but its peculiarity. 
And whenever he lay down at noon-day, under the shade, a 
thousand flowers sprang up beneath him, and the boughs clung 
closer to each other, to thicken the shelter from the sun ; and 
though the day to all else was utterly still and sultry, yet for 
him there Avas a light, undulating breeze, Avhich “ streaked his 
bosom Avith its gentle fan, and played the wanton Avith him 
through the leaves.” 

“ Where do those lines come from. Puck ? ” said the king, 
“ I do not remember them, in my edition of the fairy poets.” 
— “ They are someAvhat altered from an old English poet, 
please your majesty,” answered Puck. “ I love the old 
English poets ! ” quoth King Oberon, “ but proceed.” — “ By 
degrees,” continued Puck, “ these distinctions from the 
ordinary race of men increased. At length, a beautiful bird, 



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of the most delicate sky-blue plumage, used to hover around 
him wherever he went, and sing such soft and low tunes, that 
the very gnomes would pause from their evil works, to listen 
to a melody that might have come from the rejoicing hymns 
of the distant stars. But there Avere times when Psychiis felt 
a burning and mysterious spirit within him — an irresistible 

and mighty ’’ “ Nonsense,” said King Oberon, whose taste 

was formed in the fastidiousness of the old school, “ tell us, in 
plain fairyism, Avhat thou meanest — Avhat Avas this burning 
spirit ? ” — “ It Avas Poetry, please your majesty,” ansAvered 
Puck ; “ this faculty, I need not inform you, is in no case 
natural to mortals, it is the gift and inspiration of the female 
spirits of the air ; who borroAv a human language to utter an 
Immortal’s feelings, and breathe the thoughts of the loftiest 
Avorlds over the sterility of that Avhich is the meanest. But 
your majesty also knoAvs, that there are many mortals Avho 
pretend to the gift of poetry, and pour forth curious imitations 
of the dictates of the aether spirits ; noAv these are inspired by 
grotesque little imps, Avith hump backs, and blear eyes, and 
lame legs, that hobble about in fogs and damps, and, entering 
into the brains of young mortals, between the age of sixteen 
and thirty, produce all those deformed, obscure, limping pro- 
ductions, Avith Avhich, in every age, the Avorld has been 
inundated. But to proceed ; the verses of Psychus were so 
exquisite — they breathed such a depth and purity of thought 
— such a gloAv of language, and elevation of fancy — that all 
his nation became enraptured Avith them ; they Avere hymned 
in the churches, sang in the bower, and Inirdy-gurdied about 
the streets : nothing but the Poetry of Psychus Avas endured. 
The maidens used to dream over them by night, and aAvake in 
the morning to Avish the beautiful young poet Avould avoo as 

97 H 


glowingly with his lips as his lute ; and to vow that, in that 
case, the feet in his verses should not be the only ones that 
would run off so smoothly. 

“ One day, in our own bright month of June, Psychus 
wandered into a wood ; he came at last to a spot more open 
than the rest ; the winds were as still as night, scarcely a leaf 
stirred ; the turf in this glade was as smooth as if a fairy had 
watched over it, and covered with flowers of a pale blue, and 
of a shape and odour that Psychus had never before seen or 
felt. Pleased Avith so beautiful a spot, and Avearied by his 
rambles and the heat of the day, he threAv himself upon a 
bank of the softest moss, and, lying with his face upAvards, 
felt the sunbeams breaking through the green leaves to kiss 
the delicate beauty of his brow and cheek. By degrees, he 
fell into a light slumber. And then (though, as I told your 
majesty, not a single breath of air seemed aAvake) a violent 
agitation came over the trees and wild floAvers around him ; 
and exactly over him, the eye of a fairy might have discovered 
a pale faint star : from this orb, a blue column of denser air 
began to form, till it reached the turf upon Avhich the boy’s 
head lay, and then the star and the column disappeared ; the 
leaves and flowers resumed their stillness ; and close beside 
the youth, stood one of those wonderful shapes, composed 
solely of the purest gether, and the most southern sun-beams 
—one of those all glorious, yet all tender spirits, who hold the 
moon as their palace, and the air as their illimitable realm ; 
she leant over him for an instant in silence, and then, putting 
aside the rich disordered curls that fell over his face, she kissed 
each of his eyes three times ; as she did so, her wings, Avaving 
slightly to and fro, scattered around all the perfumes they had 
been gathering among the azure floAvers, and the amaranthine 



allies of her home. The lips of the boy parted as he felt them, 
and he smiled, as if in the pleasure of a dream. ‘ Alas,’ said 
the spirit, ‘ for what purpose have I loved you so long — all 
the gifts I shower upon you, you can never know — all the 
passion which dictates them, you can never feel. — You imagine 
that Nature, not I, made you the being that you are— that it 
was she who robbed the midnight skies around the love-star, 
to deepen the azure of your eyes — who stole from the waters 
of the west the light the setting sun had bequeathed them, 
and mingled its gold with the darker luxuriance of your hair 
— who wandered from star to star, as they arose in the evening, 
to breathe over your soul, and lyre the melody of their re- 
joicing hymns ! Oh ! when the morning came, laughing 
through your lattice, it was I who stole upon its beams to 
print the earliest kiss upon your cheeks. It was I who hung 
their spells upon the mountain, the valley, and the river, that 
to me, through them, your first vague and indefinite idolatry 
might be given. Were the winds of the east too cold, my 
sighs warmed the atmosphere around you ; — was the sun too 
enamoured of your cheek, my wings fanned it as cool as the 
pomegranates of Areron. I watched by you when you slept, 
as now, in the noon-day, forbade the viper and the hornet to 
approach you. But me — me you cannot thank — nor touch — 
nor see. I would give for one of your kisses all the bowers 
and the fountains of the moon, and my lips seem to wither 
away in pining after their food ! ’ With these words, the 
beautiful spirit threw herself beside the mortal, and wept 
bitterly. Presently, a slight rustling was heard in the moss- 
bank, upon which the boy’s head was laid, and a small quaint 
figure, in a parti-coloured vest, suddenly appeared before her. 
The expression of his countenance was kind, yet arch, as if 



impressed with the mingled love of doing mischief and doing 
good.” — “ Why, Puck,” murmured Oberon, who was little 
more awake than Psychus himself, “Why, Puck, the little 
figure resembles you ! ” — “ Perhaps it was I ! ” answered the 
favourite, gravely ; and then continued his tale. “ ‘ Daughter 
of the air,’ said the figure, ‘ console yourself with a less exalted 
nature than yours ; we have yet powers that can alleviate 
your distress ; but there is a more effectual court than ours, 
to which you can apply. The Spirit of Love, who resides in 
the evening star, can grant you all you desire. — Repair to 
her ! ’ So saying, the figure, entering into a small cavity 
among the moss, disappeared. 

“ The spirit slowly arose from the earth ; she pressed one 
long last kiss upon the lips of the sleeper, and, looking up, as 
if in command, the star and column became again perceptible. 
She spread her wings along the supporting air which the 
column formed, and the star (which served as her guide, and 
felt her commands by volition) ascended rapidly. Towards 
the evening, the spirit found herself in a much finer air than 
any which surrounds the ordinary luminaries of our system. 
She paused for a moment, to inhale the exquisite transport 
which the purity of the atmosphere afforded her ; below her 
eyes lay the wonderful gardens of the evening star ; her hopes 
redoubled at the sight ; she resumed her course till her guide 
stopped, and the column, descending slowly from it, placed 
her upon the ground of this new star. Immediately a 
delicious languor crept into every part of her soul — the air, of 
a deep rose colour, literally teemed with music — there was not 
a sound from the wind, the flowers, the trees — above, beneath, 
around, there was not a sound, not a breath — but all was the 
softest harmony. She felt herself glide involuntarily along, 



as if in a gentle current, till she came to a tent of rose leaves, 
the veins of which undulated softly to and fro, giving 
glimpses within of fountains, where the summer light seemed 
to have been caught, and charmed into sleep. Amidst these 
was an inner tent, that half developed a couch, formed of 
crimson flowers of inexpressible beauty. The spirit paused at 
the threshold of the outer tent, a faint trembling crept over 
her — he felt the thrill of the presence in which she stood. 

‘ Mightiest — Eternal — Universal Spirit ’ (she said, as she sank 
upon the earth), ‘ whose presence floats like an atmosphere 
around every world in the creation, listen to one whose whole 
frame has become a temple for your worship ! ’ The curtains 
of the inner tent moved faintly as the spirit spoke, and a voice 
came out, so soft, so drowned in its sweetness, you might have 
fancied it was dying for love of its own melody. ‘ Daughter 
of the Air,’ it murmured, ‘ I know your history, and your 
love. I can give you to Psychus, as his bride, if you can 
consent to put away your divinity, and become, for a while, a 
mortal ; but, beware ! there is, in the love of men, a dark and 
debasing essence — a contagion fatal to all the purer and nobler 
particles of your nature — his passion can degrade, and lower 
beneath himself, even the perfection of a spirit.’ — ‘ Alas ! ’ 
cried the beautiful air nymph, ‘ you know not Psychus. He 
has not a fault that other mortals possess. His love would 
exalt, rather than debase — purify my nature, rather than 
pollute it.’ A bright, yet soft light flushed mellowly over the 
tent. The Spirit within smiled. ‘ Daughter,’ said the voice, 
‘ you shall have your wish, as far as my authority can extend ! 
Hear the limit of its power. He shall love you as man never 
loved before — through soitow — sickness — change. Ye shall 
cling unalterably together. If your love can exalt his nature 



to your own, he shall never die — he shall enter into the rank 
of your order, and partake of your love to immortality. But 
if his star gain an ascendancy over yours — if he lower you 
from your divinity, even below the standard of Ms race — in 
that instant, when the measure of your degradation is full, 
you shall separate from him for ever .’ — ‘ Joy — ^joy,’ exclaimed 
the supplicant. ‘ I shall love — and I shall possess him to 
eternity.’ Again the rosy light of the Love Spirit’s smile 
broke over the tent. ‘ Enter, my child and subject,’ said the 
voice, ‘ and I will teach you the method to have your will — 
enter.’ And as she spoke, ten thousand birds, whose plumage 
was made of rainbows, clapped their wings, and, lifting up 
their notes in one full chorus, repeated — ‘ Enter.’ 

“Now, your majesty,” continued Puck, “I come to the 
second part of my story. 

“To the city where Psychus dwelt, there came a family to 
reside. It consisted of an old man, who had apparently been 
a soldier, whose manner and way of life bespoke pride, rank, 
and poverty ; his wife, a good, gentle, and affectionate woman, 
about the same age as himself ; and an only daughter, in whom 
every affection, every soft and fond feeling in the nature of 
both, seemed absorbed and concentered ; in truth, she deserved 
their love. She was as beautiful as a fairy — her eyes were as 
blue as violets ; her complexion so clear and dazzling, not even 
our sight could have discovered a fault in it — her hair was of 
that hue which is like gold in the sun, but in the shade seems 
even of a dark chesnut — her step was so light, she might have 
trod on the wings of a butterfly without brushing off a plume 
— and withal, there was a youth, a joyousness, a freshness, a 
dawn about her face and form, that seemed as if the May morn- 
ing had been her godfather, and given her his own attributes 



as a gift. All the city was in commotion. The new beauty 
attracted crowds wherever she went. Even Psychus and his 
poetry were forgotten. Perhaps the boy, who was vain enough 
of himself, was not a little piqued at his rival — at all events, 
though he had not yet seen her, he affected to decry, and even 
threatened to satirize her. One evening, there was a meeting 
in the gardens of the city, of all that was young, beautiful, and 
wealthy among the inhabitants. Thither went lone, the fair 
stranger. The crowd assembled around her more numerous 
and more admiringly than ever — wherever she bent her ear, 
it caught a new accent of wonder and homage. She leant upon 
the arms of her parents, with downcast eyes, and a cheek 
blushing, like sunset, into fresh beauties every instant ; they 
passed over a light bridge, that was the path across one of the 
softest and stillest streams that ever slept in the tmlight ; 
against one of the columns of the balustrade leant a youth 
attired in a dress of the richest dye ; his locks perfumed the 
air with which they played. Had a fairy seen him, he would 
have resolved, at the first glance, to have played him a trick 
for his coxcombry ; but he would have determined, on the 
second, to forego it ; for, in spite of the pretension of his 
dress, there was a loftiness, an energy in his air, a kinglike 
pride upon his brow and lip, and the light but majestic 
symmetry of his figure, that made one forget every minor 
impression, in the respect and even awe which that high and 
glorious cast of beauty involuntarily commanded. 

“ lone’s eye caught his — she started — she saw Psychus and 
her fate. But he — what words can express his admiration ? ” 
— “ Stop,” said King Oberon ; “ stop, Mr. Puck, and just 
explain to me Avho this lone is ; and how, if she be what I 
suspect her, she ever came into her present form ? ” — “Your 



majesty,” replied the fairy, “has, with your usual penetration, 
doubtless discovered that lone and the air spirit are one. All 
that I can explain to you, Avith respect to the metamorphosis, 
is this, — the real daughter of the old couple Avas thrown into 
a trance, and quietly deposited in one of the most beautiful 
boAvers of the evening star ; the spirit assumes her form, and 
only retains the sense of her past state, and the condition of 
her present, through a dim and dream-like recollection ; — she 
supposes herself to be mortal — to be really the being she 
appears ; she imagines she OAves to her reputed parents the 
greatest gratitude and affection, and all that she derives from 
her divinity is a higher degree of beauty, intellect, gentleness, 
and purity,” — “ Proceed,” said Oberon ; “ but first smooth 
doAvn this blade of grass, crumpled under me, of a surety it 
has cut through my inexpressibles.” — Puck did as he Avas 
commanded, and continued. — “From the moment Psychus 
first saAv lone, he lost no time in gaining, first, her acquain- 
tance ; and secondly, her love — to succeed in the first Avas to 
triumph over the latter. They loved each other with an 
idolatry and enthusiasm of which your majesty can only form 
an idea by recalling your courtship with Titania.” — “ Humph,” 
murmured his majesty, stretching his royal head with a dis- 
contented air. — “ But the birth and fortune of Psychus,” 
resumed Puck, “ were among the loftiest of the land. Every 
obstacle Avas throAvn in the lover’s way ; the stern old father 
of lone, suspecting the purity of the youth’s motives, and 
irritated by the anger of his relatives, forbade lone to see him, 
or to converse with him. ‘ Meet me once more, I implore you,’ 
wrote the lover, ‘ or you condemn me to wretchedness and to 
death.’ Hoav, after such an alternative, could lone refuse ? In 
the first evening that she met him, there was one small dark 



cloud in the sky ; as it passed over the evening star she heard a 
faint roll of thunder, which, to her ears, seemed to murmur 
‘ Beware ! ’ She met him at first in sorrow, in shame, and tears — 
she listened to his vows, and how could she keep a resolution of 
meeting him no more ? ‘ Where have you been?’ said her father, 
at her return in the evening. Her voice trembled. — ‘To our 
neighbour, Glycera’s,’ she replied. It was the first falsehood she 
had ever told, and it was the necessary parent of a thousand 
others — from that time she lived in a perpetual system of 
deceit and duplicity. Psychus wooed her in the burning 
language which a love the most passionate and ardent dictated. 
Young and innocent as she was, she knew not his object, and 
she was terrified, rather than inflamed, by the eagerness with 
which it was urged ; but nature among mortals is a powerful 
enemy to the virtues we are taught only by art. By degrees 
she caught a portion of the warmth and the wishes of her 
lover — desires hitherto unknown, and still uncomprehended, 
entered into a spirit hitherto so pure. She became restless 
and disturbed ; the duties and the occupations which had so 
long been her pleasure to perform, became irksome at first, 
and afterwards altogether neglected. All the day, but the one 
hour in which she saw Psychus, was wasted away in an idle- 
ness more bitter than labour, and more Avearisome than its 
fatigue ; — she ceased to watch the looks and consult the 
comforts of her parents ; — her stejps Avent sorely to the temple 
— her heart Avas always too engrossed to mingle with its 
devotions. Thus passed Aveeks and months ; at length she 
began to perceive a change in the appearance and manner of 
her lover. He Avas dejected, thoughtful, and melancholy — 
wept in gloomy reflection, Avhere he once breathed only the 
rapture and passion, and often seeming to forget her presence 



in that of some haunting and oppressive recollection. One 
evening he was more than usually disturbed — his step was 
hurried — and as she saw him approach, she was struck by the 
livid paleness of his cheek, and the wild but determined 
expression which reigned over the lofty and eloquent character 
of his beauty. ‘ lone,’ he said, ‘ I see you for the last time ; I 
am an outlaw from this country ; I quit it to-night for ever.’ 
She threw herself into his arms and fainted. Wrapt in those 
arms, and warm with the pressure of his lips, she awoke once 
more to the wretchedness of life. It was then, as he knelt 
beside her, that he poured forth, in rapid accents, the history 
of his crime and its punishment. Proud, restless, discontented, 
and ambitious, he had entered into a league against the 
government of the city ; that day his plots had been discovered, 
and his punishment was set — perpetual exile. ‘ Shall I depart 
alone, lone ? ’ he said, as he pressed his lips to her cheek ; and 
with these words the whole current of their thoughts was 
changed. Before the moon rose that night lone fled from her 
home, the companion and the dependent of an exile and a 
rebel. So far, your highness will perceive that the prediction 
of the Spirit of Love was fulfilled. From the purity of her 
first nature, lone had incalculably fallen ; she had forgotten 
her duties — she had neglected her parents — she had offended 
against her religion — she had changed candour to deceit, and 
embraced falsehood for truth ; to crown all, she had left, lonely 
and deserted, in age and poverty, those who had watched over 
and cherished her from her childhood, with all the providence 
and devotedness of love. It was to a scene of the utmost 
privacy and seclusion that Psychus and his companion fled. 
Here they lived for some time in a happiness which banished 
remorse from the mind of lone, and reflection from the work- 



ing brain and feverish ambition of Psychus ; and/^ere insensibly 
but powerfully commenced the influence of lone. It was her 
presence, her gentleness, that soothed him — her self-devotion, 
her generosity, even sin, that exalted him. The meekness 
with which she bore the infirmities of his temper made him 
ashamed to allow them — he learnt to curb the impulses his 
education and loveliness had encouraged him to indulge, and 
in the beautiful solitude where he dwelt, the high nature of 
the musings which no earthly intrusion of passion or prejudice 
could pollute, and the society of the one being, whose whole 
existence was in the blessing and the ennobling of his own, he 
forgot for a while all the wayward aspirations which had 
hitherto led him to behold no vision that ended not in fame, 
and no guilt that was instrumental to its success. Time rolled 
on ; but one day a stranger, who had lost his way in the forest 
where they dwelt, came for guidance to their cottage. He 
was struck with the beauty of lone, but more with the genius 
of Psychus ; for he was an old man who had survived his love 
for the graces, and only lived for the utilities of life. He was 
the chief minister of the petty state to which they had flown. 
Before he left their cottage, he discovered his rank. He 
solicited Psychus to accompany him to court. The young 
enthusiast wanted but little pressing ; and in three days, to 
the great grief of lone, he was presented to the sovereign of 
the country, and enrolled among the officers of his state.” 

“ I beg your pardon, friend Puck, for interrupting you,” 
said Oberon, “ but I am very impatient to know what became 
of those unhappy old people whom the supposed lone deserted.” 
— “ Grieve not your benevolent heart for them, my liege,” 
replied Puck, “ the spirit of the evening star befriended them ; 
immediately on the departure of the false lone, she restored 



the true, making her sensible to all that had passed (except 
the love affair) by a dream, in which she imagined herself to 
be the performer.” — “ I understand ! ” quoth the king. “ Con- 
tinue thy tale.” 

“ The three great vices in Psychus,” proceeded Puck, “ were 
his love of pleasure, his vindictiveness, and his ambition ; it 
was for lone to save him from these, or to ^deld to them. 

“The new capital, where he now lived, was one of the most 
dissipated of the time. Psychus was invited every where. 

‘ Go,’ said lone to him — and the tears stood in her eyes, but she 
attempted to smile them away — ‘ Go, my beauty begins to 
fade ; of its possession you must necessarily be tired. — You will 
be courted by all; I cannot expect that you Avill be faithful 
to me.’ She could say no more ; she pressed her lips to his 
hand, and turned away. Two nights afterwards, Psychus went 
to the house of the most celebrated beauty of the town. By 
degrees the few people invited dropped off, and Psychus was 
left alone with his hostess. ‘ Beautiful stranger,’ said she to 
him, as she pressed her faultless cheek towards his oAvn, ‘ I 
adore you — Shall it be in vain ?’ At that moment the moon — 
that dangerous softener of human passions — looked through 
the open lattice, and shone upon the flushed cheek and 
trembling lips of the speaker. Psychus drew nearer to her — 
one instant more and he had been lost. But that instant 
sufficed ; it brought back to him his lone — his own — his noble 
— his pure — his worshipping lone ; she, whose devotion had 
made every sacrifice for him — whose generosity had demanded 
none in return — who never resented the harshest expression — 
who hoarded his least smile as a treasure — who was alone at 
that moment thinking, dreaming, of no earthly being but him. 
^nd — he — was he — no, he was not — he could not be false to 



her image and her love. He left the house in safety. He had 
conquered, through lone, the most dangerous of his sins. 

“ Equally thoughtful and daring by nature, Psychus soon 
grew weary of the lighter amusements of the court ; — he 
entered into the loftier occupations and visions of the state — 
the vast depth of his wisdom in conceiving, and the resolute 
energy with which he executed his plans, led him on, step by 
step, to the highest pinnacle of reputation, and almost of power. 
The old Chief Minister who had first brought him to the court 
Avas dead — a Prince of the blood royal had succeeded him — he 
held the only place next to the king higher than that occupied 
by Psychus. He Avas a man of ability and honesty, but 
arrogant, self-sufficient, and envious of all his rivals — especially 
of Psychus. It was the business of the latter to frame laAvs 
respecting the people; he proposed one, of the most vital 
consequence to them, but prejudicial to some of the minor 
prerogatives of the nobles. It made a vast sensation throughout 
the country, but the Avhole aristocracy was in an uproar against 
the author. The Chief Minister, glad of so favourable an 
opportunity to vent his envy and to destroy its object, repaired 
to the King. He exaggerated the laAv, he distorted its tendency ; 
in a word, he so terrified the royal mind with the inflamed 
picture Avhich he dreAV, that he obtained an immediate order 
for the imprisonment of Psychus ; that very day it Avas ful- 
filled. Your majesty may imagine the feelings Avith Avhich my 
hero found himself in this reverse — conscious of high desert- 
impatient of affront — proud — vindictive — and susceptible. He 
Avas not hoAvever long in utter loneliness ; lone collected from 
the seizure of his wealth some valuable jeAvels, Avith Avhich she 
bribed the keeper of the prisons to admit her to her lover. It 
Avas then that all her poAvers, never yet exerted, Avere required, 



and tasked to the utmost ; she had at once to listen to his 
complaints, and to soothe their bitterness, without affecting to 
undervalue their magnitude ; she had to sit beside him in 
silence at one while, and at another, to strain a weary spirit 
and heavy heart into gaiety and cheerfulness. But this came 
to her without an effort — all things were easy that could soften 
one pang of his captivity; nay, there were times when she was 
almost selfish enough to rejoice at a state which made her more 
necessary to his wants, and more important to his happiness. 
As time passed on, the prisoner became calm and resigned ; 
his nature could not be constantly in companionship with hers, 
without partaking of its gentleness, and that diviner part of 
philosophy which men so rarely possess, and which in women 
has the name of meekness. But the period of his captivity was 
at a close ; the people, who would have been so benefited by 
the law for which he suffered, were in despair at the imprison- 
ment of their benefactor — harassed by their laws, their troubles, 
and their king — -and exasperated to the last extreme, at the 
thought that every measure for their relief was to have punish- 
ment for its reward — they arose in a body, they besieged the 
capital, they put to death the king and his sons, they seized 
upon the nobles, they burst the prison, they released Psychus, 
proclaimed their benefactor as their King, and they threw into 
the dungeon he had occupied the minister who had accused 
and traduced him. ‘ Now,’ said he, when the crowd had 
retired, and he was left alone with lone in the palace, ‘ now 
can I feed both my ambition and my revenge — the crown is 
on my head, my accusers are at my feet ;’ he smiled bitterly as 
he ceased. lone summoned her courage — she threw herself at 
his feet — she was only alive to his real glory, and his perma- 
nent honour. At that time, or at least in that part of the 



world, the sanctity of legitimacy was undisputed; to seize the 
crown by no right of blood was considered among the greatest 
of crimes ; the people were deemed the inheritance, and not the 
bequeathers of power. Hence lone only beheld in the ascent 
of Psychus to the throne, a crime which would be detested by 
the surrounding nations, and entail upon him long successions 
of harassment and bloodshed. All this she implored him to 
consider ; she adduced all the arguments her affection could 
suggest ; above all, she besought him, even if he yielded to his 
ambition, at least to stifle his revenge, and to pardon an accuser, 
whom, if he destroyed, the world would consider rather as a 
victim to his usurpation, than an offering to the justice of his 

“At the conclusion of her prayers, the vanquished 

the reasoner, and the dread of his anger overcoming all other 
considerations, she threw herself, dissolved into tears, in his 
arms, and implored him to pardon her presumption. Psychus 
kissed her cheek gently, and with a thoughtful air turned away 
from the apartment: that day she saw him no more. He 
walked out alone into the free air, from which he had been so 
long debarred; he thought much and deeply, and virtuously, 
if not well. He Avas of too strong and haughty a mind to be 
overcome by one conversation with lone, it Avas the haJnt of 
constant interchange of sentiment and opinion with her Avhich 
operated upon the bias and temper of his thoughts. Besides 
the vieAv which she presented to him, I cannot deny he Avas 
influenced by many motives more immediately selfish, but 
still more connected Avith lone. His confinement Avith her 
had brought him closer to her than ever — her care, and 
vigilance, and affection, had cheered and comforted him more 
than the pursuit of his ambition had eA'^er contented or 



recompensed his toils ; perhaps it was not without satisfaction 
that he contemplated living with her once more in the solitude 
he had left. However that may be, his determination, after 
many and great struggles with himself, was made. The next 
morning, he summoned the chiefs of the people. You have 
sinned greatly,’ said he, ‘ when you destroyed your sovereign 
and his sons — you sinned more when you appointed me to 
their place. I am not, it is true, of that opinion, commonly 
received, that the people have not the right to depose their 
hereditary rulers, or to elect whomsoever they please in the 
stead — I do not question the original right, but the wisdom — 
Avhatever is unwise, becomes vicious. If you placed me on 
the throne, you would draw against me the resentment of 
all the neighbouring sovereigns, and upon yourselves the 
consequences of that resentment would fall — war, devastation, 
and massacre would ensue. And believe this as a most 
invariable truth, no evil you suffer in peace, no exaction from 
one ruler, no cruelty from another, is equal to the exhaustion 
and the barbarity of a single war. Moreover, if you placed 
me on your throne, I would not answer for myself, I know 
the grasping nature of my ambition ; — at home, I might en- 
slave you, in order to mould you to my will — abroad, I might 
lead you to conquests more pernicious to you than defeats. 
For these reasons I reject your offer — I do more, I venture to 
proclaim as your sovereign, the only prince of the blood you 
suffered to survive, in order for me to condemn ; — he is my 
enemy, but he is your friend. But that you may not be 
left to his mercy and caprice — that you may no longer suffer 
from the tyranny of a king, or the worse oppressions of an 
aristocracy, I propose to you to remodel your laws — to curb 
the one, to humiliate the other, and to make all power not 



only emanate from the people, but to place the army at your 
own disposal, and thus, to leave that power no other protection 
but their ranks.’ 

“The speech of Psychus was received with acclamations, 
the laws he proposed were accepted, and his enemy and 
accuser was set upon the throne which he rejected for him- 
self. ‘ Come,’ said he to lone, when the whole city was in joy 
at the new system, which promised so much, ‘ come,’ said he, 

‘ once more to our cottage in the desert ; through your love, 
and your example, I have conquered the vices of my nature ; 
and the solitude to which we return shall reward me for the 
effort, by yielding a more constant opportunity to watch, to 
worship, and to imitate the virtues of yours' ” Puck paused. 
“ Proceed,” said Oberon. “ There ends my story, because my 
knowledge of the lovers,” answered the favourite — “ all that 
I can add to the tale is, that about ten years afterwards, two 
beings of the most beautiful order of the Air Spirits were seen 
entering the empire of the Evening Star. They glided along 
to the tent of the presiding genius ; they knelt down at the 
threshold, and from the inmost canopy murmured the voice of 
that spirit whose presence is felt everywhere, but whose 
wonderful beauty no created thing has beheld. ‘ My children,’ 
it said, ‘ welcome to the eternal happiness you have won ; 
your history shall be written uj)on rose leaves, and preserved 
in the archives of my realm. It has taught us these axioms 
in love, that the passion Avhich was lawless and forbidden, 
vitiated and degraded you — that that which was lawful, en- 
nobled and exalted you — that, in mortal affection, the irregular 
and fitful passion of the man overcomes, by its violence, and 
infects with its errors, the purer but weaker characteristics of 
the woman ; but, that in constant and daily intercourse, the 

113 T 


subtler and holier essence of her nature refines and purifies 
the grosser attributes of his. That love therefore is not made 
for a wandering and transitory feeling, for then it lowers and 
depraves, but a constant and everlasting spirit, which purifies 
itself by its continuance, and triumphs, in proportion to the 
length of its existence, over the earthlier excesses of its birth.’ ” 
“ Thank you, good Puck,” said Oberon, rising, and stretch- 
ing himself, when he perceived that the fairy had done, “ your 
story interested me much during the time I was not dozing. 
And now to our banquet ! Mab has the best temper in the 
world, but she loves not long tarrying for dinner. Catch us 
another May-fly.” 

E. L. Bulwee. 

Arthue Murphy. 

Some time after my father left Ireland for this country, he 
met Arthur Murphy, whom he had been acquainted with 
when in Dublin. Murphy had been a great admirer of 
Mrs. Woffington, but her penchant for my father was too 
predominant to listen to the addresses of the many over 
whom neither fortune nor person could have the least influence. 
Murphy, there, was one of his most intimate acquaintance. 
For years after, my father used to tell a long story of a 
rencontre that took place at a coffee house in Charles Street, 
Covent Garden, called Willis’s, at that day frequented by wits, 
authors, and select characters. Murphy, who had come gris 
from a party where the claret had passed too freely, got into 
a quarrel with a brother scribe; both, at the time violent, 
drew their swords, when my father, being present, rushed in 
between them, to save his friend (who from his inability from 



the wine could not have defended himself ), and received the 
point of Murphy’s adversary’s sword in his wrist, and was 
nearly losing the use of his hand from the wound. Years 
after I have often heard my father, showing his wrist, tell the 
story ; but when they met at his table, the tale of the two 
combatants was ever repeated ; it was the same renewal of 
friendship, Murphy acknowledging his friend had saved his 
life, my father showing the scar on his wrist. By what I 
remember of the costume of the old school, Murphy retained 
it to the last — conspicuous to every one, his dress suit and 
bag, latterly no sword. My friend James Heath, the artist, 
whose summer’s residence was at Turnham Green, near where 
Murphy lived, was often in the habit of receiving his visits, 
mentioned to me, however at all times he was pleased to see 
him, he had to regret at his departure often to find his draw- 
ing room chairs spoilt — poor Murphy had a complaint that 
obliged him to leave a memento of his advanced time of life. 

Lord Barrymore. 

Having invited to his cottage, at Wargrave, a good-natured 
simple little fellow, about eighteen, whom we all called 
“ Farmer Stone ” (his father being a respectable man of 
property near Reading), after he had remained there a few 
days, finding him of an easy disposition to be at his command, 
took him with him to London, where he soon got initiated 
into the dissipations of town. At his return to Wargrave, 
now the travelled gentleman^ he was continually going to 
Lunnon, that he's the place ; he was continually speaking of it, 
ever anxious to return ; and, having been seen so often with 



his Lordship on the road, he was considered a young noble- 
man, particularly at Prince Walker’s, at Hounslow, who, like 
the rest, never hesitated to trust him with horses, sometimes 
four, and at others indulging himself alone with a chaise to 
himself; when, at last, by his clownish dialect and uncouth 
manners they smoked him, and all were impatient for their 
money. No longer able to impose on their credulity, the 
Johnny Raw Avas obliged to change his route, not daring to 
show his face as before. One day, as he said he was going to 
Liinnon, and should cross the country by Windsor and 
Kingston, so much out of the right road, I asked him why ? — 
“ Because as how I owes a bill, I bean’t the mon they once 
tooks I for.” Hopeful youth! his visits to Wargrave, and 
his London pursuits, did not a little alter the opinions of his 
father, after the progress he made, keeping company with 
a lord 1 


Stone some time after was invited to stop two days at 
Wargrave, and had remained there two months. Lord Barry- 
more, being tired of his company, said to him — “Be off — go 
to the devil.” “Na, dwont ye, my lord, send I back, let un 
stay a little longer.” — “ Well, if you’ll say a good thing, you 
shall stay a week longer.” — “ Then here goes. I wish as how 
I Avas the brother next to you, and that you was double 
fettered in Newgate, and to be lionged to morroAv.” — “ Damned 
good, give me your hand, that is the best thing I ever heard 
you say ; to-morroAV I Avill take you to town, you shall stay a 
month with me.” 



My First Visit to an Edinburgh Boarding-house, 

“ O ! Caledonia, stern and wild ! ” — Sir Walter Scott. 

The admiration which has of late years been bestowed on 
the modern Athens, otherAvise called (a great contrast) ^^Auld 
Reekie” has risen to such a pitch, that anything connected 
therewith possesses some degree of interest; even the pages 
of the great and much regretted novelist of the day are so 
interlarded Avith broad Scotch, that it is as necessary for a 
fashionable reader to have a glossary in order to understand 
them, as it is absolutely requisite to speak French, in order 
to be qualified for society in high life. Nevertheless, I firmly 
believe that many of the readers and admirers of these 
admirable productions are like the cockney company, draAvn 
by fashion to the Italian opera, who know as much of that 
sweet language, as an elephant does of algebra. But they 
extol it for two reasons ; first, because others do so ; and, 
secondly, precisely because they do not understand it. With 
this impression, I have ventured to treat my indulgent readers 
Avith a little of the descriptive, on scenes which I witnessed, 
in Edinburgh, some twenty years back. The present one is 
in a certain square, at a certain boarding-house, kept by a 
Avorthy, virtuous, formal, and very scotified spinster of ancient 
familie, and where I went, for the first time, to visit a medical 
student of high talent. On knocking at the door, I was 
ushered into a Avell-fumished parlour, by a florid complexioned 
lass, with hair of the hue of the highest coloured carrot, and 
who, without giving me time to ask for my friend, answered, 
in a very broad dialect — “ Stej) hen, Sir, an ye please, my 
mistress Avill be at you in a moment." — Not prepared for this 
speedy rencontre, and personal engagement, I Avas about to 



explain, that it was a young gentleman whom I had come to 
see, when young firelock prevented me, by observing, ^^Aiblins, 
it will be Miss Cristy that ye’ll be Avaunting.” — (This was Miss 
Christina, another sister, and a maiden of fifty.) — “Pardon 
me,” said I, “ it is neither Miss Cristy, nor Miss Crusty, that 
I want, but” — here she stopped me again, by — “What’s your 

wull ? ” — “ I wish to know if Mr. be at home ? ” — “ 1 dinna 

ken ; but I’ll gang and spear.'' This looked like bringing 
matters to a point at once, doubtless when the lady was to be 
at me. I, however, patiently waited the servant’s return, 
who preceded her mistress, and threw open two folding-doors, 
through which, slowly, gravely, deliberately, and majestically, 
entered a tall, thin, raw-boned lady, of about fifty-five, evidently 
grown grey, but having a carefully-dressed poodled wig, of a 
flaxen hue ; and, as I was pacing the room, she made me a 
formal, but respectful acknowledgment, and motioned me with 
these words — “ Come into the fire, Sir, if you plaise ." — “ Bien 
oblige non," thought I, for this was out of the frying-pan into 
the fire ; I was to be speared in the first instance, and now to 
be roasted alive. I, however, made my best bow, and in- 
quired after my friend. — “He’s gone to the Grinder," * replied 
the stiff lady.” — “For Avhat purpose?” inquired I, somewhat 
alarmed. — “ He’s just preparing for his degree.” 

I was fully as much in the dark as I was before, but my 
friend arrived at the moment, and relieved me from my 
difiiculty. Miss Barbara (barbarous I then thought would 

* A Grinder is a person, who, being a good Latinist, and accustomed to 
the routine of examinations, prepares Undergraduates for taking their 
degree ; — they sharpen the edge of the student’s dulness, and elicit a spark 
from the dense silex of the brain ; they also assist the medical asphant to 
write his thesis ; or, perhaps, to write it in toto, proving the old rule, that 
— “ Qui facit per altrum, facit per se.” 



have been more appropriate) contented herself with remarking 
that it was a coarse day, and retired in due form. After a 
few mutual inquiries as to the family of my friend, and my 
own, he expressed a wish that I should dine with him, to 
which I agreed, and at six o’clock we sat down to a substantial 
repast, with a forest of bottles, rearing their crests above the 
edibles. Their description, or cast, was as varied as that of 
our party; for the former consisted of the productions of 
Portugal, Spain, France, and Germany, whilst the latter was 
composed of English, Irish, native Scots, and trans-atlantics ; 
such a melange rather pleased me, for it afforded great variety, 
and happy am I to say, that the diversified materials, or 
component parts of our circle, fitted all in harmoniously 
together, and formed a happy whole. Placed by the side of 
Miss Barbara, she asked me if I would take afeiv broth this 
I declined, and fell upon as fine a dish of fish as ever I tasted. 
The rest of the dinner was extremely good, barring a dish on 
which I cannot report, namely a haggis, which looked to me 
like a boiled bag-pipe, and of which I did not taste ; but all 
the rest was abundant, and very fairly cooked. I drank wine 
with Miss Barbara and Miss Christina, who mutually called 
each other Babby * and Cursty ; the waiting maid and other 
attendant were unceasingly summoned to do their duty, under 
the names of Jacky and Bella, and the one turning rather 
masculine and the other doubly feminine, seemed to justify 
their extraordinary names. 

Touching the soup, or rather barley-broth, it had rather 

* Bawby, which sounded like Babby, is a very common friendly 
abbreviation of Barbara. I must here observe that Bella, or Isabella, was 
not over-encumbered by beauty, so that the classical boarders denominated 
ber “ Bella, horrida bella.” 



a dingy appearance, observing which, a Scotch student, who 
had a rooted aversion to pepper, was, on discovering a few 
black grains in his plate, about to send it away, when Miss 
Cursty assured him it was no paper (pepper, so pronounced). 
“ What will it be, then ? ” said the Scot, in a lengthened mono- 
tonous note. “ It’s juist a little dart (dirt), the lum (chimney) 
has no been sooped for a while.” This sentence was wholly 
unintelligible to me in those days. When cheese was put on 
the table. Miss Babby asked me if I would be helped to some 
referts; I hesitated a moment, when she handed me some 
radishes ; but I had forgotten that I was still more posed 
before this by being invited “to tak & parton tae," (the claw 
of a crab, mirahile clictu !) how engaging the idea of a toe is, 
I accordingly came off with a claw. 

When the cloth was removed, and a very expensive dessert 
was put down, the elderly ladies parfered taking a nice pickle 
ivhusky toddy to cold wine ; and I, who had not then tasted 
this beverage, agreed to join them ; however, as I did not 
dispatch my tumbler as speedily as was expected, I was 
politely and hospitably stimulated so to do, with, “ Sair, ye 
mak nae impression on your glass.” I took the hint, and in 
a few minutes the two maiden ladies left us. They were both 
extremely kind-hearted, worthy women ; the one, however, 
given a good deal to puritanism and snulF ; the other, fond of 
hard names, which she always misplaced, and pronounced 
wrong ; but it was scarcely to be wondered at, since she was 
continually confused by the technicalities of the students, and 
had incessantly such hard words as the hyperoxygenated 
muriate, carbon, and caloric, philology and pathology, the 
prognosis and diagnosis, &c., &c., ringing in her ears, so that 
she frequently took one term for another, as in the instance 



of a Portuguese student, who spoke English so well that 
I expressed my wonder at it, when the younger sister 
assured me that “ he was quite neutralized since he had 
been there, and that his sister was mare-id upon a Scotch 

Wine loosens the organ of speech in all nations, so that, 
after the ladies had retired, the different tongues were blended 
in convivial harmony. We had tAvo young gentlemen, Avho 
came in after dinner, and Avho had taken their doctor’s degree 
that day ; on hearing of which, an Hibernian exclaimed, ‘‘ 0 
murder ! ” This was an ejaculation partly of delight, and 
partly of surprise, in spite of which their health was drank 
most cordially by the same Hibernian, with a Avish that they 
might have most extensive practice. 

It Avould be an act of injustice and ingratitude at the same 
time, not to state that I never spent a happier evening, in the 
assemblage of graduates and undergraduates. There Avere 
youths of talent and humour, classics of the first class, and 
one or two generally Avell-informed men. Great hospitality 
prevailed at our board, Avhilst the inmates of the boarding- 
house appeared like one family ; so merrily did they live, 
that my only Avonder Avas how they found time to study ; but 
doubtless the grinder and other auxiliaries were all brought 
into play, as the time of examination approached. So pleased 
was I with my reception, that I very frequently dined Avith 
the medical party, until at last I was almost as fit to pass for 
an M.D., as many of my young friends, and until there Avas 
not a single Avord in the Misses M’Clishmyclaver’s vocabulary 
which was not perfectly familiar to me. And here, old 
Caledonia, and honest auld Embry, receive a tribute of my 
affection ; thousands are the happy moments I have passed on 



your hospitable soil ; many a wrinkle of care has been 
smoothed by ye, which can never be forgotten. 

Hermit in London. 


One evening Lord Pembroke was entertaining a party of 
his friends, at his hospitable and splendid mansion at Wilton ; 
there being at the time a considerable flood, one of his lord- 
ship’s servants entered the room in a great fright, and 
informed him that the flood had broken into the family vault, 
and that a number of coffins were actually floating, asking at 
the same time what was to be done ? “Do what you like, 
John,” replied Lord Pembroke, “but be sure to keep my 
father, it would not do for him to come amongst us, and bring 
us to task.” 


Calling on Rowlandson, at the time he lived at Mrs. Lays, 
three doors from Carlton House, who kept a print-shop, a loud 
knock at the door aroused us to the window ; it was Colonel 
Thornton (of sporting memory), inquiring for Morland, who 
lodged in the next room (second floor). Rowlandson told me, 
that, about a year back, the Colonel had advanced him fifty 
pounds, towards painting a picture, which was to be finished 
in three months, and he had long promised it would be the 
week following ; he had called for it. Morland, who had not 
begun it, took care always to be denied to him. I was ever 
fond of the arts, and had always boasted of my collection of 
drawings. “ Now,” said Rowlandson, “ if you want a drawing, 
you have only to go and drink gin, smoke, and give him 


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one of your slang songs, in the true blackguard style (then 
the middle of the day), and he’ll make you a drawing for 

A Letter to Mr. Bannister, from Mr. Colman. 

“ Brompton Square, 29th November, 1831. 

“ My Dear Jack, — At present, I have a load of dry official 
business on my hands, and am too much occupied in examin- 
ing the compositions of others, to think of attempting any of 
my own. I finished the enclosed song, three or four years 
ago, for Mr. Charles Taylor, who has sung it at a few convivial 
meetings ; but it has never, to the best of my knowledge, been 

“ If your friend Angelo should think it worthy of insertion 
in his forthcoming work, it is heartily at his service, and his 
acceptance of it, as a trifling tribute of my esteem for an old 
acquaintance, will give me great pleasure. 

“ Yours, my dear Jack, ever most truly, 

“G. Colman. 





Since Ovid’s Four Ages of Metal have fled, 

We must put up with minor materials instead ; 

And London, grown longer by many long miles, 

Has brought in an Age of Brick, Mortar, and Tiles. 

Tol de rol, tol de rol, &c. 




But some of our builders are given to dash, 

And so flimsy their work, while so scanty their cash. 

That their half-finish’d, half-mortgag’d houses near town. 

By the wind, or George Robins, are daily knock’d down. 

Tol de rol, &c. 


Still has London so widely its limits o’erstept, 

Hyde Park Corner’s old turnpike to Knightsbridge has crept ; 
Still new suburbs arise, and so soon are complete. 

That a month makes a villa, a house in a street. 

Tol de rol, &c. 


Hence it happens that mansions we sadly miscall ; 

Prospect Hermitage faces a dismal dead wall ; 

There’s a tripe shop to look at from Paradise Grot, 

And a brewery smokes over Violet Cot. 

Tol de rol, &c. 


Mr. Wick, who turned candles to gold very fast. 

Retired from Cornhill, to his bandbox, at last. 

Making one of the settlers, on Camberwell’s plains. 

Who have ousted the wild aboriginal swains. 

Tol de rol, &c. 


Nothing elbow’d Wick Lodge ; and Wick relished full well 
A cow-house behind, notwithstanding the smell ; 

In front was the road, then a field, ’twas a spot 
Where rubbish, and duellist, came to be shot. 

Tol de rol, &c. 


The first morning when Wick, in his rural abode. 
Bustled out of his bed to look over the road, 



A Travelling Giant had blocked oi;t his view, 

In a large caravan, painted yellow and blue. 

Tol de rol, &c. 


Wick was mortified much, there can scarce be a doubt. 

At this total eclipse of his pleasant look-out ; 

But in lieu on’t, the giant’s own portrait was there. 

In a bed-gown, red breeches, and well powder’d hair. 

Tol de rol, &e. 


When the Giant wheel’d off — though he made a month’s stay — 
Wick beheld in the field, to his utter dismay, 

A long range of brick, which had risen like a dream, 

’Twas a Joint Stock Company’s Wash-house, by steam. 

Tol de rol, &c. 


“ Though this nuisance might drive one away,” observed Wick, 

“ I’m a Freeholder here, and determined to stick.” 

So, while he remain’d in this resolute plight, 

A Tinman erected a house in his sight. 

Tol de rol, &c. 


A house building close to us, sure, is a curse. 

But when built, if a Tinman’s the tenant, ’tis worse; 

And, when Wick of his patience was nearly bereft, 

A Trunkmaker set up a shop on his left. 

Tol de rol, &c. 


As the new rage for building increased, there arose. 

Fresh annoyances, constantly, under his nose ; 

Till Wick swore at last, with a countenance grim. 

That, though he had left town, the town wouldn’t leave him. 

Tol de rol, &c. 




Now think, when of London, who love rural seats, 

How neighbourhoods swarm round your cockney retreats ; 

And the more you build villas, the more you’ll agree. 

That the less in the country you’ll certainly be. 

Tol de rol, &c. 
George Colman. 

Jervis’s Ghost. 

The night was dark ; the wind moaned in fitful gusts ; the 
sleet fell in slanting lines, resembling those in use by modem 
improvers of the art of caligraphy, who teach their pupils to 
write a fine running hand in six lessons. 

With an umbrella blown inside out, forming a capacious 
and rapidly filling bowl poised on a stick over my head, and 
the pitiless shower incipiently introducing itself through 
various parts of my person, it was with an agreeable emotion 
that I espied, in spite of all the drizzle, at the comer of the 
street, a Hackney-coach — it was lonely, unhired, untenanted, 
unheeded, save but by myself. The driver had apparently 
abandoned his box for the purpose of taking shelter in a 
watering house, to get out of the wet. 

It was in vain I several times called out, “ Coach, Coach, 
Coach ! ” 

The weather-beaten vehicle stood before me : the aged 
horses were both fast asleep, and yet one, the grey, had its 
eyes wide open, the light of a gas lamp discovered to me that 
the distended orbs of the poor brute were sightless : the 
■wi’etched animals were leaning side to side for warmth and 
ease ; the ribs of the grey fitting with tolerable accuracy the 
ribs of the dun like a tally — (had either of them in the hey- 



day of their coltships ever heard of a tally-ho ?) Two little 
cobbler’s aprons on their backs partially warded off the 
incessant dripping of the rain, which, however, accumulated 
into a channel formed by the hip-bones, and soaked into the 
helpless haunches. A rising steam from the nostrils to the 
cruppers was beaten down again by the weather ; the knees 
of the once gallant grey stood in advance, twisted out like the 
elbows of an old-fashioned chair, and one fetlock was graced 
with a gaiter of damp and dingy canvas. Some hay, which 
had been left at the top of the pole (and for the good it could 
do to the horses it might as well have been with Captain 
Parry at the North Pole), was blown upon the roof of the 
coach, saving the scattered particles, saturated with the shower, 
which adhered to the patched harness. The old beasts (like 
Socrates when he had swallowed his hemlock) were, or appeared 
to he, resigned to their fate. With drooping and dripping 
ears, and tails tightly tucked down, they braved the horrors 
of the storm in silence, save that the dun made all the iron- 
mongery of his trappings jingle, and ever and anon awaked 
his yoke-fellow. Poor quadruped ! would that a pectoral 
lozenge could alleviate thy sulferings ! (I had a box full of 
Dawson’s in my pocket, and sympathetically swallowed one ;) 
would that, my poor worn-out Bucephalus, you were in a warm 
stable, littered up for the night, in a cap and wrapper, luxuri- 
ating on a hot mash ! The coach Avas on a par with the cattle 
(it was a coach, not a chariot), and had probably been manu- 
factured in the period of the second or third George ; many 
modern additions had deteriorated from its original splendour 
and inconveniences — the box and boot had never appertained to 
aristocracy, but had been put on by a bungling artisan — the 
Avheels were of three distinct colours — the springs, alas, had 



seen many winters — the steps were unsteady, like the steps of 
age ; and as for the glasses, one might use the sea term to 
them, “ glass and half glass ; ” if you looked for any further 
embellishment in that department, you would have to “ pity 
the poor blind.” The panels, once highly varnished, had now 
assumed a deadly rhubarb aspect, and contrasted as woefully 
with the coat of arms of Mexborough painted thereon in 
gorgeous display, as the coach itself did with the family motto, 
“ BE EAST.” But the rain was finding its way to my skin — no 
longer waiting for the driver of the equipage, without further 
ceremony I endeavoured to open the door, and with a hard 
pull, for the damp had closed it firmly, I effected my object, 
and got inside. Aware that possession is nine points of the 
law, I threw myself in a corner ; wrapt in my cloak, and lulled 
by the pattering of the storm, I insensibly fell asleep, and, 
like Addison, Steele, Johnson, and others of the great essayists 
and authors of allegory, I dreamt. Methought I heard a voice 
uttering melancholy plaints, mixed with deep sighs. — “ Who 
art thou? ” said I. — “ I am 239,” replied the voice. “What 
is 239 ? ” said I. — “ Would that I had never knoAvn,” exclaimed 
the voice ; “ time was, and time is ; I am on a time job now ! 
Once I was attached to nobility, now my creaking body is 
destined for any vile purpose.” — “ Poor fallen creature,” said 
I, “ proceed.” — “ The arms of a noble lord still cleave to my 
side, though I am so degraded ; my pockets, which once con- 
tained scent bottles, fans, or reticules, are now the receptacles 
for two or three rusty nails, a piece of cord, a hammer, and a 
horse picker ! ” — “ Pockets ! ” said I, “ what is your name ? ” 
— “ My present name is that of a famous admiral (since Lord 
St. Vincent). I was born (thanks to my maker!) in Long 
Acre : for a considerable period I regularly attended every 



drawing-room, levee, and birthday at St. James’s. But, alas ! 
pride must have its fall, and my fate has been as chequered as 
is my lining. 

“ Once I was the admiration of the ring at Hyde Park ; I 
am not now permitted to enter the gates. 

“ I shall never forget the feelings of mortification I 
experienced when I was stripped of my lace ! — when they 
barbarously deprived me of my hammercloth ; and, worst of 
all, when the carpet was removed from the bottom of me ! 
That which had hitherto only been pressed by the silken foot 
of high-born beauty, was now covered with damp straw, 
trodden down by the canaille. 

“ When I first appeared in the world, the nobility alone kept 
us, but now any body — every body, and even persons who are 
nobody, sport us — with bodies. 

‘‘ I have waited in the street a whole winter’s night for the 
late Mr. Sheridan, who, when he had rejoined me after his 
seventh bottle, has been on my seat in such a state of mental 
aberration, as to fancy himself Mr. Wilberforce. 

“ Wilks has squinted out of my windows : in more modern 
times Cobbett and Hunt have quarrelled in me. 

“ I conveyed, in a soaking shower, Romeo Coates, Esq., 
from Carlton House, when the cruel hoax was passed on 
him of the forged ticket for the grand fete given to the 

Allied Sovereign and exceedingly wet were the crimson 

velvet coat and white satin smalls of that much injured 
gentleman ; to say nothing of the water which came out of his 

“1 Avent with the mysterious mask to Newgate, he who 
decapitated the Cato-street conspirators. I did not much like 
my company, yet there is a gratifying sensation in being 

129 K 


useful to one’s country. I thought so, as I rested on my perch 
at the Old Bailey ! 

“ I have had my gradations in rank, from the rank of a 
peer to a Hackney-coach rank. Thousands of my inmates 
must ere this be numbered with the mighty dead, whilst I am 
regularly numbered in Essex Street in the Strand. 

“ I was once exceedingly disgusted with a pert valet of the 
secretary of the French ambassador, who called me a fiacre ! 
but I trifle. ...if I am garrulous (and garrulity accompanies age) 
gently pull my check-string, — but I am breaking down, almost 
crazy, existing only by two plates. 

“ The streets, in a state of demi-macadamization, jolt me till 
I shudder to my very linch-pins. 

“ Though wretchedly old, damp and filthy, I have the con- 
solation to reflect that I never ran over any one in my 
existence, and the pride to remember that when a silly dog 
has bitten at my revolving wheel, that he always had the 
worst of it. 

“ Adieu, farewell ! farewell ! ” 

At this moment I was awakened by a less plaintive voice, 
which uttered, “ Vy d — n my catskin if here ain’t a covee 
inside my leather rusky a snoozing ? 

“ Now, Sir, vere am I to drive to ? ” 


FurnivaVs Inn Chambers, Feb. 21si. 

My dear Mr. Angelo, 

Soon after my return from India, in the year 1807, our 
friend John Bannister opened his funny budget, which he took 
with him about the country, and to which I, with many other 
far more distinguished drolls, contributed my scrap of 



scribblery. Sublime nonsense it was ; but, as George Colman 
laughed at it (which he did in my presence in Jack’s own 
proper house in Gower Street), it could not be very dull 
nonsense at any rate. Monk Lewis had not long before pub- 
lished his Tales of Wonder, which put the public agog, after 
goblin stories of every description ; so I thought that I would 
write one for John’s Budget. He insisted upon it that I 
should contribute, though I told him how very much it was 
out of my way ; so, what could I do ? — My subject was new, 
at all events. — It was the Ghost of a Turkej'^ Cock haunting 
an Alderman ! I composed a tune to my doggrels, and John 
contrived, by his inimitable ‘ Gobble, gobble, gobble,’ at the 
close 6f every verse, to keep his audience in a full roar 
throughout the song, which he still continues to sing. 

If he will give you a copy of it, you shall be welcome to 
insert it in your Pic~Nic Publication, and this facetious note 
as a precursor, as it so please you. 

Ever, my dear Sir, 

Yours faithfully, 


Henry Angelo, Esq. 

P.S. — Should Bannister forward you the song, let me see 
it before committing it to the press. 

THE alderman’s DREAM. 

A Tale of Wonder or Terror, as the Reader may choose to consider it. 

Sir Gregory Grill was an Alderman bold, 

Who’d a wife that was comely and kind ; 

And she’d a cock turkey, she petted, good soul. 
Because the poor gobbler was blind. 



The Alderman, too, seem’d this pet to regard. 

And with very great kindness to treat him ; 

But a stranger might see, — tho’ the turkey could not. 
That he longed most devoutly to eat him. 

Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, 
Lack and well-a-day, bo ! 

For much tho’ he loved on rich turtle to feed. 

Venison pasties, scotcb-collops, and fish ; 

Yet a turkey, well stuffed, was the joy of bis heart. 

Of all exquisite dishes, the dish. 

“ So Dolly,” cried be, to bis favourite cook, 

“We may now be as merry as grigs ; 

“ Lady Grill to fair Henley is gone for a week, 

“ And I’ll eat the blind code, please the pigs.” 

Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, 
Lack and well-a-day, ho ! 

So blithe was Sir Greg as the bird he devour’d. 

And blithe went bis worship to bed ; 

No compunction felt be for the poor turkey’s fate. 

Not a tear did the Cormorant shed. 

But not long did he sleep ; from long snorings disturbed. 
The Alderman sorely was hobbled : 

When the ghost in full feather brushed into the room. 
And the feather-bed shook as he gobbled ! 

Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble. 
Lack and well-a-day, ho ! 

Too well knew the glutton the sound of his voice. 

And the blood thrilled in every vein ! 

“ And what would’st thou have, dreadful vision ? ” cried he, 
“You know I can’t eat you again ^ — 

“ And why,” quoth the ghost, “ didst thou eat me at all ? 

“ Not a slice shall your worship digest ; 



“ Give me back, cruel monster, my legs and my wings, 

“ My gizzard, rump, sidesmen, and breast.” 

Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, 
Lack and well-a-day, bo ! 

King, ring, went the bell, and up flew the gbost. 

And Deborah up ran she ; 

And up came the doctor, and up came the potion. 

And down went the camomile tea. 

And thus ends my story ; full fairly appeased, 

Was the turkey cock goblin so blind ; 

Foul feeders and gluttons, delighting to stuff. 

Keep the Alderman’s penance in mind. 

Gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble. 
Lack and well-a-day, ho ! 

W. LlNIiEY. 


This Parody is very gratifying to me, having received it 
from the gentleman who wrote it, who was so obliging as to 
give me a copy, and is one of the first authors of the day. 
We are all much indebted to him for his prolific pen. The 
burlesque speaks for itself, when I say it is Mr. Horace 
Smith’s humour. 

Geoege Baenwell. 

Ttme — Drops of Brandy. 


George Barnwell stood at the shop door, 
A customer hoping to find. Sir ; 

His apron was hanging before. 

And the tail of his shirt hung behind. Sir. 



When a lady, so gay and so smart, 

Said, “ Sir, I’ve exhausted my stock of late ; 

" I’ve got nothing left but a groat, 

“ Can you sell me four penneth of chocolate? ” 

Rumply, nagetty, fidgetty, rumply, fiddle, diddle dum ; 

Oh ! this is a doleful tragedy, helum, dodum, diddle dum. 


Her face was rouged up to the skies, 

Which made her look prouder and prouder ; 

His hair stood on end with surprise. 

And hers with pomatum and powder. 

The business being soon understood ; 

For the lady she wished to be more rich : 

Said, “ Sir, my name is Milwood, 

“And I live at a gunner’s in Shoreditch.” 

Rumply, nagetty, fidgetty, rumply, fiddle, diddle dum ; 

Oh ! this is a doleful tragedy, helum, dodum, diddle dum. 


Now nightly he’d skip out, good lack. 

And into her lodgings would pop. Sir ; 

But often forgot to come back. 

And left master to shut up the shop. Sir. 

Her beauty his wits did bereave. 

Determined to be quite the crack 0 ; 

He lounged at the Adam and Eve, 

And called for his gin and tobacco. 

Rumply, nagetty, fidgetty, rumply, fiddle, diddle dum ; 

Oh ! this is a doleful tragedy, helum, dodum, diddle dum. 


But now, for the truth must be told, 

Tho’ none of a ’prentice should speak ill. 

He robbed from the till all the gold. 

And eat the lump sugar and treacle. 



Which made his old master complain, 

“ Dear George, don’t engage with that dragon : 

“ She’ll bring you to ruin and shame, 

“ And leave you the devil a rag on.” 

Rumply, nagetty, fidgetty, rumply, fiddle, diddle dum ; 

Oh ! this is a doleful tragedy, helum, dodum, diddle dum. 


In vain he condemns and deplores, 

This simple and amorous ninny ; 

At length turns him quite out of doors. 

And Georgy soon spent his last guinea. 

His uncle, whose generous purse, 

To relieve him so often has I know ; 

Now finding him grow worse and worse. 

Refused to come down with the rhino. 

Rumply, nagetty, fidgetty, rumply, fiddle, diddle dum ; 

Oh ! this is a doleful tragedy, helum, dodum, diddle dum. 


Now Milwood, whose cruel heart’s core 
Was so hard that nothing could shock it. 

Said, “ Sir, if you come here any more, 

“You must come with more cash in your pocket. 

“ Make nunkey surrender his dibbs, 

“ Or wipe his pate with a pair of lead towels ; 

“ Or whip a knife into his ribs, 

“Then I warrant he’ll show you some bowels.” 

Rumply, nagetty, fidgetty, rumply, fiddle, diddle dum ; 

Oh ! this is a doleful tragedy, helum, dodum, diddle dum. 


A pistol he got from his love, 

’Twas loaded with powder and bullet ; 

Then he trudged off to Camberwell Grove, 

But had not the courage to pull it. 



Here’s nunkey as fat as a hog, 

And I am as lean as a wizard, 

So here’s at you, you stingy old dog. 

Then whips a sharp knife in his gizzard. 

Rumply, nagetty, fidgetty, rumply, fiddle, diddle dum ; 

Oh ! this is a doleful tragedy, helum, dodum, diddle dum. 


All you that attend to my song, 

A terrible end to the farce shall see ; 

If you join the inquisitive throng, 

That followed poor George to the Marshalsea. 

Was Mil wood but there, dash my wigs. 

Said he, how I’d pummel and bang her well ; 

Had I stuck to my raisins and figs, 

I ne’er had stuck nunkey at Camberwell. 

Eumply, nagetty, fidgetty, rumply, fiddle, diddle dum ; 

Oh ! this is a doleful tragedy, helum, dodum, diddle dum, 


The case to the jury was plain, 

The news spread through every alehouse : 

At the sessions at Horsemonger-lane, 

They both were condemned to the gallows. 

With Milwood George opened the ball. 

Oh dear ! how we cried, Mrs. Crump and I, 

When he danced upon nothing at all. 

And lolled his tongue out to the company. 

Rumply, nagetty, fidgetty, rumply, fiddle, diddle dum ; 

Oh ! this is a doleful tragedy, helum, dodum, diddle dum. 


His finale to know, if you wish, 

A sorrowful end I must tell. Sir ; 

He looked but a queer kind of fish. 

When they carried him OS’ in a shell. Sir. 



The surgeons they picked every bone ; 

His flesh the anatomist tore off ; 

Now since he’s a skeleton grown, 

You never will hear any more of 
His rumply, nagetty, fidgetty, rumply, fiddle, diddle dum. 
Oh ! this is a doleful tragedy, helum, dodum, diddle dum. 


I have already written songs, which were considered the 
best, yet I cannot refrain adding more particularly two by 
such high literary characters of the present day, their 
humour cannot be disputed, and must be acceptable to the 

Miss AYabble. 


Miss Wabble, who oft at the wash tub had plied. 

Her powers on the stage, in deep tragedy tried ; 

For genius is easy, when nature expands. 

From the wringing of clothes, to the wringing of hands. 


Desdemona was offer’d her first ; but said she, 

“ Desdemona’s a fool ! had Othello asked me 
“ Where his handkerchief was, I’d told him, by gosh, 

“ As how it was gone with the things to the wash.” 


She came out in J uliet, when waking at last, 

A nail in the vault by her shroud caught her fast ; 

So she popped out her head, while the audience were grinning. 
And cried out, “ I shan’t be able to get up my linen!' 




Says the manager : “ Madam, it shan’t be my fault, 

“ If I catch you again in the Capulet’s vault. 

“ For in casting your part, common sense you have strangled ; 
“ Tho’ ’tis not the first time, that things you have mangled." 


“ You Monster ! ” Miss Wabble cried out, in a rage ; 

“ Do you think I depend on your pitiful stage ? 

“ I can live, though if forced from your boards to retire, 

“ For, thank heaven ! I’ve irons enough in the fire.” 

George Colman. 

Mbs. Peevot. 


When first we were man and wife, 

Ann, you vowed to love for life ; 

We were quoted as a pattern, we were quite a show. 
Like King William and his Queen, 

We were ever to be seen. 

Such a jewel of a wife was Mrs, John Prevot. 


Oh then I clung unto the man. 

Like Baucis to Philemon, 

Now when I am at Brighton, you’re at Bath I know. 
Like the pair that tell the weather. 

We are never seen together ; 

One at home, and t’other gadding, Mr. John Prevot. 


When a lion’s to be seen — old Blucher — Mr, Kean, 

You order then the carriage and away you go ; 

With that gossip, Mrs. Jones, you rattle o’er the stones. 
You have no mercy on the horses, Mrs, John Prevot. 




With madeira, port, and sherry, 

When you make what you call merry. 

And sit in sober sadness, are you sober? No ! 

With that horrid Major Eock, 

You make it twelve o’clock 

Ere you tumble up to coffee, Mr. John Prevot. 


Our vicar, Parson Tether, united us together, 

’Twas for better and for worse, you know. 

To make the worse the better. 

Since we cannot break our fetter. 

We’ll say no more about it, Mrs. John Prevot, 

We’ll say no more about it, Mr. John Prevot. 

Horace Smith. 


Commencing “ Spread, Spread for Vitellius.” 

“ Spread, spread for Vespasian, the banquet sublime,” 

Whilst of Britain the prop, and the jacobin’s scourge 
Of heroes a band in full eulogy chime. 

Pledging deep to the health of their Monarch, great George. 

Let the tables be chafed o’er with feats of emprize, 
Emprize well remember’d in Flanders and Spain ; 
With the tests of imperial and royal allies. 

To his Eegency’s laurels, the fruits of his reign. 

“ Ay, build him a dwelling,” and mark out its site. 

Be its rock of foundation each Englishman’s breast ; 
Let his vassal and Poet contribute his mite, 

To record its phylactery, proudly express’d. 



Here George the victorious, the fourth of a line, 

In whose veins honour’s current transcendently flows ; 
Friends and countrymen we with devotion enshrine, 

Breathing scorn to his libellers — death to his foes. 

William Penn. 

Weather Driven. 

About nineteen years ago, when a very heavy snow had 
fallen, making the roads impassable, and preventing the 
mail coaches proceeding, anxious to ‘leave Oxford (where my 
professional attendance had been required), I mounted on the 
roof of a stage-coach, and took my departure in the morning 
for town. Such a dreary journey ! the high wind and drifting 
snow making the roads impassable. Waggons and carriages 
standing about, and unable to proceed, I perceived we should 
not complete the first stage. With the utmost diflhculty we 
arrived at Benson. Mills had been the coachman for many 
years ; but we fell into a deep rut, no longer able to proceed ; 
the coach became immovable, while the snow was up to the 
horses’ breasts. Here we remained above an hour, in expecta- 
tion that some one, seeing our situation, would send horses to 
extricate us — shivering with cold — no appearance of relief — 
only one person outside but myself, I proposed to him to 
cross those fields where the snow had drifted, to give us an 
opportunity to find our way to procure horses to remove the 
carriage, and conduct us the remaining mile, when the wife 
of my frozen companion, seated inside, objected to his leaving, 
terrified at the danger. The other three who filled the coach 
were very quiet, not offering the least assistance, or venturing 
to quit their places. On my attempting to pass a ditch, I had 



a narrow escape, being up to my chin in snow. However, 
short as the distance was, I endeavoured to find the path, and 
with difficulty and perseverance reached the inn some time 
after the coachman. Though only twelve o’clock, three horses 
were all that could be obtained. The house was full, many 
not able to proceed ; but, being an old traveller, forward was 
my motto. Looking to myself, I did not delay, and therefore 
secured the waiter’s bed. Lucky was this precaution ; for in 
the course of the day several carriages arrived, few venturing 
farther ; every bed bespoke, and chairs and sofas only were 
left for their night’s repose. In the largest room we were all 
huddled together at a species of table-d'hote, left entirely at 
the landlord’s discretion. For the first time situated as I was, 
the melange was preferable to sitting alone a long winter’s 
evening at an inn. Like on board a ship (Hobson’s choice), 
we all roughed it together. Those who came in their carriages 
were not over nice to put up with the fortune clu pdt., or 
afterwards to partake of the punch, when the order of the 
night was to have the largest bowl in the house, which I 
believe had not been filled since the middle of the last century. 
The next morning all assembled at breakfast, the road still 
continuing impassable, the weather not altering. When I 
proposed to my companions Avalking the next stage, a dead 
silence ensued. Disappointed at their fear, I ventured alone, 
and a dangerous trudge I had. After some hours’ perseverance, 
occasionally merged in snoAv, and walking over the fields, 
Avhere, in many places, the wind had drifted it away, with 
difficulty I got to Nettlebed. Thankful for my safety, 
seated before a blazing fire, never before or since has 
coffee or toast been such a luxury to me. An hour 
after the Abingdon coach passed, and, there being a place, 



four hours after the usual time I got safe to town, 
having thus left the weather-bound assemblage to rusticate 
themselves at Benson. 

Mrs. Hartley. 

An actress of some celebrity, was, however, much more 
celebrated for her beauty. I believe she was one of those 
ladies whose career on the stage was without reproach. She 
was painted by several of the first artists, and, among others, 
by Sir Joshua Reynolds, in one of her best characters, which, 
however, I have forgotten. No female, perhaps, that ever 
appeared on the stage, looked more lovely than she in fair 
Rosamond. I should observe, that Mr., afterwards Sir Bate 
Dudley, married the sister of this lady, and I believe Lady 
Dudley stUl survives. 

Tom Sheridan and Munden. 

At a dinner of the Theatrical Fund, Sheridan presiding in 
the chair, the wine going round in copious libations, that 
celebrated orator became Bacchi plenus, and was expatiating 
on the antiquity of Irish families, at the same time informing 
his audience that no man had less family pride than himself, 
and quoting Ovid, by saying, 

“ Sed genus, et proavos, et quod non fecimus ipsi, 

“ Vix ea nostra voco.” 

“ As a proof of this,” said he, “ our family have dropped 
the 0, our real name being O’Sheridan, and we being descended 
from the ancient princes of Ireland.” Munden, tired with this 
long digression, and caring very little for Ireland or its 


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princes, filled his glass, and said, — “ Mr. Sheridan, I have not 
the least doubt of what you say ; I daresay you are descended 
from princes, for the last time I saw your father he was Prince 
of Denmark.” Here the laugh for the first time, and we 
believe the only one, turned against Sheridan. 

Tom Sheeidan and his Father. 

On another occasion, when old Sheridan was broaching the 
subject of the family name, and telling his son that they "were, 
properly speaking. O’ Sheridans. — “ To be sure, father,” said 
Tom, “ and who has a greater right to the 0 than we have ? 
for we owe to everybody.” — “ Thou art an impudent and witty 
dog,” replied Brinsley, pledging him a bumper of wine, and 
not at all offended at his observation. 

Humane Society, and Making the most of Things. 

The following anecdote was given me by the late Count de 
Cogni, brother to the duke of that name : — Having parted 
with a number of his servants at the time of the emigration, 
he was astonished on returning, with Louis XVIIL, to find 
one of them very decently dressed about the streets of Paris. 
As the man had been a sort of favourite with the count, he 
was anxious to know how he had fared during the disasters of 
the Revolution. — “ 0 ! Monsieur le Comte,” said the man, “ it 
would be rudeness to tell you what I have been ; I have been 
Jack of all trades, and have been put to a vast variety of 
shifts.” — “ But what are you now ? ” said the Count. — “ I am 
one of the society of plongeurs. I and my comrades ply 
about the river to save people from drowning, or to pull up 



those who are drowned ; and we are frequently liberally 
rewarded for our trouble.” — “ Very well,” said the Count, 
“ but your business must be very uncertain ; pray what do 
you do when there are no people drowned, or drowning ? ” — 
“ Oh ! ” said he, “ that makes very little difference ; then we 
drown one another.” 

The Merry Companion. 

My friend Stratton invited me to his casino at Kingston ; 
and as my own horse was lame, he introduced me to a friend, 
who would bring me in his gig. The time fixed was two 
o’clock ; and from my new acquaintance’s reception and 
appearance, I had every reason to expect a pleasant journey. 
On our leaving London, I considered his silence arose from 
his care in driving, and I did not interfere. However, at 
Battersea Bridge, I determined on making an effort to awaken 
his drowsy faculties, expecting I should find it worth my 
labour to do so. Thinking this, I tried — in vain. — “ 0 dear.” 
— A nod of the head. I thought I had got into company with 
Orator Mum, instead of a “ fellow of infinite jest.” It seemed 
they had made a sport of me. “ Fine day this ! ” No answer. 
“ Look at those boats sailing ! ” No answer. “ Never felt so 
well in my life.” — Answer, “ Oh ! ” “I wish we could travel 
rather faster.” — Answer, “ Oh ! ” “We shall be too late.” — 
“Oh!” “When shall you be there again?” — “Oh! oh! 
oh ! oh ! ” “ Shall I drive for an hour ? ” Answer — “ No.” 

“Do you think we shall meet there?” — “Yes.” “Is 

he fallen in the world, as they say?” — ’“No.” “I thought 
him rich.” — “No.” “ Some say so.” — “Yes.” And thus, to 

my annoyance, we continued to our journey’s end, when, on 



inquiry, I found that he had been afflicted with toothache, 
and that it had caused him much pain. Many meetings after, 
this silent journey was a subject of merriment to ourselves 
and jest for others. 

Anecdote of the Late Colonel Arthur Owen, Bart., 

Formerly Aide-de-Camp to the renoioned Officer 
General Sir Eyre Coote, K.B. 

The Colonel riding his charger in front of the race stand, at 
Madras, tilled with gentlemen and ladies, near a rope, placed 
to prevent intruders on the ground allotted for the racers, 
became so unmanageable that he could not force him from the 
rope, and in the struggle threw him upon it. Rising from 
the earth, he walked to the stand, where, having been greeted 
with loud shouts of laughter and congratulations, gracefully 
bowing to the company, he expressed a hope they were 
diverted with his feats of dancing on a slack rope, and 

By an Eye-witness. 

City Addresses. 

Some ten or twelve years since, two sheriffs of London 
received the honour of knighthood, who, from their stature, 
were called the two shortest knights in the year. On a 
certain occasion, the corporation voted addresses to the Dukes 
of Clarence and Kent, and the sheriffs had to present them in 
full official state. The begilt carriages, and state liveries, and 
court dresses of the civic functionaries were accordingly pro- 

145 L 


duced for the best display. Their Royal Highnesses had 
fixed the times to receive the addresses at their respective 
palaces at Bushey Park and at Kensington in such manner 
that the presentation of both the addresses might be included 
in the journeys of one day. The Duke of Clarence (our 
present beloved king) received his guests, Sir George and Sir 
Francis, with his accustomed cordiality; and after the formal 
reading of the address, and the answers thereunto, he invited 
them to partake of a collation which he had provided. Orders 
had previously been given that there should be no want of 
good cheer for the servants. His Royal Highness recom- 
mended various sorts of wine for the judgment of his visitors, 
to which they were too polite not to do due honour. The 
time passed delightfully ; when Sir George, who was always 
alive to punctuality in his engagements, apologized, in the 
best way he was able, for the necessity he felt of abruptly 
quitting the banquet, as the time approached when he had to 
wait on the royal brother at Kensington. One bottle more, 
pressed by royal condescension, could not however be refused ; 
but as our man of business, with good reason, considered 
punctuality as one of the first of virtues, not even the allure- 
ments of the Duke of Clarence could divert him from ordering 
his carriage to be got ready, in which he regained his seat 
about the time he was to have been at Kensington Palace. 
The sequel perhaps had better be told in the words of his own 
pathetic narrative, as he was wont to deliver it among his 
friends : — “ I had no sooner got into my carriage than I found, 
from the serpentine driving of the coachman, and the halloo- 
ing and hooting of the footmen, that they were all drunk. I 
was, as you may suppose, in a dreadful state of agitation, for 
I felt my own head going round like a whirligig, and every 



moment I expected some accident. As I went along, the 
people shouted and laughed in the most disrespectful manner. 
Wondering what could be the cause of this, I looked out of 
the carriage window, when, lo and behold ! there were my 
two footmen in their state liveries, but with their coats over 
their arms, and their cocked hats in their hands, running 
behind the carriage, with a troop of dirty boys after them. 
I naturally ordered the coachman to stop, and, as you may 
suppose, lectured the men severely on their disrespectful 
conduct. They said the coats were so heavy, that it was 
much better to have them off than on, and that they would 
rather run than ride ; but I insisted upon their putting their 
coats and their hats on, and on their getting up behind the 
carriage, which, after some disrespectful observations, they 
agreed to do. But now I had another difficulty. While I 
Avas talking to the footmen, the coachman had laid himself 
along the box, and gone to sleep. I pulled his legs with all 
my might, but could not wake him. One of the footmen, 
however, brought him round by a tweak of the nose. I then 
insisted upon his getting doAvn, and letting one of the footmen 
drive, for that he was a drunken brute, and a disgrace to the 
state livery. But nothing would stir him. — ‘ No, Sir George,’ 
says he, ‘ I’ve a great respect for you. Sir George, but I love 
my horses, and no one shall drive them but myself.’ I 
threatened, and said all I could, but it was all in vain ; so I 
got into the carriage, fully expecting every minute to be 
upset ; nor was I mistaken. He had gone on swinging from 
one side of the road to the other, when, as we came near to 
Brentford, he drove into a ditch, and bang over Ave went. 
Very luckily the bank prevented the coach going quite over. 
I was dreadfully agitated, as you may suppose. It Avas a 



mercy I was not killed, but I was not even hurt ; and some 
people coming up, assisted me out of the carriage. The first 
thing I saw was the coachman, lying senseless on the ground. 
At first I thought he was killed ; but I afterwards found he 
was only dead drunk, and fast asleep. But what had become 
of my footmen ? They were nowhere to be seen. I had no 
one to do anything for me ; and when I told the people about 
the engagement I was under with the Duke of Kent, instead 
of doing anything to help me, they absolutely laughed at me. 
A man at last came up, and said, that as to my footmen, he 
had seen them about a mile behind, sitting by the road-side, 
under the shade of a wall, cracking nuts. Could you imagine 
a case more distressing than mine ? What was I to do with 
my state carriage and four horses, and nobody to drive them ? 
I offered a guinea for any man Avho could drive four horses, 
to take me safely back again to London. Upon which one of 
the fellows shouted out, that dirty Dick, Avho was a helper at 
the stables close by, could drive four horses, for that he used 
to drive the Brentford stage. Well, after all I had suffered 
from these drunken fellows, you may judge what my feelings 
must have been, to be put in the hands of such a fellow. But 
what was to be done ? I was determined to risk everything 
rather than not present the address to the Duke of Kent. So 
I made this fellow, who had no coat on his back, and was the 
dirtiest fellow you ever saw, and with a frightful red face, 
covered with carbuncles, get on the box, just as he was ; and 
as my footmen had by this time come up, off we went, with 
nearly a hundred ragamuffins after us, hallooing and hooting 
all the way. Nobody can conceive what I suffered. Only 
think of my being hooted and laughed at in my state carriage 
all the way from Bushey to Kensington. I had not a dry 



thread about me. I had a neat starched stock on in the 
morning, which now hung round my neck like a bit of wet 
string. In this plight, attended by at least a hundred black- 
guards, I arrived at Kensington Palace, and was introduced 
to His Royal Highness the Duke of Kent. I never was so 
ashamed in my life; I was in such a perspiration, and so 
agitated. Indeed I had scarcely strength left to explain to 
His Royal Highness the accidents that had happened to me, 
and my fears that I had kept His Royal Highness waiting at 
home ; when he stopped me short, by saying that he had not 
expected either me or my colleague, for that he had had a 
message from his brother an hour before, advising him that 
he need not remain at home, for that both us, and our 
servants, were so completely done up, that we should not be 
able to keep our engagement. This,” added Sir George, 
“ used to be called royal condescension and familiarity : but I 
cannot help thinking there was something in it which was 
extremely disrespectful.” 

B. B. 

Diffusion of Knowledge. 

Sir George ’s hospitable table was sometimes graced 

by certain members of the aristocracy, and he took no little 
pleasure in recounting among his friends the good things 
which his noble guests gave out on these occasions, in return 
for the good fare which they took in. The advantages of the 
diffusion of knowledge was at that time a debatable subject ; 

and the way in which the late Earl of P was made a 

convert, in favour of the question, was somewhat amusing. 
“ For my part,” said the Earl, raising his eyelids from the 



somnolency whicli usually kept them down, “ I think reading 
a very good thing. I have lately taken to it myself ; and I 
have learnt several things by it which I did not know before. 
I always used to think that the Thames was the largest river 
in the world ; but I find I have been mistaken, for there are 
no less than three rivers that are larger, and all in America. 
The first of these is called the Oronoko. I remember that 
well, because there’s a play of that name. The second is 
called,” here a long pause ensued. — The peer threw his portly 
person back in the chair, and fixed his eyes on the ceiling. 

The pause becoming tedious. Col. P broke the silence, by 

saying, “ You mean the Poronoko, my lord.” — “ Why — 
y — e — s,” drawled out the peer, “ I think that is the name. 
The third river is called — bless me, I’ve such a head at 
recollecting names.” The colonel kindly assisted him again. — 
“ The Smoconoko, my lord.” — “ Y — e — s, I remember, it 
is the Smoconoko.” A noble, and in consequence an 
influential patron of the diffusion of knowledge, had there- 
fore been won, by being taught that the three greatest 
rivers in America were the Oronoho, the PoronoJco, and 
the Smoconoko I 

B. B. 

The following impromptu was written by Mr. B. B. on a 
young lady who was remarkably the reverse of handsome, 
but who always wore a veil, because she said “ the men 
were such staring creatures, that they put her out of 

By veiling thus those matchless features, 
’Gainst, as you say, “ the staring creatures,” 
Your modesty’s discovered ; 



But if you’d make the men stare less, 

Their am’rous thoughts at once repress, 

Show them your face uncover’d. 

Another, by the same hand, on the feud Avhich took place a 
few years since between the rival queens at the Theatre Royal, 
Drury Lane, Mrs. Bunn and Mrs. West : — 

Oh ! do not so severely scold 
The pretty Mrs. West, 

Dear Mrs. Bunn, her gentle mould 
Was formed for praise and rest. 

So cool thine ire, impassioned dame. 

And further notice shun ; 

Lest folks Hermione proclaim, 

To be a “ Hot Cross Bunn.” 


Travelling in a gig occasionally, I used to carry pistols ; at 
a very rainy period, I made my way from Maidstone in Kent 
towards Broadstairs, mostly by cross roads, and very wretched 
ones too ; so heavy that my (although game) little horse was 
nearly, what is called, “beat to a stand still.” Wet through, 
box coat and all (for it had never ceased to rain all day), I 
got out, to ease my horse as much as I could, and Colonel 
Hawker’s mud boards might have helped me on better than 
my no longer water-proof boots. I lost my road ; and as 
misfortunes seldom come one at a time, the darkness of night, 
from the heavy clouds, came more suddenly upon me than 
I expected. Delightfully situated, I urged my steed, with no 
more success than if a dumb man had been called upon for a 
song; nay, I pushed behind — pleasant amusement at any 
time, but in a rutty cross road, deluged with rain, and 



studded with flexible mud, particularly so ! At last I grew 
so sick of that sort of trial of skill, that I began coolly to 
calculate how we (horse and I, for these alone formed the we) 
should bivouac through the night, when, near to some wood- 
land, I could just discern two men ; there was no fear of my 
horse’s running away, nor of others driving him off, for I had 
not seen any one for hours ; so I went to them, a little way 
out of the road, to ask my way to any roof that could take 
us in for the night ; only to learn, that I was many miles 
from amj such chance. I could only lament my fate, since 
my horse, I knew, could not go more than four miles farther, 
if that, when one of the men, wishing the other good night, 
joined me, to see ivliat could be done. Fear of being robbed 
in such a situation was the lesser dread ; he walked on with 
me, asking me, amongst other curious questions, if I could be 
so prudent as not to ask any questions, but carry on the 
appearance, not only of indiff’erence to what I might see, but 
of being also an old acquaintance of his ; “ if you can do that,” 
said he, “ and will call me plain Sam, familiarly, I thinlc I can 
manage to house you and your nag in a homely way, but 
you must do as I tell you.” On we drudged, coaxing the 
Rosinante along tracts which to my guide appeared familiar, 
but which to me had not even the appearance of cross roads ; 
we came to a lonely farm-like building. My new’ ally, Sam, 
made some signal ; a stout fellow came to the door with a 
light, who suspiciously scrutinized me and my equipage. 
Sam assured him that his London friend’s horse had knocked 
up, and that if he could have shelter, he should be obliged, 
“ For,” said he, adding an oath, “ he is a hearty fellow, so you 
must make room, some how.” After a little demur, “Well, I 
will then,” said this strange-looking host, “ but I have no 



hay.” — “I’ll manage that,” said Sam, -who nimbly turned 
ostler, with all the good humour of a fee in hand, 1 helped? 
the horse housed after a fashion, the gig in a shed, my luggage 
carried otf by the landlord ; I took my pistols out of my 
waterproof holsters inside, when Sam, staring, said, “ Hallo ! 
pistols ! you had better fire them off before you go in, or 
better still draw the charge, for that must be wet ! ” I did 
not much relish this advice, and declined it as firmly as he 
pressed it repeatedly. The landlord on my entry stared at 
them, and, observing that they Avere silver mounted, said, he 
could better take care of them than I, as the house was full ; 
and so it was, and of such a ruffian set, that I began to think 
myself in no better safety than a bagged fox ! The eyeing 
Avith much thought seemed to be reciprocal ; Sam too eyed 
me, and I him ; yet he appeared a frank, open-hearted, young, 
and rather handsome fellow. I was called obstinate for not 
drawing my pistols ; and it made me more so. I offering 
friend Sam some drink, the landlord said that he was wanted 
at home. Looking archly. Sam said he should see me again 
in a little while, and he left me. Not best pleased with 
appearances, I ordered some fried eggs, Hobson’s choice, bacon 
excepted, for supper ; it Avas nearly nine o’clock, and I was 
honoured with a seat in the bar, where I amused myself with 
wiping, &c., my pistols, in truth to have them ready. About 
ten o’clock, Sam returned with a truss of hay on his back for 
my horse which he had fetched, on foot, and during rain, 
from his house (some miles distant, as I afterwards found out) . 
I thanked him cordially, and said to myself, this act convinces 
me that I must be safe ; no thief ivould have taken that 
trouble. Supper (such as it was) had been kept back for his 
partaking of it ; I pressed him, he declined. The landlord 



again archly said, “ Why, hoiv can he be spared at home?” 
He partook of a glass of very superior brandy and water, 
shook hands familiarly, and whispered in my ears, “ Mind, do 
not take any notice, and seem more careless. Good night, 
I shall be with you early to-morrow morning.” I was 
reconciled to my very hearty, cleanly served, although homely, 
supper, and was conducted to my bed-room by my landlord, 
who again wished my pistols in his care, to be refused. We 
ascended into a room like a loft ; it had two beds, one better 
than the other, to the first he conducted me. I told him I 
should take care of the candle, and he left me. I then 
searched the room, to find behind my bed head a large 
aperture about four feet square, and holding my light into it, 
it seemed a large black cavern-like place, deep, and without 
any apparent object. My interpretation of its use is easily to 
be guessed ; what was to be done ? in the trap I was, tired, 
sleepy, yet uneasy; yet the landlord had brought up my 
baggage ! — and Sam had gone miles to procure hay for my 
horse ! I was again reconciled ; to bed I went, with my 
loaded pistols inside, soon to be soundly asleep. An hour or 
so may have passed, when a noise at the door awoke me ; 
there was whispering, pushing, and deliberations. The door 
had no other fastenings than a latch, and I had placed a chair 
diagonally against it, so as to resist its being opened. The 

landlord said, “ Hush ! you’ll wake him, d the fellow, 

what has he done to the door?” More whispering, more 
pushing. I snatched at, and cocked my pistols, laid myself 
on my back, my hands crossed over my chest, one pistol 
pointing, although under the bedclothes, to each side of the 
bed, and thus, shamming sleep, I heard my door forced open, 
and through my eyelashes, I saw the landlord, and two very 



ill-looking fellows, make directly for the bed in which I lay, 
but which was not the one I had been directed to, which, 
although the best, I had changed for the worst, on account of 
the aperture behind the head : “ Hush, hush, you’ll wake 
him,” repeated as they came towards my bed, seemed to sound 
to me very much like my death warrant ; yet, peeping, I 
could not see either to have any weapon. Passing the best 
bed, the landlord said, “ Why, where is he gone to ? he is not 
there.” Then approaching my bed they paused, and thought- 
fully looked at me, myself balancing all the while, whether or 
not I should fire at them, when the landlord suddenly said, 
“ Then you must pay something wore for lying in the best 
bed, for he has taken this, and I have no other.” This again 
eased a feeling wound up to the worst anticipations, and I 
thank Providence that the same self-possession spared me the 
pain I now should suffer had I taken life, and which I hardly 
know how I refrained from destroying. The landlord left 
these fellows, strangers to each other ; they conversed about 
their distresses and cares, one having deserted, and although 
they went to sleep soundly, I slept hare-like, with one eye 
open, lest the morning sun should announce to me, not only 
the departure of these two vagabonds, but also of my clothes, 
&c. ; for they had met each other by chance, and found out 
this rural hotel, in great distress, to plead their cause for 
admission more effectually than I should have done, but for 
the influence of my friendly Sam. Up first in the house, 
I dressed and descended. Some time after I was accosted by 
the landlord, about to perform in the character of a would-be 
ostler; my horse, however, was refreshed, and myself too. 
Coffee for breakfast, with smoked fish, eggs, plenty of toast, 
and a bottle of superior Cognac, was served up for two ; for 



the landlord said, “ Samuel C-^ was sure to come, although 

married only three days, for he was a man who never broke 
his word.” Some excellent-flavoured tea, such as no hotel 
need be ashamed of, was there for choice : when behold ! in 

cantered Samuel C , a Kentish yeoman, worth, I was told, 

about £15,000, on a beautiful chesnut horse, himself smartly 
dressed, to share my breakfast, and to guide me into a certain 
road. My statement of him was equal to his deserts. After 
a hearty breakfast, followed a truly moderate bill. The day 
was fair, and we started, after friendly wishes ; my mind full 
of surmises, soon after confirmed by my guide, namely, that 
all the kindness from Sam, and the fair treatment from my 
rough host, I owed to Smugglers ! — avowed Smugglers — 
men called by every vile epithet ; yet men who did that, 
disinterestedly, for persons in distress, which persons equally 
wealthy would not have done for money, much less for love ; 

Samuel C ’s father had made a fortune by smuggling ; 

the son followed farming in preference, yet could not separate 
himself wholly from the party, which made this house a 
harbour for various purposes ; one for depositing goods in a 
place without any other entrance than from behind the bed 
head. The reason why Sam Avould not take me to his house, 
was explained by his recent marriage ; and his father’s dislike 
to, and suspicion of, strangers ; and he thought that his telling 
me the real character of my hotel might cause me to act in a 
way to draw the men’s suspicion, &c., on myself. This same 
young man has since acquired distinctions in his county, 
richly merited by his conduct ; but which, by being explained, 
would point him out too plainly ; and which, from one so 
kindly treated, would be an ungrateful return. 




{Never before in Print.) 

Newmarket Course. 

“ Lost by half a neck.” 


Nor land, nor treasure, now has Heedless left. 
Bending and pale, he seems of sense bereft ! 
Close by stands Shnrh, with disappointed air ; 
For Sharlc has barely half to his own share ! 



All was not loss which Frank at college spent ; 

Cambridge had nmch, the Cambridge coachman more. 
High tutors ! how he drove the rattling four ! 

Frank now rubs down the cattle, quite content, 

And may again, as coachee, some day soar ! 



With just three hundred pounds a year. 

Macro dined w'ell, and drank stout beer : 

Increased to thousands, two at least ; 

Dwindled full half appeared the feast : 

That sum, should fortune double quite, 

Poor Magro would be starved outright ! 



Some Cerberus, with felon paw. 

And three-fold furtive jowls. 

Has stolen Charley’s Flutes, to draw 
Across dim Styx more souls. 



Should Nicholson pursue the brute, 

Like Orpheus, daring death, 

Pluto would haste to stop his Flute, 

And Proserpine his breath. 

But though the Flutes the mongrel’s trick 
To realms below convey ’em. 

His “ devilish clever ” friend. Old Nick, 

Can ne’er, like our Nic, play ’em. 

Charles Cummins. 

Admiral Sir John Borlase Warren. 

Soon after the termination of the late war with France, 
Sir John Warren, and his excellent lady, were in the habit of 
visiting, in the season, Cheltenham, Malvern, Leamington 
Priory, and other places in that direction, of summer resort. 

On one of these occasions Sir John reached the inn at 
Henley, where he had designed to take a late dinner, and then 
proceed on to the Star Inn at Oxford for the night. The 
waiter, while bustling round the table at dinner, having occa- 
sionally thrown out a hint on “ the dangers to which travellers 
were liable after sunset,” Sir John eagerly inquired — “ from 
what cause, pray ? ” — “ Why, your honour,” replied the waiter, 
“ we have a desperate sort of fellow on our roads, — it’s always 
the case after a war, you know, — and it was but — .” 
“What,” resumed Sir John, “do you mean a highivayman, 
mounted upon a dark chesnut gelding, about fifteen hands 
high ? ” — “ That is the rider and horse, please your honour,” 
answered the waiter. “ If so, continued Sir John, “ you may 
dismiss your alarms, and so may all your master’s guests ; tell 
him so : that same fellow this evening attempted to stop me, 



but 1 fired, and hit him .” — Hit him! ” exclaimed the waiter. 
— “ Yes, poor devil ! my aim is usually fatal. I saw him 
instantly lean over the left shoulder of the horse, and he 
dropped to the ground half a minute after, as he was shaping 
his course down the lane which turns off near the windmill : 
there the body no doubt will be found, with the horse grazing 
near it.” 

With this intelligence the waiter instantly darted out of the 
room to the bar, and to the stable fraternity, leaving Sir John 
and his lady to proceed at their dinner with less interruption. 
He shortly returned, bearing in his tray a creamed-tart, and 
a plate or two of fruit ; whereupon Sir John, with a warning 
voice, called for “ dispatch in the change of the dishes, and for 
fresh horses.” — “Horses, Sir John, there is not one in the 
yard ; every boy is mounted, and gone off in search of the 
dead highwayman.” Here Lady Warren interposed, ordered 
“ a good chamber to be prepared,” and made up her mind to 
remain there that night. To this Sir John consented, and 
ordered his travelling carriage to be ready at an early hour. 

The moment of departure having been fixed soon after day- 
break, Sir John, with his lady, set forward ; and having 
advanced about three miles on their way, were suddenly 
awakened from an imperfect slumber by the rattling of a 
pistol against the panels. Sir John, letting down the glasses, 
exclaimed, “Who the devil are you?” — “The highwayman,” 
was the reply, “ whom you. Sir John, killed, last night ; and 
were I not hard driven I should not. Sir, after having received 
your fire, have renewed my demand for your money." Sir 
John gave his purse without a moment’s delay, but evidently 
with a feeling of pity toward a man whose distresses appeared 
so imperative. 



An Irish Beggar. 

I was in Ireland in the summer of 1829, and while in 
Dublin I went to the theatre almost every night. Of course 
SAvarms of beggars were in attendance, and very persevering 
and annoying. One evening, a meagre-looking youth begged 
earnestly for charity, saying he had not had a bit of bread in 
his mouth these two days ; at the same time his cheeks 
Avere so crammed and sAvollen out, like a famous picture of 
Murillo’s ; he could scarce utter his wants. “ AVhat do you 
mean?” said I ; “ your mouth is so full of it you can hardly 
speak.” He turned sharply, and said, Axing your honour’s 
pardon, it is beef, /S'wr.” 


Common Beggars. 

When stage coaches set oft", they are ahvays surrounded 
with beggars — “ Would your honour just give me a little six- 
pence — a pleasant journey to your honour, and the Virgin 
protect you.” — “ I never give to beggars Avho beset the coaches 
every day at their departure.” An old man said, “ I am not 
a common beggar.” — “ Well, then, here’s a halfpenny for you.” 
After twirling it in his fingers some time, he said, “ Sir, you 
should never do things by halves. I dare say this has got a 
brother in your pocket, that would like to follow, and ring 
together so swately in my pocket.” 

Irish Blackguard. 

A gentleman met a countryman. — “ AVhere are you going, 
Paddy ? ” Paddy did not answer. “ I say, Avhere are you 



going, you blackguard ?” — “ Blackguard ! ” feeling his pockets, 
“ I have not a bit : now I dare say your honour has plenty 
about you.” 



The coffin of the veteran Macklin bears the following in- 
scription : — “ Mr. Charles Macklin, Comedian, died 1 1th 
July, 1797, aged 97 years.” 

He must, however, have been above the age of 97, as the 
late Mr. Braion, many years the favourite page of the revered 
George III., was present when Macklin had the honour of 
waiting upon His Majesty, soon after the Comedy of The Man 
of the World had been brought before the public. The 
King, after honouring the veteran actor with very gracious 
commendation on his comedy, and the well-drawn and new 
characters it exhibited, inquired his age ; whereupon Macklin 
replied, “ I was not, please your Majesty, born in the present 
century, nor do I covet to die in it : I was. Sire, rather more 
than a year old before 1700 appeared at the head of the 

The writer of this anecdote dined with Mr. Brawn at 
Mr. Harris’s house at Knightsbridge, two days after, when he 
heard, from the lips of that respectable gentleman, the par- 
ticulars of the interview as narrated. 

And some years after, Mr. Brawn informed him, at his own 
table at St. James’s Palace, that His Majesty, upon hearing of 
Mr. Harris’s generous plan for the support of the worn-out 
Macklin, expressed himself towards Mr. Harris in most 
approving language, for his liberality, consideration, and 




Henry Hunt, Esq. 

Dining with a friend at the Caf4 Colosseum, on the day that 
Hunt, the corn roaster and blacking maker, made his absurd 
and ridiculous entry into London, on being returned member 
for Preston, one of the company observed, “that if Hunt 
could do nothing better, he could supply the House of 
Commons with blaching” My friend spontaneously and 
immediately replied, “ 0 yes, he could do much better, by 
furnishing the members of the House of Commons with a 
liberal supply of whitening.^' 


When Phrenology was first broached to the public by 
Dr. Gall as a new system, a friend of mine sent me a chest 
full of skulls from Germany (I think there were 200), cast in 
plaster, illustrative of the system, from nature, and coloured 
so natural, that they would have passed for real skulls. He 
wished me to find some person who would undertake to 
receive such supplies, &c., from time to time. I made some 
inquiries, and the thing went on slowly, as you may imagine, 
on every ground. One morning my housekeeper entered my 
room very formally, and, looking very strangely, she gave me 
notice to provide another person. The following dialogue 
ensued : — “ How is this, Mrs. S. : you are a good and faithful 
servant, and you seemed so satisfied with your place, all at 
once to wish to quit ? there must be some particular reason 
for it.” — Answer, “ I would not stay on any account now^ Sir, 
although I liked you as a very good master before.” — “Now — 
liked me before — what do you mean ? — what has happened ? ” 



— “ Oh ! nothing, Sir, I’d rather go, and say no more about it.” 
I pressed to know — she evaded, until at last she looked all 
terror, and said, “ Why, Sir, if I must speak, I would sooner 
beg my bread in the streets, than live with so cruel a gentle- 
man, one who — oh ! I’d rather not say, you’ll be so angry, 
and perhaps — oh, dear me!” — “Well, pray out with it, 
Mrs. S., I will not be angry in the least, only teU me.” — 
“ Why, Sir, one who can keep in the house the heads of all 
the people he hilled ; and, oh dear I oh dear 1 so many, too ! /” 
I burst out into laughter, adding, “ Then one or two would 
not drive you away.” With much trouble I convinced the 
poor woman that they were plaster of Paris ; and it was 
owing to a young man in my service who had passed this joke 
upon her, for she had teased him constantly to know what 
that large chest contained, when, showing the skulls, he told 
her that it was my way to cut off the head of every man I 
killed in battle, and to take it home with me, tied by its hair 
to my horse’s mane. 

The Scare-crow. 

I will tell you how I really and wilfully frightened some 
fellows, who robbed the garden of my cottage at Kentish Town 
of its fruit so frequently, that I fell upon the following 
expedient: — I took an old dressing gown, &c., and stuffed 
them into a scare-crow, as large as life, with worsted gloves, 
old slippers, and a mask, all “ in good keeping” with some 
straw peeping out here and there. The lay figure finished, I 
sat it up in a tree, with a stick awkwardly placed, as if he was 
shooting. It frightened the birds for about a week, but not 
the thieves, for they came several times after at daybreak to 



fetch, or rather to examine my pears, if fit for sale. My 
family jeered me about such a mode of scaring thieves, when 
one Saturday I persuaded them to rise, and watch the results 
at day-break on the Sunday following, a favourite day with 
my visitors. My family watching the scare-crow, wondering 
what it could do, were all at once struck with surprise when 
they saw the fellows run away screaming, and the scare-crow, 
flourishing the stick in the tree, jump out of it, and chase 
them, perfectly terror-struch as they were. Need I tell you that 
I had decorated myself ivith the scare-croiv s attire, placed myself 
in the tree, exactly and as awkwardly as sat the figure, mask 
on, straw sticking out of holes, &c. When the thieves were 
gathering round me, I shouted and flourished ; and never were 
fellows more panic-struck, and my real but full-sized scare- 
crows afterwards, varied as they were, always caused decided 
mistrust, and answered the purpose of. 

Dear Sir, 

Your poor narrator, but 
Sincere well-wisher. 

P.S. — When I resumed my seat in the tree, my family 
complimented my tournure elegante ; for they assured me that 
they could not persuade themselves but that it was the scare- 

Mrs. Tickell. 

Chambers, June 11th. 

My dear Mr. Angelo, 

Sheridan once told me an anecdote of my sister, Mrs. 
Tickell, which you are welcome to. The greater part of our 



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family was assembled in Bruton-street, to a jollification on 
New Year’s Day. After supper, old Sherry proposed that 
every body should epigramatise, or say something funny upon 
some given subject, or upon the newest publication, dramatical 
or poetical. Hayley's Triumph of Temper had just made its 
appearance — rather a dullish affair, by all accounts. Hoav- 
ever, the heroine of the tale, Serena by name, has to encounter 
three trials, which it had been previously calculated no woman 
could possibly stand. Nevertheless, this lady conquers, and 
immortalises herself. Well, this said new poem was Mrs. 
Tickell’s theme, and after a minute or two’s consideration, out 
came the following epigram, than which Martial never scribbled 
a better : — 

“ With female patience here’s to do, 

Serena and her trials three ! 

Now I have read the poem through. 

What d’ye think of me ? ” 

This anecdote, I think I may safely say, was never in print, 
and is very much at your service. Believe me, my dear 

Yours very faithfully, 

W. Linley. 

The Marchioness de Forges, 

Whose husband was grand falconer, resided at Versailles in 
the year 1775. The marchioness was pregnant, and during 
child-birth, some unpleasant intelligence was communicated 
to her. If I recollect rightly, she was informed that one of 
her houses had been burnt down. The pains of child-birth 
immediately ceased, and the marchioness continued pregnant 



for the space of twenty-five years. At the expiration of that 
period she died, and on her body being opened, the child was 
found petrified. A few years previous to her death, the 
Marquis de Crequi said to her, in a drawing room, — “ Madam, 
I think you would do well to swallow a tutor for your son, his 
beard must be beginning to grow by this time.” 

Upon the Death of Vice-admiral Lord Nelson, 
On the 21st of October, 1805. 

Written hy his Grace the late William Cavendish, Duke of Devonshire, 
immediately after. 

Oft has Britannia sought, ’midst dire alarms, 

Divine protection for her sons in arms : 

Generous and brave, though not from vices free, 
Britons from Heaven received a mixed decree ; 

To crown their merits, and to low’r their pride, 

God gave them Victory — but Nelson died ! 


I once used to amuse myself by advertising for a wife, when 
a friend of mine Avho had the same mecharite plaisanterie as 
myself, finding his humour so superior to my love proposals, 
induced me to discontinue connubial appeals in a newspaper. 
His plan was different to having recourse to the public press, 
preferring Sir Benjamin Backbite’s, in the School for Scandal — 
“ If you want any thing to be circulated freely, you should not 
advertise, but give copies in strict secrecy to their particular 
friends.” Having an extra copy by me of his professions to 
become a Benedict, comparing it with the many that daily 



crowd the papers, the drollery of the following may be accept' 
able to the reader. 


A Card. 

Genteel families in Bath, and its vicinities (supposed to be 
the very mart of matrimony), having either sisters or 
daughters, become /aZZ-blown roses, whom they wish to pro- 
vide for advantageously, are earnestly requested to pay due 
attention to the subjoined hand-bill, which offers to maidens 
or widowed ladies, somewhat out of their teens, an immediate 
change of situation, permanent protection, and, it is humbly 
hoped, the very height of connubial bliss. No objection to 
Dissenting, Roman Catholic, Jewish, or Mahometan ladies, the 
advertiser being on this subject a complete cosmopolite, 
thinking that a good wife cannot be of a bad persuasion ; ladies 
of colour also will be treated with on liberal terms, though at 
an advanced premium ; but coloured ladies will meet with no 
encouragement, and consequently cannot come off with flying 



A moral middle-aged gentleman without incumbrance, 
either of ci-devant cTicre amie, or spurious progeny, of small 
fortune, and fair fame, who is what is vulgarly called an old 
bachelor, wishes to meet with a personable, agreeable lady, 
of good character, affable disposition, and possessed of a 
small independent fortune, say about one-third of his own. 
Although the writer of this is heartily sick of celibacy, and 
sighs to become a Benedict, yet he is too fond of a good dinner, 
not to be well aware of the vile cookery of pitiful poverty ; 



however, as the advertiser has no sort of wish to shine 
conspicuous in Doctors’ Commons (though he has a near rela- 
tion a proctor, who might possibly transact the affair nearly 
gratis, and thus render the crim. con damages * * * 

no lady under the age of forty will be attended to ; but 
nevertheless, should the fair one’s age exceed forty-eight 
years, it must, like the extra baggage of a stage-coach 
passenger, be entered as such, and paid for accordingly. 

Letters, post paid, directed to Hercules Honeymoon Help- 
mate, Esq., at the Union Hotel, will be attended to with 
despatch, secrecy, and honour. 

N.B. — Some years having elapsed since this card and hand- 
bill were first circulated, together with its not having had the 
desired effect, the advertiser, finding that he every day 
becomes less marketable, informs the fair sex he may now be 
had upon much easier terms than formerly, though still 
perfectly sound and gentle. 



It is said, we only learn from application ; now my idea is, 
we frequently learn something through the medium of chance, 
which once occurred to me, in relation to a poor deserter. 
Whether he is marched from John O’ Groat’s house to the 
Land’s End, he can only be supplied with a pair of shoes and 
a shirt ; and if, perchance, he is despoiled of his hat, coat, 
waistcoast, or breeches, he must nevertheless, in a state of 
nudity, pursue his journey. This I have leamt from a pocket 
book I have by accident picked up ; and by the papers it 
contained, plainly evinced it must have belonged to a regi- 
mental pay-master, which the annexed will explain. 



The Paymastek’s Answer. 

To a War Office disallowance of One Shilling, which had been charged 
in his accounts for the purchase of a pair of breeches, for an almost naked 

As far as the Paymaster can recollect, at the distance of 
eleven years, this deserter was brought up in so very bare- 
breeched a condition, that he could not proceed with common 
decency ; in which dilemma the purchase of a cheap pair of 
small clothes was unguardedly resolved upon, although the 
P. M. was perfectly aware buying breeches (under any circum- 
stances) was in open defiance to all existing regulations ; the 
fact of this almost more than primeval nakedness for a moment 
admitted, it must be confessed that all possible economy was 
observed in the bargain of the galligaskins ; and when com- 
plete decorum can be purchased at so low a rate, it may, per- 
haps, be considered as a better bargain than the reverse, gratis ; 
and thus, the regulations (in this solitary instance) be more 
honoured in the breach than the observance. So situated, the 
P. M. most humbly hopes, nay, most fully trusts, the Superin- 
tendents, whose decisions he always has, and ever must bow 
to most implicitly, and whose candour and liberality he must 
ever gratefully remember, will not so severely punish him, by 
cutting him off ivithout a shilling, for having, during a period 
of disloyalty and jacobinism, done all in his power to hinder 
any of His Majesty’s subjects from appearing as a sans culotte. 


Admitted — The extreme ingenuity of the defence more 
than warranting a sanction of the irregularity. 



The Two Princes. 

When my father instructed in fencing the two Princes, 
William and Henry, afterwards Dukes of Gloucester and Cum- 
berland, he paid particular attention to the graces, in addition 
to the executive part of the business. At their desire, the 
better to acquire them, my father employed John Guyn, a 
famous delineator at the time, to make drawings of the salute, 
which are considered the most graceful positions of the 
exercise. Encouraged from the specimens, which so pleased 
the Princes, he published a treatise on the science, and in 
addition, at a considerable expense (some hundreds), the 
different positions — the salute attack and defence, in forty- 
seven plates. He employed the first artists to engrave them, 
in the best style of line engraving ; two in particular by Hall, 
who finished Woolett’s plate of General Wolfe ; the others by 
poor Ryland, who suffered. 

The original drawings, which my father stood for, he pre- 
sented to His Majesty George III., who graciously received 
him at Buckingham House, where he was honoured, and kept 
in conversation above an hour ; when to his surprise, being 
questioned about his coming to England, the King had been 
previously acquainted with his attachment to Mrs. Woffington, 
and his marriage after with my mother. 

The Wounded Coachman. 

What the law is now in France, since the Revolution, I am 
utterly unacquainted with ; but previous, during my sojourn 
there, I have known those who from a rencontre, and danger- 
ously wounding their adversary, have absconded, and no further 



notice taken. Indeed, speaking of a duel, an Englishman 
who had killed his antagonist at Paris, secured a commission 
after, in the Irish Brigades, and absented himself for a year ; 
when he returned, not the least notice was taken (and to this 
very man I was indebted for those scrapes Avhich might have 
been of serious consequence to me, particularly that I 
mentioned in my second volume of Reminiscences ; his 
commission silenced all future inquiries. 

As an instance how tenacious a French officer is of his 
honour, the following, at which I was present myself, Avill 
establish the fact. 

Walking on the Boulevards, and the string of carriages 
preventing the passengers from crossing over to the other side, 
some French officers called to a coachman to let them pass, 
but he refused ; on which, one of them stood at the horses’ 
heads, to stop them, when, on receiving a blow in his face 
from the whip, he ran up to the man, instantly drew his sword, 
and plunged it into his body : whether the wound proved 
mortal or not, I never heard after, or that the officer had 
received a blow. There was but one opinion — that he was 
justified in what he had done, Avas the sentence of every one 


Speaking of duels, it reminds me of a boy on his first going 
to Eton making his fistic dehut in the playing fields ; for those 
younger than himself Avill be sure to bully him, unless con- 
vinced that he will not put up Avith an affront. So it is in 
France, Avith a youth on joining his regiment ; seeking the 
“ bubble reputation,’’ he soon draAvs his SAvord, when a scratch 



on the wist (for the parties on trifling occasions seldom ap- 
proach near enough for a “ palpable hit,”) if blood is drawn, 
blesse is sufficient to establish his courage : and if a good 
swordsman, he has to thank his fencing master for keeping 
those at a distance who might have taken advantage of his 
want of skill. 


My father had been a very old mason, belonging to the 
Somerset House Lodge, No. 2, Free Masons’ Tavern. Through 
his proposing me, I was unanimously elected a member ; for 
either from pique (some few having had their friends black- 
balled), or the determination that their fraternity should be as 
select as possible, it generally happened at the time that few 
were admitted without one or two black balls, three being an 
entire exclusion. This arose not from any personal objection, 
but the disappointment of those who had experienced an 
opposition to those friends they had previously proposed. 
The fee of admission was eleven guineas, which, with the many 
new candidates for masonry preferring our lodge, would have 
been a considerable emolument to the fund. Even two gentle- 
men who were going to the West Indies the same month, and 
could have been made at any other, considering ours superior 
and respectable, were black-balled. Such was the animosity 
of some, that, one season, they prevented many worthy candi- 
dates being admitted, who would not only have been a 
convivial acquisition, but their names an honour to any 
society. May 12th, 1787, our late Majesty honoured us with 
his presence at our annual festival as a brother mason. His 
Royal Highness the late Duke of Cumberland sat as a grand 


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master ; there were no less than four hundred masons in the 
hall ; tickets had been delivered out at half a guinea each ; 
but such was the liberal spirit of the stewards on this occasion, 
that the dinner consisted of tAvo courses, and a dessert of all 
that Avas high in perfection at that time of the year ; no expense 
Avas spared ; the company were entitled to as much Burgundy, 
Champagne, Claret, Madeira, and other Avines, as they thought 
proper to consume. The affability of His Royal Highness to 
every person, the joy that appeared in the countenances of 
the whole company, and their repeated marks of veneration, 
love, and attachment, formed a scene that must have been 
highly flattering to the heir-apparent of the House of Hanover. 
They drank his health Avith a kind of generous fervour, that 
gloAved Avith loyalty ; and Avhen it is considered that the Grand 
Lodge at its festival includes all political descriptions, tlie 
sense of the public in their attachment to this amiable prince 
is pretty clear. His Grace the Duke of Manchester, Avith a 
considerable number of the nobility, attended, and several 
masons, foreigners of distinction. As the above Avas before I 
was made a mason, Avhat I have related Avas an extract from 
the relation of that day’s festival. The first time I attended 
the lodge. Sir Lionel Darrel Avas our R. W. M., and latterly 
in the chair Lord Mountnorres. Lord Moira often presided, 
Avhom Ave all considered next to the Prince, as the head of the 
craft. His elegant mildness of manners, and superior knoAV- 
ledge, made him to be regarded as the prominent jeAvel of 
masonry. The Duke of Sussex also sometimes honoured us. 
Speaking of his affability, good humour, and general conde- 
scension to all around him, his presence Avas sure to bring us a 
day of festivity, the song and the glass keeping pace with his 
convivial example. Indeed, the song was not confined only 



to those he called on to sing ; for he not only honoured us 
with his presence, but sang his song with an excellent voice, 
con gusto, uniting with the Prince, the brother, and free- 
accepted mason. It was at one of these meetings I made my 
debut, singing the friar’s song, which His Highness always 
called upon me for, and afterwards reminded me of, when in- 
vited to dine with him, the day his brother, the Prince of 
Wales, was present. Having visited two others besides the 
one I belong to, for convivial songs, particularly glees, they 
appeared very inferior to ours, at which the melodists, 
Incledon and Dignum, were constant visitors ; also Barthe- 
lemon, Vaughan, Neal, Sale, Serle, and Webb ; and vocalists 
from both theatres, including Viganoni, from the Italian 
Opera ; with such auxiliaries we most certainly took the lead. 
Though I could not boast of being a good mason with a trowel, 
scientifically speaking, working my way in the lodge, I was 
not an idle brother with my knife and fork, and with some 
chosen songs that I was usually called upon for, by our 
R. W. M., initiated since the year 1790, I flatter myself not 
an unwelcome guest. Many years after, on my intention of 
leaving the lodge, I received the following letter from their 
secretary, which, I trust, will prove that my presence would 
be missed : — 

Warivick Street, Golden Square, 
7th February, 1803 . 


It was with extreme regret that the brethren of the 
Somerset Lodge were informed that you declined continuing a 
member of their society. The cause assigned for your so 
doing was the only consolation they could receive for being 



deprived of so convivial a friend and companion ; and, that 
they might have an opportunity of enjoying your good com- 
pany when professional avocations would permit, they did 
themselves the pleasure of unanimously voting you an honorary 

I have the honour to be. 

Sir, your most obedient, 
and very humble servant and brother, 


Henry Angelo, Esq. 

However I considered myself highly honoured by such a 
flattering letter, and although, at my father’s decease (which 
was a few months before), my professional attendance at Eton 
College absented me often from the lodge, which met on those 
days, I could not reconcile myself, after being of long standing 
so near the top of the list of brothers, to become an honorary 
member when receiving such an unanimous and pressing 
invitation from the brethren to remain, I felt additional 
gratification in continuing of it, but not as an honorary 

Previous to our grand festival of St. John the Evangelist, 
twelve red aprons are distributed amongst the superior lodges. 
Ours had the privilege of bestowing two ; the others only 
one. These were only given to those who were considered to 
act as stewards on our annual festival. Though never 
aspiring to be elevated in masonry, yet the red apron being 
offered to me by Lord Moira, I could not refuse it, accom- 
panied with one to the Rev. Samuel Coleman. With the 
remainder of the brethren of the board of stewards, they 
appointed me their president. 



This office was a great encroachment on those professional 
engagements that occupied my time at Eton, Harrow, &c., &c., 
as the many meetings previous to the masonic day, dinners at 
the Thatched House Tavern, were to make arrangements pre- 
paratory to the general meeting ; and having taken the chair, 
my presence, as an example to all the other stewards, was 
absolutely necessary. Indeed, those who absented themselves 
were to forfeit two guineas ; and however trifling the cause of 
our meetings, half the number could not have settled our 
motives for assembling ; besides, our dinners were very 
expensive. At this time Free Masons’ Hall was under repair, 
that was the reason we had our dinners at Willis’s ; after at 
his great room in King Street. Invested with the red ajDron 
by Lord Moira, I did not know at the time, the trouble and 
attendance that followed, after being proposed president of the 
board of stewards. Before I speak of the dinner, I must 
mention, that previously a supper takes place, to which an 
invitation from the president of the stewards is always 
requested of Lord Moira, though seldom attended. On this 
occasion, I waited on him at his residence, then in St. James’s 
Place, and was honoured with his acceptance ; at the same 
time he said he would let me know if the Prince of Wales 
might be expected on that day. I accordingly received the 
following : — 

St. James's Place, May 3rd, 1802. 


The Prince of Wales has commanded me to express 
his regret at finding, that it will not be in his power to preside 
at the grand feast on the 12th instant. Feeling deeply how 
little the brethren can be consoled by so inadequate a sub- 


A limt to Ycn mq Oj^cers Vit)e . E^UhlTora Chcmh^ ido A, 

t4vU&c/vrrum^ ^ Houir’ ^ Altho' ts ftruit o Qh^ 

A--fl6 '■aH'd- 'tiib hsy axLB }unm<y — 

" Past^ T'wtI/\/e/ o'CiocJi / 

77,. ,1 dflumy thiu'Lcmb of tAtu CojStw C/VTMJ 
H /\odrde, Camf to tmtt — . 

AnA iv/ien higAhrLoteyCoiftip 
AJi fthiiH,rt'rtj irv thib Sh^eA. — 

', hini'rr [{‘/■-i/'orrwkere, dear Aid cie. O/imp 

And> Servomt-s aJj^ i/ru hed/ 

Thtfwrt mlc.omt korey, dearAuLdibCfl^'o 
PuA.' dourrv yowr Hat ^ CUanii^ , 

'Watk i/yi,^ Sup, welly maJia . 

B ul, dmvt. dn so AmdUy / — 

^a«v:u u/’'^ d 

T'^n ATotitfi' S>^td • 

^i>’nl . Kt'iui f /liiuiiiij t>f iH(i.)ii tKji) j 

,%>in d/u udun (Jn.) .'iKlr.-dt cumli j 

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m 1^* ibjr'iiidog > 

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stitute for His Royal Highness as I shall be, I still shall not 
fail to pay my attentions by taking the chair on the occasion. 

I have the honour, 

Sir, to be 

Your very obedient servant and brother, 


P. G. M. 

Masonic Suppee. 

The supper night, I took the chair. On ushering his Lord- 
ship to the room, I requested him to take it, which he refused. 
In such an assemblage, I was seated at the head of the table, 
on each side of me a nobleman ; Lord Moira on my right. 
Lord Granard on my left. Though unaccustomed to those 
masonic duties expected from the chair, I neither failed in my 
attention as a mason, nor in promoting the conviviality of the 
evening, which continued till past six in the morning — toasts, 
songs, &c. I owed all to my prime minister on my right, 
whose affability and masonic information occasionally assisted 
me. It was one o’clock, when he informed me that he had 
exceeded by an hour the usual stay (which was twelve o’clock), 
and only waited to hear me sing my solo duet, “ The Two 
Ballad Singers in Cranbourn Alley.” Proud to keep him 
longer with us, I eased his impatience, by requesting him to 
permit me to call on one of the company (then a famous comic 
singer, remarkable for his humour), whose voice and taste 
would please. This succeeded till past two o’clock, when, 
reminding me of my song, I sang ; and he, making a graceful 
bow (of the old school, now exploded), amidst the applause of 
us all, with Lord Granard, retired. Now began, not the “ tug 
of war,” but that noise, the usual accompaniment of Pleni 

177 N 


Bacchus, and the croAving of the cock ; nor did Chanticleer 
hasten our departure. Armed (primed) for the field, and 
many ready for the fray, on my giving, a second time, for a 
toast, “ His Lordship,” and calling on them to fill, “ till the 
wine o’ersweU the cup,” his health Avas drunk Avith three times 
three, accompanied with huzzas loud enough for him to hear 
us before he got to his carriage. The merriment and masonic 
cordiality continued till past six, still seated between two 
Lords. Honoured with such an exaltation, I was determined 
not to quit my night’s throne, though several had an eye upon 
it, remaining in expectation of my retiring. Here they Avere 
mistaken, for accustomed, as I had ahvays been, to be the last 
in the room, and to folloAv the jovial morning crew, to their 
disappointment, they found me immovable. Having promised 
my friend Stretton (Avhom I have already spoken so much of 
in my Reminiscences), who was to give a dance that night, that 
hoAvever late my new honours detained me, nothing should 
prevent my being in time to partake of the “ fantastic toe ; ” 
when, fortunately, then near seven, I arrived in time to join 
with those that remained, dancing the usual finale, the 
houlangere. What a change ! Now no longer at the head of 
a table, calling out. Order! — order! — but seated to tea and 
coffee, Avhere fatigue had silenced some, and others more 
inclined to sleep than continue those attentions the partners in 
the dance had previously experienced. This soiree, I should 
say matin visit, the first I ever made at such an early hour, 
was the last, never to begin such a nocturnal, to finish at nine 
in the morning. 

Masonic Dinner. 

On the day of our Masonic Festival (May 12th), at Willis’s 



Great Room, King Street, Lord Moira presided. The meeting 
assembled about four hundred. The dinner consisted of all 
the luxuries of the season, Champagne, Burgundy, Claret, 
Madeira, &c., in abundance. During my continuance, years 
after, in the lodge, this was the last meeting at which the 
stewards gave French wines ; if any alteration has taken 
place since, I am unacquainted with it, I can only say my red- 
apron honours cost me dear. Of the numerous visitors, the 
Lord Mayor elect was Sir John Earner, attended by Sir W. 
Rawlins (that day knighted) and Alderman Cox, his two 
sheriffs. In the course of the toasts given, the health of the 
stewards being drank, for their attention in providing the 
entertainment, the honour conferred on us by his Lordship, 
the president of the board of stewards is expected to make a 
speech. Having been at many of these annual meetings 
before, I took care to have mine exyres for that day, ready cut 
and dried for me ; but by a much better sconce than my own. 
I took care to “ suit the action to the word ; ” and though my 
expected oratorical display had its previous rehearsals, I had 
felt myself more d mon aise, the caracato on the board of the 
lamp, than spokesman for the hoard of stewards. However, if 
I may guess, it was good-nature that some few encouraged the 
others to plaudite, and noise with the glasses, and tapping the 
tables, not a little flattering to me, like the theatrical puffs. 
I came off with unbounded applause. The fatigue of the 
hustling day being at length over, pleased I was when day- 
light closed the honours of masonry. 

My Two Fiest Loves. 

Resuming my pen again, I may say I have already written 
above seven hundred recollections of these last sixty years, and 



not one anecdote of my own family, though I have spoken 
much of my father ; yet, relating to my situation as Benedict, 
during the space of forty-nine years, matter enough to hll a 
volume. If, having spoken so much of myself, I may have 
sounded my trumpet too often, still, however my tones 
may get discordant, I cannot refrain from recounting (when 
not nineteen) my hvo first loves. They were both subjects 
for the fashionable Colburn novelists of the present day, 
especially the first, where scandal has its attractions most. 
Many years now past by, out of regard, should any of the 
family remain, I forbear mentioning names. Speaking of the 
first dart that wounded so young a heart, I may venture to 
say, that, of the different public characters I have already 
spoken of at one time, as an elegante and beauty of the day, 
for notoriety, none had more attractions. 

Mr. D and his wife were constant visitors at my father’s 

house, and with them their daughter, a tall, handsome girl, 
about eighteen, who had been at the same convent with my 
sisters, at Lisle ; though I was too young then to attract her 
notice, yet at all times she was glad to have me near her. 

Soon after, she was married to Dr. E , M.D., her parents 

leaving this country for Barbadoes, where her father had a 
place under Government. 

How long the Doctor’s honeymoon lasted I know not, but 

that Lord V supplanted him ; after that the Duke de 

Chartres {egalite) ; then Lord C . Some years after, I 

was invited by my friend B (called by his acquaintance 

the gallant Lothario) to dine with him, and meet Lady 

W , and Dally the tall, the name Mrs. E had long 

gone by. Illness only prevented me from seeing my old 
inamorata with a new face, which, after such a lapse of time, 




V, ■ 



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' * Vi 

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fli#l2.fal » ' ■■*J ^4^ •# • TtrtUx' 


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i- t I VO i JUKJ V ilia 

not o'ae a?;.‘ 
much ‘A'. - 



■ faruiiy, tiiougli I have spoken 
■' •r n/ to situation as Benedict, 
i< vtr^rv, ;; atrer enough to till a 
' -auch <.>1 jr-.xelf, I may have 
' ' ■ o. '.Mio h v-.vjr my tones 

• • "-'Vi ’ ting (when 

’ ■ • • * he • v'. , subjects 

■ ' - ' iS;ia'n novsiHsTj, of ilt, 

'f t, where scandal has its attnui.. .. 
now past by, out of roganl, should any ■ 

.. P mai 1 forbear mrim -uing names. Speaking of the 
• dart Imt wounded so young a heart, I may venture to 
:>av. that, of the different public characters I have already 
uoken of at one time, as an Hegante and beauty of the day, 
or notoriety, none had more attractions. 

Air. D and his wife were constant visitors at rev fatiier's 
house, and with them their daughter, a tall, handsome virl, 
about eighteen, who had been at the same convent with my 
sisters, at Lisle ; though I was too young then to attract her 
notice, yet at all times she was glad to have me near her. 

n aft r, was married to Dr. E , M.D., her parents 

■ r this coir try for Barbndoes, where her father had a 
nc!- r Government. 

I • ti e Doctor’s honeymoon lasted I know not. bur 

that Lord V supplanted him; after that the Duke de 

haitres {egalitf:) ; then Lord C . Some vears .-ifku’, I 

invited by my friend B (called by his awpaiw.tmme 

/-llmt Lothario) to dine with him, an 1 n- t '.a ly 
, aud Dally the tall, the name Mi’s. E ■ I.-ul’’ 

Illner.- only prevented me from • \ > 

• ■"•''th a new face, wliich, after sure ; ^diae, 



by H. (\)s\vav 

V '• ^ 





mine must have kept hers in countenance ; however, her 
notoriety excited the gaze of every one. My second was 
doomed to a far different lot. Her father, from the many 
years he had been a Member of Parliament, was considered 
the father of the House of Commons, had two daughters ; the 
elder was named Dolly ; the other, my flame, Amy — both 
were considered handsome ; the latter, for her person, prefer- 
able to the elder, who was very lusty. He had two sons, the 
youngest was my most intimate crony at the time ; and from 
being continually at the house, Amy made such impression on 
my mind, encouraged by her brother’s assurance, her saying 
how happy she was whenever I came to the house, I was 
miserable when absent ; so much so, that at home, the altera- 
tions from being cheerful, I was called the knight of the woeful 
countenance. This did not last long, it was only a change of 
scene, which soon followed, that relieved a load that was 
increasing. My father sent me to the continent, where I 
remained two years. At my return home, during the interval 
I was abroad, whatever were my previous feelings of her, they 
were now past recovery. Her parents, both remarkable for 
their family pride, particularly the mother, being dissatisfied 
with her female domestics, accused them of being familiar 
with the footman, “ that they were no better than strumpets ; ” 
when one of them replied, “ Ma’am, you had better look to 
your youngest daughter.” Soon a discovery made its appear- 
ance, to the consternation of the family — Amy had some time 
been married to the footman. Here the pride of ancestry 
became outrageous ; both were directly turned out of the 
house, penniless. The husband, who from a boy had been 
brought up at their country mansion, taken from the plough, 
then cleaning knives, became footman behind the carriage, 



now discarded, and turned adrift (through the interest of the 
father, who procured him the place of exciseman) with his 
wife, was banished to Sunderland, in Yorkshire. In addition 
to his situation, the youngest of her two brothers (who 
had a place under government, though the income was 
small, the whole family being inexorable, generously allotted a 
portion of it to his sister. Among her many accomplishments, 
music was the most prominent ; excelling on the pianoforte 
and harp, many of the ladies in the neighbourhood received 
her as an instructress for both, and, with singing included, it 
was a considerable increase, to support a family of six children, 
which were the fruits of their stolen marriage. Her brother 
made her a present of a pianoforte, which was the only conso- 
lation left to alleviate those reflections of the past. During 
the space of eight years, a delicate frame, and sorrow, had so 
far wasted her constitution, as to cause a decline ; and the 
once beautiful Amy died of a broken heart. The relation of 
the above I received from the brother, who, occasionally going 
to see her, informed me such was the change, that two years 
after her marriage, affliction had so altered her appearance, 
that at first I should not have known her. Not long after her 
decease, as if fatality attended an unrelenting father, “ Parents 
have flinty hearts,” I lost my old friend, her affectionate 
brother, who, through a fit of jealousy for a woman far beneath 
his notice, in a moment of despair threw himself out of window, 
and was killed on the spot. 


At the masQuerade, at the Pantheon, in its better days 
(nights I should say), of the various black dominos, a little 
man, masked, whom, from his conversation, I must have been 



well known to, kept following me, talking about my profession. 
Though never ashamed of my shop, yet, as I then considered 
that it was shut, and my troublesome follower kept reminding 
me of it, I could have almost been out of humour, bored as I 
was with his continually questioning me about fencing. After 
several times putting the question to me, “ Can’t you find me 
out ? ” I replied, “ No .” — “ Come, I’ll give you a chance ; I 
was a pupil of yours eight years ago, at Harrow, and was one 
of your idlest scholars.” — “ Then your name must be Drum- 
mond.” Pulling off his mask, and laughing, he said, “You’ll 
not find me so now, I have practised a great deal at Geneva, 
and could beat my master ; if you come to me every day, at 
four o’clock, in St. James’s Square, it shall be your turn next; 
so look sharp to the ‘ palpable hits,’ I’ll not spare you.” This 
was Mr. Henry Drummond, the banker’s son. When at 
HarroAv, there were two of the same name, and, to distinguish 
them, this was called stumpiy, from his height ; the other, a 
puny boy, weazel. Accordingly, by appointment, at four 
o’clock, as often as I could attend at that hour, I was at his 
house, the usual time he returned home from the banking- 
house, Charing-cross. I most certainly found he had profited 
by his Swiss fencing master ; but as to having beaten him, I 
might as well believe Tom Thumb had beaten the giants. No 
matter, my attendance was every time on the book half-a- 
guinea — “ palpable hits ” to me. Though there was no 
occasion for him to recollect his masquerade threat, “ I’ll not 
spare you,” yet, when fleuret a la main, I humoured him hits 
enough for his amusement, and mine ; for during some months 
he was my most lucrative scholar. Expected every day, often 
at the same hour, Slingsby, the favourite English dancer (in 
Duberval’s style), at the Opera, as well as myself, was in 



waiting. Just as our scholar found himself in the humour for 
the foil, or the toe, one of us was to remain, though we did 
not neglect inserting a lesson. This was a sunshine to us one 
whole season. The year following, after having received me a 

few times, desired to attend as usual, Mr. D purchased a 

horse from a Mrs. Lovelace, which proved, a few days after, 
unsound; some difference occurring about taking it back, a 
Captain Battersby, who was her champion, so far interesting 
himself, on his refusing to keep the horse, called him out, 

which was accepted. When General D , who was his 

second, advised him to rest his elbow on his right rib, whilst 
holding his pistol facing his head. Though it saved a bullet 
near his abdomen, it took place near the elbow, and rested 
half-way, approaching to the wi’ist. What was the result 
about returning the horse I never heard ; but having been 
wounded in the right arm, the remedy was an arma cedunt 
plaister to me ; and though the ball was soon extracted, not 
so the cloth, which had so far penetrated, that for many weeks 
after he was suffering torture from the wound being probed ; 
and, from the number of small pieces I have seen, proves the 
necessity of divesting oneself of clothes, previous to standing 
a shot. Though no loss of life here, it was a dead shot to 
me — the loss of a scholar. 


Two years before he made his first appearance at Drury Lane, 
walked upwards of thirty miles, with his wife and son, in 
expectation of an engagement at York ; on his arrival, ho'w- 
ever, at that theatre, he was informed the company was quite 
fuU, and that the manager would not avail himself of his 
services. What refreshing intelligence to three weary travel- 



lers, Avith only eighteenpence in their pockets ! In this 
emergency, what was to be done ? It immediately struck 
Kean, if he could prevail on the landlord of the York Hotel to 
let him have the use of the assembly room for a night, that 
he might make out a bill, consisting of recitations and songs, 
Avhich would probably prove attractive ; and being known to 
many of the inhabitants of this populous city, he felt sanguine 
and confident of success. He lost no time in submitting his 
plan to the landlord, who, although he hesitated at first, 
saying, “ that he could not possibly light up the assembly 
room under ten pounds, and questioned whether it would 
answer his purpose,” was at last induced to comply. The 
bill of fare was speedily arranged, and the utmost publicity 
given to the intended entertainment. On the night specified, 
everything was received with the greatest applause, the room 
crowded to excess, and the York Theatre totally neglected. 

Kean, on receiving the amount of the evening’s entertain- 
ment, took ten pounds to the landlord, who generously said, 
“ Mr. Kean, I have witnessed your extraordinary efforts this 
evening, and am convinced that I shall, at no distant period, 
see you at the top of your profession in London ; so keep 
the money (which will be useful to yourself and family) until 
you can better afford to part with it.” 

Kean’s unrivalled efforts at Drury Lane are too well known 
and acknowledged to require repetition ; but it is necessary 
to mention that he did not, during the career of his success, 
forget the York Hotel; and on learning that his prophetic 
and kind-hearted friend, the landlord, was labouring under 
temporary embarrassment, he immediately, in an impulse of 
gratitude, sent him a bank note of a hundked pounds ! 

B E. 



Dicky Suet, 

A favourite comic actor, was Parsons’s double, and always 
performed the part of the last-mentioned comedian when he 
was indisposed. Parsons, before he came on the stage, was a 
fruit painter, and an excellent copyist of Wilson’s pictures. 
Some of his copies have been sold for originals. Parsons 
cherished the love of this art to the end of his life. Suet was 
remarkably fond of this excellent actor’s company, and not 
only copied him on the stage, but naturally fell into his habits 
in private life. Parsons, on passing a broker’s shop, neglected 
no opportunity of looking at any picture he might find there, 
and was accustomed to wet his finger, rub the painting, and 
exclaim, “ A pretty bit, faith ! ” In imitation of his friend. 
Suet did the same ; but one day, mistaking a drawing in 
crayons for an oil picture, he wetted his finger, and before he 
had time to exclaim, A pretty bit, faith ! ” rubbed out 
a young lady's eye. 

B E. 


Was generally allowed to be the best performer of Frenchmen, 
Jews, and Germans, that ever trod the stage, and was likewise 
very quick and pleasant in repartee. Some years since, His 
Majesty George the Third commanded a play at Covent 
Garden Theatre. On the same evening, one of the Drury 
Lane performers came into the green room, and said, “ I am 
just come from Covent Garden, and, strange to relate, they 
have a bad house there.” Wewitzer replied, “ I do not believe 
any such thing ; I am sure His Majesty would never take the 
Queen, or any of the Royal Family, to a bad house in Covent 



W ewitzer was remarkably fond of children, and had various 
kind methods of pleasing them. He gave a fiddle to a pretty 
little boy he was very partial to ; the child, delighted with 
such a gift, asked him if he made the fiddle himself. — “Yes, 
my sweet fellow,” said Wewitzer, “ I made it out of my own 
head, and I’ve wood enough left for two more.” A friend 
once saying to him that “he had made a hearty breakfast, 
and ate a great deal,'' Wewitzer added, “ I suppose, then, 
you breakfasted in a timber yard." 


The late celebrated singer, was early in life one of the choir in 
Exeter Cathedral. He left this situation for the navy, and the 
sea soon after for the stage, where he delighted many an 
audience in Covent Garden Theatre with one of the finest 
voices any vocalist ever possessed. During his country 
excursions, he scarcely ever could be prevailed on to travel as 
an inside passenger, but, sailor like, went up aloft, and 
generally took an outside place. On his road to Birmingham, 
the stage being overloaded, the coachman unluckily overturned 
it, and all the outside passengers were thrown down. One 
man broke an arm, another a leg, and scarcely any escaped 
without some accident. Incledon, on coming to the ground, 
immediately tried his voice, and sounding several notes 
poiverfully, put his hand on his chest, and cried out, “ Thank 
God ! there’s nothing broke there.” 

B R. 

Jekyll and Bannister. 

The facetious Jekyll, and our old favouidte actor Jack 



Bannister, dined some time since with the Honourable 
General Phipps, in Park Lane, where men of wit and talent oft 
do congregate, and are most hospitably received by the gallant 
general. In the evening, on the company retiring to take 
coffee, they soon descended a spacious staircase, and left Jekyll 
and Bannister behind, who, being two gouty subjects, jjaused, 
and rested by mutual consent on the stairs ; when the coun- 
sellor, first looking at his own legs, and after at Bannister’s 
legs, said, Jack, our friends are all departed, and we are two 
residuary 7e^^-a-tees.” 

B R 

Jack Burton, 

A third or fourth rate actor of old Drury, was five years under 
Wright, the ship painter, who painted “ the fishery,^' from 
which the wonderful Woollett engraved a plate, not only 
admired by every artist in this country, but likewise 
held in the highest estimation by oil foreigners. Jack Burton, 
however, did not imitate his master, but relinquished ship 
painting altogether for moonlight pieces, for which he was 
highly appreciated by the Drury Lane Company. When he 
had finished a moon-light picture he wished to part with, he 
generally addressed any performer in the following manner : — 
“If you are inclined to have this moon-light, I do not expect 
you to pay down ready money, but will give you as long 
credit as you desire.” Many of the performers consented 
to take moon-light pieces on the above conditions, and fully 
availed themselves of the proposed indulgence, by taking very 
long credit; and the Drury Lane Company called him the 
luna-tic painter. 


B R. 


Tall Shaw. 

In a country play-house, two theatrical heroes, George 
Parker, and a man called tall Shaw, had a sharp set-to 
(as far as words went) behind the scenes, on which occasion 
they plentifully bespattered one another. George Parker was 
a little chubby pot-bellied fellow, with a fat face stuck 
between two round shoulders, and tall Shaw a lanky figure, 
six feet three, with long lantern jaws, heavy eyes, and a wide 
mouth. During this war of words, few expressions of abuse 
escaped either party. As a closer, however, George Parker 
approached his antagonist, and looking up at his ugly 
countenance with indignation, said, “ Damme, Sir, your face 
is longer than a man’s life.” — “ How so ? ” said Shaw. — 
“ Why,” replied Parker, “man’s life is but a span, and your 
face is a span and a half!” 

B E. 

My Cousins’ Letters. 

Confidentially communicated by their suffering relative, 

Joseph Allboeed. 

I both envy and honour the man who can look abroad upon 
the face of the wide earth, and upon the numerous /aces which 
count as heads in the population, and say, without telling a 
tale, “ I have neither kith nor kin in all this multitude.” 

My dear mother was a native of that sweet little island, 
whose “ sons (as the poet sings), 'wimccustomed to rebel, 
commotion, &c., &c.” 

Now it is pretty generally known that Ireland is famous for 
three, nay, four things — pigs, potatoes, whisky, and cousins. 



Every one there has a long-tailed family ; and the tail, like 
that of the schoolboy’s kite, is ever the principal part of the 
kite itself, an endless attache of all colours and all things, 
sailing majestically behind its principal, yet clinging to it with 
most astonishing vigour and perseverance ; blow high, blow 
low, there is the everlasting tail ! After all, I’d match an Irish 
tail against the tails of all the kites and bashaws in the 
universe. Only listen, and judge of mine. 

I never was in the country in my life, until after 
I received the following epistles ; but my appointment to 
a small situation in the Treasury had not been ten days 
officially announced, when I received the following extra- 
ordinary communications, one after the other, from my rela- 
tives. You must take the letters with a running commentary 
of my own, which will serve my purpose, as the prologue does 
that of a play. First, or rather among the first, was this : — 

“ Castle Ballyraivnshally, 
May 25, . 

“ My dear friend, 

“ And sure in the wide world who has a right to call you 
friend if not myself? for though your mother and my mother 
(God be good to them both) never spoke in their lives, on 
account of the differ betwixt their two grandfathers, one, 
who was cousin german to Byrne, of Byrnsforth, and the 
other a rale Blaney, of Castle Mount Blaney, ’tother side of 
Tallagh (they could never agree, because of the land, as 
far back as the reign of the great Queen Elizabeth), though it 
was little matter to them about the land, for sorra an acre of 
it in the family these hundred and fifty years, — only to be sure 
I wouldn’t say against the right of a little disputation for 



honour’s sake. Well, that’s neither here nor there, — only, as 
I have already come over, your mother and my mother were 
fuU second cousins ; and I have heard Judith Macguffin (vul- 
garly called Judy Maggs) say that they were as like as two 
peas, particularly about the mouth (both Byrnes and Blaneys 
had remarkable handsome mouths, though small advantage 
that is to some of their descendants, any how) ; for where’s the 
good of a handsome mouth and nothing to put in it ? — Whisht, 
says I, for that’s a secret among friends ; and my present 
intention in writing to you was only that as you have had the 
height of good luck yourself, and got so fine a situation, that 
with my own two bad-looking eyes I saw it on the paper, 
why think of your poor relations, and God bless you, I 
wouldn’t be above taking anything that a gentleman might 
take. A bit of a sinecure, or even a little place in the 
Treasury, provided it wasn’t exactly under yourself, for one 
cousin’s as good as another ; and I would not bring the blush 
of shame to my mother’s cheeks (and she’s dead these twenty 
years), by taking office beneath a Blaney, though your cog- 
nomen is, I understand, Allbored— ’tis a pity you have such 
a mean-sounding English name ; only as it was your father’s, 
I suppose you must put up with it. What do you think of 
the title of my place at the top of the letter ? Won’t it sound 
grand in your Morning Post, or The Dublin Freemans 
Journal ? In a nate little bit of an announcement, ‘ Byrne 
O’Byrne, Esq., of Castle Ballyrawnshally, has, we are happy 

to hear, just condescended to accept of the , &c., &c.’ Do 

like a good fellow, get me the penning of the notice. What a 
dash it will cut among the natives ! Betwixt you and me, the 
castle is all in my eye ; ‘ but it was a castle onc’t,’ as the song 
says, only the stones were all carried away (barring a couple 



of rooms, that didn’t exactly belong to it), to make a — (I’m 
almost ashamed to tell it) — a manufactory. 

“ ‘ To what base uses,’ as the play says. You see, my dear 
friend, I have been educated (not as a gentleman, for Nature 
did that for me), but as a scholar ! I make no apologies for 
this intrusion, because in serving one’s own flesh and blood, 
one serves oneself ; and I’m sure you will be happy of an 
opportunity to make it all up between the Byrnes of 
Byrne’s Fort, and the Blaneys of Castle Mount Blaney, 
though they're dead and gone ages ago ; yet, like the Greeks 
or Romans (I ain’t quite sure which), ’tis good to pour 
sacrifices on their graves. 

“ My dear friend, 

“ Your faithful and true 

Kinsman (though I suppose as the relationship came by the 
mother s side, I ought to say kinswoman), till death, 

“ James Byrne O’Byrne.” 

What think ye, gentle Reader, of that as a specimen 
of Irish modesty ? Byrne O’Byrne, Esq., the de’il take 
such cozening ; but your patience for the next demands it 

Of all politicians, your Irish one is the most red hot ; 
he is like a blinded bull, whose strength outlives his 
infirmity, and he is everlastingly tilting without sense or 
discretion ; his one faculty seems violence, and that he 
exercises upon everything that comes in his way. Foaming 
— bellowing — brawling ! Did I say everything that comes in 
his way ? — aye, and everything that keeps out of it as well — 
for, Heaven help me ! The Channel was between us. Yet 
lo ! he comes ! 



“Liberty Hall. 

“ Sir,” 

Your persons of “ muscular minds ” always commence their 
epistles with this uncourteous monosyllable. 

“ Sir, 

“ In days of yore, before aristocracy and corruption held 
the reins of this devoted land, and drove tandem through the 
country, as they do now, your family, or at least (you will 
excuse me if I speak unadvisedly),” he might have spared 
that apology ; for what Irishman ever spoke advisedly ? 
“ some portions of your family, as far back as the time of 
Henry IV., occupied places of high trust in their native land, 
they little dreamed that a descendant of theirs would ever sit 
upon the treasury bench.” Gramercy ! this Irish patriot 
knew not the difference between the treasury bench and a 
bench in the treasury — I did, however. 

“ But, Sir, since you have accepted office, let it be at once 
your pride and your privilege to set a glorious example to 
your brothers in corruption.” (Complimentary.) “ Stand 
forth from among them — plant the standard of liberty on 
the highest pinnacle of the parliament house — talk to them 
as becomes a free man. If you are at a loss for words — read 
my speeches in the Dublin Freeman's Journal — if you are at 
fault for metaphor, study D. O’C., and make, as he has done, 
your name the Avatch-word of liberty throughout the land ! 
A glorious scene opens before you — England Avill echo the 
fame showered upon you by the people of Ireland — Beranger 
Avill chant in your praise ! — it Avill reverberate along the shores 
of the Ohio ! — and dance down the cataract of the Ganges ! 
I will be proud of the relationship which I can prove exists 
between us ! and then sign myself, as I do noAv, ‘ strong in 

193 0 


hope,’ (for I am obliged to abbreviate my letter, as the post is 

“ Sir, your friend and cousin, 

“ Hamilton Grasp all Driscoll. 

“ P.S. — I will forward you, by next post, the rough draught 
of a bill, which you must get through the House for me this 
session. You must have seen my name at all Liberal meetings 
— I never miss one ; and my signature, ‘ Cato,' you could not 
be mistaken in.” 

No, faith, no mistaking it, or you either, nor the IZ. 10s. 
postage for “ the bill.” Noble, generous land ! torn by party, 
and misled by ; but 1 hate personality. 

I received another epistle at the same time — my friends 
may judge how different were my feelings on perusing it. 
It was written on the back of an old letter ; and, just at the 
edge, I recognized a few words in my mother’s handwriting. 

“ Dingle Dell, County of Wicklow. 

“ Honoured Sir, 

“It is not on account of seeing your name in a paper, 
which my daughter Anty borrowed of the governess, at 
Granby Hall, that I write ; for, praised be to God, though 
times are bad, and I am what in grand England would be 
called poor, yet I want nothing. My only reason for addressing 
you, is to show that I am alive, which you must have doubted, 
seeing I was drowned, or, all as one as droT\Tied, going to 
America, years back, which your darling mother heard of, 
doubtless. You must remember, that though I was only her 
foster-sister, I was brought up with herself, and she loved me 
as if we had both come of the same blood, as well as drunk of 



the same milk ; and salt and scalding are the tears I shed, 
even now, to her memory. 

“ Ah ! Master Joseph ! it is sad to lose the friends of one’s 
youth — the fields may be green, and the flowers may bloom, 
but the flowers of memory are the only ones that are sweet to 
old age. I -wish you could think of me, and see ould Ireland, 
for it is a stricken but a beautiful country, and much put upon 
— if I was poor and helpless, may be, I’d be put upon too, for 
the desolate have few friends — the rose won’t claim kin ’with 
the briar. I thought that you’d look on this paper, if not for 
my sake, for the sake of the dear hand that rested on it once. 
I was glad to see that you were provided for, Master Joseph 
dear ! Sure, I mind ye in short coates, and red shoes, with 
a beautiful green sash, and eyes as blue as violets ; and I 
could get neither tale nor tidings of you, until Anty pickt up 
with the newspaper, by the meerest chance and good luck ; 
and God give ye’r heart the good of the situation, and prosper 
that, and everything else to your good. And if ever you come 
this way, there’s a humble quiet home for you in Dingle 
Dell, with the Vale of Avoca under your eye, and the waters 
rushing into each other’s arms close by, and lots of sweet milk, 
and new eggs, and caith mille a faulta, a thousand times over. 
Come to me, Master Joseph, honey — if ever the world should 
look could on ye’, if ever ye’r sick, sad, or sorry, there’s a 
welcome, and a heart-lifting for ye’ in Dingle Dell.” 

Well, gentle reader, and I suppose you think there is 
nothing objectionable in that letter ; you think that it con- 
tains the simple, but warm outpouring of an affectionate 
Irish heart — an Irish womans heart, par excellence ; granted, 
yet of all the letters it was my fortune to receive, that letter 



has subjected me to the greatest misfortune, the very greatest 
misfortune that could befall a single man. I had a month’s 
holiday, and the devil, or Cupid, tempted me to go to Dublin, 
and I could not do less than visit Dingle Dell. Putting 
feelings (as all fashionable men endeavour to do) out of the 

question, it was in no way incorrect to visit Mrs. D , who 

was the widow of an American trading captain : the tale is 
soon told, I fell in love with Anty — graceful, young, well 
educated — what could I do less ? what could I do more ? 

What did you say. Sir Editor ? “ That you had no more 

room for such trumpery letters.” I acknowledge they were 
troublesome, but as to their being trumpery ! — Editors are 
naturally a very uncivil sect ; you might have waited for the 
termination of my love adventure — matrimony ; though I 
could, if you had given me room, have proved, to the satis- 
faction of every unmarried spinster, and old bachelor over 
thirty, that it has been only the beginning of love. 

To speak seriously. “ What ! do you say that I must not 
be serious ? ” Adieu, Sir, I must therefore remain silent, and 
respectfully offer my adieus to the Olio. 

J. A. 

Mrs. Hall. 

A Fragment on Sculpture, 

By THE Author of Thaddeus of Warsaw. — Including a Poem on 
British Sculptors, by Whitelow Ainslie, M.D., M.A.S., P.A., Author 
of the Drama of Clemenza, &c., &c. 

Benjamin West, the late venerable President of our Royal 
Academy, though so eminent an historical painter, has been 
observed to express himself in such glowingly animated terms 



on the excellencies of certain fine specimens of sculpture, that 
we can hardly doubt he considered it the superior art. When 
he visited Rome as a student, on his first sight of the i^poUo 
Belvidere, in the Vatican, he stood before the statue in such 
a trance of admiration that he was speechless for many 
minutes. At last, when the questions of those who brought 
him, forced his utterance, he exclaimed, — 

“ It is a noble Mohawk warrior ! ” 

In his native country of the United States, he had seen the 
finest forms of that noble race of native Americans, and his 
own just taste, true to nature, now owned this noblest copy 
of her noblest outline. Mr. West, in his after-life, maintained 
the same vivid enjoyment when contemplating the best works 
of the chisel ; and he often mentioned the high gratification 
he had received when walking through the hall of sculpture 
in the Louvre with the Emperor Napoleon, who himself 
pointed out to the British President of Painting the statues 
he considered the finest there ; dwelling on the particular 
excellencies of each with all the judgment and enthusiasm of 
a mind that thoroughly understood the powers which had 
achieved them. He declared to Mr. West that pictures were 
but secondary treasures to him, when compared with the 
value he set on “the breathing marble” of an excellent 
statuary. But he did not say this without adding a com- 
pliment to the liberality and comprehensive genius of the 
great historical painter he addressed, for having granted the 
same to be his own opinion. 

There is, certainly, something of an heroic impression on 
the mind when entering a gallery of illustrious portrait 
statues ! An emotion that reminds one of the forum of Rome 



in the best days of national virtue ! And when these busts, 
or figures of our statesmen, warriors, philosophers, and other 
worthies, are mixed with specimens of the likewise moral 
grand, in classical and historical design, cut also in “ the living 
stone,” the absorption of our faculties, under the sublime 
contemplation, is complete. 

This we can now find in several of our own sculptors’ studios, 
where British chisels have drawn forth as glorious forms of 
beauty, grace, and magnificent contours of strength or dignity 
as ever sprang from Greek or Roman quarries. We had the 
galleries of Roubilliac ; and in later years, those of Bacon, 
and our classic Flaxman ; we have now those of Chantrey, 
Westmacott, Wyatt, Lough, and other names dear to the 
fame of our sculptor muse. 

I would dilate on the peculiar merits of some of these, had 
I not an elegant and playful little poem of my friend. Dr. 
Ainslie, lying before me, which, singing the subject better 
than any say I could make on it, I shall rather copy that 
poetical tribute to the general talents in an art I myself 
almost unspeakably admire. 

Jane Porter. 

The Progress of Sculpture. 

Supposed to be sung by one of the three Graces, forming a group at 
the bead of a Lady’s drawing-room in Edinburgh. 

We, the daughters of Jove, and the children of Greece, 

Hither came at the call of the wise and the brave ; 

Now hail in these heydays of pastime and peace. 

The dawn of that freedom which hastens to save. 



Erst banish’d from Athens, soon after from Eome, 
Thro’ the Saracen wrath, or the Gothic intrusion. 
We travell’d, for such was our wayfaring doom. 

Poor emigres ! driven from our homes in confusion. 

Dear Italy shelter’d us kindly, and sought. 

With the aid of Lorenzo, to guard us from harm ; 
But monkish exclusion, most barbarously brought. 

On all they deem’d heathen, fell dread and alarm ! 

But, thanks to Apollo ! that some, from conviction. 
Denied not the powers which the ancient possess’d ; 
Nor hurl’d on their works an unjust malediction. 

Nor strove to withhold what had long been confess’d. 

What talents ! No, rather what stars do we find. 
When Angelo, aye, and Bernini too shone ! 

The first, yet unrivall’d for majesty — mind ! 

The second, for beauty, has ne’er been outdone. 

So France, ’neath the rule of great Louis, received us ! 

Then Girardon made that proud nation more proud. 
Nor e’er has Germania debased or deceived us. 

Her sculptors are scarce, but their merits are loud 1 

At length came Canova (alas, he is gone) I 
Who with rapt inspiration, and Phidias’ skill. 
By his talisman touch gave e’en feeling to stone ; 
How vast the decrees he was bom to fulfil ! 

Brave England, advancing in greatness and glory. 
Already drinks deep of antiquity’s stream ; 

The annals of art are replete with her stoiy. 

And science and arms, in their turn prove the theme. 



Her time-lionour’d Flaxman ! Did he not display 
A lofty conception, a boon from on high ? 

His group * * * § has proclaimed it ; the bards of the day 
Have sung it in poems which never shall die. 

How fresh, and how fragrant, the bays which are wove 
Round the brow of her Chantrey ! Deny it who can ; 

That fragrance shall flow thro’ the fiat of Jove, 

When gone to the shades, generations of men. 

Could Westmacott want our poor meed of applause? 

Could he want vain orations, which oft but beguile ! 

Far, far other eulogists clarion his course ! 

His Zephyr has breathed,-]- and his Nymph sweetly smiled ! 

Where sought he a model for feminine beauty ? 

From its own native Isle, it seem’d strange he should flee ! 

Tho’ a Christian in faith, yet he felt it his duty, 

All conscious, to choose blooming Psyche and me ! I 

If Gibson still lives, ’midst the ruins of Rome, 

’Tis not that he loves not his bold British shore ; 

Ambitious, and ardent, he ne’er shall see home, 

’Till rivall’d that Roman § he ran to adore. 

So shall the acclaim which thy Lough too has won. 

Still reign in the record of all that is chaste ; 

What have not his Centaurs and Lapithae done \\ 

For the triumph of art in these regions of taste ! 

* Michael and Satan, 

t A Nymph sporting with Zephyr. 

J Psyche and Euphrosine. This Muse sings the poem. 

§ Canova. 

II A group of seventeen Figures ; a work of most extraordinary excellence 
. all the branches of the art. 



What love-bewitched lass, for her paramour’s sake, 
Ever lifted a latch at the dead hour of night. 

With love the sly grace with which Iris doth wake,* * * § 
The sound-sleeping god, to bright day and delight ! 

Could the Lord of the Seasons have lived to behold 
His own Musidora,f more lovely, more fair, 

The poet enamour’d, the tale would have told. 

And hallow’d the chisel so powerful, so rare ! 

What rises and glares o’er yon far-distant plane ? 

’Tis Aurora’s faint blush as she brings on the day ! 
Sweet herald of fame, to the soul-wakening Dane,J 
A fame which requires not my impotent lay. 

Ah, weep not, Teresa, thy Shaddoe’s but gone § 

To reap the reward of his virtues and truth ! 

Let Prussia rejoice to have call’d him her own. 

And treasured, and trophied that excellent youth ! 

Yes, yes ! Eilatrice, there’s glory for thee, 

While woman can captivate, nature command ! || 
E’en grace as I am, could I e’er jealous be. 

By Juno, I’d covet thy beautiful hand ! 

As for thee, lovely land of the mountain and mist ! 

(It wakes me to rapture, the sound of that name !) 
Thy artists are attic — say, who are more blest. 

In the niche they have gain’d in the temple of fame ! 

* Iris awakening Morpheus, 

t Thomson’s Musidora, in his Summer. 

X Thorwaldsen’s Basso-relievo of Night and Morning. 

§ Shaddoe, a distinguished Prussian artist. 

II A Spinning Girl by him. 



Who knows, and reveres not, thy Campbell’s creations ? 

His Hebe, engraved on each true Scottish heart ! 

The goddess herself, on receiving oblations. 

Ne’er glow’d with more joy, nor more joy could impart ! 

Macdonald, thy virgin implores with a sigh,* 

So profound, that if e’er in the long lapse of time. 

She were lost, and restored after ages gone by. 

Who would not exclaim — 0, Lysippus sublime ! 

And last, but not least, of the sons of the north. 

The graces would greet, where the muses have smiled ! 
Would laud the bold boy, who has nobly brought forth 
A work so supreme, that cold envy reviled ! f 

Who, warm’d by the visions of classical fire. 

Gave life to the steed, and a soul to the man ! 

Laud, laud be to those who would haste to admire. 

Nor pause to complete what their Steel had begun ! 

The same plastic hand which moulded the clay. 

Shall waken cold marble, shall give it a tongue ! 

You hear how I speak, ever jocund and gay; 

And, thanks to Canova, still handsome and young ! 


B., auparavant Colonel on the Bengal Establishment, sitting 
at dinner, being astounded with a noise resembling the 
smashing of empty bottles in the cellar, went below, to ascer- 
tain from what it arose, and, having satisfied himself, returned 
to his seat ; on being asked the cause, he replied, “ Oh, nothing 
but two dogs fighting over a bottle.” 

L D. 

* The Supplicating Virgin, by Macdonald, 
t Alexander and Bucephalus, by Steel. 



The same officer, accompanied by his aide-de-camp, happen- 
ing to pass when the church-bell was tolling for a departed 
spirit, asked the former if it did not put him in mind of his 
latter end ? — “ Oh, no ; but the rope reminds me of yours.” 

L D. 

The Duchess of G., 

Taking an airing in an open carriage, accompanied by a 
married lady who had not blessed her lord with an heir, 
stopped at a cottage, where several rosy-cheeked urchins were 
playing about, and inquired of their mother (standing at the 
door) what the family fed upon ? — “ Only pratees.” This 
information was so satisfactory, that her grace desired she 
would tell her husband to send a sack of them on trial to the 
castle. She promised he should obey her ladyship’s commands, 
— begging to remind her of forgetting to take Pat alongst 
with her. 

L D. 

A Dream. 

A lord lieutenant and his lady stopping on their way to pay 
a visit to a titled family, an elderly woman came to the 
carriage door, and wishing them (who had frequently relieved 
her with money) all happiness, told them of having had an 
extraordinary dream, the preceding night. “ Pray what was 
it ? ” — “ Och, your honour, I dreamt that you would have the 
goodness to give me a pound of sugar, and her ladyship a 
pound of tea.” He observed, that dreams often produced 
different results from what were portended. “ Och, then, it 



may be that you are to give the tea, and her ladyship the 
sugar ! ” 

L D. 

Repoeted Sayings oe Waeeen Hastings. 

Two Bengal civilians, the one having a long neck, and the 
other no property, paid their addresses to a young lady, the 
which being reported to him, he gravely remarked that her 
case was irregularly hard, to fix her choice on neck or nothing. 

L D. 

It is usual in India to administer oil on being attacked with 
a liver complaint, also to burn it in lamps. — He remarked 
that our livers were cured at the expense of our lights. 

L D. 

The accomplished blacky^ Soubise (whom I have so much 
spoken of), having fallen from a vicious and unruly horse, 
upon the Madras racing ground, a gentleman went to afford 
assistance, if necessary, and accosted him in these words : — 
“ Mr. S., I am glad you have shown a disposition for the 

An Eye-Witness. 

James Lind, M.D. 

While talking with a relation upon the terrace at Windsor, 
His Majesty stopped close to them, and asked him if he had 
any particular news. — He replied that Mr. Burke died the 
preceding day. The King said he knew it. “ Of what did he 



die ? Of what did he die 1 ” The doctor said he believed his 
death was caused by cancer in the kidneys. “You believe — 
you believe it to be so ? — All guess-work — all working in the 
dark.” He then smilingly continued his walk. 

Bella Vika. 

Ducks and Drakes. 

Residing in a house nearly encompassed with ponds, or 
tanks, adjoining that of my acquaintance, Mr. Drake, I was 
asked by a gentleman the reason I did not (with such an 
advantage) keep ducks. I told him I did. “ Gad, then, how 
do you distinguish yours from his waddlers ? ” — “ Most 
easily, as the rest are all drakes.” This attempt at wit will 
not, I am afraid, pass muster, as it is as lame as a broken- 
legged duck. 

L D. 

A Bishop of Exeter 

Having established a poor-house, for twenty-five old women, 
one day, being in conversation with Lord Mansfield, asked his 
Lordship for an inscription to place in front of the building ; 
upon which, his Lordship took out his pencil, and ^vrote 
on a slip of paper as follows : — 



B R. 

Doctor Fuller 

Having requested one of his companions, who was a bon- 



vivant, to make an epitaph for him, received the following, 
with the conceit of which he always expressed himself much 
pleased : — 

“ HEBE LIES fuller’s EARTH.” 

A. French Nobleman 

Once showing Matthew Prior the palace of his master at 
Versailles, and desiring him to observe the many trophies of 
Louis the Fourteenth’s victories, asked Prior if King William, 
his master, had many such trophies in his palace. “ No,” said 
Prior, “ the monuments of my master’s victories are to be 
seen everywhere hut in his own house." 

I Didn’t Get It. 

A certain Doctor, head of a college, stood for a professor- 
ship, which happened to be vacant at the same time his lady 
was delivered of a fine boy. A friend called on the Doctor 
about the same time the professorship was decided, and for 
which he was one of the unsuccessful candidates, to con- 
gratulate him on the birth of his son ; and accordingly, in 
the usual phrase, “ wished him joy.” The Doctor being 
rather deaf, and mistaking his meaning, replied rather 
smartly, “ I didn’t get it ; I didn’t get it.” 

B R. 

The Devil, 

An anecdote that a theatrical friend related to me, who was 
one of the party at a reconciliation dinner, and alludes to 
characters at that time well known for their superior abilities : 



one, the first dramatic author of the day ; the other, the 
succeeding Roscius of the day, John Philip Kemble. The 
former, displeased that he did not do justice to the hero of 
his piece, had written a severe pointed preface, attributing to 
him the failure of the play ; this produced a rancorous 
quarrel, they being previously on the most friendly terms. 
This animosity continued for a considerable time ; at last 
Frank North (the late Lord Guilford), their particular friend, 
and interested for both parties, through his mediation, caused 
that mutual meeting, without which, the determined in- 
veteracy of the author and actor might have lasted as long as 
the Siege of Troy. But if greater the quarrel, “ Why, then 
we’ll drain the barrel.” * Of course a dinner was proposed, 
“ mine host,” Kemble, making a party at his own house, 
when oblivion of the past, not in the waters of Lethe, but 
their avant couriers, as Theodore Hook calls them, Madeira, 
&c., at dinner, and the ruby Port that followed after, kept all 
on the qui vive till a late hour. The two ci-devant opponents 
being left alone, the snuff-box and the wine continually 
passing to each other, cementing those mutual professions 
of the renewed friendship, the time passed so pleasant, 
that at eight o’clock, the candles being almost exhausted, the 
servant opened the shutters, when the sun shining on Kemble’s 
face, the other frightened, not having seen him (by this time 
“ how came you so ”), exclaimed aloud, “ Angels and 
ministers of grace, defend us, the devil! the devil!” 
Kemble’s face so white, the increased growth of his beard 
during the night, and so frightful his altered countenance, 
that, terrified, and suddenly leaving the room, he exclaimed, 
“ 0 day and night, but this is wondrous strange.” 

* Prom Sheridan’s Duenna. 



The Bkush. 

At a house in Long Acre, a number of herald coach 
painters, who resided there, met, and from this circumstance 
its name originated. There was also a club established by 
Hogarth, which was frequented by artists — Wilson, Barrett, 
and Hayman, as well as by literary characters — Smollett, 
Fielding, and others. It dwindled to “ Hail, fellow, well 
met.” Forty years back, it was a lounge after the per- 
formances at the theatres ; and its convivial company (there 
was no black ball to exclude) has often induced me, on 
my return, to take my glass there, where assembled some 
of the choice spirits of the town-playing gentry, &c. All 
were welcome who could contribute to the mirth and amuse- 
ment of the company. The entrance was the kitchen, where 
a chop or steak, cooked at a huge fire and gridiron, was 
always in readiness. In the room above, wit and humour 
were abundant ; and, to promote these sentiments, Whitfield, 
a Covent Garden performer, was chosen (on account of his 
excellent reading of lines, written by George Alexander 
Stevens, entitled “The Brush”) to the chair. The com- 
position alluded to the house, the society, and its origin ; 
and, from the style of it, the composer was not over chaste ; 
every line had a well-turned point, which was so well 
executed, that it was sure to set the table on a roar. This 
the author gave to a rich old citizen, who had retired from 
business, and, from age, appeared the father of the Brush. 
This penurious old codger could not be prevailed on to 
leave it for the amusement of the room ; crabbed with 
years, and a near dumb brandy and water boozer, knowing 
its great value in attracting many to the room, he carefully 



preserved it, and was allowed by the landlord two glasses 
of brandy and water for the company it drew. One of those 
days, having drunk very freely after dinner. Old Gripe (thus 
nicknamed for his mean conduct in refusing to yield his 
manuscript for the benefit of the room), on leaving, was 
greeted with no friendly epithets for his meanness, for thus 
receiving the payment of his liquor ; when, armed cap-a-pie, 
I vociferated, “ I’ll pick his pocket. I’ll bring it back.” 
Bravo ! bravo ! and a general shout followed. Rushing 
after my man, I followed him to Long Acre, and made my 
d&yiit as a novitiate diver — picked his pocket — secured the 
manuscript — and returned triumphant to the expectant 
assembly. — A general huzza followed. Bernard, then a 
performer at Covent Garden, requested the loan, promising 
he would return it to me the following day, which he never 
performed. The next day I received an anonymous letter 
from a good-natured f riend, viz. : — 

“ Dear Angelo, 

“ Beware, you are discovered ; your last night’s impru- 
dence, clever as you thought yourself, may be of serious 
consequence ; Old Gripe has been to Bow Street with Sharp, 
anti Gallows — ‘ A thing devised by the enemy.’ ” 

It was now my turn to improve the joke. Being invited 
the following day in the country, and to make the effect of 
the letter alarming, I remained concealed for a week. 
Having succeeded, here was “ Diamond cut Diamond.” 

At my next appearance, I was cheered, and greeted in 
a humorous speech from the president on my narrow escape 
from the gallows. The room is indebted to me for my 
literary theft of such an excellent composition as George 

209 p 


Alexander Stevens’s “ Brush.” Bernard soon after quitted 
England for America, to amuse the Yankees, and add to 
their glee and good humour. 

Loud Nelson. 

At the time I belonged to a club which used to assemble 
at the British CotFee House, Cockspur Street, called “ The 
Keep the Line,” the greater part Avere literary characters. 
W. T. Fitzgerald, well known for his poetical effusions, was 
one of the members, and was always introduced here after 
dinner. The latter part of the evening we had sat down to 
vingt et un, and continued playing till a very late hour. 
At parting, like Kemble, who ever made it a constant 
practice to insist upon any one who saw him home at a late 
hour to come in and drink Claret with him; my friend 
having wine, excellent Claret, in the house, was determined 
to follow the great actor’s example. This decided me to 
pursue the same practice, and when my friend attended me 
to my door, I insisted upon his taking a social glass with me. 
Handing him a book, the Life of Nelson, with beautiful proof 
plates, I requested him to accept it ; the next day I received 
the following letter from him, indulged with the manuscript 
in preference to the printed copy, for the notice conferred on 

19, U 2 }per Seymour Street, Portman Square, 
November 27, 1809. 

Dear Sir, 

My best thanks are due to you for the valuable present 
you made me, last night, of the great Nelson’s life ; and I 




licriiArd toon after quitto*! 
mtKm chi} Yanfa»«s, and add to 

^^;70£^Bd to 

- ' !_<_ Hoai«^ Ci>c-X-^ j'. . ■ -■"■T Til** 

iMjlf 4^ *hc gr»)fit#5r ptrt were lit^rafy tTij*4rv-ionc 

W. T. kaowa for htt p>vftu3(4 «AAo«, ^'a* 

one of fill I90cibej%, and wan tilway^ intr-'diir'^-d here aAir 
dinner. The jatter part of the e'v'enirig we hcid sat down to 
iitujt et tiT* “-Iflf contfiaued playing till a very late ho\ir. 
At |>ar-\ • nae Kemble, over made it a constant 
pi-f •? V to ujsi.nt upon any one who saw him hom*.* at a late 
honr to come in and drink CW with him, my friend 
having wine, excellent Claret, in the house, was determined 
to follow the great actor’s example. This decided me to 
v.rirue the same practice, and when my friend attended me 
ny door, I im^isted apou Kia taking a social glass with me. 
mg him a book, the Lfc o/yttlscn, with beautiful proof - 
\fUv\r. I request^ him to iieftfp: i'*; the next day 1 received 
the faCv’wmg letter ! feim, indulged with the manuscript 
in p«fvpe^:c<» to the ^ • -> copy, for ^e notice conferred on 


Uj. Vfftr S4ffntemr Strmi. . 

Hovmhir 37 . MA 

b«»v ^ taiiks are dto) yoti Ibr the i present 

, last nigb^ ^f the great HAoah Hfe; and I 



. - V 

Pu^bsMiyJAsperrui . su4>ce^orU, M'Sewdl. ChmhzU. Jwwi-iSo^, 


request you will accept, in return, the poems I have written 
upon that glorious hero ! They consist of “ Nelson’s Tomb,” 
“ An Address to England, upon her Nelson’s death,” (from 
the latter, Orme has made the quotation under the print of 
Lord Nelson,) and “ The Battle of the Nile the last is out 
of print ; I have therefore transcribed it, which I recollect you 
flattered me by saying you should prefer, as the manuscript 
of the author. 

I remain, dear Sir, 

Very truly yours, 

W. T. Fitzgerald. 

The Race Ball. 

Lord Barrymore and Lord Craven were, many years ago, 
stewards at the Reading races. Being at the time on a visit 
to the former, at his cottage, at Wargrave, his Lordship offered 
to take me with him the following day ; but I am ashamed to 
say, instead of being in time to accompany him, the effects 
of drinking and gaming till a late hour the previous night 
prevented me. The cottage was small, and the room I lay in 
was called the Barrack Room, from the number of beds in it, 
which amounted to eight. These he reserved for his select 
friends; he considered me one of them, and what he called a 
star at his theatre. The other visitors were left to scramble 
sometimes in the cottage for what they could get. This room, 
instead of being a dormitory, might better have been compared 
to one of the hells in St. James’s Street, from the gaming, 
rioting, drinking, and swearing, which filled up the whole 
night, with few intervals of sleep, and those few only from the 
effects of wine. Instead of going to the races, I sat upon my 



bed that day, eating my breakfast, my next neighbour doing 
the same, and addressing me by “ D — n the races, old one, let 
us have the bones.” From previous experience, I negatived 
this motion. “Well, then,” cried he, “ what do you say to 
cards ? ” Our beds being drawn close to each other, at it we 
went, at vingt et un, and played till six o’clock. Lord Barry- 
more returned ; and by the time we had dressed ourselves, 
dinner was announced. Claret kept us on the qui vive till 
ten o’clock, the greater part being “ how came you so ? ” As 
there was a supper after the ball, to be given by the two 
Lords, and those invited by them, the Wargrave crew of 
course were included, and off we sallied in carriages that had 
been waiting for us, and indulged in a siesta for eight miles, 
preparatory to entering the ball-room. Emerging from the 
dark, and after the effects of the wine — the sudden lights — 
the dancing — and the noise of the music, having roused me 
from my nap, did not prevent me from seeing double ; when 
all of a sudden, I heard the scream of a female, the dancers 
all crowding together, and the music stopping in an instant, 
they made room for a supported female, carried out by four 
gentlemen. It appeared that she had sprained her ancle ; 
when instantly, the fiddler (whom she had scarcely passed) 
struck up “ Shepherds, I have lost my love ; ” this was by 
Lord Barrymore’s order, and caused a good laugh through 
the whole room, while we amused ourselves by quizzing the 
partner, a little, fat, ugly Corydon, as we all called him, as 
he sat in a corner of the room, neglecting that attention which 
he ought to have shown to his lost Phillis. Of those invited 
by the stewards, about forty of them sat down to supper. 
Lord Barrymore in the chair. The party consisted of the 
most select in the neighbourhood (I say nothing of the 





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Wargrave motley). As ladies were not invited, drinking 
and singing went on till nine o’clock in the morning, when I 
was glad to find myself safe moored in my barouche again. 

Admiral Kempenfeldt. 

Some time after the disaster of the Royal George, man-of- 
war, having foundered at Portsmouth, many things were 
weighed up, and, amongst others, a quantity of the admiral’s 
wine. Having received a present of two dozen bottles, I was 
very choice of this curious article, and brought it out only 
to my particular friends, amongst the first of which was my 
theatrical crony, who, on tasting it, admired its full body and 
rich flavour, and no one was a better judge, nor kept better 
wines ; so pleased was he with it, that whenever he dined 
with me, I boasted of my good fortune in having such a prize 
as this nectar saved from the vasty deep, and assured him that 
what remained was kept solely for him; so that when he 
was inclined to enjoy a friend and a bottle, he used to call 
for a Kempenfeldt, it had such a hodij in it. (This must have 
been intended as a 'pun.) My stock, had it sufficed for all 
these calls, must have been like the widow’s cruse, but crede 
quod habes ; thus was it always the same to my friend : and 
I doubt not that this trick has been equally successfully 
practised by others. 

Ruse Pour DIner. 

Of the many strange characters I have been acquainted 
with (not a few), of those two favourites. Jemmy Diddler 
and Paul Pry, the following, for novelty, I think may be 



included. At a friend’s house I was often in the habit of 
meeting the following, who had been an architect — had some 
time retired from business, and was supposed to have made 
an ample fortune. Having no relations to leave his money 
to, he was not a little noticed amongst his acquaintances, 
who, expecting to come in for a slice, keeping them in hopes, 
his RUSE DE d!ner was a passe partont, especially in those 
families where there were children. Sponging on those who 
gave the best dinners, so that, about five o’clock, his knock 
was very well known. Sure of seeing one of the fry he had 
been godfather to, it was, “ Oh ! that’s my dear godpapa.’ 
This dinner hunter had so far ingratiated himself with parents, 
their expectations, and the former, sugar, plums, cakes, &c., 
which he usually brought in his pocket (a few pence his 
dinner cost), had taken care to be godfather where the 
kitchen and cellar were the most inducement, taking the child 
on his knee. — “ Ah, my sweet little darling,” kissing it, “ you 
shall remember your godpapa.” When, a few years after his 
diner expedient, to the utter disappointment of the parents, 
and his “ little darlings,” their sweets, which had cost him 
his hungry visits, he died suddenly, every one, remembering 
his ruse de diner, soon discovered his imposition, and their 

Jack Fuller, 

My old schoolfellow at Eton, boarded in the same house, at 
Dame Manby’s ; we were then little boys, not only cronies, 
but bedfellows. Speaking of those who were my superiors 
since, but when at school a good thrashing made no distinction, 
none have taken more notice of me than my old camarade 



(Vecole; that bluntness with good nature (so well knoAvn), 
and friendship at all times, which, for years, I had experienced. 
Of his hospitality in town, and at Rose Hill, particularly my 
Avelcome there when I resided at Hastings latterly. Enjoying 
his invitation, he kindly let me have his carriage for my 
conveyance, when our meeting reminded us of stories of our 
“ noontide days, ” the many scrapes and floggings we had 
shared together. At the time, of two traits we recollected ; 
one was, such as had caused the laugh as well as disappoint- 
ment ; — the other, where his motive was an effort of his good 
nature. A barrel of oysters being sent to him from town, 
impatient, as we all were, to see the contents, at the same 
time his telling us, “ What a glorious supper we should have,” 
every one was for opening the barrel. No! he must do it 
himself, when, first putting his nose to it, and smelling, 

exclaimed, “As fresh as a rose, d me! All haste, give me 

the hammer ! ” When opened, to his surprise, and the laugh 
of the hopeless expectants, some good-natured friend had only 
sent him the oyster-shells, with a note enclosed, “ Dear Jack, 
accept a laAvyer’s gift ; may it be the first and the last. 
Yours, Cave.” The other, his contrivance at the time, was 
not a little eccentric. I should first explain Cons, which was 
the Etonian term for their associations, where boys were more 
intimately acquainted; and to render it more binding, each 
in his turn had his tea party. Having procured a fowl, and 
puzzled for want of materials to dress it, that evening he 
expected a party to tea, and considering the preference of the 
fowl better than the usual sipping assemblage, had recourse 
to no other means than to boil it in the tea kettle, when the 
broth (not unacceptable), poured into the cups, made up for 
the former. But as to the fowl ; in boiling, it got so enlarged, 



that there it remained, and each at first had his pull at what 
he could get. My worthy old friend is no more ! — Peace to 
thy ashes ! Your munificent donation to an institution will 
ever be remembered, and the many who have partaken of 
your liberality must long regret the loss of honest Jack Fuller. 

The Minstrel. 

Of the many instances that have occurred to me, noticed in 
my second volume of Reminiscences^ I cannot omit a strange 
scene which occurred, during the summer, at Hastings. In 
the month of August, a gentleman, to all appearance, took up 
his abode at Dewdney’s Hotel. To the surprise of the com- 
pany, during their evening promenade on the parade, enjoying 
the sea breezes, they beheld him playing the guitar, at the 
same time accompanying it with his voice, and occasionally 
receiving silver and half-pence, then making a graceful bow. 
His dress, which must have been purposely suited to attract 
notice, was not a little conspicuous : a high-crowned hat, of 
two centuries back, with a long pheasant’s feather, horizontally 
projecting ; false black whiskers ; a Tartan sash, and orna- 
mented brown leather spatterdashes. His Spanish guitar, 
supported by a ribbon, and his strange- appearance, creating 
curiosity, he was soon surrounded by a numerous assemblage ; 
and a large ring being made for him at the end of the parade, 
standing erect, exhibiting his guitar and voice, which, for 
taste only, might do as a voice da camera, but too feeble for 
the open air, to have effect, nor was the instrument sufficiently 
audible. His selection, “ Sweet Home,” he sang with much 
gusto. The on dit here was, that his motive for publicity was 
a wager. Judging from his gentlemanlike deportment, some 



are credulous enough to believe that he is a nobleman, and 

even assert him to be the Hon. Mr. F . However, he calls 

himself “Blondell.” After the third night he disappeared. 
To say more would only be repeating what the daily papers 
stated respecting his visit to Tunbridge and Brighton, after the 
novelty of the musical troubadour, the attractions he produced. 
Having been myself a strummer on the guitar from a boy, and 
feeling myself also bold to venture now, not as a minstrel, but 
amateur ; when dark, and no discovery being likely, confident 
that neither my voice nor strumming would keep pace with the 
{on dit) noble performer, yet determined to have my fun out, 
, I made the attempt to please. Having paid a visit that 
morning to some ladies, and mentioning my intended evening 
pleasantry, they ridiculed, and threatened to hiss me. I 
assured them that nothing less than rain should prevent my 
grand musical display. On a hot summer’s eve, at nine, 
wrapped in a camlet pelisse, a slouched hat, and feather 
projecting out, and a frightful mask, I sallied out, and placing 
myself on a bench quite a mon aise, made my musical debut ; 
and, if variety is charming, began with English, Irish, and 
Scotch airs. None, at first, listened. Soon the company 
surrounded me ; during a time silence prevailed. I told them 
the best was to come, that I sang like a nightingale, and how 
delighted they would be to hear me. As yet, no bursts of 
applause — a dead silence. Trusting to my disguise, I had the 
boldness to make a vocal dehut, at the same time playing the 
accompaniment to “ Oh where, and oh where, is my highland 
laddie gone ? ” and when I came to that part where “ I shall 
ne’er see him more,” affecting the pathetic, and sighing and 
whining, a loud laugh ensued. Emboldened now, and feeling 
quite at home, I sang sotto voce. After which, there was a 



general bravo ! bravo ! As yet, all went on well. Satisfied 
with the fun myself, I began to find myself so crowded up, the 
numbers increasing every moment, whilst the company were 
calling out, “ Give him more air,” I was no longer able to 
continue, my elbows being so confined that I could not play. 
I hurried away, little expecting what was to follow ; and if 
bruises be the food for love, I did not find it on this occasion, 
for I was followed by the canaille, fishermen, little boys and 
girls hooting, and endeavouring to snatch my guitar from me. 
With difficulty I found a refuge in the shop of a haberdasher, 
named Stand field, having been first refused admittance into 
the shop of a baker, in George Street, named Russell; at 
length, fastening my pelisse round me, they having dispersed, 
I made my escape. 

My own Trumpeter. 

Having instructed above two hundred of the nobility, 
several of whom have distinguished themselves as statesmen, 
viz. Lords Sidmouth and Liverpool ; and of the present day, 
Lords EUenborough, Rosslyn, Aberdeen, Grey, &c., &c. ; I do 
not hesitate to say, patronized as I have been, that many who 
have derived the exterior of the gentleman from the exercise, 
and some quite models for the chisel, are indebted to the foil 
for it ; and while all professions have charlatans, it is not a 
hair-dresser, assuming mine, can put my nose out of joint. I 
could mention many, whose elevated situations, far superior, 
have been a disgrace to them ; instances that daily occur. 
Judging of a frontispiece to a fencing book I have seen, that 
was written above a hundred years ago, by a Neapolitan 
fencing master, Salvator Fabris, who was patronized by his 



king. Describing the two portraits in this book — Both the 
dress and appearance of each kept pace ; leaving the crown 
out, it would be difficult to discriminate which of the two was 
the fencing master. In the British Encyclopaedia (no peru- 
quier here), “ Pyrard assures us that the art of fencing is so 
highly esteemed in the East Indies, that none but Princes 
(Bravo!) are allowed to teach it; they wear a badge of 
cognizance on their right arms, called, in their language, 

‘ Essam,’ which is put on with great ceremony, like the badges 
of an order of knighthood by the kings themselves.” Hence 
we may suppose, this noble art was protected by kings ; it was 
considered as one of the principal branches of education, and, 
accordingly, we find that the nobility remained longer under 
the fencing master than under their teacher. And Locke, in 
his Treatise on Education, says: “ Fencing is considered to be 
so necessary a qualification in the breeding of a gentleman, 
and has so many advantages in regard to health and personal 
appearance, that every gentleman of rank and property ought 
to have so striking a mark of distinction.” I could mention 
Lord Chesterfield and many more who have, in their writings, 
extolled the accomplishment. Having grounded my arms, 
“ Othello’s occupation’s gone,” and never before having had oc- 
casion to puff my profession, I trust I shall not be accused, after 
such names, who have spoken so well of it, of adulation. Now 
a word or two from me. — Those youths who have narrow chests, 
difficulty in breathing ; others grown up, whose vocations are 
sedentary, for want of exercise, ill-health has been the conse- 
quence, whereas aU bodily labour, whether riding, walking, &c., 
I may venture to say, none are compared to les armes : of the 
lunge only, there, every muscle is in action ; the extension 
itself, for an artist to delineate from, exceeding the Gladiator. 



Having so far spoken in favour of fencing, I cannot conclude 
without mentioning an extract from my father’s treatise on the 
art, to which I added some remarks. 

Sir John Sinclair, in his Code of Health and Longevity ; or, 
Athletic Exercises, page 163, No. 6, Vol. IL, speaking of 
fencing, gives the following extract of a letter from Mr. Angelo, 
of Bolton Row, May Fair, dated London, Oct. 19, 1806. 

“ Flattered as I am by the favour of your letter, I can only 
regret the observations I have to make have so small a claim to 
your attention. I shall, however, be happy, if anything I 
offer does in the smallest degree contribute towards the 
elucidation of any part of so important a subject as that of 
athletic exercises. It appears to me, that the effect of the art 
of fencing upon the human frame has not been considered in 
the view which it deserves ; the result of the other athletic 
exercises, respecting which you have made such extensive 
inquiries, have their respective advantages of adding strength 
to the body ; but the question is, how far will these, in their 
operations, tend to the promotion of health and longevity ? 
Let us examine this point, both by analogy and induction : it 
is to be found, that although all exercises strengthen the body, 
and promote health, yet there are some more extensive in their 
effects than others. On the one hand, the large muscular 
arms of the blacksmith ; the broad shoulders and thin legs of 
the drayman and waterman ; the muscular legs of the chair- 
man ; the arms and shoulders of pugilists, &c., &c., have been 
remarked by every one. On the other hand, the feeble state 
of the muscular powers of mechanics ; the contracted state of 
their chests, and, in the great manufacturing towns, the short 
duration of their lives, have not escaped observation. Now 
all those who, from their several occupations, have an increase 



of muscular strength, no doubt, will derive the increase in 
proportion as those muscles have been exercised ; let us, there- 
fore, consider the operation of the muscular system in fencing, 
with respect to its position, and motion on animal economy. 

First . — The position of the body in fencing has, for 
objects, erectness, firmness, and balance ; therefore, the chest, 
neck, and shoulders are placed in positions the most beneficial 
to health. 

“ Second . — The various motions of the arms and limbs, 
while the body still maintains its erect position, not only 
confirms such positions, but by continual exertion of the 
muscles necessary to their respective motions, and more 
especially that of the thorax, they not only require vigorous 
strength and tone, but in young people the bones of the thorax 
become, in consequence, more enlarged. As long, therefore, 
as the important functions of the thorax, viscera, &c., &c., can 
be assisted by means of muscular exertion, so long must 
fencing maintain its pre-eminence with respect to its advan- 
tageous effects on the human frame, and consequently on 
longevity. If it be granted that large populous towns tend to 
decrease longevity, in proportion to their increase there will be 
less opportunity of invigorating the body by muscular exercise ; 
then the more the beneficial effects of fencing are made known, 
the more it will tend to counteract those pernicious effects of 
decreasing longevity. 

“ I have only to add, in confirmation in part of what I have 
advanced, that the professors of the art on the Continent are 
remarkable for long life ; my father attained the age of eighty - 
six, and continued erect, and practised the art till within three 
weeks of his death. Monsieur Mollard, who still teaches at 
Woolwich, I have every reason to believe, is near eighty. 



Fencing has been productive of the most salutary effects on 
consumptive habits ; many instances of which have fallen 
under my own observation. Among others, the son of Mr. 
Heath, the celebrated engraver, had a consumptive tendency, 
and occasionally felt a pain in his chest, so as to prevent free 
respiration. I advised his father to send him to me, he tried 
the effect of fencing for three months, and has ever since 
enjoyed his health. I can also mention another instance of 
the advantage derived from the exercise. The grandson of a 
noble Duke (Grafton), who was last year a scholar of mine at 
Harrow School, had his right arm very much contracted from 
an accident ; it was, in a very few months, invigorated from 
fencing, and became straight. I could bring forward many 
other proofs, but to state them minutely, would lead to the 
detail of particulars, the result of which would unnecessarily 
trespass on your time.” 

If I have been sounding my trumpet too long, the above 
quotations, I trust, will acquit me of adulation — “ Othello’s 
occupation’s gone.” No longer wielding the foil, leaving those 
who supply my place, after what I have corroborated, to keep 
Master Galen at a distance. Speaking of myself, I never 
knew a week’s illness during the space of fifty years ; and now, 
at my advanced time of life, when greeted “ How well you 
look ! ” I shall therefore finish, when recommending the 
science, instead of “ What ! not learn to dance. Miss ? ” (one of 
Bannister’s favourite characters, coupee), shall say — “ What ! 
not learn to fence. Sir ” 

The Rum Duke, 

One time I attended a Duke, who was very fond of the 



exercise, and whom I constantly instructed, when in town. 
His usual residence being at an hotel, to avoid the noise his 
early lessons might make there, they were always taken at my 
fencing-room. Sometimes in winter, an appointment made, 
at an early hour (eight o’clock in the morning), I received 
a message, I was to expect him at nine. As it was not at my 
house, the servant was despatched to have a fire in readiness. 
One morning, having returned home late, after boozing too 
much rum and water, I was awakened, to hasten to the room ; 
I observed to his Grace, how much I should prefer lying in 
bed, of a cold dark morning, to leaving my home to fence. 
He asked me why ? Having long attended him, and knowing 
well his good nature, having once been a visitor to his house 
in the country, I did not hesitate to say, “ Last night I put 
too much rum into the water, so that now, instead of being a 
fencing master, I am a Bum Duke.” 


During the year 1783, I lived in Manchester Buildings. 
Mr. Hankey, the banker, was my neighbour, in George Street. 
His fondness for fencing was such, that, not content with one 
master to keep him in practice, I have often met at his house 
six ; when usually beginning with the weakest (he took them 
all in their turn), finishing with the strongest, the one who 
taught him. Monsieur Le Pierre. This generally was the first 
hour. When seated, he amused himself by pitting us against 
each other ; and our professions being the same, we did not 
always agree ; and, like a tall school-boy that encourages the 
little ones to fight, so was Hankey amused when we disputed 
the hits ; and often, our anger getting the better of science, 



we rushed on each other ; when, had we had a sword instead 
of a foil, caution would have made us keep our distance. 
J udging of what I have seen, for science, the field is preferable 
to the fencing-room — the latter too often the case, exercise 
for ferailleurs, not fencers. At one of our meetings the 
consequences might have been serious. Two who had 
exhibited before him, and he^ by his laughing, had incensed 
them ; together the next day they went to Paddington, where 
they drew swords. The one who had received a scratch on 
the sword arm, shy, I should suppose of approaching, affected 
after that he could no longer attend his scholars ; when Mr. 
Hankey, having been the cause, sent him a ten pound note, 
a salve that recovered him the next day. My turn might 
have been the next, -with a Monsieur De Coursell, disputing 
our thrusts, a coup-j arret, whose tall lank appearance would 
have been a scare-crow to me, and who had killed two men at 
Paris, for which he fled here, when luckily we were placed 
expres next to each other at table, and the bonne chere and 
wine made us more friends than ever. If ever I had preten- 
sions to excel in my profession, here meeting with the 
strongest opponents, then young, and a debutant, after the 
practice and lessons I had received, from a boy, of my father ; 
this was a finishing school to me, to accomplish myself in the 
practical part. However, I was indebted to the instruction I 
had followed. Many a day I have listened to the observations 
of the numerous foreigners who frequented my room — some of 
the first fencers from Paris. Often, previous to closing it, the 
business of the day finished, there would be a raisonne sur les 
armes for half an hour. Different opinions of the secundem 
artem of the attack and the defensive part — elucidating those 
reasons that were improvements to me, and, in my opinion, 



such convincing proofs, that cannot be better derived than 
from the French. So far I will do them justice, and bow to 
their superiority as fencers. How can they be otherwise ? — it 
is their national amusement, as boxing is ours. Besides, 
from a boy, they follow it up. Many au fait at seventeen, 
and at seventy, thrusting carte and tierce. Whatever my 
opinions are, they are not intended to detract from our merit 
(this smells of the shop) ; and those instructions adopted here, 
are equally the same as abroad ; but the truth is, no sooner 
has a master perfected his pupil, his methods being as correct 
as those in France; the bad ones, who learn merely for 
exercise, the very first month, fence loose — I may well call it 
loose, poking away with a foil, no matter how they hit ; to 
them it is good fun, and a good sweat. The assailed, if he 
defend himself, must fence out of rule, to avoid the baroque 
attacks of his inexperienced adversary. How then can a 
master expect to make a good scholar ? unless he follows the 
example of those abroad, who, tout d' accord, never suffer their 
pupils to fence loose till they are perfect in the lesson, and 
then by degrees ; t]i& first year they are, if competent, 
to assault. To return to our assemblage. We usually met at 
twelve o’clock, and stripped, in flannel, continued till five, 
then the dinner hour ; the two last hours, from the perspira- 
tion issuing from the jackets, I might compare the room 
(a small one) to a washing-house in a mist. On the chimney- 
piece was always placed a bottle of brandy. I have seen two 
the same day — a reviver to those who took a sip occasionally. 
Recoverot, a famous fencer, when he was of the party, though 
one of the best at first, often finished the worst ; his repeated 
draughts in his head, no longer could his heels support him. 
Rowland, the father of the present George Rowland, well 

225 Q 


knoMTi for his abilities as an instructor, as well as his skill, 
was the favourite antagonist of Hankey. Pleased ever to get 
him in a corner, the other, knowing his customer, suffered 
himself to be the plastron for the day, his antagonist not 
content with giving one hit, but always repeating it. Dinner 
announced, we all assembled. After, Champagne, Burgundy, 
&c., followed; when the Frenchmen (I was the only English 
tireur) with their compliments followed. “ Ah, Monsieur 
Hankey, you be de great fencer ; you beat St. George ; he no 
so good.” The more they pleased his fancy for the exercise, 
the more he pressed the bottle ; and if Barthelemon, then the 
leader of the band at Vauxhall, did not make his evening 
appearance (for, like Monsieur St. George, our host excelled 
in the fiddle as well as fencing), we might have kept it up till 
morning, sometimes renewing it after dinner ; and where the 
wine had operated most, the more foils were broken. No 
choice then. It was my profession, my attendance required. 
Often I would have preferred my own table to the dinner and 
better wines which followed at the fencing, sometimes renewed 
till a late hour. 

Music and Swouds. 

D’Eon, when known only as Chevalier, had a servant named 
Devine, who, from having been a French soldier, was a fencer, 
whom he occasionally had to keep him in practice. Whether 
he (Devine) had served his time in the galleys, or had escaped 
from a prison, nimporte, he answered D’Eon’s purpose. 
Having often fenced with his master, we have had him to 
relieve us, judging from his violent method, beyond the 
amusement, his appearance and countenance were enough to 

22 G 


keep him at a distance. His disposition passionate, and 
quarrelsome with his equals. La Grenade (a soi-disant term 
for a French soldier), who had served abroad, and was 
employed at my academy to practise my scholars, a quiet and 
civil emigrant, having had a trifling dispute with Devine, 
they both met at the end of Harley-street (then fields), facing 
Marylebone-gardens. The latter, a bully, conscious of his own 
skill, insisted on having a man to play on the organ while they 
drew swords, which was the result of their meeting. When, 
not a little to the satisfaction of those to whom the combatants 
were known, Devine received a dangerous thrust, that 
deprived his master of his services, the hospital supplying his 
place, and such a tune that cooled his courage ever after. 


The latter end of last century, when patronized by Colonel 
Herries, of the Light Horse Volunteers, to accommodate their 
attendance I had a fencing-room at the Half-Moon Tavern, 
Gracechurch-street. My vocal friend, Samuel Maynard, of 
Doctors’ Commons, having spoken to me of two Jews, who 
sang at the Synagogue, and whose voices for loudness were 
extraordinary, their powers being beyond conception. In the 
habit of often inviting my friend to dine there, a Saturday 
was fixed to dine with me preparatory to our visit. With 
him he brought the Rev. Mr. Holmes, whom I have not seen 
since, now above thirty years, at this present time I believe 
one of the prebends of St. Paul’s, who was reckoned one of the 
first vocal amateurs, and an excellent singer himself. After 
dinner, we sallied to Hounsditch, taking our place on the 
men’s side, the other for the females only, we beheld these 



two famous singers, at a desk in the middle aisle, approaching 
to the altar, where stood the Rabbi. When singing the 
service like our Litany, the two brawlers (I can call them 
nothing else), each holding the end of his ear, made such a 
noise that I could only compare it to a man crying mackerel, 
or a link-boy calling a coach ; such bellowing, so loud, was 
stentorophonic beyond description. Indeed, the responses of 
the congregation, such a confused melange of voices, put me 
in mind of the Christmas game called the Jews’ Synagogue, 
where a pack of cards is distributed to the company, when 
each in a loud voice calls out his card, Ten of hearts ! knave of 
clubs! ace of spades ! &c., &c., which I have been told much 
resembles part of their devotion. However, the sight as well 
as the divine accompaniments were new to me. I was the 
more amused the very instant the congregation gabbling was 
over. You would suppose they had not a thought beyond 
business — no repeating words now that brought them there ; 
those next to me, it was, “ Did you get the monesh, 
yesterday ? ” — “ No, my Lord vas — ” At it they went again, 
following the general noise ; then proceeding with what they 
had been talking about, “Not at home. Did you get de 
bond ? ” — “ No ; but — ” another roaring. Not anxious to 
hear the result of his lordship, or the Jews’ money, we 
hastened away. They may have considered us of “ Hagar ” 
offspring if they please — never will they catch me at their 
Sjmagogue again. 


“ Good wine needs no bush,” so says our immortal bard ; 
yet I should think a tender beefsteak, well dressed, previous, 



is no bad zest to add to the gusto. So it proved one day, 
on my inviting a party of the Light Horse Volunteers to 
dine with me at my fencing-room, in the city, which was a 
Bourgeois gold mine to me, in addition to my business at 
the West end of the town. The distance being so far from 
my home, near to Hyde Park, that after four o’clock the 
day was too far gone to return to dinner. Generally 
remaining stationary, either the convivial receptions I could 
give, or accepting those invitations my professional intro- 
duction had procured me — not only the general notice of 
that respectable corps to their table, but to the city feasts 
and their halls, particularly the Ironmongers, where I not 
only had my entre, but the privilege of taking a friend with 
me ; my city days I was usually absent, my family not 
expecting me. On the day the Light Horse Volunteers dined 
at my room, Sandy Gordon, who was their adjutant, a good 
officer, a social companion and the 41ite of the corps, and no 
one, from experience, a better judge of good wine, in praising 
mine, the port wine was, nem. con. supernaculum. The day 
following, Mrs. Abbott, mistress of the Half-Moon Tavern, 
received several orders from the party to send the same to 
their house. This she refused ; it was only for those who 
frequented hers. 

The consequence was, a Beefsteak Club was proposed to 
dine there every Saturday ; when, the jovial adjutant in 
the chair, he took ample care to keep the ruby shining in the 
glass till a late hour. Not a little gratifying to me to have 
been the means of promoting the interests of mine hostess. 
The story, after told to my acquaintance, invitations to 
them were the more acceptable. “ Fools make feasts, and 
wise men eat them.” Then the latter must be those that 



have not a dinner at home (bachelors), but trust to procuring 
one abroad. If the others are fools, then hospitality is a 
stigma ; to be friendly to those who are in want of a dinner. 

At Home, 

A new name, when speaking of the great, and the ivould 
be great, the ha.ut en has of life. Much could be said on the 
subject. I can only speak of what I have personally seen. 

Residing in the country since the year 1821, my visits 
there since my last, when in town, were far different to a lady 
‘‘At Home.” Though a perfect stranger to her, and the 
husband (her good man as she called him), who had made an 
ample fortune, formerly a Russian merchant, i.e. a speculator 
in tallow. One night when I was her partner at whist, 
talking of her intended large party, and inviting me, she 

said, “ Next month expect a card when I received Mrs. 

“ At Home,” Finsbury-square. Such a long distance from 
mine, then residing near Hyde Park, was little encourage- 
ment to coach it above three miles, to shoAv myself amongst 
the genteel city melange. However, I did not expect to 
meet my old city connections, with whom I once passed so 
many pleasant evenings, then thirty years previous ; yet, 
curiosity tempted me to make one. Accordingly, I arrived 
there about nine o’clock, when, making my obeisance to 
madame, who, bedizened and beplumed, was seated on a sofa, 
her foot on a stool, exhibiting a thick ancle, honouring me 
Avith a slight motion of the head, “ Why did you not come 
sooner? tea’s over,” said she, retiring to make room for the 
city dandies with their white gloves and opera hats ; who, 
like myself, in paying their devoirs to her, were told “ tea’s 



over.” I soon found that, when vieAving my company, I was 
a fish out of Avater. Not one person did I knoAv, or was 
knoAAm to, nor did I speak to any one during the whole 
evening, except mine host, on making my entre — a little fat 
man, in snuff colour, ditto black scratch, and good-natured 
countenance, shaking me by the hand, as if we had been old 
acquaintance, “ There’s plenty of ice and cakes,” quoth he ; 
“ don’t spare them — they are all paid for.” 

Too late for tea, and no appearance of refreshments, unless 
I Avalked doAAmstairs to the parlour ; preferring the supper, 
as I expected, I remained above, my attention engaged in 
seeing the company, all strangers to me. In the first room, 
Avhere madame Avas in state, receiving the homage of the 
assemblee hourgeoise— some, for aught I know, might have 
been counter gentlemen — Avere two Avhist tables. In the back 
room (the folding doors opened) was a pianoforte, the misses, 
in their turn, displaying their musical accomplishments ; 
some thumping the instrument, playing their show-off 
favourite lesson, it was all forte ; others, what execution, to 
the gazers looking on, their fingers could astonish, hearing 
braro. Miss — City Saint Cecilias — beauty and music are the 
food of love. Only one pleased me, that differed from all the 
others, who, AAuth feeling and pathos, accompanying herself, 
sang that beautiful Scotch air, “ Rosslyn Castle.” Had Rizzio 
been alive, he would have been delighted. Suiting the 
expression to the company, I found myself so higgledy- 
piggledy, we were so crowded and jammed together, only by 
consent we moved. On the servant bringing in, on a tray, 
glasses of ice cream, having taken one but two sizes bigger 
than a tailor’s thimble, Avith a spoon stuck in it, I Avas obliged 
to wait till it was my turn to move it to my mouth. When 



finished, the glass cup being so very small, and the spoon too 
heavy in it, down it fell to the ground ; nor was I able, so 
pressed on each side, to pick it up. A waltz being proposed, 
and several returning to the next room, a circle being 
purposely made for dancing, the spoon was found. To the 
accompaniment of a piano, a little nez retrousse miss, about 
sixteen, with numerous ringlets that flowed over her 
shoulders, reminding me (except the face) of King Charles’s 
beauties at Hampton Court ; and, had she ever seen them, 
might have fancied herself a resemblance. A lank, over- 
grown exquisite, but a feAV years older than herself, was the 
happy beau to encircle his arms round her waist. To the 
delight of the papa and mamma of the latter, the faster they 
twirled, the more the imbecille parents encouraged them. 
Miss was at first all languishing, a mutual leering at each 
other ; at last, affecting over-fatigue, her eyes shut all the 
time, as if ready to faint, papa, being alarmed, put an end to 
this decent exhibition, when master whirligig wheeled her to 
a chair. Now past twelve, and hearing we were to turn out ; 
alas ! no supper, taut mieux ! for I wished myself away, 
taking French leave, I hastened down stairs, pleased with 
the idea of a ride home. Though no supper eater, some tea 
and toast, with the description of the evening visit, the more 
the finale would be acceptable. Here I was mistaken ; not 
a coach to be had, in a drizzly rain, I walked on till I got to 
the White Hart, Holborn, facing Gray’s-inn-lane. Wet, and in 
no good humour, I entered the tavern ; some cold roast beef 
and pickles, with a jorum of brandy and water after, sustained 
me a little, whilst the waiter, in the rain, was looking for a 
coach. I now found myself^something better, “ though rather 
faint still,” and I considered myself a fool for going so far, 



to be received “ At Home.” Sooner than pass such another 
soiree, I Avould be looked on as a dun — my presence best at 
a distance. 

A Beginning. 

When, fleuret a la main, I began the world for myself, 
soon after my entre at Westminster School, beginning with 
one scholar, in a short time there was an increase, to the 
discomfiture of five other masters, who taught fencing there 
at the time. Parents chose their own instructors. Previous 
to my attendance, the Rev. Doctor Goodenough (afterwards 
Bishop of Carlisle), at whose seminary, at Ealing, I attended 
the present Dukes of Rutland, Portland, &c., and who was 
educated at Westminster, gave me a letter of recommendation 
to his old dame, Mrs. Grant, at whose house he then boarded ; 
when on a winter’s evening, about six, I waited on her, and 
was assured of her influence to serve me. Pleased with my 
reception, I had no sooner quitted the house, than a shower 
of warm water and tea-leaves, from one of the windows, 
drenched me. At the time displeased, and not recollecting 
the expectations of my future visits, I directly took up a stone, 
and was going to break the windows where I heard some boys 
laughing, when, checking myself, having announced my 
name, and the consequence that might attend the fencing- 
master’s dehut after, as they would soon learn from Mrs. Grant, 
my urging visit, and “ chacun doit penser a soi,” trusting to 
my forbearance, I put doAvn the stone, with the intention 
never again to pay a visit there after dark. Young as I 
was then, opposed to so many foils, no foil to my notivelle 
situation. The repeated stories of the boys, to me, of the 



superiority the other masters had vauntingly boasted how 
they could instruct, all professing their abilities. The mere 
chatter of boys made no impression on me, except the vitu- 
perous tongue of one of the five, a tall Irishman, named 
Redman, whom I have spoken of in my second volume of 
Beminiscences, wherein I mentioned my father’s paying one 
hundred pounds for caning him. Being told that he had 
boasted beating my father, and both of us having fencing- 
rooms in Dean’s Yard (the other masters only attending at 
the boarding houses), out of patience with the continual 
falsehoods related to me of his abuse, with my scholars and 
other students, I went to him. Exposing his base assertions, 
provoked as I was, I told him, his age (then above seventy) 
spared him that resentment he deserved. On refuting his 
saying he had beat my father, I called on him to take off his 
wig, and show the scars where he had received the blows on 
his head, that he laid his damages at a thousand pounds, at 
times they produced such a giddiness, that it often prevented 
him from following his business. Here he refused, telling me, 
“ You lie like a dog.” Convinced he was only laying a trap 
for me, to take the law, I could have spit in his face ; or, at 
the moment, resented such a reply. It was only law, and his 
advanced years, prevented me. The boys satisfied, and 
Redman’s assertions refuted, the more rapidly I established 
my new situation ; and, from a circumstance which turned 
out in my favour, no longer had I to contend against five. 

Occasionally attending the boarding houses on those who 
took private lessons, in the next room to one of my scholars, 
named Maitland, who boarded at Mrs. Ottie’s, was another 
master, named Pardone, an Irishman, who had served abroad 
in the Irish Brigades. The boys, desirous to see us contend 



together, contrived, after he had finished teaching, which was 
previous to my attendance (three o’clock), to keep him in the 
room in which I was expected, and, favourite as he was, I 
considered him the only one that stood in my way — possessed 
of that inducement, which I was not competent to, of amusing 
the scholars with lies ; how many he had wounded and killed 
in duels. I could only have told them, “ I eat all that I ever 
killed.” However, it was good fun for them to laugh at his 
bouncing. It was then, “ Learn of Pardone, he’s a queer 
fellow, he’ll tell you such damned lies.” Besides, he had got 
a strong footing there before me. At three o’clock, I made 
my appearance there, and having previously fenced together, 
our meeting was nothing new. Here I found the room full of 
boys, when the question was soon put, “ Mr. Angelo, won’t 
you fence with Mr. Pardone ? ” and the same to him ; of course, 
neither refused. Here our separate abilities were at stake, to 
amuse school-boys. However, to please them, we stripped, 
and engaged. As I had but lately made my debut there, I 
exerted myself the more, to secure a good footing ; but I had 
not an easy customer (pugilistic) to deal with ; for some time 
it was what the fencers Gi\\[partie egale. Nevertheless, though 
each may have shown their skill, the spectators were not 
sufficient judges ; merely silent : when, the foil falling from 
my adversary’s hand, a general applause and laughter ensued. 
At the time, seizing their moment of being pleased, neither my 
attack nor defence occupying my attention, I took every oppor- 
tunity to disarm him., which pleased them the more. Iffils 
could not have continued long, and, from his athletic appear- 
ance surpassing mine, finding he was enraged at the notice 
bestowed on me, though I had turned up a trump in an en- 
counter, the game might have taken a different turn. Having 



already won, I was glad to ground my arms ; fortunately, my 
nose was bleeding at the time, from the heat of the room and 
the exercise ; it was a finale to the exertions imposed upon us. 
Had I engaged before those well acquainted with the science, 
the foil falling would have been of no consequence, nor 
attended to : it is the quickness of the point, that depends 
more on a light hand, than grasping the foil too strong. 
Indeed, many have a loop to their glove, to prevent it falling ; 
and what is a sword-knot ? but to fasten it to the wrist. Here 
fortune stood my friend, for my antagonist had his “ capa- 
bilities,” having been one of the best fencers in the brigade. 
When we left the place together, in our way he would have 
quarrelled with me ; but asking him to dine with me, soon 
cooled his courage, he was perfectly agreeable to it ; and what 
with the effects of the wine, assenting to his incredible stories, 
and praising his abilities, though a would-be lion before dinner, 
after, pleased with his reception, eii ami, no longer opposed, 
he went away a lamb. A short time after, it was proposed by 
one of his former scholars, who resided in Dublin, to establish 
him there, at the same time that he had procured several to 
begin. To see his kingdom again, was such a temptation he 
could not refuse, and he resigned to me what scholars he had 
left. My old foul-mouth antagonist being made one of the 
Poor Knights of Windsor, and the three others finding no 
encouragement, I had no longer to contend against five, the 
champ de hataille was solely left to me after, which continued 
from 1784 to 1821, when leaving my town business (a pro- 
fession my father followed, and instructed till he was in his 
eighty-sixth year), no longer a fencing master, I may say, 
“ Othello’s occupation’s gone ! ” 




Of the numerous foreigners that made their appearance here, 
with their vanterie of having beaten the first fencers at Paris, 
some adventurers, to establish themselves as fencing masters ; 
others, who, like our gentry, the many, who have reasons, 
preferring Boulogne to their own country, to London. A 
iVIonsieur Be Pineaux, who had been a gendarme, and was 
obliged, for some faux pas, to seek an asylum here. Having 
trumpeted his skill (though no credit to my foolish impatience), 
he might have been a scarecrow to all those who followed my 
profession, whilst he delayed proving his abilities, though they 
were not to be frightened. Yet none were impatient, like 
myself, to be the first to assault with him. Hearing he fre- 
quented the Orange Coffee House, in the Haymarket, and 
curious to see this great fencer, in the evening (winter) about 
seven o’clock, I took my chance of meeting him there ; when 
I found one corner crowded with foreigners and fencing 
masters, listening to the rhodomontade of a tall soi-disant 
parleur, boasting of his abilities. Soon known to them, and 
joining the party, till near nine o’clock the whole conversation 
was engrossed about fencing. My room being facing this ren- 
dezvous de toutes sortes d'etrangers, and having the key in my 
pocket, I could not resist challenging this Vanteur to accom- 
pany me there, and fence with me. Here my impatience got 
the better of my prudence ; established as I was, I had no 
business to risk my situation with a stranger, it must have 
been the influence of the punch, which had flowed for two 
hours, that made me so forget myself. However, Avith some 
difficulty, he was prevailed on. Accordingly, nem. con., all 
ready to follow me. (I first sent for two pounds of candles.) 



Nearly the whole colfee -house were present at our exhibition. 
A ring being made, surrounded by several holding the candles, 
stripped, Monsieur le grand hVewr, and myself ; both not over- 
firm on our legs, we did little better than tumble on each 
other, and break foils, to the no little amusement and laughter 
of the spectators. However, I was not so enivre, but I soon 
found I had got a gascon to deal with, a mere ferailleur, a term 
alluding to the jew de soldat, all considering themselves fencers. 
Some few excel, but the greater part are of the above descrip- 
tion. However, my antagonist, after such a debut, never 
appeared in any one of the fencing-schools. It was related to 
me after, that a pawnbroker’s widow, at whose house he 
lodged, captivated with his person, had received those palpable 
hits on her heart she could not parry, and they were married. 
Her shop being disposed of, having received to himself all she 
possessed — such a foil to jgush himself forward — Monsieur took 
French leave, nor did madame ever hear of him after. Such 
were the pledges of his love, that they were never redeemed. 

Leg of Mutton. 

Jack Bannister, soon after he made his first appearance on 
the stage, was a constant visitor at my father’s fencing-room ; 
and from that continual attention to the lesson, was soon able 
to make the assault, quelque que soil ; it was all the same to 
him, ever “ anxious for the fray,” not considering they were 
old scholars, and the strongest fencers ; but at the same time, 
by receiving improvement, at last they found him their equal, 
and I may afiirm, following Charles Kemble’s example, who 
was one of my best scholars, and Avho, like the family, pursu- 
ing that perseverance to excel, so my friend succeeded. Such 


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a favourite was he with the scholars, that all were anxious to 
have him for their antagonist ; nor did it stop here ; for when 
my father left the room, which was usually at three o’clock, 
having then a country house at Acton, the carriage at that 
hour was always waiting for him. No sooner Avas he absent, 
no longer the foil, Bannister’s drollery, tricks, and humour 
Avere so amusing, that often, when the evening attendance at 
the theatre required him, Avith difficulty he could get away. 

My father, Avho was particularly attentive to teach his 
scholars the bow, the salute of every one at that time (now-a- 
days too vulgar, shame !), and particularly to his theatrical 
Ueve, the graces. Though the continual repetition, and he 
Avas quite perfect, yet, when my father met him, as if to remind 
him, made such an obsequious Ioav boAv, much as to say, see 
how I salute, must have occasioned the result of a story he 
related to me himself. Though not told by me Avith his 
humour, yet, enough of the parties — their politesse. “ Meet- 
ing your father one day in the Hay market, Avhen making me 
such a loAv boAV, keeping his hat off, and looking at me in the 
face, as if reminding me it Avas my turn next. Determined to 
beat him at his polite game (at that time, you know, we wore 
cocked hats), at the moment I made such a grand flourish Avith 
my arm, holding my hat, and a butcher’s boy being close to 
me with a Leg of Muttox, plump went my chapeau in the 
tray, and doAvn fell the mutton into the mud.” Here my 
friend’s disaster did not finish ; the other I cannot call one, I 
Avill only consider it a faux pas; my friend’s drollery, from 
Avhat I have heard, was not confined Avhere he received in- 
struction at my father’s, but in the life room of the Royal 
Academy, Avhich he attended previous to his stage debut, then 
a groAvn boy, intended to be an artist. Moser, Avho was keeper 



of the Royal Academy, and usually was present whilst the 
students Avere engaged, had no sooner left the room, than his 
fun, tricks, and drollery, no pencil (like no foil), but loud 
shouts of laughter : not only a little encouraged by brother 
students, RoAvlandson, but even Hoppner, never cheerful him- 
self, but all the others, many who were, after, some of the 
first prominent artists of the day. 

One evening in particular, Moser missed his facetious visitor, 
whom he had left but a few minutes before engaged at his 
drawing ; not finding him in his place, what was his surprise, 
on seeing him romping in the kitchen with the maids, and so 
close to the handsomest, the parties so pleased with each other, 
Moser exclaimed, “This is indeed, young gentleman, copying 
after nature.” 

Recollections of Kean. 

However my pen may wander beyond mere anecdotes, as 
contributions to my work, as public characters are public 
property, and as I am speaking not only from authentic 
information but personal experience, trusting also to the 
general encouragement of my second volume of Remi- 
niscences, which I may say was my own Avriting, I shall yet 
venture to trespass farther — anecdotes of a favourite per- 
former cannot but attract notice. I may be acquitted of 
AArriting on the subject of my lamented friend, Kean, what 
many of the journals can only state from hearsay. The 
folloAving has been penned since his decease. 

Having already spoken of him in my late publication, and 
living near Richmond, at my return from his house, a feAv 



days subsequent to his death, and previous to his interment, 
I made my inquiries ; and although the merit may be trivial, 
yet the excellent information of an actor who has excited so 
much public attention, however my wishes may exceed my 
endeavours in curiosity, cannot be displeasing. 

On the Wednesday previous to his death, it was reported 
at Twickenham, where I resided, that he had died that 
evening ; the papers, however, of the following day, men- 
tioned he was yet living. His funeral was fixed for Whitsun 
Eve (Saturday, the 24th of May), which was more suitable 
to the gentlemen of the theatres. Previously I called at his 
house at Richmond, where I received information that three 
o’clock was the hour fixed, and that it was to be a walking 
funeral. I was much surprised there was nobody in the room 
but a lad of nineteen to receive me. Kean had been soldered 
down in a leaden coffin a week. The servant informed me 
that he alone had attended his master many hours during 
his last illness — that the Tuesday previous to his decease, on 
awaking from his sleep, and on giving him two tea-spoonsfull 
of brandy and water, with some jelly, he inquired, “ Who 
are those two men I have been fighting with?” this was 
about four o’clock, and his last words, calling on his servant 
William, were, “Tell me.” Wednesday morning, Mr. Dukes 
sleeping on the sofa, Mr. Lee entered his bedroom, and con- 
sidered his last moments approaching, and soon after heard 
a sigh, on life departing. I was also informed that he had 
been attached to a girl he met in the streets, whose name was 
Ophelia Benjamin, a Jewess, whom he was obliged to dismiss, 
after living with him seven years — that she was continually 
annoying his relatives — had been a great expense — that 
many things had been lost — he was much affected at parting, 




which was done by his coachman leaving her where she had 
been taken up. 

Referring to the time he made his first appearance at 
Drury Lane, as a fencing master, sans ceremonie, I was my 
own Sir Clement Cotterell, presenting myself at the theatre 
while he was rehearsing Hamlet ; when recommending him in 
the fencing scene, that honour due to his Danish Majesty, 
and devoir to the audience, the salute, those graceful attitudes 
always preceding the assault, ought not to be dispensed with. 
Much obliged to me, Kean was delighted to adopt, and 
myself the more so to be acquainted with him, teaching the 
two forthcoming antagonists. From that time I was often 
at his house, when he resided in Clarges Street (living but a 
few doors from him), where I passed some pleasant days, 
sometimes going out with him in his carriage. I should 
think it must have been about sixteen years ago. The second 
time I was invited to dine with him, was on his birthday, 
where I met Messrs. Stephen Kemble, Pope, Harley, &c. 
Leaving the dining parlour, and retiring above, with spirits, 
the wine, and the glee, the time, till four in the morning, 
with “ rapid strides ” passed quickly away. When taking 
leave with the others, being so very near a neighbour, he 
would not let me go, and calling for another bottle, I con- 
tinued there near an hour. On descending the stairs, he 
would follow me, as I conceived poliment, to the street door, 
when, to my surprise, the servant helped him on with his 
great-coat. “We must take a walk together,” he holding 
my arm fast till we got to Bond Street. Having but a 
short time to sleep, preparatory to my daily pursuit, whilst 
something attracted his attention, and leaving me, I took 



French leave ; and, however pleased I had been, was glad I 
returned home. 

During the months of August and September, then my 
summer vacation, after the daily fatigue of those previous 
exertions, I usually retired some distance from town, to rest 
myself. Returned, to renew my labours, when the effects 
of that indolence and indulgence not accustomed to, my 
health so impaired, and no youth to add to its recovery, the 
recourse of that exercise which was a sudorific at all times ; 
that relief, the table and glass, I enjoyed the day before, 
would have shortened the lives of many. When, thank God 
(no chicken now, during my many years, that healthy con- 
stitution, stranger as I have been to medicine), fencing has 
sent Master Galen and his doses to Coventry. September, 
the theatres just opened at the time, my friend Kean, who 
lived only a few doors from mine, I called upon him, ob- 
serving, the summer months had altered our shapes for 
genteel comedy, how lusty we had grown, and that an hour’s 
fencing every morning, taken before breakfast, instead of 
pills, and two rolls after, health and appetite would then 
keep pace. Delighted at the proposal, the following morning 
was fixed for our preparatory improvement, at nine o’clock. 
Fleuret a la main, both “ eager for the fray ” — stripped in 
flannel, like the minuet before the Scotch reel — grace before 
agility, and what the French call vous mettre en train, 
we began with carte and tierce. At first proceeding slowly, 
when telling him, “ Now, take care of yourself, I am going 
to unbutton your waistcoat.” Here my quickness succeeded 
for the last time, when at the moment I felt such a shock, as 
if I had overstrained the back ligatures of my left thigh. 



Alas ! such was the result. This fatal thrust to me was my 
last performance of the foil, those numerous engagements 
during fifty years previous. Now it was arma cedunt sprain. 
No longer that daily extension of the limbs, that during the 
whole time, and even past sixty years, those who were my 
scholars can affirm, at my room in Bond Street, seeing me 
stripped, receive the attacks, not only of my strongest 
scholars, but quel que ce soil, amateurs that visited me. 
Now approaching to sixteen years I have felt the effects, 
lame as I am to this day, through the mistaken, however 
friendly, endeavours of the faculty to relieve me, prescribing 
cupping, blistering, ointments, &c., all the time to no purpose. 
The gout, which I had been subject to for years, though 
short temporary twitches, which I had not told them, and 
must have paid a visit to the affiicted part, was acting con- 
trary, where only patience and flannel might have cured me, 
now a lasting and fixed pain to my knee ; and, considering 
my time of life, that infirmity we all must expect, I bow to 
its decree. This is an addition youth might overcome ; now 
le rideau tombe, no hopes are left ; and so painful at times, 
after seated a little while, with difficulty I can leave my chair 
to cross the room. Were the effects of nature to add to my 
age, I should not complain ; but so far from improving, as I 
expected to keep pace with my excellent dramatic antagonist. 
When walking abroad now, ashamed, I fancy myself a 
hobbling old man, and hear my old acquaintance say, “ Poor 
fellow. Us sont passes ces jours de fete.'^ Could my left knee 
but keep pace with the right, that nerf that still exists, they 
would be a solace to me ; thankful to the foil that opposed 
to those hits I once received, returning them with that 
interest exceeding a Jew’s mercy ; now, “ no longer pipe, no 



longer dance.” Why complain? On nest pas hero partout. 
The last time I saw my friend Kean, who could “ cleave the 
general ear with horrid speech,” was in July, 1830 ; the day 
following I received a letter from him, not only as a memento, 
but that relic I keep by me, as well as one from Garrick to 
my father ; — autographs I value. 

“ My dear Sir, 

I have read with great satisfaction your Reminiscences, 
and consider them both interesting and instructive. I have 
never ceased to regret that I was the unfortunate cause 
of your retirement from your profession, of which you 
have ever been the brightest ornament. Wishing you 
health and happiness, and much profit from your literary 

“ I am, dear Sir, 

“ Yours very truly, 

“ Edmund Kean. 

“ July 7 th , 1830. 

“ To H. Angelo, Esq.” 

Calling on Mr. Kean, at his house, Bute Cottage, Regent’s 
Park, one morning, at ten o’clock, the servant informed me 
his master was not stirring. I replied, “Well, if you can 
give me the paper, or a book, to read, though you say it may 
be one o’clock before he is up, I will wait till that time.” 
Accordingly I was sho^vn into a room, and had not been 
seated there a quarter of an hour before he entered. Pleased 
to see me, and a hearty shake by the hand, some years having 
elapsed since we last saw each other, which was at Bath, 
where I then resided, he asked me if I had breakfasted. 



Answering in the negative ; then come along with me, it is 
in the next room ; but first, without waiting or ringing for, 
the servant entered with a bumper of brandy. Following 
him, at the top of the table I beheld a young lady, young 
enough to be his daughter ; Miss Tidswell (late actress), 
whom I had known, I should think, these last fifty years, 
seated on her left. At the bottom of the table sat Kean, 
when a large smoking beef-steak, which covered the dish, 
was placed before him. After pressing me to partake of it 
with him, which I refused, such a dejeune a la fourchette, 
then in summer, not over tempting, he helped himself to not 
a little slice, and merely eating a very small morsel, he sent 
his plate away. This was the last time we met. 

Recollections of Mr. W. C. Maceeady. 

Of the numerous eminent performers I have had the honour 
of instructing in the science of fencing, I believe the only one 
now on the boards is Mr. Macready. At the time I instructed 
him, at my academy in Piccadilly, I think he could not have 
been more than eighteen, just previous to his appearing at 
Covent Garden. Having sent him a prospectus of my Pic-Nic, 
I felt myself highly gratified by receiving the following 
reply : — 

“61, Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
“ June 12, 1833. 

“ Dear Sir, 

“ I am most happy in the opportunity of testifying my 
respect and my sense of obligation to you, for your valuable 
instruction, which I am proud to remember, in any way 



possible ; it will give me great pleasure to be considered 
among the early applicants for your forthcoming work, which 
I shall beg you to send me on publication ; and with my best 

“ I remain, dear Sir, 

“ Your very faithful and obliged Servant, 
“ W. C. Maceeady. 

“ To H. Axgelo, Esq.” 

Entire stranger as I have been since, I cannot omit testifying 
my obligations to the great Roscius of the present day, who, 
after so many years gone by, could write me such a friendly 
and flattering reply. 

Alluding to the recollections of Mr. Macready, his father 
(once a favourite performer at Co vent Garden), considering it 
necessary his son should acquire those accomplishments 
requisite for his appearance on the London Stage, sent him to 
town, under the surveillance of a prominent performer ; and 
for the preference conferred on me, in being selected to add my 
efforts towards the completion of his person, I feel myself 
peculiarly indebted, both to the notice of the son and the 
estimation of the father. 

Having been known to the father many years previous, and 
being informed that his son was intended for the stage, I 
wished to include him with the many others I had instructed, 
as friends; this however was refused, for previous to his 
return home, no remonstrance of mine could prevail, or 
prevent my receiving the full amount of his instructions ; and, 
from the numerous civilities I have at all times received from 
the father since, the recollections of Macready must ever dwell 
on my mind with pleasure and gratitude. 



Kemble’s Ear. 

When Richard Coeur-de-Lion first made his appearance at 
Drury Lane Theatre, Kemble, who performed the King, sang 
a song ; at the rehearsal, Shaw, the leader of the band, called 
out to him, whilst he was singing, “ Mr. Kemble, Mr. Kemble, 
you murder the time. Sir.” Kemble, first taking a pinch of 
snuff*, replied, “Well, if I do, I had better do that, than, like 
you, be always beating it.” 

Kemble and Kelly. 

My theatrical friend Kemble, speaking of whom I am much 
indebted for his green-room anecdotes, related to me the 
following one of Kelly: — At a conversation about a new 
play, Sheridan had consulted Kemble, who remained silent 
all the time. Kelly being present, and out of patience at not 
hearing the latter make any reply, not a little laughable to 
the manager nor strictly offensive to the great tragedian, 
called out, “ Kemble, why don’t you ‘ open your marble 
jaws ’ ? ” 

Sir Walter Scott, and John Kemble. 

Sir Walter Scott was a man of plain and unassuming 
language. His attempts at wit were few, but successful; 
nevertheless, he had a dry kind of humour, that always 
amounted to pleasantry. Telling a friend one day that he 
had a head-ache, in consequence of sitting up with John 
Kemble a great part of the previous night, drinking Madeira 
and water with him, his friend appeared much surprised at it, 



knowing the Baronet’s sober habits, when he remarked, “ Just 
take this along with you, that Kemble was drinking the 
Madeira, and I the water.” 

Duke or Clarence. 

Being present at a fight between Tom Belcher and Dutch 
Sam (1 think at Moulsey Hurst), an immense ring was formed 
round the scene of action. Numbers were seated on the 
ground, amongst whom was His Royal Highness the then 
Duke of Clarence, with his son, who, I should suppose, was 
then about twelve years of age. The youth having occasion 
to quit the ring during the fight, the Duke desired me, as I 
was seated next, to attend him ; I could with difficulty prevail 
on the crowd to let him pass. On our return, as he was 
getting over the immovable mass, in lifting up his foot, he 
accidentally grazed the head of one of the canaille, who, at the 
moment, was about to make a blow at him, when I called out, 
“ It is the Duke of Clarence’s son,” which prevented what 
might have been very distressing to me, having the youth 
confided to my care. 

Country Visitors. 

Previous to the Christmas holidays, I invited a country 
acquaintance to take his dinner with me during the vacation. 
Having acquainted me, as he lived some little distance from 
town, when he should leave home, a day was fixed on, 
when I was to expect him. My usual dinner time then 
(winter) was at four. What was my surprise, not only 



to see him, but his wife and three daughters, at three 
o’clock ; the misses with their bundle, to add to their finery- 
before dinner. 

Now, as I only kept two servants employed, as the cook was 
to prepare dinner, the other so much engaged, she was 
continually called to wait on them. This was an intrusion at 
the time, mal a propos to my customary invitations. A visit 
en famille so soon, unexpected, and dreading the idea of their 
pleasant company the tvliole evening, I hastened away to my 
friend, James Perry, of the Morning Chronicle, who had a 
box of his own at the Opera House ; mentioning to him 
how very unpleasantly I was situated, he kindly lent it 
to me, saying if I was not engaged, I could take my supper 
with him, where I should meet his brother. Professor Porson, 
and others whom I was well acquainted with ; also Doctor 
Paine, of the Charter House, at the time attending there. 
That alone, to me, was a great inducement. So far, so good. 
My visitors are provided for, and I shall have my liberty. 
Hurra ! said I. 

After dinner, pleased as I expected them to be, at showing 
them my town civility, sure as I thought of the riddance that 
was to follow, and agreeably surprised as I hoped they would 
be that I had got a private box for them at the opera, to 
my utter disappointment, having been there the preceding 
Saturday, they did not care to see the same opera. Miss 
Clementina, the elder sister, an over-grown girl in her teens, 
said, “ La, mama, nobody dont go there on the Tuesday night, 
how vulgar ! I likes the fashionable one.” This was a 
contretemps, country fixtures imposed on me for the whole 
evening. No supper at Perry’s. Had I invited any one to 
meet them, I then might have absented myself, at least for 



part of the evening — that would have been a temporary relief 
to me. No alternative, and a round game proposed — 
commerce, to please the misses, who said they were quite 
agreeable to it. I took care to order supper an hour sooner 
(ten o’clock). When after, the father praising his eldest 
daughter, how well she sung, proposed her singing ; a long 
pause ensuing, preparatory to hemming her voice into tune, 
I volunteered one of my caracatos, enough to create their 
laugh, and put them all in good humour — a mere sunshine 
of a day that is soon gone ; so it was here. Miss Clementina 
refused ; she had a bad cold, when her mama said, “ ’Tis all a 
hum ! ” and papa insisted on her singing, boasting what a deal 
of money he had paid Signor Squali to teach her, and the 
great expense of purchasing a pianoforte. All entreaties, 
for some time, were in vain. This continued for a quarter 
of an hour, when his perseverance succeeded. At last 
she began, “ Had I a heart.” A dead pause, bursting into 
tears ; it was, Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! A duet followed, the 
parents at the same time angry. “ Clementina, you hussy, 
none of your airs, sing directly.” Again she began, when this 
time she only got as far as “falsehood framed ditto tears, 
and “ I can’t, I can’t,” followed — that damped the remainder 
of the time, which her commencement had caused. A heavy 
snow having fallen during the evening, I proposed to make 
sure of their sending for a coach, being such a bad night. 
Malheur eusement during the space of an hour, no conveyance 
to be found. This did not prevent their still harping on my 
daughter, her crying, and they scolding ; when, par force, no 
choice left. Master Clod, with his rib muffled up in my 
roquelaure, the daughters in great-coats, a la maitre de danse, 
they were obliged to foot it home in the snow. This was their 



first visit to me, and was the last, and pleased was I to say, 
when speaking of my country visitors, ^Hls sont passes ces 
jours de fete.'' 

Loed Liverpool. 

Among the numerous distinguished characters who were 
my scholars, were Lords Sidmouth and Grey, Mr. Jenkinson 
(afterwards Lord Liverpool), who at the time was a student 
at the Charter House, and came purposely to take private 
lessons, at my house in St. Alban’s-street, where I then 
resided. I should mention, that, during some time I had 
been previously applied to, to teach at the school, but was 
always refused by Doctor Beardmore, who was the master. 
His objection was, that some years before, an accident might 
have happened. Two of the little boys having got possession 
of the foils, fencing together, one had received a hit near the 
eye ; since then the science was never suffered to be taught 
there; and though his late Majesty, when Prince of Wales 
(my father having mentioned to him my disappointment), 
sent Lord Southampton (then one of the Lords in waiting) to 
speak in my favour to the Doctor, he still refused, saying that 
he could not alter a regulation which had been adopted ; how- 
ever, at his decease, I procured the appointment. Previously, 
Lord Hawkesbury (the physician, having recommended 
fencing as an exercise of that utility so necessary for youth, 
as well for health as for person) sent for me, then residing in 
Hertford-street ; when mentioning how very much he stooped, 
and complaining of his chest being so contracted, he fixed the 
mornings I was to expect him, saying, “ Mr. Angelo, if he 
don’t hold up his head, give him a good thump on his back.” 



This was the winter 1787 (about that time the present 
Dukes of Manchester and Rutland, Lords Edward Somerset, 
Somerset, Talbot, Grantham, Leveson Gower, Marquis ol 
Queensberry, and Sir Francis Burdett, were my scholars), 
when, at so early an hour as nine o’clock, to be in time to 
return to the morning school, he was ever punctual to take 
his lesson, nor do I recollect, except merely the first salutation, 
we ever exchanged a Avord. My scholar, then approaching to 
sixteen, though assiduous and attentive to my instruction, 
however his health might have benefited from the exercise, 
from his long habit of stooping, it was too late then for me to 
remove it. Some few years ago, when I published my father’s 
Treatise on Fencing, in a note he honoured me with, to 
subscribe to the Avork, after taking notice of having once been 
my scholar, he said he was sorry he did not folloAv up the 

Duchess of St. Albans. 

Of the Duchess of St. Albans, when Miss Mellon, much has 
been said pro and con as to her Grace’s charity and generosity ; 
but the following anecdote speaks for itself : — Visiting one 
day, a poor woman in a garret, who, from having seen better 
days, Avas in reduced circumstances, she found her dreadfully 
afilicted Avith rheumatism. “You are not sufficiently and 
warmly clad,” said Miss Mellon — “ you ought to be all covered 
Avith flannel.” — “ Alas ! ” said the poor Avoman, “ I cannot 
afford to buy flannel.” On Avhich, Miss Mellon actually took 
off her OAvn flannel petticoat to put on her, adding, at the 
same time, a small donation, probably as much as she then 
could afford. Charity, thus applied, is indeed a rare virtue ! 



Recollections of Mrs. Jordan. 

After the many different characters that have delighted 
me, seeing Mrs. Jordan, the recollection of hearing her sing, 
“ 0 where ! and 0 where, is my Highland Laddie gone ? ” at 
my friend John Bannister’s benefit, the first time she played 
the guitar on the stage. Though myself at the time then not 
competent to sing to my favourite instrument, the guitar, 
which I had strummed on from a youth, without those accom- 
paniments to the voice, which is most essential to please. The 
day after, hearing that Buckinger had been her music master, 
and lived in the Strand, I hastened there, when, taking a few 
lessons from him, several airs that pleased me most, and 
those best suited to my ‘‘hoarsen’d voice,” particularly Mrs. 
Jordan’s “0 where,” and that made such an impression on 
me. To this day, but when alone, in my boudoir, and my 
spirits failing, my guitar is my only soulagement, au fait, to 
accompany myself in two airs, “ Away with melancholy,” and 
“ 0 where ! and 0 where ; ” these two were always my dehut ; 
the first a reviver, that so pleased I was with my own cater- 
wauling, and no one at the time present, applauding myself 
on finishing, I cried out, Bravo ! Encore ! Encore ! when 
making a flowery speech, and as if afflicted with a bad cold, 
“ yet, to make myself agreeable, I shall be happy to sing 
again.” Agreeable, reminds me of a Christmas night, when 
one of the party, a raw bumpkin (and we were all called upon 
for our song), begging to be excused, “ he could not sing, but 
should be happy to make himself agreeable, he would give 
them the ‘ Hare and many Friends,’ ” from Gray. Speaking 
of the other favourite air, when recollecting Sir Jonah 
Barrington’s description of Mrs. Jordan’s unhappy hours and 



. y..j- 

MlliiiS,. yl{(l)l^ llJ)AI¥ AS THK M.i())MR 


reflections (her guitar was one of her resources against con- 
suming melancholy, at her cottage, a quarter of a mile from 
Boulogne sur Mer), that the very instrument I was playing on, 
which I bought of Buckinger, had once belonged to Mrs. 
Jordan, and was the very one on which I heard her first play 
the Scotch air ; the sound is no longer allegro ! it was all 
qfettuoso. Oft I could not proceed ; the blue devils discording 
both voice and strings, that “ if music be the food of love, 
play on : ” it was “ Enough — no more. It is not so sweet 
now as it was before.” 

The Kitchen. 

When, every other week, my professional attendance was 
expected at Cambridge, many a winter’s morning, before day- 
light, I have walked to meet the coach, at the White Horse, 
Fetter Lane (from my house in Bolton Row), to take me 
there ; and often, whether rain, or frost, have been an outside 
passenger. Hoddesdon, which is seventeen miles from town, 
was the first stage to breakfast ; the coach usually arriving 
there about ten ; sometimes shivering, and almost frozen, 
when ushered into a cold room, where the fire had only been 
lit but a few minutes before, the ladies of course were a 
screen, crowding near it, to the rest of the travellers ; some- 
times, including all the passengers, a dozen or more, all 
impatient to begin their breakfast ; near ten minutes have 
elapsed, when one plate only of toast made its appearance ; 
the fair sex first served, three or four pieces only left for the 
rest, who soon their voracious appetites had engaged them, 
a la fourcheUe, devouring the meat accompaniments of beef 



and ham. Others calling for eggs and ale ; when near ten 
minutes more had passed, enters another plate, ditto Master 
Jehu, to announce the coach was waiting. The bill called for, 
when nearly the usual stage charge was double to what was 
paid for tea only. Now, as I was not a knife and fork 
morning traveller, I certainly did not consider myself called 
upon to pay for the meat and eggs of the hungry gentlemen. 
Some not contented with their morning meal, but enough to 
include their dinner. I have seen them fill their pockets, 
preparatory for their lunch, during the remainder of their 
journey. Having already too often paid my quota towards 
the breakfast, and not partaken of the meat and eggs, 
although, myself, so long a traveller, ought to have known 
better ; “ if old birds are not to be caught with chaff,” at last, 
I found out “I had been paying through the nose,” so that 
when the bill made its appearance, I called out, “ Waiter ! I 
have had tea only^ what’s to pay?” — “Eighteen-pence, Sir.” 
Putting down the money, I left the others to settle the bill. 
Not pleased with my breakfast here, and preferring the toast 
to the ladies (when the cup, not the glass was before me, than 
the ladies’ toast at Hoddesdon), a new manoeuvre occurred to 
me. — “As Varge7it fait tout,” or more appropriate, it was 
“Money will make the mare to go;” having made my 
advances to Betty the Cook, accompanied with half-a-crown, 
it was no bad beginning to be admitted into the kitchen. 
When, seated by a good fire, she always took especial care to 
place the first toast before me. However ill-mannered I 
might appear to the parlour gentry company, what was I 
to do ? I could not refuse the damsel of the dripping-pan. 
Such a kitchen toast. 




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Mes. Gaerick. 

Soon after the return of the late Queen Caroline from the 
continent, Alderman Wood attended her in one of the city 
barges down the River. I was beholding the aquatic sight on 
the Adelphi terrace. During this time Mrs. Garrick then 
lived there. About three o’clock, standing in the balcony, 
with an opera glass viewing the spectacle ; there was an 
eclipse at the same time. Having often been at our Roscius’s 
house, and so well known to her, yet many years had elapsed 
since she saw me. As her chariot was at the door, I inquired 
of the coachman if he expected his mistress soon ; when he 
replied. Directly. Though I had not spoken to her for years, 
she might not have remembered me after so long an absence, 
when I remained before the door to hand her to her carriage. 
On her approach towards the passage I made my obeisance, 
mentioning my name. To my surprise, I was directly 
known. Taking me by the hand, she exclaimed, “ How 
like your father ! How long has your dear mother been 
dead ? ” 

When assisting her to her carriage, supporting her arm, it 
was the mere bone of a skeleton ; her smile and countenance 
had all the remains of having been a handsome woman. 
Retaining her intellects, the affability with which she received 
me was beyond what I could possibly imagine. I knew at 
the time, Garrick had been dead so many years, January 20th, 
1779, her age must have been drawing near to a hundred. 
Referring to the marriage, July, 1749, our Roscius was 
married to Mademoiselle Villetti, the most capital dancer 
in Europe, and universally admired for her beauty and 

257 s 


accomplishments. At her demise, not long after, the papers 
announced her age as a hundked and one. 

Fiiench Chaeade. 

Mon premier est un tyran, mon seconde est effroyable, 

Mon tout est, pour un gar9on, pire que le diable. 

Reader, do you give it up ? it is Mari — age. 



As most of the 'personages mentioned by Angelo in the “ Fie Nic ” are also 
mentioned in the “Reminiscences,” notes on them xcill he found in the tico 
Vohimes tchich are published uniform vnth this, tohere also vnll be found 
portraAts of many of them. 

P. 37. Caricature of George Prince of Wales as Light Horseman, About the 
date this satire appeared (1796) it was in contemplation to ornament the open 
spaces of the metropolis with statues, a proposition which provided numerous 
sly jokes. Gillray— whose winged shafts brought down every order of game — 
published (May 3rd, 1796) a sketch he had taken of the Prince of Wales from the 
life, under the title of “A Hint to Modern Sculptors, as an Ornament for a Future 
Square,” with the famous quotation from Shakespeare’s Henry the Fourth as an apt 
comment on his illustration. 

From his vantage-ground in St. J ames’ Street, Gillray ’s critical eye observed 
and recorded all that passed his window, where the most elevated personages 
unconsciously became his models. 

A vfciietv, apropos of the illustration here presented, has set on record : — “Amongst 
others the illustrious equestrian figure who forms the subject of this “Hint to 
Modern Sculptors," preparing to review the crack regiment of which he was the 
redoubtable colonel, little thought he was passing muster before an unsparing 
martinet. A French painter humorously enlarged this portrait, and hoisted it 
on a straddling post before a cabaret, as the sign of an English Light Horse- 
man / ” — J. G. 

P. 39. The Marlborough Theatricals. — The rage for private theatricals towards 
the close of the eighteenth century, notwithstanding the opposition of the 
theatre managers, and Macklin’s damaging comment, that “the best private 
actor was not half so good as Dibble Davies,” has been illustrated by a note 
contributed by Mr. Grego to the Reminiscences, vol. I., (see pp. 424-5). 

To his list of the principal private theatres may be added the Duke of Marl- 
borough’s theatre (originally a greenhouse) at Blenheim. The dramatic Reynolds 
has left us an amusing account of the opening night, October, 1787. The 
performances consisted of Kelly’s “ False Delicacy,” and Mrs. Cowley’s “ Who’s 
the Dupe ? ” — 

“ During the first act, the beauty of the young ladies Spencer, and the elegant 
and expensive dresses worn by them and the other performers, much attracted 
his (companion’s) attention, but, during the middle of the second act, he seemed 
(to use his own expression) to grow rather fidgety, and as it approached the 



termination, he yawned, coughed, and made use of anotlier of his odd phrases, 
‘ Tiresome, fusty stuflf. Sir.’ 

“ Being, myself, unable to hear one line out of twenty, which these really private 
actors uttered, I expressed a wish that some friendly person would hint to them, 
that the entertainment of their audience would not be diminished if they would 
condescend to speak audibly. 

“ This gentle sarcasm, which I had imagined to have been wholly on Andrews 
side of the argument, instead of appeasing, only more inflamed him, and he 
vehemently cried, ‘ I wish quite the contrary, my dear Sir ! quite the contrary ! 
If you knew anything of the matter. Sir, you would be aware, that not to hear 
them is our only chance of getting through this tiresome evening. Now, at 
Richmond House, there were Lord Henry Fitzgerald and Mrs. Darner ; but, I am 
afraid, my dear Holman, we have no hope of seeing even one good performer 

“ At this moment, the Duke’s porter appeared on the stage in character, and 
exclaimed, ‘ A letter. Sir Harry ! ’ These words he delivered in such a strong, 
natural, audible tone of voice, that on his exit Andrews loudly applauded him, 
and even Holman and I could not refrain from joining in the applause. 

“ The even tenour of the play was disturbed during the third act by a clattering 
of cups in the audience, which the Duke took to be a signal for more refreshments. 
One of the attendants therefore started up — just as Sir Harry Newburgh was on 
the point of rushing into the heroine’s arms — and addressing the performers, 
exclaimed, ‘ Stop — some of the company want more tea.’ ” (See “ Life and Times 
of Frederick Reynolds,” 1826, vol. II., chapter x.) — H. L — S. 

P. 115. Zord Barrymore. — Richard, 7th Earl of Barrymore, born 1769, succeeded 
to the title upon his father’s death in 1773. The family motto, happily illustrated 
by his lordship’s career, was Boutez en avant, “Push forward.” (Lodge’s “ Peerage 
of Ireland,” 1789, 1. 285-313.) 

He was the perfect type of a spendthrift heir, and Anthony Pasquin, on whom 
the ofiice of biographer fitly devolved, observes that his life was wasted in the 
constant endeavour “ to do things in style.” When he succeeded to the estates 
they were said to produce the ample income of £10,000 a year, but as his expendi- 
ture in the brief period of five years is reported to have approached £300,000, 
they were soon at the mercy of his numerous creditors. If it be true that he was 
sent to Eton with a thousand pounds as pocket-money, we can hardly be sur- 
prised that he contracted habits of extravagance, and the absence of control in 
early youth furnishes excuse for conduct which almost indicated a taint of 
insanity. “ When about eighteen years of age,” Pasquin writes, “ he would take 
some spirited companion and go in the middle of the night to the circumjacent 
villages, and by means of a ladder, sliift the signs of the public-houses by carrying 
the King’s Head to the Three Jolly Anglers and the Three Jolly Anglers to the 
King’s Head.” (“ Life of the late Earl of Barrymore,” by Anthony Pasquin, Esq. 
3rd edition, 1793.) 

His affection for Wargrave was apparently the outcome of early associations, 
as he was placed there as a youth in the charge of a tutor. The limited 
accommodation of his establishment is amusingly described by Angelo, and his 
lordship’s sober-minded guests, who were doubtless in a minority, must have found 
it sadly inconvenient. “ The time allotted for repose was generally from five 



o’clock in the morning till noon, and if any ill-starred varlet presumed to steal 
away from the midnight carousal before the common signal for departure, his 
hands of sleep were burst asunder by a Dutch dirge, or an incantation to Hecate,’’ 
etc. (Ibid., p. 21.) 

The Wargrave theatre was erected and maintained at enormous expense. A 
less friendly critic writes : — “ An army of professional performers, dramatic 
directors, carvers, gilders, painters, harlequinic projectors, pantomimic buffoons, 
and the long train of subordinates employed upon the premises, gave to Wargrave 
then more the appearance of a metropolis in miniature, than what it now, being 
itself again, proves to be, a truly remote and rusticated village.” ( “ Truth opposed 
to Fiction, or an Authentic and Impartial Review of the Life of the late Right 
Hon. The Earl of Barrymore,” 1795, pp. 36, 37.) 

The day having other avocations, rehearsals were practised at night, began at 
nine or ten o’clock, and with intervals for refreshments concluded about four or 
five o’clock in the morning. On Sundays there was a rendezvous of London 
talent, brought to Wargrave and returned at his Lordship’s expense. Adjoining 
the theatre was a spacious saloon, in which the company were served with light 
refreshments by “ six men servants dressed in scarlet and gold.” 

Of Lord Barrymore’s exploits in the hunting field but little is recorded. His 
preparations for the chase were not of a kind to inspire enthusiasm in the breast 
of a thorough-paced sportsman, and appear to have been calculated for the 
meridian of Fontainebleau rather than an English country side. Pasquin informs 
us that — “ In his train were four Africans superbly mounted and superbly dressed 
in scarlet and silver, who were correct performers on the French Horn.” His 
Lordship’s wayward and uncertain habits occasioned so many broken appointments 
that the neighbouring sportsmen refused to attend his meets. The field some- 
times only comprised Lord Barrymore, his relatives and dependents, including 
Edwin Hooper, the tinman, “ who more than once displayed his perfection in the 
art of falling.” 

Lord Barrymore commenced his career on the turf at an early age, and the 
magnitude of his racing stable may be estimated from the fact that in 1790 he had 
nearly thirty horses in training, with not less than 140 engagements, and many of 
those for 500 and 1,000 guineas each. ( “ Truth Opposed to Fiction,” ut supra, p. 8.) 
Anthony Pasquin adds that during the Ascot Heath Races in the following year, 
he prepared two banquets for the Prince of Wales which cost him 1,700 guineas, 
but his Royal Highness was not a partaker of either ; “to the first came only Lord 
Barrymore and Mr. Fi’anco; to the other. Lord Falkland and myself.” 

Lord Barrymore was a celebrated whip, and was noted for a matchless team of 
“ Phaetonic greys.” The same writer observes : — “ I have been frequently conveyed 
by him in his phaeton and four over cross roads in the country in the middle of 
the night, when it has been so dark that we could scarcely perceive the leaders ; 
but so great was my reliance on his skill that I was never apprehensive of any 
disagreeable accident.” ( “ Life,” ut supra, p. 58.) 

It was his habit to spend the summer seasons at Brighthelrastone in company 
with the Prince of Wales, the Duke of York, Mrs. Fitzherbert, and kindred spirits. 

For the preservation of good manners he instituted a mock Court of Justice, of 
which “ Counsel for the Majesty of Decency” was Lord Barrymore, “Lord Chief 
Justice,” Anthony Pasquin, “ Mace Bearer,” John Edwin, &c. 



Another of his elaborate pleasantries was a set of Club Rules for a society which 
met at “ The World’s End,” at Leatherhead, of which the following specimens must 
suffice : — 

“ 1st Rule. — That there shall be no more members admitted into the room than 
it can hold. 

“ Resolved, that any man who cannot tell his right hand from his left, after being 
asked three times, shall be denied the honours and privileges of this society. 

“ That no member of this society shall presume to eat garlick, unless it can be 
proved that he likes it better than any other vegetable. 

“ That no member shall marry until he comes to the years of discretion ; and, as 
that is a desperate hope, it is recommended to all to live Bachelors. 

“ That every member who has two ideas shall be obliged to give one to his 

He once collected a crowd in the High Street at Newmarket with a loud 
preface of “ Oh, Yes,” and then cried : — “ Who wants to buy a horse that can 
walk five miles an hour, trot eighteen, and gallop twenty ? ” “I do,” said one. 
“ Then,” replied his Lordship, “ if I see any such animal to be sold I will be sure 
to let you know ! ” 

When in company with the Duke of York at Brighton he made it the subject 
of a wager which of them should walk the farthest into the sea. This highly 
decorous contest was decided there and then in the presence of a multitude of 
spectators, who must have been highly gratified with the sight of two well-dressed 
gentlemen — one of them a Prince of the Blood — wading out to sea till the water 
reached their necks. The Prince, being shorter than Lord Barrymore, lost the 

His death, on March 6th, 1793, was occasioned by the accidental discharge of a 
gun, while conducting an escort of militia with French prisoners from Rye to 
Deal. After regaling at a wayside public-house, he mounted his curricle, which 
accompanied the party, and handed his fowling-piece to a servant, who placed it 
between his legs, muzzle upwards. While in this position it exploded in Lord 
Barrymore’s face, “as he was in the act of pointing with his pipe [he was a 
confirmed smoker] to show his servant how plain the coast of France appeared in 
view.” He was buried in Wargrave Church. — H. L — S. 

P. 176. Zo?'d Moira. — A characteristic reminiscence of the upright Lord Moira 
(Marquis of Hastings) is preserved in the pictorial version of A Hint to Young 
Officers ; ride ^Edinburgh Chronicle, July 7th, 1804. Lord Moira is represented stand- 
ing at the door of Edinburgh Castle, holding a pair of lighted candles ; a young officer 
in regimentals is evidently startled at this unexpected reception on the part of his 
chief, and is removing his huge cocked hat in involuntary respect for his superior. 
A Scotch watchman indicates the advanced hour. Out of personal regard for 
R. B. Sheridan, Lord Moira had extended his powerful patronage to young Tom 
Sheridan and appointed him his aide-de-camp, though Sheridan’s son was a lively 
youth, who enjoyed the reputation of being a “ notorious pickle.” 

The Chief was a disciplinarian. During his occupation of Edinburgh Castle his 
servant was unpunctual in calling Lord Moira in time for an early review ; the man 
excused himself on the plea that he had overslept himself, as he was obliged to 
sit up till four or five o’clock every morning for the aide-de-camp. 



Lord Moira sent his servant to bed, and sat up in his stead, and when the 
Bacchanalian devotee. Young Tom, knocked at his usual hour, he was electrified 
at the reception pictured by Gillray. 

Young Tom was no less aptly witty than his sire. It is related of the lively 
youth that “ complaining one day to his father of that afflicting malady ‘ Argentum 
paucitas,’ he laughingly bade him ‘ go upon the highway.’ Tom replied he had 
tried that way, but without success. ‘ How ? ’ exclaimed the father. ‘ Why, sir,’ 
rejoined the son, ‘ I stopped a caravan full of players, who roundly swore that 
they had no monej^, for they belonged to Drury Lane ! ’ ” — J. G. 

P. 180. Dally the Tall. — One of the most conspicuous of the beautiful syrens 
whose attractions enlivened the palmy times of “ Prince Florizel” and his brilliant 
associates was Mrs. Grace Dalrymple Elliott, known familiarly to popular fame, 
and paragraphed in the fashionable prints, as “ Dally the Tall.” Associated with 
the group of temptresses who fluttered round the Sybarite lover George, Prince 
of Wales, we are informed the all-captivating Grace was born in Scotland in 1749. 
She was of gentle descent, the youngest daughter of Hew Dalrymple, an Edinburgh 
advocate, famous for his professional exertions in the celebrated “Douglas” cause. 
Owing to matrimonial differences, her mother had thought fit to return to her 
parents’ residence, where the bewitching Grace first appeared. The probability is 
that Grace Dalrymple’s early experiences of life predisposed her willing inclina- 
tions to take easy views of domestic obligations, and her education in a French 
convent may have imparted a taste for the Continent. On her return to her 
family, in the first flush of remarkable beauty, her personal fascinations produced 
a wide-spread impression upon Edinburgh society, and delighted all beholders. 
Dr. John Elliott, an elderly medico, who had made a fortune out of prize-money 
realized in privateering, returning home again, the ex-ship surgeon became a 
physician, and placed his fortune at the youthful charmer’s disposal, and, although 
the doctor was double the bewitching nymph's age, his suit was accepted in 1771. 
He was afterw'ards attached to the Court, made a baronet, and appointed physician 
to the Prince of Wales. Before reaching these distinctions Elliott experienced 
less gratifying strokes of fortune. Introducing his too-fascinating bride into 
fashionable circles, she was surrounded with temptations to forget her lawful 
protector. Society was dazzled with the beguilements of this serpentine charmer, 
the knight-errants rode in her pursuit, and certain suitors a la mode succeeded in 
winning the witch’s good graces. After a succession of dazzling entanglements 
and flirtations more or less compromising, “ Dally the Tall ” eloped for good in 
1774, with Lord Valentia for her chosen compagnon dc voyage. Her father, the 
eminent councillor, died immediately before the cause celebre which followed, 
though connected with his name. Lord Valentia’s escapade proved over-expensive. 
Elliott secured a divorce, with the considerable solation of £12,000 damages. Out 
of the interest the husband settled £200 as an annual allowance on his volatile 
lady, which was settled for her life. Grace was, by her brother, immured in 
another French convent, which did not long hold captive her attractive person ; 
since she returned to delight her friends in the highest circles ; Lord Cholmondeley, 
who journeyed to Paris expressly for the purpose of convoying her home again, 
being attached to her favourable regards. She had, as “ Dally the Tall,” diverted 
the crowds of nymphs gathered round the Prince’s train at Brighthelmstone, and, 
moving in the thick of modish gaiety, became the successful rival of Mrs. Robinson 



and captivated the volatile Heir Apparent. About 1782 she introduced to the 
fashionable world a daughter, who, as the godchild of the royal princes, bore their 
august names, as Georgiana Augusta Frederica Seymour. The Heir Apparent 
evidently felt a pride in assuming the part of parent to the lovely infant. He 
provided for the mother and the daughter, whose education he subsequently 
superintended. The daughter eventually carried her family pride farther than 
met the Prince’s approval, by quartering on her carriage the Royal Arms. Charles 
Windham and the witty George Selwyn were alike thought to have pretensions as 
to the young lady’s parentage, while unreservedly Lord Cholmondeley assumed 
the privilege, and it was from his family seat in 1808 the fair Georgiana Seymour 
was married to Lord Charles Bentinck. From the company of the Prince of Wales 
the fair “ Dally ” passed into relations with his ami damnee, the Duke of Orleans, 
whom she had first known as the Comte de Chartres. In 1786 we find her settled 
in Paris, and her husband. Sir John, deceased. Her daughter is said to have paid 
Mrs. Elliott several visits in Paris, and to have been by her mother introduced to 
the unfortunate Queen Marie Antoinette at the French Court. In the Journal 
of her Life Mrs. Elliott has given her personal account of the French revolution 
and its terrors as an eye-witness. As the companion of Egalite Orleans, the 
moving spirit of the troubles then devastating French society, she had singular 
and rare opportunities, according to her intimate circumstances, for becoming 
familiar with the lurid events which Orleans so largely influenced. According to 
her narrative, she remained the companion of Egalite until the trend of events 
becoming too violently desperate for his mastery, the prince, “ the enigma of 
history,” came to the guillotine, to which he had cynically consigned the reigning 
royal family in advance of his own downfall. After his execution she was arrested 
as his protegee. Her papers were searched, and, though there were found no 
traces of her participation in conspiracies against the inviolability of the French 
Republic, “ One and indivisible,” she was sent to prison, and, as she herself has 
recorded, condemned to follow her cher ami to the guillotine. This tragic ending 
to her relations with Orleans was, at the moment of realization, averted by the 
timely overthrow of Robespierre and the Terror. Her accounts are highly 
coloured, and their strict veracity has been questioned, perhaps without due 
justification, for she passed through sensational times. It has been doubted 
whether she was correct in recording that Bonaparte, the future Emperor, 
seriously ofiTered her marriage, and that she shared the same prison with Beau- 
harnais, Josephine, Madame Tallien, and Santerre. The latter intriguante she 
asserts was a stranger to Egalite. Mrs. Elliott’s Journal, thrown together some 
years after the events therein recorded had transpired, and as narrated by her to 
the King, may be fairly authentic, and the light her story throws upon leading 
incidents which happened under her personal observations is certainly interesting^ 
though imagination may have accentuated the romantic details unduly. She died 
in France in 1823. A remarkably fascinating syren in herself, the fair Grace con- 
trived to leave an exceptionally interesting record upon the chequered annals of 
her time. The suggestive beauties of her face and figure were admirably embodied 
upon canvas by Gainsborough ; and the prince’s miniaturist, Richard Cosway, R. A., 
has left a charming portrait in miniature of this fairest and most fascinating of 
Prince Florizel’s cher-amies, whose image long survived the manifold souvenirs of 
his “ youthful indiscretions.” — J. G. 



Abbott, Mrs., 229 
Aberdeen, Lord, 218 
Ainslie, Dr. Whitelow, 1 96 
“ Alderman’s Dream,” The, 131-133 
Alsop, Mrs., 70 

Angelo the Elder, 14, 15, 27, 42, 57, 114, 

“Anniversary of St. Alban.s,” 1-5 
Bacon, 196 

Bannister, John, 22, 31, 32, 72-76, 89, 90, 
91, 92, 123, 130, 187, 222, 238, 239, 254 
“Banquet Hall,” The, 1-5 
Barnwell, George, 133, 137 
Barrett, 25, 26 
Barrett, George, 208 
Barrington, Sir Jonah, 254 
Barry (actor), 18, 20 

Barrymore, Lord, 44, 45, 66, 115, 116, 211, 

Barthelemon, 174, 226 
Battersby, Captain, 184 
Beardmore, Dr., 252 
Beef Steak Club, 229 
Belcher, Tom, 249 
Bernard (actor), 209 
Boreham, W., 45 
Boulogne, Monsieur de, 9 
Boussiere, Monsieur de la, 37 
Brawn, W., 161 
Brown, Mather, 37 
Bowden, 19 
Buckinger, 254 
Bullock, 44, 45 
Bulwer, E. Lytton, 114 
Bunn, Mrs., 151 

Burdett, Sir Francis, 26, 56, 253 
Burgess, Mi’., 36 
Burke, Edmund, 204 
Burney, Dr., 25, 26 
Burton, Jack, 188 
Byron, Lord, 6, 7, 23, 139 

Campbell, Thomas, 71 
Cavendish, Lord George, 54, 89 
Chantrey, 198 
CTiai pentier, Miss, 71 
Chartres, Due de, 180 
Chatham, Earl of, 8 

Chesterfield, Lord, 24, 219 
Churchill, 20 
Clive, Mrs., 20 

Clarence, Duke of (William IV.), 7, 145. 
146, 249 

Cogni, Count de, 143 
Coleman, Rev. Samuel, 175 
Colman, George, 22, 23, 32, 123, 131, 138 
Coote, General Sir Eyre, 145 
Coursell, Monsieur de, 224 
Cox, Alderman, 179 
Craven, Lord, 211 
Crawford, Mrs., 20 
I Crequi, Marquis de, 166 
Crevelli, Signora, vii., viii. 

Cumbei’land, Duke of, 170, 172 
Cuppage, Chari e.s, 175 

Dally the Tall, 180 
Dansey, Mr., 16 
Darrel, Sir Lionel, 173 
Dennis, 18 
j Devine, 226 
Devonshire, Duke of, 166 
I Dibdin, Charles, 31, 32 
I Dignum, 174 
! Drummond, Henr}^, 183 
j Dryden, 18 
Dudley, Sir Bate, 142 
Durraergue, Mr. 71 
Dutch, Sam, 249 

Eamer, Sir John, 179 
Egville, d’, 58 
Ellenborough, Lord, 218 
Eon, Chevalier d’, 11, 36, 226 

Fabian, 11, 37 
Fabris, Salvatore, 218 
Falconer, Mr., 57 
Fielding, 208 

Fitzgerald, W. T., 20, 21, 210, 211 
Flaxman, 198, 200 
Foote, Samuel, 39, 48 
Forges, Marchioness de, 165 
1 Foster, Dr., 42 
I Fuller, Dr., 205 
I Fuller, Jack, 214, 216 



Gall, Dr., 162 

Garrick, David, 17, 19, 20, 35, 41, 245 

Garrick, Mrs., 257 

Garrow, Counsellor, 32 

George III., 161, 170, 172, 186 

George IV., 23, 24, 252 

Gibbs, Sir Vicary, 32, 33 

Glass, George, 25 

Gloucester, Duke of, 170 

Goddard, 12, 14 

Goodenough, Eev. Dr., 233 

Gordon, Sandy, 229 

Gower, Lord Leveson, 253 

Grafton, Duke of, 222 

Granard, Lord, 177 

Grant, Mrs., 233 

Grantham, Lord, 253 

Grasse, de, 57 

Grey, Lord, 218, 252 

Guildford, Lord, 207 

Guyn, John, 170 

Hall (engraver), 170 

Halliburton, Mr., 57 

Hankey, Mr., 223, 226 

Hanson, Cornet, 7 

Harley, 242 

Harris, Mr., 21, 161 

Hartley, Mrs., 142 

Hastings, Warren, 204 

Hawker, Colonel, 151 

Hawkesbury, Lord, 252 

Hayinan, Francis, 208 

Heath, James, 15, 72, 73, 75, 115, 222 

Herries, Colonel, 227 

Hewardine, 31 

Hogarth, 208 

Holcroft, Ml'., 21 

Holmes, Rev. Dr., 227 

Holwell, Governor, 35 

Hone, 44 

Hook, Theodore, 89, 207 
Hoppner, J., 240 
Hunt, Henry, 162 
Hunter, Miss, viii. 

Incledon, 174, 187 

Jackson (“ Gentleman ”), 40 
“Jervis’s Ghost,” 126-130 
Jeykell, Mr., 187 
Johnstone, John, 89, 90, 91 
Jordan, Mrs., 70, 254, 255 

Kean, Edmund, 184, 185, 240-246 
Keep Line Club, 20, 210 
Kelly, 248 

Kemble, Charles, 35, 238, 248 
Kemble, John Phillip, 207, 210, 242 
Kemble, Stephen, 242 

Kempenfeldt, Admiral, 213 
Kenney, 21, 22 

Kent, Dnke of, 31, 145, 148, 149 
King (actor), 20 

Laboissiere, Monsieur, 10 
Lamb, Charles, 22 
Laurie, Mr., 92 
Lausanne, Due de, 36 
Lawrence, Sir Thomas, 14-16 
Lays, Mrs., 122 
Lenox, Mrs., 18 
Le Pierre, Monsieur, 2'23 
Leslie, Mr., 27, 28 
Lewis, 21 

Lind, Dr. James, 204 
Lindlej', Mrs., 14 
Linley, William, 131, 165 
Liverpool, Lord, 218, 252 
Locke, 219 
Lough, 198, 200 
Louis XVIII., 30, 143 
Lovelace, Mrs., 184 
Lumley, Hon. Mr., 57 

Maberlv, 68 
Macdonald, Lord, 26 
McHowarth, 32 
Macklin, Charles, 16-19, 161 
Mac-ready, W. C., 246, 247 
Maitland, 234 
Malton, Ml’., 14, 15 
Manby, Dame, 214 
Manchester, Duke of, 173, 253 
I Manners, Lord Robert, 57 
I Mansfield, Lord, 68, 69, 205 
I Margrave, The (of Anspach), 48, 51 
Margravine, The, 46 
Maryborough, Lord, 57 
Maynard, Samuel, 54, 227 
Melbourne, Lord, 91 
Micheles, Monsieur, 28, 29 
Moge, Monsieur, 37 
Moira, Lord, 173, 175, 176, 177, 179 
Mollard, Monsieur, 221 
Mouson, Hon. Charles, 42 
Montalembert, Marqnis of, 11, 50 
Montesson, Madame de, 11 
Moreton, Lord, 57 
Morland, George, 44, 122 
Moser, Michael, 239, 240 
Mountmorris, Lord, 173 
Mourier, General de, 12, 38 
Munden, 142 

Murphy, Arthur, 114, 115 

Nanon, 9, 39 
Napoleon, Emperor, 197 
Neal, 174 

Nelson, Ijord, 166, 210 
Nicholson, Mr. Charles, 157 


“OlKOMAXIA,” 123-126 
O’Keefe, 39 
Olivier, 26 

Orange, Prince of, 88 
Orleans, Duke of, 11 
Owen, Colonel Arthur, 145 

Pantheon, The, 12, 182 
Parclone, 234, 235 
Parker, George, 189 
Parr, 25 

Parsons (actor), 186 
Payne, Howard, 22 
Peake, 130 

Pembroke, Earl of, vii., viii., 122 
Penn, William, 140 
Perry, James, 250 
Phipps, Hon. General, 188 
Picard, Monsieur, 10 
Pineaux, Monsieur de, 237 
Pope, Mr., 84, 242 
Porson, Professor, 250 
Porter, .Jane, 198 
Portland, Duke of, 233 
Powell, 20 

“ Prevot, Mrs.,” 138-139 
Prior, Matthew, 206 
Pyrard, 219 
“Puck’s Tale,” 93-114 

Queen Caroline, 257 
Queensberry, Duchess of, 36 
Queensberry, Marquis of, 253 

Radcliffe, Mrs., 1 

Raine, Dr., 260 

Randolf, Rev. Dr., 33 

Rawlins, Sir W.. 179 

Recoverot (fencer), 225 

Redman, 234 

Reeves, John, 33 

Regent, The Prince, 11 

Rennell, Dr., 33 

Reynolds, Sir Joshua, 20, 142 

Roddam, Admiral, 8 

Rodney, Admiral, 57 

Rosslyn, Lord, 218 

Rouelle, Jean Jacques, 65 

Rowland, George, 225 

Rowlandson, Thomas, 56, 91, 92, 122, 240 

Rutland, Duke of, 233, 253 

Russia, Empress of, 8 

Ryland, W. W., 170 

St. Albans, Duchess of, 253 
St. George, Chevalier de, 9-12, 13, 14, 37, 
38, 39, 226 

St. Ville, Monsieur, 9 
Sale, 174 

Scarborough, Lord, 57 
Scott, Sir Walter, 71, 248 

“Sculpture, Progress of” (Ainslie), 198 

Searle, 174 

Shaw (actor), 189, 248 

Sheridan, R. Brinsley, 143, 164, 207, 248 

Sheridan, Thomas, 142, 143 

Sidmouth, Lord, 218, 252 

Simmons, Thomas, 45 

Sinclair, Sir John, 220 

Skeratt, Mrs., 52 

Slingsby, 183 

Sloane, Sir Hans, 65 

Smith, Horace, 133, 139 

Smollett, 208 

Somei’set, Lord Edward, 253 
>Soubise, 25, 204 
Southampton, Lord, 252 
Stevens, George A., 208, 210 
Stewart, Sir Michael, 27 
Stretton, Mr., 144, 178 
Suet, Dick, 186 
Sussex, Duke of, 173 

Talbot, Lord, 253 
Talma, 22 

Taylor, Charles, 1 23 
Thornton, Colonel, 122 
Tickell, Mrs., 164 
Tidswell, Miss, 246 
Tooke Horne, 63 

Vaughan, 174 
Viganoni, 174 

“Wabble, Miss,” 137-138 
Wade, 167, 168 

Wales, Prince of,” 36, 45, J74, 176 
Wai’d, 37 

Warren, Admiral Sir John B., 158 
Webb, 174 

Wellington, Duke of, 23 
West, Benjamin, 196, 197 
West, Mrs., 151 
Westmacott, 198, 200 
Wewitzer, 186, 187 
Whitfield (actor), 208 
Whittle, Mr., 92 
William IV., 7, 206 
Williams, Sir Hanbui’y, 42 
Wilson, 186, 208 
Woffington, Mrs., 114, 170 
Wolfe, General, 170 
Wood, Alderman, 257 
Woodward, 20 
Woolett, 170, 188 
Wright, 188 
Wyatt, 198 

Yates, Mrs., 20 

Zea, Mr., 61 
Zofani, J., 36 




ST. John’s house, clerkkxwell, e.c.