With what unequal tempers are we form'd! One day the soul, elate and satisfied,
Revels secure, and fondly tells herself
The hour of evil can return no more:
The next, the spirit, pall'd and sick of riot,
Turns all to discord, and we hate our being,
Curse our past joys, and think them folly all.
[1]MATTER and motion, say Philosophers, are inseparable, and the doctrine appears equally applicable to the human mind. Our country Squire, anxious to testify a grateful sense of the attentions paid him during his London visit, had assiduously exerted himself since his return, in contributing to the pleasures and amusements of his visitors; and Belville Hall presented a scene of festive hospitality, at once creditable to its liberal owner, and gratifying to the numerous gentry of the surrounding neighbourhood.
But however varied and numerous the sports and recreations of rural life, however refined and select the circle of its society, they possessed not the endless round of metropolitan amusement, nor those ever-varying delights produced amid “the busy hum of men,” where every street is replete with incident and character, and every hour fraught with adventure.
Satiety had now evidently obtruded itself amid the party, and its attendants, lassitude and restlessness, were not long in bringing up the rear. The impression already made upon the mind of Bob by the cursory view he had taken of Life in London was indelible, and it required little persuasion on the part of his cousin, the Hon. Tom Dashall, to induce him again to return to scenes of so much delight, and which afforded such inexhaustible stores of amusement to an ardent and youthful curiosity.
[2]A return to the Metropolis having therefore been mutually agreed upon, and every previous arrangement being completed, the Squire once more abdicated for a season his paternal domains, and accompanied by his cousin Dashall, and the whole ci-devant party of Belville Hall, arrived safe at the elegant mansion of the latter, where they planned a new system of perambulation, having for its object a further investigation of manners, characters, objects, and incidents, connected with Real Life in London.
“Come,” cried Dashall, one fine morning, starting up immediately after breakfast—
“——rouse for fresh game, and away let us haste,
The regions to roam of wit, fashion, and taste;
Like Quixote in quest of adventures set out,
And learn what the crowds in the streets are about;
And laugh when we must, and approve when we can,
Where London displays ev'ry feature of man.”
 
“The numerous hotels, bagnios, taverns, inns, coffee-houses, eating-houses, lodging-houses, &c. in endless variety, which meet the eye in all parts of the metropolis, afford an immediate choice of accommodation, as well to the temporary sojourner as the permanent resident; where may be obtained the necessaries and luxuries of life, commensurate with your means of payment, from one shilling to a guinea for a dinner, and from sixpence to thirty shillings a night for a lodging!
“The stranger recommended to one of these hotels, who regales himself after the fatigues of a journey with moderate refreshment, and retires to rest, and preparing to depart in the morning, is frequently surprised at the longitudinal appearance and sum total of his bill, wherein every item is individually stated, and at a rate enormously extravagant. Remonstrance is unavailable; the charges are those common to the house, and in failure of payment your luggage is under detention, without the means of redress; ultimately the bill must be paid, and the only consolation left is, that you have acquired a useful, though expensive lesson, how to guard in future against similar exaction and inconvenience."{1}
1 Marlborough Street.—Yesterday, Mrs. Hickinbottom, the
wife of Mr. Hickinbottom, the keeper of the St. Petersburgh
Hotel in Dover Street, Piccadilly, appeared to a summons to
answer the complaint of a gentleman for unlawfully detaining
his luggage under the following circumstances: The
complainant stated, that on Thursday evening last, on his
arrival in town from Aberdeen, he went to the White Horse
Cellar, Piccadilly; but the house being full, he was
recommended to the St. Petersburgh Hotel in Dover Street;
where, having taken some refreshment and wrote a letter, he
went to bed, and on the following morning after break-fast,
he desired the waiter to bring him his bill, which he did,
and the first item that presented itself was the moderate
charge of one pound ten shillings for his bed; and then
followed, amongst many others, sixpence for a pen, a
shilling for wax, a shilling for the light, and two and
sixpence for other lights; so that the bill amounted in the
whole to the sum of two pounds one shilling for his night's
lodging! To this very exorbitant charge he had refused to
submit; in consequence of which he had been put to great
inconvenience by the detention of his luggage. The
magistrate animadverted with much severity on such
extravagant charges on the part of the tavern-keeper, and
advised that upon the gentleman paying fifteen shillings,
the things might be immediately delivered up. To these
terms, however, Mrs. Hickinbottom refused to accede, adding
at the same time, that the gentleman had only been charged
the regular prices of the house, and that she should insist
upon the whole amount of the bill being paid, for that the
persons who were in the habit of coming to their house never
objected to such, the regular price of their lodgings being
ten guineas per week! The magistrate lamented that he had
no power to enforce the things being given up, but he
recommended the complainant to bring an action against the
tavern-keeper for the detention.
[3] These were the observations directed by Dashall to his friend, as they passed, one morning, the Hotel de la Sabloniere in Leicester Square.
“Doubtless,” he continued, “in those places of affluent resort, the accommodations are in the first style of excellence; yet with reference to comfort and sociability, were I a country gentleman in the habit of occasionally visiting London, my temporary domicile should be the snug domesticated Coffee-house, economical in its charges and pleasurable in the variety of its visitors, where I might, at will, extend or abridge my evening intercourse, and in the retirement of my own apartment feel myself more at home than in the vacuum of an hotel.”
The attention of our perambulators, in passing through the Square, was attracted by a fine boy, apparently about eight years of age, dressed in mourning, who, at the door of Brunet's Hotel, was endeavouring with all his little strength and influence to oppose the egress of a large Newfoundland dog, that, indignant of restraint, seemed desirous in a strange land of introducing himself to [4] canine good fellowship. The boy, whose large dark eyes were full of animation, and his countenance, though bronzed, interestingly expressive, remonstrated with the dog in the French language. “The animal does not understand you,” exclaimed Tallyho, in the vernacular idiom of the youth, “Speak to him in English.” “He must be a clever dog,” answered the boy, “to know English so soon, for neither him nor I have been in England above a week, and for the first time in our lives.”—“And how is it,” asked Tallyho, “that you speak the English language so fluently?” “O,” said the little fellow, “my mother taught it me; she is an English woman, and for that reason I love the English, and am much fonder of talking their language than my own.” There was something extremely captivating in the boy. The dog now struggling for freedom was nearly effecting his release, when the two friends interposed their assistance, and secured the pre-meditating fugitive at the moment when, to inquire the cause of the bustle, the father of the child made his appearance in the person of Field Marshal Count Bertrand. The Count, possessing all the characteristics of a gentleman, acknowledged politely the kind attention of the strangers to his son, while, on the other hand, they returned his obeisance with the due respect excited by his uniform friendship and undeviating attachment to greatness in adversity. The discerning eye of Field Marshal Bertrand justly appreciated the superior rank of the strangers, to whom he observed, that during the short period he had then been in England, he had experienced much courtesy, of which he should always retain a grateful recollection. This accidental interview was creative of reciprocal satisfaction, and the parties separated, not without an invitation on the part of the boy, that his newly found acquaintances would again visit the “friends of the Emperor."{1}[5]
1 LINES SUPPOSED TO  HAVE BEEN WRITTEN BY
THE  EX-EMPEROR NAPOLEON  IN  HIS  LAST  ILLNESS.
 
Too slowly the tide of existence recedes
For him in captivity destined to languish,
The Exile, abandon'd of fortune, who needs
The friendship of Death to obliviate his anguish.
Yet, even his last moments unmet by a sigh,
Napoleon the Great uncomplaining shall die!
 
Though doom'd on thy rock, St. Helena, to close
My life, that once presag'd ineffable glory,
Unvisited here though my ashes repose,
No tablet to tell the lone Exile's sad story,—
Napoleon Buonaparte—still shall the name
Exist on the records immortal of Fame!
 
Posterity, tracing the annals of France,
The merits will own of her potent defender;
Her greatness pre-eminent skill'd to advance,
Creating, sustaining, her zenith of splendour;
Who patroniz'd arts, and averted alarms,
Till crush'd by the union of nations in arms!
 
I yield to my fate! nor should memory bring
One moment of fruitless and painful reflection
Of what I was lately—an Emperor and King,
Unless for the bitter, yet fond recollection
Of those, who my heart's best endearments have won,
Remote from my death-bed—my Consort and SON!
 
Denied in their arms even to breathe my last sigh,
No relatives' solace my exit attending;
With strangers sojourning, 'midst strangers I die,
No tear of regret with the last duties blending.
To him, the lorn Exile, no obsequies paid,
Whose fiat a Universe lately obey'd!
 
Make there then my tomb, where the willow trees wave,
And, far in the Island, the streamlet meanders;
If ever, by stealth, to my green grassy grave
Some kind musing spirit of sympathy wanders—
“Here rests,” he will say, “from Adversity's pains,
Napoleon Buonaparte's mortal remains!”
 
We have no disposition to enter into the character of the
deceased Ex-Emperor; history will not fail to do justice
alike to the merits and the crimes of one, who is inevitably
destined to fill so portentous a page on its records. At the
present time, to speak of the good of which he may have been
either the intentional or the involuntary instrument,
without some bias of party feeling would be impossible.
 
“Hard is his fate, on whom the public gaze
Is fix'd for ever, to condemn or praise;
Repose denies her requiem to his name,
And folly loves the martyrdom of fame.”
 
At all events, he is now no more; and “An English spirit
wars not with the dead.”
 
“The Count,” said Dashall to his Cousin, as they pursued their walk, “remains in England until he obtain [6] permission from the King of France to return to his native country: that such leave will be given, there is little doubt; the meritorious fidelity which the Count has uniformly exemplified to his late unfortunate and exiled Master, has obtained for him universal esteem, and the King of France is too generous to withhold, amidst the general feeling, his approbation.”
Passing through Long Acre in their progress towards the British Museum, to which national establishment they had cards of admission, the two friends were intercepted in their way by a concourse at a coach-maker's shop, fronting which stood a chariot carefully matted round the body, firmly sewed together, and the wheels enveloped in hay-bands, preparatory to its being sent into the country. Scarcely had these precautionary measures of safety been completed, when a shrill cry, as if by a child inside the vehicle, was heard, loud and continuative, which, after the lapse of some minutes, broke out into the urgent and reiterated exclamation of—“Let me out!—I shall be suffocated!—pray let me out!”
The workmen, who had packed up the carriage, stared at each other in mute and appalling astonishment; they felt conscious that no child was within the vehicle; and when at last they recovered from the stupor of amazement, they resisted the importunity of the multitude to strip the chariot, and manfully swore, that if any one was inside, it must be the Devil himself, or one of his imps, and no human or visible being whatsoever.
Some, of the multitude were inclined to a similar opinion. The crowd increased, and the most intense interest was depicted in every countenance, when the cry of “Let me out!—I shall die!—For heaven's sake let me out!” was audibly and vehemently again and again repeated.
The impatient multitude now began to cut away the matting; when the workmen, apprehensive that the carriage might sustain some damage from the impetuosity of their proceedings, took upon themselves the act of dismantling the mysterious machine; during which operation, the cry of “Let me out!” became more and more clamorously importunate. At last the vehicle was laid bare, and its door thrown open; when, to the utter amazement of the crowd, no child was there—no trace was to be seen of aught, human or super-human! The [7] assemblage gazed on the vacant space from whence the sounds had emanated, in confusion and dismay. During this momentary suspense, in which the country 'Squire participated, a voice from some invisible agent, as if descending the steps of the carriage, exclaimed—“Thank you, my good friends, I am very much obliged to you—I shall now go home, and where my home is you will all know by-and-by!”
With the exception of Dashall and Tallyho, the minds of the spectators, previously impressed with the legends of superstition and diablerie, gave way under the dread of the actual presence of his satanic majesty; and the congregated auditors of his ominous denunciation instantaneously dispersed themselves from the scene of witchery, and, re-assembling in groupes on distant parts of the street, cogitated and surmised on the Devil's visit to the Coachmakers of Long Acre!
Tallyho now turned an inquisitive eye on his Cousin, who answered the silent and anxious enquiry with an immoderate fit of laughter, declaring that this was the best and most ingenious hoax of any he had ever witnessed, and that he would not have missed, on any consideration whatsoever, the pleasure of enjoying it. “The Devil in Long Acre!—I shall never forget it,” exclaimed the animated Cousin of the staring and discomfited 'Squire.
“Explain, explain,” reiterated the 'Squire, impatiently.
“You shall have it in one word,"answered Dashall—“Ventriloquism!”{1}
1 This hoax was actually practised by a Ventriloquist in the
manner described. It certainly is of a less offensive nature
than that of many others which have been successfully
brought for-ward in the Metropolis, the offspring of folly
and idleness.—“A fellow,” some years ago, certainly not “of
infinite humour,” considering an elderly maiden lady of
Berner Street a “fit and proper subject” on whom to
exercise his wit, was at the trouble of writing a vast
number of letters to tradesmen and others, magistrates and
professional men, ordering from the former various goods,
and requiring the advice, in a case of emergency, of the
latter, appointing the same hour, to all, of attendance; so
that, in fact, at the time mentioned, the street, to the
annoy-ance and astonishment of its inhabitants, was crowded
with a motley group of visitants, equestrian and pedestrian,
all eagerly pressing forward to their destination, the old
lady's place of residence. In the heterogeneous assemblage
there were seen Tradesmen of all denominations, accompanied
by their Porters, bearing various articles of household
furniture; Counsellors anticipating fees; Lawyers engaged
to execute the last will and testament of the heroine of the
drama, and, not the least conspicuous, an Undertaker
preceded by his man with a coffin; and to crown the whole,
“though last not least in our esteem,” the then Lord Mayor of
London, who, at the eager desire of the old Lady, had, with
a commendable feeling of humanity, left his civic dominions,
in order to administer, in a case of danger and difficulty,
his consolation and assistance. When, behold! the clue was
unravelled, the whole turn'd out an hoax, and the Author
still remains in nubibus!!!
[8] “And who could have been the artist?” enquired Tallyho.
“Nay,” answered his friend, “that is impossible to say; some one in the crowd, but the secret must remain with himself; neither do I think it would have been altogether prudent his revealing it to his alarmed and credulous auditory.”
“A Ventriloquist,” observed the 'Squire, “is so little known in the country, that I had lost all reminiscence of his surprising powers; however, I shall in future, from the occurrence of to-day, resist the obtrusion of superstition, and in all cases of 'doubtful dilemma' remember the Devil in Long Acre!”{l}
“Well resolved,” answered Dashall; and in a few minutes they gained Great Russel Street, Bloomsbury, without further incident or interruption.
1 The child in the hat.—Not long since, a Waggoner coming
to town with a load of hay, was overtaken by a stranger, who
entered into familiar conversation with him. They had not
pro-ceeded far, when, to the great terror of Giles Jolt, a
plaintive cry, apparently that of a child, issued from the
waggon. “Didst hear that, mon?” exclaimed Giles. The cry was
renewed—“Luord! Luord! an there be na a babe aneath the
hay, I'se be hanged; lend us a hand, mon, to get un out, for
God's sake!” The stranger very promptly assisted in
unloading the waggon, but no child was found. The hay now
lay in a heap on the road, from whence the cry was once more
long and loudly reiterated! In eager research, Giles next
proceeded to scatter the hay over the road, the cry still
continuing; but when, at last, he ascertained that the
assumed infantine plaint was all a delusion, his hair stood
erect with horror, and, running rapidly from his companion,
announced that he had been associated on the road by the
Devil, for that none else could play him such a trick! It
was not without great difficulty that the people to whom he
told this strange story prevailed on him to return, at last,
to his waggon and horses; he did so with manifest
reluctance. To his indescribable relief, his infernal
companion hail vanished in the person of the Ventriloquist,
and Jolt still believes in the supernatural visitation!
[9] Amongst the literary and scientific institutions of the Metropolis, the British Museum, situated in Great Russel Street, Bloomsbury, stands pre-eminent.
Entering the spacious court, our two friends found a party in waiting for the Conductor. Of the individuals composing this party, the reconnoitering eye of Dashall observed a trio, from whence he anticipated considerable amusement. It was a family triumvirate, formed of an old Bachelor, whose cent per cent ideas predominated over every other, wheresoever situated or howsoever employed; his maiden Sister, prim, starch and antiquated; and their hopeful Nephew, a complete coxcomb, that is, in full possession of the requisite concomitants—ignorance and impudence, and arrayed in the first style of the most exquisite dandyism. This delectable triumviri had emerged from their chaotic recess in Bearbinder-lane; the Exquisite, to exhibit his sweet person along with the other curiosities of the Museum; his maiden Aunt, to see, as she expressed it, the “He-gipsyian munhuments, kivered with kerry-glee-fix;” and her Brother, to ascertain whether, independent of outlandish baubles, gimcracks and gewgaws, there was any thing of substantiality with which to enhance the per contra side in the Account Current between the British Museum and the Public!
Attaching themselves to this respectable trio, Dashall and Tallyho followed, with the other visitants, the Guide, whose duty it that day was to point out the various curiosities of this great national institution.
The British Museum was established by act of parliament, in 1753, in pursuance of the will of Sir Hans Sloane, who left his museum to the nation, on condition that Parliament should pay 20,000L. to his Executors, and purchase a house sufficiently commodious for it. The parliament acted with great liberality on the occasion; several other valuable collections were united to that of Sir Hans Sloane, and the whole establishment was completed for the sum of 85,000L. raised by lottery. At the institution of this grand treasury of learning, it was proposed that a competent part of 1800L. the annual sum granted by parliament for the support of the house, should be appropriated for the purchase of new books; but the salaries necessary for the officers, together with the contingent expenses, have always exceeded the allowance; so that the Trustees have been repeatedly [10] obliged to make application to defray the necessary charges.
Mr. Timothy Surety, the before mentioned Bearbinder-lane resident, of cent per cent rumination; his accomplished sister, Tabitha; his exquisite nephew, Jasper; and the redoubtable heroes of our eventful history, were now associated in one party, and the remaining visitants were sociably amalgamated in another; and each having its separate Conductor, both proceeded to the inspection of the first and most valuable collection in the universe.
 Page10 British Museum 
On entering the gate, the first objects which attracted attention were two large sheds, defending from the inclemency of the seasons a collection of Egyptian monuments, the whole of which were taken from the French at Alexandria, in the last war. The most curious of these, perhaps, is the large Sarcophagus beneath the shed to the left, which has been considered as the exterior coffin of Alexander the Great, used at his final interment. It is formed of variegated marble, and, as Mrs. Tabitha Surety observed, was “kivered with Kerry-glee-fix.”
“Nephew Jasper,” said his Uncle, “you are better acqua............