Hail! venerable pile! with awe I tread The sacred mansion of th' illustrious dead!
Where rise, o'er forms now mould'ring into dust,
The “storied urn” and “animated West.”—
Beneath the fretted dome, aspiring high,
Here monarchs, heroes, poets, sages, lie!
“Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue,”
 Here sleeps the bard with those whom erst he sung;
And all consigned to one impartial doom,
Lo! kings and subjects levelled in the tomb!
IN a perambulation westward, our friends shortly reached the precinct of Westminster Abbey, or the collegiate Church of Saint Peter; the most ancient religious structure in the metropolis.
Divested of fabulous narration, its history is briefly as follows. Its name is obviously derived from its situation, in the west, and from its original destination as the church of a monastery. It was founded by Sebert, king of the East Saxons; was destroyed afterwards by the Danes; was subsequently re-built by king Edgar in 958; the church was again re-built by Edward the Confessor in 1065; and by Pope Nicholas II. it was constituted a place of inauguration of the English Monarchs. Henry III. re-built it from the ground, and Henry VII. added a magnificent chapel at the east end of it. The monastery was surrendered by the abbot and monks to Henry VIII. who first converted it into a college of secular canons, and afterwards into a cathedral, of which the county of Middlesex was the see. His successor, Edward VI. dissolved the see, and restored the college, which was again converted by Mary into an abbey. That institution was dissolved by Elizabeth in 1560; she founded the present establishment, which is a college consisting of a dean, 12 secular canons, and 30 petty canons; to which is attached a school of 40 boys, denominated the Queen's or King's scholars, with a master and usher; and also twelve alms-men, an organist, and choristers.
Its greatest length is 489 feet; the breadth of the west front 66 feet; the length of the cross aisle 189 feet; and the height of the roof 92 feet; the west end is adorned with two towers, which were built by Sir Christopher Wren. The nave and cross aisles are supported by two rows of arches, of Sussex marble, one above the other, each of the pillars of which is a union of one massy round pillar, and tour others of a similar form, but slender. These aisles are lofty, and each of the small pillars being extended from the base to the roof, they produce an idea at once sublime and awful. Besides the cross aisle there are two side aisles, which are lower than the nave; and, being in a just proportion, they unite with the other parts of the edifice to produce a harmonious effect. The choir, from which there is an ascent by several steps to a magnificent altar-piece of white marble, is divided from the western part of the great aisle by two iron gates, and is perhaps the most beautiful choir in Europe: its roof was materially injured by fire, occasioned by the carelessness of the plumbers who were repairing it in 1803, but it has since been completely restored, at an expence of upwards of ￡4000. In this choir is performed the coronation of the Kings and Queens of England.
This succinct account will not prove unacceptable, we hope, to our readers.
The attractive spot at the southern extremity of the cross aisle was now entered by the two friends. “This,” said Dashall, “is called Poet's Corner, and never could a place be named with more propriety.”
Tallyho cast an eye of intense observation on these sacred records of departed excellence. Here he found the names of Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, Johnson, Milton, Dryden, Butler, Thomson, Gay, Goldsmith, &c. There also, as though the spot were dedicated to genius of the highest rank, are the tombs of Handel and Garrick. The Squire in his admiration of the British Poets, now gave full scope to the ardency of his feelings, and surrounded by the sculptured images of the bards of former days, he seemed as if environed by a re-animated constellation of genius, and wrapt in the delirium of its inspiritive influence.
[84] Westminster Abbey contains a great number of monuments of kings, statesmen, heroes, poets, and persons distinguished by genius, learning, and science; but many of these monuments can be regarded as little better than so many disfigurements of the buildings. Some however are to be spoken of with praise, and the best are the productions of Reubilliac and Bacon.
The curiosities of Westminster Abbey consist chiefly of twelve chapels, the principal of which were visited by Dashall and his cousin; but to the chapel of Henry VII. their chief attention was directed. This chapel is contiguous to the eastern extremity of the church, and opens into it: it is dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and is one of the finest specimens of Gothic antiquity in the world. On its site formerly stood a chapel dedicated to the Virgin Mary, and also a tavern, distinguished by the sign of the White Rose: Henry resolving to erect a superb mausoleum for himself and his family, pulled down the old chapel and tavern, and on the 11th of February in the year 1503, the first stone of the new structure was laid by Abbot Islip, at the King's command. It cost ￡14,000, an immense sum for that period, particularly considering the rapacious temper of the king. The exterior of the chapel is distinguished by the richness and variety of its form, occasioned chiefly by 14 towers, elegantly proportioned to the body of the edifice, and projecting in different angles from the outer-most wall: the inside is approached by the area at the back of the chapels of Edward the Confessor and Henry v. The floor of this chapel is elevated above that of the area, and the ascent is by a flight of marble steps: the entrance is ornamented with a handsome gothic portico of stone, within which are three large gates of gilt brass, of curious open workmanship, every pannel being enriched with a rose and a portcullis alternately. The chapel consists of the nave and two small aisles: the centre is 99 feet in length, 66 in breadth, and 54 in height, terminating at the east in a curve, and having five deep recesses of a similar form: the entrance to these recesses is by open arches, and they add greatly to the relief and beauty of the building: it is not improbable that they were originally so many smaller chapels, destined to various uses. The side aisles are in a just proportion to the centre, with which they communicate by four arches, turned on gothic pillars; each of them is relieved by four recesses, a window, with minute and curious [85]divisions, running the whole height of each recess. The upper part of the nave has four windows on each side, and ten in the eastern extremity, five above and five below. The whole of the roof of the chapel, including the side aisles and the curve at the end, is of wrought stone, in the gothic style, and of exquisite beauty. An altar-tomb erected by Henry, at the cost of ￡1000, to receive his last remains, stands in the centre of the chapel. It is of basaltic stone, ornamented and surrounded with a magnificent railing of gilt brass. This monument was constructed by Peter Torregiano, a Florentine artist, and possesses extraordinary merit. Six devices in bas-relief, and four statues, all of gilt brass, adorn the tomb.
In addition to these venerable antiquities, which all deserve to be seen, a variety of figures in wax, and in cases with glazed doors, are shewn as curiosities to the stranger; but they ought to be removed, as disgraceful to the grandeur and solemnity of the other parts of the scene, and as a satire on the national taste, which can scarcely be excused, when such things are exhibited in a room for children's amusement.
Every lover of the arts must lament that this beautiful relic of gothic taste is falling rapidly to decay; notwithstanding, within the last twenty-four years, the Dean and Chapter of Westminster have expended the sum of ￡28,749 in general repairs of the abbey. Parliament, however, has at last granted the requisite aid, and the sum of ￡20,000 has been voted to commence the repairs, which are now going on. It has been estimated that the necessary repairs of Henry the VIIth's chapel will cost about ￡14,800 and the ornamental repairs about ￡10,400.
The prospect from the western tower of the abbey is more beautiful and picturesque, though less extensive, than that from St. Paul's. The west end of the town and its environs, the Banquetting-house at Whitehall, St. James's park, the gardens of the Queen's palace, the extremity of Piccadilly and Hyde-park, with the Serpentine River, and the distant groves of Kensington Gardens, present a varied and magnificent view towards the west. On the other hand, the bridges of Westminster, Waterloo, and Blackfriars, with the broad expanse of the Thames, and Somerset-house on its banks, and St. Paul's towering pile, together with the light Gothic steeple of St. Dunstan's in the East, present a most noble and [86] interesting prospect. From this tower the exterior form of St. Paul's, when the sun falls upon it, is distinctly seen, and here its exquisite beauty will be more fully comprehended than in any part of the city, for a sufficient area to take in the entire outline is not to be found there.
This prolixity of description will not, we presume, be considered by our readers, as a tedious digression from the main subject.—Real Life in London cannot be better elucidated, than by uniting incident with appropriate anecdote, and amidst the perambulations of our respectable associates, which led them to the ancient and interesting edifice of Westminster Abbey, it necessarily followed that we should illustrate the subject, by a brief, yet accurate and interesting account of the antiquity, et cetera, of the object under consideration.
Having gratified their wishes by a cursory inspection of what their guides were pleased to denominate “Curiosities,” our two heroes were on the eve of departure from the Abbey, when Bob begged that the guide would repeat the terms of admission to view these repositories of mortality.
“The tombs,” said the conductor, “at the east end of the church, with the chapel of Henry VIIth, the price of admission to view these, sir, is six-pence; the models three-pence; the tombs at the northern part of the cross aisle three-pence; and the west end and tower of the abbey six-pence.”
Tallyho expressed his surprise that the house of God and the depository of the dead, should be so shamefully assigned over to the influence of Mammon, and a price of admission as into a place of public amusement, exacted by those to whose mercenary government the ancient structure of Westminster Abbey had devolved. “Was it thus, always,” asked he, “from the time of Henry IIId?” To this enquiry, the guide replied merely by a shrug of his shoulders, rather indicative of contempt than otherways, and to a further question of “Who is the receiver general of these exactions, and to what purpose are they applied?” he preserved a sullen taciturnity.
From the south aisle of the abbey there are two entrances into the cloisters, which are entire, and consist of four arched walks on the sides of an open quadrangle. There are many monuments in these walks, but four of them, beneath which are the remains of four of the abbots [87]of Westminster, at the east end of the south walk, are all which merit particular attention.—
Amongst the ancient records deposited here, the two friends were gratified with a sight of those of the Court of Star-chamber, and of the original Domesday-book, which is still as legible as the first hour it was written.
Against the south-west part of the west front of the abbey, is the north front of the Jerusalem chamber, remarkable for being the place where king Henry IV. breathed his last.{1}
North from the abbey stood the Sanctuary, the place of refuge allowed in old times, to criminals of a certain description; and, on the south side, was the eleemosynary or almonry, where the alms of the abbot were distributed.—This place is remarkable for being the spot in which the first printing-press ever used in England was set up; and here, in 1474, Caxton printed the Game and Play of Chesse, the first book ever printed in England.—A new Court House is now built on the site of the sanctuary.
Having seen in the Abbey every curiosity of note, its two visitants directed their course into Westminster Hall, the great national seat of justice.—This together with the House of Lords, and the House of Commons, are the remains of the palace of Westminster, built by Edward the Confessor, the situation of which was close to the river Thames, and the stairs leading from it still retain the name of palace stairs. The hall itself is the largest room in Europe, except the theatre at Oxford, unsupported by columns. It is 275 feet in length, 74 in breadth, and 90 in height, the roof being of oak, of curious gothic architecture. It was originally used as a place of festivity, and Richard IId entertained 10,000 guests within its walls. In this hall Charles I.. was tried and condemned; and at present it is occasionally fitted up for the trial of peers or of any person impeached by the Commons.
Our heroes now relinquishing the contemplation of the olden times for the enjoyment of the passing scenes of the modern, turned their steps in the direction of Whitehall; passing through which, and facing the Banquetting-House,{2} their observation was attracted to a gentleman on
1 See Shakespeare's Play of Henry IV. Part II.
 
2 In front of the Banquetting House, on a scaffold, Charles
I. was beheaded on the 30th of January, 1648;—His Majesty
passed from the Banquetting House to the scaffold through
one of the windows.
[88]horseback, followed by a number of people, by whom he was frequently and warmly cheered; and en passant was recognized with other popular feeling of regard and respect. Dashall stept forward to reconnoitre, and ascertained that the favourite was no other than the worthy representative of the borough of Southwark, Sir Robert Wilson, Knt. lately deprived of his rank as a General, “for,” continued Dashall, “nobody knows what, unless the enormous crime of paying his last tribute of respect to the memory of an “injured Queen;” and endeavouring, in the temperate language of remonstrance, to prevent the effusion of human blood! His character however, is too firmly rooted to sustain injury from the breath of slander; and the malignity of his enemies has recoiled on themselves: thanks to a brave, just, and generous people, who are ever prone to save whom persecution aims to destroy.”
Dashall seemed warm in defending the cause of this gallant officer, and the Squire listened with correspondent satisfaction.
“The allied Sovereigns,” observed Dashall, “in General Sir Robert Wilson, found all the essential requisites of a good soldier: of skill to plan, and of valour to execute. They were chiefly indebted to his judgment and intrepidity for the victory of Leipsic; to which ample testimony was given by the Emperors of Russia and Austria; the latter of whom, during the intensity and perils of the engagement, he extricated from the imminent hazard of captivity. His services have not been of less importance in the armies of his own country, as acknowledged by the Commander in Chief, who has now rewarded him by recommending his dismissal, at the instance, no doubt, of Ministers; anxious by this procedure to annihilate his independent feelings, and render them more subservient to the doctrine of non-resistance and of passive obedience to the existing authorities!”{1}
1 This object is already defeated.—Amongst all classes Sir
Robert Wilson's dismissal has excited strong feelings of
reprobation. Certainly, whatsoever other name may be given
to the act, it cannot be called a just one, to degrade an
honourable man from his rank, and deprive him of the half
pay (which in a great measure accrued to him from purchase,)
without accusation, arbitrarily,  and on secret and suborned
information of having; merited the inflicted contumely. But
futile has been the effort of malevolence; Sir Robert
Wilson's half pay was ￡460 per annum, and the subscriptions
in indemnification of his loss already exceed ￡10,000.
[89]Pursuing their course along the Strand, and ruminating on the alarming increase of juvenile depravity, Tallyho could not avoid remarking on the numerous temptations held out to the vicious and necessitous in this wide-spreading and wealthy metropolis—“For instance,” making a full halt, with his friend, against the spacious and unlatticed window of a jeweller's shop, Dashall admitted the truth of his companion's observation. Here on promiscuous display were seen most valuable articles of jewelry, stretching multitudinously from one extremity to the other of the window, consisting of gold and silver watches, elegant and richly wrought seals, musical snuff-boxes, diamond rings, diamond pins, &c. embracing, in vast variety, a property of immense value, divided from the street by “thin and undefended squares of glass only; and that the lure might prove still more attractive, each article marked at its price, some 25, some 50, 75, 100, and 200 guineas each! A dash and a grab might secure to the depredator possession of wealth; and while such temptations are held out, the surprise is, not that so many street robberies are, but that a great many more are not committed. The many thousands in London out of employment, and of these perhaps the greatest number unhoused and famishing, would it be much to be wondered at if some of these sons of misery, goaded onwards to crime by the extremity of human suffering, were to attempt the possession of spoil, so carelessly exposed, and apparently so easily obtainable?{1}
1 Lord Mansfield once presided as Judge, when an unfortunate
man was tried for stealing an article of jewellery from a
shop-window, exposed by its unguarded state to depredation,
and more encouraging than otherwise, the hope of success.—
It proved differently, and the prosecutor seeming determined
to proceed against the wretched man, even to capital
punishment, Lord Mansfield, indignant at the severity of the
owner of the trinket, and compassionating the state of
misery and destitution, under the influence of which the
poor prisoner at the bar, stimulated too by its careless
exposure, had committed the felony, desired the Jury to
value the trinket in question at ten pence.—The prosecutor
started up in surprise, and exclaimed, “Tenpence, my Lord!
why the very fashion of it cost me ten times the sum!” “That
may be,” returned his Lordship, “but we must not hang a man
for fashion's sake!”
 
[90]"Here conies silly Tom and staggering Bob,” exclaimed a fellow, as he approached towards our pedestrians. Tallyho had grasped more firmly his oaken sprig, with the intention of trying the crankness of the observer's pericranium, when Dashall perceived that the obnoxious remark was directed to a simple looking old man, dejectedly leading a horse “done up,” and apparently destined for the slaughter-house.
“Where now, Tommy,” continued the querist, “with thy decayed bit of blood?”
“Aye, aye,” answered Tommy, despondingly, “even to the naggers,{1}—'tis what we must all come to.”
1 A Naggerman is a wholesale horse-butcher! his business is
frequently so extensive as to enable him to employ a vast
many hands, and so lucrative as to ensure him a fortune in a
very few years; the carcases are sold to the dealers by whom
they are cut up, and sold in quarters to the retailers, and
purchased by the street venders; these latter form one of
the prominent itinerant avocations, and supply with food all
the dogs and cats of the metropolis!
“And so thy master has passed the doom of death against his old servant Bob, on whose back he has been safely borne, in the chase, “many a time and oft,” as the song says, “o'er hedges, gaps, ditches and gates; and fleet of foot as thou wert,” patting the animal with feelings of commiseration,” and often as thou hast replenished thy master's purse, thou art now going to the slaughter-house!”
“Even so—the faithful servant, now no longer useful, is discarded.”
“And put to death!—Why man, thy master is a d——d unfeeling, ungrateful scoundrel, else he would have turned this poor nag at large on the green sward, to roam as he list in summer, with a warm stable in winter, and have left him to die the death of nature.”
An assemblage of passengers had now collected round the doom'd horse and his sympathizing friend, whose vehemence of expression had attracted much attention. The feelings of his auditory were in full unison with his own, and as the throng increased, with inquisitive curiosity, the advocate in the cause of humanity repeated the following lines:
“And hast thou doom'd my death, sweet master, say,
And wilt thou kill thy servant, old and poor?
A little longer let me live, I pray;
A little longer hobble round thy door!”
 
[91]The spectators were evidently affected. He next sung the stanza of an old song, extemporaneously produced (with the exception of the first two lines)
At last having labored, drudg'd early and late,
Bow'd down by degrees he draws on to his fate:
His blood must the Naggerman's sluicing knife spill;
His carcase the Naggerman's slaughter-house fill!
Now led to his doom, while with pity we view
Poor Bob, may mishap still his master pursue;
Who callously spurning humanity's bounds,
Now sells his old servant as food for the hounds.
The Squire having occasion to call at a banker's in Fleet Street, the two friends entered at the moment when a countryman with a most rueful expression of countenance, stood transfixed to the floor, like the statue of Despair, incapable either of speech or motion. After an absorption of mental faculty of several minutes duration, he burst out into the incoherent exclamations of
“Murrian take un, zay I!—Icod, I'ze in a voine pickle! I ha brought my pigs to market wi a vengeance! O luord! O luord! whoa would ha thought en't?”
He then began exercising his feet by stamping each alternately on the floor, with a violence that shook the room to its foundation; and this vehement thunder he accompanied by correspondent energy of gesticulation; distorting his visage, and casting about his arms with the action of an infuriated maniac. The place was thrown into alarm, and business was suspended. Dashall now addressing himself to the presumed lunatic, begged him to compose himself, and endeavour briefly to state what had happened, that if he had sustained an injury, redress might be obtained.
After several fruitless attempts at narration, he at length told his story; and that it may lose nothing of its originality, we shall give it in the first person.
“I'ze cuom zur, frae Zumersetzshire to Lunnon, first time o' my loife, by coach, where it putt en at a pleace called the two Gooses necks, and zo having a cheque on this house for Fifty Pounds, and not knowing the way, I axed a vera civil gentleman whom I met wi' hovering about Inn-yard; and telling him my business, Pze go with you, zaid he, vera kindly, and help thee to take care o! thy money, vor there be a desperate set o' sharp fellows in Lunnon ready to take every advantage of a stranger; [92] and zoa we came along, and just avore we gotten into house here, he said to I, zays he, I'ze take thy money and zee that all's right, vor there be a vast many bad sovereigns about.—Well, zur, zoa he did; and just as I wur looking about, it seems he had taen himself off wi'the money, vor when I looked round he wur no where to be zeen; and zoa zur, I have lost Fifty good Pounds to my sorrow. Who would ha thought it!—I wish the murrian had ha hold on me avore I had come to this wicked world o' Lunnon!”
Here the countryman concluded his narrative, exciting the amusement of some and the sympathy of others of his auditory.—The banker dispatched one of his clerks with the unlucky wight to one of the Public Offices, for the purpose of describing the depredator, altho' with very small chance of recovering the property.{1}
Eliminating on the folly of this credulous countryman, our perambulators now proceeded down Fleet Street, where casting a look into Bolt Court—“Here,” said Dashall, “lived and died the colossus of English literature, Doctor Samuel Johnson,{2} a man whose like the world may
1  In all the Coach and Waggon yards in London there are
fellows loitering about with the view of plunder; they
frequently are taken by the unwary countryman, for domestics
of the Inn, and as such are entrusted with property with
which they immediately decamp, and by many other artful
manouvres secure their spoil.
 
2 The most trivial circumstance in the life of a great man,
carries with it a certain somewhat of importance, infinitely
more agreeable to the generality of readers than the long
details which history usually presents. Amongst the numerous
anecdotes of Doctor Johnson, perhaps the following is not
the least amusing.—When the Doctor first became acquainted
with David Mallet, they once went, with some other
gentlemen, to laugh away an hour at South-wark-fair. At one
of the booths where wild beasts were exhibited to the
wondering crowd, was a very large bear, which the showman
assured them was “cotched” in the undiscovered deserts of
the remotest Russia. The bear was muzzled, and might
therefore be approached with safety; but to all the company,
except Johnson, was very surly and ill tempered. Of the
philosopher he appeared extremely fond, rubbed against him,
and displayed every mark of awkward partiality, and ursine
kindness. “How is it, (said one of the company,) that; this
savage animal is so attached to Mr. Johnson?” From a very
natural cause, replied Mallet: “the bear is a Russian
philosopher, and he knows that Linn?us would have placed him
in the same class with the English moralist. They are two
barbarous animals of one species.”—Johnson disliked Mallet
for his tendency to infidelity, and this sarcasm turned his
dislike into downright hatred. He never spoke to him
afterwards, but has gibbeted him in his octavo dictionary,
under the article “Alias.”
 
[93]perhaps never see again; yet with all his vast erudition he had his prejudices and superstitions; he believed in apparitions, and he despised all countries save his own.—The Scotch and Irish he affected particularly to dislike.—In his poem of “London,” in imitation of Juvenal, he says,—
For who unbrib'd would leave Hibernia's land,
Or change the rocks of Scotland for the Strand?—
There none are swept by sudden death away,
But all whom Hunger spares, with age decay!
But, with all his foibles, (and who is there without human infirmity?) Doctor Samuel Johnson was the most highly talented writer of any age or nation.”
Facing the Obelisk, “let us stroll down the market,” said Dashall, “considered the cheapest in London.—Flesh, fish and fowl, fruits, roots and vegetables, are here abundantly attainable, and at moderate prices.”
Amongst the various venders, our two observers passed on, unmolestedly, excepting the annoyance and importunity of “What d'ye buy? what d'ye buy, buy, buy?” from” barking butchers, who instinctively reiterated the phrase as the casual passenger approached, like so many parrots, unconscious of its import being unproductive in effect; for who would be induced to purchase by the clamorous invitation universally in use by these vociferous butchers of the metropolis?—“My fine fellow,” observed Tallyho to one who annoyed him, “good wine, they say, needs no bush, neither does good meat require a barker.”
“Bad luck to my mother's own daughter, and that is myself, sure,” exclaimed a retail venderess of vegetables, to her opponent in trade, “if I wouldn't for the value of a tester, or for the value of nothing at all at all, give you freely just what you ask for my jewel.—Arrah now, is it law that you want of me! Faith and troth then you shall have it, club-law, when and where you plase, my darling!”
“Dirty end,” rejoined the other lady, “to the girl who fear* you!—Here am I, Kate, of the Maclusky's of Ballymena, in the county of Antrim, long life to it! and it would be a hard case, and a shameful one to boot, if a well educated northern lass should suffer her own self to be disgraced by a Munster-woman.”
[94] “The devil fly away with Ballymena, and the Macluskys along with it!” retorted the other; “and is it Munster and heddication that you are bothering about? Whillaloe graraachree! my sweet one! and did you begin your larning in Ballymena, and come to finish it in Fleet-market? By my conscience, Kate Maclusky, if you are not very much belied, you know more than you ought to do.”
“And what would you 'sinuate by that?” demanded Kate;—“What do you ?sinuate by that, Ma'am?—I acknowledge that I'm both a whore and a thief—what then? Bating that I defy you to say, black is the white of my eye!”
Here Mrs. Maclusky with arms a-kimbo, and a visage strongly expressing exasperation and defiance, advanced towards the Munster-woman.
“Let us step aside,” said Dashall, “hostilities are about to commence.”
He was right; a few more irritable preliminaries, and the heroines came in contact, in due order of battle.
“Two to one on the Munster-woman.” “Done! Ulster for ever! go it Kate!—handle your dawdles, my girl;—shiver her ivory;—darken her skylights;—flatten her sneizer;—foul, foul,—ah you Munster b——ch!”
“Fair, fair;—arrah, now for the honor of Munster;—dig away;—mind your hits;—rattle her bread basket;—set her claret-spout a-going;—stand firm on your pegs;—what, down!”
Thus ended round the first; the amazons had, in the fray, reduced each other from the waist upwards to nearly a state of nudity. On either side the partisans were numerous, the combatants eager to renew the fight, and the spectators, the majority of whom were of Irish distraction, anxious for the result, when the officious interposition of official authority, terminated the “tug of war,” and the honor of the two provinces remained undecided.—
“Success to the land that gave Patrick his birth.” Tranquillity thus restored, a new scene in the drama of Fleet-market attracted the attention of the two visitants.
A rabbit pole-woman passing through the market, was accosted by a lady, who enquiring the price of the Rabbits, purchased a couple, in front of the shop of a similar exhibitant.—This was considered by the rabbit-dealers of the market, a gross breach of privilege, more particularly as the obnoxious female had presumed to undersell them, even with a superior article. Not willing, however, from [95]prudential reasons, to appear in avowed personal hostility against the object of their vengeance, and that, too, a woman, who had inadvertently incurred the displeasure of their high mightinesses, the subordinate agency of boys was deputed for the purpose of wrecking summary retribution; and the juvenile deputation quickly overthrew in the apparent wantonness of mischief, the whole of the poor girl's day-property, and scrambling for the spoil, disseminated themselves in different directions, leaving not the vestige of a rabbit behind!
A torrent of tears, feelingly shewed the anguish of her mind. She was ruined beyond hope of redemption; the rabbits she had every morning on credit, she plied the streets in selling them, through many a wearisome hour in the day, happy if next morning, having realized a very moderate profit by her laborious vocation, she could settle accounts with the wholesale dealer, and take a fresh cargo with which to commence another day's adventure.—But now, wringing her hands in an agony of grief, “It is all over with me!” she exclaimed,—” my means of subsistence is gone,—my credit is lost,—and God's will be done,—I must go home and starve!”{1}
1 It is scarcely credible that one salesman in Leadenhall
market, at the present time, sells on an average 14,000
rabbits weekly. He contracts with the coach masters for the
carriage, and pays them eleven pounds per thousand,
amounting, weekly, to ￡154. The way he disposes of them, is
by employing 150 travelling pole-men and women; in the
morning they are started upon credit, and the next day they
return, bringing back the skins, settle the accounts, and
then take a fresh cargo.
Ever prone to relieve distress, Dashall and Tallyho sympathized most sincerely with this unfortunate girl; there was an indescribable something of extreme interest about her, which was well calculated to excite a feeling of generous commiseration.
Shall we now say the two philanthropists? for such they proved themselves. Each then, in the same moment, expanded his purse, and together more than compensated the delighted and astonished girl for her loss, who, blessing her benefactors, went home rejoicing.
Gaining the extremity of the market, at the bottom of Skinner-street, the two friends rounded the corner, and verged towards Ludgate-hill by the Fleet Prison. Here a fresh claim, though of lesser magnitude, obtruded itself on their benevolence. “Pity the poor debtors, having no [96] allowance!” exclaimed an emaciated being, gazing with an eye of wistful expectancy, through the thrice-grated window of a small apartment on a level nearly with the street; “Pity the poor debtors;” The supplicating tone of deep distress in which these words were uttered spoke irresistibly to the heart, and the blessing of Heaven was once more invoked on the donors.
“And this is the prison,” observed the Squire, “where a presumed scion of the Royal branch, a few days ago surrendered to her bail, as a prisoner for debt.”—“The same,” rejoined his Cousin, “and the Princess is now most unroyally domiciled at a private-house within the rules of the Fleet, on Ludgate-hill.—Sic transit gloria mundi!”
“Certainly,” said the Squire, “this London produces extraordinary sights, and not less extraordinary occurrence............