"Two musical parties to Bladud belong,To delight the old rooms and the upper;One gives to the ladies a supper, no song,And the other a song and no supper."
"Thejoliedame to the right," said Horace, "is the mother of England's best friend, the Secretary for the Foreign Department, George Canning, a man to whom we are all indebted for the amalgamation of party, and the salvation of the country The clerical who follows immediately behind Mrs. Hunn is a reverend gentleman whose daughters both recently eloped from his house on the same morning attended by favoured lovers to bind with sacred wreaths their happy destinies at the shrine of Hymen." We had now reached the bottom of the street again, after having made at least a dozen promenades to and fro, and were on the point of retiring to our hotel to dress for dinner, when Heartly directed my attention to a dashing roue, who, dressed in the extreme of superlative style, was accompanied by a beautiful piece of fair simplicity in the garb of a Puritan. "That," said my friend, "is the beautiful Miss D**T—one of the faithful, whom the dashing Count L***c***t has recently induced to say ay for life: thus gaining a double prize of no mean importance by one stroke of good luck—a fine girl and a fine fortune into the bargain." I must not forget our friend the consulting surgeon H***ks, or omit to notice that in Bath the faculty are all distinguished by some peculiar title of this sort, as, the digestive Physician, the practical Apothecary, and the operative Chemist; a piece of quackery not very creditable to their acknowledged skill and general respectability. At dinner we were again joined by our facetiousfriend Blackstrap, who, to use his own phraseology, having made "a good morning's work of it," hoped he might be permitted to make one among us, a request with which we were most willing to comply. In the evening, after the bottle had circulated freely, some of our party proposed a visit to the theatre, but as Bath theatricals could not be expected to afford much amusement to London frequenters of the theatres royal, Transit suggested our sallying forth for a spree;" for," said he, "I have not yet booked a bit of true life since I have been in Bath. The pump-room, the bathers, and the swells in Milsom-street, are all very well for the lovers of elegant life; but our sporting friends and old college chums will expect to see a genuine touch or two of the broad humour of Bath—something suburban and funny. Cannot you introduce us to any thing pleasant of this sort!" said Transit, addressing Blackstrap: "perhaps give us a sight of the interior of a snug convent, or show us where the Bath wonderfuls resort to carouse and sing away their cares."—"It is some years since," said Blackstrap, "that in the company of a few merry wags, I paid a visit to the Buff-club in Avon-street: but as you, gentlemen, appear disposed for a little fun, if you will pledge yourselves to be directed by me, I will undertake to introduce you to a scene far exceeding in profligacy and dissipation the most florid picture which our friend Transit has yet furnished of the back settlements in the Holy-land." With this understanding, and with no little degree of anticipatory pleasure, did our merry group set forth to take a survey of the interior of the long room at the Pig and Whistle in Avon-street. Of the origin of this sign, Blackstrap gave us a very humorous anecdote: the house was formerly, it would appear, known by the sign of the Crown and Thistle, and was at that time the resort of the Irish Traders who visited Bath to dispose of their linens. One of these Emeraldershaving lost his way, and being unable to recollect either the name of the street or the sign of his inn, thus addressed a countryman whom he accidentally met: "Sure I've quite forgotten the sign of my inn." "Be after mentioning something like it, my jewel," said his friend. "Sure it's very like the Pig and Whistle," replied the enquirer. "By the powers, so it is:—the Crown and Thistle, you mean;" and from this mistake of the Emeralder, the house has ever since been so designated. Upon our visit to this scene of uproarious mirth, we found it frequented by the lowest and most depraved characters in society; the mendicants, and miserable of the female sex, who, lost to every sense of shame or decency, assemble here to indulge in profligacies, the full description of which must not stain the pages of the English Spy.
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As a scene of low life, my friend Transit has done it ample justice, where the portraits of Lady Grosvenor as one of the Cyprian frequenters is designated, the Toad in a Hole, and Lucy the Fair, will be easily recognised. A gallon of gin for the ladies, and a liberal distribution of beer and tobacco for the males, made us very welcome guests, and insured us, during our short stay, at least from personal interruption. It may be asked why such a house is licensed by the magistracy; but when it is known that characters of this sort will always be found in well-populated places, and that the doors are regularly closed at eleven o'clock, it is perhaps thought to be a measure of prudence to let them continue to assemble in an obscure part of the suburbs, where they congregate together under the vigilant eye of the police, instead of being driven abroad to seek fresh places of resort, and by this means increase the evils of society.
The next morning saw my friend Transit and myself again prepared to separate from our friends Heartly and Eglantine, on our way to Worcester,where we had promised to pay a visit to old Crony on our road back to London. Reader, if our sketches in Bath are somewhat brief, remember we are ever on the wing in search of novelty, and are not disposed to stay one day longer in any place than it affords fresh food for pen and pencil In the characters we have sketched we disclaim any thought of personal offence; eccentrics are public property, and must not object to appear in print, seeing that they are in the journey through life allowed to ride a free horse, without that curb which generally restrains the conduct of others But I must here take my farewell of the elegant city of that attractive spot of which Bayley justly sings
"In this auspicious region all mankind(Whate'er their taste) congenial joys may find;Here monied men may pass for men of worth;And wealthy Cits may hide plebeian birth.Here men devoid of cash may live with ease,Appear genteel, and pass for what they please."
The meeting with an old friend at Worcester induced us to domicile there for the space of three days, during which time I will not say we were laid up with Lavender, but certainly near enough to scent it. Most of our Worcester acquaintance will however understand what is meant by this allusion to one of the pleasantest fellows that ever commanded the uncivil customers in the Castle, since the time of the civil wars. The city is perhaps as quiet a dull place as may be found within his majesty's dominions, where a cannon-ball might be fired down the principal street at noon-day without killing more than the ruby-nosed incumbent of a fat benefice, a superannuated tradesman, or a manufacturer of crockery-ware. No stranger should, however, pass through the place without visiting the extensive China works of Messrs. Flight and Barr, to which the greatest facility is given by the proprietors; and the visit must amply repay any admirer of the arts. A jovial evening, spent with our old friend of the Castle, had ended with a kind invitation from him to partake of a spread at his hotel on the following morning; but such was the apprehensions of Transit at the idea of entering this mansion of the desolate, from being troubled with certain qualmish remembrances of the previous night's debauch, that not all my intreaties, nor the repeated messages of the worthy commander of the Castle, could bring our friend Transit to book.
To those who know my friend John, and there are few of any respectability who do not both know and admire him, his facetious talent will require but little introduction. Lavender is what a man of the world, whose business it has been to watch over the interests of society, should be, superior in education and in mind, to any one I ever met with filling a similar situation: the governor of the Castle is a companion for a lord, or to suit the purposes of justice, instantly metamorphosed into an out and outer, a regular knowing cove, whose knowledge of flash and the cant and slang used by the dissolute is considered to be superior to that of any public officer. A specimen of this will be found in the following note, which a huge fellow of a turnkey brought to my bedside, and then apologised for disturbing me, by pleading the governor's instructions.
"QUEER COVES,"I hope you have left your dabs,{1}and nobs,{2} all right: perhaps prime legs{3} is queer inthe oration-box{4} from a too frequent use of thesteamer{5} last darky.{6} I make this fakement{7} to letyou know I and morning spread are waiting.Steel-hotel, Yours, &c.June 9, 1825. LOCKIT."
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My readers will very readily conceive that with such a companion we were not long in tracing out what little of true life was to be found in Worcester, and certainly one of the pleasantest scenes in which we participated was a visit to the Subscription Bowling Alley, where, in the summer time, the most respectable of the inhabitants of Worcester meet every evening
1 Beds.2 Heads.3 Cruikshank..4 Cranium.5 A pipe.6 Night.7 A note.
for recreation; and a right pleasant company we found them. The Caleb Quotem of the society, Dr. Davis, united in one person all the acquirements of the great original: he not only keeps the time of the city, but keeps all the musicians of the place in time; regulates the watch and the watches, and plays a soloà la Dragonettiupon the double bass. Sam Swan is another choice spirit, who sings a good chant, lives well respected, and sails down the stream of time as pleasantly as if he was indeed a royal bird.
An old Burdettite, Will Shunk, recognised in us a partizan of the government candidate at one of the Westminster Elections: "But, sir," said Will, "politics and I have nearly parted; for you must know, I am tolerablywell breeched, and can fairly say I am hand and glove with all the first nobility in the kingdom." A truth to which Captain Corls readily assented by explaining that Master William Shunk was a first-rate glover, and considered worth a plum at least: "in short, sir," said the captain, "he is a nabob here, and brings to my mind some of the eastern princes with whom I have met during my Campaigns in the East." The very mention of which exploit induced our friend the governor to tip us the office, and the joke was well humoured until silver Powell, who they say comes from Norfolk, interrupted our travels in India, with, "Captain, can't you see that ere Athlantic fellow, the governor, is making fun of you to amuse his London friends." A hint that appeared to strike the Captain very forcibly, for it struck him dumb. A good-humoured contest between honest Joe Shelton, and Probert the school-master, elicited some very comical exposures in the way of recriminations. Joe, it would appear, is an artist in economy; and an old story about a lobster raised Joe's ire to its height, and produced the Lex taliones on Probert,whose habits of frugality wanted his competitor's humour to make them pass current. Transit, who had been amusing himself with sketching the characters, had become acquainted with a sporting Reverend, whose taste for giblets had proved rather expensive; and who was most desirous of appearing in print: a favor merry Stephen Godson, the lawyer, requested might also be extended to him." "Ay," said John Portman, "and if you want a character for your foreground rich in colour, my phiz is much at your service; and here's George Brookes, the radical, to form a good dark object in the distance." In this way the evening passed off very pleasantly. Our friend had made the object of our visit to the Bowling Alley known to some few of his intimates, circumstance that I have no doubt rather operated to prevent a display of some of those good-humoured eccentricities with which it is not unfrequently marked. Upon my return to town, I received a farewell ode from my Spirit in the Clouds, evidently written under a misconception that the English Spy was about to withdraw himself for a time, from his sketches on men and manners, when in fact, although his labours will here close with the completion of a Second Volume, his friends will find, that he is most desirous of still engaging their attentions in a new form, attended not only by all his former associates, but uniting in his train the brightest and the merriest of all the choice Spirits of the Age.
To prevent a misconception, and do himself justice, the author of the English Spy feels it necessary to state, that in every instance the subjects for the Plates illustrating this work have been furnished by his pen, and not unfrequently, the rough ideas havefirst emanated from his own pencil; while he states this fact to prevent error, he is most anxious to acknowledge the great assistance he has derived from the inimitable humour and graphic skill in the execution of the designs, by his friend Robert Transit.
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TO THE ENGLISH SPY.
Prospero. Now does my project gather to a head;My charms crack not; my spirits obey:——How's the day?Ariel. On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,You said our work should cease.—Shakspkare's Tempest.So fare you well; I have left you commands.Ibid.—As you like it."'Tis true, and pity 'tis, 'tis true,"That though on fairest winds we flew,I in the clouds, beneath them you,We still must parted be;And that, e'en whilst the world still hungOn what you wrote, and what I sung,Enamour'd of our double tongue,Exits my Bernard B——-.Well, all great actors must have pause,When toiling in a patriot cause,And ere another scene he draws,New characters to cast,
Secure of having played his part,As nature dictates, from the heart,'Tis fair before another start,He brush up from the last.But how will humbugs of the age,(I don't mean Mr. B.'s dull page,)Crow that they scape satiric rage,And get off in whole skins;How will dramatic fools rejoice!No more is heard great Bernard's voice,And that, Heav'n knows, there is a choice,Their flummery begins.{1}But go your ways; it may be wise,To let these puny, pestering fliesBuzz about people's ears and eyes,A season or two longer;There must be evil mixed with good,A bottom to the clearest flood,And let them stand where others stood,Till shown who is the stronger.Then, fortune-hunting squires of Bath,Fine as the Burmese jewell'd Rath,{2}Pray totter o'er your Bond-street path,A respite short is yours.1 I speak of would-be actors (male and female), vain andincompetent managers, flippant and unequal critics, puffedand translating authors, in short, of all before and behindthe curtain who have injured, or may injuro, the legitimatedrama. Let the theatres, like our trade, be free, andmonopoly thrive not, and for their success the Spirit willever pray; at present, it is "a mad world, my masters;" andI am afraid Mr. Rayner with his long and set speeches, aschairman of Thomas's Shakspeareans, will not mend thematter. We note this to him in a friendly way; seeing, thathe is a worthy fellow, and a clever Caliban, and reallyloves Shakspeare next to Newmarket and Doncaster.2 The Burmese carriage is certainly a curious machineof Indian workmanship; but it is, we should fancy, mereoutside—fine to look at, but a "rum one to go," like thebe-togged, be-booted, be-spurred, furred, and cloaked halfpays, fortune-hunters, gentlemen with the brogue, &c. thatpay their court so assiduously to Mrs. Dolland's cheesecakesand Mr. Heaviside's quadrilles. But the world is oftenornament caught.
And daughter-selling mothers, stillLure the young boys, their eyes may kill,To wed your flesh and blood, and fillYour purse, and pay your tours.Ye London blacks, ye Cheltenham whites,{3}Ye turners of the days to nights,Make, make the most of all your flights,Whilst I and Bernard doze;But still be sure, by this same token,We still shall sleep with one eye open{4}And the first hour our nap is broken,You'll pay for't through the nose.3 There are indeed "black spirits and white spirits" of allsorts and sizes, at all times and places; and a well-cutcoat and a white satin dress are frequently equallydangerous glossings to frail and cunning mortality within.To be sure, we have brought down the "tainted wethers ofdame Nature's flock" with the double barrels of wit andsatire, right and left; but like mushrooms or mole-hills,they are a breeding, increasing species, and it will be onlya real battue of sharp-shooting that will destroy thecoveys. Nevertheless,"I have a rod in pickle,Their—————————"I declare the Spirit is growing earthly.4 The Bristol men "down along," sleep, they say, in this wayand hence is it rare for Jew or Gentile, Turk or infidel, toget the blind side of them. Some of them, however, have erenow been done brown, and that too by being too fanciful andneat in their likings. These tales of the sleepers of aneye are too good to be lost; they shall be bound up in thevolume of my brain, hereafter to be perused with advantage.At present,"I hear a voice thou canst not hear;I see a hand thou canst not see;It calls to me from yonder sphere,It points to where my brethren be."
When that time comes, and come it must,For what we say is not pie-crust,To yield to every trifling thrust,England shall see some fun.Like "eagles in a dove-cote," weBoth rooks and pigeons will make flee,Whilst every cashless companyShall, laugh'd at, "cut and run."Thus telling painted folly's sect,What they're to look to, what expect,My farewell words I now directTo thee, migrating Spy;That done, deliver'd all commands,I man a cloud-ship with brave hands,And sail to (quitting mortal lands),My parlour in the sky.Bernard, farewell; may rosy healthCompanion'd by that cherub wealth,Be constant to you, like myself,Your own departing spirit.Not that you're going to die; no, no,You'll only take a nap or so;But yet I wish you, 'fore you go,These blessings to inherit.Bernard, farewell; pray think of me,When you ride earth, or cross the sea;On both, you know, I've been with thee,And sung some pretty things;Great Spy, farewell; when next you riseTo make of fools a sacrifice,You'll hear, down-cleaving from the skies,The rustle of my wings.January, 1826.
Bernard Blackmantle and Bob Transit,
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THE END.