“A very comprehensive and animated account truly,” said Tallyho.
“And you will find it accurate,” continued Dashall, “for the turn-out of this dwelling of crime and misery, resembles the Piazza de Sant Marco at Venice, in the Carnival time. There are all descriptions and classes in society, all casts and sects, all tribes and associations, all colours, complexions and appearances, not only of human and inhuman beings, but also all shades, features, and conformations of vice. The Spendthrift, or degraded man of fortune, lives by shifts, by schemes, by loans, by sponging on the novice, by subscription, or on commiseration's uncertain aid. He has however in perspective some visionary scheme of emolument and dishonour blended, to put into execution as soon as he obtains his discharge. The uncertificated Bankrupt has many opportunities left yet; he has other dupes, other tricks of trade, other resources in reserve. The Swindler mellows, refines, and sublimates his plan of future operations, and associates in it, perchance, a fallen fair one, or an incipient Greek, put up in the Bench. Horse-dealers, money scriveners, bill doers, attorneys, &c. have either the means of setting up again, or some new system of roguery to be put in practice, in fresh time and place, which may conduct them to the harbour of Fortune, or waft them over the herring pond at the expence of the public purse. The disinterested Profligate here either consumes, corrupts, and festers, under the brandy fever and despair, or is put up by a gambler, who sells his art to his brother debtors, and thus lives in hope of yet turning the honest penny in imitation of those who have gone before him. The Cyprian, still exercising her allurements, lingers and decays until persecution loses the point of its arrow, and drops from the persecutor's hand, grasping more hardly after money, and opening from the clenched attitude of revenge. Then, to conclude the picture, there are youths living upon the open infamy of easy-hearted women, who disgrace and ruin themselves without the walls, in order to pamper the appetite and humour the whims of a favourite within, thus sacrificing one victim to another. Partners carrying on trade in the world, communing with their incarcerated partners in durance vile. Misery and extravagance, rude joy and frantic fear, with more passions than the celebrated Collins ever drew, and with more scenes, adventures, and vicissitudes, than ever Jonathan Wild or any other Jonathan exhibited.”
“Excellent description,” exclaimed Bob.
“And you shall have ocular demonstration of its absolute existence; nay, this sketch might serve for many other places of confinement, the Fleet, &c. They are like the streets of the Metropolis, constantly varying in their company, according to entrances and exits of their visitors.”
“This, however,” continued the Hon. Tom Dashall, “is rather a mental picture of what we shall presently witness in reality, a sort of introductory sketch by way of passport through the doors of this Panorama of Beal Life, to which you will shortly be introduced; a sort of ideal, or dramatic sketch of its inhabitants en masse, before the drawing up of the curtain.”
The eagerness of Bob to listen to his Cousin's sketches of London society, on the one hand, and the earnestness with which Dashall had been exercising his imaginary powers, on the other, had led our perambulators to the foot of Blackfriar's Bridge, on their road to the King's Bench, without any particular circumstance exciting their attention; when Bob, suddenly twitching his Cousin by the arm, and directing his eye at the same time to a thin spare figure of a man, without hat or coat, who was rapidly passing towards Fleet market, enquired who it was, and what was his occupation or calling.
“Don't you hear his calling?” was the reply.
“Hot, hot, hot, pudding hot!” was in a moment vociferated in his ears, while the active and industrious mercantile pedestrian, with a swing of his head, which was in continual motion from right to left, gave Bob a wipe in the eye with his tail, which by the velocity of the wearer was kept in full play like the pendulum of a clock, or the tail of Matthews in his admirable delineation of Sir Fretful Plagiary.
“Zounds,” cries Bob, “it is true I may hear, but I can't pretend to say I can see; who the devil is he? there is no looking at him, he seems to leave time and space behind him; where is he?”
Tom laughed heartily, while Bob rubbed his eyes in vain to obtain another view.