“Beg pardon, Sir, beg pardon, a trifling mistake, Sir—nothing more—I usually pass a recreative hour, after my daily studies, at the Haunch of Venison, over the way: the landlord is an intelligent, accommodating, and agreeable sort of man, and we have many gentlemen of considerable consequence, both literary and scientific, who meet there of an evening to pass a convivial hour—to hear and impart the news; and, Sir, as I was saying, the mermaid is stated to be a fine hoax upon the credulity of John Bull, being nothing more than the body or skin of a smoke-dried old woman, ingeniously connected with the tail of a fish. I don't vouch for the truth of the report, I only state what I hear, and can only assert with confidence what I am acquainted with in my own business.”
“I suspected the mermaid from the first,” answered Tom, “I thought there was some deceit in it.”
“There is a great deal of deceit in the world, Sir,” replied the active clipper.—“A little Circassian cream, Sir—acknowledged to be the best article ever produced for the preservation and restoration of hair.”
“Certainly,” said Sparkle.
In this way our friends obtained a portion of amusement, and a Corinthian clip from the intelligent and communicative Mr. Money, of Fleet Street notoriety, in return for which he touched their coin.
“Now,” said Dashall, “we will make the best of our way and just call, by way of taking a lunch, among the lads of Newgate Market. There is a house where I have been before, in which we can have some very fine home-brewed ale, &c; and besides, according to the landlord's advertisements, he has opened an academy, and gives instruction in the art of brewing. The College of Physicians is just opposite, and I suppose this wag of a landlord has taken the hint, and opposed his beer to their physic—perhaps you may wish to carry his valuable receipt into the country with you?”
“I have no inclination to turn brewer,” replied Sparkle, “but I must confess I like the idea of a little genuine beer—free from the poisonous ingredients of the public brewer.”
“And so do I,” continued Tallyho. “Come along, then,” said Tom, “the Bell in Warwick Lane is the shop, where you may be served to a shaving.” In passing along Warwick Lane, Bob observed he thought his friend was leading him through a not very agreeable neighbourhood.
“This place is filled with slaughter-houses, and is to be sure a great nuisance to the City; yet such places are necessary, therefore bear up a few minutes, and you will have comfortable house-room and agreeable refreshment.” Entering the Bell, they were met by the landlord of the house, a round-faced, good-natured, real John-Bull-looking man, who knowing his customer Dashall, immediately ushered them into the coffee-room, where being supplied with stout and mutton-chops in high perfection, they enjoyed themselves with their regale. This done, they had an opportunity of looking about them.
In one corner sat two or three tip-top salesmen of the market, conversing on the price of meat, while they were devouring a succession of rump-steaks with most voracious and insatiable appetites. In another was a hungry author, bargaining with a bookseller of Paternoster Row, for the sale of a manuscript, by which he expected to realise a dinner. While near them was an undertaker and a master-builder, vociferating at each other for interference with their respective trades, and so far attracting the attention of the bookseller from the work of the author, that he wished, from the bottom of his heart, “that one would build a coffin to bury the other:” while the salesmen laughed so loud at the observations of the controversialists, as almost to make them wish the subject dead without the hope of resurrection.