“Oh, indeed, Mr. B——e,” I answered; “but there will be some most dreadful facts in my little book. Now, there was our Footman, who stole the spoons; and an Irish Cook, who I really thought would have been the death of the whole family. I intend to give the disclosure of all the circumstances in my interesting little work. Do you think that would do, Mr. B——e?”
“Yes, ma’m,” he answered: “but I’m afraid the book, although I’ve no doubt (he was kind enough to add) it would be exceedingly interesting, wouldn’t exactly suit me. I really should not like to risk it.”
“Oh! I perceive, now, Mr. B——e,” I returned, as, with my customary sagacity, I at once saw the reason of his refusal. “My motives for publishing my interesting little work are dictated purely by benevolence, I can assure you. I hope you do not imagine I am one of the people who write for money. No, Mr. B——e; I am happy to say, I am not yet necessitated to fly to my pen as a means of support.”
The worthy gentleman seemed pleased with the nobility of my disposition; and after a long talk I had with him, in which I explained to him all I intended to do, he was so kind as to say that he thought a good deal might be made out of the subject. So that I had the proud satisfaction of finding that I had not used my abilities in vain, for he at last, in a most gentlemanly way, not only consented to publish my interesting little work for me, but was also good enough to suggest that it should be illustrated; and actually was so polite as to give me a letter to that highly-talented artist, Mr. George Cruikshank, though I told him that I was afraid he would be too funny for a work of so serious a character. But he quelled all my doubts, by telling me that Mr. Cruikshank was a man of such versatile genius, that he was sure that the drawings from his intellectual pencil would be quite in keeping with the book; so, taking the letter of introduction, I left Mr. B——e, (my publisher,) quite charmed with the conquest I had made.
Moral reflection after writing the above.—It has been very truly remarked, by the greatest philosophers of our time, and it is likewise my opinion, that London is the finest city in this transitory world. But I cannot help observing, that Fleet-street, as it stands at present, is a crying evil, and a perfect disgrace to it. Is it not wonderful, that in these enlightened times, so little attention should be paid to the feelings of fair woman, at the crossings of this great metropolis? Englishmen, ever since charming Raleigh took his cloak off his very back, to prevent sweet Elizabeth soiling her lovely feet, have been acknowledged to be a highly polite and intellectual nation; but the way in which I was jostled and hustled, and pushed about, by a set of low London barbarians, who once or twice knocked my beautiful best black velvet bonnet nearly off my head, makes me fear that we are all going backwards, (if I might be allowed the expression,) and that our boasted civilization is only a golden dream and a fib. What the Lord Mayor can be about, at the crossings in the City, I am at a loss to say. As they are at present regulated, it seems to me as if the civic authorities were all asleep at their posts. Three times did I attempt to get across the street, from Mr. B——’s, and three times was I driven back by the bears who are permitted to drive the omnibuses and cabs of the first city in Europe. Though the fellows saw my distress, they never once offered to stop and make way for a lone, unprotected female, but only seemed to take a savage delight in my alarms. And even when I did get across, I’m sure it was at the peril of my very life. It’s only a wonder to me that I didn’t go into hysterics in the middle of the road; and however people, who have weak constitutions of their own, can manage to get over it, is an inscrutable mystery to me.
* * * * * * * * * *
INTRODUCTION III.
HOW I BECAME ACQUAINTED WITH THE ARTIST TO MY LITTLE BOOK.
“He shook! ’twas but an instant,
For speedily the pride
Ran crimson to his heart,
Till all chances he defied:
It threw boldness on his forehead;
Gave firmness to his breath;
And he stood like some grim Warrior,
New risen up from death.”
Barry Cornwall, (The Admiral.)
What heartfelt joy it imparts to find a gentleman willing to lend a helping hand to the ideas of the good, and assist a virtuous female in distress. And how true and poetic it was of the Greeks to make Charity a woman; for does not charity begin at home, and does not the proud empire of lovely woman begin there also. And would not every respectable female be overflowing with goodness were it not for the harsh sway of the fell tyrant Man, who, with a heavy hand, alas! too often skims their milk of human kindness, and takes all the cream off the best feelings of their nature.
When I reached Mr. Cruikshank’s door, though it was the first time I had ever the pleasure of visiting that great person, still from the beautiful appearance that the threshold of his establishment presented, I at once knew my man. The door-step was so sweetly white and clean that one might have been tempted to eat one’s dinner off of it, while the brass plate was as beautiful a picture as I ever remember to have seen. In that door-plate I could see the workings of a rightly-constituted mind. And here let me remark to my courteous Reader, by what slight incidents we deduce——(but I will reserve my observations on door-plates in general for my moral reflections at the end of this chapter).