The world had not been to him hitherto as to our old friend, Pistol,—an oyster, which he with sword could open. He may be said to have failed, both by book and blade. He was now to really soar by other means. Now came the period when he evinced his disgust of vegetables by confessing that he had once eaten—a pea. Then was the funny time when his slavish hearers laughed at the joke wherein he wrapped an excuse for being hoarse, on the ground, that he had slept in a house with a damp stranger. It was not half so excellent a joke as that enunciated, unwittingly, by the poor old Irishwoman suffering from catarrh, and who accounted for the same by stating that she “slept last night in a field and forgot to shut the gate.” However, it was good enough for a man who really fancied that he manifested humour when he expressed unconsciousness of there being such a place as Bloomsbury-square; and we may add, that it was good enough for his hearers also.
It was at this period that he patronized the late George Lane Fox, of Bramham Park, Yorkshire; and the patronage cost the latter a superb gold box, set with diamonds,—a present, if I remember rightly,—for I have heard Mr. Fox tell the story as often as Diggory heard Mr. Hardcastle tell his one story, from the Czar Alexander. Mr. Fox and Brummell had been seriously engaged, for some hours, on matters of dress, after which they discussed the not less serious question of dinner. At the banquet, the first-named gentleman showed his golden and glittering gift to the select company, who were loud in their praise, and unbounded in their admiration. As the party were to adjourn to the Opera, to hear Ambrogetti and Camporese, Mr. Fox announced his intention of depositing his box, by the way, at his house in Albemarle-street. “The whole court,” said he, “will be at the Opera, and I may get robbed of my souvenir!” The company laughed at the saillie, and the wine span round.
After a sederunt of some continuance, the select society departed for “the old house in the Haymarket.” Mr. Fox and Brummell rode together. The carriage stopped in Albemarle-street, according to directions given to the coachman; but what with the wine, and a new dispute touching the depth of cravats and the height of collars, the gentlemen had forgotten why they had ordered the driver to pull up; and after striving for some time, in vain, to remember, they grew tired of conjecturing, and sped away to hear “Fin ch’ han del Vino!”
They had been perhaps an hour in the house, when Brummell, in the very middle of “Il mio tesoro,” came to the end of a dissertation on pantaloons. The gentlemen with thin legs, and no calves to them, were great patrons of what had not hitherto been admitted into the category of “dress,”—namely, trousers. Conservatives and Irish gentlemen advocated pantaloons. Brummell had given his judgement with the sententious elaboration of Dr. Chalmers on a question of Erastianism; and to refresh himself after the fatigue of the process, he begged of Fox to furnish him with a “prise de tabac!”
The request for a pinch of snuff reminded the then heir of Bramham Park of the fact, that it was his much-prized box which he had designed to leave in Albemarle-street. He proceeded however to perform the required act of hospitality; but on putting his hand to his pocket he found the latter empty, and the box gone. In two minutes he was in the passage below, recounting his loss to Leadbitter and Townsend, and asking from them what hope existed of his recovering the abstracted property. When they learned that an hour had elapsed since it had been stolen, Leadbitter gave the opinion of himself and brother that the loss was irreparable.
“By this time,” said Townsend, “it’s in the melting-pot of Slack Sam, the Jew Gonoff.”
“What’s a Gonoff?” asked Mr. Fox.
“Oh!” said Townsend, with an air of learning and superiority, “Gonoff is Hebrew for a ‘thief.’ Did you pass any suspicious character on going upstairs?”
“I passed nobody but Lady Cork,” said Mr. Fox.