To return to the instances of ingenuity, the late Charles Mathews must be remembered; for he claims the credit of having been successful in extracting money from Jew bailiffs, which, incredible as it may seem at first, would really appear to have been the case. He says, “I might relate a thousand stories of my hair-breadth ’scapes and adventures, with a class of persons wholly unknown, happily, to a large portion of the population, and whose names inspire terror to those who do not know them;—officers of the Jewish persuasion, who are supposed to represent the majesty of the law in its most forbidding aspect, but to whom I have been indebted for so many acts of kindness, that I have frequently blessed my stars that they were interposed between me and the tomahawking Christians by whom they were employed, and from whom no mercy could have been extracted. I have had two of those functionaries in adjacent rooms, and have borrowed the money from one to pay out the other, with many such like incidents.”
There is no doubt that on the subject of bailiffs this most popular light comedian was an authority; for his experience of them was considerable, and it is therefore gratifying to find him bearing testimony to the good qualities of the much-maligned individual, who, as “the man in possession,” is so often provocative of anger, malice, and all uncharitableness in the breasts of those who have to entertain him. It would be unwise, however, for any one to be so led away by the eulogistic remarks of Charles Mathews as to expect to be able to go and do likewise, in the matter of borrowing money from them; for it must be remembered, that without exception he was the most entertaining man in existence, and blest with persuasive powers unparalleled. At the same time, it is perfectly true that they are nothing like as formidable as they are supposed to be (this is reliable—for a distant relation of mine once knew a person, who had a friend that was sold up—Ahem!), and if it were not for their partiality for wearing an extra number of coats and waistcoats, and invariably carrying a stout stick, which characteristics render them unmistakable to the practised eye, they would not be so objectionable, as they are by no means devoid of sympathy, and are always open to reason in the shape of gin and water.
Though not of so pronounced a type as some that have been quoted, there is an anecdote illustrative of ingenuity, recorded of Samuel Foote, who, in the days of his youth, and hard-upishness, wrote ‘The Genuine Memoirs of the Life of Sir John Dinely Goodere, Bart., who was murdered by the contrivance of his own brother.’ The author was nephew to the murdered man, and the assassin; but so poor was he, that on the day he took his MS. to the publishers he was actually without stockings. On receiving his pay for the book (£10), he stopped at a hosier’s in Fleet Street, to replenish his wardrobe, but just as he issued from the shop, he met two old Oxford associates, lately arrived in London for a frolic, and they bore him off to a dinner at the “Bedford:” where, as the wine began to take effect, his unclad condition began to be perceivable, and he was questioned as to “what the deuce had become of his stockings?” “Why,” said Foote—the stockingless Foote—“I never wear any at this time of the year, till I am going to dress for the evening, and you see”—pulling his purchase out of his pocket, and silencing the laugh and suspicion of his friends—“I am always provided with a pair for the occasion.”
Equally humorous is the story told of the Honourable George Talbot, the brother of the Earl of Shrewsbury, a man well known about town during the time of the Peninsular War. He was a reckless spendthrift, and in Paris, where he had spent thousands, he was reduced to absolute want. Though a man of decidedly bad principles, he was what is termed a good Roman Catholic; that is to say, a regular attendant at Mass, and when he found it impossible to raise money anywhere else he bethought him of the clergy, and repaired to confession. He revealed everything to the priest, at least with regard to his penniless condition, and after much interrogation, and deliberation, was told to “trust in Providence.” Seemingly much struck by the advice, he said he would come again, and on his second visit, retold his story, with the addition that nothing at the time of the interview had turned up; when he was met with the same counsel as before, and enjoined to “trust in Providence.” Somewhat chapfallen at the failure of his visit, he went away, but after a few days again presented himself to the abbé, whom he thanked effusively for his good advice on the two previous occasions, and then begged the pleasure of his company to dinner at a well-known fashionable restaurant. The invitation was accepted, and the two sat down to a most sumptuous repast, the delicacy of the viands being only surpassed by the choiceness of the wine. When the meal was concluded the bill was handed to Talbot, who said that his purse was quite empty, and had been so for a long time, but that he thought he could not do better than follow his confessor’s advice and “trust in Providence.” The Abbé Pecheron (the confessor) saw the joke, paid for the dinner, and so interested himself in Talbot’s case, that he obtained from the spendthrift’s friends in England sufficient to enable him to return to this country.
Not the least ingenious of the many instances to be met with, however, is one attributed to a widow, who, in the days of Whitecross Street and the Bench, was arrested for debt. This lady, who is described as of fair and dashing appearance, with great powers of fascination, soon began to pine for her liberty, and petitioned for leave “to live within the rules,” which request was granted. She then took a house in Nelson Square, and became a reigning queen of pleasure, her Thursday evening réunions being deemed so delightful, that invitations for them were most eagerly sought for. Her admirers were legion (that is of the male sex), one at last being successful in obtaining her coveted hand, and the marriage took place in due course. When the happy pair returned to Nelson Square after the ceremony, the tipstaves, who had become acquainted with the affair, put in an appearance as the newly married couple were about to start on their honeymoon, informing the lady that they would arrest her, and take her to the Bench, if she attempted to leave “the rules.” Nothing disconcerted by this apparent stopper to her happiness, she calmly, but majestically exclaimed, “Indeed! You forget there is no such person as the lady named in your warrant. I am no longer Mrs. A., but Mrs. B. There is my husband, and he is responsible for my debts.”
“Then, sir,” said the tipstaff, “I must arrest you.”
The lady smiled sarcastically, saying, “I think it will be time enough to arrest my husband when you have served him with a writ. If you have one, produce it; if not, kindly stand aside, and allow us to enter the coach.” The officers could but comply, for they saw they had been outwitted, and were compelled to stand meekly by, while the clever widow, observing “Now, my love, let us be off,” jumped into the carriage, and drove away with her husband.