“As the prospect of my marriage has much increased lately, I am determined to take the best means to discover the lady most liberal in her esteem by giving her fourteen days more to make her quickest steps towards matrimony: from the date of this paper until eleven o’clock the next morning: and as the contest evidently will be superb, honourable, sacred, and lawfully affectionate, pray do not let false delicacy interrupt you. An eminent attorney here is lately returned from a view of my superb gates, built in the form of the Queen’s house. I have ordered him, as the next attorney here, who can satisfy you of my possession in my estate, and every desirable particular concerning it, to make you the most liberal settlement you can desire, to the vast extent of three thousand pounds.”
Some verses conclude, the words being—
“A beautiful page shall hold,
Your ladyship’s train surrounded with gold.”
The advertiser alludes to the forfeiture of the estates in another paper: “Pray, my young charmers, give me a fair hearing; do not let your avaricious guardians unjustly fright you into a false account of a forfeiture.” Sir John did not scatter his papers broadcast. It was only to those whom he deemed suitable ladies that he distributed his precious and grandiloquent invitations. Notwithstanding the seeming allurements of his circulars, Sir John Dinely found no nibblers for his bait. One morning the accustomed seat in St. George’s Chapel knew him no more. He was missing. The door of his lodging was forced, and in his room he was found ill and helpless. Everything about him was of the poorest and most squalid character. There was little furniture—a table and a chair or two. The room was strewed with printing type, for he printed his own bills; and in a few days Sir John Dinely was borne to the grave.
“Wise judges are we of each other,” said Claude Melnotte contemptuously to Colonel Damar when that officer remarked that he “envied” the pretended Prince of Como, and it would be well for many of us were we to remember the rebuke in forming our judgment of our fellows in connection with their pecuniary position. A very pitiful story illustrating the argument is narrated by Charles Lamb in his essay, “Christ’s Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago.” Referring to some cartoons connected with his old school, the author writes:—
“L—— has recorded his repugnance of the school to ‘gags,’ or the fat of fresh boiled beef, and sets it down to some superstition; but these unctuous morsels are never grateful to young palates (children are universal fat-haters), and in strong, coarse, boiled meats, unsalted, are detestable. A gag-eater in our time was equivalent to a ghoul, and held in equal detestation. There was a lad who suffered under this imputation.
‘It was said
He ate strange flesh.’
“He was observed, after dinner, carefully to gather up the remnants left at the table (not many nor very choice fragments, you may credit me), and in an especial manner these disreputable morsels he would convey, and secretly stow, in the settle that stood at his bedside. None saw when he ate them. It was rumoured that he privately devoured them in the night. He was watched, but no traces of them, of such midnight practices were discoverable. Some reported that on leave-days he had been seen to carry out of the bounds a large blue check handkerchief, full of something. This, then, must be the accursed thing. Conjecture next was at work to imagine how he could dispose of it. Some said he sold it to the beggars. This belief generally prevailed. He went about moping—none spake to him. No one would play with him. He was excommunicated—put out of the pale of the school. He was too powerful a boy to be beaten, but he underwent every mode of that negative punishment which is more grievous than many stripes. Still he persevered. At length he was observed by two of his schoolfellows, who were determined to get at the secret, and had traced him one leave day for the purpose, to enter a large worn-out building, such as there exists specimens of in Chancery Lane, which are let out to various scales of pauperism, with open door and a common staircase. After him they silently slunk in, and followed by stealth up four flights of stairs, and saw him tap at a poor wicket, which was opened by a poor woman meanly clad. Suspicion was now ripened into certainty. The informers had secured their victim. Accusation was formally preferred, and retribution most signal was looked for. Mr. Hatherway investigated the matter. The supposed mendicants, the receivers of the mysterious scraps, turned out to be the parents of the boy. This young stork, at the expense of his own good name, had all this while been feeding the old birds.”
A striking story of the unknown resources and trials of the poverty-stricken is the following, a favourite one with that capital raconteur, the late Julian Young.
A certain diplomatist was many years ago despatched by the English Government on an embassy extraordinary to one of the continental courts, where his handsome person and the urbanity of his manners made him a general favourite. On his departure the sovereign to whom he was accredited presented him with a small box of unusual value as a mark of his esteem. It had on its lid a miniature of the king set in brilliants of great beauty. When he had retired from public life and happened to give a dinner to any of his friends, he was fond of producing it at the dessert, as it afforded him an opportunity of descanting on the king’s appreciation of his services. On one of these occasions the box was brought forth, handed by the butler to the master, and passed round. The last person into whose hands it went was an old general, who, from some failure in investments, was known to be in embarrassed circumstances.