Dionysius, who was sixty years of age and wore a wig and false teeth, according to his biographer, came over as a young fellow from Patland, and, finding the people of Brentford more easily humbugged and more ignorant than any people on earth, settled himself there, in his trade, which was that of a philosopher; an excellent profession, by which Dionysius would have made a pretty penny, only he spent his money in trying to be a man of fashion, in buying clothes, and other genteel diversions.
In consequence of this extravagance, although his learning had made his name famous (every one has heard of his 'Essay on the Tea-Kettle,' his 'Remarks on Pumps,' and his celebrated 'Closet Cyclopædia'), poor Diddler found himself one day, after forty years of glory, turned out of his lodging, without a penny, without his wig—which, sad to say, he had pawned—without even his false teeth, which, seeing he had no use for them, he had pawned too.
The first sketch pictures Dionysius Diddler, young, innocent, and with a fine head of hair, on which he wears an old felt hat and band very much out of shape. He wears a clerical-cut buttoned-up vest; a bob-tail coat, very short in the waist and sleeves, and long in the sparrow-tails; his face (an admirable likeness of the Doctor is preserved throughout) is adorned with 'specs;' his 'brogues' are very short, and patched; his shoes are decidedly primitive; a 'shellalee' is playfully twirled in his right hand; under his left arm is his learned library, for he is a young student of Ballybunion University, which noble foundation is seen under the hedge shown in the veracious artist's background, and, we are sorry to think, the famous college looks very like a bog-hut with a hole in the roof to let the smoke through. In contrast to this bright image of his gallant youth is the picture of the Doctor, after forty years of fame, thrown on the world very lean and miserable; the crown of his famous old felt hat is flopping down behind, the brim is very limp and ragged; his stock is buttoned close, as is what remains of his coat, for vest or linen he has none. Elbows are out, so are arm-pits; tails are mere fringe, trousers to match, and oh, such dreadful, shapeless, soleless old bluchers, and, we are afraid, no socks!
Poor old Diddler, with a paper bag on his head in place of his wig, with his face sunken in for the want of his teeth, with his old bludgeon in one hand, and the other exposing the ragged remains of a bottomless pocket, is looking wistfully out of his old barnacles, as he thinks of dear Ballybunion. 'I'm femous,' he is soliloquising, 'all the wurrrld over; but what's the use of riputetion? Look at me, with all me luggage at the end of me stick—all me money in me left-hand breeches pocket—and it's oh! but I'd give all me celibrity for a bowl of butthermilk and petaties.'
A happy thought strikes the Doctor in this strait. He goes off to see what his publisher will do for him; and the next view we have of poor Dionysius is more cheerful. He is in the shop of Mr. Shortman; 'an' sure an' ouns!' Diddler's face wears the most gratified smile possible to be produced without teeth. His roofless hat is on the floor; the state of the top makes it hold his 'shellalee' all the more conveniently. On the shelves, sure enough on the book-shelves, is the 'Closet Cyclopædia;' and leaning over the counter, on which he has just laid down three five-pound notes and three sovereigns for the delighted Dionysius to sweep up, is the eminent publisher, white neckcloth and all, in his habit as he lived; a capital caricature likeness of the head of the firm of Longman and Co.
Diddler rapidly turns his money to account in reinstating himself as an elegant member of society and art—the man of fashion the rogue longed to be. The first thing he does is to take his wig out of pawn. Here the artist has shown him in the Lombardian counting-house; and, while his 'relative' is examining certain securities (in the way of personal garments) upon which some of his clients in the private boxes desire advances, our fashionable Doctor takes the opportunity of readjusting before a looking-glass his head of hair, which has suffered somewhat by recent incarceration, his fingers being converted into curling-tongs to replace in some degree its pristine splendour.
'And now,' says he, 'I'll go, take a sthroll to the Wist Ind, and call on me frind Sir Hinry Pelham.' It appears that the noble Baronet's West End residence is situated in a neighbourhood no less celebrated than 'famed Red Lion's fashionable Square.' We are offered a jaunty back view of the revived dandy Diddler, as with a swagger of considerable sprightliness, and a genteel comedy strut, he is endeavouring to carry off the impression of his ragged wardrobe, and make the holes in his elbows pass current as a light, airy fashion. The imposing wig is made the most of; one massive lock, like a whisk of tow, is elegantly brushed about four inches beyond one ear, while the famous limp white hat, with its black band, and the top flapping about like the lid of a milk-pail, is cocked over the other. Carriages in the distance, with footmen suspended in pairs to the splashboard behind, attest the highly respectable character of the vicinity.
Sir Hinry Pelham is fortunately at home, reposing in a sumptuous easy chair, and splendidly apparelled in a long black satin stock, a flowing dressing-gown with collars and cuffs of some gorgeous material, and pointed Turkish slippers. The Baronet's fashionable exterior is very characteristic; his hair is thrown back in a rich cataract, over the back of his stock, his full curled whiskers ambrosially droop below his chin, his brow is noble, his eyebrow arched, his eye is haughty, as is his fine-bridged and well-defined hook-nose. This tremendous lion is evidently just roused from a state of well-bred listlessness, and he is propped up on the elbows of his lounge, while he regards, with sleepy astonishment, a banknote which his friend is flourishing before him with an air.
Diddler has thrown his hat on the floor, thrust his stick through the opening in the top, and drawn up a chair upon which he is straddling his long body and little legs in a consequential and impressive attitude. 'Pelham, me boy,' says he, 'you have clothes, and I have cridit; here's a five-pound note, and rig me out in a new shoot.'
In the next plate, Pelham, solacing himself with a cigar, is modestly concealing his features in a magazine; while Diddler—having discarded his shocking old clothes, which, with his vagabond hat and stick, lie scattered about the Baronet's splendid apartments—is ensconsing himself in one of Pelham's fashionable 'shoots;' a large cheval-glass discreetly marks the operations of his toilet. 'Fait,' says Diddler, 'the what-d'ye-call-'ems fit me like a glove.' Pelham is still engaged with his cigar and book in the following plate, but his aristocratic profile is again displayed. Diddler is standing in front of the cheval-glass contemplating with increased satisfaction his improved and respectable appearance; in fact, he is dressed in one of the Baronet's suits, the very height of the mode. His wig is now in curl, a few handsome locks are brushed over his forehead, a curl or two over his ears, and a row of curls over his stock behind. His spectacles, which he never abandons, beam with satisfaction, and his teeth are evidently replaced. He has a black satin stock very high in the neck, and falling into a creasy, shiny avalanche below; his coat has a broad collar, sleeves cut quite tight from the elbow, and snowy wristbands. With one hand he is affectedly adjusting his shirt-collar, while he admires the reflected effect of the other, displayed in an attitude with his thumb in the pocket of his spotless white vest; light trousers, literally fitting like a glove, as was then the fashion, setting tightly over a pair of narrow boots with extravagantly lengthened toes and high heels, which complete the costume of this elegant old dandy.