Having eaten his supper, he was leaning back in his chair, with a half resolution in his mind to stroll forth into the streets for an hour, and see what suggestions his wanderings might obtain for him, when the waiter came up, and leaning confidentially upon the table, informed him that there was an “’Armonious Meeting going on in the public room at the bottom of the passage, and if the gentleman liked, the sperits he was pleased to horder could be served him there.”
“Who are they?” asked Holdsworth.
“All sorts, sir. The ’armony is done by some gents as lives in the neighbourhood, who look in every Wednesday night to drink and converse. The governor takes the chair, and every gent as is stoppin’ in the house is made welcome. I think you’ll be pleased, sir.”
“This is dull enough, at all events,” said Holdsworth, looking around him. It was too early to go to bed, and he felt too tired to take his half-projected stroll. So, conceiving that a quarter of an hour’s inspection of the convivialists in the public room might cheer him up, he rose and followed the waiter down the passage.
The scene into which he was admitted certainly wanted no feature of liveliness. The room was long and low pitched, with two immense grates in it, and wooden mantelpieces carved into all kinds of quaint embodiments of Greek and Roman mythology. Common brass sconces were affixed to the walls with a couple of candles in each. Around were pictures of fighting and theatrical celebrities of that and an earlier day; Humphreys and Mendoza, stripped to the waist, and working into each other’s eyes in wonderful style, watched by a distant and pensive crowd in hats of the Tom and Jerry school, uncomfortably tight breeches, and coat collars above their ears; Kemble in furs; Incledon dressed as a sailor; Braham, as little Isaac, in the “Duenna;” and Dicky Suett, with a thing like a balloon coming out of his mouth, and “Oh la!” written upon it. At the head of a long table sat a stout man in a striped yellow waistcoat, a bottle green coat, and a white neckcloth; several black bottles, steaming jugs, and a plate of lemons were in front of him. And down the table on either side were seated a number of individuals, some of them dressed in extravagant style, a few clad soberly, and most of them smoking cigars, or rapping snuff-boxes, laughing, talking, and drinking from fat one-legged tumblers.
As Holdsworth entered, either a speech, a song, or a sentiment had just been delivered, for there was a great hammering going on, mingled with cries of “Bravo!” The “cheer,” who was the promoter of, and the sole gainer by these Wednesday festivities, bowed to Holdsworth, and getting on to his legs, came round and bade him welcome in the name of all the good fellows there and then assembled, and gave him the sign, which Holdsworth, not having been made, did not take. He then led him to a vacant chair between two of the more soberly clad of the company, and having received and transmitted his commands to the waiter with a host-like and hospitable air, as though such a low arrangement as a reckoning had no existence, resumed his place at the head of the table, knocked loudly with his knuckles, and called upon Mr. Harris for a song.
On this, up started a thin young man with a yellow beard, and, leaning on his hands, gazed slowly around him with a leering and perfectly self-possessed bloodshot eye. Whereat there was a laugh.
“Gentleman!” he began.
“Order! silence!” cried the landlord. “Mr. ’Arris has your ear!”