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sepulchra contemplor:' I thought of a number of good and clever fellows who used to spend so much time in this room,--they might be said, without exaggeration, to inhabit it; I saw where they used to sit, carry on their arguments, and do other things which the Roman has neglected to record of his illustrious Greeks, such as drink grog, smoke cigars, sing songs, make speeches, and occasion. ally box their corners. I threw myself back upon the bench, closed my eyes, and the room was again thronged as of yore.

There was the crowd of strangers to the town, and of low persons belonging to it-of the town, towny; and there, too, knots of rare fellows, now spectators only, and rather supercilious ones, of the busy scene, soon to be actors of fast and fiery merriment, when the professional sing. ers shall have been gone, and the snobbery cleared. There at the round table, behind a huge bowl, worthy representative of the Celestial Empire, ladling out the punch which he has himself concocted, sits Lord in all the portliness of a bon vivant of the school of Fox and Sheridan, who had consumed seas of turtle, forests of veni. son, and oceans of punch and claret. On his right sits the Marquess of smoking shag tobacco from a clay pipe, and looking more like a north country grazier than a courtier, or the representative of a house that can boast

• The stirring memories of a thousand years.' Around this table, close packed, are members of Parliament, offi. cers, barristers, and other gentlemen ; and conspicuous amongst them for his stentorian laugh and rollicking. flow of spirits is Jack Spenser, the prince of boon companions, an excellent singer of songs of all sorts,

• From grave to gay, from lively to severe,' and the best of convivial orators. In the box next to this table, and in familiar communicatiou with it, is a younger crew of jolly companions,' law.students, parliamentary reporters, painters, and actors, and amongst these, as the general guest, is Sim Fairfield, alias 'the Captain. Ay, and there on the stool in the middle of the room stands old Frawley himself, singing,

'I'm jolly Dick the lamplighter.' And oh! how the chorus thunders with that aspiration of the vowels, in which the company loved to follow the example of Mr. Offiley!

• Then who'd be grave, when wine can save

The heaviest heart from sinking ?
And magic grapes lend hangel shapes

To hevery girl we 're drinking!! I opened my eyes for the purpose of taking some more of the lining out of my tumbler ; my vision fled, and I awoke to the remembrance that a few bricks only stood betwixt the churchyard and the seat of unbridled jollity, and that old Frawley now lay in that church. yard, and so did Šimon Fairfield; and no doubt both sleep well, as the tavern's roar was always sweet lullaby in their ears. Sim lies directly under the great window of the room. On the evening of his burial, Count Bolieski, a Polander, and a number of the Captain's friends, assembled at that window, and poured libations upon his grave. They did not, however, treat his gentle and jolly spirit like a heathen ghost They poured forth no blood; the Captain had an aversion to it even in the way of his profession, unless

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VOL. VII.

when it appeared at mess in the interior of black puddings ; nor no milk-for Simon could never abide it in its purity, and required al. ways to have it liberally mixed with rum. No! they thrice evoked his manes, and then solemnly emptied upon his last resting-place pots of porter, quarts of ale, and double-goes of brandy, hollands, rum, whiskey, and gin ; all of which, in his lifetime, Captain Fairfield loved with a love passing the love of women. I was out of town when the country was deprived of the services of that great man Frawley, so I know not what ceremonies followed his interment; but I learned that he died in the good cause for which he had lived. He caught cold by running out bareheaded on an inclement night to select a brace of birds for the supper of a pet customer, and placing himself on his return before a huge fire to cook them,-he died in a few days after. But his fame will live as long as mutton-chops continue to be objets de consommation. Every time any of his old friends are served with a cold or tough chop, and have consequently to recom. mend the cook to the attention of the infernal powers, they think of poor old Frawley, and breathe a wish that he had been still alive to cook and cater for them. Now this I call fame. If I may judge from my own experience, he must be invoked daily, in the language of the Irish mourner, 'Oh! Frawley, why did you die ?? for I find my own memory of him refreshed upon multitudinous occasions. In fact, Bellamy's is the only place now where you can get a good, hot, plain English mutton-chop. The female cook is nearly as great an artist as Frawley; but there is a difference, so to speak, in the fabric of the chop. The House of Commons' chop is small and thin. I have seen honourable members eat a dozen of them at a sitting. Frawley's, on the contrary, was thick and substantial, and therefore, when dressed with his consummate skill, better than the former. A couple of them furnished a moderate man with a dinner. But it is curious to remark that it was at Bellamy's Offey received his artistical education. He was originally a waiter there, and as such was privileged to watch, and occasionally admitted to assist, the presiding priestess of the gridiron at the exercise of her mysteries.

Frawley's extreme ugliness (if Victor Hugo had seen him, he would have given him a heritage of immortality,) his vigorous "ex. asperation of the vowels, his sharpness, his invincible good-humour and politeness,-equal to Talleyrand's, of whom it was said, that at the moment he was receiving a kick in the catastrophe,' his coun. tenance might be observed radiant with smiles,-all conduced to make him a general favourite. And this he must have turned to good account, and put money in his purse, as he was enabled at no very advanced period of life to start in business as a tavern-keeper on his own account. Certainly Frawley was one of the ugliest of human beings; yet it was not a repulsive ugliness. He was lame; his hands were like the claws of a bear; he squinted awfully; all the features were irregular. The face was entirely, as artists say, out of drawing; the head was on one side, like that of a magpie peeping into a marrow-bone ; yet there was an air of bonhommie and good-fel. lowship about the expression of the countenance, that courted your laugh rather than gave rise to any averse or unpleasant feeling. Frawley had been used to be laughed at all his life, and from long habit came to like it. Decidedly he was most attached to the young rakes, who took the loving labour of quizzing him to the top of his

bent. If, at three or four o'clock in the morning, he could learn that a party of these bright and buoyant spirits had arrived, he would, though in bed, arise and come down stairs to join, heart and soul, in the fun which was going forward. Sometimes, too, if he were lazy, a deputation would proceed to his chamber, and fetch him down in his night-gear. It was as impossible to play out the play without him at his own inn, as it would have been without Jack Falstaff at the Boar in Eastcheap. His songs were sure to excite peals of laughter, whether joyous or sentimental, “Jolly Dick the Lamplighter,' or 'The Lass of Richmond Hill,' the social effusions of Norris, or the sea-songs of Dibdin. His reminiscences of the great men upon whom he had waited when at Bellamy's, were also shrewd and entertaining. Nor had he lived in the presence of orators—the mighty men of renown-in vain. No! he was a powerful speaker, both in vehemence and volubility, and the use of what the Germans style thunder.words. His eloquence showed to peculiar advantage at the supper on St. Patrick's night, whereunto he invited all the choice spirits who frequented his establishment. Grand were the strains wherein he poured forth his acknowledgments when his health was drunk amidst the most vociferous applause.

Some fastidious persons used to affect to think there was too much noise at these reunions; but they were sure to make their appearance on the next anniversary of the saint,

• Who drove the frogs into the bogs, and banished all the vermin!' I recollect, too, a pair of these over-nice gentlemen were signally punished for their affectation. Wearied, as they declared, with the alternations of shouting and chorussing, which were as regular as those of day and night, the intervening seasons of twilight being devoted to drinking, solo-singing, and spouting, they announced, about two, a departure for their quiet beds; but having 'got the cross drop into them, they contrived to quarrel with the authorities for wishing to exercise in Covent Garden market a natural prerogative, contrary to police law: the consequence was, they were thrust into the watch-house, which looks into the church-yard opposite to Offley's great room. Having been the reverse of polite to those func. tionaries who violated the dignity of man' in their persons, no tidings of their fate could they get conveyed to their jovial friends, and they consequently had to pass the remainder of the evening gazing through the bars of their prison window, which commanded a fine view of the window of the room they had abandoned, and whence they could see the light streaming, and hear the sounds of merriment as they careered over the graves of the sad and silent dead. About eight A. M. the police relented. Word of the prisoners' plight was sent to Offley's. 'They were speedily released, and found the party, on their arrival, engaged in discussing a meal, half ancient, half modern, partaking of the nature of a rere-supper and a breakfast. There were grilled fowl, broiled bones, and devilled kid. neys, with bottled stout and champagne, on the one hand; on the other, tea, coffee, and the etceteras. The rescued prisoners were glad to undergo a world of quizzing, on condition of being allowed to comfort their chilled and exhausted bodies with the good things before them. We sung in what the Welsh called penillion about these fallen cherubim to the tune of

• There were three maids of Spain a-drinking of their wine,' old Offley leading off with

• There was two slow-coach gents a-drinking hof my wine,

And all their kinversation was, we think hourselves mighty fine!' I here close my reminiscences of the last of the old hosts' of the metropolis. Never again will London see so pleasant, so good, and 80 safe a tavern and night-house as old Frawley's used to be-never in one room so witty, so well-informed, and so right joyously convivial a circle as were wont to surround old Frawley.

Captain Simon Fairfield was the reverse of Mr. Offey in every respect. Fortune smiled on Simon at his entrance into life. She gave him the best passports into society-a handsome person, an elegant address, an honourable name, and a voice of exquisite sweetness. But much has been written by Mr. Benson Hils, and others, about the most prosperous portion of his career when he was a favourite guest of all the general officers, and of the Duke himself; when no convivial party during our campaigns could be complete without the best singer in the British army. It was only when poor old Sim was reduced to moral and physical degradation that I knew him. He was a sad wreck. Still it was impossible not to perceive that he had once been eminently handsome, and his manners exqui. site. They still bore undeniable traces of polish and refinement. There were, moreover, such occasional glimpses of self-assertion in his bearing towards the snobbery, that I could easily believe those who described him as a haughty exclusive when he played a part in the fashionable world. He was well-proportioned, and might have served, in his youth, as a model for a light-infantry officer. His fea. tures were regular, : the eye of deep clear blue, the nose aquiline, the mouth delicate, the play of the lips singularly expressive, the brow noblemin fact, grandly chiselled. The hands and feet were most aristocratically small and well-formed. In short, Nature stamped gentleman upon him, and it was out of the question not to recognize him as such even when drunk and dirty, unkempt and unshaven, shirtless, and with an old frock evidently not made for him, and fas. tened up to the throat, to conceal the want of linen, by the aid more of pins than buttons.

Sim's life might be divided into three periods. During the first he served throughout the Peninsular war. Envy, however, pretended that Sim had a predilection for the sick-list on the eve of a general engagement, and that he was much indulged in his taste, as neither the surgeon nor the commanding officer were over-anxious to imperil the life of their famous tenor. So he escaped without a scratch. Upon the peace he sold out; and here begins the second period. He was then a fashionable man upon town—a lion of the drawing-rooms and of the principal taverns, such as Long's, Steeven's, the

Clarendon. He was a lady-killer too, and might bave made many a good match. But he was too fastidious, or too careless, and let every opportunity slip. Gradually his two darling vices told against him-love of drink and of play. He had a curious adventure at this period of his history. He got very drunk at a convivial party, and having left it, turned into a hell, where he threw in seven or eight mains, and won a considerable sum, which he succeeded, moreover, in bringing safe to the hotel at which he lived. But, being in his bed-room, with that strange cunning which frequently displays itself in madmen, and men temporarily mad from drink, he cut a little slit with his penknife in the mattress, and into this thrust the bank-notes, crumpled into a small ball. Sim then went to bed, fell into a deep undreaming sleep, and forgot all that had occurred. When he rose next day he perceived from the money on his table that he had been playing—and with success. He sallied forth, and encountered an acquaintance, who congratulated him upon the large sum he had won. Sim denied Justily that he had won more than two or three-and-thirty pounds. His friend rejoined,

'I saw you, and if you won one shilling you won eight or nine hundred pounds.

Simon thought he was hoaxing him, and departed in a huff. But another and another acquaintance bade Sim joy of his winnings, so that he was at last forced into the conviction that he had won the money. But, if he had, he had lost it again. His pocket had been picked either at the hell, or in the street.

· Thus was Corinth lost and won ! Six months had passed away, and Simon still continued to occupy the same bedchamber in the Northumberland coffeehouse, which then stood in the Strand, nearly opposite the mansion of the Percies. Some procession was to pass. Sim's room was borrowed for the occasion, that the sittings at the window might be let, and the bed was taken down. In removing the mattress a housemaid discovered Sim's treasure (nearly seven hundred pounds), and the captain being a favoured lover, she restored it to him entire.

The relief was seasonable. Unfortunately, however, the greater part before long went as it had come, and no second miracle restored it to the loser. A drunken gambler may win once; but he is sure to be ruined in the long run. So was it with our hero. His love for indulging in potations pottle-deep increased, and his ill-success at play went on in proportion. He drank to drive away care.

At last everything went, money, credit, standing in society, even hope itself departed. Then commenced the third phasis of his life. For a time he haunted the gaming.tables where he had lost his means of livelihood; he sunk to the rank and society of the hellites, sang when called upon, afterwards acted as a bonnet, and thus existed : but at last was banished even from hell. He now got drunk whenever he could ; and whenever he did, was quarrelsome and abusive, and rarely refrained from especially assailing his friends and patrons the hellites. At length the nuisance became so great, that they were compelled to drive him forth to prey at fortune.'

Nothing remained save his exquisite voice ; but even this to another man would have been a fortune. Had he gone on the stage, he might have enjoyed comfort and independence. But, strange as it may seem, his pride revolted at the notion. Yet he had been whilst in the army a constant amateur performer ; and there can be no doubt he might have succeeded. "No! he preferred sinking into a sort of attendant at the night-taverns. From the proprietors of these

got a dinner (but he rarely cared to dine) or supper, and a couple of goes' of whiskey. No liquor came amiss to him; but he was an Irishman, and sufficiently patriotic to prefer the Irish manufac, ture. In consideration of the entertainment afforded by 'mine host' he was to sing when called upon. It was the

custom, moreover, for

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