Real Life In London, Volumes I. and II. Egan Pierce

      “Having but one arm, of course he is unable to figure in the ring—though he attends the mills, and is a constant visitor at the Fives Court exhibitions, and generally appears a la Belcher. He prides himself upon flooring a novice, and hits devilish hard with the glove. I have had some lessons from this amateur of the old English science, and felt the force of his fist; but it is a very customary thing to commence in a friendly way, till the knowing one finds an opportunity which he cannot resist, of shewing the superiority he possesses. So it was with Harry and me, when he put on his glove. I use the singular number, because he has but one hand whereon to place a glove withal. Come, said he, it shall only be a little innocent spar. I also put on a glove, for it would not be fair to attack a one-armed man with two, and no one ought to take the odds in combat. To it we went, and I shewed first blood, for he tapped the claret in no time.

      “Neat milling we had, what with clouts on the nob, Home hits in the bread-basket, clicks in the gob, And plumps in the daylights, a prettier treat Between two Johnny Raws 'tis not easy to meet.”

      "I profited however by Harry's lessons, and after a short time was enabled to return the compliment with interest, by sewing up one of his glimmers.

      “This is St. James's Street,” continued he, as they turned the corner rather short; in doing which, somewhat animated by the description he had just been giving, Tom's foot caught the toe of a gentleman, who was mincing along the pathway with all the care and precision of a dancing-master, which had the effect of bringing him to the ground in an instant as effectually as a blow from one of the fancy. Tom, who had no intention of giving offence wantonly, apologized for the misfortune, by—“I beg pardon, Sir,” while Bob, who perceived the poor creature was unable to rise again, and apprehending some broken bones, assisted him to regain his erect position. The poor animal, or nondescript, yclept Dandy, however had only been prevented the exercise of its limbs by the stiffness of certain appendages, without which its person could not be complete—the stays, lined with whalebone, were the obstacles to its rising. Being however placed in its natural position, he began in an affected blustering tone of voice to complain that it was d——d odd a gentleman could not walk along the streets without being incommoded by puppies—pulled out his quizzing glass, and surveyed our heroes from head to foot—then taking from his pocket a smelling bottle, which, by application to the nose, appeared to revive him, Tom declared he was sorry for the accident, had no intention, and hoped he was not hurt. This, however, did not appear to satisfy the offended Dandy, who turned upon his heel muttering to himself the necessity there was of preventing drunken fellows from rambling the streets to the annoyance of sober and genteel people in the day-time.

      Dashall, who overheard the substance of his ejaculation, broke from the arm of Bob, and stepping after him without ceremony, by a sudden wheel placed himself in the front of him, so as to impede his progress a second time; a circumstance which filled Mr. Fribble with additional alarm, and his agitation became visibly' depicted on his countenance.

      “What do you mean?” cried Dashall, with indignation, taking the imputation of drunkenness at that early hour in dudgeon. “Who, and what are you, Sir?{1} Explain instantly, or by the honour of a gentleman, I'll chastise this insolence.”

      1 “What are you?” is a formidable question to a dandy of the

      present day, for

      “Dandy's a gender of the doubtful kind;

      A something, nothing, not to be defined;

      ?Twould puzzle worlds its sex to ascertain,

      So very empty, and so very vain.”

      It is a fact that the following examination of three of

      these non-descripts took place at Bow Street a very short

      time back, in consequence of a nocturnal fracas. The report

      was thus given:

      “Three young sprigs of fashion, in full dress, somewhat

      damaged and discoloured by a night's lodging in the cell of

      a watch-house, were yesterday brought before Mr. Birnie,

      charged with disorderly conduct in the streets, and with

      beating a watchman named Lloyd.

      “Lloyd stated that his beat was near the Piazza, and at a

      very late hour on Thursday night, the three defendants came

      through Covent Garden, singing, and conducting themselves in

      the most riotous manner possible. They were running, and

      were followed by three others, all in a most uproarious

      state of intoxication, and he thought proper to stop them;

      upon which he was floored san-ceremonie, and when he recovered his legs, he was again struck, and called 'a b——yCharley,' and other ungenteel names. He called for the assistance of some of his brethren, and the defendants were with some trouble taken to the watch-house. They were very jolly on the way, and when lodged in durance, amused themselves with abusing the Constable of the night, and took especial care that no one within hearing of the watch-house should get a wink of sleep for the remainder of the night. Mr. Birnie.—“Well young gentleman, what have you to say to this?” The one who undertook to be spokesman, threw himself in the most familiar manner possible across the table, and having fixed himself perfectly at his ease, he said, “The fact was, they had been dining at a tavern, and were rather drunk, and on their way through the Piazza, they endeavoured by running away to give the slip to their three companions, who were still worse than themselves. The others, however called out Stop thief! and the watchman stopped them; whereat they naturally felt irritated, and certainly gave the watchman a bit of a thrashing.” Mr. Birnie.—“How was he to know you were not the thieves? He did quite right to stop you, and I am very glad he has brought you here—Pray, Sir, what are you?” Defendant.—“I am nothing, Sir.” Mr. Birnie (to another).—“And what are you?” Defendant.—“Why, Sir, I am—I am, Sir, nothing.” Mr. Birnie.—“Well, this is very fine. Pray, Sir, (turning to the third, who stood twirling his hat) will you do me the favour to tell what you are?” This gentleman answered in the same way. “I am, as my friends observed, nothing.” Mr. Birnie.—“Well, gentlemen, I must endeavour to make something of you. Here, gaoler, let them he locked up, and I shall not part with them until I have some better account of their occupations.” We have heard it asserted, that Nine tailors make a man. How many Dandies, professing to be Nothing, may be required to accomplish the proposed intention of making Something, may (perhaps by this time) be discovered by the worthy Magistrate. We however suspect he has had severe work of it.

      "Leave me alone,” exclaimed the almost petrified Dandy.

      “Not till you have given me the satisfaction I have a right to demand,” cried Tom. “I insist upon an explanation and apology—or demand your card—who are you, Sir? That's my address,” instantly handing him a card. “I am not to be played with, nor will I suffer your escape, after the insulting manner in which you have spoken, with impunity.”

      Though not prepared for such a rencontre, the Dandy, who now perceived the inflexible temper of Tom's mind—and a crowd of people gathering round him—determined at least to put on as much of the character of a man as possible, and fumbled in his pocket for a card; at length finding one, he slipped it into Tom's hand. “Oh, Sir,” said he, “if that's the case, I'm your man, demmee—how, when, or where you please, ?pon honor.” Then beckoning to a hackney coach, he hobbled to the door, and was pushed in by coachee, who, immediately mounted the box and flourishing his whip, soon rescued him from his perilous situation, and the jeers of the surrounding multitude.