Tom Tufton's Travels, Evelyn Everett-Green [read people like a book TXT] 📗

already felt that he possessed command of a thousand new epithets and words, to say nothing of the meaningless oaths and blasphemies, which made a part of the stock in trade of every fashionable man's vocabulary.

And now he stood regarding himself with complaisant satisfaction, feeling that he could ruffle it with the best of them. He had heard too much talk of periwigs not to feel resolved to wear one himself. Unless he did so, he felt he should never take his place in the world of fashion. His natural hair had therefore been cut close to his head, the peruke was fitted on, and fell in bushy curls to his shoulders.

Tom could not forbear a smile as he turned his head this way and that to judge of the effect. He felt indeed a pretty fellow, prepared to take his share in the drama of life going on about him.

"Harry Gay shall be your companion," said Cale, who had assisted at the toilet with the interest of a connoisseur, and who did not attempt to disguise his satisfaction at the result. "Harry is as gay as his name, but he is a well-meaning youth, and will neither rob you himself, nor suffer others to do so without warning you. He knows London well, and the life has hurt him less than it hurts most. He is brave without being a bully; he can play, and knows when to stop. He is afraid of no man, and so he is left alone. He has a good heart, and is to be trusted; and here he comes in good time to take you under his care."

The young man who now lounged in with a smiling face and a nod of recognition to Cale, was not unknown to Tom. He had seen him several times, and had taken a liking for him, which the other reciprocated. Harry Gay was the son of a leading merchant citizen, a man of some importance and mark, who was able to give his son every advantage that money could purchase, and the means to enter almost any circle short of that of the court itself.

But he had also transmitted to his son a certain hard-headed shrewdness, which stood him in good stead in the gay life he was now leading. Harry had the sense not to try to push himself amongst the high-born dames and gallants, where he would be regarded as an interloper, and only admitted to be fleeced of his gold; but contented himself with a more modest sphere, where he was a man of some little mark, and could lead as well as follow, if he had the mind.

Entering the back shop, Harry cast an approving glance at Tom, and nodded his head towards Cale, at the same time taking a pinch of snuff from his box, and handing it to the perruquier.

"Does you credit, Curley, does you great credit. A chaste and simple costume, but elegant withal--uncommon elegant, i' faith. Shouldn't mind a suit of the same myself, if I had our young friend's inches.

"Well, friend Tom, and how do you feel? Learned to take snuff yet? No! Ah, well, 'twill come by degrees.

"Put some more scent upon his person, Curley; he must smell like a perfumer's shop; and so--give him his gold-tasselled cane, and the gloves with the golden fringe. A muff? No! Well, perchance those great fists would look something strange in one, and the day is fine and mild.

"So, if you are ready, friend Tom, we will sally forth. To the coffee house first, and afterwards, an it please you, to the play.

"Farewell, Curley; I will bring you back your nursling safe and sound. He shall not be rooked or robbed today. But how long I shall be able to hold the cub in leading strings remains yet to be proved!"

Tom was in far too good spirits to take umbrage at this name. He felt anything but a cub as he walked down the street beside his scented and curled and daintily-arrayed companion, unconsciously striving to copy his jaunty step, and the little airs and graces of his manner.

"We will to the Folly," said Harry, as they stepped out into Holborn and turned their faces westward. "You have not yet seen the river, and the Folly is a floating structure moored in the water on the farther shore opposite to Somerset House, of which you may have heard. It is not the most fashionable resort; but, for my part, I like it well. There is always good company to be had there, and we are not interrupted every moment by the incursions of drunken roisterers, who spend their day in reeling from tavern to tavern, or coffee house to coffee house, in search of some new story to tell, or some fresh encounter to provoke."

Tom listened eagerly to all his friend told him as they went their way towards the river. So far he had not cared to show himself in the streets till after dusk, as he had become foolishly ashamed of his rustic garb. He was immensely interested in all that he beheld, and in the stories his companion told him about the places they passed, the persons they met, and the occupants of the coaches which were now rolling to and fro through the streets, taking ladies and their fine gentlemen friends either to the park, or some fashionable rendezvous.

Great indeed was his interest and amazement as they reached the steps beside the river, and Harry signalled to a waterman to bring up a wherry alongside to take them to the Folly. He had never imagined anything so wide and grand as this great flowing river, lined with its stately buildings, and bearing on its bosom more vessels than he imagined that the world held! Had it not been for his fear of betraying undue ignorance, he would have broken into a torrent of questions; as it was, he sat in wide-eyed silence, gazing about him like a savage suddenly transported into the world of civilization--not a little to the amusement of his cicerone.

The Folly was a floating structure not unlike a large houseboat of the present day. Its guests could walk to and fro upon the roof, or find warmth and entertainment within its walls, as did Harry and his friend; for although the sun shone, the wind blew cold upon the water, and it was pleasanter within the warmed interior, where already a sprinkling of guests had assembled.

The place was divided into two rooms for the public accommodation. The first of these was a bar and gaming room. A buxom and rosy-cheeked damsel was presiding at the bar, and several young dandies leaned their elbows upon it, and strove to engage her in conversation. Some others were already seated at a table, and were throwing the dice, laughing and swearing ceaselessly over their game. The second room was quieter at present, and upon the table there lay strewn about the various newspapers and pamphlets of the day. Two or three men were reading them, and discussing the news of the hour as they sipped their coffee or chocolate.

Harry led the way into this place, ordered coffee for himself and his friend, and, whilst nodding familiarly to the occupants of the room, possessed himself of a few papers, and pushed some of them across to Tom.

"A new pamphlet by Jonathan Swift, I see," he remarked carelessly, with a wink at his pupil. "You know his Tale of a Tub, Tom? Monstrous clever thing that! It tickles one to death reading it. So do his pamphlets--sharpest things out. Some talk of Defoe as his rival; but, for my part, I never read anything that rivals Swift's writings! Pity he has such a sharp edge to his temper. They say he will never get promotion."

Tom took up the pamphlet, and tried to look as though he were reading it with appreciation; but he had never been much of a student, and the comings and goings of a constant stream of visitors engrossed him far more than the printed words, the meaning of which he understood no whit.

It was much more interesting to him to listen to what the frequenters of the coffee house were saying amongst themselves; and greatly did he admire the ease and readiness with which Harry took his share in the conversation.

"Has my Lord Godolphin found a worthy pen to sing the praise of the victor of Blenheim yet?" he asked of a man who appeared to be a referee on matters literary. "The last I heard was that he was scouring London, tearing his periwig in pieces in despair that the race of poets was extinct, and he could only find the most wretched doggerel mongers, whose productions were too vile to be tolerated. Has the noble lord found a better rhymster? Or will the victory of the great Duke have to go unsung by the Muse?"

"What! have you not heard the end of that matter? Why, my Lord Halifax declared that he knew the man worthy of the occasion; but he would not reveal the name unless it was promised that he should be excellently well treated. And this man is none other than Joseph Addison, a fellow of the University of Oxford, and a man well thought of and pensioned, too, by the late King William. But since the death of His Majesty, the poet has been living in poverty and obscurity in a humble lodging hard by the Haymarket. There it was that he received a visit one day from the two noble lords; and it hath since been whispered that a poem is a-preparing so fine in quality and so finished in style, that my Lord Godolphin is now fit to dance a hornpipe for joy, and has promised a bountiful reward to the genius whose brain has devised and whose hand has penned the lines. They say that the poem is to be called 'The Campaign,' and that it is one of the finest the world has ever seen."

Whilst this sort of talk was going on in one corner, there were counter-conversations, more interesting to Tom, being carried on in other parts of the room. One band of bully beaux, somewhat the worse for drink already, were telling stories of scandal and duelling, to which Tom could not but listen with ill-concealed interest. Others were discussing the last new play, or the last new toast. A few fine dandies sat combing their periwigs as they talked of the latest fashions, taking snuff freely, and sprinkling themselves with perfume from a small pocket flask, if they were ever too nearly approached by some commoner person.

As time passed by the quieter men, who had come early to read and talk politics and literature, withdrew themselves and took their departure. Harry Gay was claimed by a party of dashing-looking young rakes, who insisted that he should come and play a game of tic-tac with them in the outer room; and as Tom made no move to accompany him, he left him in his seat in the corner to look on and learn all he could.

Tom, indeed, was quite fascinated by the scene around him, and had no desire to tear himself away. Presently one of the men from the group of bully beaux (as Tom had dubbed them, not by any means incorrectly) moved nearer to him, and took the chair vacated by Harry; and gradually the group reformed, with Tom as one of its members. The others addressed him, asking his name and his history. Tom was reserved as to this last, but spoke in a frank and easy way which seemed to win upon his comrades. There were four of them, and whatever might be their real names, Tom found out that they were known amongst themselves, and by the world of the tavern, by the following cognomens: "Slippery Seal," "Bully Bullen," "Thirsty Thring," and "Dicing Dick."

Tom was not sure that he liked or approved these new comrades, but at least their conversation interested and excited him. They told of duels fought in the ring at Hyde Park, or at the back of Montague House; of the exploits of highwaymen, and the executions at Newgate, which were plainly favourite spectacles with them. They told of the doings of themselves and other marauders in the streets of London, and roared with laughter over their exploits. Tom, ashamed of his real disgust, strove to laugh too, for he dreaded above everything to be thought a man lacking in spirit; but perhaps his face betrayed more than he meant, for his comrades began to gibe him in a fashion which made his hot blood rise; and he might have got into trouble before Harry could come to the rescue, had it not been that a sudden hush fell upon the room, whilst the word went round, spoken in every intonation of curiosity, respect, and admiration:

"'Tis Lord Claud himself! Hither he comes! Certes,