Men's Wives [54]
does good to us commoners, or why else should we be so anxious to have one?). In the second place of honour, and on her ladyship's left hand, sat Mr. Slang, the manager of one of the theatres; a gentleman whom my Lady Thrum would scarcely, but for a great necessity's sake, have been induced to invite to her table. He had the honour of leading Mrs. Walker to dinner, who looked splendid in black velvet and turban, full of health and smiles. Lord Roundtowers is an old gentleman who has been at the theatres five times a week for these fifty years, a living dictionary of the stage, recollecting every actor and actress who has appeared upon it for half a century. He perfectly well remembered Miss Delancy in Morgiana; he knew what had become of Ali Baba, and how Cassim had left the stage, and was now the keeper of a public-house. All this store of knowledge he kept quietly to himself, or only delivered in confidence to his next neighbour in the intervals of the banquet, which he enjoys prodigiously. He lives at an hotel: if not invited to dine, eats a mutton-chop very humbly at his club, and finishes his evening after the play at Crockford's, whither he goes not for the sake of the play, but of the supper there. He is described in the Court Guide as of "Simmer's Hotel," and of Roundtowers, county Cork. It is said that the round towers really exist. But he has not been in Ireland since the rebellion; and his property is so hampered with ancestral mortgages, and rent-charges, and annuities, that his income is barely sufficient to provide the modest mutton-chop before alluded to. He has, any time these fifty years, lived in the wickedest company in London, and is, withal, as harmless, mild, good-natured, innocent an old gentleman as can readily be seen. "Roundy," shouts the elegant Mr. Slang, across the table, with a voice which makes Lady Thrum shudder, "Tuff, a glass of wine." My Lord replies meekly, "Mr. Slang, I shall have very much pleasure. What shall it be?" "There is Madeira near you, my Lord," says my Lady, pointing to a tall thin decanter of the fashion of the year. "Madeira! Marsala, by Jove, your Ladyship means!" shouts Mr. Slang. "No, no, old birds are not caught with chaff. Thrum, old boy, let's have some of your Comet hock." "My Lady Thrum, I believe that IS Marsala," says the knight, blushing a little, in reply to a question from his Sophia. "Ajax, the hock to Mr. Slang." "I'm in that," yells Bludyer from the end of the table. "My Lord, I'll join you." "Mr. -----, I beg your pardon--I shall be very happy to take wine with you, sir." "It is Mr. Bludyer, the celebrated newspaper writer," whispers Lady Thrum. "Bludyer, Bludyer? A very clever man, I dare say. He has a very loud voice, and reminds me of Brett. Does your Ladyship remember Brett, who played the 'Fathers' at the Haymarket in 1802?" "What an old stupid Roundtowers is!" says Slang, archly, nudging Mrs. Walker in the side. "How's Walker, eh?" My husband is in the country," replied Mrs. Walker, hesitatingly. "Gammon! _I_ know where he is! Law bless you!--don't blush. I've been there myself a dozen times. We were talking about quod, Lady Thrum. Were you ever in college?" "I was at the Commemoration at Oxford in 1814, when the sovereigns were there, and at Cambridge when Sir George received his degree of Doctor of Music." "Laud, Laud, THAT'S not the college WE mean." "There is also the college in Gower Street, where my grandson--" "This is the college in QUEER STREET, ma'am, haw, haw! Mulligan, you divvle (in an Irish accent), a glass of wine with you. Wine, here, you waiter! What's your name, you black nigger? 'Possum up a gum-tree, eh? Fill him up. Dere he go " (imitating the Mandingo manner of speaking English) In this agreeable way would Mr. Slang rattle on, speedily making himself the centre of the conversation, and addressing graceful familiarities to all the gentlemen and ladies round him. It was good to see how the little knight, the most moral and calm of men, was compelled to receive Mr. Slang's stories and the frightened air