IN WHICH IT APPEARS THAT A MAN MAY POSSESS A DIAMOND AND YET BE VERY HARD PRESSED FOR A DINNEROn that fatal Saturday evening, in a hackney-coach, fetched from the Foundling, was I taken from my comfortable house and my dear little wife; whom Mr.Smithers was left to console as he might.He said that I was compelled to take a journey upon business connected with the office; and my poor Mary made up a little portmanteau of clothes, and tied a comforter round my neck, and bade my companion particularly to keep the coach windows shut: which injunction the grinning wretch promised to obey.Our journey was not long: it was only a shilling fare to Cursitor Street, Chancery Lane, and there I was set down.
The house before which the coach stopped seemed to be only one of half-a-dozen in that street which were used for the same purpose.No man, be he ever so rich, can pass by those dismal houses, I think, without a shudder.The front windows are barred, and on the dingy pillar of the door was a shining brass-plate, setting forth that "Aminadab, Officer to the Sheriff of Middlesex," lived therein.A little red-haired Israelite opened the first door as our coach drove up, and received me and my baggage.
As soon as we entered the door, he barred it, and I found myself in the face of another huge door, which was strongly locked; and, at last, passing through that, we entered the lobby of the house.
There is no need to describe it.It is very like ten thousand other houses in our dark City of London.There was a dirty passage and a dirty stair, and from the passage two dirty doors let into two filthy rooms, which had strong bars at the windows, and yet withal an air of horrible finery that makes me uncomfortable to think of even yet.On the walls hung all sorts of trumpery pictures in tawdry frames (how different from those capital performances of my cousin Michael Angelo!); on the mantelpiece huge French clocks, vases, and candlesticks; on the sideboards, enormous trays of Birmingham plated ware: for Mr.Aminadab not only arrested those who could not pay money, but lent it to those who could; and hadalready, in the way of trade, sold and bought these articles many times over.
I agreed to take the back-parlour for the night, and while a Hebrew damsel was arranging a little dusky sofa-bedstead (woe betide him who has to sleep on it!) I was invited into the front parlour, where Mr.Aminadab, bidding me take heart, told me I should have a dinner for nothing with a party who had just arrived.I did not want for dinner, but I was glad not to be alone--not alone, even till Gus came; for whom I despatched a messenger to his lodgings hard by.I found there, in the front parlour, at eight o'clock in the evening, four gentlemen, just about to sit down to dinner.Surprising! there was Mr.B., a gentleman of fashion, who had only within half-an-hour arrived in a post-chaise with his companion, Mr.Lock, an officer of Horsham gaol.Mr.B.was arrested in this wise:- He was a careless good-humoured gentleman, and had indorsed bills to a large amount for a friend; who, a man of high family and unquestionable honour, had pledged the latter, along with a number of the most solemn oaths, for the payment of the bills in question.Having indorsed the notes, young Mr.B., with a proper thoughtlessness, forgot all about them, and so, by some chance, did the friend whom he obliged; for, instead of being in London with the money for the payment of his obligations, this latter gentleman was travelling abroad, and never hinted one word to Mr.B.that the notes would fall upon him.The young gentleman was at Brighton lying sick of a fever; was taken from his bed by a bailiff, and carried, on a rainy day, to Horsham gaol; had a relapse of his complaint, and when sufficiently recovered, was brought up to London to the house of Mr.Aminadab; where I found him--a pale, thin, good- humoured, LOST young man: he was lying on a sofa, and had given orders for the dinner to which I was invited.The lad's face gave one pain to look at; it was impossible not to see that his hours were numbered.
Now Mr.B.has not anything to do with my humble story; but I can't help mentioning him, as I saw him.He sent for his lawyer and his doctor; the former settled speedily his accounts with the bailiff, and the latter arranged all his earthly accounts: for after he went from the spunging- house he never recovered from the shock of the arrest, and in a few weekshe DIED.And though this circumstance took place many years ago, I can't forget it to my dying day; and often see the author of Mr.B.'s death,-- a prosperous gentleman, riding a fine horse in the Park, lounging at the window of a club; with many friends, no doubt, and a good reputation.I wonder whether the man sleeps easily and eats with a good appetite? I wonder whether he has paid Mr.B.'s heirs the sum which that gentleman paid, and DIED FOR?
If Mr.B.'s history has nothing to do with mine, and is only inserted here for the sake of a moral, what business have I to mention particulars of the dinner to which I was treated by that gentleman, in the spunging-house in Cursitor Street? Why, for the moral too; and therefore the public must be told of what really and truly that dinner consisted.
There were five guests, and three silver tureens of soup: viz., mock- turtle soup, ox-tail soup, and giblet soup.Next came a great piece of salmon, likewise on a silver dish, a roast goose, a roast saddle of mutton, roast game, and all sorts of adjuncts.In this way can a gentleman live in a spunging-house if he be inclined; and over this repast (which, in truth, I could not touch, for, let alone having dined, my heart was full of care)-- over this meal my friend Gus Hoskins found me, when he received the letter that I had despatched to him.
