THE OLD LONDON MERCHANT

_A SKETCH_

Flos Mercatorum.--_Epitaph on Whittington_


At that festive season, when the days are at the shortest, and the
nights at the longest, and when, consequently, it is the invariable
practice of all sensible people to turn night into day; when the state
of the odds between business and pleasure is decidedly in favour of the
latter; when high carnival is held in London, and everything betokens
the prevalence and influence of good cheer; when pastrycooks are in
their glory, and green trays in requisition; when porters groan beneath
hampers of game, and huge tubs of Canterbury brawn; when trains arriving
from the eastern counties are heavy laden with turkeys and hares; when
agents in town send barrels of oysters to correspondents in the country;
when Christmas-box claimants disturb one's equanimity by day, and Waits
(those licensed nuisances, to which even our reverence for good old
customs cannot reconcile us) break one's first slumber at night; when
surly Christians "awake," and salute the band of little carollers with
jugs of cold water; when their opposite neighbour, who has poked his
nightcapped head from his window, retires with a satisfactory chuckle;
when the meat at Mr. Giblett's in Bond Street, which, for the last six
weeks, has announced the approach of Christmas by its daily-increasing
layers of fat, as correctly as the almanack, has reached the
ne-plus-ultra of adiposity; when wondering crowds are collected before
the aforesaid Giblett's to gaze upon the yellow carcass of that
leviathan prize ox--the fat being rendered more intensely yellow by its
contrast with the green holly with which it is garnished--as well as to
admire the snowy cakes of suet with which the sides of that
Leicestershire sheep are loaded; when the grocer's trade is "in
request," and nothing is heard upon his counter but the jingling of
scales and the snapping of twine; when the vendor of sweetmeats, as he
deals forth his citron and sultanas in the due minced-meat proportions
to that pretty housemaid, whispers something in a soft and sugared tone
about the misletoe; when "coming Twelfth Nights cast their shadows
before," and Mr. Gunter feels doubly important; when pantomimes are
about to unfold all their magic charms, and the holidays have fairly
commenced; when the meteorological prophet predicts that Thursday the
1st will be fair and frosty, and it turns out to be drizzling rain and a
sudden thaw; when intelligence is brought that the ice "bears," the
intelligence being confirmed by the appearance of sundry donkey-carts,
containing ice an inch thick, and rendered indisputable by the discharge
of their crystal loads upon the pavement before Mr. Grove's, the
fishmonger's; when crack performers in paletots, or Mackintoshes, with
skates in their hands, cigars in their mouths, and tights and
fur-topped boots on their lower limbs, are seen hastening up Baker
Street in the direction of the Regent's Park; when a marquee is pitched
upon the banks of the Serpentine, and a quadrille executed by the
before-mentioned crack skaters in tights and fur-topped boots upon its
frozen waters; when the functionaries of the Humane Society begin to
find some employment for their ropes and punt; when Old Father Thames,
who, for a couple of months, appears to have been undecided about the
colours of his livery--now inclining to a cloak of greyish dun, now to a
mantle of orange tawny--has finally adopted a white transparent robe
with facings of silver; when, as you pass down Harley Street, the lights
in the drawing-room windows of every third house, the shadows on the
blinds, and, above all, the enlivening sound of the harp and piano,
satisfy you that its fair inmate is "at home"; when

    House-quakes, street-thunders, and door-batteries

are heard from "midnight until morn"; when the knocker at No. 22 Park
Street responds to the knocker at No. 25; when a barrel-organ and a
popular melody salute your ear as you enter Oxford Street; when the
doors of the gin-palaces seem to be always opening to let people _in_,
but never to let them _out_, and the roar of boisterous revelry is heard
from the bar; when various vociferations arise from various courts and
passages; when policemen are less on the alert, though their
interference is more requisite than usual; when uproarious jollity
prevails; when "universal London getteth drunk"; and, in short, when
Christmas is come, and everybody is disposed to enjoy himself in his
own way. At this period of wassail and rejoicing it was that a social
party, to which I am now about to introduce the reader, was assembled in
a snug little dining-room of a snug little house, situated in that snug
little pile of building denominated the Sanctuary in Westminster. When a man has any peculiarity of character, his house is sure to
partake of it. The room which he constantly inhabits reflects his image
as faithfully as a mirror; nay, more so, for it reflects his mind as
well as his person. A glance at No. 22 St. James's Place would satisfy
you its owner was a poet. We can judge of the human, as of the brute
lion, by the aspect of his den. The room marks the man. Visit it in his
absence, and you may paint his portrait better than the limner who has
placed his "breathing canvas" on the walls. From that well-worn
elbow-chair and the slippers at its feet (the slippers of an old man are
never to be mistaken), you can compute his age; from that faded brocade
dressing-gown and green velvet cap, you can shape out his figure; from
the multiplicity of looking-glasses you at once infer that he has not
entirely lost his vanity or his good looks; that gold-headed cane gives
you his carriage--it is not a crutch-handled stick, but a cane to
flourish jauntily; that shagreen spectacle-case, that chased silver
snuffbox with the Jupiter and Leda richly and somewhat luxuriously
wrought upon its lid, that fine Sèvres porcelain, that gorgeous
Berlin-ware, those rare bronzes half consumed by the true hoary green
ærugo, those little Egyptian images, that lachrymatory, that cinerary
urn, that brick from the Colosseum, that tesselated pavement from
Pompeii, looking like a heap of various-coloured dice, and a world of
other rarities, furnish unerring indications of his tastes and habits,
and proclaim him a member of the Archæological Society; while that open
volume of Sir Thomas Urquhart's "Rabelais" (published by the Abbotsford
Club) gives you his course of study; the _Morning Post_ his politics;
that flute and those musical notes attest the state of his lungs; and
that well-blotted copy of verses, of which the ink is scarcely dry,
proclaims his train of thought. The door opens, and an old gentleman
enters exactly corresponding to your preconceived notions. You require
no introduction. You have made his acquaintance half-an-hour ago. The apartment to which we are about to repair was a complete index to
the mind and character of its possessor, Sir Lionel Flamstead.