A Peep at a Tavern Concert.—Colin falls in love, parts with his money, and gets into difficulties.

THE entrance to the “saloon” of the Tavern where the Concert was to be held lay through a dram-shop. As Colin and his companion passed the bar, the latter familiarly recognised several shabby-genteel and dissipated-looking young men, who stood there drinking gin-and-water, and talking exquisite nonsense to a pretty-faced toy-like bar-maid, whose principal recommendation with her master consisted in the skill with which she contrived to lure and detain at the bar all such simpletons as usually spent the greater portion of their spare time amidst such scenes. By the side of the passage, and near the door of the saloon, was pasted up a small paper, on which was the following announcement: “On Sundays, sixpence, value given.”

The “value given” consisted of about a dozen spoonsful of either gin or rum, with very hot water, to make it appear strong,—or of a pot of ale or stout, at the discretion of the customer.

Very much to Colin's astonishment,—as well it might be, considering that he had never before seen aught of the kind more extensive than a country inn,—he was suddenly ushered by his companion into a “saloon,” containing about from three to five hundred persons, arranged on forms placed across the room, each form having before it a narrow raised ledge, not unlike those sometimes seen in the pews of churches, on which to lodge the respective pots, bottles, and glasses of the company. Down the avenues, which ran longitudinally, for the convenience of passage, certain individuals were calling shrimps, screwed up in conical white packages of one penny each; while the perfume, if such it could be called, from some scores of pipes and cigars, ascended in multitudinous little clouds above the heads of the company, and covered as with a filmy atmosphere the frescoed landscapes with which the walls above were bountifully decorated. At the remote end of the room appeared a stage and proscenium on a small scale, after the fashion of a Minor Theatre.

Shortly after Colin and his friend had taken their seats, a gentleman commenced playing an overture upon an instrument which had been highly admired there ever since its introduction, as it formed within itself a magnificent combination of organ, piano, clarionet, and bagpipe, and possessed besides the additional advantage of occasionally producing tones at its own will and pleasure to which those of no other instrument in the world might be compared, and of which no adequate conception can be formed, unless the reader has enjoyed the exquisite delight of hearing a “fantasia extempore” played on the hinges of some unoiled door, as it gradually, and in varying time, declined from a wide open position to the door-cheek.

As I have not the most distant intention of wearying either the reader or myself with a detailed description of the night's entertainment, I shall merely observe, that after the curtain drew up, a succession of songs, comic, patriotic, and sentimental, was introduced, and sung by various members of the professional company. Amongst these appeared one, on seeing whom Wintlebury exclaimed to his companion, “That's my sister!”

Colin looked. A beautiful-complexioned girl was on the stage,—bright-eyed, lively, and attractively attired in the showy costume of a theatrical Neapolitan maid. After a brief prelude on the famous OrchestrÆolophonagpipe, she sung, apparently not without effort, but with the most bewitching assumption of modesty telling its troubles to the moon, a song the burden of which ran “Too many lovers will puzzle a maid!”

“Encore!—encore!” enthusiastically cried a gentleman, who was sitting a few seats in advance, as he clapped his hands madly together, and tossed his legs at random under the seat before him, “admirable, bi'gar!—me quite consent vith dat. Too many is too much!”

“Hangcoor!” repeated a young sailor, considerably more than half-seas over, as he unconsciously re-charged his pipe, as though he were ramming down the wadding of a gun, “hangcoor!—Go it agen, Bess, or whatever your name is. Hangcoor!”

This word, under a dozen different pronunciations, ran round the room, while Miss Harriet Wintlebury made a profound courtesy, and proceeded to repeat her song.

As Colin gazed, and gazed again, turned away his eyes, and as instantly fixed them upon the same beautiful object again, his bosom burned, and his cheeks grew flushed,—he felt as though in the presence of a being whom he could think scarcely inferior to the angels—at least, he had never in his life seen woman as she is before. For what were the simple beings under that name whom he had met in the out-of-the-way country nook he had so recently left? What was his late mistress, Miss Sowersoft?—what the maids on the farm?—what even Fanny herself?—mere plain, dull, plodding, lifeless creatures of the feminine gender, and nothing more. But this enchantress!—his heart leaped up, and in that one moment he felt more of the deep yearning of love than ever in the course of his whole life he had felt before.

“Let us go nearer,” he whispered to his companion; and in the next minute they were forcing their way down one of the passages between the forms towards the other end of the room. Before they had succeeded in obtaining a seat on the last form, close under the stage-lamps, Miss Harriet had concluded her melody, and retired amidst considerable applause. Until the period of her reappearance the time occupied by other performers seemed to Colin endless. Under other circumstances, the novelty and freshness of such an entertainment would have beguiled his attention deeply, and resolved hours into the seeming space of but a few minutes; but now the sense of pleasure derived from this source was rendered dull and pointless by comparison with that far keener delight, that tumultuous throng of hopeful passions, which had so suddenly and strangely taken possession of his bosom. At length she came again,—he started, astonished. Could it be the same? The clear bright complexion—(or what had seemed at the further end of the room to be so)—now looked opaque and earthy; the white was dead white, and the red as abruptly red as though St. Anthony had been busy with his pencil, patching those cheeks with fire; while the substratum of bone and flesh looked worn into a shape of anxious pain, that gave the lie direct and palpable to the colourable pretensions of the surface. And then the handsome bust, which at a distance seemed so beautiful, now appeared a most miserable artistical mockery of nature; and the fixed meaningless gaze,—the mouth formally extended in order to display the teeth,—the dead lack-lustre stare at the remote end of the room, calculated to produce an impression on the more distant portion of the audience,—all combined deeply and strongly to impress the horrible conviction on the mind, that this poor creature, in spite of all assumptions and decorations to the contrary, was a very poor, worn-out, deplorable creature indeed! It forced upon the spectator something like the idea of a death's head endeavouring to be merry,—a skull fitted with glass eyes, and covered with a thin painted mask of parchment, striving to laugh and look happy, in order to be consistent with the laughter and the happiness around it. Add to this the hollow faint voice,—(the mere echo of the sound it once had been,)—pumped up from lungs that seemed to have lost all power,—to have decayed until scarcely any portion remained,—and we shall feel impressed, as Colin was, with a fearful, almost a terrible, sense of the poor uses to which humanity is sometimes put, and of the deep wretchedness often existing among those whose occupation in life is to look gay, whatever they may feel.

In truth, consumption was feeding on her, seemingly deep and irremediable. Yet she struggled on: what else could she? Still she strove, still fulfilled her occupation every night, still sung, still tried to look merry, although her heart was all out of heart, and her bosom was filled with fear and anxiety from the dread sense of approaching death—too surely at hand—and she unprepared! Perhaps to come to her on that very stage,—perhaps then! And all this to gain a morsel of daily bread!

Although reflections of this nature crowded on Colin's mind in a heavy throng, as he gazed on the poor made-up form before him, still he could not entirely free himself from the impression which her appearance had previously produced upon him. That which was artificial, and affected to others, was not so to his perceptions, for his inexperience would not allow him to see it. The appearance of modesty was to him real modesty; of grace, was grace; of lightheartedness and joy, as real as though a single care had never entered that bosom since the day it first stemmed the rude tide of the world. And as for the rest,—just as with every other imperfection which may exist in the object of any lover's hopes—so was it with hers. Through familiarity they were soon overlooked; and, like the shadows on the moon, though they chequered, they did not extinguish the general light.

At the conclusion of the performance Mr. Wintlebury borrowed ten shillings of Colin,—promising to pay him again as soon as he could get into work,—and they parted for the evening. Our hero returned to his humble bed in Mrs. Popple's garret, to pass a restless night amidst strangely-mingled visions of tavern concerts and beautiful singing ladies.

As, in his present state of feeling, there was nothing which in his heart Colin so much desired as an opportunity of obliging his second-floor neighbour, Miss Wintlebury, it luckily happened that in the course of a very short time she failed not to afford him various opportunities of so doing, having in all probability been taught her cue by the brother. After some trifling requests, such as borrowing tea, &c., she at last ventured, though very reluctantly indeed, to ask the loan, just for three days, of four pounds fifteen, if he could possibly do her that great obligation, in order to satisfy the impudent demands of the apothecary, the tea-dealer, the baker, and the butcher, who severally and respectively had peremptorily cut off the supplies.

All these friendly applications Colin responded to with unparalleled promptitude, although the last one so very materially enlarged the hollow of his purse, that he began to marvel how he himself should contrive to clear his way as far as to the end of the next fortnight.

This position of affairs somewhat aroused him from the idle day-dream in which he had been indulging. It was time, high time, that he set about doing something to earn a subsistence; for, besides the amount he had thus expended in supplying the wants of others, he had also lessened his stock very rapidly by attending nightly at the concert-room to hear his mistress's voice, which he thought the finest in the world, and to rejoice over the popular applause with which she there seldom failed to be greeted. For, singular as it may appear, he had never yet met with her in their own house, nor exchanged a single word with her in private upon any occasion whatever. His personal introduction yet remained to be made.

Several subsequent days he spent in various futile endeavours to obtain employment. Some, who otherwise would have engaged him, wanted a character from his last place. He had none to give; and, therefore, was denied the opportunity of earning one. Others required a person partially acquainted with their business; and so his services could not be rendered available. Meantime he had not neglected to call once or twice at the Yorkshire House, and inquire whether any letter had arrived there directed for him. No. The Squire had not written in reply to the letter he had despatched from that place, and all hope of deriving assistance from that quarter seemed, of course, entirely banished. “Doubtless,'” thought he, “Mr. Lupton has heard some bad accounts of me, and has wholly given me up.” In this conjecture our hero was, however, totally mistaken. Mr. Lupton had not yet returned from the excursion of a few weeks' duration, of which he spoke when Colin was at the Hall; and, consequently, had not seen the letter in question. Neither, had he done so, would his return have been of any avail in this particular instance; since it most unfortunately happened for Colin that on the day but one following the arrival of his epistle, it so fell out that Doctor Rowel was called to attend the Squire's housekeeper upon the attack of a sudden illness. On this occasion, while left in the drawing-room alone, the doctor's eye chanced to alight upon a number of unopened letters lying on the table, in readiness for the owner of the mansion on his arrival; and amongst them he espied one, on the corner of which was written the name of “Colin Clink.” He hastily took it up; stole a glance at its contents by shining it against the sun; and, finding it to contain certain very serious statements touching himself, he took a bold step at once, and, regardless of consequences, put it into the fire. Before the servant returned to conduct him up stairs, every vestige of the letter had totally disappeared. Thus had Doctor Rowel not only for the time being saved himself, but also obtained that knowledge of which he stood in much need,—the knowledge of Colin's place of retreat and particular address. Of these he instantly resolved to make the earliest possible use.

Disappointed in all his expectations, and defeated in every endeavour to obtain the means of making a livelihood, Colin returned to his little domicile, and on the spur of the moment wrote a very dolorous letter to his mother and Fanny, in which he set forth all his recent disasters, and the trouble he was now in, adding, that unless something or other to his advantage turned up very shortly he should scarcely know which way to turn himself for a living.

And yet, when he thought the matter more calmly over again, after the letter was despatched, and could not be recalled, he plucked up heart, and for another evening at least drove away care by retiring to the Condor Tavern, and taking his accustomed place within easy sight of the adorable Harriet Wintlebury.