Philip Martindale proceeded, as we have stated, from the coffee-house towards Tothill Street, with a view of keeping his engagement with his friend of the scarlet coat and crimson countenance. He had entered into his memorandum-book the number of the house to which he had been directed, but he omitted as useful a notice, namely, to take down the division or apartment in which the gentleman of the pit had his residence. For the fact is, that the ingenious bird-feeder and fancier resided in an upper apartment, nearer to the sky by one flight of stairs than the Hon. Philip Martindale imagined. The house was a miserable contrast to the splendid mansion which he had left. Whether it had ever been cleansed either by paint or water, since the day it was built, seemed a matter of doubt. The windows had been broken, and had been mended partially but not with glass. The very window-frames seemed to be in such a state of dilapidation that a breeze might blow them from their position.

When the door was opened by a middle aged female, whose miserable and dirty attire made her look twenty years older than she was, the olfactory nerves of the young gentleman were assailed by a grievous combination of various odours, among which onions, tobacco, and gin, were the predominant. Asking of the miserable being who opened the door whether Clarke was within, he was told to walk up stairs. Very slowly and very cautiously did he mount the creaking staircase, setting his foot gently and inquiringly upon each successive stair to ascertain whether it would bear his weight: of one or two he had so much distrust as to step completely over them.

When arrived at the first landing-place, he heard a multitude of voices, which he naturally supposed to proceed from some gentlemen of the fancy. Without knocking at the door, he immediately let himself in, and found to his great astonishment that he had mistaken the apartment. He found himself surrounded by a group of dark-complexioned, sallow-looking, unshorn beings; some of whom were sitting on the floor, others on crazy boxes and broken chairs, and all of whom were smoking cigars. The dingy dress which they wore, and the faded decorations which were suspended on their left breast, immediately proclaimed them to be emigrants. As soon as he entered the room, their voices were stilled, and they turned their inquiring and sickened looks towards him as if to a harbinger of some intelligence of good. The moment that he felt where and with whom he was thus accidentally placed, his spirit sunk within him; and he did feel a deep compassion for the miserable objects which surrounded him.

One of the party, by the freshness of his dress and the cleanliness of his person, appeared to have arrived but recently among them. He was a man of middle age, wearing a very respectable military dress; and though of thoughtful look, he did not appear dejected or heartbroken. To him Mr. Martindale addressed himself in the Italian language, apologising for his accidental and unintentional intrusion. The stranger replied in English, spoken with a foreign accent, but with tolerable fluency, stating that he had just arrived in England, and being directed to where he could find some of his fellow-countrymen, he had but recently entered the house, and was grieved to see them so situated. He also said that he himself was not much better provided for, but that his wife and child were in England, though he could not at present discover in what part of the country. He said that he had received letters from them, but that those letters were lost, with part of his own luggage. But he trusted, he continued, that he should find out, by inquiry, where his family was; and he concluded a long harangue by asking Philip Martindale, with great simplicity, if he knew where Mr. Smith lived.

This is a question which wiser men than the Hon. Philip Martindale would be puzzled to answer; and it is a question which weaker men than he would have smiled at. He was not a man without feeling, though he was a man of the world; and it excited in his mind other thoughts and feelings than those of a ridiculous nature, when he saw a foreigner in England, whose discovery of his wife and child depended on the finding out of the residence of a person of so common a name as Smith. Forgetting, therefore, his engagement with Stephen the guard, he set himself seriously and closely to interrogate the poor man, in order to find some better and more definite clue to the discovery of his family than the name of Smith. Thereupon the countenance of the foreigner brightened up, his eyes sparkled, and the tear was on his cheek, when he said:

“Oh! sare, you are good. I thank you much for your great trouble: you are all so good in England to the poor estranger when he is in misery. It is sad to leave my own land; but what am I without my poor child?”

“Well, my good friend,” replied Philip, “I hope and trust you will find your child. But surely you must have some other knowledge of the person with whom your family is residing than merely the name of Smith. You have had letters from them, you say; can you not recollect from what place those letters were dated?”

“Oh, no! I could not recollect it once: it was no name in the geography; it was in the province.”

“Then, of course, it was not London;” replied Mr. Martindale.

“No, no, no, it was not London; it was in the province: it was far away from London thirty or forty mile.”

“But did not you sometimes send letters to your family, and can you not tell how you addressed your letters to them? Perhaps if you were to consider a little while, you might be able to call to mind something that might assist in discovering the place of their abode. If you had letters, most likely some account was given of the place where they lived: or if it were a small village, they may have mentioned the name of the nearest post-town.”

“Oh yes, it was very pretty place. It was thirty or forty mile from London. It was very beautiful place. There was large, very fine palace called Abbey. There was very fine lake.”

This description reminded Philip Martindale of the place of his own residence, and he therefore asked if the name of the place was at all like Brigland. The foreigner looked thoughtful, and attempted to repeat the word, saying: “Breeklan! Breeklan!” Then, after a pause of a few seconds, his features underwent a complete change, and with a kind of hysteric laugh or screech of exultation, he cried out:

“Oh, that was it! that was it! Oh, good sare, it was Breeklan—oh, tell me where is Breeklan, and I will see my child and my dear wife—oh, I will see them once again—oh, you have save me from great misery.”

Then he seized Philip Martindale’s hand and pressed it with great emotion, repeating his solicitations; and the tears rolled down his cheeks, and he smiled with such an expression of delight, that the young gentleman was moved; and after he had given some charitable donations to the rest of the unhappy ones in the miserable apartment, he proceeded to conduct the newly-arrived stranger where he might find a conveyance to take him to Brigland.

Philip Martindale then returned to the house where the game-cocks were to be seen, and there he met his friend Stephen the guard, and some other friends of the fancy, by the fascinations of whose sweet society he was detained in the metropolis somewhat longer than he designed, and by whose winning ways he found himself poorer than was quite convenient. The opinion he expressed concerning the fighting birds—the particulars of the exhibition with which he was afterwards favoured at the Westminster-pit—the brilliant conversation in which he there engaged—the bets which there he laid and lost—the flattering homage which he there received—the satisfaction which resulted from it—all these and many other matters of a like nature we pass over unrecorded; trusting that, where one reader blames the omission, fifty will commend it.

But though we describe not these scenes, it does not follow that we should pass them over without reflection. One very natural reflection is, that gentlemen of high birth and estate are much to be envied for the pleasure which they enjoy in those scenes. There must be a peculiar delight in such pursuits, or the superfine part of our species could not possibly condescend, for the sake of them, to associate on most familiar terms with persons whose birth is most miserably low, whose understandings are most grievously defective, whose manners are abominably coarse. Take from the side of one of these honorables the jockey, the boxer, the feeder, or the coachman, with whom he is all courtesy and good humor and familiarity, and place there a man of middle rank in society, respectable in every point of view, with what cool contempt would the dignity of high birth regard him. One other reflection is, that such pursuits ought to be calculated to raise these said gentle and noble ones very high in their own esteem, inasmuch as they are not thereby raised in the esteem of others. Their disinterested generosity is also much to be applauded, seeing that by thus lavishing their wealth on those whose only support is the gambling propensity of men of wealth, they take away from the public a large number of such as might otherwise have exercised their wits in picking pockets or breaking into houses. They who would suppress gambling deserve the thanks of the ninnies who would be thus preserved from being plundered in an honorable and gentlemanly manner; but what would become of the rogues and sharpers who live upon the folly of right honorable and high-born simpletons? Politic morality is perhaps one of the greatest difficulties which legislators have to contend with. Begging pardon for these reflections, we proceed with our story.

We have stated that the Hon. Philip Martindale suffered in his purse from his visit to the Westminster-pit. The following morning he meditated much upon the subject; and he also applied the powers of his mind to the ring, and recollected that he had there oftentimes suffered as much in his purse as some of the pummeled heroes had in their persons. Then while he was in the humor for thinking, he endeavoured to calculate how much these amusements had cost him; and in the course of that calculation it most unaccountably came into his mind that many of the frequenters of these exhibitions had no ostensible means of living, and that they yet lived well, and that of course they must have lived upon him and others of high rank and birth. Following that train of thought, and finding that several of the superfine ones who had formerly patronised these sports had for some reason or other gradually fallen off from them, he began to think that he would also abstain from them, and confine himself to the more respectable and gentleman-like avocations of the race-course and the hazard-table: for there he should meet with a more numerous assemblage of persons of his own rank; and as he had three horses entered to run at Newmarket, and as one of these was an especial favorite, he had some expectation of retrieving his losses, at least in part. He fully determined that he would no longer associate with the vulgar ones of the ring and the pit. Oh, what an excellent homily is an empty purse!

Now it happened very fortunately for the trusty Oliver, and for his master too, that when the latter had finished his meditations, and was entering the shop of his gunsmith, he should meet there his worthy friend Sir Andrew Featherstone. The greeting was cordial; for the meeting was agreeable on both sides. Sir Andrew Featherstone was a baronet of very ancient family:—that rendered him acceptable to the Hon. Philip Martindale. But he had other recommendations—he was the best-tempered man in the world. There are myriads of this description. He kept a most excellent table, had a capital pack of hounds, and two very beautiful daughters, whom we shall have great pleasure in introducing to our readers in due course of time. The families of the Featherstones and the Martindales had been intimate time out of mind; and it was the wish of Sir Andrew to marry one of his daughters to the Hon. Philip Martindale. But the young gentleman himself had never given the subject a single thought. By one of those remarkable coincidences which are happening every day, Sir Andrew mentioned the archery-meeting, and expressed a wish that Philip would honor it with his presence. The young gentleman found this reality as great a relief to his mind, as his trusty Oliver had found the invention a relief to his mind; and he immediately dispatched a note to his venerable relative, stating his engagement, and fixing the day of his return to Brigland.