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Chapter 7


If we had to make a classification of society, there is a
particular kind of men whom we should immediately set down under
the head of 'Old Boys;' and a column of most extensive dimensions
the old boys would require. To what precise causes the rapid
advance of old-boy population is to be traced, we are unable to
determine. It would be an interesting and curious speculation,
but, as we have not sufficient space to devote to it here, we
simply state the fact that the numbers of the old boys have been
gradually augmenting within the last few years, and that they are
at this moment alarmingly on the increase.

Upon a general review of the subject, and without considering it
minutely in detail, we should be disposed to subdivide the old boys
into two distinct classes--the gay old boys, and the steady old
boys. The gay old boys, are paunchy old men in the disguise of
young ones, who frequent the Quadrant and Regent-street in the day-
time: the theatres (especially theatres under lady management) at
night; and who assume all the foppishness and levity of boys,
without the excuse of youth or inexperience. The steady old boys
are certain stout old gentlemen of clean appearance, who are always
to be seen in the same taverns, at the same hours every evening,
smoking and drinking in the same company.

There was once a fine collection of old boys to be seen round the
circular table at Offley's every night, between the hours of half-
past eight and half-past eleven. We have lost sight of them for
some time. There were, and may be still, for aught we know, two
splendid specimens in full blossom at the Rainbow Tavern in Fleet-
street, who always used to sit in the box nearest the fireplace,
and smoked long cherry-stick pipes which went under the table, with
the bowls resting on the floor. Grand old boys they were--fat,
red-faced, white-headed old fellows--always there--one on one side
the table, and the other opposite--puffing and drinking away in
great state. Everybody knew them, and it was supposed by some
people that they were both immortal.

Mr. John Dounce was an old boy of the latter class (we don't mean
immortal, but steady), a retired glove and braces maker, a widower,
resident with three daughters--all grown up, and all unmarried--in
Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane. He was a short, round, large-
faced, tubbish sort of man, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a square
coat; and had that grave, but confident, kind of roll, peculiar to
old boys in general. Regular as clockwork--breakfast at nine--
dress and tittivate a little--down to the Sir Somebody's Head--a
glass of ale and the paper--come back again, and take daughters out
for a walk--dinner at three--glass of grog and pipe--nap--tea--
little walk--Sir Somebody's Head again--capital house--delightful
evenings. There were Mr. Harris, the law-stationer, and Mr.
Jennings, the robe-maker (two jolly young fellows like himself),
and Jones, the barrister's clerk--rum fellow that Jones--capital
company--full of anecdote!--and there they sat every night till
just ten minutes before twelve, drinking their brandy-and-water,
and smoking their pipes, and telling stories, and enjoying
themselves with a kind of solemn joviality particularly edifying.

Sometimes Jones would propose a half-price visit to Drury Lane or
Covent Garden, to see two acts of a five-act play, and a new farce,
perhaps, or a ballet, on which occasions the whole four of them
went together: none of your hurrying and nonsense, but having
their brandy-and-water first, comfortably, and ordering a steak and
some oysters for their supper against they came back, and then
walking coolly into the pit, when the 'rush' had gone in, as all
sensible people do, and did when Mr. Dounce was a young man, except
when the celebrated Master Betty was at the height of his
popularity, and then, sir,--then--Mr. Dounce perfectly well
remembered getting a holiday from business; and going to the pit
doors at eleven o'clock in the forenoon, and waiting there, till
six in the afternoon, with some sandwiches in a pocket-handkerchief
and some wine in a phial; and fainting after all, with the heat and
fatigue, before the play began; in which situation he was lifted
out of the pit, into one of the dress boxes, sir, by five of the
finest women of that day, sir, who compassionated his situation and
administered restoratives, and sent a black servant, six foot high,
in blue and silver livery, next morning with their compliments, and
to know how he found himself, sir--by G-! Between the acts Mr.
Dounce and Mr. Harris, and Mr. Jennings, used to stand up, and look
round the house, and Jones--knowing fellow that Jones--knew
everybody--pointed out the fashionable and celebrated Lady So-and-
So in the boxes, at the mention of whose name Mr. Dounce, after
brushing up his hair, and adjusting his neckerchief, would inspect
the aforesaid Lady So-and-So through an immense glass, and remark,
either, that she was a 'fine woman--very fine woman, indeed,' or
that 'there might be a little more of her, eh, Jones?' Just as the
case might happen to be. When the dancing began, John Dounce and
the other old boys were particularly anxious to see what was going
forward on the stage, and Jones--wicked dog that Jones--whispered
little critical remarks into the ears of John Dounce, which John
Dounce retailed to Mr. Harris and Mr. Harris to Mr. Jennings; and
then they all four laughed, until the tears ran down out of their

When the curtain fell, they walked back together, two and two, to
the steaks and oysters; and when they came to the second glass of
brandy-and-water, Jones--hoaxing scamp, that Jones--used to recount
how he had observed a lady in white feathers, in one of the pit
boxes, gazing intently on Mr. Dounce all the evening, and how he
had caught Mr. Dounce, whenever he thought no one was looking at
him, bestowing ardent looks of intense devotion on the lady in
return; on which Mr. Harris and Mr. Jennings used to laugh very
heartily, and John Dounce more heartily than either of them,
acknowledging, however, that the time HAD been when he MIGHT have
done such things; upon which Mr. Jones used to poke him in the
ribs, and tell him he had been a sad dog in his time, which John
Dounce with chuckles confessed. And after Mr. Harris and Mr.
Jennings had preferred their claims to the character of having been
sad dogs too, they separated harmoniously, and trotted home.

The decrees of Fate, and the means by which they are brought about,
are mysterious and inscrutable. John Dounce had led this life for
twenty years and upwards, without wish for change, or care for
variety, when his whole social system was suddenly upset and turned
completely topsy-turvy--not by an earthquake, or some other
dreadful convulsion of nature, as the reader would be inclined to
suppose, but by the simple agency of an oyster; and thus it

Mr. John Dounce was returning one night from the Sir Somebody's
Head, to his residence in Cursitor-street--not tipsy, but rather
excited, for it was Mr. Jennings's birthday, and they had had a
brace of partridges for supper, and a brace of extra glasses
afterwards, and Jones had been more than ordinarily amusing--when
his eyes rested on a newly-opened oyster-shop, on a magnificent
scale, with natives laid, one deep, in circular marble basins in
the windows, together with little round barrels of oysters directed
to Lords and Baronets, and Colonels and Captains, in every part of
the habitable globe.

Behind the natives were the barrels, and behind the barrels was a
young lady of about five-and-twenty, all in blue, and all alone--
splendid creature, charming face and lovely figure! It is
difficult to say whether Mr. John Dounce's red countenance,
illuminated as it was by the flickering gas-light in the window
before which he paused, excited the lady's risibility, or whether a
natural exuberance of animal spirits proved too much for that
staidness of demeanour which the forms of society rather
dictatorially prescribe. But certain it is, that the lady smiled;
then put her finger upon her lip, with a striking recollection of
what was due to herself; and finally retired, in oyster-like
bashfulness, to the very back of the counter. The sad-dog sort of
feeling came strongly upon John Dounce: he lingered--the lady in
blue made no sign. He coughed--still she came not. He entered the

'Can you open me an oyster, my dear?' said Mr. John Dounce.

'Dare say I can, sir,' replied the lady in blue, with playfulness.
And Mr. John Dounce eat one oyster, and then looked at the young
lady, and then eat another, and then squeezed the young lady's hand
as she was opening the third, and so forth, until he had devoured a
dozen of those at eightpence in less than no time.

'Can you open me half-a-dozen more, my dear?' inquired Mr. John

'I'll see what I can do for you, sir,' replied the young lady in
blue, even more bewitchingly than before; and Mr. John Dounce eat
half-a-dozen more of those at eightpence.

'You couldn't manage to get me a glass of brandy-and-water, my
dear, I suppose?' said Mr. John Dounce, when he had finished the
oysters: in a tone which clearly implied his supposition that she

'I'll see, sir,' said the young lady: and away she ran out of the
shop, and down the street, her long auburn ringlets shaking in the
wind in the most enchanting manner; and back she came again,
tripping over the coal-cellar lids like a whipping-top, with a
tumbler of brandy-and-water, which Mr. John Dounce insisted on her
taking a share of, as it was regular ladies' grog--hot, strong,
sweet, and plenty of it.

So, the young lady sat down with Mr. John Dounce, in a little red
box with a green curtain, and took a small sip of the brandy-and-
water, and a small look at Mr. John Dounce, and then turned her
head away, and went through various other serio-pantomimic
fascinations, which forcibly reminded Mr. John Dounce of the first
time he courted his first wife, and which made him feel more
affectionate than ever; in pursuance of which affection, and
actuated by which feeling, Mr. John Dounce sounded the young lady
on her matrimonial engagements, when the young lady denied having
formed any such engagements at all--she couldn't abear the men,
they were such deceivers; thereupon Mr. John Dounce inquired
whether this sweeping condemnation was meant to include other than
very young men; on which the young lady blushed deeply--at least
she turned away her head, and said Mr. John Dounce had made her
blush, so of course she DID blush--and Mr. John Dounce was a long
time drinking the brandy-and-water; and, at last, John Dounce went
home to bed, and dreamed of his first wife, and his second wife,
and the young lady, and partridges, and oysters, and brandy-and-
water, and disinterested attachments.

The next morning, John Dounce was rather feverish with the extra
brandy-and-water of the previous night; and, partly in the hope of
cooling himself with an oyster, and partly with the view of
ascertaining whether he owed the young lady anything, or not, went
back to the oyster-shop. If the young lady had appeared beautiful
by night, she was perfectly irresistible by day; and, from this
time forward, a change came over the spirit of John Dounce's dream.
He bought shirt-pins; wore a ring on his third finger; read poetry;
bribed a cheap miniature-painter to perpetrate a faint resemblance
to a youthful face, with a curtain over his head, six large books
in the background, and an open country in the distance (this he
called his portrait); 'went on' altogether in such an uproarious
manner, that the three Miss Dounces went off on small pensions, he
having made the tenement in Cursitor-street too warm to contain
them; and in short, comported and demeaned himself in every respect
like an unmitigated old Saracen, as he was.

As to his ancient friends, the other old boys, at the Sir
Somebody's Head, he dropped off from them by gradual degrees; for,
even when he did go there, Jones--vulgar fellow that Jones--
persisted in asking 'when it was to be?' and 'whether he was to
have any gloves?' together with other inquiries of an equally
offensive nature: at which not only Harris laughed, but Jennings
also; so, he cut the two, altogether, and attached himself solely
to the blue young lady at the smart oyster-shop.

Now comes the moral of the story--for it has a moral after all.
The last-mentioned young lady, having derived sufficient profit and
emolument from John Dounce's attachment, not only refused, when
matters came to a crisis, to take him for better for worse, but
expressly declared, to use her own forcible words, that she
'wouldn't have him at no price;' and John Dounce, having lost his
old friends, alienated his relations, and rendered himself
ridiculous to everybody, made offers successively to a
schoolmistress, a landlady, a feminine tobacconist, and a
housekeeper; and, being directly rejected by each and every of
them, was accepted by his cook, with whom he now lives, a henpecked
husband, a melancholy monument of antiquated misery, and a living
warning to all uxorious old boys.

Charles Dickens