CHAPTER II.—LOVE’S YOUNG DREAM.

For a few days Anne Porteous felt rather miserable. She was angry with herself for her imprudence in allowing such a misfortune to have happened; her feminine vanity was not in the least bit tickled at having the refusal of the famous editor, for she was not at all of that class of savage females who gloat over the roll of their rejected suitors as a Red Indian does over his string of scalps. No; she felt really and truly vexed for her old and kind friend, though, with the inconsistency of her sex, she could not but feel just the least bit piqued that, seeing he had cared for her so much as to ask her to be his wife, he had taken her unavoidable refusal so calmly and in such good part. She was glad to find, however, he had not forgotten her altogether; although he was now at Lucerne, she got the _Olympic_ and other London magazines addressed to her in his familiar splashy handwriting, just as before. But there were no letters now. Formerly, she used to act as correspondent between him and her father, whose fingers were too stiff from rheumatism to make writing convenient. She missed the gay cheerful letters, with their satirical sketches of the lions of the circles he moved in, and their playful banter of herself even. However, one day the postman brought a letter which turned her thoughts into an entirely different channel. It ran as follows:

BRUSSELS, 19th _Sept._ 188-.

MY DARLING NAN—I have just time to write this before starting for London by the tidal train. Old Uncle Joseph is dead. I have just got the telegram announcing the event, which took place this morning. I hope he will have left me a good round sum, so that I can start practice at once, and then a certain young lady I know of will not be long of coming to keep house for me. With a thousand kisses.—Yours ever,

ALFRED ROBERTON.

She mused over this letter for a few minutes; something in it jarred on her feelings. She did not quite like the matter-of-fact way in which the writer announced the death of his uncle, to whom he was entirely indebted for his upbringing and education. Nor was she quite pleased at the assured way he spoke of a ‘certain young lady’ coming to keep house for him. Why, as yet he had not even seen her father—not to speak of his having got no consent to their union. Nan was a pre-eminently practical young woman; but a kind, loving, faithful heart beat in her bosom, and it resented the tone of the note as being callous and far too self-assured. Of course, it was written under a pressure for time; but still it might have contained some little expression of sorrow for the death of one who had done so much for him, instead of hoping for a good legacy.

Alfred Roberton was her engaged lover. She met him at a dancing party given by a mutual friend in le Quartier l’Anglais, Brussels. He was possessed of a stalwart handsome figure, and an agreeable face and voice. That he was clever, might possibly be inferred from the fact that he had carried off quite a number of college honours. That he thought himself clever, didn’t require to be inferred from anything—it was stamped on his face, and showed itself in his every look and gesture. Whether Anne saw this, we know not; if she did, it was insufficient to prevent her falling deeply in love with him. A few moonlight strolls under the linden trees, a few soft pressures of the hand, a few sighs and tender speeches, and practical, sober-minded Anne gave her whole heart to this handsome youth—the first who had ever addressed her in the magic accents of love. And he? Well, he loved truly and sincerely enough in his own sort of way, just as he had loved other young ladies before. He was one of those men who seem to hold a power of fascination over the other sex. He did not mean to be a flirt—but how could he help the girls falling in love with him? He couldn’t make a brute of himself, and be rude and insolent to them—could he? His conquests were, however, usually of brief duration; for some reason or other not known, his previous love affairs had come to an untimely end. It was generally thought by his friends—and himself too—that his love for Anne was sincere and genuine, and could end in nothing else than matrimony. His uncle’s demise would bring matters to a crisis. He had adopted him at an early age, being himself a childless widower. Mr Joseph Roberton was a Scotchman, and had gone early in life to push his fortune in the great Metropolis. Starting business after a while as a cheesemonger, he had in the course of years managed to scrape together quite a little fortune; and when his brother died, he gladly adopted his only son Alfred, and gave him a first-class education. When he arrived at an age for choosing a business or profession, he expressed a desire to be a doctor, so his uncle sent him to Edinburgh University, where, in due course of time, he received his diploma of M.D. While he was engaged pursuing his medical studies, his uncle took it into his head to marry his housekeeper, Mrs Janet Grant. Alfred did not like this change in the old gentleman’s domestic arrangements, for, truth to say, there was little love lost between him and the late housekeeper; but any unpleasant feeling he might have felt in the matter was changed into unmitigated disgust by the advent of a baby-cousin—his uncle’s son and heir. The old gentleman was of course delighted at this addition to his family; but it did not make any difference in his treatment of his nephew. He still gave him an allowance of three hundred pounds a year; and as he had now got his professional degree, it was arranged that he should travel on the continent for a year, visiting the various centres of medical science, and making himself acquainted with the latest discoveries, before beginning practice in London. It was while on this tour that he met Anne Porteous.

About a week after receiving her lover’s letter, a tall, gentlemanly looking stranger entered the coffee-room of Lochenbreck Inn, and, much to the waiting-maid’s surprise, asked to see Miss Porteous. Anne did not need to look at the stranger’s card; she knew instinctively it was her lover, and there being no one else in the room, she went to meet him. The first fond greetings over, she saw there was something on his mind, and that not of a pleasant nature. She was not long kept in suspense.

‘Do you know, Nan, I have been swindled—thoroughly swindled? After my uncle’s funeral, I waited to hear the will read, of course. The family lawyer was there; and he said there was no will. His client, he said, had been talking some time ago of making one, and had even given him some general directions about it; but he says it was never executed, and that the scheming old housekeeper and her brat are heirs to all. Isn’t it shameful?’

‘Well, Alfred dear,’ Anne replied in a consolatory tone, ‘you know they were nearer to him than you could ever be, and you mustn’t grudge them taking what is justly their own. Besides, remember how kind your uncle was to you in his lifetime. Look at what a lot of money he spent on your education and in fitting you for a profession.—But did your aunt give you nothing—not even a remembrance of your uncle?’

‘Well, yes,’ he grumblingly rejoined; ‘she gave me a cheque for a hundred guineas, and had the impudence to tell me she never wanted to see my face again.’

‘And you took it?’

‘Why, yes. Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Well, Alfred, if I had been in your place, I would not have accepted of a gift given in such a spirit. However, it will be useful when you begin practice, which I suppose you will be doing at once now.’

‘Start business as a doctor in London, with only a hundred pounds to fall back on! Why, Nan, you’re surely joking. But I forget: girls don’t understand these matters.’

‘Then, what do you purpose doing?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Oh, my mind is quite made up as to that,’ he said, drawing himself up proudly. ‘I intend devoting myself to literature.’

‘And throw away all your medical study and training for nothing,’ she exclaimed. ‘Surely, that would be folly, Alfred.’

‘There’s no folly about it,’ he answered. ‘Lots of fellows, without half the education or, I may say, ability that I possess, make a thousand or two a year by writing science articles, stories, and what not for the monthlies. I’m told it’s about the best paying thing that’s going. And then, you see, it does not require any capital. You just jot down your thoughts on a quire of paper, forward it to an editor, and you get a cheque back by return of post for twenty or thirty guineas—or far more, if your name is well known—as mine will soon be,’ he added confidently.

This piece of news was not very pleasant to poor Nan. To be a doctor’s wife in a year or two was an agreeable enough prospect, especially when she so fondly loved the man. But to enter on matrimony with no more assured means of living than the honorariums which fall to the lot of an ordinary literary hack, was a bleak lookout. How often had she heard Mr Hannay aver that not one in a hundred who tried literature as a profession succeeded in earning a decent living. True, Alfred must be very clever, from the number and value of his college prizes; but then, hadn’t her old friend often said that education had but little to do with literary success, and that he had rejected more manuscripts from college-bred would-be contributors than from any other class. She did not fear a life of haphazard poverty for herself; but her woman’s instinct told her that it would press hardly on Alfred. She was not blind to the imperfections of his nature; she was far too clear-headed for that. But she regarded him from two distinctly different points of view: from the one, her common-sense showed him in all his human imperfections and failings; from the other, or ideal one, he appeared as a being so far exalted above the common herd of men that to love and serve him all the days of her life would be her chiefest joy and happiness. As the stereoscope projects two different images into one more seemingly real than either taken singly, so did her woman’s love commingle these diverse impressions of her lover into a glorified and lovable whole. Who on this earth could be to her what he was to her? Not being of an exacting or jealous nature, she had never asked herself the question—Did he love her as she loved him? If she had done so, she would have smiled in scorn at the very suggestion of such a mean doubt; for did not she remember his warm, trembling words of love—his soft sighs and tender caresses—his declarations of hopeless despair, if she withheld her heart from him? It certainly was a pity this abandonment of his profession; but then, it might only be a temporary one. He perhaps might find that, clever as he was, the paths leading to literary success were steeper and less flowery than he imagined. If so, then, of course, he would start practice, and all would yet be well. The slight shadow on her countenance cleared off. She said: ‘Well, Alfred, you should know best—perhaps you are right. Come and I’ll take you to our private parlour. Papa is sitting out in the garden. I must bring him in and introduce him to you.—He must know all now,’ she added with a slight tremor. She had put off the evil day as long as she could; but further concealment was now impossible.

It was with faltering accents she confessed her secret to the old gentleman, as she sat down beside him in the garden arbour. If she had informed him that Lochenbreck had suddenly run dry, he could not have been more astonished. Then he got angry, and made use of some very uncomplimentary expressions regarding Anne and her sex in general. But he was a man of sense and feeling at heart; and when he saw the hot tears coursing down her cheeks, he checked himself at once, caressed her, and told her not to make a fool of herself. He knew Anne’s character too well to think that he, or any one, could prevent her permanently from doing anything her heart was set on, and which her sound moral consciousness told her was right and justifiable. He, it is true, had cherished secret hopes that his old friend Hannay might have taken a fancy for the girl, and he would have parted with her to him freely; now he was asked to give her to a man that he had never yet seen. It was monstrous; but then girls always do act in a ridiculous and contrary manner in these matters of love.

‘Well, Nan, I’ll see the lad—there can be no harm in that; and I’ll not thwart your happiness if I find him deserving of you.’

Ay, there was the rub. Was he, or almost any one else in the world, deserving of his Nan?

Seated in the cosy parlour, and the embarrassment of the unexpected introduction over, Nan prudently withdrew, leaving the two gentlemen to feel their way into each other’s acquaintanceship over a bottle of claret and a box of cigars. Alfred was a good talker, easy, self-possessed, and even genial in his style.

He felt no diffidence in proposing for Anne; true, meantime he was almost impecunious, and had no established or certain means of living; but he was a gentleman, well educated and bred, and, as he inwardly thought, a very eligible son-in-law for any innkeeper in the land. Anne was now called in, and blushingly joined in the conversation. The suitor pressed for an immediate union. This was, however, decisively negatived by both father and daughter. Porteous had been favourably impressed by his proposed son-in-law; but when he learned that his future income was to be derivable solely from literary emoluments, it became him to act in the matter with great caution, for the sake of his daughter’s future. If this literary venture was to be gone into, its success must be thoroughly demonstrated in actual pounds, shillings, and pence, before the marriage could take place. Anne thought this a reasonable stipulation: her lover didn’t. His pride felt hurt at finding obstacles where he imagined he had an easy walk over. He had, however, to pocket his pride and submit to the inevitable. On these conditions the lovers became engaged, with the old gentleman’s approval. A great weight of concealment was now off Anne’s mind. Her spirits rose, and for a few brief days the happy pair abandoned themselves to the innocent delusions and delights of ‘Love’s young dream.’

Anne was the first to awake to the realities of life. She was nothing if not practical, and she soon realised that all this sweet billing and cooing was but a waste of time. Her knight must go forth into the tournament of life, gain his trophies, and then come back to claim her as his guerdon.

‘Now, Alfred,’ she said one day, ‘I think it is high time you should put your literary projects into execution. That, you can’t well do here. I think you should take a cheap lodging in Edinburgh, or some place where you would have the advantage of good reference libraries, and set to work at once.’

‘True, Nan; I must think of making a start one of these days.—But you don’t wish me away, dearest, do you?’ he said in a tender way.

‘Oh, you know well enough I don’t!’ she returned with the slightest trace of impatience in her tone. ‘But if we are to get married, it will not be by your idling your time away here. You’ll find a hundred pounds won’t keep you long in a large city; and think in what an awkward position you would be, if it got done before you found a regular and profitable market for your literary work.’

He was forced to admit the soundness of the advice, which was emphatically indorsed by Mr Porteous. So, the following day he packed up his traps; and the evening found him established in a modest lodging in Nicolson Street, Edinburgh, which had formerly known him as a student.

The lovers might have served as a model for all others so situated, in the regularity and length of their communications to each other. For fully a month, Alfred wrote in the brightest of spirits. He was engaged on a lengthy paper, ‘A Comparative Analysis of the Literature of Greece and Rome.’ This was intended for a famous London quarterly; he would act prudently, however, and would not commit himself until he had ascertained the very highest sum obtainable for it.

This first venture was completed and posted. In a few days the manuscript was returned with a polite note from the editor. The paper, he admitted, was well written, although not containing any particularly new views on the subject; and at anyrate there was no demand for classic literature on the part of the reading public at present: therefore, he was under the necessity of declining it with thanks, &c. He sent it to some other magazines; but the result in substance was the same. He was surprised and disappointed, of course; but buoyed up by his own self-esteem and Anne’s kind sympathetic letters, he determined to make a new venture on different lines. He had been very successful in taking prizes in the science classes at college. The science of optics was a strong point with him, so he set to to compose ‘A Dissertation on the Polarisation of Light.’ This he sent when completed to a celebrated science monthly. The manuscript was returned, and the note accompanying it was discouraging. The editor thought the article fairly well written, and the facts and theories were correctly given so far as it went, but it was rather behind the times. Repulsed in the higher branches of his chosen profession, he now condescended to write ordinary magazine sketches and stories; but still the long-looked-for success failed to come. He wrote scores of papers—tales, social sketches, &c.; but not one of them found their way into print. In most cases they were returned with a printed form of letter, expressive of the editor’s regret at being unable to use the manuscript. In some cases, however, they were good enough to append a line or two of criticism. One said his style was a little stilted, and that he used too many long-syllabled words. Another said, in effect, that he lacked dramatic instinct in the grouping of his incidents and characters, and that the plot was bald and destitute of any probable _motif_. Many never returned his manuscripts at all, or paid the least attention to his oft repeated inquiries regarding them. Disheartened by these repeated failures, it was with delight he read in one of the daily papers an advertisement addressed ‘To Authors.’ The advertiser, who seemed to be of a philanthropic disposition, professed deep sympathy with the difficulties that beset the path of young aspirants to literary fame. Many a splendid intellect, the advertisement went on to say, had been doomed to languish in obscurity through the want of enterprise of selfish publishers. It was his (the advertiser’s) wish to assist struggling merit—in other words, to enable young authors to publish their works on exceptionally favourable terms. Letters inclosing a stamped envelope for reply, and addressed to ‘Author,’ G. P. O., London, would receive instant attention.

‘The very thing to meet my case,’ said Alfred to himself. ‘I’ll write a novel, and then these beggarly editors will see how the public will appreciate my writings.’ In high spirits he wrote a letter asking further particulars from the literary philanthropist; and in due course received a courteous reply, stating that if he forwarded the manuscript of the proposed work when finished, it would be examined carefully, and, if judged worthy, would be published on the ‘half-profit’ system—that is, the resulting profits to be equally divided between the author and the advertiser. It was necessary that a registration fee of ten guineas should be paid in the first instance; this, however, was only as a guarantee of bona fides, and it would be returned when the book was published. The requisite fee was at once forwarded; and Alfred set to work in great spirits to compose a short high-class novel; he purposed giving the story a literary _personnel_, to afford him an opportunity of holding up to his readers’ derisive scorn the ridiculous pretensions of ignorant London editors. He wrote to Anne, and depicted in glowing terms the brilliant prospects before him in the near future; and putting his whole soul in his work, and working twelve hours a day, he finished his story (which was somewhat after the style of the _Caxtons_) in less than two months. In sending it to London, he earnestly requested that it should be put in type and published with the least possible delay. The manuscript was duly acknowledged, and compliance with his request promised. It had been handed to the reader, who would at once set to work on it; and his fee was ten guineas, payable in advance. Poor Alfred’s store of sovereigns was now pretty well reduced, and it was with reluctance that he sent this second remittance. In a week his manuscript was returned with a polite note, saying that while the story showed germs of genius, it was not of sufficient general literary merit to warrant publication. Inquiries made through a London friend revealed the fact that he had been the victim of a used-up penny-a-liner, a man without means, influence, or respectability, who made a discreditable living by playing on the credulity and vanity of amateur authors. Dark despair would have taken hold of most people in his circumstances; his money was now reduced to a trifle; his health affected by his prolonged and severe efforts; but his self-esteem was in no way abated. He still believed literature to be his forte, and determined to give it _one_ more chance. First of all, though, he required rest; and having an invitation from Nan, he took the train one day for Lochenbreck, where he arrived with a portmanteau full of rejected manuscripts, and ten pounds in his pocket.

BLEEDING HEART YARD.

With the demolition of Bleeding Heart Yard, many a pilgrim to London will have one goal the less. But it has been too graphically pictured in _Little Dorrit_ ever to be forgotten. Of all Dickens’ many sketches of the London slums, this is one of the best, although it requires great imaginative powers now to recognise here any ‘relish of ancient greatness.’ The ‘mighty stacks of chimneys,’ now much the worse for wear, are still here, and still ‘give the Yard a character.’ But the poor people who had ‘a family sentimental feeling’ about the Yard have nearly all flitted, like rats from a sinking ship. Indeed, piles of massive warehouses, which have sprung up on all sides, have already almost swamped their habitations; and any one seeing them in the gray gloaming of a wet winter afternoon, will have some difficulty in devising pleas for their preservation. The Yard is altogether dreary and unlovely, now that it is deserted, save for a couple of workshops, which, possibly, have replaced the factory of Daniel Doyce. A few carriers’ carts and costers’ barrows, too, seem to have been left here by accident. But for the most part the picture is one of dilapidated desolation. The three-storied brown-brick houses with their low-pitched red-tiled roofs, that run down the southern side, seem to have been the scene of an explosion or a conflagration; or, possibly, they may have been besieged by an army of urchins. Anyhow, not a pane of glass remains in the windows, which were probably cut through the wall at odd times, when wanted; and but for a tattered fringe which still decorates the frames, they might never have been glazed. Some of the cart-sheds and stables which form the ground-floor—to use an appellation that properly belongs to suburban villas—have been converted into shops, but bear no signs of ever having done a thriving trade; and it is easy to believe that the Yard, ‘though as willing a yard as any in Britain,’ was never ‘the better for any demand for labour.’

But whatever its past, before very long it will have been improved away, and visitors will probably soon have some difficulty in finding out even its site. The witchery of Dickens is shown in nothing so much as the atmosphere of vivid actuality with which he surrounded nearly all his characters, and the localities in which they lived and moved. For years, crowds have paid visits of devotion to the shrines which he has surrounded with such a halo of romance; and he possessed in a remarkable degree the faculty of appropriating all the charm with which legend and tradition had surrounded spots, and endowing them with a new glamour, until he made himself the true _genius loci_. His knowledge of London was certainly ‘extensive and peculiar.’ It would be easy to name a dozen nooks within a stone’s throw of Holborn alone which he made his own. The narrow and crowded streets which, when Dickens wrote, were even more squalid than they are now, had for him an irresistible attraction. From his chambers in Furnival’s Inn as a centre, he was a veritable explorer in all directions; and he has painted for us with his pen a series of sketches of these courts and alleys the realism of which the pencil of even George Cruikshank could not rival.

The nomenclature of London presents an endless succession of problems which never seem to get much nearer solution; and so far as many disputed sites are concerned, there is every likelihood that they will soon be removed from the field of controversy by being obliterated and altogether forgotten. It is notoriously a perpetual cause of surprise to foreigners, and especially our American cousins, that we are so heedless of being a nation with a history as to take no pains to preserve our historical landmarks. There are a thousand-and-one buried sites in the streets of London alone, which have played their parts in our national and municipal development, and there is none that cares to put up a stone to preserve their traditions from oblivion. But for Bleeding Heart Yard no very heroic etymology can be claimed. Dickens, it is to be feared, drew largely on his imagination, which he doubtless found served him in better stead than any number of old folios, for his amusing derivations. Except in _Little Dorrit_, there seems to be but scanty authority for the tradition that this was the scene of a murder. It is, however, beyond dispute that Ely Place and the adjacent streets were occupied by the luxurious town palace of the Bishops of Ely. Within the walls were included twenty acres of ground. This was, about the year 1577, sold to Christopher Hatton by the Bishop of Ely, who was, however, only made to carry out the contract by Elizabeth’s memorable threat that otherwise she would unfrock him. It was here that the famous chancellor died in 1591. But his house and garden do not seem to have been demolished until the middle of the seventeenth century, for Evelyn, writing in 1659, tells us how he went to see ‘the foundations now laying for a long street and buildings in Hatton Garden, designed for a little town, lately an ample garden.’ Of a certain Lady Hatton, probably the wife of Sir Christopher’s great-nephew, it is gravely recorded that she had a compact with the Evil One, and that on the night when this came to an end, that personage, in the guise of a cavalier, attended certain festivities which were being held at Hatton House, and having lured her into the garden, tore her in pieces—her ‘bleeding heart’ being afterwards found. But if this weird legend had even so solid a foundation as a murder, it is probable that some record of it would have survived.

_Little Dorrit_ is also the authority for the story of the young lady who was closely imprisoned in her chamber here by her cruel father for refusing to marry the suitor he had chosen for her. The legend related how the young lady used to be seen up at her window behind the bars, murmuring a love-lorn song, of which the burden was, ‘Bleeding heart, bleeding heart, bleeding away,’ until she died. It will be remembered that although the Yard was divided in opinion, this story carried the day by a great majority, notwithstanding that it was supposed to have originated with ‘a tambour-worker, a spinster, and romantic,’ living in the Yard.

It is scarcely necessary to say that the point has received the attention of the seekers after miscellaneous knowledge, and a number of alternative derivations have been suggested. One learned antiquary, for instance, reminds us that ‘bleeding heart’ is the name of the red wallflower in certain parts of England, but omits to point out the connection. The most plausible is the suggestion that the court may have taken its name from a hostel known as the _Bleeding Hart_, and it is well known that sign-painters frequently prove shaky in their orthography. Thus, he records that in Warwickshire, an inn known as the _White Hart_ was some years since adorned with a signboard representing a human heart, or at least an ace of hearts. Then some people still cling to the belief that the sign of the Bleeding Heart dates from pre-Reformation times, and is emblematical of the five sorrowful mysteries of the rosary. We must leave it to others to reconcile these conflicting theories. But for its associations with the fortunes of _Little Dorrit_, the bare existence of the court would certainly have remained in oblivion, and its demolition would have excited no unusual regret.

But there are those for whom the Yard has been associated with the history of a set of very real personages. Hither many folk have gone in search of ‘the domicile of Plornish, plasterer,’ and have sought to identify ‘the parlour’ in which the Plornish family lived, and which was pointed out to callers by ‘the painted hand, on the forefinger of which the artist had depicted a ring, and a most elaborate nail of the genteelest form.’ Here, too, they have probably pictured for themselves the Patriarch ‘floating serenely through the Yard in the forenoon’ with the express purpose of getting up trustfulness in his shining bumps and silken locks, to be succeeded a few hours later by Pancks, that prince of rent-collectors, who, ‘perspiring, and puffing and darting about in eccentric directions, and becoming hotter and dingier every moment, lashed the tide of the Yard into the most agitated and turbid state.’ They may further have looked for the small grocery and general dealer’s shop ‘at the crack end of the Yard,’ where Mrs Plornish was established by Mr Dorrit; and for ‘Happy Cottage,’ that most wonderful of interiors. And they may have wondered whereabouts was the spot where Pancks tackled the Patriarch, snipped off short the sacred locks, and cut down the broad-brimmed hat to a stewpan, thereby converting the venerable Casby, ‘that first-rate humbug of a thousand guns,’ into ‘a bare-polled, goggle-eyed phantom.’

FLEET STREET MARRIAGES.

It is said that the Fleet Street marriages of London originated with the incumbents of Trinity, Minories, and St James’s, Duke Place. The incumbents claimed to be exempt from the jurisdiction of the Bishop of London, and performed the marriages without banns or license. It is not exactly known in what year these gentlemen started their lucrative profession; but one named Elliot, who was rector of St James’s, was suspended by the Bishop of London in 1616 for performing these ceremonies. The trade was then taken up by clerical prisoners living within the Rules of the Fleet; and Mr Burn tells us that, as a rule, these were just the men—having neither money, character, nor liberty to lose—to adopt the profession; and he further says that they were in the main ‘lusty jolly fellows, but thorough rogues and vagabonds, guilty of various offences.’ That they were not ashamed of the business is evident from the fact that they advertised in the _Daily Advertiser_ of that year to the following effect: ‘G. R.—At the true chapel, at the old _Red Hand and Mitre_, three doors up Fleet Lane, and next door to the _White Swan_, marriages are performed by authority by the Rev. Mr Symson, educated at the university of Cambridge, and late chaplain to the Earl of Rothes.—_N.B._ Without imposition.’

‘J. Lilley, at the _Hand and Pen_, next door to the China Shop, Fleet Bridge, London, will be performed the solemnisation of marriages by a gentleman regularly bred at one of our universities, and lawfully ordained according to the institutions of the Church of England, and is ready to wait on any person in town or country.’

There must have been great competition in the business, for we are told that there might be seen in corners of windows tickets stating ‘Weddings performed cheap here,’ ‘The Old and True Register,’ &c. But the great trade was at the ‘marriage houses’ whose landlords were also publicans, the _Bishop Blaire_, the _Horseshoe and Magpie_, the _Fighting Cocks_, the _Sawyers_, the _Hand and Pen_, the _Bull and Garter_, and the _King’s Head_, the last two being kept by warders of the Fleet prison.

The parson and landlord—the latter usually acting as clerk—divided the fees between them, after paying a shilling to the tout who brought in the customers.

The _Grub Street Journal_ of January 1735 has the following: ‘There are a set of drunken, swearing parsons, with their myrmidons, who wear black coats, and pretend to be clerks and registers of the Fleet, and who ply about Ludgate Hill, pulling and forcing people to some peddling alehouse or brandy-shop to be married; even on a Sunday, stopping them as they are going to church and almost tearing their clothes off their backs.’

This is confirmed by Pennant, who says: ‘In walking along the streets in my youth, on the side next the prison, I have often been tempted by the question, “Sir, will you be pleased to walk in and be married?” The parson was seen walking before his shop, a squalid, profligate figure, clad in a tattered plaid nightgown, with a fiery face, and ready to couple you for a dram of gin or a roll of tobacco.’

Ladies who were possessed, or supposed to possess means, were often kidnapped and forced to marry ruffians whom they had never seen. For instance, we read that a young lady of birth and fortune was forced from her friends, ‘and by the assistance of a wry-necked swearing parson, married to an atheistical wretch, whose life was a continual practice of all manner of vice.’

Again, we learn that a young lady appointed to meet a gentlewoman at the Old Playhouse, Drury Lane; but something prevented the gentlewoman coming, and the young lady being alone when the play was over, told a boy to fetch a coach for the city. ‘One like a gentleman helps her into it and jumps in after her. “Madam,” says he, “this coach was called for me; and since the weather is bad and there is no other, I beg leave to bear you company. I am going into the city, and will set you down wherever you please.”’

The girl begged to be excused; but the man told the coachman to drive on. The result was that she was driven to a house, where she was induced to go in on the pretext of seeing the man’s sister, who would accompany her the rest of the journey. The sister came, but immediately vanished, and in her place appeared a ‘tawny fellow in a black coat and black wig,’ who said: ‘Madam, you are come in good time; the doctor was just agoing!’

‘The doctor!’ exclaimed the girl; ‘what has the doctor to do with me?’

‘To marry you to that gentleman. The doctor has waited for you these three hours, and will be paid by you or that gentleman before you go!’

‘That gentleman,’ replied the girl, recovering herself, ‘is worthy a better fortune than mine,’ and begged to be allowed to go; but the men were obdurate; and when she found she could not escape without money or pledge, told them that she liked the gentleman so much, that she would meet him the next night and be married; but they did not allow her to go before she had given them some pledge, and she therefore gave them a ring, which, to quote her words, ‘was my mother’s gift on her death-bed, enjoining that, if ever I married, it should be my wedding ring;’ and by this means she escaped.

The indecency of these practices, and the facility they afforded for accomplishing forced and fraudulent marriages, were not the only evils, for we are told that marriages, when entered in the register, could be antedated without limit, on payment of a fee, or not entered at all; and women frequently hired temporary husbands at the Fleet, in order that they might be able to plead marriage to an action for debt. These hired husbands were provided by the parsons at five shillings each; and we are told that one man was married four times under different names, and received five shillings on each occasion ‘for his trouble.’

That the parsons did not always get the best of it may be supposed from the following extract from the register of the Fleet Marriages: ‘1740. Geo. Grant and Ann Gordon, bachelor and spinster: stole my clothes-brush.’—‘Married at a barber’s shop next Wilson’s—namely, one Kerrils, for half a guinea; after which it was extorted out of my pocket, and for fear of my life, delivered.’

We are told that all sorts and conditions of men flocked to the Fleet to be married in haste, from the barber to the officer in the Guards—from the pauper to the peer. Timbs, in his book on _London_, states that among the aristocratic patrons of these unlicensed clergy were Lord Abergavenny; the Honourable John Bourke, afterwards Viscount Mayo; Sir Marmaduke Gresham; Lord Banff; Lord Montague, afterwards Duke of Manchester; Viscount Sligo; the Marquis of Annandale; Henry Fox, afterwards Lord Holland; and others. Walpole writes to Sir Horace Mann about Fox’s marriage as follows: ‘The town has been in a great bustle about a private match, but which, by the ingenuity of the ministry, has been made politics. Mr Fox fell in love with Lady Caroline Lennox (eldest daughter of the Duke of Richmond), asked her, was refused, and stole her. His father was a footman; her great-grandfather, a king. All the blood-royal have been up in arms.’

The Bishop of London attempted to put a stop to these marriages in 1702, but with very little effect; and it was not until 1754 that an Act of Parliament was passed to prevent them. It is stated that the day before the Act was to come into force (March 24), there were no fewer than two hundred and seventeen marriages recorded in one register book; and these were the last of the Fleet weddings.

A collection of the registers of Fleet Marriages was made in 1821, and was purchased by the government; they weighed over a ton.

After the Marriage Bill of 1754, the Savoy Chapel came into vogue. The following advertisement appeared in the _Public Advertiser_ of January 2, 1754: ‘By authority—Marriages performed with the utmost privacy, decency, and regularity at the ancient royal chapel of St John the Baptist, in the Savoy, where regular and authentic registers have been kept from the time of the Reformation (being two hundred years and upwards) to this day. The expenses not more than one guinea—the five-shilling stamp included. There are five private ways by land to this chapel, and two by water.’

The proprietor of this chapel was the Rev. John Wilkinson, who fancied—as the Savoy was extra-parochial—that he was privileged to issue licenses upon his own authority, and so took no notice of the Act. During the following year, 1755, he married no fewer than eleven hundred and ninety couples. The authorities at last took the matter up, and Wilkinson went into hiding; but he got a curate named Grierson to perform the ceremonies, he still giving the licenses, by which he thought his assistant would be harmless; but this was not so. Two members of the Drury Lane company were united by Grierson; and Garrick hearing of this, obtained the certificate, and had Grierson arrested. He was tried, convicted, and sentenced to fourteen years’ transportation; by which sentence, we are told, fourteen hundred marriages were declared void. We are not told what became of Wilkinson, whose trade was thus put a stop to.

TO A LADY.

Again I welcome the familiar pen; Again I sit me down to think and write; Fairly and free should flow my fancies when So fair a subject calls me to indite. And thou, O Muse, whose gracious fingers oft, And ne’er, I trust, in vain, have beckoned me, Grant that thy spirit, breathing numbers soft, May now descend to aid thy humblest votary.

So, when the lark, in fullest tide of song, Makes sudden pause amidst his music clear, As seeking which, of all the thoughts that throng, First to embody for the listening ear, So do I hesitate and pause, in doubt With such diversity where to begin, For outward eyes would praise those charms without, Whilst Love would greet the soul enshrined those charms within.

Ah, gracious lady, words alone are vain Thy finer, subtler traits to fitly show; Rather Apollo’s art, in sweetest strain, With long-drawn symphonies, as soft as low, And cunningly devised by master-hand, Thy worth and beauty better would express Than my rude phrases—serving but to stand As tokens of thy power and of my faithfulness.

Yet tokens true are they; as tender shoots, Just peeping through the earth, are sureties good That deep below are hidden strongest roots, Which give this evidence of lustihood, So doth the love, long ’prisoned in my breast, Forced by its growth, at length expression find; I place my life, my all, at thy behest; I could not love thee more, nor oaths could stronger bind.

Yet what are words? Mere breaths which pass away; And words are at the service of us all. Vows, true or false, ring all the same to-day; We by our after-actions stand or fall. Give me to do some deed, some work, to show And prove the love I bear thee; test my faith. I speak no more; in silence, love shall grow, And silent witness give that love shall last till death.

E. G. W.

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