By degrees, however, – for, as Tacitus has said, doubtless with a prophetic eye to Bachelor Bill, ‘the truth gains by delay,’ these reports began to die insensibly away; and Bill, now waxing near to the confines of middle age, his friends comfortably settled for him that he would be Bachelor Bill all his life. For the rest, he was an excellent fellow, – gave his broken victuals to the poor – professed a liberal turn of thinking, and in all the quarrels among the blowens (your crack blowens are a quarrelsome set!) always took part with the weakest. Although Bill affected to be very select in his company, he was never forgetful of his old friends; and Mrs Margery Lobkins having been very good to him when he was a little boy in a skeleton jacket, he invariably sent her a card to his soirées. The good lady, however, had not of late years deserted her chimney corner. Indeed, the racket of fashionable life was too much for her nerves, and the invitation had become a customary form not expected to be acted upon, but not a whit the less regularly used for that reason. As Paul had now attained his sixteenth year, and was a fine, handsome lad, the dame thought he would make an excellent representative of the Mug’s mistress; and that, for her protégé, a ball at Bill’s house would be no bad commencement of ‘Life in London.’ Accordingly, she intimated to the Bachelor a wish to that effect, and Paul received the following invitation from Bill:–

Mr William Duke gives a hop and feed in a quiet way on Monday next, and hops Mr Paul Lobkins will be of the party. N.B. Gentlemen is expected to come in pumps.

When Paul entered, he found Bachelor Bill leading off the ball to the tune of ‘Drops of Brandy,’ with a young lady to whom – because she had been a strolling player – the Ladies Patronesses of Fiddler’s Row had thought proper to behave with a very cavalier civility. The good bachelor had no notion, as he expressed it, of such tantrums, and he caused it to be circulated among the finest of the blowens, that ‘he expected all who kicked their heels at his house would behave decent and polite to young Mrs Dot.’ This intimation, conveyed to the ladies with all that insinuating polish for which Bachelor Bill was so remarkable, produced a notable effect; and Mrs Dot, being now led off by the flash Bachelor, was overpowered with civilities the rest of the evening.

When the dance was ended, Bill very politely shook hands with Paul, and took an early opportunity of introducing him to some of the most ‘noted characters’ of the town. Among these was the smart Mr Allfair, the insinuating Henry Finish, the merry Jack Hookey, the knowing Charles Trywit, and various others equally noted for their skill in living handsomely upon their own brains, and the personals of other people. To say truth, Paul, who at that time was an honest lad, was less charmed than he had anticipated by the conversation of these chevaliers of industry. He was more pleased with the clever, though self-sufficient remarks of a gentleman with a remarkably fine head of hair, and whom we would more impressively than the rest introduce to our reader, under the appellation of Mr Edward Pepper, generally termed Long Ned. As this worthy was destined afterwards to be an intimate associate of Paul, our main reason for attending the hop at Bachelor Bill’s is to note, as the importance of the event deserves, the epoch of the commencement of their acquaintance.

Long Ned and Paul happened to sit next to each other at supper, and they conversed together so amicably that Paul, in the hospitality of his heart, expressed a hope that ‘he should see Mr Pepper at the Mug!’

‘Mug – Mug!’ repeated Pepper, half shutting his eyes with the air of a dandy about to be impertinent. ‘Ah – the name of a chapel – is it not? There’s a sect called the Muggletonians, I think?’

‘As to that,’ said Paul, colouring at this insinuation against the Mug, ‘Mrs Lobkins has no more religion than her betters; but the Mug is a very excellent house, and frequented by the best possible company.’

‘Don’t doubt it!’ said Ned. ‘Remember now that I was once there, and saw one Dummie Dunnaker – is not that the name? I recollect some years ago, when I first came out, that Dummie and I had an adventure together; – to tell you the truth, it was not the sort of thing I would do now. But, would you believe it, Mr Paul? this pitiful fellow was quite rude to me the only time I ever met him since; – that is to say, the only time I ever entered the Mug. I have no notion of such airs in a merchant – a merchant of rags! Those commercial fellows are getting quite insufferable!’

‘You surprise me!’ said Paul. ‘Poor Dummie is the last man to be rude. He is as civil a creature as ever lived.’

‘Or sold a rag!’ said Ned. ‘Possibly! Don’t doubt his amiable qualities in the least. Pass the bingo, my good fellow. Stupid stuff, this dancing!’

‘Devilish stupid!’ echoed Harry Finish across the table. ‘Suppose we adjourn to Fish Lane, and rattle the ivories!

What say you, Mr Lobkins?’

Afraid of the ‘ton’s stern laugh, which scarce the proud philosopher can scorn,’ and not being very partial to dancing, Paul assented to the proposition; and a little party, consisting of Harry Finish, Allfair, Long Ned, and Mr Hookey, adjourned to Fish Lane, where there was a club, celebrated among men who live by their wits, at which ‘lush’ and ‘baccy’ were gratuitously sported in the most magnificent manner. Here the evening passed away very delightfully, and Paul went home without a ‘brad’ in his pocket.

From that time, Paul’s visits to Fish Lane became unfortunately regular; and in a very short period, we grieve to say, Paul became that distinguished character – a gentleman of three outs – ‘out of pocket, out of elbows, and out of credit.’ The only two persons whom he found willing to accommodate him with a slight loan, as the advertisements signed ‘X. Y.’ have it, were Mr Dummie Dunnaker and Mr Pepper, surnamed the Long. The latter, however, while he obliged the heir to the Mug, never condescended to enter that noted place of resort; and the former, whenever he good-naturedly opened his purse-strings, did it with a hearty caution to shun the acquaintance of Long Ned. ‘A parson,’ said Dummie, ‘of wery dangerous morals, and not by no manner of means a fit sociate for a young gemman of cracter like leetle Paul!’ So earnest was this caution, and so especially pointed at Long Ned, although the company of Mr Allfair or Mr Finish might be said to be no less prejudicial, – that it is probable that stately fastidiousness of manner, which Lord Normanby rightly observes, in one of his excellent novels, makes so many enemies in the world, and which sometimes characterized the behaviour of Long Ned, especially towards the men of commerce, was a main reason why Dummie was so acutely and peculiarly alive to the immoralities of that lengthy gentleman. At the same time we must observe, that when Paul, remembering what Pepper had said respecting his early adventure with Mr Dunnaker, repeated it to the merchant, Dummie could not conceal a certain confusion, though he merely remarked, with a sort of laugh, that it was not worth speaking about; and it appeared evident to Paul that something unpleasant to the man of rags, which was not shared by the unconscious Pepper, lurked in the reminiscence of their past acquaintance. Howbeit, the circumstance glided from Paul’s attention the moment afterwards; and he paid, we are concerned to say, equally little heed to the cautions against Ned with which Dummie regaled him.

Perhaps (for we must now direct a glance towards his domestic concerns) one great cause which drove Paul to Fish Lane was the uncomfortable life he led at home. For though Mrs Lobkins was extremely fond of her protégé, yet she was possessed, as her customers emphatically remarked, ‘of the devil’s own temper;’ and her native coarseness never having been softened by those pictures of gay society which had, in many a novel and comic farce, refined the temperament of the romantic Paul, her manner of venting her maternal reproaches was certainly not a little revolting to a lad of some delicacy of feeling.