The London Visitor | Page 3

fairly pulled into the water,
and soused over head and ears. How his valet contrived to reinstate his
coëffure, unless, indeed, he travelled with a change of wigs, is one of
those mysteries of an old beau's toilet which pass female
comprehension.
Of course there was no further mention of angling. Our new
acquaintance had quite subjects enough without touching upon that. In
eating, for instance, he might fairly be called learned. Mrs. Dunbar's
cuisine was excellent, and he not only praised the different dishes in a
most scientific and edifying manner, but volunteered a recipe for
certain little mutton pies, the fashion of the season. In drinking he was
equally at home. Edward had produced his father's choicest hermitage
and lachryma, and he seemed to me to know literally by heart all the
most celebrated vintages, and to have made pilgrimages to the most
famous vineyards all over Europe. He talked to Helen Dunbar, a
musical young lady, of Grisi and Malibran; to her sister Caroline, a
literary enthusiast, of the poems of the year, "Ion," and "Paracelsus;" to
me he spoke of geraniums; and to my father of politics--contriving to

conciliate both parties, (for there were Whigs and Tories in the room,)
by dubbing himself a liberal Conservative. In short, he played his part
of Man of the World perfectly to his own satisfaction, and would have
passed with the whole family for the very model of all London visitors,
had he not unfortunately nodded over certain verses which he had
flattered Miss Caroline into producing, and fallen fast asleep during her
sister's cavatina; and if his conversation, however easy and smooth, had
not been felt to be upon the whole rather vapid and prosy. "Just
exactly," said young Edward Dunbar, who, in the migration transit
between Eton, which he had left at Easter, and Oxford, which he was to
enter at Michaelmas, was plentifully imbued with the aristocratic
prejudices common to each of those venerable seats of learning "just
exactly what in the fitness of things the talk of a Mr. Thompson ought
to be."
The next afternoon I happened to be engaged to the Lady Margaret
Gore, another pleasant neighbour, to drink tea; a convenient fashion,
which saves time and trouble, and is much followed in these parts
during the summer months. A little after eight I made my appearance in
her saloon, which, contrary to her usual polite attention, I found empty.
In the course of a few minutes she entered, and apologised for her
momentary absence, as having been caused by a London gentleman on
a visit at the house, who arriving the evening before, had spent all that
morning at the side of Loddon fishing, (where, by the way, observed
her ladyship, he had caught nothing,) and had kept them waiting dinner.
"He is a very old friend of ours," added Lady Margaret; "Mr.
Thompson, of Harley Street, whose daughter lately married Mr.
Browne of Gloucester Place," and, with the word, entered Mr.
Thompson in his own proper person.
Was it or was it not the Mr. Thompson of the day before? Yes! no!----
No! yes! It would have been, only that it could not be. The alibi was
too clearly proved: Lady Margaret had spent the preceding evening
with her Mr. Thompson in one place, and I myself with my Mr.
Thompson in another. Different they must be, but oh, how alike! I am
too short-sighted to be cognizant of each separate feature. But there it
was, the same common height and common size, and common

physiognomy, wigged, whiskered, and perfumed to a hair! The
self-same sober magnificence of dress, the same cut and colour of coat,
the same waistcoat of brocade brodé--of a surety they must have
employed one identical tailor, and one measure had served for both!
Chains, studs, brooches, rings--even the eye-glass spectacles were there.
Had he (this he) stolen them? Or did the Thompsons use them
alternately, upon the principle of ride and tie?
In conversation the similarity was even more striking--safe, civil, prosy,
dosy, and yet not without a certain small pretension. The Mr.
Thompson of Friday talked as his predecessor of Thursday had done, of
Malibran and Grisi, "Paracelsus" and "Ion," politics and geraniums. He
alluded to a recipe (doubtless the famous recipe for mutton pies) which
he had promised to write out for the benefit of the housekeeper, and
would beyond all question have dosed over one young lady's verses,
and fallen asleep to another's singing, if there had happened to be such
narcotics as music and poetry in dear Lady Margaret's drawing-room.
Mind and body, the two Mr. Thompsons were as alike as two peas, as
two drops of water, as two Emperor-of-Morocco butterflies, as two
death's-head moths. Could they have been twin brothers, like the