on a dirty square card,
embossed at the edge with flowers, the revolting, business-like
address of

Mr. Thomas M----e,
Tailor,
116, High Holborn.

It so happened that, the next day, I dined with C----. Of course the
masquerade, and with that the tailor, were the first topics of
conversation between us. Both allowed that the circumstances
respecting his late appearance were uncommon; but there, with my
friend, the matter ended: with me it was a more enduring subject for
reflection; and, after a night kept up till a late hour over a bowl
of C----'s most faultless punch, I set out, moody and apprehensive,
to my humble abode. By this time it was past three o'clock; the
streets were nearly all deserted.--While thoughtfully plodding
onwards, a sudden noise from the Holborn end of Drury-lane took my
attention; it evidently proceeded from a row--a systematic,
scientific row; and, indeed, as I drew near the scene of action, I
could distinctly hear the watchman's oaths blending in deep chorus
with the treble of some dozen or two valorous exquisites.

I felt certain rising abstract ideas of pugnacity, and conceived
myself bound to indulge them on the first head and shoulders I
should meet. This spirit brought me at once into the thick of the
fight, and, before I was well aware of my proximity, I found myself
fast anchored alongside a veteran watchman, with a pigtail and half
a nose. The conflict now commenced in good earnest; there were few
or no attempts at favouritism; the blows of one friend told equally
well on the scull of another; watchman assaulted watchman with a
zeal respectable for its sincerity; and, indeed, had these last been
any thing more than a bundle of old coats and oaths, they would most
undoubtedly have drubbed each other into a better world. After a
lively and well-sustained affair of about twenty minutes, a squadron
of auxiliary watchmen arrived, and, with some difficulty, deposited
us all safely in the watch-house. And here the very first person
that met my gaze--seated, with due regard to dignity, in an
arm-chair, a pair of spectacles on his nose, a glass of
brandy-and-water by his side, and a newspaper, redolent of cheese,
before him--was the constable of the night--the nun of the
masquerade--the Mysterious Tailor of High Holborn! The wretch's eyes
gleamed with a savage but subdued joy at the recognition; a low,
chuckling laugh escaped him; while his dull countenance, made doubly
rev