



Produced by Charles Bowen from Page scans provided by
Google Books, (Public Library, Long Island City, N.Y.











Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scans provided by Google Books,
https://books.google.com/books?id=OAQiAAAAMAAJ
(Public Library, Long Island City, N.Y.)

2. "This work was published many years ago anonymously, and received
the name of 'Delaware; or, The ruined family.'"--Introd.,
p. [v], to London, 1848, ed.

3. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].






THIRTY YEARS SINCE;

OR,

THE RUINED FAMILY.

A Tale.

BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.,

AUTHOR OF
"A WHIM, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES," "GOWRIE," "SIR THEODORE BROUGHTON,"
"BEAUCHAMP," "LAST OF THE FAIRIES," "MARGARET GRAHAM," ETC., ETC.


NEW-YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1860.



THIRTY YEARS SINCE:
OR,
THE RUINED FAMILY.


CHAPTER I.

Most cities are hateful; and, without any disposition to "babble about
green fields," it must be owned that each is more or less detestable.
Nevertheless, among them all, there is none to be compared, as a
whole, to London--none which comprehends within itself, from various
causes, so much of the sublime in every sort. Whether we consider its
giant immensity of expanse--the wonderful intricacy of its internal
structure--the miraculous harmony of its discrepant parts--the grand
amalgamation of its different orders, classes, states, pursuits,
professions--the mighty aggregate of hopes, wishes, endeavors, joys,
successes, fears, pangs, disappointments, crimes, and punishments,
that it contains--its relative influence on the world at large--or the
vehement pulse with which that "mighty heart" sends the flood of
circulation through this beautiful land--we shall find that that most
wonderful microcosm well deserves the epithet _sublime_.

To view it rightly--if we wish to view it with the eye of a
philosopher--we should choose, perhaps, the hour which is chosen by
the most magnificent and extraordinary of modern poets, and gaze upon
it when the sun is just beginning to pour his first red beams through
the dim and loaded air, when that vast desert of brick and mortar,
that interminable wilderness of spires and chimneys, looks more wide
and endless, and solemn, than when the eye is distracted by myriads of
mites that creep about it in the risen day.

It may be asked, perhaps, who is there that ever saw it at that hour,
except the red-armed housemaid washing the morning step, and letting
in the industrious thief, to steal the greatcoats from the hall; or
the dull muffin-man, who goes tinkling his early bell through the
misty streets of the wintry morning? Granted, that neither of
these--nor the sellers of early purl--nor the venders of saloop and
cocoa--nor Covent Garden market-women--nor the late returners from the
_finish_--nor he who starts up from the doorway, where he has passed
the wretched night, to recommence the day's career of crime, and
danger, and sorrow--can look upon the vast hive in which they dwell
with over-refined feelings; and, perhaps, to them may come home
unhappy Shelley's forcible line--


     "Hell is a city very much like London!"


The valetudinarian, too, who wakes with nervous punctuality to
swallow down the morning draught, prescribed by courtly Henry's
bitter-covering skill, may curse the cats that, perched upon the
tiles, salute their lady-loves with most discordant cries, and keep
him from repose; and with all the virulence of Despréaux, may exclaim
upon the many hateful sounds of a town morning. But, besides all
these, there are sometimes persons who, rising five hours before their
usual time, come forth in all the freshness of the early day,
stimulated by the vast effort that roused them from their beds, proud
of a successful endeavor to get up, and excited by the novelty of the
circumstance and the scene, and who rush on, admiring all the beauties
as they go to take their places in the gay stage-coach.

Fully double the extent of ancient Athens, in its days of greatest
splendor--at least, if the calculation of Aristides be correct--London
lies in circuit more than one day's journey, and many a day's journey
may be taken in the interior, without ever threading the same streets.
It would not matter much, therefore, in what corner of the town was
placed the coach-office whence, at an early hour of every lawful day,
set forth a smart-looking vehicle, drawn by four fiery bays, for a
