Mr. Brownrigg, we are informed, carried on business at No. 12, Fetter-lane,
in the oil, paint, pickles, vinegar, plumbing, glazing, and pepper-line;
and, in the next act, a correct view is exhibited of the exterior of his
shop, painted, we are told, from the most indisputable authorities of the
time. Here, in Fetter, lane, the romance of the tale begins:--A lady
enters, who, being of a communicative disposition, begins, unasked,
unquestioned, to tell the audience a story--how that she married in early
life--that her husband was pressed to sea a day or two after the
wedding--that she in due time became a mother, and (affectionate creature!)
left the dear little pledge at the door of the Foundling Hospital. That was
sixteen years ago. Since then fortune has smiled, and she wants her baby
back again; but on going to the hospital, says, that they informed her that
her daughter has been just "put apprentice" in the very house before which
she tells the story--part of it as great a fib as ever was told; for
children once inside the walls of that "noble charity," never know who left
them there; and any attempt to find each other out, by parent or child, is
punished with the instant withdrawal of the omnipotent protection of the
awful "governors." This lady, who bears all the romance of the piece upon
her own shoulders, expects to meet her long-lost husband at the Ship, in
Wapping, and instead of seeking her daughter, repairs thither, having done
all the author required, by emptying her budget of fibs.
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