[Illustration:

  ALL THE WORLD GOING TO SEE THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF 1851.
]

------------------------------------------------------------------------

                                  1851

[Illustration:

  LONDON: GEORGE NEWBOLD, 303 & 304, STRAND, W.C.
]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                         LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS,

               DESIGNED AND ETCHED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.


                             --------------


          ALL THE WORLD GOING TO THE GREAT EXHIBITION   Frontispiece

          LOOKING FOR LODGINGS                             54

          LONDON CRAMMED AND MANCHESTER DESERTED—2         59
            PLATES

          THE OPERA BOXES DURING THE TIME OF THE GREAT    117
            EXHIBITION

          THE OPENING OF THE GREAT BEE-HIVE               136

          THE FIRST SHILLING-DAY                          153

          SOME OF THE DROLLERIES OF THE GREAT             160
            EXHIBITION

          ODDS AND ENDS, IN, OUT, AND ABOUT THE GREAT     162
            EXHIBITION

          DISPERSION OF THE WORKS OF ALL NATIONS          238


                         ---------------------

India Proof impressions of the above _Ten Plates_ may be had, all
printed on paper of uniform size (23½ by 17½ inches), quite perfect, and
free from folds, price 15s. per set.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              ENGRAVINGS.


                                  ────

                           THE CHEAPEST HOUSE

                                  FOR

                   =ENGRAVINGS OF EVERY DESCRIPTION=

                                   IS

                           GEORGE NEWBOLD’S,

                    303 & 304, STRAND, LONDON, W.C.

                      (BACK OF ST. MARY’S CHURCH.)

                                  ────


 _A Clearance Sale Catalogue, 54 8vo pp., Post Free on receipt of Four
                                Stamps._




------------------------------------------------------------------------



                                 1851:

                                  OR,

                             THE ADVENTURES

                                   OF

                     MR. AND MRS. CURSTY SANDBOYS.

                                 ═════




                               CHAPTER I.

                “Come, Nichol, and gi’e us thy cracks,
                  I seed te gang down to the smiddy,
                 I’ve fodder’d the naigs and the nowt,
                  And wanted to see thee—’at did e.
                 Ay, Andrew, lad! draw in a stuil,
                  And gie us a shek o’ thy daddle;
                 I got aw the news far and nar,
                  Sae set off as fast’s e could waddle.”
                _Nichol the Newsmonger._—ROBERT ANDERSON.


THE GREAT EXHIBITION was about to attract sight-seers of all the
world—the sight-seers, who make up nine-tenths of the human family. The
African had mounted his ostrich. The CRISP of the Desert had announced
an excursion caravan from Zoolu to Fez. The Yakutskian SHILLIBEER had
already started the first reindeer omnibus to Novogorod. Penny cargoes
were steaming down Old Nile, in Egyptian “DAYLIGHTS;” and “MOONLIGHTS,”
while floating from the Punjaub, and congregating down the Indus,
Scindian “BRIDESMAIDS” and “BACHELORS” came racing up the Red Sea, with
Burmese “WATERMEN, Nos. 9 and 12,” calling at the piers of Muscat and
Aden, to pick up passengers for the Isthmus—at two-pence a-head.

The Esquimaux had just purchased his new “registered paletot” of
seal-skin from the great “sweater” of the Arctic Regions. The Hottentot
Venus had already added to the graceful ebullitions of nature, the
charms of a Parisian _crinoline_. The Yemassee was busy blueing his
cheeks with the _rouge_ of the backwoods. The Truefit of New Zealand had
dressed the full buzz wig, and cut and curled the horn of the chief of
the Papuas. The Botocudo had ordered a new pair of wooden ear-rings. The
Maripoosan had japanned his teeth with the best Brunswick Black Odonto.
The Cingalese was hard at work with a Kalydor of Cocoa-Nut-Oil,
polishing himself up like a boot; and the King of Dahomey—an ebony
Adam—in nankeen gaiters and epaulets, was wending his way towards London
to tender his congratulations to the Prince Consort.

Nor was the commotion confined alone to the extremes of the world—the
metropolis of Great Britain was also in a prodigious excitement. ALEXIS
SOYER was preparing to open a restaurant of all nations, where the
universe might dine, from sixpence to a hundred guineas, off _cartes_
ranging from pickled whelks to nightingale’s tongues—from the rats _à la
Tartare_ of the Chinese, to the “turkey and truffles” of the Parisian
gourmand—from the “long sixes, _au naturel_,” of the Russian, to the
“stewed Missionary of the Marquesas,” or the “cold roast Bishop” of New
Zealand. Here, too, was to be a Park with Swiss cottages, wherein the
sober Turk might quaff his Dublin stout; and Chinese Pagodas, from whose
golden galleries the poor German student, dreaming of the undiscoverable
_noumena_ of Kant, might smoke his penny Pickwick, sip his Arabian
chicory, and in a fit of absence, think of his father-land and pocket
the sugar.

St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey (“in consequence of the increased
demand”) were about to double their prices of admission, when M.
JULLIEN, “ever ready to deserve the patronage of a discerning public,”
made the two great English cathedrals so tempting an offer that they
“did not think themselves justified in refusing it.” And there, on
alternate nights, were shortly to be exhibited, to admiring millions,
the crystal curtain, the stained glass windows illuminated with gas, and
the statues lighted up with rose-coloured lamps; the “Black Band of his
Majesty of Tsjaddi, with a hundred additional bones;” the monster Jew’s
harp; the Euhurdy-gurdychon; the Musicians of Tongoose; the Singers of
the Maldives; the Glee Minstrels of Paraguay; the Troubadours of far
Vancouver; the Snow Ball Family from the Gold Coast; the Canary of the
Samoiedes; the Theban Brothers; and, “expressly engaged for the
occasion,” the celebrated Band of Robbers from the Desert.

BARNUM, too, had “thrown up” Jenny Lind, and entered into an agreement
with the Poor Law Commissioners to pay the Poor Rates of all England
during one year for the sole possession of Somerset House, as a “Grand
Hotel for all Nations,” under the highly explanatory title of the
“XENODOKEION PANCOSMOPOLITANICON;” where each guest was to be provided
with a bed, boudoir, and banquet, together with one hour’s use _per
diem_ of a valet, and a private chaplain (according to the religious
opinions of the individual); the privilege of free admission to all the
theatres and green-rooms; the right of _entrée_ to the Privy Council and
the Palace; a knife and fork, and spittoon at pleasure, at the tables of
the nobility; a seat with nightcap and pillow in the House of Commons,
and a cigar on the Bench with the Judges; the free use of the columns of
“_The Times_” newspaper, and the right of abusing therein their friends
and hosts of the day before; the privilege of paying visits in the Lord
Mayor’s state-carriage (with the freedom of the City of London), and of
using the Goldsmiths’ state barge for aquatic excursions; and finally,
the full right of presentation at the Drawing-room to her most gracious
Majesty, and of investiture with the Order of the Garter at discretion,
as well as the prerogative of sitting down, once a week, in rotation, at
the dinner table of His Excellency General Tom-Thumb. These advantages
Mr. Barnum, to use his own language, had “determined upon offering to a
generous and enlightened American public at one shilling per head per
day—numbers alone enabling him to complete his engagements.”

While these gigantic preparations for the gratification of foreign
visitors were being made, the whole of the British Provinces likewise
were preparing extensively to enjoy themselves. Every city was arranging
some “monster train” to shoot the whole of its inhabitants, at a
halfpenny per ton, into the lodging-houses of London. All the houses of
York were on tiptoe, in the hope of shaking hands in Hyde Park with all
the houses of Lancaster. Beds, Bucks, Notts, Wilts, Hants, Hunts, and
Herts were respectively cramming their carpet-bags in anticipation of “a
week in London.” Not a village, a hamlet, a borough, a township, or a
wick, but had each its shilling club, for providing their inhabitants
with a three days’ journey to London, a mattrass under the dry arches of
the Adelphi, and tickets for soup _ad libitum_. John o’Groats was
anxiously looking forward to the time when he was to clutch the Land’s
End to his bosom,—the Isle of Man was panting to take the Isle of Dogs
by the hand, and welcome Thanet, Sheppy, and Skye to the gaieties of a
London life,—the North Foreland was preparing for a friendly stroll up
Regent-street with Holy-Head on his arm—and the man at Eddystone
Lighthouse could see the distant glimmer of a hope of shortly setting
eyes upon the long-looked-for Buoy at the Nore.

Bradshaw’s Railway Guide had swelled into an encyclopædia, and Masters
and Bachelors of Arts “who had taken distinguished degrees,” were daily
advertising, to perfect persons in the understanding of the Time Tables,
in six easy lessons, for one guinea. Omnibus conductors were undergoing
a Polyglott course on the Hamiltonian system, to enable them to abuse
all foreigners in their native tongues; the “ATLASES” were being made
extra strong, so that they might be able to bear the whole world on top
of them; and the proprietors of the Camberwell and Camden Town ’Busses
were eagerly watching for the time when English, French, Prussians, and
Belgians should join their Wellingtons and Bluchers on the heights of
“WATERLOO!”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Such was the state of the world, the continent, the provinces, and the
metropolis. Nor was the pulse that beat so throbbingly at Bermondsey,
Bow, Bayswater, Brixton, Brompton, Brentford, and Blackheath, without a
response on the banks of Crummock Water and the tranquil meadows of
Buttermere.

He who has passed all his life amid the chaffering of Cheapside, or the
ceaseless toil of Bethnal Green, or the luxurious ease of Belgravia,—who
has seen no mountain higher than Saffron Hill,—has stood beside no
waters purer than the Thames—whose eye has rested upon no spot more
green than the enclosure of Leicester Square,—who knows no people more
primitive than the quaker corn-factors of Mark Lane, and nothing more
truthful than the “impartial inquiries” of the _Morning Chronicle_, or
more kind-hearted than the writings of the _Economist_,—who has drunk of
no philosophy deeper than that of the _Penny Cyclopædia_,—who has felt
no quietude other than that of the City on a Sunday,—sighed for no home
but that which he can reach for “threepence all the way,” and wished for
no last resting-place but a dry vault and a stucco cenotaph in the
theatrical Golgothas of Kensal and of Highgate;—such a man can form no
image of the peace, the simplicity, the truth, and the beauty which
aggregate into the perpetual Sabbath that hallows the seclusion about
and around the Lake of Buttermere.

Here the knock of the dun never startles the hermit or the student—for
(thrice blessed spot!) there are no knockers. Here are no bills, to make
one dread the coming of the spring, or the summer, or the Christmas, or
whatever other “festive” season they may fall due upon, for (oh earthly
paradise!) there are no tradesmen, and—better still—no discounters,
and—greater boon than all—no! not one attorney within nine statute miles
of mountain, fell, and morass, to ruffle the serenity of the village
inn. Here that sure-revolving tax-gatherer—as inevitable and cruel as
the Fate in a Grecian tragedy—never comes, with long book and short
inkhorn, to convince us it is Lady-day—nor “Paving,” nor “Lighting,” nor
“Water,” “Sewers,” nor “Poors,” nor “Parochials,” nor “Church,” nor
“County,” nor “Queen’s,” nor any other accursed accompaniment of our
boasted civilization. Here are no dinner-parties for the publication of
plate; no _soirées_ for the exhibition of great acquaintances; no
_conversaziones_ for the display of your wisdom, with the full right of
boring your friends with your pet theories; nor polkas, nor
schottisches, nor Cellarii, for inflaming young heirs into matrimony.
Here there are no newspapers at breakfast to stir up your early bile
with a grievance, or to render the merchant’s morning meal indigestible
with the list of bankrupts, or startle the fundholder with a sense that
all security for property is at an end. Here there are no easy-chair
philosophers,—not particularly illustrious themselves for a delight in
hard labour,—to teach us to “sweep all who will not work into the
dust-bin.” Here, too, there are no Harmonic Coalholes, or Cyder Cellars,
nor Choreographic Casinos, or Cremornes, or other such night colleges
for youth, where ethics are taught from professional chairs occupied by
“rapid” publicans, or by superannuated melodists, with songs as old as
themselves, and as dirty as their linen.

No! According to a statistical investigation recently instituted, to the
great alarm of the inhabitants, there were, at the beginning of the
ever-to-be-remembered year 1851, in the little village situate between
the Lakes of Crummock and Buttermere, fifteen inhabited houses, one
uninhabited, and one church about the size of a cottage; and within
three miles of these, in any direction, there was no other habitation
whatsoever. This little cluster of houses constituted the village called
Buttermere, and consisted of four farm-houses, seven cottages, two
Squires’ residences, and two inns.

The census of the nine families who resided in the fifteen houses of
Buttermere—for many of these same families were the sons and nephews of
the elders—was both curious and interesting. There were the Flemings,
the Nelsons, the Cowmans, the Clarks, the Riggs, the Lancasters, the
Branthwaites, the Lightfoots—and The Jopson, the warm-hearted Bachelor
Squire of the place. The remaining Squire—also, be it said, a
Bachelor—had left, when but a stripling, the cool shades of the peaceful
vales for the wars of India. His name was but as a shadow on the memory
of the inhabitants; once he had returned with—so the story ran—“an
Arabian Horse;” but “his wanderings not being over,” as his old
housekeeper worded it, with a grave shake of her deep-frilled cap, he
had gone back “t’ hot country with Sir Henry Hardinge to fight t’
Sikhs,” promising to return again and end his days beside his native
Lake of Buttermere.

Of the families above cited, two were related by marriage. The Clarks
had wedded with the Riggs, and the Cowmans with the Lightfoots, so that,
in reality, the nine were but seven; and, strange to say, only one of
these—the Clarks—-were native to the place. It was curious to trace the
causes that had brought the other settlers to so sequestered a spot. The
greatest distance, however, that any of the immigrants had come from was
thirty miles, and some had travelled but three; and yet, after
five-and-twenty years’ residence, were spoken of by the aboriginal
natives as “foreigners.”

Only one family—Buttermere born—had been known to emigrate, and they
had been led off, like the farmers who had immigrated, by the lure
of more fertile or more profitable tenancies. Three, however, had
become extinct; but two in name only, having been absorbed by
marriage of their heiresses, while the other one—the most celebrated
of all—was utterly lost, except in tradition, to the place. This was
the family of Mary Robinson, the innkeeper’s daughter, and the
renowned Beauty of Buttermere, known as the lovely, simple-hearted
peasant girl, trapped by the dashing forger into marriage, widowed
by the hangman, amidst a nation’s tears, and yet—must we write
it—not dying broken-hearted,—but—alas, for the romance and constancy
of the sex!—remarried ere long to a comfortable farmer, and ending
her days the stout well-to-do mother of seven bouncing boys and
girls.

Mr. Thornton, the eminent populationist, has convinced every thinking
mind, that, in order that the increase of the people may be duly
regulated, every husband and wife throughout the country should have
only one child _and a quarter_. In Buttermere, alas! (we almost weep as
we announce the much-to-be-regretted fact) there are seventeen parents
and twenty-nine children, which is at the frightful rate of one child
and _three-quarters and a fraction_, to each husband and wife!

Within the last ten years, too, Buttermere has seen, unappalled, three
marriages and nine births. The marriages were all with maids of the inn,
where the memory of Mary Robinson still sheds a traditionary grace over
each new chambermaid, and village swains, bewitched by the association,
come annually to provide themselves with “Beauties.”

The deaths of Buttermere tell each their peculiar story. Of the seven
who have passed away since the year 1840, one was an old man who had
seen the snow for eighty winters lie upon Red Pike; another was little
Mary Clarke, who for eight years only had frolicked in the sunshine of
the happy valley. Two were brothers, working at the slate-quarries high
up on Honister Craig: one had fallen from a ladder down the precipice
side—the other, a tall and stalwart man, had, in the presence of his two
boys, been carried up bodily into the air by a whirlwind, and dashed to
death on the craigs below. Of the rest, one died of typhus fever, and
another, stricken by the same disease, was brought, at his special
request, from a distance of twenty-one miles, to end his days in his
mountain home. The last, a young girl of twenty, perished by her own
hand—the romance of village life! Mary Lightfoot, wooed by her young
master, the farmer’s son, of Gatesgarth, sat till morning awaiting his
return from Keswick, whither he had gone to court another. Through the
long, lone night, the misgivings of her heart had grown by daylight into
certainty. The false youth came back with other kisses on his lip, and
angry words for her. Life lost its charms for Mary, and she could see no
peace but in the grave.[1]

Footnote 1:

  The custom of night courtship is peculiar to the county of Cumberland
  and some of the districts of South Wales. The following note,
  explanatory of the circumstance, is taken from the last edition of
  “The Cumberland Ballads of Robert Anderson,” a work to be found, well
  thumbed, in the pocket of every Cumbrian peasant-girl and mountain
  shepherd:—“A Cumbrian peasant pays his addresses to his sweetheart
  during the silence and solemnity of midnight. Anticipating her
  kindness, he will travel ten or twelve miles, over hills, bogs, moors,
  and morasses, undiscouraged by the length of the road, the darkness of
  the night, or the intemperance of the weather; on reaching her
  habitation, he gives a gentle tap at the window of her chamber, at
  which signal she immediately rises, dresses herself, and proceeds with
  all possible silence to the door, which she gently opens, lest a
  creaking hinge, or a barking dog should awaken the family. On his
  entrance into the kitchen, the luxuries of a Cumbrian cottage—cream
  and sugared curds—are placed before him; next the courtship commences,
  previously to which, the fire is darkened and extinguished, lest its
  light should guide to the window some idle or licentious eye; in this
  dark and uncomfortable situation (at least uncomfortable to all but
  lovers), they remain till the advance of day, depositing in each
  other’s bosoms the secrets of love, and making vows of unalterable
  affection.”

Nor are the other social facts of Buttermere less interesting.

According to a return obtained by two gentlemen, who represented
themselves as members of the London Statistical Society, and who, after
a week’s enthusiasm and hearty feeding at the Fish Inn, suddenly
disappeared, leaving behind them the Occupation Abstract of the
inhabitants and a geological hammer,—according to these gentlemen, we
repeat, the seventy-two Buttermerians may be distributed as follows: two
innkeepers, four farmers (including one statesman and one sinecure
constable), nine labourers (one of them a miner, one a quarrier, and one
the parish-clerk), twelve farm-servants, seventeen sons, nine daughters,
fourteen wives, three widows, one ’squire, and one pauper of eighty-six
years of age.

“But,” says the Pudding-lane reader, “if this be the entire community,
how do the people live? where are the shops? where that glorious
interchange of commodities, without which society cannot exist! Where do
they get their bread—their meat—their tea—their sugar—their
clothing—their shoes? If ill, what becomes of them? Their children,
where are they taught? Their money, where is it deposited? Their
letters?—for surely they cannot be cut off from all civilization by the
utter absence of post-office and postman! Are they beyond the realms of
justice, that no attorney is numbered amongst their population? They
have a constable—where, then, the magistrate? They have a
parish-clerk—then where the clergyman?”

Alas! reader, the picturesque is seldom associated with the conveniences
or luxuries of life. Wash the peasant-girl’s face and bandoline her
hair, she proves but a bad vignette for that most unpicturesque of
books—the Book of Beauty. Whitewash the ruins and make them comfortable;
what artist would waste his pencils upon them? So is it with Buttermere:
there the traveller will find no butcher, no baker, no grocer, no
draper, no bookseller, no pawnbroker, no street-musicians, no
confectioners, and no criminals. Burst your pantaloons—oh, mountain
tourist!—and it is five miles to the nearest tailor. Wear the sole of
your shoe to the bone on the sharp craigs of Robinson or of the
Goat-gills, and you must walk to Lowes Water for a shoemaker. Be mad
with the toothache, caught from continued exposure to the mountain
breeze, and, go which way you will—to Keswick or to Cockermouth—it is
ten miles to the nearest chemist. Be seized with the pangs of death, and
you must send twenty miles, there and back, for Dr. Johnson to ease your
last moments. To apprise your friends by letter of your danger, a
messenger must go six miles before the letter can be posted. If you
desire to do your duty to those you may leave behind, you must send
three leagues to Messrs. Brag and Steal to make your will, and they must
travel the same distance before either can perform the office for you.
You wish to avail yourself of the last consolations of the Church; the
clergyman, who oscillates in his duties between Withorp and Buttermere
(an interval of twelve miles), has, perhaps, just been sent for to visit
the opposite parish, and is now going, at a hard gallop, in the contrary
direction, to another parishioner. Die! and you must be taken five miles
in a cart to be buried; for though Buttermere boasts a church, it stands
upon a rock, from which no sexton has yet been found hardy enough to
quarry out a grave!

But these are the mere dull, dry matters of fact of Buttermere—the prose
of its poetry. The ciphers tell us nothing of the men or their
mountains. We might as well be walking in the Valley of Dry Bones, with
Maculloch, Porter, Macgregor, or the Editor of the _Economist_, for our
guides. Such teachers strip all life of its emotions, and dress the
earth in one quaker’s suit of drab. All they know of beauty is, that it
does not belong to the utilities of life—feeling with them is merely the
source of prejudice—and everything that refines or dignifies humanity,
is by such men regarded as sentimentalism or rodomontade.

And yet, the man who could visit Buttermere without a sense of the
sublimity and the beauty which encompass him on every side, must be
indeed dead to the higher enjoyments of life. Here, the mountains heave
like the billows of the land, telling of the storm that swept across the
earth before man was on it. Here, deep in their huge bowl of hills, lie
the grey-green waters of Crummock and of Buttermere, tinted with the
hues of the sloping fells around them, as if the mountain dyes had
trickled into their streams. Look which way you will, the view is
blocked up by giant cliffs. Far at the end stands a mighty mound of
rocks, umber with the shadows of the masses of cloud that seem to rest
upon its jagged tops, while the haze of the distance hangs about it like
a bloom. On the one side and in front of this rise the peaks of High
Craig, High Stile, and Red Pike, far up into the air, breaking the
clouds as they pass, and the white mists circling and wreathing round
their warted tops, save where the blue sky peeps brightly between them
and the sun behind streams between the peaks, gilding every craig. The
rays go slanting down towards the lake, leaving the steep mountain sides
bathed in a rich dark shadow—while the waters below, here dance in the
light, sparkling and shimmering, like scales of a fish, and there, swept
by the sudden gust, the spray of their tiny waves is borne along the
surface in a powdery shower. Here the steep sloping sides are
yellow-green with the stinted verdure, spotted red, like rust, with the
withered fern, or tufted over with the dark green furze. High up, the
bare, ash-grey rocks thrust themselves through the sides, like the bones
of the meagre Earth. The brown slopes of the more barren craigs are
scored and gashed across with black furrows, showing the course of dried
up torrents; while in another place, the mountain stream comes leaping
down from craig to craig, whitening the hill-side as with wreaths of
snow, and telling of the “tarn” which lies silent and dark above it,
deep buried in the bosom of the mountain. Beside this, climbs a Wood,
feathering the mountain sides, and yet so lost in the immensity that
every tree seems but a blade of fern. Then, as you turn round to gaze
upon the hills behind you, and bend your head far back to catch the
Moss’s highest craigs, you see blocks and blocks of stone tumbled one
over the other, in a disorder that fills and confounds the mind, with
trees jutting from their fissures, and twisting their bare roots under
the huge stones, like cords to lash them to their places; while the
mountain sheep, red with ruddle, stands perched on some overhanging
craig, nipping the scanty herbage. And here, as you look over the tops
of Hassness Wood, you see the blue smoke of the unseen cottage curling
lightly up into the air, and blending itself with the bloom of the
distant mountains. Then, as you journey on, you hear the mountain
streams, now trickling softly down the sides, now hoarsely rushing down
a rocky bed, and now, in gentle and harmonious hum, vying with the
breeze as it comes sighing down the valley.

Central between the Waters, and nestling in its mountains, lies the
little village of Buttermere, like a babe in its mother’s lap. Scarce
half-a-dozen houses, huddled together like sheep for mutual shelter from
the storm, make up the humble mountain home. On each side, in straggling
order, perched up in the hill-side nooks, the other dwellings group
themselves about it. In the centre stands the unpretending village inn.
Behind it stretched the rich, smooth, and velvety meadows, spotted with
red cattle, and looking doubly green and soft and level, from the
rugged, brown, and barren mountains, that rise abrupt upon them. To
stand in these fields, separating as they do the twin waters, is, as it
were, to plant the foot upon the solid lake, and seem to float upon some
verdant raft. High on the rock, fronting the humble inn, stands sideways
the little church, smaller than the smallest cottage, with its two bells
in tiny belfry crowning its gable end, and backed by the distant
mountain that shows through the opening pass made by the hill on whose
foot it rests. Round and about it circles the road, in its descent
towards the homesteads that are grey with the stone, and their roofs
green with the slate of their native hills, harmonious in every tint and
shade with all around them. Beside the bridge spanning the angry nook
which hurries brawling round the blocks of stone that intercept its
course, stands the other and still more humble inn, half clad in ivy,
and hiding the black arch through which the mountain “beck,” white with
foam, comes dashing round the turn.

In the village road, for street there is none, not a creature is to be
seen, save where a few brown or mottled “short-horns” straggle up from
the meadows,—now stopping to stare vacantly about them, now capering
purposeless with uplifted tails, or butting frolicsome at each other;
then marching to the brook, and standing knee-deep in the scurrying
waters, with their brown heads bent down to drink, and the rapid current
curling white around their legs, while others go leaping through the
stream, splashing the waters in transparent sheets about them. Not a
fowl is to be seen scratching at the soil, nor duck waddling pompously
toward the stream. Not even a stray dog crosses the roadway, unless it
be on the Sunday, and then every peasant or farmer who ascends the road
has his sharp-nosed, shaggy sheep-dog following at his heels, and vying
with his master in the enjoyment of their mutual holiday. Here, too,
ofttimes may be seen some aged dame, with large white cap, and bright
red kerchief pinned across her bosom, stooping to dip her pail into the
brook; while over the bridge, just showing above the coping-stone,
appears the grey-coated farmer, with drab hat, and mounted on his shaggy
brown pony, on his way to the neighbouring market. Here, too, the
visitor may sometimes see the farmers’ wives grouped outside one of the
homestead gates—watching their little lasses set forth on their
five-mile pilgrimage to school, their baskets filled with their week’s
provisions hanging on their arms, and the hoods of their blue-grey
cloaks dancing as they skip playfully along, thoughtless of the six
days’ absence, or mountain road before them. At other times, some
good-wife or ruddy servant girl, sallies briskly from the neighbouring
farm, and dodges across the road the truant pig that has dashed boldly
from the midden. Anon, climbing the mountain side, saunters some
low-built empty cart, with white horse, and grey-coated carter, now, as
it winds up the road, hidden by the church, now disappearing in the
circling of the path behind the slope, then seen high above the little
belfry, and hanging, as it were, by the hill side, as the carter pauses
to talk with the pedlar, who, half buried in his pack, descends the
mountain on his way to the village. Then, again ascending, goes the
cart, higher and higher, till it reach the highest platform, to vanish
behind the mountain altogether from the sight.

Such, reader, is a faint pen-and-ink sketch of a few of the charms and
rural graces of Buttermere. That many come to see, and but few to
appreciate them, the visitors’ book of the principal inn may be cited as
unquestionable evidence. Such a book in such a scene one would expect to
find filled with sentiments approximating to refinement, at least, if
not to poetry; but the mountains here seem more strongly to affect the
appetite of Southerners than their imaginations, as witness the
under-written, which are cited in all their bare and gross literality.

    “MESSRS. BOLTON, CAMPBELL, AND CO., of Prince’s Park, Liverpool,
    visited this inn, and were pleased with the lamb-chops, but
    found the boats dear. June 28, 1850.”

    “THOMAS BUCKRAM, sen., Ludley Park;

    GEORGE POINS, sen., Ludley Bridge;

    Came to Buttermere on the 26th, 12 mo, 1850; that day had a
    glorious walk over the mountains from Keswick; part of the way
    by Lake Derwent by boat. Stayed at Buttermere all night.
    Splendid eating!!!


                                                  “26, 12 mo, 1850.”

    “REV. JOSHUA RUSSELL AND SON,

              Blackheath.

    The whisky is particularly fine at this house, and we made an
    excellent dinner.”


    “Oct. 7th, 50.

        PHILIPPS KELHAM, Manchester;
        JOHN F. PHILIPPS;
        MISS MARGARETTA PHILIPPS.

    The Fish a most comfortable inn. A capital dinner. Good whisky.
    THE ONLY GOOD GLASS WE HAVE MET WITH IN THE WHOLE LAKE
    DISTRICT.”

    “MR. EDWARD KING, Dalston, London, and 7, Fenchurch-street,
    London: walked from Whitehaven to Ennerdale Lake, calling at the
    Boat House on the margin of the Lake, where, having invigorated
    the inward man, I took the mountain path between Floutern Tarn
    and Grosdale, passed Scale Force, and arrived in the high
    mountain which overlooks Crummoch and Buttermere: here, indeed,
    each mountain scene is magnificently rude. I entered the
    beautiful vale of Buttermere; was fortunate enough to find the
    Fish Inn, where all were extremely civil; and from the landlady
    I received politeness and very excellent accommodation. Had a
    glorious feed for 1_s._ 3_d._!! Chop, with sharp sauce, 6_d._;
    potatoes. 1_d._; cheese. 1_d._; bread, 1_d._; beer, 5_d._;
    waitress (a charming, modest, and obliging young creature, who
    put me in mind of the story of the Maid of Buttermere, and
    learnt me the names of all the mountains), 1_d._; total, 1_s._
    3_d._ Thursday, April 18, 1850.”[2]

Footnote 2:

  The reader is requested to remember that these are not given as
  matters of invention, but as literal extracts, with real names and
  dates, copied from the books kept by Mrs. Clark, the excellent hostess
  of the Fish Inn, Buttermere.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER II.


               “There’s been nae luck throughout the lan’
                 Sin’ fwok mud leyke their betters shene;
                The country’s puzzen’d roun’ wi’ preyde;
                 We’re c’aff and san’ to auld lang seyne.”
                                   _North Country Ballad._


HARD upon a mile from the village before described lived the hero, the
heroine, and herolets of the present story, by names Mr. and Mrs.
Sandboys, their son, Jobby, and their daughter, Elcy. Their home was one
of the two squires’ houses before spoken of as lying at the extremes of
the village. Mr. Christopher, or, as after the old Cumberland fashion he
was called, “Cursty,” Sandboys, was native to the place, and since his
college days of St. Bees, had never been further than Keswick or
Cockermouth, the two great emporia and larders of Buttermere. He had not
missed Keswick Cheese Fair for forty Martinmasses, and had been a
regular attendant at Lanthwaite Green, every September, with his lean
sheep for grazing. Nor did the Monday morning’s market at Cockermouth
ever open without Mr. Christopher Sandboys, but on one day, and that was
when the two bells of Lorton Church tried to tinkle a marriage peal in
honour of his wedding with the heiress of Newlands. A “statesman” by
birth, he possessed some hundred acres of land, with “pasturing” on the
fell side for his sheep; in which he took such pride that the walls of
his “keeping-room,” or, as _we_ should call it, sitting-room, were
covered on one side with printed bills telling how his “lamb-sucked
ewes,” his “Herdwickes” and his “shearling tups” and “gimmers” had
carried off the first and second best prices at Wastdale and at
Deanscale shows. Indeed, it was his continual boast that he grew the
coat he had on his back, and he delighted not only to clothe himself,
but his son Jobby (much to the annoyance of the youth, who sighed for
the gentler graces of kerseymere) in the undyed, or “self-coloured,”
wool of his sheep, known to all the country round as the “Sandboys’
Grey”—in reality a peculiar tint of speckled brown. His winter mornings
were passed in making nets, and in the summer his winter-woven nets were
used to despoil the waters of Buttermere of their trout and char. He
knew little of the world but through the newspapers that reached him,
half-priced, stained with tea, butter, and eggs, from a coffee-shop in
London—and nothing of society but through that ideal distortion given us
in novels, which makes the whole human family appear as a small colony
of penniless angels and wealthy demons. His long evenings were, however,
generally devoted to the perusal of his newspaper, and, living in a
district to which crime was unknown, he became gradually impressed by
reading the long catalogues of robberies and murders that filled his
London weekly and daily sheets, that all out of Cumberland was in a
state of savage barbarism, and that the Metropolis was a very caldron of
wickedness, of which the grosser scum was continually being taken off,
through the medium of the police, to the colonies. In a word, the
bugbear that haunted the innocent mind of poor Mr. Cursty Sandboys was
the wickedness of all the world but Buttermere.

And yet to have looked at the man, one would never suppose that Sandboys
could be nervous about anything. Taller than even the tallest of the
villagers, among whom he had been bred and born, he looked a grand
specimen of the human race in a country where it is by no means uncommon
to see a labouring man with form and features as dignified, and manners
as grave and self-possessed, as the highest bred nobleman in the land.
His complexion still bore traces of the dark Celtic mountain tribe to
which he belonged, but age had silvered his hair, which, with his white
eyebrows and whiskers, contrasted strongly and almost beautifully with a
small “cwoal-black een.” So commanding, indeed, was his whole
appearance, though in his suit of homespun grey, that, on first
acquaintance, the exceeding simplicity of his nature came upon those who
were strangers to the man and the place with a pleasant surprise.

Suspicious as he was theoretically, and convinced of the utter evil of
the ways of the world without Buttermere, still, practically, Cursty
Sandboys was the easy dupe of many a tramp and Turnpike Sailor, that
with long tales of intricate and accumulative distress, supported by
apocryphal briefs and petitions, signed and attested by “phantasm”
mayors and magistrates, sought out the fastnesses of Buttermere, to prey
upon the innocence and hospitality of its people.[3]

Footnote 3:

  To prove to the reader how systematic and professional is the vagrancy
  and trading beggary of this county, a gentleman, living in the
  neighbourhood of Buttermere, and to whom we are indebted for many
  other favours, has obliged us with the subjoined registry and analysis
  of the vagabonds who sought relief at his house, from April 1, 1848,
  to March 31, 1849:—

                      Males (strangers)        80

                      Males (previously        73
                      relieved)

                      Females (strangers)      10

                      Females (previously      41
                      relieved)

                                               ──

                      Total                   204

  This is at the rate of two beggars a week, for the colder six months
  in the year, and six a week in the warm weather, visiting as remote,
  secluded, and humble a village as any in the kingdom. It is curious to
  note in the above the great number of females “previously relieved”
  compared with the “strangers,” as showing that when women take to
  vagrancy they seldom abandon the trade. It were to be desired that
  gentlemen would perform similar services to the above in their several
  parts of the kingdom, so that, by a large collection of facts, the
  public might be at last convinced how pernicious to a community is
  promiscuous charity. Of all lessons there is none so dangerous as to
  teach people that they can live by other means than labour.

It was Mr. Sandboys’ special delight, of an evening, to read the
newspaper aloud to his family, and endeavour to impress his wife and
children with the same sense of the rascality of the outer world as
reigned within his own bosom. But his denunciations, as is too often the
case, served chiefly to draw attention and to excite curiosity touching
subjects, which, without them, would probably have remained unheard of:
so that his family, unknown to each other, were secretly sighing for
that propitious turn of destiny which should impel them where fashion
and amusement never failed, as their father said, to lure their victim
from more serious pursuits.

The mind of Mrs. Sandboys was almost as circumscribed as that of the
good Cursty himself. If Sandboys loved his country, and its mountains,
she was lost in her kitchen, her beds, and her buckbasket. His soul was
hemmed in by “the Hay-Stacks,” Red Pike, Melbrake, and Grassmoor; and
hers, by the four walls of Hassness house. She prided herself on her
puddings, and did not hesitate to take her stand upon her piecrust. She
had often been heard to say, with extreme satisfaction, that her
“Buttered sops” were the admiration of the country round—and it was her
boast that she could turn the large thin oat-cake at a toss; while the
only feud she had ever been known to have in all her life, was with Mrs.
Gill, of Low-Houses, Newlands, who declared that in her opinion the
cakes were better made with two “backbwords” than one; and though
several attempts had been made towards reconciliation, she had ever
since withstood all advances towards a renewal of the ancient friendship
that had cemented the two families. It was her glory that certain
receipts had been in her family—the heirlooms of the eldest daughter—for
many generations; and, when roused on the subject, she had been heard to
exclaim, that she would not part with her wild raspberry jelly but with
her life; and, come what may, she had made up her mind, to carry her
“sugared curds” down with her to her grave.

The peculiar feature of Mrs. Sandboys’ mind was to magnify the mildest
trifles into violent catastrophes. If a China shepherdess, or porcelain
Prince Albert, were broken, she took it almost as much to heart as if a
baby had been killed. Washing, to her, was almost a sacred ceremony, the
day being invariably accompanied with fasts. Her beds were white as the
opposite waters of “Sour Milk Gill;” and the brightness of the brass
hobs in the keeping-room at Hassness were brilliant tablets to record
her domestic virtues. She was perpetually waging war with cobwebs, and,
though naturally of a strong turn of mind, the only time she had been
known to faint was, when the only flea ever seen in Hassness House made
its appearance full in the front of Cursty Sandboys’ shirt, at his
dinner, for the celebration of a Sheep-Shearing Prize. If her husband
dreaded visiting London on account of its iniquities, she was deterred
by the Cumberland legend of its bugs—for, to her rural mind, the people
of the Great Metropolis seemed to be as much preyed upon by these
vermin, as the natives of India by the white ants—and it was a
conviction firmly implanted in her bosom, that if she once trusted
herself in a London four-post, there would be nothing left of her in the
morning but her nightcap.

The son and daughter of this hopeful pair were mere common-place
creatures. The boy, Jobby, as Joseph is familiarly called in Cumberland,
had just shot up into hobbledehoyhood, and was long and thin, as if
Nature had drawn him, like a telescope, out of his boots. Though almost
a man in stature, he was still a boy in tastes, and full of life and
activity—ever, to his mother’s horror, tearing his clothes in climbing
the craigs for starlings and magpies, or ransacking the hedges for
“spinks” and “skopps;” or else he terrified her by remaining out on the
lake long past dusk, in a boat, or delighting to go up into the fells
after the sheep, when overblown by the winter’s snow. His mother
declared, after the ancient maternal fashion, that it was impossible to
keep that boy clean, and however he wore out his clothes and shoes was
more than she could tell. The pockets of the youth—of which she
occasionally insisted on seeing the contents—will best show his
character to the discerning reader; these usually proved to comprise
gentles, oat-cake, a leather sucker, percussion caps, a short pipe,
(for, truth to say, the youth was studying this great art of modern
manhood), a few remaining blaeberries, a Jew’s-harp, a lump of cobbler’s
wax, a small coil of shining gut, with fish-hooks at the end, a charge
or two of shot, the Cumberland Songster, a many-bladed knife with
cork-screw, horsepicker, and saw at the back, together with a small mass
of paste, swarming with thin red worms, tied up in one of his sister’s
best cambric pocket-handkerchiefs.

Elcy, or Alice Sandboys, the sister of the last-named young gentleman,
was some two or three years his elder; and, taking after her mother, had
rather more of the Saxon complexion than her father or brother. At that
age when the affections seek for something to rest themselves upon, and
located where society afforded no fitting object for her sympathies, her
girlish bosom found relief in expending its tenderness on pet doves, and
squirrels, and magpies, and such gentler creatures as were denizens of
her father’s woods. These, and all other animals, she spoke of in
diminutive endearment; no matter what the size, all animals were little
to her; for, in her own language, her domestic menagerie consisted of
her dovey, her doggey, her dickey, her pussey, her scuggy, her piggey,
and her cowey. In her extreme love for the animal creation, she would
have taken the young trout from its play and liberty in the broad lake
beside her, and kept it for ever circling round the crystal treadmill of
a glass globe. But the course of her true love ran anything but smooth.
Jobby was continually slitting the tongue of her magpie with a silver
sixpence, to increase its powers of language, or angling for her gold
fish with an elaborate apparatus of hooks, or carrying off her favourite
spaniel to have his ears and tail cut in the last new fashion, at the
farrier’s, or setting her cat on a board down the lake, or performing a
hundred other such freaks as thoughtless youth alone can think of, to
the annoyance of susceptible maidens. Herself unaware of the pleasures
of which she deprived the animals she caged and globed, and on which her
sole anxiety was to heap every kindness, she was continually
remonstrating with her brother (we regret to say with little effect) as
to the wickedness of fishing, or, indeed, of putting anything to pain.

Such was the character of the family located at Hassness House,—the only
residence that animated the solitary banks of Buttermere—and such
doubtless would the Sandboys have ever remained but for the advent of
the year 1851. The news of the opening of the Great Exhibition had
already penetrated the fastnesses of Buttermere, and the villagers, who
perhaps, but for the notion that the whole world was about to treat
itself to a trip to the metropolis, would have remained quiet in their
mountain homes, had been, for months past, subscribing their pennies
with the intention of having their share in the general holiday.
Buttermere was one universal scene of excitement from Woodhouse to
Gatesgarth. Mrs. Nelson was making a double allowance of her excellent
oat-cakes; Mrs. Clark, of the Fish Inn, was packing up a jar of sugared
butter, among other creature comforts for the occasion. John Cowman was
brushing up his top-shirt; Dan Fleming was greasing his calkered boots;
John Lancaster was wondering whether his hat were good enough for the
great show; all the old dames were busy ironing their deep-frilled caps,
and airing their hoods; all the young lasses were stitching at all their
dresses, while some of the more nervous villagers, who had never yet
trusted themselves to a railway, were secretly making their
wills—preparatory to their grand starting for the metropolis.

Amidst this general bustle and excitement there was, however, one house
where the master was not absorbed in a calculation as to the probable
length and expenses of the journey; where the mistress was not busy
preparing for the comfort of the outward and inward man of her lord and
master; where the daughter was not in deep consultation as to the
prevailing metropolitan fashions—and this house was Hassness. For Mr.
Sandboys, with his long-cherished conviction of the wickedness of
London, had expressed in unmeasured terms his positive determination
that neither he himself, nor any that belonged to him, should ever be
exposed to the moral pollution of the metropolis. This was a sentiment
in which Mrs. Sandboys heartily concurred, though on very different
grounds—the one objecting to the moral, the other to the physical,
contamination of the crowded city. Mr. Sandboys had been thrice
solicited to join the Buttermere Travelling Club, and thrice he had held
out against the most persuasive appeals. But Squire Jopson, who acted as
Treasurer to the Travelling Association for the Great Exhibition of
1851, not liking that his old friend Sandboys should be the only one in
all Buttermere who absented himself from the general visit to the
metropolis, waited upon him at Hassness, to offer him the last chance of
availing himself of the advantages of that valuable institution as a
means of conveying himself and family, at the smallest possible expense,
to the great metropolis, and of allowing him and them a week’s stay, as
well as the privilege of participating in all the amusements and
gaieties of the capital at its gayest possible time.

It was a severe trial for Sandboys to withstand the united batteries of
Jopson’s enthusiastic advocacy, his daughter’s entreaties, his son’s
assurances of steadiness. But Sandboys, though naturally possessed of a
heart of butter, delighted to assure himself that he carried about a
flint in his bosom; so he told Jopson, with a shake of his head, that he
might as well try to move Helvellyn or shake Skiddaw; and that, while he
blushed for the weakness of his family, he thanked Heaven that he, at
least, was adamant.

Jopson showed him by the list he brought with him that the whole of the
villagers were going, and that Hassness would be left neighbourless for
a circuit of seven miles at least; whereupon Sandboys observed with a
chuckle, that the place could not be much more quiet than it was, and
that with those fine fellows, Robinson and Davy Top, and Dod and
Honister around him, he should never want company.

Jopson talked sagely of youths seeing the world and expanding their
minds by travel; whereat the eyes of the younger Sandboys glistened; but
the father rejoined, that travel was of use only for the natural
beauties of the scenery it revealed, and the virtues of the people with
whom it brought the traveller into association; “and where,” he asked,
with evident pride of county, “could more natural beauty or greater
native virtue be found, than amongst the mountains and the pastoral race
of Buttermere?” Seizing the latest _Times_ that had reached him the
evening before, he pointed triumphantly to some paragraph, headed
“Ingenious Fraud on a Yokel!” wherein a country gentleman had been
cleverly duped of some hundreds of pounds paid to him that morning at
Smithfield; and he asked with sarcasm, whether those were the scenes and
those the people that Jopson thought he could improve his son Jobby by
introducing him to?

In vain Jopson pulled from his pocket a counter newspaper, and showed
him the plan of some Monster Lodging House which was to afford
accommodation for one thousand persons from the country at one and the
same time, “for one-and-three per night!”—how, for this small sum, each
of the thousand was to be provided “with bedstead, good wool mattress,
sheets, blankets, and coverlet; with soap, towels, and every
accommodation for ablution;”—how the two thousand boots of the thousand
lodgers were to be cleaned at one penny per pair, and their one thousand
chins to be shaven by relays of barbers continually in attendance—how a
surgeon was “to attend at nine o’clock every morning,” to examine the
lodgers, and “instantly remove all cases of infectious disease”—how
there was to be “a smoking-room, detached from the main-building, where
a band of music was to play every evening, gratis”—how omnibuses to all
the theatres and amusements and sights were to carry the thousand
sight-seers at one penny per head—how “cold roast and boiled beef and
mutton, and ditto ditto sausages and bacon, and pickles, salads, and
fruit pies (when to be procured), were to be furnished, at fixed
prices,” to the thousand country gentlemen with the thousand country
appetites—how “all the dormitories were to be well lighted with gas to
secure the complete privacy of the occupants”—how “they were to be
watched over by efficient wardens and police constables”—how “an office
was to be opened for the security of luggage”—and how “the proprietor
pledged himself that every care should be taken to ensure the comfort,
convenience, and _strict discipline_ of so large a body.”

Sandboys, who had sat perfectly quiet while Jobson was detailing the
several advantages of this Brobdignagian boarding-house, burst out at
the completion of the narrative with a demand to be informed whether it
was probable that he, who had passed his whole life in a village
consisting of fifteen houses and but seven families, would, in his
fifty-fifth year, consent to take up his abode with a thousand people
under one roof, with a gas-light to secure the privacy of his bed-room,
policemen to watch him all night, and a surgeon to examine him in the
morning!

Having thus delivered himself, he turned round, with satisfaction, to
appeal to his wife and children, when he found them, to his horror, with
the newspaper in their hands, busily admiring the picture of the very
building that he had so forcibly denounced.

Early the next morning, Mrs. Sandboys, with Jobby and Elcy, went down to
the Fish Inn, to see the dozen carts and cars leave, with the united
villagers of Buttermere, for the “Travellers’ Train” at Cockermouth.
There was the stalwart Daniel Fleming, of the White Howe, mounted on his
horse, with his wife, her baby in her arms, and the children, with the
farm maid, in the cart,—his two men trudging by its side. There was John
Clark, of Wilkinsyke, the farmer and statesman, with his black-haired
sons, Isaac and Johnny, while Richard rode the piebald pony; and Joseph
and his wife, with little Grace, and their rosy-cheeked maid, Susannah,
from the Fish Inn, sat in the car, kept at other times for the
accommodation of their visitors. After them came Isaac Cowman, of the
Croft, the red-faced farmer-constable, with his fine tall, flaxen, Saxon
family about him; and, following in his wake, his Roman-nosed nephew
John, the host of “The Victoria,” with his brisk, bustling wife on his
arm. Then came handsome old John Lancaster, seventy years of age, and as
straight as the mountain larch, with his wife and his sons, Andrew and
Robert, and their wives. And following these, John Branthwaite, of
Bowtherbeck, the parish-clerk, with his wife and wife’s mother; and
Edward Nelson, the sheep-breeder, of Gatesgarth, dressed in his
well-known suit of grey, with his buxom gudewife, and her three boys and
her two girls by her side; while the fresh-coloured bonnie lassie, her
maid, Betty Gatesgarth, of Gatesgarth, in her bright green dress and
pink ribbons, strutted along in their wake. Then came the Riggs’: James
Rigg, the miner, of Scots Tuft, who had come over from his work at
Cleator for the special holiday; and there were his wife and young boys,
and Jane Rigg, the widow, and her daughter Mary Ann, the grey-eyed
beauty of Buttermere, in her jaunty jacket-waisted dress; with her
swarthy black-whiskered Celtic brother, and his pleasant-faced Saxon
wife carrying their chubby-cheeked child; and behind them came Ann Rigg,
the slater’s widow, from Craig House, with her boys and little girl;
and, leaning on their shoulders, the eighty-years old, white-haired
Braithwaite Rigg and his venerable dame; and close upon them was seen
old Rowley Lightfoot, his wife, and son John. Squire Jobson’s man walked
beside the car from the Fish Inn, talking to the tidy, clean old
housekeeper of Woodhouse; while the Squire himself rode in the rear,
proud and happy as he marshalled the merry little band along;—for, truth
to say, it would have been difficult to find in any other part of
England so much manliness and so much rustic beauty centred in so small
a spot.

As they moved gently along the road, John Cowman, the host of the
Victoria, struck up the following well-known song, which was welcomed
with a shout from the whole “lating”—

    “I’s Borrowdale Jwohnny, just cumt up to Lunnon,
      Nay, gurn nit at _me_, for fear _I_ laugh at _you_;
     I’ve seen kneaves donn’d i’ silks, and gud men gang in tatters;
      The truth we sud tell, and gi’e auld Nick his due.”

Then the gust rushed down the valley, and the voices of the happy
holiday throng were swept, for a moment, away; as it lulled again, the
ear, familiar to the song, could catch the laugh and cheers that
accompanied the next verse:—

       “‘Keep frae’t lasses, and ne’er look ahint thee.’
         ‘We’re deep as the best o’ them, fadder,’ says I.
        They packed up ae sark, Sunday weascwoat, twee neckcloths,
         Wot bannock, cauld dumplin’, and top stannin’ pye;”

Again the voices were lost in the turning of the road, and presently, as
they shot out once more, they might be heard singing in full chorus—

          “Ca’ and see cousin Jacep, he’s got a’ the money;
            He’ll get thee some guver’ment pleace to be seer.”

At last, all was still—but scarcely more still than when the whole of
the cottages were filled with their little families, for the village,
though now utterly deserted, would have seemed to the stranger to have
been as thickly populated and busy as ever.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER III.

                “Heaste, Jenny! put the bairns to bed,
                  And mind they say their prayers.
                 Sweet innocents! their heads yence down,
                  They sleep away their cares!
                 But gi’ them first a butter-shag;
                  When young, they munnet want,—
                 Nor ever sal a bairn o’ mine
                  While I’ve a bit to grant.”
                                      _The Happy Family._


THE younger Sandboys took the departure of the villagers more to heart
than did their mother; though, true to her woman’s nature, had the trip
been anywhere but to London, she would have felt hurt at not making one
of the pleasure party. On reaching home, she and Mr. Sandboys
congratulated one another that they were not on their way to suffer the
miseries of a week’s residence amidst either the dirt or the wickedness
of the metropolis; but Elcy and Jobby began, for the first time, to feel
that the retirement, which they heard so much vaunted every day, and
which so many persons came from all parts of the country to look at and
admire, cut them off from a considerable share of the pleasures which
all the world else seemed so ready to enjoy, and which they began
shrewdly to suspect were not quite so terrible as their father was in
the habit of making out.

Thus matters continued at Hassness till the next Tuesday evening, when
Mrs. Sandboys remarked that it was “_very_ strange” that “Matthew
Harker, t’ grocer, had not been to village” with his pony and cart that
day; and what she _s’ud_ do for t’ tea, and sugar, and soft bread, she
didn’t know.

Now, seeing that the nearest grocer was ten miles distant, and that
there was no borrowing this necessary article from any of their
neighbours, as the whole village was then safely housed in London, such
a failure in the visit of the peripatetic tea-man, upon whom the
inhabitants of Buttermere and Crummock Water one and all depended for
their souchong, and lump, and moist, and wheaten bread, was a matter of
more serious importance than a townsman might imagine.

It was therefore arranged that Postlethwaite their man should take Paddy
t’ pony over to Keswick the next day, to get the week’s supply of
grocery, and learn what had happened to Harker, in whom the Sandboys
took a greater interest from the fact of their having subscribed, with
others of the gentry, when Harker lost his hand by blasting cobbles, to
start him in the grocery business, and provide him with a horse and cart
to carry his goods round the country.

Postlethwaite—a long, grave, saturnine-looking man, who was “_a little_”
hard of hearing, was, after much shouting in the kitchen, made to
comprehend the nature of his errand. But he had quitted Hassness only a
short hour, when he returned with the sad intelligence—which he had
picked up from Ellick Crackenthorpe, who was left in charge of
Keskadale, while the family had gone to town,—that Harker, finding all
the folk about Keswick had departed for the Great Exhibition, and
hearing that Buttermere had done the same, had put his wife and his nine
children inside his own van, and was at that time crawling up by easy
stages to London.

Moreover, Postlethwaite brought in the dreary tidings that, in coming
down from the top of the Hause, just by Bear’s fall, Paddy had cast a
shoe, and that it was as much as he could do to get him down the Moss
side. This calamity was a matter of as much delight to the youngsters as
it was of annoyance to the elder Sandboys; for seeing that Bob Beck, the
nearest blacksmith, lived six miles distant, and that it was impossible
to send either to Cockermouth or Keswick for the necessaries of life,
until the pony was armed against the rockiness of the road, it became a
matter of considerable difficulty to settle what could be done.

After much serious deliberation, it was finally arranged that
Postlethwaite should lead the pony on to the “smiddy,” at Loweswater, to
be shod, and then ride him over to Dodgson’s, the grocer’s, at
Cockermouth.

Postlethwaite, already tired, and, it must be confessed, not a little
vexed at the refusal of Mr. Sandboys to permit him to accompany his
fellow-villagers on this London trip—the greatest event of all their
lives—started very sulky, and came back, long after dusk, with the pony
lamed by a stone in his foot, and himself savage with hunger, and almost
rebellious with fatigue; for, on getting to the “smiddy,” he found that
Beck the blacksmith had ruddled on his door the inscription—

            “GEANE TO LUNNON FOR TO SEE T’ GIRT ’SHIBITION!”

and, worse than all to Postlethwaite, he discovered, moreover, on
seeking his usual ale at Kirkstile, that Harry Pearson, the landlord,
had accompanied the Buttermere travellers’ train up to town; and that
John Wilkinson, the other landlord, had followed him the day after; so
that there was neither bite nor sup to be had in the place, and no
entertainment either for man or beast.

In pity to Paddy, if not in remembrance of the farmer’s good cheer,
Postlethwaite, on his way back, turned down to Joe Watson’s, at
Lanthwaite, and there found it impossible to make anybody hear him, for
the farmer and his six noble-looking sons—known for miles round as the
flower of the country—had also joined the sight-seers on their way to
the train at Cockermouth.

This was sad news to the little household. It was the first incident
that gave Mrs. Sandboys an insight into the possible difficulties that
their remaining behind, alone, at Hassness, might entail upon the
family. She, and Mr. Sandboys, had hitherto only thought of the
inconveniences attending a visit to London, and little dreamt that their
absence from it, at such a time, might force them to undergo even
greater troubles. She could perhaps have cheerfully tolerated the
abdication of the Cockermouth milliner—she might have heard, without a
sigh, that Mr. Bailey had put up the shutters of his circulating
library, and stopped the supply of “Henrietta Temples,” “Emilia
Wyndhams,” and “The Two Old Men;” she might not even have complained had
Thompson Martin, the draper, cut short her ribbons and laces, by
shutting up his shop altogether—but to have taken away her tea and
sugar, was more than a lady in the vale of years, and the valley of
Buttermere, could be expected to endure, without some outrage to
philosophy!

The partiality of the sex in general for their morning and evening cup
of souchong and “best refined,” is now ranked by physiologists among
those inscrutable instincts of sentient nature, which are beyond the
reach of scientific explanation. What oil is to the Esquimaux, what the
juice of the cocoa-nut is to the monkey, what water is to the fish, what
dew is to the flower, and what milk is to the cat—so is tea to woman! No
person yet, in our own country, has propounded any sufficient theory to
account for the English washerwomen’s all-absorbing love of the Chinese
infusion—nor for the fact of every maid-servant, when stipulating the
terms of her engagement, always making it an express condition of the
hiring, that she should be provided with “tea and sugar,” and of every
mistress continually declaring that she “would rather at any time go
without her dinner than her tea.”

What sage has yet taught us why womankind is as gregarious over tea as
mankind over wine? Sheridan has called the Bottle the sun of the table;
but surely the Teapot, with its attendant cups, may be considered as a
heavenly system, towards which all the more beautiful bodies concentre,
where the piano may be said to represent the music of the spheres, and
in which the gentlemen, heated with wine, and darting in eccentric
course from the dining-room, may be regarded as fiery comets. We would
ask any lady whether Paradise could have been a garden of bliss without
the tea-plant; and whether the ever-to-be-regretted error of our first
mother was not the more unpardonable from the fact of her having
preferred to pilfer an apple rather than pluck the “fullest flavoured
Pekoe.” And may not psychology here trace some faint transcendental
reason for the descendants of Adam still loving to linger over their
apples after dinner, shunning the tea-table and those connected with it.
Yet, perhaps, even the eating of apples has not been more dangerous to
the human family than the sipping of tea. If sin came in with pippins,
surely scandal was brought into the world with Bohea! Adam fell a victim
to his wife’s longing for a Ribston, and how many Eves have since fallen
martyrs to the sex’s love of the slanderous Souchong.

Mrs. Sandboys was not prepared for so great a sacrifice as her tea, and
when she first heard from Postlethwaite the certainty of Harker’s
departure, and saw, by the result of this second journey, that there was
no hope of obtaining a supply from Cockermouth, there _was_ a moment
when she allowed her bosom to whisper to her, that even the terror of a
bed in London would be preferable to a tea-less life at Hassness.

Mr. Sandboys, however, no sooner saw that there was no tea or sugar to
be had, than he determined to sweeten his cup with philosophy; so,
bursting out with a snatch of the “Cumberland Lang Seyne,” he exclaimed,
as cheerily as he could under the circumstances—

                  “Deuce tek the fuil-invented tea;
                   For tweyce a day we that mun’ hev;”

and immediately after this, decided upon the whole family’s reverting to
the habits of their ancestors, and drinking “yale” for breakfast. This
was by no means pleasant, but as it was clear she could do nothing else,
Mrs. Sandboys, like a sensible woman, turned her attention to the
contents of the ale-cask, and then discovered that some evil-disposed
person, whom she strongly suspected to be Master Jobby—for that young
gentleman began to display an increasing enjoyment in each succeeding
catastrophe—had left the tap running, and that the cellar floor was
covered three inches deep with the liquid intended to take off the
dryness and somewhat sawdusty character of the oat-cake, which, in the
absence of any wheaten bread, now formed the staple of their morning
meal.

Now it so happened, that it wanted a fortnight of the return of
Jennings’ man, the brewer, whose periodical circumgyrations with the
beer, round about Buttermere, gave, like the sun, life and heat to the
system of its inhabitants. In this dire emergency, Postlethwaite, whose
deafness was found to increase exactly in proportion to the
inconvenience of the journeys required of him, was had out, and shaken
well, and bawled at, preparatory to a walk over to Lorton Vale, where
the brewery was situated—only six miles distant.

But his trip on this occasion was about as successful as the last, for
on reaching the spot, he found that the brewer, like the grocer, the
farrier, and the publicans, had disappeared for London on the same
pleasurable mission.

The family at Hassness was thus left without tea, beer, or bread, and,
consequently, reduced to the pure mountain stream for their beverage,
and oaten cakes and bacon for their principal diet. Their stock of fresh
meat was usually procured from Frank Hutchison, the butcher of
Cockermouth, but to go or send thither, under their present
circumstances, appeared to be impossible. So that Mrs. Sandboys began to
have serious alarms about two or three pimples that made their
appearance on Cursty’s face, lest a continued course of salt meat and
oat-cake should end in the whole family being afflicted with the scurvy.
She would immediately have insisted on putting them, one and all, under
a severe course of treacle and brimstone, with a dash of cream of tartar
in it, to “sweeten their blood;” only, luckily, there was neither
treacle nor brimstone, nor cream of tartar, to be had for twenty miles,
nor anybody to go for it, and then, probably, nobody at Mr. Bowerbank’s
to serve it.

Sandboys, seeing that he had no longer any hope in Postlethwaite, was
now awakened to the necessity of making a personal exertion. His wife,
overpowered by this addition of the loss of dinner to the loss of tea,
did not hesitate to suggest to him, that perhaps it might be as well, if
they consented to do like the rest of the world, and betake themselves
for a few days to London. For her own part, she was ready to make any
sacrifice, even to face the London dirt. But Sandboys would listen to no
compromise, declared that greatness showed itself alone in overcoming
circumstances,—and talked grandly of his forefathers, who had held out
so long in these self-same mountain fastnesses. Mrs. Sandboys had no
objection to make to the heroism, but she said that really Elcy’s
complexion required fresh meat; and that although she herself was
prepared to give up a great deal, yet her Sunday’s dinner was more than
she was inclined to part with, and as for sacrifices, she had already
sacrificed enough in the loss of her tea. Mr. Sandboys upon this
bethought him of John Banks, the pig-butcher at Lorton, and having a
young porker just ready for the knife, fancied he could not do better
than despatch Postlethwaite with the animal to Lorton to be slaughtered.
This, however, was sooner decided upon than effected; for Postlethwaite,
on being summoned, made his appearance in slippers, and declared he had
worn out, in his several foraging excursions about the country, the only
pair of shoes he had left. Whereupon his master, though it was with some
difficulty he admitted the excuse,—and this not until Postlethwaite,
with a piteous gravity, had brought out a pair of calkered boots in the
very worst possible condition,—began to foresee that there was even more
necessity for Postlethwaite to be shod than Paddy, for that unless he
could be got over to Cockermouth, they might be fairly starved out.
Accordingly, he gave his son Jobby instructions to make the best of his
way to the two shoemakers who resided within five miles of Hassness, for
he made sure that one of the cobblers at least could be prevailed upon
to put Postlethwaite in immediate travelling order.

It was long after nightfall, and Mrs. Sandboys had grown very uneasy as
to the fate of her dear boy, when Postlethwaite was heard condoling over
the miserable plight of Master Jobby. His mother rushed out to see what
had happened, and found the bedraggled youth standing with one shoe in
the hall, the other having been left behind in a bog, which he had met
with in his attempt to make a short cut home on the other side of the
lake by Melbrake.

Nor was the news he brought of a more cheerful nature. John Jackson the
shoemaker was nowhere to be found. He had not been heard of since the
departure of the train; and John Coss, the other shoemaker, had turned
post-boy again, and refused to do any cobbling whatsoever. Coss had told
him he got a job to take some gentlefolks in a car over to Carlisle, to
meet the train for London, and he was just about to start; and if Jobby
liked, he would give him a lift thus far on t’ road to Girt ’Shibition.

This was a sad damper for Sandboys, for with John Jackson the shoemaker
seemed to vanish his last hope. Postlethwaite had worn out his boots,
Jobby had lost his shoes, and John Jackson and John Coss, the only men,
within ten miles, who could refit them, were both too fully taken up
with the Great Exhibition to trouble their heads about the destitution
of Hassness.

Postlethwaite almost smiled when he heard the result of Jobby’s
twelve-mile walk, and drily remarked to the servant-maid, who already
showed strong symptoms of discontent—having herself a sweetheart
exposed, without her care, to the temptations and wickedness of
London—that the whole family would be soon barefoot, and going about the
countryside trying to get one another shod.

Sandboys consulted with his wife as to what was to be done, but she
administered but little consolation; for the loss of her tea, and the
prospect of no Sunday’s dinner, had ruffled her usual equanimity. The
sight of her darling boy, too, barefoot and footsore, aroused every
passion of her mother’s heart. Jobby had no other shoes to his feet, she
told her husband, for the rate at which _that_ boy wore his things out
was quite terrible to a mother’s feelings; but Mr. Sandboys had no right
to send the lad to such a distance, after such weather as they had just
had. He might have known that Jobby was always taking short cuts, and
always getting up to his knees in some mess or other; and he must
naturally have expected that Jobby would have left both his shoes behind
him instead of one—and those the only shoes he had. She should not
wonder if Mr. Sandboys had done it for the purpose. Who was to go the
errands now, she should like to know? Mr. Sandboys, perhaps, liked
living there, in that out of the way hole, like a giant or a hermit. Did
he expect that she or Elcy were going to drive that pig to Lorton?—And
thus she continued, going over and over again every one of the troubles
that their absence from London had brought upon them, until Sandboys was
worried into excitement, and plumply demanded of her whether she
actually wished to go herself to the Exhibition? Mrs. Sandboys was at no
loss for a reply, and retorted, that what she wanted was her usual
meals, and shoes for her children; and if she could not get them there,
why, she did not care if she had to go to Hyde Park for them.

Sandboys was little prepared for this confession of hostilities on the
part of his beloved Aggy. He had never known her address him in such a
tone since the day she swore at Lorton to honour and obey him. He jumped
from his chair and began to pace the room—now wondering what had come to
his family and servants, now lamenting the want of tea, now sympathizing
with the absence of ale, now biting his thumb as he contemplated the
approximating dilemma of a dinnerless Sunday, and now inwardly cursing
the Great Exhibition, which had not only taken all his neighbours from
him, and deprived him of almost all the necessaries of life, but seemed
destined to estrange his wife and children!

For a moment the idea passed across his mind, that perhaps it might be
better to give way; but he cast the thought from him immediately, and as
he trod the room with redoubled quickness and firmness of step, he
buttoned his grey coat energetically across his breast, swelling with a
resolution to make a desperate effort. He would drive the pig himself
over to John Banks, the pig-butcher’s, at Lorton! But, as in the case of
Postlethwaite, Mr. Cursty Sandboys soon found that resolving to drive a
pig was a far different thing from doing it. Even in a level country the
pig-driving art is none of the most facile acquirements,—but where the
way to be traversed consists at every other yard of either a fell, a
craig, a gill, a morass, a comb, a pike, a knot, a rigg, a skar, a beck,
a howe, a force, a syke, or a tarn, or some other variety of those
comfortable quarters into which a pig, with his peculiar perversity,
would take especial delight in introducing his _compagnon de voyage_—the
accomplishment of pig-driving in Cumberland partakes of the character of
what aesthetic critics love to term “High Art.”

Nor did Mr. Sandboys’ pig—in spite of the benevolence and “sops”
administered during his education by the gentle Elcy, who shed tears at
his departure—at all detract from the glories of his race. Contrary to
the earnest advice of Postlethwaite, founded on the experience of ages,
who exhorted his master to keep the string loose in his hand—Sandboys,
who had a theory of his own about pig-driving, and who was afraid that
if the animal once got away from him in the hills, he would carry with
him the family’s only chance of fresh meat for weeks to come—made up his
mind to keep a safe hold of him, and so, twisted the string which he had
attached to the porker’s leg two or three turns round his own wrist.

Scarcely had Elcy petitioned her brother for the gentle treatment of her
pet “piggy,” than, crack! Jobby, who held the whip at the gate, while
his father adjusted the reins, sent a flanker on the animal’s
hind-quarters. Away went “piggy,” and we regret to say, away went the
innocent Sandboys, not after, but with him—and precisely in the opposite
direction to what he had intended. “Cwoley,” the dog, who had been
dancing round the pig at the gate, no sooner saw the animal start off at
score, than entering into the spirit of the scene, he gave full chase,
yelping, and jumping, and snapping at him, so that the terrified porker
fetched sharp round upon Sandboys, and bolted straight up the mountain
side.

Now, to the stranger it should be made known, that climbing the fells of
Cumberland is no slight task—even when the traveller is allowed to pick
his steps; but, with a pig to lead, no choice but to follow, and a dog
behind to urge the porker on, the operation becomes one of considerable
hardship, if not peril. Moreover, the mountain over which Mr. Sandboys’
pig had chosen to make his course, was called “the Moss,” or “Morass,”
from its peculiar swampy character. Up went the pig, through bracken,
and furze, and holly-bush, and up by the stunted oaks, and short-cut
stumps, and straight on, up through the larches, over the rugged clump
above Hassness; and up went Mr. Sandboys, over and through every one of
the same obstacles, making a fresh rent in his trousers at every
“whin-bush”—scratched, torn, panting, slipping, and—if we must confess
it—swearing; now tumbling, now up again, but still holding on to the
pig, or the pig holding on to him, for grim death.

But if it were difficult to ascend a Cumberland fell with a pig in
front, how much more trying the descent! No sooner had “Cwoley” turned
the pig at the top, than Sandboys, as he looked down the precipitous
mountain up which his porker had dragged him, “saw his work before him.”
It required but a slight momentum to start him; then, away they all
three went together—in racing technology “you might have covered them
with a sheet”—-the dog barking, and the pig squeaking, and dragging Mr.
Sandboys down the hill at a rate that promised to bring him to the
bottom with more celerity than safety. Unfortunately, too, the pig took
his course towards the beck formed by the torrent at the “Goat’s Gills;”
and no sooner did it reach the ravine, than, worried by the dog, it
precipitated itself and Mr. Sandboys right down into the foaming, but
luckily not very deep, waters.

But, if it were not deep, the bottom of the beck was at least stony; and
there, on his back, without breath to cry out, lay the wretched
Sandboys, a victim to his theory, his coat skirtless, his pantaloons
torn to shreds, and the waters curling white about him, with the driving
string in his hand, cut by the sharp craigs in his fall—while the legs,
the loin, the griskin, and the chine—that were to have consoled the
family for weeks, were running off upon the pettitoes which he had
privately set aside for his own supper on some quiet evening.

Elcy, who, throughout the whole chase, had been bewailing the poor
“piggy’s” troubles, and exclaiming to her father not to hurt it,
screamed with terror, as, from the gate, she saw the plunge and splash;
while the wicked Jobby, who had been rendered powerless by laughter, and
the want of shoes, and Postlethwaite, who also had been inwardly
enjoying the scene, now rushed forward to the rescue, in company with
the whole household, and dragged out from the beck the bruised,
tattered, bedraggled, bespattered, bedrenched, and wretched Sandboys—the
more annoyed, because the first inquiry addressed to him by Mrs.
Sandboys, in a voice of mingled terror and tenderness, was, “Whatever
_has_ become of the pig?”

That was a mystery which took some hour or two to solve; for it was not
until Elcy and Jobby, in Postlethwaite’s old shoes, had explored both
Robinson and the Moss, that they caught sight of “Cwoley” on the slope
beside the foot of Buttermere Lake, dancing, in wild delight, round the
shaft of a deserted mine, known as “Muddock,” where, as became evident
from the string twisted round the bushes, the pig, like Curtius, had
plunged suicidally into the gulf, and was then lying, unbaked,
unroasted, and unboiled, in twelve foot water!

Sandboys, when the news was brought him, was, both metaphorically and
literally, in hot water. He sat with his two feet in a steaming pail,
and wrapped in a blanket, with a basin of smoking oatmeal gruel in his
hand, Mrs. Sandboys by his side, airing a clean shirt at the fire, and
vowing all the while, that she would not wonder if his obstinacy in
stopping down there, starving all the family, and denying them even the
necessaries of life, to gratify his own perversity, were not the death
of herself and the dear children. If he caught _his_ death, he would
only have himself to blame; for there was not a Dover’s Powder within
twenty miles to be had for love or money; and as for tallowing his nose,
it was more than she could afford to do, for the candles were running so
short, and there was not a tallow-chandler remaining in the
neighbourhood, so that in a few days she knew that, all through his fine
management, they would be left not only tealess, beerless, meatless,
and, she _would_ add, her dear boy shoeless, but also in positive
darkness.

This second outbreak on the part of the generally placid and
anti-metropolitan Mrs. Sandboys was superinduced by a discovery she had
made that morning, when about to give out the soap for the next day’s
monthly wash. She then remembered that the stock which she had ordered
of Harker had not come to hand; and there being no opportunity of
getting to Dodgson or to Herd—supposing either of them to be at
Cockermouth—or of reaching any other oilman or tallow-chandler—even if
such a character existed in the neighbourhood within a circuit of fifty
miles—she began to see that by remaining at Hassness, she and her
children would positively be reduced to a more horrible state of
dirtiness than the metropolis could possibly emulate, even taking for
granted the truth of all the reports concerning the Thames water, which
Mr. Sandboys delighted in reading to her from the newspapers.

Scarcely had Mrs. Sandboys given vent to this “bit of her mind,” than
the forms of long Postlethwaite and little Ann Lightfoot appeared at the
door, to give the miserable Cursty “warning.” Ann Lightfoot begged to
state, that the coals were beginning to run so short, and the large fire
Mr. Sandboys had just made up to dry his clothes and shoes had so
reduced their small stock, that they would be left without a spark in
the range below stairs; and they had made up their minds to leave the
very next day, for the kitchen was so damp, that, without a fire, they
knew it would be the death of them.

Sandboys remonstrated, saying, that some of the slate-carts from the
quarries at Honister would be sure to be passing the house on their way
to Cockermouth, and they might order them to bring him a return cargo of
coals from Great Southern. But Postlethwaite, with a pertinacity the
reverse of pleasant, replied, that he had thought of all this before, if
his master had not; and had watched two days consecutively, without
seeing a single cart; Master Jobby, besides, had told him he knew there
was no one working at the quarries, for he had not heard the sound of
the blasting during the last fortnight. Without beer, without meat,
without tea, without sugar, without coals, and, what was more, without
tobacco—as he had been for the last ten days—Postlethwaite observed, he
thought it was hard his master should expect him and Ann to stop, when
the lassie was almost starved; it would be far better that they should
leave the family to share amongst them the few provisions remaining.

Here Ann Lightfoot began to wipe the tears from her eyes with the corner
of her apron—an action that produced a series of sympathetical sobs from
Mrs. Sandboys, who hysterically gurgled out, that it was impossible to
tell what would become of them all in that dreadful lonely, damp
place,—without medicine—or doctor—or dinner—or even the means of
warming, or lighting, or cleaning themselves.

It was at this juncture that Elcy entered the room, her blue eyes bathed
in a flood of tears, to pour into her father’s bosom the fate of her
beloved “piggy!” Overpowered with this battery of hysterics, and the
accumulated distresses and disaffection of his united household,
Sandboys would have rushed from the apartment—and, indeed, did make an
effort to do so; but remembering the paucity of his attire, he plumped
rapidly down again, wrapping his blanket round him with the dignity of
an Indian chief.

It was impossible, however, after a fortnight’s low living, to maintain
for a length of time anything like grandeur of soul, so Sandboys soon
got to participate in that depression of spirits which, owing to the
spare diet, had begun to pervade the whole household at Hassness. In a
few minutes the would-be stoical Cursty was melted, like the rest of
them, into tears. Now blubbering, now snivelling, now sobbing, he
proceeded to appeal to the generosity of Postlethwaite and the feelings
of Ann Lightfoot, he spoke of their long services, and how the affection
between the master and the servant was the pride of their native county,
and imploringly besought them not to leave him in his present position,
but to wait only a few days longer, when their friends and neighbours
could not fail of returning; for he was convinced London wickedness must
pall, after a brief experience, upon the pure and simple minds of the
people of Buttermere; and he wound up by pointing to his children, and
begged of them not to force him to drag those dear innocents into the
foul contamination of a London life.

This appeal had _not_ the desired effect. Postlethwaite, although he had
been with Sandboys since a boy, and looked upon Jobby, from long
association, almost as a child of his own,—and although in the most
lively period of the village, he had never been known to take part in
the festivities, nor had made his appearance at a “Merry Night,” for the
last fifteen years—nevertheless, felt himself, after the departure of
the Excursion train of his fellow villagers, lonely and ill-used, in not
being allowed to participate in the general holiday. The consequence
was, that Mr. Sandboys’ eloquence was utterly lost upon the surliness
that had usurped the place of his usual regard and respect for his
master.

Moreover, Ann Lightfoot had been unable to get over the loss of her
“Jwohnny,” whom, with a jaundiced eye, she saw clattering away, in
calkered boots, at all the merry nights of London, now standing up in
many a square-eight reel, or now kneeling at the feet of some
“fause-feaced fair,” in the sly vagaries of the Cushion-dance. Under
these circumstances, she had passed her evening unusually lonely, even
for Buttermere; and having no lover to sit up for at night, she had
usually spent her leisure time with Postlethwaite, mutually grumbling by
the kitchen fire, and filling his mind with ideas and desires for London
enjoyments, to which he would otherwise have been an entire stranger.
Accordingly, Ann Lightfoot was as little inclined as Deaf Postlethwaite,
and Deaf Postlethwaite as little inclined as Ann Lightfoot—for the
grumblings of the one were echoed in the growlings of the other—to be in
any way mollified by their master’s appeal to their feelings. So
Postlethwaite murmured out that they had made up their minds to go the
next day, without further warning.

Sandboys, shuddering, saw the coming desolation of his home, and for a
moment had serious thoughts of calling in the constable to make them
fulfil their engagements. But, alas, his next remembrance was that the
constable, like the grocer, and the blacksmith, and the cobblers, had
gone up to London to see the Great Exhibition.

The wretched Cursty resigned himself to his fate. But Fate had still
something worse in store for him. No sooner had the servants discharged
themselves, than Mrs. Sandboys unmasked a new grievance, and opened a
full battery upon him, as he sat dismal and desponding, in the blanket,
sipping his gruel in deep despair. She told him, as she handed him the
clean shirt she had been airing, that she would advise him to take great
care of it—that was the last their stock of soap would allow him to
have—it might be for months—and she would advise him to do, as he had
read to her from the newspaper the other day, as the nasty, filthy
Russians did—and grease it all over well, so that he might wear it until
it dropped off his body, for she could tell him he wouldn’t have another
until he went to fetch _that_ Harker from the Great Exhibition. She did
not mind, she told him, so much about the loss of her tea—severe trial
as that was to her, and requiring all her Christian fortitude to
bear—the want of beer was little or no privation to her—it was the
servants—the poor, hardworking servants that she felt for. The dearth of
fresh meat did not affect _her_—it was her dear Elcy’s complexion that
she looked at; she could have gone barefoot all her life herself, but
the idea of her children going about the earth shoeless, realized a
wretchedness that she never could have imagined when she left her
father’s home.

Still this was nothing—wretchedness was nothing—starvation was
nothing—shoelessness was nothing, compared with the want of soap—she
could bear anything but dirt. It was the terror of that had kept her
from going to London, and now she saw that, in spite of all her efforts,
Mr. Sandboys’ obstinacy about his trumpery wickedness would bring upon
her those very horrors which she had made so many sacrifices to avoid.
She did not care about any of his Great Exhibitions, only all she knew
was, that she would rather go through any wickedness than live in the
dirt that she could see he was forcing her into. Stay in Hassness she
would not; and she had made up her mind, as Mr. Sandboys would not leave
it, that she would throw herself on Messrs. Brag and Steal, and trust to
them—for they were her father’s lawyers—to make him provide her with a
separate and comfortable maintenance. Dearly as she once had loved him,
she loved cleanliness more, and it remained for him to say whether they
were to continue any longer together in the same wholesome state in
which they had lived for thirty long years. And having given vent to her
feelings, she seized the bed candlestick and marched indignantly into
Elcy’s room, where she declared her resolution to pass the night.

Sandboys, in the enthusiasm of his excited feelings and the sad prospect
of his threatened widowerhood, would have jumped up and followed her;
but again remembering the paucity of his attire, sank back into his
chair. In a few minutes it struck him that he had been sitting with his
feet in the pail until the water had become as cold as that of the brook
into which he had tumbled, and he began to think that, by remaining in
his present position, he was perhaps adding another cold to the one he
had already caught, in his fatal attempt at theoretical and practical
pig-driving.

For the first time since his wedding-day, Cursty Sandboys was left to
monopolize the amplitude of the matrimonial feather-bed, and no sooner
had he rested his nightcap on his pillow, than there began to pass
before his mind a dismal diorama of all the incidents of the day. As he
looked upon the picture of the destitution, and desolation, and
devastation, and denudation of his home, he half-relented of his stern
resolve. For himself and Mrs. Sandboys he feared not the infection of
the Great Metropolis; but it was the young and trusting Elcy, and the
too-adventurous Jobby—that caused the trepidation of his soul. First he
thought of the sufferings and the privations around him—and then he
asked himself whether he were making his children and his household
suffer these for what was a mere whim on his own part. Was not the
sacrifice he required too much for youthful minds, and was he not once
young himself? The reply of experience was, that he certainly _had_ been
young, but that he never had felt any wish to travel further than ten
miles from his native valley. And as the conflict of affection and
determination went on in his brain, he now felt assured it was all
selfishness on his part to keep his children locked up in abstemious
solitude—and the next moment was declaring that he should be a woman and
worse than a woman, if he were weak enough to allow them whom he loved
best in all the world to be exposed to the vicious allurements of the
Great Metropolis. Now he was all ice—and now the ice was thawing with
the brine of his tears—now he was rock—and now, like Hannibal, he was
cutting a way towards London through his bosom with the vinegar of
repentance.

The first thing that met Mr. Sandboys’ eyes in the morning was the pair
of trousers in which he had driven the pig on the previous day. Again
and again he gazed upon the ruins, for, until that moment, he had no
definite idea as to the tatterdemalion state of his nether garments. The
legs hung in long strips down the chair-back, more like shreds of list
than human pantaloons; and, as he looked at them, he bethought him, for
the first time, that his other pair, which he had just had made of his
own grey, had been sent a fortnight previously to Johnson, the
Loweswater tailor, to be altered, by Mrs. Sandboys, who took a great
pride in her Cursty’s appearance, and found fault with the cut of them,
declaring they were not sufficiently tight at the knees, or wide enough
over the boot, for the last new fashion.

Sandboys felt it was in vain for a man to talk of independence who was
destitute of pantaloons, and fearing even to speak of the subject to his
wife, lest a repetition of the previous night’s scene might be enacted,
sent a private message to his son Jobby, requesting his attendance to a
conference in the bed-room.

Jobby, when informed of the primitive and paradisiacal condition of his
parent, chuckled inwardly as he foresaw the dilemma in which the
disclosure he had to make would place the nether half of the old
gentleman. Accordingly, when Sandboys confidentially solicited him to
put on his father’s shoes, and make the greatest possible haste over to
Johnson for his father’s best trousers, it was with some difficulty that
his son could inform him, with that respect which is due to a parent,
that, on his last fruitless visit to Brackenthwaite, John Coss had told
him he was going to call at Loweswater, on his way to Carlisle, and take
up all the Johnsons, both uncle and nephew, for the mail train to
London.

This was more than poor Sandboys expected, and a heavy blow to him, for
he foresaw that the proprieties of life would compel him to keep between
the sheets, until such time as he could venture to broach the subject of
his denuded and destitute state to his better half. To lie in bed was
his only resource; but to lie in bed was to make him more and more
sensible of the utter destitution in which he was involved. He had
received no newspapers for a fortnight, and of all things he loved his
newspapers the dearest. The loss of them in such a state, at such a
time, he felt more than all. He might, perhaps, have borne the absence
of his pantaloons with all the pride of martyrdom; but to be cut off
from connexion with the outer world of wickedness, in which he took such
extreme interest, was more than human philosophy or mountain stoicism
could bear—for what is solitude without a newspaper! Here was he, three
hundred and one miles from London, in a lonely house, without a single
“daring robbery” to comfort him, or a “diabolical murder” to put life
into him! All the “successful swindling” of the metropolis was going on
without his knowledge; and the excursionists from his native county
were, he felt satisfied, being plundered, one and all, without his
being, as he longed to be. in any way privy to it!

In this situation, thus contemplating, Mr. Sandboys passed the day—a
Zimmerman between the blankets. At last, as the shades of night began to
shut out Melbrake from before his bed-room window, and when Mrs.
Sandboys came to his bedside for the basin which had contained his thin
meal of gruel, as he sat up to receive her he humbly petitioned her,
with a melancholy shake of the tuft on the top of his white cotton
night-cap, to allow him one of the old newspapers and a light, so that
he might relieve his mind by perusing some of the trials at the Central
Criminal Court? if he might be allowed to choose, he would prefer that
_Observer_ and supplement which contained those charming twenty columns
of the last frightful London murder.

But to make the request was to open afresh the vials of Mrs. Sandboys’
wrath; for she gave him plainly to understand that, coal-less as they
were below, Postlethwaite had been obliged to fell some of the trees,
and that the holly was so green that she had been forced to burn every
newspaper in the house in her struggles to make a fire. Indeed, were it
not that they had mustered all hands, and taken turn and turn about at
the bellows, every fifteen minutes, all the day through, the family
would not have been able to have had a mouthful of anything warm to eat;
and now that the last double _Times_ had gone, she had left
Postlethwaite and Ann and Elcy and poor Jobby seated round a fireless
grate, in the circular drawing-room, partaking of oatmeal mixed in cold
water by way of tea.

Bitterly conscious of his deficiency as regarded pantaloons, and feeling
acutely the privation as well as the destruction of his newspapers, the
otherwise benevolent soul of Sandboys reverted for a moment into the
primitive selfishness of savage life; and, seeing no other sorrows but
his own, he angrily glared on Mrs. Sandboys, and burst out, “How
dar’sta, Aggy, burn t’ papers?”

Mrs. Sandboys recoiled! It was the first time she had ever heard her
dear Cursty address her in such a tone. Her woman’s heart fell, and she
whimpered out, as she threw herself on the bed, “I cuddent help it,
Cursty, an if I cud, thar was nae a candle in t’ house for tha to read
by.”

Cursty fell back upon his pillows, and putting his hands over his eyes,
saw vividly pass before his imagination, his house without candle, his
servants without fire, his wife without soap, his boy without shoes, and
himself without breeches!

In that one moment he perceived that it was useless to think of holding
out any longer—London lost its horrors compared with the privations of
Hassness; so gulping down the cup of bitterness, he told his wife he had
made up his mind to be off to the metropolis the next morning.

The words were scarcely out of his mouth, when there again rose up
before his eyes the direful gashes of his inexpressibles—the barefooted
state of his boy! But Mrs. Sandboys soon put an end to all suggested
difficulties, and that evening saw the happy Aggy sitting by the bedside
of her beloved Cursty, and, by the light of a lamp made out of fat bacon
and darning-cotton, sewing away at one of the lacerated legs of the
trousers, with a light heart, and the strongest black thread; while Elcy
was taking the bows off a pair of her mother’s shoes, which, at a family
consultation, it had been arranged would serve to equip Jobby, at least
for the walk to Cockermouth, where he and his father might, perhaps, be
able to provide themselves with necessaries for the voyage to London.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Previous to leaving Hassness the next morning, Mr. Sandboys summoned the
whole of his family together into the dining-room, and addressed them in
a cheerful though solemn manner, saying he regretted to see that, under
their late trials, they had evinced an unphilosophical want of vivacity,
which he considered to be utterly unworthy of the hardy natives of
Cumberland. He wished it, therefore, to be distinctly understood, that
he accompanied them to London upon a single condition only, and that
was—that they one and all made up their minds, come what might, to enjoy
themselves.

How the Sandboys got to Town—the misadventures that happened to them on
the road—the difficulties that the family experienced in obtaining
shelter when they reached the metropolis—how they were glad to accept of
any wretched hole to lay their heads in for the night; and when they
_did_ obtain a bed, the trouble that Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys found in
their endeavours to get their two selves fairly into it—the dire
calamity that befel them while reposing in it, and how excessively hard
they found it under these, and many other circumstances, to carry out
the principle of enjoying themselves,—all this, and much more, remains
to be told in the succeeding chapters of this eventful history.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER IV.

           “Han’ me that peype, weyfe! I’ll smuik an’ think.
             Nay, dunnet cry, we ne’er did wrang;
            The truth I’ll state, whate’er teks pleace,
             To Carel sizes when I gang;
            We plenty hev, we’ll dui what’s reeght, weyfe,
             An’ whop (hope) beath lang may happy be.
            Now supper’s ruddy, weep nae mair, weyfe.
             Ay fain I’d see a smeyle frae thee.”—_Bad News._


MR. SANDBOYS prided himself on being a “bit of a philosopher.” His great
weakness consisted in his imaginary strength of mind. In his college
days at St. Bees he had been charmed with the classic chronicles of
Grecian stoicism and Roman fortitude, and, ever since, had been
endeavouring to talk himself, out of all feeling and affection, into the
hero. To his great self-satisfaction, he now believed he could bear any
stroke of Fate, however severe or unexpected, without so much as a wink
of his “mind’s eye,” and he flattered himself that he had arrived at
that much-to-be-desired state of insensibility which, would enable him,
like a Buttermere Brutus, to hand his own son Jobby over to the Carlisle
hangman with no more compunction—as he delighted to tell that young
gentleman, much to his horror—than he would take one of his “lean sheep”
to Lanthwaite Green Fair.

And yet, truth to say, the heart of the heroic Mr. Sandboys was as soft
as new bread, though he would have had the world believe it was as hard
and dry as sea biscuit. If Cursty had any _mettle_ at all in his
constitution it was that particular kind of “fusible alloy” which melts
at the least warmth, and loses all consistency immediately it gets into
hot water.

No metaphysician has ever yet explained why poor perverse human nature
always fancies it has a special talent for doing something the very
opposite to that in which it happens to excel. Doubtlessly, if the truth
could be known, we should find Sir John Herschel secretly regarding
himself as a small astronomer, but taking great pride in his imitation
of frying sausages; and Faraday thinking little of his discoveries in
diamagnetism, but flattering himself that he could palm a pea better
than any thimble-rigger in the kingdom. Professor Owen, for what we
know, may despise himself as a comparative anatomist, but think far from
meanly of his abilities as a player on the bones, and Archbishop Whately
in his own eyes shine less in logic than in the mixture of a lobster
salad, or the brewing of whiskey punch.

Even so was it with Mr. Cursty Sandboys! Naturally kind-hearted, and
weak almost to an extreme, he conceited himself that he was firm and
immoveable, amid the storms of life, as a human light-house, or as
light-hearted and lively in the midst of all his “ups-and-downs” as the
celebrated old Buoy at the Nore. Nothing he coveted more than decision
of character, and yet no man was more undecided. Theoretically he was
steel, but practically he was only case-hardened with a surface of
philosophy.

As he journeyed along the road to Cockermouth, he was busy revolving in
his own mind the incidents of the previous week. Had he allowed himself
to be conquered by circumstances? Had he permitted the loss of his
nether garments to wrest him from his purpose? Had he, because deprived
of the distinctive feature of his “outward man,” been led to play the
woman? Had he forgotten all that he had been so long teaching himself,
and lost all that made Man admirable when he lost his breeches? “True,”
he said, “Man was but a savage without such things—but then,” he asked
himself, “might he not become effeminate with them?”

And as he trudged along the winding Hause, chewing the cud of his
thoughts, the Buttermere philosopher got to look upon the ineffable part
of Man’s apparel as one of the many evils of civilized life—the cause of
much moral weakness and social misery. “If such garments were not
naturally effeminate, why,” he went on inquiring of himself, “should all
women have so great a desire to wear them? Were they not,” he said, “the
cause of more than half of the conjugal contentions of the present
day?—Was not matrimony, generally, one long struggle between man and
wife as to who should possess these _insignia_ of the domestic
monarchy?”

And thus the unconventional Mr. Sandboys proceeded in his sartorial
catechism, until he got to convince himself that Sin originally came
into the world with breeches, and that the true meaning of the allegory
of the apple was, that the Serpent had tempted the great Mother Eve with
a pair.

While Mr. Sandboys was thus philosophically reviewing his conduct, the
more domestic partner of his bosom was mentally “looking after” the
luggage that she had left behind in charge of Postlethwaite and Ann
Lightfoot, until she could send a suitable conveyance for it. Though it
had been agreed that the family were but to stay a week in the
Metropolis, and Mr. Sandboys, knowing that women, when on the wing, want
the Peacock’s faculty of packing up their fine feathers in the smallest
possible compass, had given strict injunctions that they should take
only such things as were absolutely necessary. But, primitive as were
the denizens of Buttermere, and far removed as its mountain-fastnesses
seemed from the realms of fashion, the increased facilities of
intercommunication had not failed to diffuse a knowledge of Polkas and
Crinolines among the female portion of its pastoral people; so that what
with “best bonnets,” and “dress caps,” that had to be stowed away in
square black boxes kept expressly for them—and gowns, with so many
breadths and flounces, that, to prevent being crushed, they required
nearly a whole trunk to themselves—and morning dresses and evening
dresses—and cardinals and paletots—and be-laced and be-frilled nightcaps
and night-gowns—all equally incompressible—and muffs and tippets—and
whiskers and artificial flowers and feathers—and bustles and false
fronts, that did not admit of any more compact stowage—and bottles of
bandoline and perfume—and pots of cold cream and lip salve—and
writing-cases and work-boxes—all and every of which the ladies declared
to be positively indispensable for the trip;—what with these things, we
say, it was found that by the time the packing was done, the boxes, and
trunks, and portmanteaus, and carpet-bags, and hat-cases, and
band-boxes, and umbrellas, that constituted the family luggage, amounted
to no less than three-and-twenty different articles. Each of these the
careful Mrs. Sandboys had duly set down and numbered on a card which she
carried with her, and which she kept continually drawing from her bosom
and reading over as she journeyed along.

Jobby and Elcy walked in the rear; the former thinking of nothing, but
full of what are called animal spirits, skittish as a colt, and unable
to continue long at any one thing,—now throwing up a stone and
endeavouring to hit it as it descended through the air, to the imminent
peril of his mother’s bonnet—then making “ducks and drakes” along the
lake with small pieces of the mountain slate—the next moment aiming at
some bird as it skimmed across the water—the next, scampering up the
hill-side with his sister Elcy’s miserable-looking and most
unsportsman-like Italian greyhound at his heels, starting the mountain
sheep—and then descending with several sprigs of the “whin” or furze
bushes in his hand, and stealthily dropping them into his father’s
coat-tail pocket, in the earnest hope of seeing the old gentleman
shortly sit down to rest himself by the way on some neighbouring crag.

Elcy, with her eyes moist with tears—though she hardly knew why—was too
sad to talk, or mind the tricks that her brother played with either her
father or her poor little shivering pet dog. It was the first time she
had ever left her home; and though her woman’s curiosity made her long
to see London, of which she had heard so much, the departure from
Hassness was like leaving some dear old friend. The mountains, which for
so many years she had seen, flushed with the young light, “first thing”
when she opened her eyes in the morning, she had got to know and almost
love like living things. She had watched them under every aspect,—with
the white snow lying on them, and bringing them so close that they
looked like huge icebergs floating towards her—or with the noonday sun
lighting up their green sides, and the shapes of the opposite peaks and
crags painted in black shadow upon them—or with the million stars
shining in the grey sky above their heads, like luminous dust, and their
huge dim forms sleeping in the haze of the moonlight, and looking like
distant storm-clouds rather than solid masses of rock.

Each of the hills round about had its own proper name, and so had
assumed a kind of natural personification in Elcy’s mind. Every one, to
her fancy, was a different being associated with a different feeling;
for some she had the same reverence as for the aged, while some,
woman-like, she half loved for the sense of power they impressed her
with. And as she journeyed along the banks of the lakes they surrounded,
and each fresh turn brought some new mountain form into sight, a dark
train of melancholy thoughts swept across her mind like the shadows of
clouds flitting along some peaceful meadow, and she trod the path with
the sound of an ideal bell droning in her ears.

Thus the Sandboys travelled on to the house of John Coss, the cobbler
post-boy, in the hopes of getting some sort of a conveyance over to
Cockermouth. But though John Coss was nowhere to be met with, they were,
luckily, just in time to catch the Loweswater post-master, who, finding
that all the correspondence in that part of the country had come to an
end, had stuck up a notice that the letterbox at his office would be
closed till after the Great Exhibition, and was then on his way, in the
empty mail-cart, to the Cockermouth railway station.

Once at Cockermouth, the necessary preparations were soon made for the
Sandboys’ journey to the great metropolis. Jobby was shod, Cursty
himself was breeched; Postlethwaite, Ann Lightfoot, and the “things”
were duly removed from Hassness, and everything seemed to promise that
the family really _would_ enjoy themselves at last.

They were but just in time for obtaining their outfit. All the principal
gentry and tradesmen had already left the town, and the smaller fry were
making ready to follow the examples of their bigger brethren. The
shutters of the Castle were closed, the mail-coach of “the General” had
been put on the rails and carried to London, with “the Lord Paramount”
shut up inside of it. At Derwent House the blinds had all been papered,
and the gilt frames and chandeliers put into brown holland pinafores,
while Lawyer Steel himself had pleaded a set-off, and moved himself, by
writ of some kind or other, to the capital. The little grey pony, upon
whose “body” Coroner Brag had so often “sat,” had been put upon
board-wages at the Globe Inn. Doctor Bell and his brother “Dickey,” the
cheerful, smiling, good-natured “medical men” of the town, had for a
time ceased that friendly interchange of commodities which consisted in
the giving of physic and the taking of wine with their several patients,
and finding that their invalids had all taken to their “last legs,”—that
the consumptions had gone galloping off—and that the declines had
suddenly got out of “the last stage,” and jumped into the first train,
the Esculapian Adelphi had felt each other’s pulse, and respectively
prescribing a few weeks’ change of air for their complaints, had both
started after their patients, as lively as return hearses.

Even Jonathan Wood, the quondam Boniface, who, like Atlas of old, used
to have the whole weight of “THE GLOBE” on his shoulders, and had
supported it till he had positively got red in the face—even jolly
Jonathan himself had disappeared from the town. “THE SUN,” too, had lost
all attraction to its attendant planets, who, no longer gravitating
towards it, had flown off at a tangent to the metropolis.

But though there was neither heat nor light in the “Sun,” at
Cockermouth, still in the interior of the “Globe” there was a small
fire, and here beside the grateful hobs of the cosey hostelry, Mr.,
Mrs., and the younger Sandboys located themselves until such time as all
was ready for the start.

The journey from Cockermouth to Workington per rail is by no means of an
agreeable character. The line being in none of the most flourishing
conditions, every means for economizing the “working expenses” have been
resorted to. The men engaged upon it have been cut down to boys; so that
the establishment has very much the look of a kind of railway academy,
where the porters on the platform are ever playing at marbles or
leapfrog, where the policemen all wear pinafores, and where the clerks
are taken to the station in the morning, and “fetched” in the evening by
the maids of their anxious parents. We _have_ heard the united ages of
the entire staff, but fear to mention the small amount, lest a too
incredulous public should accuse us of magnifying, or rather parvifying
the tenderness of their years. Suffice it that not a razor is used by
the whole establishment; and that the “staff,”—we have it on the best
authority—are allowed to give over work an hour earlier every Saturday
evening, in consideration of its being “tub-night.”

With a further view to effecting that financial reform which is so
popular at the present moment, the coal bills of the company recently
underwent a minute scrutiny, and the important discovery made—after
working several very difficult sums—that the heavy amount of eighteen
shillings and a fraction weekly could be saved by using coals instead of
coke; whereupon a resolution was immediately passed by the frugal
directors, declaring that nothing but the “best Lord Mayor’s” should
thenceforth be put into the company’s fires. The result of this wise
economy has been, that the engines on this line are perpetually smoking
in the faces of the passengers, and pouring forth so lavish a volcanic
eruption of “blacks,” that by the time the ladies and gentlemen reach
the end of their journey, they are generally as dark-complexioned as if
they had been unconsciously working or reading by the light of the very
best—patent—warranted infumible—camphine lamps.

At Workington, the Sandboys, who, on their arrival, much to the horror
of the cleanly Mrs. S., might have been taken for a family of Ethiopian
serenaders, having bleached themselves as well as possible with their
pocket handkerchiefs—Mrs. Sandboys standing on tiptoe the while to wipe
the nasty, filthy blacks from out the wrinkles and dimples of her dear
Cursty’s face—proceeded to make the necessary inquiries touching the
continuation of their journey to London.

At the station, all was confusion and bustle, and noise and scrambling,
and bewilderment. Porters in green velveteen jackets, with the shoulders
worn white with repeated loads, were hurrying to and fro—some with
carpet-bags in their hands—others with boxes on small-wheeled trucks,
rattling over the flooring through the office. Impatient groups were
gathered close round the pay-clerk—steam-engines, eager to start, were
fizzing violently, as if a thousand knives were being ground at once—and
large bells were ringing quickly to announce the arrival of some train
which presently came bumping heavily alongside the station. Mrs.
Sandboys had pursued some porter who, much to her astonishment and
indignation, had, without a word, walked away with the united luggage of
the family, immediately on its being deposited outside the station door;
while Mr. Sandboys himself had gone to learn how he and his party were
to proceed.

“Where are you going to?” rapidly inquired the good-tempered and
bustling station-master, as he squinted at the clock.

“T’ Bull and Mouth, Holborn Hill, London,” answered Mr. Cursty Sandboys,
giving the whole address of his proposed resting-place in the
metropolis.

“Don’t know any Bull and Mouth at Holborn Hill,” replied the busy
official, who, called off by the guard, had not caught the last word of
Mr. Sandboys’ answer.

“Dustea say tha dunnet ken t’ Bull an’ Mouth,” exclaimed the anxious
Cursty, lifting up his bushy eyebrows with evident astonishment. “I
thowt aw t’ warl was kenning t’ Bull an’ Mouth, Holborn Hill.”

Mr. Sandboys having, during his first and only visit to London (whither
he had been summoned on a trial concerning the soundness of some cattle
that he had sold to one of the dealers who yearly visited Buttermere),
resided with the rest of the witnesses for some ten days at the Bull and
Mouth Inn, and knowing that it was a place of considerable reputation,
could not help expressing his surprise that a person filling a situation
which brought him into almost daily communication with the metropolis,
should be unacquainted with one of the most celebrated of its public
inns.

The Workington station-master, however, unfortunately for Mr. Sandboys,
referred to a different quarter of the world. The Holborn Hill he spoke
of, as possessing no Bull and Mouth, was not the well-known metropolitan
acclivity, so trying to the knees of cab and omnibus-horses, where coal
waggons and railway vans are continually “sticking” half-way—where
“bachelors’ kettles” are perpetually being boiled in less than five
minutes, and where sheets of gutta percha, like hardbake, and tubing of
the same material, like rolls of German sausages, for ever meet the eye.
No; the Holborn Hill which the Workington official alluded to was an
obscure point of land situate at the extremity of the county of
Cumberland, on the banks of the Duddon, and with not even so much as a
village nearer than half-a-dozen miles. Well therefore might the
station-master, thinking only of that Holborn Hill to which the
Workington trains daily travelled, make answer to the poor
unsophisticated Mr. Sandboys, that he had never heard of any Bull and
Mouth in that quarter.

“But if you’re going to Holborn Hill, sir,” he added, squinting at the
clock, “you’d better be quick, for in another moment the train will be
off.”

“Odswinge! whilk be t’ carriages, man?” hastily inquired Mr. Sandboys,
who had been given to understand at Cockermouth that he should have to
remain a good half-hour at Workington before he could proceed on his
journey. No sooner was he told where to take his seat, than hurrying
after his wife and children, he dragged them from the other side of the
platform, whither his “good lady” had followed her “things,” and
scrambled them, despite all remonstrance, into the conveyance indicated.

In an instant after their being seated, the terminus resounded with the
slamming of the carriage doors—the large dustman’s bell was shaken—the
whistle was blown—the engine gave two or three long-drawn sighs—the
carriages creaked with the incipient motion, and their intermediate
chains rattled loudly as they were successively stretched to their
utmost length—a kind of hysteric chuckle from the engine succeeded, as
the wheels slipped round upon the rails—then its gasps got shorter and
quicker—and then, panting hurriedly, the whole train was borne rapidly
along on its way to Whitehaven.

In a few minutes Mr. Sandboys began impressing upon the partner of his
bosom how fortunate it was that he had taken the precaution of checking
the information that he had received from those mischievous boys at
Cockermouth by the statements of the respectable station-master at
Workington. Mrs. Sandboys, however, was in a reverie concerning the fate
of her luggage. She had seen that impudent fellow of a porter who had
seized it and carried it away from her, place it, she was confident, in
the carriages on the other side of the station, for, as she said, she
had never taken her eyes off it after the man had set hands upon it.

But Mr. Sandboys assured her that she must, in the flurry and the noise,
have made some mistake, and that she need be under no apprehension, for
the boxes, being all labelled “LONDON,” would be sure to have been
placed in the London train. Mrs. Sandboys, in reply, however, begged to
inform her husband, that the porter had declared that the other train
was going to London; upon which Mr. Sandboys observed, that surely the
station-master must know better than any one else, and it was from that
person’s lips he had received the information upon which he had acted.

In little more than three hours from the time of their leaving
Workington, the railway-train came to a stoppage in front of an humble
little station, along the platform of which a porter in a north country
dialect, almost as strong as his corduroy suit, went crying, “Wha’s fwor
Hobworn Heel?”

“Here!” shouted Mr. Sandboys, wondering at the rapidity of the journey,
as he let down the window of the carriage in which he was seated, and
stared at the surrounding fields in astonishment at the extremely rural
and uninhabited character of the said Holborn Hill. It was nothing at
all like what it was when he was there, he said, half to himself; nor
could he remember any place in the neighbourhood of London in any way
similar to the desolate district at which he and his family were about
to be deposited.

“Haista ony looggidge?” inquired the porter.

“Yes, indeed,” observed Mrs. Sandboys, sidling up to the porter;
“three-an’-twenty packages—three-an’-twenty packages there owt to be,
young man.”

Mr. Cursty Sandboys kept twisting round about to try and discover some
object that he could call to mind, and so assure himself of his presence
in the Metropolis. At last, feeling convinced that, from the apparent
absence of houses and people, it must be some suburban station, he
ventured to ask the porter, as he and Mrs. Sandboys accompanied him
forward to the luggage-van, how many _minutes’_ walk he called it to
London.

The porter stood still for a moment, looked in the face of Mr. Sandboys,
and then, without saying a word, burst out laughing.

Mr. Sandboys, far from pleased at the man’s manner, modified his
question, and requested to know how many _miles_ he called it to London.

“Two hundred an’ feafty, if ’t be an inch,” was the laconic reply.

Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys both heard the answer, and stared transfixed, as
if electrified.

Then came the explanation.

It was, as Mrs. Sandboys had dreaded, their boxes, trunks, and bags had
gone in the direction of Holborn Hill, London, while they, poor unhappy
mortals, had been carried some fifty miles out of their road to Holborn
Hill, Cumberland.

There was, moreover, a matter of two pounds to pay for the provoking
journey—but it was useless complaining: besides, as Mr. Sandboys
reminded them, they had all come out to enjoy themselves, and,
therefore, notwithstanding the unpleasantness of their position, he
trusted they would one and all put a smiling face on the matter.

This, of course, was easier said than done, for on inquiry it was found
that they must remain in that quarter some few hours before any train
would arrive by which they could get back to Carlisle—the way they had
booked themselves to London.

Having, however, found out where they could get some eggs and bacon
cooked, they retired to dine away the time, and were soon so well
pleased with their cheer, that they were able to laugh at their own
mishap.

Mrs. Sandboys, nevertheless, was too intent upon the probable fate of
her luggage to see much to laugh at in the mistake, while Elcy—whose pet
Italian greyhound had been locked up in the canine department of the
London train—could think of nothing but her lost darling. Her whole
study of late had been to fatten the miserable, shivering, scraggy,
half-starved looking little animal upon which she had placed her
affections. All her benevolence, however, had been wasted on the
wretched creature. She had put it into flannel jackets, but still, to
her great annoyance, it was perpetually trembling, like a “_blancmange_”
or a Lascar beggar. She fed it on the most nourishing food, for it cut
her to the heart to see the dear look such a mere “bag of bones,” but
the fat of the land was utterly thrown away on it. It was impossible by
any means to give it the least tendency to corpulence. Despite all her
efforts, its nose continued as sharp as a bayonet—its legs had no more
flesh on them than a bird’s—its ribs were as visible as if its body were
built out of wicker-work—while its tail was jointed and curled like the
flexible tube to a cheap imitation of hookah.

Still there was one consolation: “Psyche” could not well be thinner—had
it been a martyr to tight lacing, its waist could not have been smaller;
but what effect starvation might have upon such an animal, was more than
poor Elcy dare trust herself to conjecture. She felt convinced in her
own mind that the skeleton of the poor dear dumb thing would be all that
she should find of it when she reached the Metropolis.

No such thoughts, however, troubled the brain of her brother, who, what
with playing practical jokes upon Postlethwaite—teazing his
sister—coaxing his mother—and exploring the river Duddon, found plenty
to occupy his time.

At length the hour for the arrival of the “up train” at the Holborn hill
station came round, and in a few minutes after, the family were being
carried swiftly along the road to Carlisle.

It was night when they reached the Car’el station; but the Sandboys,
unused to travelling, and tired out with the misadventures of the day,
were all fast locked in sleep. Postlethwaite was the only one belonging
to them whose eyes were open, but he unfortunately was—what he termed,
with a natural desire to take the best possible view of his infirmity—a
“_little_ hard of hearing;” so that when the train stopped, and the
porters paced the platform, shouting “Change here for Lancaster! Change
here for London!” not one of the party heard the important summons; but,
still dozing, were whirled away, in blissful ignorance, towards the
capital of Scotland instead of England.

It was past midnight when the train halted for the collection of
tickets, a little way out of Edinburgh. The letting-down of the
carriage-window by the railway officer on the platform roused the still
slumbering Mr. Sandboys.

“Tickets please! Tickets!” shouted the official, as he turned his
bull’s-eye full into the face of the yawning, dazzled, and bewildered
Cursty. That gentleman proceeded with as much alacrity as he could,
under the circumstances, to draw out from the bottom of his purse the
several pieces of card-board which had been handed to him on paying his
fare to town.

The collector no sooner glanced his eye at the tickets delivered to him,
than he exclaimed, quickly, “These wont do, sir!—these here are for
London, and this is Edinburgh.”

“Edinburgh!” echoed Mr. Sandboys, his jaw dropping like a carriage dog’s
at the sound of the word.

“Edinburgh!” repeated Mrs. Sandboys! “Oh, Cursty—Oh, Cursty, what iver
’ull become of us aw.”

“Edinburgh!” cried Jobby, waking up. “Oh my! here’s a lark, Elcy.”

“Yes, sir, it’s Edinburgh, sure enough,” returned the railway official.
“You should have changed carriages at Carlisle.” Then, holding out his
hand to the amazed Mr. Sandboys, who kept rubbing his eyes to rouse
himself out of what he fancied must be a continuation of his dream, the
collector added, “Three pound fifteen shillings, and a quarter-past
nine, sir.”

“What dustea mean, man, by three paund fifteen shilling, and a
wharter-past nine?” angrily inquired Mr. Sandboys.

“I thought you asked me, what you had to pay, sir, and when the next
train left for London.”

“I did nowt of t’ kind, man; and I tell tha plain, I wunnet pay nae
mair. I’se paid aboon twa paunds, an’ been carrud twa hunderd meyle out
of t’ way awruddy.”

But Mr. Sandboys soon found all opposition was useless. On his leaving
the carriage, he was taken between two policemen to the station, and
there plainly given to understand, that if the money were not
forthcoming, he would have to finish the night in durance vile; and
though Cursty was ready to become a martyr, rather than submit to be
“imposed upon,” still Mrs. Sandboys was of a different way of thinking,
and reminded him of his determination to enjoy himself under all
circumstances.

Mr. Sandboys, after some further expostulation, was prevailed upon to do
as his wife desired; and accordingly, having paid the three pounds
demanded, he and his family made the best of their way to the nearest
inn, there—“without a thing to put on,” as Mrs. Sandboys expressed it—to
slumber away the hours till morning.

At a quarter-past nine the Sandboys family proceeded to make a third
attempt to reach the Metropolis, and for some time nothing occurred to
interfere with the progress of their journey. Mr. Sandboys, who, on
leaving Edinburgh, had been inclined to believe that the fates had
declared he was _never_ to get to London, finding matters proceed so
propitiously for so long a period, had just begun to take a more
favourable view of his destiny, when, on their arriving at Lancaster, a
strange gentleman entered the carriage, which he and his wife and
children had previously enjoyed all to themselves.

For awhile all parties remained silent,—the strange gentleman being
quietly engaged in examining the Sandboys, while the Sandboys, one and
all, did the same for the strange gentleman; and truly the gentleman was
so _very_ strange, that the curiosity of his fellow-travellers was not
to be wondered at. The lower part of his face was muffled up closely in
comforters, his eyes perfectly hidden behind a pair of green spectacles,
while his body was enveloped in a large Spanish cloak. On entering he
took off his hat, which was one of the patent Gibus folding kind, and,
pressing in the sides—much to the Sandboys’ amazement—brought the crown
down to the level of the brim. He next proceeded to remove the hair from
his head, in the shape of an intensely black wig—disclosing, as he did
so, not a bald, but a closely-shaven crown—and to put a seal-skin cap in
its place. After this, he slid the green spectacles from before his
eyes, carrying with them the large bushy pair of whiskers which were
fastened to their sides, and which the moment before had half covered
his cheeks; then, discarding his comforters, he unhooked the clasp of
his cloak, and revealed the black japan leather of a policeman’s stock,
and the tight stand-up collar of a superintendent’s undress uniform.

As the strange gentleman saw the whole eight eyes of the family riveted
upon him, he smiled good-humouredly at their amazement; and, turning
round to Mr. Sandboys, observed that he perceived they were from the
country. Receiving a short reply in the affirmative, he told them they
needn’t be alarmed at his making so different an appearance from when he
entered the carriage, for it was part of his business to assume a
variety of characters.

This set the Sandboys wondering more and more at their fellow-traveller;
and the more they marvelled, the more pleased he became, smiling and
simpering with evident self-satisfaction. At last, having kept them on
the tenter-hooks for some short time, he informed them that he belonged
to the Metropolitan Detective Police, and proceeded to give the
delighted family a vivid and exciting sketch of his duties.

Impressed as Mr. Sandboys was with the utter wickedness of the city to
which he was now rapidly journeying, this one adventure was sufficient,
in his mind, to atone for all the previous mishaps of the trip, and he
eagerly shifted his seat to that immediately opposite to the strange
gentleman, so that he might get, from one so experienced in crime, as
full an account of the corrupt ways of London as was possible, in the
brief space of time that he and his fellow-traveller had to remain
together.

In a few minutes Mr. Sandboys, with open mouth, eyes, and ears, was
listening to an enumeration of the several descriptions of thieves
common to the metropolis.

“You must know, sir,” said his communicative companion, “there are
almost as many kinds of bad people as there are good in London; so that
I can hardly tell which way to begin. Well, then, let me see,” he
continued, “the several descriptions of London thieves are—cracksmen, or
housebreakers; rampsmen, or footpads; bludgers and stick-slingers, or
those who go out plundering with women; star-glazers, or those who cut
out shop-windows; snoozers, or those who sleep at railway hotels;
buzzers, or those who pick gentlemen’s pockets; and wires, or those who
do the same kind office for ladies—(and here he bowed to the alarmed
Mrs. Sandboys); thimble-screwers, or those who wrench watches from their
chains; dragsmen, or those who rob carts and coaches; sneaksmen, or
those who creep into shops and down areas; bouncers, or those who
plunder by swaggering; pitchers, or those who do so by passing off one
thing for another; drummers, or those who do the same by stupifying
persons with drink; macers, or those who write begging letters; and
lurkers, or those who follow the profession of begging. These include
the principal varieties of ‘prigs,’ or light-fingered gentry, belonging
to the Metropolis,” said the strange gentleman.

“Odswinge!” exclaimed Mr. Sandboys, “but the rogues a’ gotten comical
neames of their ane. They’d wheer keynd of godfathers, m’appen.”

“Aye, I shouldn’t wonder! I shouldn’t wonder!” returned Mr. Sandboys’
companion. “But many of the classes I’ve just mentioned have several
distinct kinds of roguery belonging to them, and the generality of them
seldom or never attend to more than one branch of the profession. For
instance, those who devote their attention to robbing houses, rarely
give their minds to picking pockets.”

“Odswinge!” exclaimed the delighted, though intimidated Cursty.

“Then, again, the buzzer, or gentleman’s pickpocket, is either the
stook-buzzer, that is, the purloiner of pocket-handkerchiefs, or the
tail-buzzer, seeking more particularly for sneezers (snuff-boxes), or
skins and dummies, (purses and pocket-books.) Occasionally the same
person _may_ turn his hand to nailing props—that is, stealing pins or
brooches; but this, I can assure you, is not considered professional—any
more than it is for a physician to bleed.”

Mr. Sandboys lifted his eyebrows in evident wonderment.

“So, too, the sneaksman,” continued his experienced informant,”who is
the lowest-class thief of all—and a creature with whom the cracksman and
mobsman (or tail-buzzer) would no more dream of associating, than a
barrister would think of visiting an attorney.”

Cursty’s delight increased as the villanies of each particular class
were described to him.

“These same sneaksmen, I must tell you,” the chatty and sociable strange
gentleman went on, “comprise many different characters; among whom I may
mention, not only the snoozers or railway sleepers, as we call them, and
the deud-lurkers, or those who steal coats, &c. out of passages, but
also those who go snow-gathering, or stealing clean linen off the
hedges; and bluey-hunting, or pilfering metal—especially lead from the
tops of houses; and cat and kitten-hunting, or abstracting pewter quart
and pint-pots from area railings; and sawney-hunting, or removing bacon
from cheesemongers’ doors; and going on the noisy racket, or purloining
crockery and glass from China-shops; and the lady and gentlemen racket,
or stealing cocks and hens from the markets; and bug-hunting, or looking
out for drunken men. Belonging to the bouncers and pitchers, or those
who cheat you out of your property instead of positively robbing you of
it—if you can understand the difference, sir—there are the
showful-pitchers, or those who live by passing bad money, and the
charley-pitchers, or thimble-riggers, besides the fawney or
ring-droppers; and the flat-catchers, or those who live by bouncing or
besting, that is to say, by getting the best of country gentlemen,
either by threats, swaggering or cheating.”

Here Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys exchanged glances of mutual horror.

“Hence you see, sir, there may be strictly said to be only three classes
of thieves, namely, the cracksman and the rampsman, who constitute what
may be termed the thieves’ aristocracy—there being usually a certain
amount of courage required in the execution of their depredations. Then
the tail-buzzers and wires may be said to belong to the skilled or
middle-class of thieves; while the sneaksmen or lurkers, who display
neither dexterity nor bravery in their peccadiloes, may be regarded,
with the exception of beggars, as the lowest class of all.”

Mr. Sandboys was charmed to find his theory of the wickedness of London
confirmed by so extensive a catalogue of criminals, and he got to look
upon his informant with a feeling almost amounting to reverence.

“For the pure beggar,” continued the strange gentleman, “every kind of
thief has the most profound contempt—even the sneaksman would consider
himself mortally insulted if placed in the same rank with the “shallow
cove,” that is to say, with the creatures that stand, half naked,
begging in the streets. The bouncers, and pitchers, and flat-catchers
are generally ranked as a kind of lower middle-class rogues—and
certainly they are often equal, in ingenuity at least, to the buzzers.”

Mr. Sandboys, who had been drinking in every word of the strange
gentleman’s discourse with the greatest avidity, proceeded to thank him
at its conclusion very warmly for his most interesting statement. “Well,
I thowt,” he said, “‘twas nae guid that seame London; but odswinge if it
doan’t bang t’ Auld Gentleman hissell, that it dui. Thee’st seed some
feyne geames an’ wickednesses now in thy tyme, I suddent wonder.”

“Why, yes,” replied his companion, “persons in our position have great
opportunities truly. There are more ways of getting money in London than
earning it, I can tell you, sir. Indeed, to say the truth, industry
seems the very mode which succeeds the worst of all there.”

“I thowt so!—I thowt so!” cried Cursty.

“But still, things aren’t quite as bad as they used to be either. Why I
remember the days when, regularly every Monday morning, there used to be
a bullock hunt right through the principal streets of London got up by
the prigs—and very profitable it was, too. You see, the pickpockets
would stop the drovers on the road, as they were bringing their beasts
up to Smithfield on the Sunday night—take one of the animals away from
them by main force, put him into the first empty stable they could find,
and the next morning set to and worry the poor brute till they drove him
stark raving mad. Then out they used to turn him into the public
thoroughfares—start him right away through London, and take advantage of
the confusion and riot caused by his appearance in the crowded streets
of the Metropolis, to knock the hats of all the gentlemen they met over
their eyes, and ease them of their watches or purses.”

“Well! well! well!” cried Mr. Sandboys, throwing up his hands in horror
at the profundity of the wickedness; “Dustea hear, Aggy,” he continued,
turning to his better half, “Dustea hear, weyfe! and we be gangin’ to
the varra pleace. But tha wast sayin that t’ fwok beant white so bad
now-a-days, sir.”

“No! no! not quite,” observed Mr. Cursty’s companion, “but still bad
enough, I can tell you. Now, I’ll just repeat to you a trick I saw
played the other day upon a simple country gentleman like yourself.”

“Varra guid! but they wunnet catch me, I can tell ’ee.”

“It’s what is called the Toothache Racket, and far from uncommon. Two
men, you see, one of whom is provided with two small paper packets of
salt exactly alike, go into the parlour of a tavern which they know
countrymen are in the habit of using. The one with the salt, who enters
some few minutes after the other, pretends to be suffering greatly from
the toothache. The company, observing him to be apparently in extreme
pain, begin to recommend different cures for the complaint. One advises
him to rub the gum with brandy—another advocates the holding of a little
cold water in the mouth—a third has never known the oil of tobacco to
fail, and so on. The sufferer, however, is much obliged to them all, but
declares that nothing gives himself relief but a little salt, in a paper
similar to what he is then applying to his cheek.”

“The wicked hyp’crite!” involuntarily exclaimed the simple-minded
Cursty.

“Shortly after this he quits the room, leaving his paper on the table.
During his absence his “jolly,” that is, his accomplice, who, as I said,
came in a little while before the other, begins to laugh at the idea of
some salt, held outside the face, doing any good to the toothache, and
says, of course, it’s all the man’s imagination. He then proposes to
have a bit of fun with the absent invalid, and proceeds to empty all the
salt out of the paper on the table, and fill its place with sawdust.”

“What’s he gangin’ to be at,” interrupted Mr. Sandboys, deeply
interested in the tale.

“In a few minutes the gentleman with the toothache returns, almost
raving, and he pretends that the cold air has increased his pain to an
intolerable degree. He makes a rush to the paper that he had left
behind, and no sooner applies it to his cheek than he declares the salt
gives him instantaneous relief; whereupon the whole room begin to
titter, and the jolly, or accomplice, as I told you, is well nigh dying
with laughter as he informs the simpleton it’s nothing but fancy that’s
curing him, and that there’s no salt at all in the paper. But ‘the
simpleton’ declares he knows far better, for he filled it himself out of
the salt-cellar just before he quitted home. The jolly then offers to
wager him a sovereign that there’s not so much as a pinch in it, but the
gentleman with the toothache is so certain about the matter, that he
says it will only be robbing a man to take a bet on such a subject.”

“The rwogue’s gettin’ honest aw of a sudden,” cried Mr. S., with a
chuckle.

“At last the rest of the company, finding the gentleman so positive over
the business, get to say they don’t mind being robbed on the same terms,
and accordingly agree to bet him a sovereign or a crown all round, that
the paper has no salt in it; whereupon the gentleman with the toothache,
who has managed during the laughter at his expense to substitute the
other packet from his pocket for the one lying on the table, proceeds to
unfold the paper—exhibits the salt contained in it to the astonished
company, and then robs them—as he candidly confessed he would—of their
money.”

Mr. Sandboys had now heard so much, that he began to shudder at the idea
of trusting himself within several miles of such wickedness, and felt
strongly inclined to propose to his wife that they should return.
However, not liking to confess his weakness, he again thanked his
experienced companion, declaring that he considered their meeting one of
the luckiest adventures in his life. What he had heard, he told him,
would at least have the effect of putting him on his guard, and he would
take good care, now he knew the artful ways of the rogues, that none of
the London rascals should have an opportunity of imposing upon him,

“Now, there’s another very common trick practised by the flat-catchers
upon countrymen in London, with the greatest success,” continued the
loquacious strange gentleman. He should just have time to put Mr.
Sandboys up to this, he added, before they reached the next station,
where, he regretted to say, he should be compelled to leave him and his
charming family. He expected, he said, as he poked Mr. Sandboys in the
ribs, and winked his eye at him, to fall in with a party there whom he
had been looking after these many months, for nailing a prop with a
spark in it.

Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys were both extremely sorry to be obliged so soon to
part with a gentleman from whom they confessed they had derived so much
pleasure and profit.

The strange gentleman bowed, and proceeded with the promised
information. “Well,” said he, “as I before observed, one of the most
common and most successful of the flat-catchers’ tricks is, to pretend
to put a countryman on his guard against the rogueries of the
light-fingered gentry in town. They will tell him long stories, as to
how the London thieves are taught to practise upon pockets with bells
attached to them, so that they will ring with the least motion; and how
it really is not safe for any one to walk the streets with even a
sixpence in his possession.”

“Now, beant it keynd of the villans, Aggy, eh?” said Mr. S., jocularly,
to his better half.

“When they have thus disarmed the chawbacon of all suspicion, they will
begin to show him—as a great secret of course—where they keep _their_
money.”

“Nae, will they now!”

“Some will let him see how they’ve got it stitched in the waistband of
their trowsers, while others will pull theirs from their fob, declaring
they were told by one of the most experienced police-officers that it
was quite as safe, and even safer, there than if it were sewed to their
breeches, provided—and on this, sir, I would impress upon you that the
trick mainly lies—it is rolled up quite tight, and then slipped into the
watch-pocket edgewise, in a peculiar way. Whereupon they very kindly
offer to put the countryman’s money in his fob, and to stow it away for
him as safely as the experienced police-officer had done theirs.”

“Yes, varra keyndly! varra! and preyme and seafe they’ll staw it awa’,
I’ll be baund.”

“Now, if you’ll allow me your purse, sir, for one moment, I’ll show you
how the whole affair is managed.”

Mr. Sandboys drew forth from the pocket of his trowsers the little
red-cotton bag in which he carried his stock of gold and notes, and
handed it over, as requested, to his fellow-traveller, saying, “Ise
varra ’bleeged, I’se sure; an’ how I’ll ever pay tha for all thy
guidness, I dunnet ken. Beant it keynd of t’ gentleman, now, Aggy?”

But that lady made no reply; she merely watched, with intense interest,
the operations of the strange gentleman.

“You see,” said that person, as he took Mr. Sandboys’ purse in his hand,
and commenced rolling it backwards and forwards on his knee, “it’s all
done by what we call palming. If I intended to deceive you, now is the
time I should do it; for while you fancied I was reducing the contents
of your purse to the smallest possible compass, I really should be
substituting another for it; and then I should proceed to place it all
safe for you, thus—”

Here the strange gentleman proceeded to lift up the long-waisted
waistcoat of the grateful Mr. Sandboys, and introduced the small
red-cotton bag, in which his money was contained, into his fob; after
which he gave the purse a peculiar twist round,—for in this, he said,
the London rogues made out that the whole virtue consisted. In reality,
however, he told him, there was little or nothing at all in it, and it
was only upon the very simplest people that the trick was ever attempted
to be practised now-a-days.

“Well, I sud say as much, for onie mon cud see through t’ trick wi hawf
an eye,” exclaimed the Buttermere philosopher.

“With such a gentleman as yourself, of course, a man would not stand the
least chance,” continued the stranger; “especially after all I’ve put
you up to; still the trick, common as it is, and extraordinary as I’ve
not the least doubt it must strike a man of your discernment that it
ever can succeed—still, I say, it has one thing to recommend it, which
is, that the fob is perhaps, after all, about the most secure place for
keeping one’s money. In crowds or lonely places, nothing is more easy
than for one man to pinion the arms behind a gentleman, while another
rifles his breeches-pockets; and as for carrying either a purse or a
pocket-book in the coat-tails—why you might as well invest it in one of
King Hudson’s railways at once! Whereas, in the fob, you see, it takes
so long to get at it, that it is not possible to be extracted in that
short space of time in which street-robberies require to be executed.
So, if you take my advice,—the advice, I think I may say, of a person of
no ordinary experience,—you will continue to keep your purse in your fob
as I have placed it!”

Mr. Sandboys again expressed his deepest gratitude for all the valuable
information he had received, and promised to carry out the injunctions
he had given him. If ever the strange gentleman’s business should lead
him to visit Cumberland—though, Mr. Cursty said with a half laugh, there
weren’t much call for the likes of him in that “wharter of t’
warl”—still, if ever he _should_ be coming towards Buttermere, he could
only say there would always be a bed and a dish of sugar’d curds and a
hearty welcome for him at Hassness.

The hospitable Cursty had scarcely finished extracting a pledge from the
strange gentleman to come and spend a month with him at the earliest
opportunity, when the pace of the carriages began to slacken, the
panting of the engine ceased, the brake was heard grating on the wheels,
sending forth that peculiar odour which invariably precedes the stoppage
of all railway-trains. The whistle sounded—and amidst the ringing of
bells, the Sandboys and their companion reached the Preston station.

Here the strange gentleman having slipped on again the several articles
of disguise with which he had dispensed on entering, shook Mr. and Mrs.
Cursty violently by the hands, and promising to call and see them some
time or other, he made an extremely low bow to the ladies, and in a few
minutes was lost in the crowd.

On his departure the conversation of Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys related
solely to the agreeable manner and vast experience of their late
companion. Cursty’s enthusiasm knew no bounds. His darling Aggy,
however, was a little more circumspect in her praise, and did not
hesitate to confess—that there was something about t’ gentleman she
didn’t half like—she couldn’t exactly tell what; but there was something
so peculiar in his manner, that for her part, she was not _quite_ so
much taken with him. He was a very pleasant, agreeable man enough, but
still—she could not say why—all she knew was—she did not like him. And
then, as the discussion on their late companion’s merits rose rather
high, she begged her husband to mark her words, for she felt convinced
in her mind—indeed, she had a certain kind of a presentiment—a strange
kind of a feeling that she couldn’t describe—and it was no use Cursty’s
talking—but her impression was—and she hoped Mr. Sandboys would bear it
well in mind—that they should hear of that gentleman again some fine
day; and that was all she wished to say about the matter.

With this slight discussion to enliven the tedium of the journey, the
distance between Preston and Manchester passed so quickly, that when the
collector at the Manchester station called for the tickets, Mr. Sandboys
could not help expressing his astonishment at the rapidity of their
travelling.

“Now, sir, if you please—quick as you can—show your
tickets;—tickets—tickets.”

Mr. Sandboys instinctively thrust his hand to the bottom of his
trowsers’ pocket, but then, remembering that the red-cotton bag in which
he had securely deposited the precious vouchers had been shifted to his
fob, he began a vain attempt to fish up his money-bag, from the depths
of the narrow little tube of a watch-pocket in which the strange
gentleman had so kindly inserted it.

“_Now_, sir, if you please!” again shouted the impatient collector.
“_Now_, sir!”

But the more impatient the man became, the more nervous grew Mr.
Sandboys, and though he worked his fore-finger round and round, he could
not, for the life of him, lay hold of the desired red cotton receptacle.

At length, with the united aid of Mrs. Sandboys and the collector, the
fob was emptied of its contents, and then, to Cursty’s great terror, it
was discovered that the strange gentleman, and assumed member of the
Detective Police Force, had practised upon the unsophisticated native of
Buttermere the very trick against which he was pretending to put him on
his guard. The purse was to all outward appearances the same—the
interior, however, consisted of a congregation of whist counters and
Bank of Elegance notes.

The mere possession of such articles was in itself suspicious, but
coupled with the absence of all tickets on the part of the Sandboys
family, the circumstance appeared to assume so dishonest a character,
that the collector made no more ado but called a policeman and gave the
whole family into custody; saying, they had neither tickets nor money in
their possession, and that he found on the old one a whole purseful of
sham notes and sovereigns; and that he had not the least doubt it was a
deep laid scheme on his part to defraud the Company.

Mr. Sandboys raved, and Mrs Sandboys wept; Miss Sandboys intreated,
while wicked Master Jobby could hardly contain himself for laughter.

The united battery of the family, however, proved of no avail, and the
whole six of them, including Postlethwaite and Ann Lightfoot, were
dragged off to the Town Hall, there to give some account of themselves,
and urge every reason in their power why they should not, one and all,
be committed as rogues and vagabonds, for a month, with hard labour, to
the New Bailey.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER V.

           “Hout, man! what signifies repeynin’,
            Owr grankin’, snifteran’, twistin’, tweynin’,
            If down leyfe’s hill we be decleynin’,
                                 We cannot slack,
            Then gang on decent without wheynin’,
                                 Or hingin’ back.
            Leyfe, mak’ the best on’t ’s nowght owr pleesin’,
            As every day some fash comes teasin’,
            An’ oft eneugh the wheels want greesin’
                                 To keep them ga’un,
            Then brouce about nor tek sec preesin’
                                 To nate our awn.”
                                    _The New Year’s Epistle._

                 “There’s sic a gang in our town,
                   The deevil cannot wrang them,
                  And cud yen gat ’em put i’ prent
                   Aw England cuddent bang them.

                     *    *    *    *    *

                  Cheat who cheat can’s the common rule,
                   Fwoaks a’ cheat yen anither;
                  For he that’s nowther kneave or fuol,
                   God seake! what brought him hither.”


MR. SANDBOYS, when he had time for reflection, began to see that he was
very unpleasantly situated. The circumstances against him he was obliged
to confess, when he came to review them judicially, _did_ look
particularly black.

In the first place, as he said to himself, he had not only been detected
travelling without a ticket, and without money; but, what he felt was
equally suspicious, without so much as a box, bag, or parcel among the
whole half-dozen members of his family. If he accounted for the
possession of the counterfeit coin and notes by declaring that he had
been imposed upon, still, how was he satisfactorily to explain to any
unprejudiced mind that combination of mischances that had deprived him
of his luggage?

Then, supposing, he went on arguing with himself, he could sufficiently
prove his innocence to the authorities, to induce them to abandon the
charge against him, what was to become of him?—in a strange town,
without a friend, without a shilling—or without a change of linen for
himself or any of the miserable members of the wretched family that
looked up to him for protection.

If he escaped the prison, there was nothing that he could see left for
him but the workhouse; and, unsophisticated as he was, still he was man
of the world enough to know that the workhouse was much the worse of the
two.

“Waistomea! Waistomea!” he inwardly ejaculated, as he thought of his
many troubles.

To enliven the terrors of his position, Mrs. Sandboys obliged him, on
the road to the Police-office, by now sketching an imaginary picture of
the whole family at work on the treadmill, and now painting in the
darkest colours portraits of herself, Elcy, and Ann Lightfoot in the
female ward of the union, picking oakum, and Cursty, Jobby, and deaf
Postlethwaite, in the yard of the same wretched establishment, engaged
in the gentlemanly occupation of cracking stones.

The only hope, she gave him to understand very plainly, that she could
see for them was, to get the parish to pass them to their own county;
and then, in the depths of her misery, she wished to “guidness” they had
remained contented at Buttermere, and never made up their minds to enjoy
themselves.

But no sooner had the entire six been crammed into the dock at the
Police-office, and the Inspector cast his eyes towards the chief
prisoner, than, suddenly recognising him as a fellow-countryman, he
asked him whether he remembered one Johnny Wren, who had left Buttermere
some ten years before, and “listed” in the Life Guards.

This was a piece of good fortune which Mr. Sandboys, seeing how
uncivilly the fates had lately treated him, was in no way prepared for;
however, Johnny soon removed his fellow-countryman from the dock to a
seat by his side; and when he had listened to the series of
misadventures that had befallen his old friend, he begged of him not to
worry himself any further about his troubles, as he had a few pounds by
him, and should be most happy to place the money at his service.

When this bit of good luck had dispelled all the melancholy of the
family, Johnny himself proceeded to tell Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys how,
after ’listing in the Guards, he had received an injury while riding,
and how he had then been presented with a berth in the London Police,
whence he had been promoted to the post he at present filled in
Manchester.

In a short time Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys had in a measure forgotten all
their previous troubles and distresses, in the kindness and hospitality
of Inspector Wren.

After partaking of such fare as his establishment afforded, Mr. Sandboys
proceeded, under the guidance of the Inspector, to take a glance round
the town.

Manchester at any time is, perhaps, one of the peculiar sights that this
country affords.

To see the city of factories in all its bustle and all its life, with
its forests of tall chimneys, like huge masts of brick, with long black
flags of smoke streaming from their tops, is to look upon one of those
scenes of giant industry that England alone can show. As you pace its
busy streets, you hear the drone of a thousand steam-engines, humming in
the ears like a hive. As you sit in your home, you feel the floor
tremble with the motion of the vast machinery, whirling on every side.

Here the buildings are monstrous square masses of brick, pierced with a
hundred windows, while white wreaths of steam puff fitfully through
their walls. Many a narrow thoroughfare is dark and sunless with the
tall warehouses that rise up like bricken cliffs on either side. The
streets swarm with carts and railway-vans, with drivers perched high in
the air, and “lurrys”—some piled with fat round bags of wool, others
laden with hard square stony-looking blocks of cotton, and others filled
with many a folded piece of unbleached woven cloth. Green covered vans,
like huge chests on wheels, rattle past,—the bright zinc plates at their
sides, telling that they are hurrying with goods to or from some
“calender,” “dyer,” or “finisher.”

At one door stands a truck laden with red rows of copper cylinders, cut
deep with patterns. This basement or kitchen is transformed into the
showroom of some warehouseman, and as you look down the steps into the
subterranean shop, you can see that in front of where the kitchen range
should stand, a counter extends, spread with bright-coloured velveteens,
while the place of the dresser is taken up with shelves, filled with
showy cotton prints. The door-posts of every warehouse are inscribed
with long catalogues of names, like those of the Metropolitan Inns of
Court; and along the front of the tall buildings, between the different
floors, run huge black boards, gilt with the title of some merchant
firm.

Along the pavement walk bonnetless women, with shawls drawn over their
heads, and their hair and clothes spotted with white fluffs of cotton.
In the pathway, and at the corners of the principal streets, stand
groups of merchants and manufacturers—all with their hands in their
pockets—some buried in their coat-tails—others plunged deep in their
breeches, and rattling the money—and each busy trafficking with his
neighbour. Beside the kerb-stones loiter bright-coloured omnibuses, the
tired horses with their heads hanging low down, and their trembling
knees bulging forward—and with the drab-coated and big-buttoned driver
loitering by their side, and ready to convey the merchants to their
suburban homes.

Go which way you will, the whistle of some arriving or departing
railway-train shrieks shrilly in the ears; and at the first break of
morning, a thousand factory bells ring out the daily summons to work—and
then, as the shades of night fall upon the town, the many windows of the
huge mills and warehouses shine like plates of burnished gold with the
myriads of lights within. The streets, streaming with children going to
or coming from their toil, are black with the moving columns of busy
little things, like the paths to an ants’ nest.

Within the factories, the clatter and whirr of incalculable wheels stuns
and bewilders the mind. Here, in long low rooms, are vistas of
carding-engines, some disgorging thick sheets of white, soft-looking
wadding, and others pouring forth endless fluffy ropes of cotton into
tall tin cylinders; while over-head are wheels, with their rims worn
bright, and broad black straps descending from them on every side, with
their buckles running rapidly round, and making the stranger shrink as
he passes between them. On the floors above are mules after mules, with
long lines of white cops, twirling so fast that their forms are all
blurred together; while the barefooted artisan between draws out the
slender threads as from the bowels of a thousand spiders. Then too there
are floors crowded with looms all at work, tramping like an army, and
busy weaving the shirts and gowns of the entire world, and making the
stranger wonder how, with the myriads of bales of cotton that are here
spun, and with the myriads of yards of cotton that are here woven, there
can be one bare back to be found among the whole human family.

But Manchester, at the time of Mr. Sandboy’s visit, was not the
Manchester of every-day life.

The black smoke no longer streamed from the tall chimneys of its
factories—the sky above was no longer swarthy, as if grimed with the
endless labour of the town, but clear, and without a cloud. Not a cart,
nor a van, nor a railway wagon, nor a lurry, broke the stillness of the
streets, and the tramp of the policeman on his rounds was alone to be
heard. The mills were all hushed—the fires were out—the engines were
motionless—not a wheel whirred—not a loom clacked—not a cop twirled,
within them. The workers, young and old, had all gone to take their
share in England’s holiday. To walk through the work-rooms that a little
while ago had trembled and clattered with the stir of their many
machines, impressed the mind with the same sense of desolation as a
theatre seen by daylight. The mice, startled at the strange sound of a
footstep, scampered from out the heaps of cotton that lay upon the
floor, and spiders had already begun to spin their webs in the unused
shuttles of the looms. At night, the many windows of the mills and
warehouses no longer shimmered, like gold, with the lights within, but
glittered, like plates of silver, with the moon-rays shining on them
from without. The doors of the huge warehouses were all closed, and the
steps grown green from long disuse. Not a cab stood in front of the
infirmary—not a vehicle loitered beside the pavement in Market-street.

In the morning, not a factory bell was to be heard; nor a “bus” to be
seen bringing from the suburbs its crowds of merchants piled on the roof
and packed on the splash-board in front of the coachman. Not a milkman
dragged through the streets his huge tin can suspended on wheels; nor
was a scavenger, with his long loose blue woollen shirt and
round-crowned hat, to be met with.

On Saturday night, the thoroughfares clattered not with the tread of the
thousands of heavy-booted operatives on the pavement; not a grocer’s
shop was brilliant with the ground-glass globes of its many lamps; not a
linen draper’s window was stuck over with bills telling of another
“Tremendous Failure” or “Awful Sacrifice!”

[Illustration:

  Looking for Lodgings.
  _This is all I have ma’m:—I have just let the last tent on the tiles
    to a Foreign Nobleman_
]

In Smithfield, there was neither light nor sound. The glossy crockery
and glittering glass no longer was strewn upon the ground, and no
impatient dealer was there jingling his cups and tumblers, and rattling
his basins to bring the customers to his stand. The covered sheds,
spread with bright-coloured handkerchiefs and muslin, and hung with long
streamers of lace, had all disappeared; the long narrow alleys of old
clothes stalls, decked with washed-out gowns and brown stays, and yellow
petticoats and limp bonnets, were gone; the old-boots stalls, bright
with the highly-polished shoe, were nowhere visible; nor the black
hardware, nor the white wicker-baskets, nor the dangling hairy brooms,
nor the glass cases glittering with showy jewellery. The booth-like
cook-shops were shut up, and not a boy was to be seen within them
enjoying his cheap basin of steaming soup or plate of smoking pie; and
the sheets of tripe, like bundles of shammy leather, and the cow-heels,
white and soddened, like washerwomen’s hands, had disappeared from the
stalls.

In Victoria Market the oranges were no longer to be seen piled up in
pyramids, and glittering like balls of gold against their white-papered
shelves. Not a sound of music was to be heard in any of the harmonic
taverns. The piano of “THE HEN AND CHICKENS” was hushed. The fiddle and
violoncello sounded not in “THE COTTON TREE.” At Ben Lang’s the lights
were all out, and the galleries empty—not a seriously-comic song, nor
comically-serious ditty disturbed the silence of the “Saloon.”

The shutters of the Exchange, too, were closed—none sat at the tables,
or stood at the desks scanning the papers. At Milner’s, the patent iron
safe that, laden with gold, had stood the attack of twenty desperate
robbers, was hidden for a time by the shutters. Barton the stationer had
eloped to London with his Love. Nathaniel Gould and his brother from
London had both returned to the metropolis to see the Exhibition, and
his mother. Binyons and Hunter had given over desiccating their coffee,
and had gone to air themselves instead, in the metropolis. At Crowther’s
Hotel, the pretty barmaid was no longer to be seen, for “THE ANGEL” had
retired to London. At the Commercial Dining Rooms, Bell’s joints had
ceased to be hot from twelve till three, for he, like the rest, had
gone, legs and shoulders and all, to the Great Exhibition; while Mrs.
Ja. Stewart, (“professed cook,”) no longer recommended those gentlemen
who wanted a relish to try her chops. Mrs. Lalor, having exhausted “her
winter supply of fancy shirts, braces, cravats, &c.,” had availed
herself of the opportunity of seeing the Exhibition to provide herself
with a summer stock. Mr. Albert, the dentist, of George-street, whose
“artificial teeth, he assures us, are such perfect imitations of nature,
that it is confidently predicted they will speedily supersede _every
other kind_,” had started for the metropolis, leaving his incorrodible
teeth behind him; and J. Casper, the tailor, of Market-street, having
“invented a cloth with two distinct faces, which may be worn on either
side, and suitable for trowsers,” as well as coats and vests, had turned
his coat like the very best “double-faced,” and gone up in a pair of his
own patent pantaloons, with the intention of using the outsides for week
days, and the insides for Sundays. At the City Mourning Establishment,
the young ladies of the shop had given over sorrowing for the deceased
friends of their customers, and, substituting lively pink glacés for
their sombre bombazins, had suddenly changed, like lobsters, from black
to red, and gone up with the chief mourner of “the establishment,”
determined to have a few weeks’ pleasure, like the rest of the world;
while Beddoe, of the opposition depôt for grief, had, “in consequence of
the mildness of the season,” (coupled with its general healthiness) “not
only reduced all his stock of the previous winter’s weeds and weepers,
but finding the mortality much below the usual average, had put up the
black shutters of his shop, and affixed a hatchment, with the motto of
“RESURGAM,” over his door, as a notice that he would turn up again
shortly.

Not a shop but had some announcement pasted on the shutters. In the
principal thoroughfares chickens scratched at the unremoved dust, while
the crowing of rival cocks sounded shrill in the silent streets.
Corpulent old ducks waddled along the kerb-stones to bathe themselves,
in the gutter. In Market-street the grass was already beginning to
sprout between the stones. The cats, left to take care of themselves,
wandered about as thin as French pigs, and lay in wait for the birds,
that no longer scared by the noise, now began to flock and twitter
loudly in every thoroughfare. In the People’s Parks, pigs roamed among
the flowers, while geese and donkeys nibbled at the grass.

There was, however, one quarter of the deserted town where the people
were not holiday-making, but still labouring—for what was to them,
indeed, dear life—one district where the toil knew no cessation—where
the workmen had no money to spend on pleasure, getting barely
enough—slave as they might—to keep soul and body together.

Round about the wretched purlieus of Rochdale-road the clicking of the
shuttles of the handloom weavers might still be heard. Early, long
before the light, and long after the dark, the weaver’s dim lamp might
be seen in the attic or cellar, and where some five-and-twenty were
styed together under one wretched roof, Mr. Sandboys was led by
Inspector Johnny Wren.

At the top of the house he found the rooms crowded with crazy old looms,
so that it was scarcely possible to move between—and here, with beds of
sacks of straw, and nothing but their own rags to cover them by night,
were a band of grim, hollow-cheeked, and half-starved men, toiling away
for a crust—and nothing more.

Mr. Sandboys started back in horror as he looked at the pinched faces
and gaunt figures of the workers. He asked why they were not, like the
rest of the town, at the Exhibition of the Industry of all Nations.

“Ha! ha! ha!” laughed out one with a week’s beard on his chin—“last week
I earnt three and ninepence, and this week I shall have got two and a
penny. Exhibition of Industry! let them as wants to see the use of
industry in this country come and see this here exhibition.”

“I warrant it’ll beat all nations hollow,” cried another.

And then the man laughed again, and so did all his fellow-workers, in a
grim, empty-bellied chorus.

Mr. Sandboys grew somewhat alarmed at the man’s manner, and not finding
much gratification in the contemplation of misery that he knew it was
out of his power to mitigate, beckoned Inspector Wren away, and made the
best of his road back to the house of his fellow-countryman.

Mrs. Sandboys had been anxiously awaiting his return for some time.
During the absence of Cursty, she had half made up her mind to return to
Hassness; and would have decided upon doing so immediately had it not
been for the loss of the luggage.

Mr. Sandboys, however, now that he had wholly forgotten his late
troubles, was in no way desirous of giving way to what appeared to be
simply a small concatenation of adverse circumstances. Besides, now that
he saw matters were taking a more propitious turn, he began to feel all
his heroism returning; and having made up his mind to enjoy himself for
a short period in the metropolis, why he would not allow it ever to be
said that he was weak enough to be wrested from his purpose by a few
mishaps.

His darling Aggy, however, thought far less of the heroism than she did
of her boxes; and seeing the imminent peril in which she stood of being
deprived of the entire three-and-twenty packages which contained the
family linen and all their best clothes, besides a sufficiency of notes
to cover, as she and Cursty had calculated, all their expenses in town,
why she agreed with her lord and master that, under all circumstances,
it _might_ perhaps be advisable to avail themselves of the kind offer of
Mr. Johnny Wren to advance them money enough to carry them on until they
could obtain their boxes from the railway station.

Mr. Sandboys, being of the same opinion, consulted privately with his
friend Johnny Wren as to the amount he could conveniently spare them;
and all the money-matters having been satisfactorily arranged, the
Sandboys family started once more on their journey, determined this
time, at least, to enjoy themselves.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VI.

              “Now fifty shwort years ha’e flown owre us,
                Sin’ first we fell in at the fair,
               I’ve monie a teyme thowt, wi’ new pleasure,
                Nae weyfe cud wi’ Aggy compare;
               Tho’ thy nwose has gi’en way to the wrinkle.
                At changes we munna complain;
               They’re rich whea in age are leet hearted,
                An’ mourn nit for days that are geane.”
                                 _The Days that are geane._

              “We us’d to go to bed at dark,
                And ruse agean at four or five;
               The mworn’s the only teyme for wark,
                If fwok are hilthy and wou’d thrive.
               Now we git up—nay, God kens when!
                And nuin’s owre suin for us to deyne;
               I’s hungry or the pot’s half boiled,
                And wish for teymes leyke auld lang seyne.”
                                              _Lang Seyne._


At length the Sandboys reached the Metropolis, without any further
misadventure than being informed, on their arrival, that there was not a
bed to be had within five miles for love or money.

On reaching the Bull and Mouth, to their great astonishment they found a
large placard exhibited, inscribed with the following terrible
announcement—

                    “THE BEDS HERE ARE QUITE FULL.”

Mr. Sandboys, however, was not to be deterred; and, entering the
establishment, he sought for some one whose face he might remember
having seen on his previous visit. The head waiter no sooner entered the
coffee-room in answer to his summons, than he recognised the face of the
old attendant, and besought him to recommend him to _some_ place where
he might obtain a bed for a night or two at the least.

The only place that the waiter knew, as promising the remotest chance of
accommodation, was at the residence of a lady who, he was informed, had
been recently extending the conveniences of her establishment; and then,
handing to Mr. Sandboys the lodging-housekeeper’s address, he whisked
his napkin under his arm, and, pulling his front hair, departed with all
the elegance of a head-waiter at an old-fashioned establishment.

[Illustration:

  LONDON, in 1851.
]

Arrived at the residence of the lady indicated by the gentleman who
superintended the supply of provisions to the inmates of the Bull and
Mouth, Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys were asked to step into the passage (the
lady apologizing for the parlours being both full), and there Mrs.
Fokesell, whose husband, she was happy to say, was at sea, informed
them, to their great horror, that she had only one hammock left
unoccupied; and if the lady and gentleman thought they could make shift
in that until such time as they could meet with anything better, why it
was at their service for five shillings a night. The young lady and the
female servant Mrs. Fokesell might perhaps accommodate in her bed, and
if the footman wouldn’t mind lying on the knife-board, and the young
gentleman thought he could pass the night comfortably on the top of the
grand piano, why she would do everything in her power to make them
comfortable.

[Illustration:

  MANCHESTER in 1851.
]

Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys said that, under the circumstances, they must
consent to avail themselves of whatever they could get; whereupon the
landlady politely informed them, that if they would follow her down
stairs, she would show them the only apartment she had to spare.

But, as she was about to descend, a loud single knock was given at the
street door, and, begging their indulgence for a minute, she returned to
the passage to ascertain the business of the new-comer. On answering the
knock, she found that it was merely the coal-merchant, who wished to be
informed when she would like to have in “them there coals as she
ordered.”

Mrs. Fokesell hastily told the man, that if they weren’t delivered the
first thing in the morning, there wouldn’t be a bit of fire to “bile the
dozen pots of shaving-water as was wanted by eight o’clock for her
lodgers.”

On closing the door, and rejoining Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys, who still
stood on the top of the kitchen stairs, Mrs. Fokesell led the way to the
basement, and, opening the kitchen door, stepped across the area.
Stopping in front of one of the two doors that led to what the landlady
was pleased to dignify by the name of a humble apartment on the basement
floor, she unfastened the padlock, and revealed the interior of a
cellar, from the arched roof of which was slung a sailor’s hammock,
while on the floor was spread a small square of dingy carpet. In one
corner, on top of a beer-barrel, stood an apparatus that did duty for a
toilet-table. Against the whitewashed wall hung a small sixpenny
shaving-glass; while, immediately beneath it, there was placed a
dilapidated chair.

Mrs. Sandboys, who until that moment had never set eyes on that peculiar
kind of naval contrivance for obtaining a night’s rest under
difficulties, could not refrain from expressing her firm conviction that
it was utterly impossible for any woman of her size to deposit herself
safely in the interior of that thing, which people were pleased to call
a bed.

Mrs. Fokesell, however, begged to assure her that she had passed
many—many very pleasant nights in that very hammock, and with the aid of
the trestle which she had placed on the floor, and an assisting hand
from her husband, she was sure the lady would be able to manage very
well.

Mr. Sandboys himself was anything but pleased with the arrangements of
the proposed dormitory, and, secretly in his own mind, he was inquiring
of himself how, when he had lent the said assisting hand to his better
half, and safely lodged her within the depths of the suspended hammock,
he himself was ever to join her there, for who, he wanted to know, was
there to perform the same kind office for him?

However, even if they had to take the bed down, and spread it on the
carpet, it would, thought Mr. Sandboys, be far preferable to none at
all, so he told Mrs. Fokesell that he and his good lady would avail
themselves of the accommodation, at least for that one night.

“It’s all I have, ma’am,” said the landlady; “I have just let the last
tent on the tiles to a foreign nobleman, and seven shillings a night is
what I has from him. I assure you it’s a fact, ma’am. There is not a
foot in a respectable house that is not worth its length in sovereigns,
ma’am. Why, if you’ll believe me, ma’am, there’s my next-door neighbour,
she’s put a feather bed into her warm bath, and let it off to a young
East Injun at a guinea a week, for a month certain.

Mr. Sandboys, exhausted with his journey, made no more ado, but closed
the bargain with Mrs. Fokesell; and, having partaken of some fried
chops, by way of supper, in the kitchen, he and his beloved Aggy
withdrew to the privacy of the cellar which was to constitute their
bed-chamber for the night.

After a brief consultation, it was agreed that, to prevent all chance of
taking cold in so damp a dormitory, they should retire to rest in their
clothes; and Mrs. Sandboys having disengaged herself of her hood and
cloak, prepared to make the perilous ascent.

By the aid of her Cursty’s hand she mounted the little trestle of the
beer-barrel, which she previously placed immediately under the hammock,
and then, turning her back towards the suspended bed she managed, with a
slight jump, to seat herself on the extreme edge of the sacking. Her
figure, however, being rather corpulent, the weight of her whole body no
sooner rested on one side of the oscillating couch, than the whole
apparatus slid from under her, and she was suddenly plunged down on to
the corner of the temporary toilet-table. Fortunately for the good lady,
the top of the artificial wash-hand-stand consisted of a board merely
laid across the head of a barrel; so that immediately she touched the
ricketty arrangement, the board, basin, and pitcher were all tilted
forward, and the entire contents of the water-jug emptied full into her
face, as she fell to the ground.

What with the crash of the crockery, the splashing of the water, and the
bumping of poor dear Mrs. Sandboys on the carpet, Cursty was almost
paralyzed with fright. He was afraid even to raise his darling Aggy from
the ground, for he felt that something serious must have happened to
her.

But Mrs. Sandboys luckily was sound in her bones, though severely
bruised in her flesh; and as Cursty helped her up from the floor, she
shook the water from her hair, and vowed that she would rather sleep on
the carpet all night than make another attempt to enter that nasty,
deceitful, swinging, unsteady thing of a bed.

Mr. Sandboys used all the endearing arts of which he was master to
induce the partner of his bosom to make a second attempt, but his
entreaties were in vain; for Mrs. Sandboys, whose body still tingled
with the failure of her previous essay, was in no way inclined to listen
to his solicitations.

But the persevering Cursty pleaded so hard that at last he got her to
consent, that provided he would first get into the hammock himself, and
would lift her into it after him, she wouldn’t mind obliging him in that
way—for she could see no other plan by which she was ever to be safely
deposited within it.

Accordingly, Mr. Sandboys, when, after a few unsuccessful but harmless
endeavours, he had managed to get his entire body fairly into the
sailor’s bed, leant over the side in order to assist his better half to
join him within it. But on his putting out his arms to lift the lady up
to the required height, the delusive, bendable bedstead turned inside
out, and shot him, mattrass, blankets, and counterpane, together with
his Aggy, plump on to the ground.

The fall shook Mr. Sandboys almost as much as when the pig had laid on
his back in the brook, and it was long before he could bring himself
even to propose to his wife to make another attempt to enter the
wretched wabbling, swingy substitute for the substantial security of a
four-post.

At length Mrs. Sandboys, who two or three times had just saved herself
from falling almost flat on her nose while dozing in the dilapidated
chair, began to be fairly tired out; and Cursty, who had sat on the top
of the beer-barrel till his legs were nearly cut through with the sharp
edge of the hoop, found that it was impossible to continue his slumbers
in so inconvenient a posture, so he took his fat and dozing little wife
in his arms, and standing once more on the trestle, fairly lifted her
into the hammock; after which, seizing the chain that hung from the iron
plate in the pavement above, he with one desperate bound swung himself
by her side into the hammock.

In a few minutes they were both fast locked in slumber; but Cursty’s
repose was destined to be of short duration; for soon Mrs. Sandboys,
shaking him violently, roused him from his rest.

“Up wi’thee!—up wi’thee! thar be summet beastes a-crawling ower my face,
Cursty. Ah, these Lon’on beds! We’ll be beath yeeten up, aleyve, if thee
staps here, Cursty!”

And so saying, she gave her lord and master so stout a thrust in his
back, that drove his weight to the edge of the hammock, and again
brought him rapidly to the floor.

Mrs. Sandboys in her fright soon followed her husband; and then nothing
would satisfy her but she must have the whole of the bedding and clothes
turned out on the ground, and minutely examined by the light of the
rushlight.

But Mr. Sandboys, already deprived of the half of his night’s rest, was
in no way fit for the performance desired by his wife; and, in order to
satisfy her qualms, he proposed that the mattrass alone should be
replaced in the hammock, and _then_ she need have no fear.

Mrs. Sandboys was herself in no humour to hold out against so apparently
rational a proposal; and, having consented to the compromise, there
began the same series of arduous and almost perilous struggles to
ensconce their two selves once more in the interior of the hammock.

After several heavy tumbles on both sides, and breaking the rusty iron
chain which served to hold down the circular trap in the pavement above,
the worthy couple did ultimately manage to succeed again in their
courageous undertaking; and then, fairly exhausted with their labours,
they closed their eyes just as the blue light of day was showing through
the cracks of the coal-cellar door.

The Cumberland couple had continued their rest undisturbed some few
hours, when Mrs. Sandboys was aroused by hearing the circular iron trap
moved above her head. She woke her husband with a violent shake, telling
him, as soon as she could make him understand, that she was sure some of
her friends, the London thieves, were preparing to make a descent
through the pavement into their subterranean bed-chamber.

Mr. Sandboys was no sooner got to comprehend the cause of her alarm,
than he saw the end of the chain lifted up, and the trap removed from
the pavement above them.

Instinctively the couple rose up in their bed, and leant their heads
forward to ascertain the precise nature of the impending danger.
Suddenly they were startled by a gruff voice from above, shouting
“Bee-elow,” and immediately there descended through the round hole at
the top of the cellar a shower of large and small coals, the noise of
which completely drowned their cries, and beneath which they were almost
buried alive.

Before they could extricate themselves from the black mass, that nearly
filled their hammock, a second shower of Walls’ End was poured down upon
them; and had it not been for the landlady observing from the kitchen
that the coal-porter was about to shoot the half ton she had ordered on
the previous evening to be delivered early that morning into Mr. and
Mrs. Sandboys’ hammock, that worthy couple assuredly must have perished
in the dusty, grimy avalanche.

Mrs. Fokesell rushed into the area, cried out loudly to the man to hold
back the third sack, which he had just poised over the hole on his
shoulder, previous to discharging its contents on the bodies of the
unhappy Sandboys, and tearing open the door, delivered the blackened and
the bruised couple from the perils of their wretched situation.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER VII.

               “But if we wullent be content
                Wi’ th’ blessings sec as heav’n has sent,
                But obstinately wad prevent
                                  Wise fate’s decree,
                See fwoak mun just pursue the bent
                                  I’ their own bree.

               “What if the hand of fate, unkind,
                Has us’d fremtly, need we peyne?
                Tho’ you’ve lost your sight an’ me meyne,
                                  We cannot mend it.
                Let us be glad the powers deveyne
                                  Nae war’ extendit.

               “Let us—sen leyfe is but a span—
                Still be as canty as we can,
                Rememb’ring Heaven has ordered Man
                                 To practise patience,
                An’ not to murmur ’neath his han’,
                                 Leyke feckless gations.”
                                            _John Stagg._


NOW, it so happened, that in the house where the Sandboys had taken up
their residence, there was located on the second floor one of those
_malades imaginaires_, in a white robe-de-chambre, who are so popular
and pretty at the present day.

Mrs. Blanche Quinine certainly dressed the part of the invalid to the
life—or, rather, to the death. Robed from head to foot in the purest
white, she managed to look extremely well and ill at one and the same
time. She was got up with the greatest possible regard to medical
effect; for, although Mrs. Quinine was naturally a plump and
strong-built woman, she was costumed so artistically, and looked, as she
languished on the couch, so perilously delicate, that one could not help
fancying but that, with the least shock or jar to her nerves, every bone
in her body would fall asunder, like the skeleton in the Fantoccini, at
the sudden “bomb” of the drum.

Her complexion—which could not have been called florid even at her
healthiest moments—was rendered still more pale by the “bloom” of
“babies” powder, with which she never failed to indue it, previous to
leaving her chamber. Her eyes—they were of the Irish grey kind—she
always kept half-closed, as if from long want of rest—but then Nature
had blessed Mrs. Quinine with long, dark, sweeping eye-lashes, and these
were never seen to such perfection as when brought into contrast with
her white skin. Her upper lip was drawn up slightly, as if in continual
pain—but then Mrs. Quinine was gifted with a “remarkably fine set of
teeth,” and was sufficient “woman of the world” to know that there was
no use in her having such things unless she showed them. Moreover, the
favourite, because the most touching, posture, of Mrs. Quinine, was with
her head slightly drooping, and her cheek resting on her hand—but then
the lady prided herself on the smallness of her extremities (the tips of
toes could be just seen at the end of the couch, peeping from beneath
her robe); and, with her arms raised, she knew that the blood could not
circulate so freely in her fingers, and, consequently, that she would be
saved the trouble of continually rubbing them, in order to improve their
whiteness.

And, truth to say, the illness of Mrs. Quinine was as agreeable to
herself as it was interesting to her doctor and acquaintances, and
inconvenient to her husband. Mrs. Blanche’s prevailing belief was, that
she was suffering from extreme debility, and that if she had not the
very best of food to live upon, accompanied with continual change of air
and scene, she felt satisfied she had but a short time to remain in this
world.

In this conviction Mrs. Quinine was fully borne out by the profound
opinion, most gravely delivered, with the lady’s pulse in one hand, and
his gold repeater in the other, by her medical adviser—that “dear,
loveable old man,” Doctor Twaddles—who added, that unless she _would_
keep herself quiet, and refrain from making the least exertion, and
could at the same time be secured perfect peace of mind at home, without
being thwarted in the slightest wish—as he said this, the doctor knitted
the grey, bushy brows which hung down about his eyes like a Skye
terrier’s, and looked death-warrants at the husband of the lady—he would
not take it upon himself to answer for the consequences.

Now, Doctor Twaddles was a gentleman who had fortunately been blest with
a remarkably imposing appearance.

Nature had been most bountiful to the Doctor. He had an intensely “fine
bald head of his own”—round and hairless as an ostrich’s egg; and this
attractive exterior had been worth a thousandfold more to him than the
interior ever could have been, even had it been as full of brains as
every egg is said to be full of meat. Had the Doctor depended for his
advancement in life on his skill, he might have remained without a
patient and without a crust; but, so to speak, standing on his bald
head, he had been able to drink his wine daily, although he certainly
was “no conjuror.”

The head, to which Doctor Twaddles owed so much, and which had won for
him such a number of hatbands from departed patients, was fringed with
silver, for the little hair that still lingered round it was white as
driven snow. His features were prominent and statuesque. His coat, which
was always scrupulously clean and dustless, was black and glossy as that
of a mourning-coach horse; and he so far clung to the manners of the old
school, as to allow his nether garments to descend only to his knees,
where they were fastened by a pair of small gold buckles. His legs,
which—to do Doctor Twaddles justice—were exceedingly well shaped, and
perhaps accounted for the Doctor’s still clinging to the obsolete
fashion of exhibiting them, were veiled by a pair of very thin
gossamer-like black silk stockings, through which the flesh showed with
a pinky hue; so that the medical gentleman’s calves, as he sat with them
crossed one over the other, so as to give the foremost an extra
plumpness, bore a strong resemblance in colour to black currant jam.

The only ornaments that the Doctor wore, were a diamond pin “set
transparent,” and so pellucid as to be scarcely visible on the white
neckcloth that it fastened; and a series of mourning rings on his third
and little fingers, as ostentatious marks of respect from some of the
most illustrious and wealthy patients he had buried; while from below
his waistcoat there dangled a bunch of gold seals, almost as big as the
tassel at the end of a bell-rope, and these the Doctor delighted, as he
leant back in his chair, to swing up and down, like a muffin-bell, while
delivering his opinion.

Doctor Twaddles was wont to increase the importance of his opinion by
multiplying himself into many, and substituting, in his discourse, for
the plain, humble, and honest I, the pompous, imposing and presumptuous
We,—the special prerogative of monarchs and editors. Certainly this
style of discourse was fraught with some few attendant advantages, even
beyond that of leading the hearer to believe that the verdict pronounced
was not the judgment of one solitary individual, but the unanimous
opinion of an indefinite number; for when the Doctor, after due feeling
of pulse and knitting of brows, said to his patients that _we_ must take
a blue pill and black dose, it appeared to the invalid as if the
generous Physician intended to swallow half his own medicine.

But, on the other hand, some of the Doctor’s plural edicts had a
particularly singular sound with them; for when he told his
lady-patients that _we_ must put _our_ feet in hot water, it seemed as
if he intended indulging in a joint foot-bath with them. Equally strange
and startling did it sound when he said, that “_we_ really must go out
of town;” or, stranger still, when in a mysterious manner he declared,
that “_we_ really must go to bed as quick as possible.”

Dr. Twaddles was a great favourite with the ladies, by whom he was
invariably described as a “loveable old man.” His manner was gentle and
polite as a well-fee’d pew-opener. His voice he always subdued to a
complimentary sympathy, and he was especially tender in his handling of
his fair patients’ pulses. He was, moreover, “remarkably fond of
children,” for whom he generally carried in his pockets a small canister
filled either with acidulated drops, “refined liquorice,” or “black
currant lozenges.” In his habits, too, he was quite a family man, and
never failed, if in his visits he found the more healthy members of the
family at a “hot lunch,” of seating himself good-humouredly at the
table, and declaring that he _must_ really have a bit of the pudding,
for he was happy to say that he was still quite a boy in his “love of
sweets.”

Nor was the “advice” usually given by Dr. Twaddles of a less attractive
character.

The Doctor invariably acted upon the apparently disinterested plan of
objecting to the use of physic—excepting of course in the most urgent
cases. Formerly, according to the old fable, curriers were prone to
insist there was nothing like leather, but of late the contrary, and far
more lucrative, practice has sprung up among us; and now-a-days lawyers
counsel their clients on no account to “go to law,”—with the greatest
possible success; and physicians rail at the exhibition of physic—to
equal advantage.

With Doctor Twaddles, “diet was everything”—all maladies proceeding,
according to his popular pathology, from the stomach; for patients, he
had long ago discovered, never objected to being fed into good health,
however strong an aversion they might have to being dosed into
convalescence.

Another mode of insinuation that the Doctor adopted was to explain to
the invalids, in language that they could not possibly understand, the
cause of the malady for which he was prescribing, and the reason for the
remedies be adopted: this he did in short family physiological lectures,
which he loved to illustrate by the most ordinary objects. He would tell
the astonished and half-affrighted patients how the greater part of the
food taken into the system acted simply as coals to the vital fire,—how
the lungs were, if he might be allowed the expression, nothing more than
the grate in which the alimentary fuel was being consumed, and keeping
up a continued supply of caloric for the human frame, for, that the
selfsame operation was going on in the human chest as in the stove
beside him.

As he said this, the bald-headed Doctor would lean back with evident
self-satisfaction in the easy chair, and swing his watch-seals round and
round like a watchman’s rattle. Then he usually proceeded to explain how
every human creature was burning away, in the process of respiration, at
the least one pound of charcoal per diem; that every meal was, when
viewed with the philosophic eye, nothing more than throwing another
shovelful or two of coals on to the ever-consuming fire; and that for
himself, he did not care in what form the charcoal was introduced into
the system, but one pound of it he must really insist upon being
swallowed daily.

Mrs. Quinine—who, by-the-bye, never lost an opportunity of impressing
upon strangers that her name was pronounced Keneen, even as the
Beauvoirs, the Cholmondeleys, the Majoribanks, and the Cockburns, insist
upon being called Beavers, Chumleys, Marchbanks, and Coburns—Mrs.
Quinine, we repeat, agreed with the rest of the female world in her
estimation of the dear old Doctor Twaddles. Nor was it to be wondered
at, for the Doctor certainly did his best to make the lady’s
indisposition as pleasant and profitable as possible to her.

True to his dietetic discipline, the loveable old Physician gave the
lady to understand that all she required was nourishing food, and
accordingly his prescriptions consisted of a succession of the most
agreeable and toothsome delicacies; so that the fair invalid having
merely to submit to a course of high feeding, gave herself up to the
care of the dear Doctor with the most exemplary patience.

At six in the morning, Mrs. Quinine began her dietetic course with a cup
of homœopathic cocoa, that was kept simmering through the night in a
small teapot, resting (heaven knows why!) on the turrets of a china
castle, in the porcelain donjon of which burnt a melancholy spirit lamp.
This it was her husband’s duty to give the lady immediately her eyes
were opened. Her breakfast, which was mostly taken in bed, consisted of
coffee, procured, according to the express injunctions of the Doctor,
from a house where analysis had proved it to be unadulterated, and made,
after Doctor Twaddles’ own receipt, entirely with milk, obtained from an
establishment where the Doctor could vouch for its being genuine. The
coffee was sometimes accompanied with the lean of a mutton-chop, “cut
thick,” and “done with the gravy in it;” sometimes with a rasher or two
of “Dr. Gardner’s digestive bacon,” and sometimes with the wing of a
cold chicken; while the bread of which she partook was of the
unfermented kind, had fresh every day from the Doctor’s own man in the
City. At twelve the invalid rose, and descended to a light lunch of
either oysters, a small custard pudding, or some calf’s-foot jelly made
palateable and strengthening with wine; and with this, and an egg or two
beaten up with milk, and flavoured with a glass of Madeira, the delicate
lady was enabled to linger on till the more substantial meal of the day.

Mrs. Quinine’s dinner, for the most part, was made up of a “little bit”
of fish and a “mouthful or two” of game; for the lady condescended but
seldom to partake of butcher’s meat, and, when she did so, it was solely
of the more delicate and expensive kinds, known as Southdown or Welsh
mutton; while the digestion of these was assisted either with “Rumford
ale,” or “India pale,” or “Guinness,” or some other agreeable and
stimulating form of dietetic medicine, procured from establishments
which were noted for supplying only the very best articles.

Her supper was usually eaten in bed, for the invalid was strictly
enjoined to retire to rest at an early hour; and long before she did so,
a fire was lighted in her bed-room, so that she might not suffer from
the shock of going into a cold apartment: for the same reason, the
lady’s bed was well warmed previous to her entering it; and when she had
been comfortably tucked up by her maid, a hot water bottle swathed in
flannel was placed at her feet. Here the invalid was consoled either
with a glass of warm white-wine-whey, or a posset, or arrowroot bought
expressly for her at Apothecaries’ Hall; and thus the poor delicate lady
was enabled to keep body and soul together until the morrow.

But the course of diet followed by the lady was far from settled, for
Doctor Twaddles paid great attention to what he termed “the voice of
Nature,” and consequently gave strict orders that whatever his patient
fancied she was to have. Accordingly, Mrs. Quinine continually felt
convinced that her system required change, and that she needed some most
expensive and agreeable article of diet. Now her mouth was parched, and
nothing but strawberries, though they cost a guinea a pint, or a bunch
or two of hot-house grapes, could relieve her; then she would give the
world for just a taste of spring lamb and new potatoes; and then nothing
would satisfy her but a mouthful or two of turbot, even though it were
impossible to buy less than a whole one.

All these little fancies Doctor Twaddles dignified by the name of
“instincts,” and declared that they were simply the out-speakings of
exhausted Nature.

Mrs. Quinine was, of course, too weak to walk abroad, so Doctor Twaddles
enjoined a daily airing in the park, when the weather was mild, in an
open carriage; or, if the lady preferred it, he would advise a little
horse exercise; and as Mrs. Quinine thought she looked extremely well in
a habit and “wide-awake,” she seldom stirred out unless mounted on a
“palfrey” from the neighbouring livery stables.

Now these and other similar prescriptions of Doctor Twaddles made
illness so pleasant, that, coupled with the interesting character of the
invalid costume (Mrs. Quinine wore the prettiest of nightcaps, trimmed
with the most expensive of lace, when she received visitors in her
bed-room), the lady naturally felt disposed to feel indisposed. And it
was odd how the several complaints to which she professed herself
subject, came and went with the fashionable seasons. In winter she was
“peculiarly susceptible” to bronchitis, so that this necessitated her
being in town at the gayest period of the metropolis. Doctor Twaddles
would not take upon himself to answer for the consequences if Mrs.
Quinine passed a winter in the provinces: and—what was a severe
calamity—the poor lady could go nowhere in the summer for change of air,
but to the fashionable and lively watering-places, for she was always
affected with the hay fever if she visited the more retired and
consequently duller parts of the country.

The prevailing afflictions of Mrs. Quinine, however, were neuralgia, and
“a general debility of the system”—indeed, she was always suffering from
her “poor poor nerves;” and though subject to the greatest depression of
spirits in the presence of her husband, (for that gentleman seldom
remonstrated with her, but she burst into a flood of tears, and declared
he was “throwing her back,”) still, before company, she was always
lively enough, excepting when the visitors made tender inquiries after
her health, and _then_ no one certainly could be more severely
afflicted.

Nor was the “debility” under which the lady laboured less eccentric in
its nature, for though it prevented her taking any exercise in the open
air—but in a carriage or on horseback—still, when an invitation came to
a dance, it in no way interfered with her polking in an “extremely low”
dress half the night through.

Mr. Quinine was an eminent painter of “still-life;” and though his
braces of partridges on canvas, and his dead hares, and his grapes and
pine-apples “in oil” were highly admired, and fetched large sums, it was
nevertheless as much as he could do to pay the physician’s fees by his
game and fruit pieces. While his wife was breakfasting or supping off
her dainties in bed, or “doing” the elegant and interesting invalid in
white cambric on the sofa in the front room, or riding out in the Park,
he, (poor man!) was painting away for dear life in his studio at the
back of the house. This the clever little artist (for he stood but five
foot five in his high-heeled Wellingtons) did without a murmur; for,
truth to say, he doated on his dear Blanche, and strove, by making
“studies” of the “birds” prescribed by Doctor Twaddles before they were
cooked for his wife’s dinner, somehow or other to lessen the expenses of
“the housekeeping;” for not one of the Doctor’s delectable dietetic
prescriptions was ever sent to Covent Garden or Leadenhall Market to be
“dispensed,” but the economic Quinine was sure to use it as a model
before administering it to the patient.

But even if the little man had felt inclined to raise his voice against
the course pursued, he would immediately have had the united battery of
Twaddles and Blanche opened against him; and while the lady overpowered
him with tears, the Doctor would have impressed upon him, in the most
solemn manner, that unless Mrs. Quinine could be allowed to enjoy the
greatest tranquillity of both mind and body, and be assured the
gratification of her slightest wish, it was beyond the highest talent in
the kingdom to undertake to say what distressing event might happen.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The opening of the Great Exhibition had operated almost as magically
upon the nerves of the susceptible Mrs. Quinine, as an invitation to a
_Thé Dansante_. Her bronchitis, and the “short hacking cough” which
accompanied it, had almost disappeared under the influence of the
delicious _pâte de Guimauve_, prescribed by Doctor Twaddles; the lady’s
neuralgia had been dissipated by her steel medicine (and she had
swallowed enough of that metal in her time to have admitted of being cut
up into “magnum bonum” pens for the million); the “weak state of her
nerves” no longer required the carriage-way in front of her house to be
strewn with straw, nor the iron-hand of the street-door knocker to be
embellished with a white kid glove; for the lady had grown suddenly “so
much better,” that on requesting permission of Doctor Twaddles to visit
the Exhibition, she declared that she felt herself quite equal to the
task of exploring even its “five miles of galleries.”

Doctor Twaddles did not hesitate to confess himself delighted at the
favourable change that had so evidently set in, saying it was due solely
to the wonderful constitution of Mrs. Quinine; but, like a prudent man,
he wished to “see how matters went on” for a short time, before he
became a consenting party to her walking out—a thousand little things as
he said might happen to throw her back again.

The consequence was that the lady made up her mind to take the Doctor by
surprise at his next visit, and not only to be ready in the sitting-room
to receive him when he called, but to be able to say that she had
breakfasted down stairs, and felt herself in no way fatigued with the
exertion.

Accordingly, Mrs. Quinine, for the first time since the coronation of
Her Majesty Queen Victoria—when she had been obliged to be down in
Parliament-street by six in the morning—had risen at daybreak. She had
dressed herself with great care, so that she might be able to make the
most favourable impression upon Twaddles. She had put on a clean white
cambric robe-de-chambre, and left off applying the baby’s powder to her
complexion; she had, moreover, such a delicate tinge of pink upon her
cheeks, that it was difficult to say how the colour had got there in so
short a space of time. Yesterday, she was as pale as if she had been
white-washed—to-day, her cheeks were as pinky as the inner lining of a
shell. Whether the change arose from the contrast of her white dress, or
from the absence of the wonted “violet powder,” or whether from the
faintest touch of the hare’s-foot that her prying maid had once
discovered secreted in the lower tray of her dressing-case, must for
ever remain one of those mysteries of the toilet that it is base
presumption in Man to seek to unravel. Suffice it, Mrs. Quinine, even in
her severest illness, never looked better; and as she left her bed-room,
and gave a parting glance at herself in the long cheval-glass, she
smiled with inward satisfaction at the appearance she made on her sudden
restoration to health.

Now as the lady was slowly descending the stairs on her way to the
breakfast room, Mr. Christopher Sandboys was rapidly mounting to an
upper apartment, whither he had been directed by Mrs. Fokesell as the
only convenient place where he could cleanse his face, hands, and
clothes, from the dust of the “half-ton” of coals, in which he and the
partner of his bosom had been almost smothered.

The more “particular” Mrs. Sandboys bad retired to the nearest “baths
and washhouses,” convinced that nothing but a warm-bath could ever
restore _her_ to her pristine purity.

The less fastidious Cursty, however, as we said before, was hastening up
the stairs, two at a time, with a jug of warm water in his hand, intent
upon a good wash and effecting that physical impossibility of scrubbing
the blackamoor white; for, so intensely sable with adhering coal-dust
was the complexion of Mr. Sandboys, that, truth to say, the most
experienced ethnologist would, at the first glance, have mistaken that
gentleman for one of the Ethiopian tribe. The lady in white had
descended the first flight of stairs, and was just preparing to turn the
corner of the second, when the black gentleman darted sharply round, and
bounced suddenly upon her.

The nervous Mrs. Quinine was in no way prepared for the sight of a “man
of colour” in such a place or at such a time. Had even her own husband
pounced so unexpectedly upon her, the shock would have been sufficient
to have driven all the breath out of the body of so susceptible a lady;
but to find herself, without the least preparation, face to face with “a
black”—as Mr. Cursty Sandboys appeared to be—was more than the shattered
state of her nerves was able to bear.

The lady no sooner set eyes upon the sable monster than she screamed
like a railway engine on coming to some dark tunnel, and fainted off
dead into the arms of the astonished and terrified Sandboys; and as the
lifeless body of the invalid fell heavily against the wretched Cursty,
the dusty, grimy, coaly garments of that gentleman left their deep black
mark not only upon the white cambric robe but imprinted a large black
patch upon the cheek of the poor unconscious Mrs. Quinine.

The industrious little artist who called that lady his wife was busy in
his studio, transferring a brace of wild ducks to canvas, previous to
their being cooked for his wife’s dinner, when he heard the piercing
scream of his dear Blanche. With his palette still upon his thumb, and
his wet paint-brush in his hand, he darted forth, and discovered his
lady insensible, in the arms of a man who, at first sight, struck him as
being nothing more refined than a London coal-heaver.

Guarding his face with his palette, like a shield, the little artist
rushed at the amazed Sandboys, and began attacking him with his
paint-brush, as with a broadsword, while every stroke he made at the
wretched Cursty’s head, left a dab of paint upon his cheeks; so that by
the time the indignant Quinine had broken the brush in his repeated
blows, the complexion of Mr. Sandboys was as dark and many-coloured as
that of a highly tattooed Indian chief.

In such a situation it was impossible for Cursty to defend himself; to
have done as much he must have let the strange lady in white drop to the
ground. His gallantry bore the vigorous attack of the enraged husband
for some few minutes, but when the little painter had discarded the
impotent weapons of his art, and Sandboys saw him about to belabour him
with his fists, his Cumbrian blood could put up with it no longer.
Cursty impulsively withdrew his arm from the lady’s waist, to throw
himself into an attitude of self-defence; and, as he did so, the figure
of the unconscious Mrs. Quinine fell heavily on the floor.

The fall had the effect of bringing the lady to her senses, when she
immediately clung to the legs of the little artist so firmly as to
prevent his continuing the attack. Then, as that gentleman stooped to
raise his wife from the floor, and Sandboys advanced to explain and
apologize for, the misadventure, the lady no sooner set eyes on the
black face that had before deprived her of her senses, than she fell
into a violent fit of hysterics, and made the whole house ring with her
laughter.

The noise brought the hundred-and-one lodgers from their apartments to
the stairs, and, from the top to the bottom, at every landing-place, was
a bunch of heads “of all nations,”—bearded, whiskered, and
moustachio’d,—some in turbans, others in Greek caps, fez-caps, and
nightcaps—all enjoying the scene, and mightily taken with the piebald
state of Mrs. Quinine’s face and robe-de-chambre, and the party-coloured
character of Mr. Sandboy’s complexion.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Nor was Mrs. Sandboys less fortunate in her endeavours to free herself
from the black of the coals. Having removed the superficial grubbiness
from her skin by a hasty rinse of her face and hands at the sink in the
back kitchen—the only available place—but which merely had the effect of
diluting her complexion down to the swarthiness of a neutral tint, she
“jumped” into a cab, and, as we said before, made the best of her way to
the nearest public baths.

Here she was delayed some considerable time in procuring her ticket,
owing to the “rush” of Frenchmen, Germans, Russians, and Poles,
congregated round the building, for the London lodging-house keepers had
come to a resolution not to receive any foreigners into their
establishments unless they came prepared with a certificate from some of
the metropolitan washhouses. Her ticket, once obtained, however, Mrs.
Sandboys proceeded to make her way down the long narrow passage, between
the two rows of little bath rooms, on the “ladies’ side” of the
establishment. At the end of the corridor she was met by the female
attendant, who, in answer to her request for a bath, informed her that
all the “warms” were full, but that she expected there’d be “a shower”
shortly.

Now, the innocent Mrs. Sandboys, having never heard of such a style of
bathing as the last mentioned, was naturally led to believe that the
attendant alluded to nothing less than the unsettled state of the
weather; so casting her eyes up to the skylight, she observed in reply,
that she dare say they _would_ have a shower before long, adding, that
it was just what country people wanted.

“Perhaps, then, you wouldn’t object to that there, mum?” returned
attendant, as she arranged the pile of towels in the cupboard.

“Whya, as Ise here, I dunnet mind, if ’artsease be ow’r suin,” replied
the simple-minded Mrs. Sandboys, still referring to the rain. “I dare
say ’t’ull dui a power of guid to cwuntry fwoke.”

“Oh, yes, mum! always does a vast deal of good, and is sure to be over
in no time,” returned the bath-woman, still harping on her baths.

In a few minutes the shower-bath was at liberty, and Mrs. Sandboys
seated herself in a chair in the passage, while the attendant went to
prepare the room for her use.

Presently the woman returned with the heavy-looking wet towels of the
departed bather in her hand, hanging down like paunches; letting them
“flop” on the floor, she requested Mrs. Sandboys to follow her, as the
room was quite ready. Mrs. Sandboys did as desired, and was shown into a
small apartment, into which she was no sooner ushered than the attendant
withdrew, saying, that if the lady wanted anything there was a bell and
she would please to ring.

The room was a small cabin-like apartment, with a narrow little bench
against one side of it, while above this a few wooden hooks projected
from the wall. A tiny “shaving-glass” hung against the partition, and
the uncarpeted floor was dark-coloured with the drippings of the
previous bathers. In one corner was what appeared at first sight to be a
long upright cupboard, but which in reality was “the second-class”
shower-bath. The door of this apparatus was placed wide open, and inside
there stood a chair, while a small cord dangled from above.

Mrs. Sandboys observing nothing that appeared to her primitive mind to
bear the slightest resemblance to a bath in the room, conjectured that
the hot water would be brought to her in a large pan immediately it was
ready.

Accordingly, she set to work to divest herself of her bonnet and cloak;
and having arranged those articles on the bench, she proceeded, in her
simplicity, to seat herself in the chair immediately under the
shower-bath, in the corner of the little apartment, there to await the
coming of the expected pan.

Her patience endured the imaginary delay for some few minutes, but at
length growing wearied of her solitary situation, she got angry at the
non-appearance of the attendant, and starting from her seat, seized the
cord which dangled above her head, and which she—poor innocent
dame!—mistook for the bell-pull.

Determined to put up with the neglect no longer, she gave a vigorous
pull at the rope. Thump went the catch, and instantly down, through the
colander above, came a miniature deluge, consisting of two pailsful of
“cold pump,” suddenly let loose, in the form of a thousand watery wires,
upon the head of the luckless Mrs. Sandboys.

What with the unexpectedness of the catastrophe, and the coldness of the
water—rendered still more cold by the minuteness of its division—and the
rapidity of its descent through the air, together with the perfectly
novel character of the bath to the unsophisticated native of Buttermere,
the poor lady was so perfectly paralysed by the icy torrent, that she
was unable to escape from it; and it was not until a few moments after
the cataract had ceased that she rushed out of the balneatory cupboard,
gasping for breath, and fighting the air; while her clothes, shining
with the wet, like a tarpaulin clung about her as tight as if she had
been done up in brown paper, and her hair hung in skeins over her face,
so that she had very much of the soaked appearance of a Polish hen on a
rainy day.

As soon as she could fetch sufficient breath to scream, she gave a
series of shrieks, and capered about the apartment after the manner of
the war-dance of the wild Indians.

The peal of screams were echoed and re-echoed as they rattled against
the bare walls of the building, and spread an instant alarm among the
entire corps of ladies then in the bathing-rooms. One and all they
imagined, from the piercing tone of the shrieks, that nothing less could
have occurred than that some brute of a man—some impudent Frenchmen, or
a wretch of a Turk perhaps—through accident or design—had found his way
to the ladies’ side of the establishment, and taken some poor dear by
surprise. Accordingly they, one after another, repeated the screams of
the original screamer—shouting, “It’s a man! It’s a man! It’s a man!”

In an instant the female attendant came rushing down the corridor. Such
of the lady bathers as were dressed suddenly opened the doors of their
little apartments, and stood with them ajar, so that they might slam
them to again in case of danger; while those who were unable to make
their appearance, jumped upon the bench within, and popped their
bald-looking heads, encased as they were in yellow greasy-looking
bathing-caps, over the doors, and squinted into the passage like so many
birds from the house-tops; and as they saw the male authorities come
hurrying towards the point of alarm, they each uttered a sudden “Ho!”
and bobbed down again into the privacy of their cabins, as jauntily as
so many “Jacks-in-the-box.”

The female attendant endeavoured to explain to the infuriated Mrs.
Sandboys that “it was all a mistake;” but that lady felt convinced that
the whole affair was nothing more nor less than a preconcerted trick,
and that a cistern full of water, at the very least, had been emptied
upon her, through a trap-door in the ceiling, by some wicked wretch
secreted over head; and that this had been done simply because the
people saw she was—like the railway milk—fresh from the country.

In vain did the authorities—who with difficulty were able to sustain
that solemnity of countenance which is so necessary a part of the duties
of all public functionaries—beg to assure the lady that the apparatus in
question was really a form of bath—a shower—belonging to the
establishment, much approved of, and highly recommended by the faculty.

But Mrs. Cursty was fully satisfied that no person in his senses would
dream of coming to such a place to _enjoy_ a shower, when, if they were
that way inclined, they might, on any wet day, have one for nothing.
Moreover, she begged to be informed, with an air of triumph,—just to let
the Londoners see that she was not quite so simple as they seemed to
fancy her,—“if showers were so highly recommended by the faculty, what
people carried umbrellas for?” and as she made the overpowering inquiry,
she, in the ardour of the discussion, gave so self-satisfied a shake of
her head, that she sprinkled the water from her hair all over the
by-standers, like a Newfoundland dog just emerged from a river.

It was impossible even for the grave functionaries to keep serious any
longer, but their smiles served only to make the assurance of Mrs.
Sandboys “doubly sure” that a wicked trick had been played upon her; so,
putting on her bonnet and cloak—wet as she was—she left the
establishment, vowing that she would have them all up before a
magistrate, and well punished for their shameful conduct towards a poor
lone countrywoman like herself.

                  *       *       *       *       *

A cab soon conveyed the wretched, and shivering, and moist Mrs. Sandboys
back to her lodgings. There she and her dear Cursty once more
endeavoured to console one another—but consolation was bootless in the
state of the Sandboys’ wardrobe.

Accordingly, while Aggy borrowed a “change” of the landlady, and
proceeded to squeeze her corpulent figure into the thin Mrs. Fokesell’s
“things,” Jobby was dispatched to the railway station to see after the
three-and-twenty boxes that constituted the family luggage, with full
instructions (given at Mrs. Fokesell’s advice)—provided no tidings of
the missing packages could be obtained at the “goods department”—to
scour the whole country round, by means of the electric telegraph, in
search of them.

To prevent accidents, however, Elcy was made to write down all that was
wanted, together with an accurate description of all that was missing;
and, as she did so, the tender-hearted girl did not fail to include a
graphic account of her dear pet Psyche, whom, she felt convinced, must
be reduced to a positive “bag of bones”—a canine “living skeleton”—by
this time.

The youth, as directed, took the Hungerford omnibus, and made his way,
without much difficulty, to the railway station. There, he could hear
nothing as to the whereabouts of the family boxes; accordingly he
proceeded to the Telegraph Office, and having handed in the written
instructions, he set out on his return home.

As he passed under the archway of the station, it so happened that “a
school of Acrobats” were exhibiting their feats within the open space in
front of the two large railway hotels. Jobby, with his mouth wide agape,
stood outside the gates watching the posturers pile themselves, three
men and a boy, high on one another’s shoulders.

The exhibition was as new as it was exciting to the lad. With a thrill
of pleasurable amazement the youth saw for the first time in his life
the “pole balancer” in his suit of spangled cotton “fleshings,” and the
tawdry black velvet fillet round his well-oiled hair, lie on his back on
a small handkerchief of carpet, and balance and catch and twirl the
heavy pole on the soles of his feet. Then, almost breathless with
ecstasy, he beheld the “bending tumbler” slowly bend his body back till
his head reached the ground, and proceed to pick up pins with his
eyelids. Next, he witnessed “the equilibrist” balance, spinning plates
high in the air, and burning paper-bags upon his chin, and catch huge
cannon balls from a height in a cup upon his head—and as all this went
on, and he heard the sound of the music, and looked at the glittering
costumes of the performers, Jobby was entranced with positive rapture.
He had never seen, never heard, never dreamt of anything half so
beautiful.

Nor could he scarcely credit that they were human like himself, till he
saw the men put their shabby black coats over their spangles, and as one
shouldered the pole, and the other carried the box, stroll off in close
conversation with “the drum and pipes,” and a troop of pinafored boys at
their heels, to some fresh quarter of the town.

Jobby stood for a moment looking after the crowd, longing, but fearing,
to follow them. The temptation, however, of once more beholding their
marvellous feats was too much for him—so, as he saw them turn the
corner, he took to his heels, and hurried after the troop.

There for the present we must leave him.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER VIII.

         “The lasses o’ Carel are weel-shap’d an’ bonny,
           But he that wad win yen mun brag of his gear,
          You may follow and follow till heart sick and weary—
           To get them needs siller and fine claes to wear.

         “They’ll catch at a reed cwoat leyke as monie mack’rel,
           And jump at a fop, or even lissen a fuil,
          Just brag of an uncle that’s got heaps of money,
           And de’il a bit odds if you’ve ne’er been at schuil.
                                          _The Lasses of Carel._

         “Deuce tek the clock! click-clackin’ sae
           Ay in a body’s ear,
          It tells and tells the teyme is past,
           When Jobby sud been here.
             *    *    *    *    *
         “But, whisht! I hear my Jobby’s fit;
           Aye, that’s his varra clog!
          He steeks the faul yeat softly tui—
           _Oh, hang that cwoley dog!_”
                                         _The Impatient Lassie._


If as Mr. Sidney Herbert has informed us this nation be suffering from a
glut of females—if as the commercial editor of the _Economist_ would
say, the extreme depression of our matrimonial markets be due to an
over-production of spinsters—if the annual supply of marriageable young
ladies in this country be greater than the demand for the same on the
part of marriageable young gentlemen—if virgin loveliness is becoming as
cheap as slop shirts in the land, and the market value of heiresses has
fallen considerably below their real value—if Cupid is compelled to
dispose of the extensive stock he has now on hand of last season’s
beauties, at an “ALARMING SACRIFICE,” on account of the “TREMENDOUS
FAILURE” of Hymen—assuredly the Great Exhibition of all Nations was a
wise means of restoring the matrimonial markets of the metropolis to a
healthy equilibrium.

When the philogynic mind—which we take it is a thousandfold better than
the mere philanthropic commodity—is led to consider the vast influx of
susceptible natures that will occur at that eventful period—when we
remember that the most eminent statisticians have calculated, that “a
wave” of a hundred thousand pairs of mustachios will be tossed upon our
shores every week—when we recollect that monster trains, filled with
every kind of “hairy monster,” will deposit, at the London Bridge
terminus, their daily thousands of gynolatrous Frenchmen, with very
large beards, and very small carpet-bags, together with their hundreds
of polygamic Turks, hirsute as handsome, and with turbans as bewitching
to the ladies, as that of the black cymbal-player in the Guards,—when we
reflect, moreover, that as if this superabundance of amatoriness was not
a sufficient boon to the “women of England,” the Iron Duke had, with a
view of creating an _embarras de richesse_ for the ladies, given orders
that an extra body of soldiers—all picked men—should be marched up from
the country, and bivouacked in the neighbourhood of the ladies’ schools,
embellishing the outskirts of the capital—when, too, we call to mind
that the active and vigilant Commissioners of Police have, as a grand
captivating climax to the whole, come to the noble resolution of adding
no less than eight hundred pairs of whiskers to the already strong
amatory power of “the force,”—when, in fine, we come to think upon the
turbans of the Turks—the beards of the Frenchmen—the mustachios of the
soldiers—and the whiskers of the police, that will be all congregated
within the Bills of Mortality, into one vast focus of fascination,—what
maid, what widow shall not be wooed—shall not be won—and after all,
count herself extremely lucky if she’s wed.

                  *       *       *       *       *

While Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys and Miss Elcy sat by the kitchen fire,
anxiously awaiting the return of Jobby from the station, or the arrival
of some tidings from the telegraph, touching their missing boxes, Major
Oldschool was in the parlour, wondering when he should have any news as
to the whereabouts of that “ungrateful young hussy,” his niece, who,
after he had sent for her home from Miss Wewitz’s establishment at
Wimbledon, had returned his kindness by going off with a foreign Count,
with a beard like a Scotchman’s philibeg, and a portmanteau not much
bigger than a sandwich-box. However, he had given information to the
police, and a couple of their most active officers had been despatched
after the fugitives.

At this juncture, one of the Detective Force called at Mrs. Fokesell’s,
to apprise the Major that they had already tracked the runaway Miss. The
maid went out into the area to answer the knock and learn the business
of the visitor. In a few minutes she returned, saying, it was a strange
kind of a man, and that he had a strange kind of a way with him, and had
whispered something to her down the railings that he wanted to see a
gentleman about “summat as was missing.”

The Sandboys no sooner heard this, than they, one and all, started from
their seats, declaring it was the man from the telegraph with news of
poor Psyche and their boxes.

The maid was despatched with directions to bring the messenger down into
the kitchen immediately, and in a minute a pair of heavy boots were
heard descending the stairs.

“Tha’s come about that thar baggage of ourn, haista?” inquired Mr.
Cursty.

The term “baggage” was quite sufficient to assure the Detective that he
was in the presence of the gentleman whose female relative had eloped
with the foreign Count.

“Yes, sir; we’ve got some clue as to what you allude to—we’ve discovered
their whereabouts, at least”—and the cautious and mysterious Officer
winked his eye, and nodded his head knowingly.

“Oh, thar’s a guid man! a guid man!” cried Mrs. Sandboys, with extreme
joy. “So tha’st heard on t’things at last.”

“True, ma’am,” replied the Officer, “when last we heard on—you know—the
things”—and he winked again—“they wasn’t a hundred miles from”—and here
he looked cautiously round the room, and added in a whisper—“Gretna
Green, ma’am.”

“Gertna Gern!” exclaimed Mr. Cursty; “whar on yerth be that?”

“Why, I should think it’s about, as near as may be, three hundred and
fifty miles,” added the Detective, nodding his head knowingly, “from
where you’re a sitting on.”

“Waistoma! waistoma! we shall set e’en on t’things never nae mair,”
shouted Mrs. Sandboys, wringing her hands, as she thought of the
“changeless” state of the family.

“And my poor pet! oh, dear!” interjected Elcy.

Mr. Christopher inquired whether they were in safe custody.

“Why, no, sir, we can’t say as how we’ve got ’em in custody, yet. You
see its rayther nasty work making mistakes in matters of this kind.”

“Then wha in t’ neame of guidness had got how’d of t’ guids,” asked the
wife, in a half-frantic state of alarm.

“Oh, you needn’t be under no fears, ma’am; it’s the same foreign party,”
returned the officer, with another familiar jerk of his head, “as bolted
from London with the ‘bit of goods,’ as you says, ma’am.” And here he
gave another wink.

“Oh, then it be as I ’spected, Cursty,” added Mrs. S., “and I suddent
wonder but t’ nasty, filthy wretch has got on, at this verra teyme, yen
of t’ new shirts I bought thee.”

“And what ever will become of my poor, poor pet?” ejaculated Elcy, with
tears in her eyes, for she could think of nothing else but Psyche. “You
don’t happen to know—do you, sir—whether that horrid, horrid foreigner
is treating the dear thing well, and whether he gives her plenty to
eat?”

“Why, for the matter of that, Miss, I think the party a’nt got over much
for hisself,” and as if the information was very important, the
Detective nodded and winked at the young lady several times in
succession.

“Ah, I thought it would be so,” sobbed the young lady, bursting into a
flood of tears, “and after all the pains I had taken to fatten the
darling. Perhaps you might have heard whether that brute of a foreign
gentleman, sir, allowed the dear to continue her flannel jackets; for if
he’s only made her leave them off, I’m sure the poor creature must have
shivered herself all to pieces by this time.”

“Indeed, ma’am!” exclaimed the astonished Detective, who began to think,
from Elcy’s description, that the missing young lady couldn’t be much of
a beauty—and, like the gallant members of the force, he flattered
himself he was a bit of a judge that way; then, as he heard the
broken-hearted girl sob aloud at the thoughts of the sufferings and
appearance of her darling Psyche, he said to Mr. Sandboys, “The young
lady seems to have been wery much attached to t’other one, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Mrs. Sandboys, “she a’ways wud hev her to sleep at t’
fut of her bed, even though I set mey feace again it, lest there might
be a few stray fleas about t’ creatur, you ken.”

The Detective stared with astonishment, and began to think that the
family were all very strange. However, it was easy to tell by their
conversation that they were fresh from the country, and _that_, in his
mind, made allowance for a great deal. If he had not felt convinced,
however, that he had made no mistake in the number of the house, he
might have had some slight suspicion as to his blunder, but as it was,
he attributed the peculiar character of their conversation to an
ignorance of London ways and manners.

“Oh, sir,” Elcy broke out again, “do—pray, do, sir—try and get my poor,
poor pet back for me.”

“Well, Miss, I think we shall be able to oblige you by and by,” returned
the officer, twiddling his bushy whiskers with self-satisfaction; “I
came to tell you——”

“Yes! yes!”

“That we had just had news up by telegraph from one of our men down in
the North, that she was seen yesterday in company with a queer-kind of a
foreign gentleman—the same party, from all as I can learn, as ran away
with her—that is to say, if the description we’ve got is correct. It
says here,”—and he drew from his pocket a paper, which he began
reading,—’female—small and elegant figure.’”

“Yes, sir; yes, sir!” interrupted the anxious Elcy. “She was an Italian,
sir; and one of the most perfect animals ever seen, sir.”

“Well, my instructions don’t say nothing, Miss, about her being of
Italian extraction; but if she came from that there country, it’s quite
sufficient to account for her being what you says, Miss. But my adwices
runs merely—’female—small and elegant figure,’” continued the officer,
reading.

“Wheyte reet,” interrupted Cursty.

“Rayther fresh colour,” added the Detective.

“Yes, sir, we used to call her foxy—and she had one of the most
beautiful coats of her own you ever saw.”

“No, there ain’t a word here about her having any kind of a coat. But I
know, Miss; you means one of them there kind of hairy coats we sees the
females in Regent Street in, now-a-days.”

“And what was very remarkable about her, sir,” continued Elcy, intent
upon the perfections of her lost pet, “was her nose—it was a beauty, I
do assure you—so long and sharp, and then always so nice and cold, even
in the height of summer.”

The Detective could not help smiling at the country girl’s idea of a
beautiful nose, and again referring to his paper, said, half to himself,
“They’ve got it down here as Grecian, but I suppose that’ll do.”

“Then again, sir, she had one of the smallest waists, and, I really
think, the very thinnest legs you could see anywhere.”

The Policeman started with wonder at what he thought the young lady’s
extreme simplicity, and merely observed, “Our people don’t say nothing
about her legs, Miss;” then, turning to Mr. Sandboys, he inquired
whether he had ever known the Italian to go astray before.

“Why, noa,” returned Cursty; “I never kenned her run after owt, with t’
exception of a young hare yence, as she fell in wi’, down Buttermere
way.”

“Ah, that’s what they’ll all do,” observed the Policeman; “they are all
ready enough to run after the young heirs, sir, in town and country,
too,” he added, smiling at his self-conceited severity on the sex; “and
them Italians, I’m told, sir, is shocking warm-blooded creatures.”

“Warm-blooded!” echoed Cursty; “I’se sure, she always seemed cold enough
wi’ us, for she were sheevering and shecking away from mworning tull
neet, for aw the warl’ as if she was a loomp of penter’s seyze,
(painter’s size.) But they be ongracious things to kip; food seems aw
thworn away on ’em.”

“Yes!” said Mrs. Sandboys, indignantly, “though I ’lowanced her as much
as twa pennywuth of meat every day, forby aw the screps from our tebble,
she never did yen onny justice. If yen had hawf starved her, she cuddent
a bin mair thin than she were.”

The larder-loving Policeman could not help thinking to himself that the
allowance was far from being anything to brag about, nor was he much
astonished, now that he was made acquainted with the diet she had been
used to, at the disappearance of the imaginary young lady.

“If it wer’n’t for puir Elcy, here, I meysel suddent car’ sa varra much
if t’ creature never kem back nae mair, for there beant much ’ffection
in them thar Italians. Now it were on’y last year, she’d twa young
ones.”

The Detective started back with astonishment, and began to think that
such a circumstance fully accounted for “the party” having gone off with
the French gentleman on the present occasion.

“Yes, it’s a fact, she had twa young ones, and didn’t sim to car’ a bit
when I drowned them baith in our pond.”

The Policeman no sooner heard the confession of what he believed to be a
case of infanticide, than he exclaimed “Did I understand you, sir, that
_you_—you yourself drowned the poor little things?”

“Yes,” continued the innocent Sandboys, “I thowt she wuddent be yable to
’tend to them, you ken; so, for her seek, I ’termined on putting them
out of t’ way as whietly as I cud.”

The Detective here assumed a solemn tone, and proceeded to caution Mr.
Sandboys after the custom of his craft, telling him that he was not
called upon to criminate himself, and that whatever he might say on the
painful subject would be used in evidence against him on a future
occasion.

It was now Mr. Sandboys’ turn to stare with the same astonishment at the
Detective, as the “man of peace” had a few moments before looked at him.

“What dost tha mean, man, by t’ painful subject, and yens words being
yused in yevidence against yen?” he hastily inquired.

The Policeman made no more ado, but straightway drew his staff from his
hinder pocket, and told Cursty that he arrested him and the whole family
in the Queen’s name; and, to give additional weight to the announcement,
he added, that he was a Detective Officer, in connexion with her
Majesty’s Metropolitan Police.

The words were no sooner out of “the Authority’s” mouth than Mr.
Sandboys, vividly remembering his railway adventure with a pseudo member
of the same respectable body, seized the kitchen poker, which happened
to be in the fire at that moment, and, without a word, proceeded, with
it in his hand, to chase the startled Official round the kitchen table;
but finding it impossible to get within arm’s length of the Policeman
while that article of furniture stood between them, Cursty stopped,
after a few turns, and placed himself before the doorway, with the
red-hot weapon still in his hand, and vowed that the Detective should
not leave the house until he had given him in charge. Mr. Sandboys told
him he had been taken in by that detective trick once before; and though
he and his family _might_ be fresh up from the country, and the
Londoners _might_ think they could impose upon them as they pleased,
still he’d let them see he was a match for them, this time, “for aw
that.”

The self-possessed policeman, finding himself imprisoned, stepped back a
few paces; and, drawing his rattle from his coat-pocket, proceeded to
spring it with all his force in the middle of the kitchen, amid the
shrieks of Mrs. and Miss Sandboys.

In a minute down came the lodgers “of all nations,” in ready answer to
the summons; and scarcely had the “whir-r” finished, before the kitchen
was filled with the “drawing-rooms,” “the second, and third floors,” and
“the garrets” from every quarter of the globe; and among the number was
Mr. Quinine, who was heard to declare that the sudden alarm had thrown
Mrs. Quinine back—it was impossible for him to say to what extent.

Then, of course, came the humiliating explanation in the presence of the
assembled multitude; and there, amidst the laughter “of all
nations,”—for the foreigners, one and all, would have the circumstance
translated to them,—Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys had to make known the whole of
the mistake, and to tell how Cursty was about to be taken into custody
on a charge of infanticide, for having drowned a couple of puppies. By
the time he had finished what theatrical critics term “the
_éclaircissement_ of the _contretemps_” a body of police, attracted to
the spot by the well-known buzz of a distant rattle, swarmed round the
door like blue-bottles round a butcher’s shop, and there they kept
dabbing at the knocker, very much after the same persevering manner as
belongs to beadles accompanying the parish engine to a chimney on fire.

                  *       *       *       *       *

As we said before, while the Sandboys were in the kitchen, anxiously
looking for some tidings touching their luggage, Major Oldschool was,
immediately overhead, impatiently pacing the parlour, and vowing all
manner of vengeance against his niece for having gone off with a “dirty,
beggarly, skinny vagabond of a Frenchman.” The Major was what is termed
a “good hater” of foreigners.

Major Oldschool was a portly little man, who had left one of his legs
behind him in India, where the better part of his life had been spent,
and where, while attacking one of the bamboo forts of the Burmese, he
had been wounded in his knee-cap in such a manner as to necessitate the
amputation of the limb. In figure he was far from commanding; for the
high living of India had given him so strong a tendency to corpulence,
that he had lost sight of his boot for many years. This obesity was a
great annoyance to the Major, and, to keep his fat within due bounds,
his braided blue surtout was made to fit so tight, that you could not
help fancying but that, with the slightest puncture, he would shrivel up
to a mere bit of skin, like an India-rubber ball. Major Oldschool,
withal, had that “highly respectable” appearance which invariably
accompanies the white hair so peculiar to Bankers, Capitalists, and
Pomeranian dogs. It was the Major’s continual boast, that he was grey
before he was thirty; and so proud was he of his silver locks, that he
wore them half over his face, in the form of whiskers and moustachios,
which met at the corners of his mouth, and gave him very much the look
of a gentleman who had been called away in the middle of shaving, and
had the lather still clinging about his lips and cheeks.

Another striking peculiarity of the Major was, that he _would_ wear
tight black stocking-net pantaloons, and _a_ Hessian boot—for the place
of the other boot, ever since he had been wounded, was supplied by a
wooden leg. And it sounded not a little strange to hear him, as the
night drew in, call for his slipp_er_, or, if he fancied he had taken
cold, talk of putting his _foot_ in hot water; and equally curious was
it when his old housekeeper informed him that really his leg was getting
so shabby, he _must_ have it fresh painted. In his bed-room, against the
wall, stood a range of old boots and shoes—all rights and no lefts—one
Hessian, one dancing-pump, and one carpet slipper; and when he sat down
in his chair, his wooden leg stuck out at right angles to his Hessian
boot, so that it had somewhat the appearance of a gun protruding from a
ship’s side.

The Major had no fixed residence, (he had to come up from Bath within
the last few weeks, to be present at the opening of the Great
Exhibition,) but continually floated about the country in the company of
an old housekeeper, who knowing all his ways, and all his whims, had
grown to be quite indispensable to him. Mrs. Coddle was the lady of a
defunct twopenny-postman, and since the death of the respected twopenny,
she had “took to nussing;” but not liking the dormitory accommodations
usual in “the monthly line,” she had been only too glad to avail herself
of the Major’s offer, after having attended him during a severe bilious
fever, to continue in his service in the capacity of housekeeper. And so
effectually had she performed her duties, and so necessary had she made
herself to his comfort, during her short residence with him in that
capacity, that—having a true sense of her value to him—she always made a
point, when she could not get the Major to do just as she pleased, of
threatening to leave him, saying she could see plainly she was not
wanted, and that he could do well enough without her now; and adding, as
she wiped her eyes with the corner of her white apron, that it might be
a severe struggle for her to leave so kind a master as he’d always been
to her, but, at least she’d have the satisfaction of knowing, when she
was gone, that she wouldn’t be a wherreting on him then, no longer.

Mrs. Coddle was a particularly clean-looking, motherly body. She wore
the whitest of caps, with very deep borders, and the cleanest of aprons,
while her cotton gowns were of the neatest of patterns; and though she
was close upon sixty, her cheeks were almost as rosy as baking apples.
To do her justice, she certainly was a mightily pleasant old dame to
look at, and she was just one of those persons who, by saving a
gentleman every kind of trouble in life, and seeing that he has not to
make the least exertion to gratify a single want, manage to beget such a
habit of indolence and dependence in those upon whom they attend, that
their excess of servitude soon gets to assume the character of the
greatest tyranny.

It was the especial care of Mrs. Coddle that the Major should not be
able to stir his foot, or know where to lay his hands upon the least
article of his own property, without first consulting her—not that she
ever allowed him, indeed, to want for anything that he was in the habit
of requiring. His clean linen, well-aired, and his one sock turned down,
were always ready for him to put on, the morning they were due—and
never, since she had been in the house, had a button been known to be
missing, or to come off in the operation of dressing. His pipe was on
the table ready filled for him, so that he could put it in his mouth the
very moment he had finished his breakfast. When he was ready to take his
morning walk, there was his hat well brushed, and a clean pair of
buckskin gloves, resting on the brim—and when he returned, the bootjack
was on the rug, and his slipper nice and warm, inside the fender, so
that he might not suffer from a damp foot. She never troubled him about
what he would have for dinner, for having made herself acquainted with
all his little likings and dislikings, she knew well what to provide,
and how to tickle his palate with a daily change, or to give an extra
relish to the meal with some agreeable surprise; indeed, it was a creed
with her—as with most ladies—that all men were pigs, and that, like
their brother animals at the Zoological Gardens, the only way to prevent
them being savage was to feed them well. And certainly, it must be
confessed, that the Major, like corpulent gentlemen in general, was
particularly fond of what is termed “the fat of the land.”

At night Mrs. Coddle brewed his toddy for him, and knew exactly the
point in the glass up to which to pour the spirit; and when he had taken
his three tumblers, there stood his bed candlestick at his elbow, to
light him to his room; while on his pillow were his nightcap and
night-shirt, ready for him to put on, with the least possible trouble,
and when the bell sounded to tell Mrs. Coddle that the Major was in bed,
the motherly old dame would come and take his candle—light his
rushlight—and see whether he was quite comfortable, before leaving him
for the night.

Mrs. Coddle, moreover, made herself useful to her master as a kind of
invisible mistress of the ceremonies. Major Oldschool’s long absence
from England, and the alteration of many of the points of politeness,
since he was a “blood upon town,” placed the officer in considerable
doubt as to how he ought to behave in the presence of company. Mrs.
Coddle had “nussed,” to use the lady’s own words, “in the fust of
families,” for her connexion, as she said, being only among carriage
people, she had helped to bring no less than four cornets into the world
in her time, and, she was happy to say, as there weren’t one child among
all her babbies (she had, in her own peculiar language, had as many as
nine confinements every year since poor dear Mr. Coddle’s death), she
was happy to say, as “there wasn’t one child of her nussing what could
be called wulgar born.” Accordingly, Mrs. Coddle considered herself so
well versed in all the social etiquette of the day, that she acted in
the capacity of fashionable governess to the Major, paying particular
attention to his “manners,” and taking care that he made what she termed
“no holes in ’em afore wisitors.” If the Major had a friend to tea with
him, she was continually bobbing in and out of the room, with some
excuse or other, just to see how he was “behaving hisself;” and as she
passed behind his chair, she would whisper in his ear, “Don’t drink your
tea out of your sarcer,—you know I told you scores of times it aint
perlite.” At dinner, while waiting upon him, she would say at one
moment, as she saw him commit one after another the several little
improprieties of the table, “There you are again, eating your fish with
your knife—how often am I to tell you it’s wulgar?” at another, she
would exclaim, “Now, Major, why will you keep scraping your plate round
and round in that there manner, when if there’s one thing that is more
ongenteeler than another, that’s it;” then as she saw him about to lift
the glass to his lips, she would take hold of his arm, and beg of him to
swallow his “victuals” first, saying, he had a dreadful habit of
drinking with his mouth full, and that was the most wulgarest trick of
all the tricks he had.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Now, while the scene previously described was going on down stairs in
the kitchen, another single knock “came” to the door. It was one of the
under-clerks from the railway station who had just “stepped on” to
inform the gentleman from the country that his boxes had come safely to
hand. The Official, however, had no time to deliver his message; for the
Major, who occupied the parlours, and who had just returned from his
morning’s walk, overhearing some one in the passage say that he had come
about something that was missing, popped his white head out of the
parlour door, and making sure that some clue had been obtained to his
runaway niece, requested the young man to step that way.

“So, I suppose you’ve come to tell me, you’ve got hold of that precious
baggage of mine at last, eh?” said the Major, as he paced up and down
the room with delight, and made the floor shake again with the tread of
his wooden leg.

“Yes, sir; they was bwought up by the fust twain this morning, sir,”
said the little gent, as he sucked the horse’s hoof that did duty for a
handle to his short stick. “And a ware lot you have, sir!” added the
young man, smiling, half in joke, at recollection of the
three-and-twenty packages.

“Ah! a rare lot, indeed!” returned the Major, between his teeth, as he
sighed, and thought of the disgrace brought upon the family by the
conduct of his niece. “Never was such a lot, I think.”

“Why, certingly, sir,” replied the “fast” young clerk, who thought it
“spicy” not to be able to sound the r’s properly, “it ain’t the wegular
caper, certingly. But your lady, like the west of them, sir, pewaps
likes to twavel well pewided. You know, sir, when they’re coming up to
the metwopolis, the ladies always will have a change or two.”

“A change or two! hang me, if I don’t think they’re always changing!”
exclaimed the Major, alluding to the inconstancy rather than the love of
dress, which even the advocates of the “rights of women” allow to be a
distinguishing feature of the sex. “Now, I shouldn’t wonder but what,
with all these foreigners here, you have many ‘missing’ cases at your
place!”

“Oh, sir, vewy many cases missing, indeed; and some of ’em woth a good
sum. Why, there was one wun off with, the other day, chock full of
jewels, sir,” added the communicative little clerk, who was delighted to
show off his importance.

“I don’t doubt you, my good sir; those foreign beggars are devils after
the tin,” returned the French-hating Major.

“Oh, yes, most of the missing cases with us are tin cases, I can assure
you, sir; the others, sir, are hardly worth the fellows looking after,
you know; and the worst of it is, sir, that fwequently they bweak their
heads, and plunder them of all that’s valuable belonging to ’em; and
then, maybe, they chuck ’em into the first river they come to.”

“Bless my soul, you don’t say so!” cried the horrified Major; “and these
things going on about us in the nineteenth century!”

“But you need be under no alarm about your lot, sir; we’ve looked well
to ’em, and seen that they’re pwoperly secured.”

“Well, come, that’s right—that’s some little consolation, at any rate,”
exclaimed Major Oldschool, rubbing his hands.

“Yes, sir,” proceeded the loquacious railway clerk, “we’ve had the
biggest done up in stout cords—’cause we were wather afwaid of him, on
account of his twemendous size and weight.”

“Oh, indeed! What, he’s one of your big heavy fellows, is he?—and
covered with hair, of course?”

The railway official, fancying the Major referred to one of the boxes,
replied, glibly, “A wegular hair twunk, sir, and no mistake!”

“Well, I only hope you’ll keep the foreign puppy tied up safe, until I
can give him in charge to those who will take good care of him, I
warrant,” remarked the Major, still referring to the mustachioed Count.

The clerk, however, took the word puppy in its literal sense, and
alluding to the greyhound, said—

“Don’t make yourself uneasy on that score, sir; we’ve got a cord wound
the animal’s neck, and it’s quite impossible for the cweature to get
away. We’ve given him some bwead and water, sir, so that he wont hurt
for a little while.”

“That’s all right, then,” responded Major Oldschool; “bread and water’s
quite good enough for him.”

“I can assure you, sir, he’s considered such a handsome dog by all the
ladies as has seen him since his awival, that it’s been as much as we
could do to get some of them away fwom him, for they, one and all,
declare that he’s the most beautiful Italian they’ve ever beheld, and
that they’ve half a mind to wun away with the pet.”

“Well,” exclaimed the Major, “hang me if I can see what the women can
find to admire in the filthy hairy brutes.”

“They say, sir,” replied the official, “he’s so wemarkably elegant, and
such a beautiful foxy colour. A lady of title, I can assure you, sir,
told me this vewy morning, that if the beautiful dog was hers, the pet
should have nothing but chickens to eat, because meat, she said, always
made their bweath foul.”

Here the Major raved and stormed against the fair sex in general, and
his niece in particular, in such a manner as made the youthful Official
stare again in wonder, at the apparent unmeaningness of his conduct.

When the gentleman had grown a little calm, the clerk ventured, before
taking his leave, to say he was instructed to wequest him to send for
that baggage of his as soon as possible.

Now, the Major, however irate he might have felt against his runaway
niece, was in no way inclined to permit a stranger to apply such a term
to a female member of his family. The consequence was, that the words
were no sooner uttered, than the exasperated soldier rushed at the
terrified young clerk, and shaking him violently by the collar, demanded
to know what he meant by “baggage.”

The youth was only able to stammer out that he alluded to his “heap,” up
at their place.

The term “heap,” applied to a lady, only served to increase the fury of
the Major; so releasing his hold of the young gentleman’s collar, he
proceeded to kick him round and round the room with his wooden leg.

At this moment, the sound of the policeman’s rattle, and the shrieks of
the ladies, were heard from below, and the astonished Major stood for a
minute with his wooden leg suspended horizontally in the air, while the
terrified young clerk for an instant ceased to fly before the enraged
“man of war.” The Major, forgetting his anger in the alarm, hurried down
stairs as fast as his wooden leg would carry him; while the little
railway official no sooner saw the Major turn the corner of the kitchen
stairs, than he retreated rapidly to the street-door, and once safely on
the step, proceeded to make the best use of his heels.

The neighbouring policeman, however, who, in answer to the sound of the
rattle, came streaming in all directions towards the spot, observing the
youth flying from the premises, and naturally viewing the circumstance
as of a most suspicious character, raised a cry of “Stop thief!” and
gave immediate chase to the terrified little Clerk. For a minute, the
railway hobbledehoy was undecided as to his course of action. As he
scampered along, he knew not what to do; to go back was to brave the
terrors of the Major’s wooden leg—while to proceed, was to be hunted
through the London streets as a pickpocket. However, his mind was soon
made up, for seeing in the distance a fashionably dressed young lady,
whose acquaintance he had made at Cremorne, he could not bring himself
to pass her at full speed, with a crowd at his heels, so he turned back
and ran into the arms of the posterior policeman, by whom he was
instantly collared, and dragged towards the house he had left, with a
crowd of boys in his wake.

The scene that followed has already been half described. The explosion
of the double-barrelled blunder was soon over; and then the little
railway clerk was welcomed by the Sandboys as heartily as he had been
kicked by the Major, while the Detective was as well received by the
Major, as he had been insulted by the Sandboys.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER IX.

               “Oh, man! oh, man! what pity ’tis,
                That what we whop our heeghest bliss
                Sud disappoint us; nay, what’s worse,
                Sae oft turns out a real curse.
                It shows man’s want o’ fworeseeght truly,
                In not consideran’ matters duly.”
                                             _Tom Knott._


THE delight of the Sandboys at the recovery of their luggage was not
altogether unbroken. If Mrs. Cursty was overjoyed at the prospect of a
“change of linen,” still her joy was considerably alloyed with fear at
the continued absence of her dear Jobby. If Elcy rejoiced exceedingly at
the discovery of her pet Psyche, she was, nevertheless, deeply afflicted
at the thought of some misfortune having befallen her brother.

The same family consultation as had been previously held concerning the
discovery of the missing luggage was now renewed, as to the best mode of
finding the absent boy. Mrs. Sandboys requested to know whether she
couldn’t have him cried.

Cursty, however, was for putting an advertisement in the _Times_ such as
that newspaper-loving gentleman had seen continually in the same column
of the leading journal, running—

         “IF THIS SHOULD MEET THE EYE OF J. S., OF BUTTERMERE,

he is requested to return to his disconsolate parents immediately.”

But Mrs. Fokesell suggested that, according to all accounts, the boy
would be but too glad to come back directly, if he only knew the way.

This was more than the philosophy of Mr. Sandboys had calculated for. He
saw the force of the argument, and, consequently, modified his plan of
action into a proposal to have a hundred or two of bills printed,
headed—

                      “MISSING—A YOUNG GENTLEMAN,”

And, after giving a full and flattering description of the lad, to wind
up by announcing that any one who should bring him to Mrs. Fokesell’s
house, should be HANDSOMELY REWARDED for their trouble.

The latter proposition being considered to be unobjectionable by Mrs.
Fokesell, Postlethwaite was had in, and the copy of the wished-for bill
having been written out, amidst considerable altercation on Mrs.
Sandboy’s part as to the personal characteristics of the youth, the deaf
serving-man was, after much shouting, made to understand that he was to
take the document to a printer’s in an adjoining street, and leave it
there with the note that Elcy, to prevent accidents, had written to the
head of the establishment, requesting him to have the bills printed and
circulated throughout the metropolis, with as little delay as possible.

Postlethwaite was again shouted at so as to make him understand the road
he had to follow; but from the odd jumble that, owing to his imperfect
hearing, he made of the names of the different streets, it was deemed
advisable that the several turnings he had to take, and the names of the
various thoroughfares he had to traverse, should be written down for
him, and _then_ he could make no blunder.

The list having been prepared, the poor deaf man was started on his
errand. But no sooner did the wretched individual emerge into the
Strand, than the crowd and hurry of the dense throng that streamed
along, half in one direction and half in another, so bewildered him,
that, as he stood to look at the names of the streets, he was twisted
round and round, first this way and then the other, by the impatient
passengers; so that, what with the novelty of the scene he felt at the
sight of so many vehicles whose approach he knew he could not hear, and
what with the jostlings of the people, and the vertigo superinduced by
the continual gyrations that he was forced to make by the crowd, the
poor man got so confused in his mind, that in a few minutes it was
impossible for him to tell which way he had come or whither he was
going, and the consequence was that, with the best possible desire to go
right, he proceeded in the very opposite direction to that which he had
been instructed to follow.

It was useless for the poor deaf beetle-like countryman to ask his way
of any of the strangers; for even in the stillness of home it required
the lungs of a Surrey tragedian to make him comprehend what was said;
but, amid all the roar of the commercial tide of London, it was sheer
waste of breath to endeavour to make the least impression on his
leathery tympanum. Moreover, like the generality of people who are a
“little” hard of hearing, he was so eager to hide his infirmity, and to
put those addressing him to as little extra trouble as possible, that he
was always ready to catch at half a meaning, and consequently, from some
faint analogy in the sound, was continually putting constructions on
what was said that were diametrically different from what was intended.

Hence it was but natural, when poor Postlethwaite requested of the
passers-by to be put in the right way towards his destination, that he
was, owing either to his own infirmity, or to the wickedness of the
London boys, invariably sent in the wrong.

And here, in the midst of the London crowd and London roguery, tossed
about from street to lane, from lane to square, and from square again to
park, we must for awhile leave the bewildered and melancholy serving-man
wandering—like Mr. Leigh Hunt’s memorable pig—up “all manner of
streets.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

Postlethwaite had not been gone long when a policeman brought Jobby back
to his temporary home, but in a very different state from that in which
he had left it. Mrs. Sandboys herself had to look at him twice before
she could make up her mind that another shameful trick was not about to
be practised upon her in the form of a false case of affiliation.

The new suit of clothes which his mother had purchased for the youth at
Cockermouth was gone, and in its place he now wore a man’s ragged old
pea-jacket—once blue, but now foxy with age—and a pair of trousers as
wide as windsails, and smeared with tar, so that they bore a strong
resemblance to coal-sacks; while on his head was a dirty old straw-hat,
with a low crown and broad brim, that reminded one strongly of an
inverted soup-plate. The jacket was tied together at the button-holes by
bits of rope-yarn; for the miserable young gentleman had no shirt to his
back, nor had a shoe or a stocking to his feet.

The truth was, as the policeman proceeded to explain to his terrified
mother, Master Jobby had been what in the eastern districts of the
Metropolis is technically termed “skinned.”

The lad’s story was soon told. Led on by the delight of the posturers’
performance, he had followed the “School of Acrobats” for miles. Then he
had suddenly lighted upon a Punch and Judy Show, and this had so tickled
his boyish fancy, that he wandered with it half over London. After this,
a street-band of Ethiopian serenaders had bewitched him; their
lamp-black faces, their white-paper wristbands and collars, and their
fuzzy horsehair wigs, together with the banjos and kettle-drums, and the
rattle of the bones, and the chuckle of the nigger-laugh,—all were so
new and strange to the boy, that he travelled after them in all
directions. Then, as he was growing footsore with his long rambles, an
engine at full speed, with the horses galloping, and the firemen in
their shiny helmets seated along each side of the machine, went tearing
past; and when Jobby saw the people hurry after it, he, too, joined in
the crowd. As he ran along, he asked some of the mob who accompanied
him, what it all meant; and learning that a fire was raging down at
Shadwell, he hurried on the quicker and the lighter to see the sight.
But though he kept up with the crowd through many a street and past many
a turning, yet, when he reached the Docks, he began to feel so weary,
while the sight of the forest of masts showing above the walls and
roofs, so took his boyish fancy, that he came to a dead halt, and
letting the engine go on its way, entered the gates of the London Docks.

Here he strolled about, now stopping to listen to the song of the
labourers as they tramped round the wheels that lifted the goods from
the vessels alongside the quay; then he wandered to the sugar-houses,
and watched the coopers within mending the broken casks; and stood some
time at the door, placing his foot stealthily on the sticky floor,
coated, as with tar, with the drainings of the casks. Hence he sauntered
to the bridges, and there he loved to stand while the iron viaduct was
swung back with him and the other loiterers upon it, to make way for
some huge emigrant ship, that presently glided through, with its decks
littered with ropes and packages, and the passengers grouped at the
stern, nodding and waving their handkerchiefs to their friends down upon
the quay. Thus Jobby passed the time till the hour came for all to
leave; and then, following the stream of labourers, he reached the
gates, and there, having watched the workmen pass one by one, in a long
file, through the narrow doorway, while the officers hastily searched
each as he went past, the youth turned out into the streets once more,
ignorant where he was, or which way to go to reach his home.

Now, too, the excitement being over, the youth began for the first time
to feel how tired and hungry he was, and to think of the distance he had
travelled. It was impossible for him to remember the road by which he
had come, so he asked a boy to direct him back to the Strand. The London
lad, seeing that Jobby was fresh from the country, made up his mind to
have a bit of fun with him, and directed him down some of the many
courts and alleys which abound in that locality, and which generally end
in “no thoroughfare.”

The unsuspecting Jobby went on his way as he was bid; and when he found,
on coming to the end of the last court, that a trick had been played
upon him, weary and famishing as he was, the poor lad could not help
seating himself on the door-step of the nearest house, and bursting into
a flood of tears.

Here the wretched youth was soon espied by one of the female inmates,
who, seeing that he was well dressed, invited him in, and drew from him,
without much difficulty, the whole story of his troubles. She offered
him some ale, telling him that a draught of it would be sure to refresh
him, and help him on his journey. The simple lad thankfully received a
mug of the drink, but had scarcely swallowed it, before his chin fell
with a sudden drowsiness upon his bosom; and though he started up and
tried to shake the sleepiness off, it was too much for him; and in a few
minutes he was dead asleep in the chair.

Jobby could remember no further, save that, on waking, he found himself
in a wretched, damp, dirty room, lying on the sacking of a bare
bedstead, and on looking for his clothes, he discovered that they had
been stolen, and the ragged ones he now wore left in their place. He was
too frightened to recollect how he had got away from the house, or found
his way out of the courts. All he knew was, that on reaching the open
street, he had placed himself under the protection of the first
policeman he could meet, who returned with the boy to see if he could
find out the house again, but in vain. The many windings and turnings of
the courts so confused the country lad, that it was impossible for him
to recall the way he had gone. After this, the policeman had taken him
to the station, where the superintendent had given orders to one of the
men to accompany him home.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Sandboys was too glad to have her darling boy with her once again
to feel inclined either to grieve or scold overmuch about his
adventures; besides, she now knew the luggage would arrive in a few
hours, and then he and the rest of the family could be made clean and
sweet, which, she began to think, they were far from being at that
present moment.

Mr. Sandboys, too, was not so much annoyed at the occurrence as might
have been expected. Not only was he delighted at the boy’s return, but
he felt a kind of inward satisfaction to find that his long-cherished
theory as to the wickedness of the great Metropolis was being, in all
its particulars, so fully borne out. He had foreseen, he said, every
occurrence that had happened, but they had only themselves to blame. He
had fully warned them of all they had to undergo; and, in his opinion—if
he knew anything at all about the rogueries of London—they had not yet
gone through one tithe of the troubles that were in store for them.

Cursty’s sermonizing was at last cut short by the arrival of the long
looked-for luggage. Then Mrs. Sandboys was in her glory. If ladies
delight in the synthetical operation of packing, they certainly find an
equal delight in the analytical process of unpacking—even as children
take pleasure in building up their card-houses, and a like pleasure in
blowing them down again.

It was not long before Mrs. Sandboys, with Elcy at her elbow, was down
on her knees in the kitchen, in front of a long open box, counting the
several articles enumerated on a piece of paper gummed to the lid, to
satisfy herself that none had been abstracted during their absence. And
as she examined the state of her best caps and bonnets, she found them
so tumbled, that she felt thoroughly convinced they had been worn by
some parties—the wives of the railway men, she had no doubt—or why, as
she said, should they have kept them so long on the way?

Nor was the pleasure of going over “her things” confined to Mrs.
Sandboys alone, for even the maid and Mrs. Fokesell, though in no way
concerned, seemed to experience a similar delight in the operation; for
there they stood by her side, watching and admiring every article as she
took it from the box.

At length, having looked out the much-wished-for, or rather, according
to the lady, the much-wanted “change,” for the whole family, she gave
them each their bundle of clean clothes, and having arranged with Mrs.
Fokesell that they might be allowed the use of the back attic, as a
temporary dressing-room, during the absence of the German Baron and his
lady, Cursty was started up stairs and told by his wife to make as much
haste as possible, for really she was getting alarmed about
Postlethwaite, and she wanted Mr. Sandboys immediately that he had
“tidied” himself to step round to the printer’s and try and learn
whatever had become of the poor man.

In a few minutes Mr. Sandboys returned to the kitchen, clad in his best
suit, to receive the opinion of his wife as to the improved character of
his appearance. Mrs. Sandboys twisted her “guidman” round and round,
tried to pull the wrinkles out of his coat behind, pinched up the frill
of his shirt, and ultimately pronounced that she thought he would do—at
least, thank guidness, she said he was clean and sweet once more. Then,
having kissed him, she despatched him on his errand after the deaf
Postlethwaite.

Mrs. Sandboys was still engaged in the interesting process of unpacking
her trunks in the kitchen, when a hawker of flowers, with a basket of
all colours on his head, stopped before the railings, and observing the
lady down stairs, immediately commenced crying—“Fine flowers!
sweet-scented flowers! handsome flowers!—all a-blowing—all a-growing!”

Elcy, observing the bright scarlet blossoms of the geraniums, and the
long crimson drops of the fuchsias swinging backwards and forwards in
the wind, and the pink balls of roses, nodding at every motion of the
huckster’s head, called out to her mother to come and see what beautiful
plants the man had got.

The street-seller no sooner caught sight of Mrs. Sandboys, than he
shouted again—“Fine flowers! sweet-scented flowers. Take any old clothes
for ’em, ma’am. You may have the pick of the basket for an old coat.”

Mrs. Sandboys shook her head, but the street-seller seeing her still
look up, put his basket down on the pavement, and began trying to have a
deal with her down the area railings.

“Now’s your time, ladies,” he cried, “you can have this here moss-rose
for an old weskit, or a pair of satin shoes. Now’s your time, ladies;
all a-blowing! all a-growing!”

Elcy, at her mother’s request, stepped out into the area to tell the man
that they didn’t want any.

But the cunning dealer having once got the girl into conversation,
handed her down a pot of mignionette, and begged her just to put her
nose to that there. As she sniffed at the fragrant flowers, the man said
he’d accept of anything, he didn’t mind what it was, how old or how
dirty, for he had not taken a penny all that day. “Any old trowsers,
Miss, if you’ll tell your ma, or an old hat, or a pair of boots—it’s all
the same, Miss; though they a’n’t no use to you, they’re as good as
money to us. Take that there pot in to your ma, Miss, and ax her just to
put her nose to it, and then say whether she doesn’t think such a
nosegay as that there a’n’t worth an old straw bonnet, or some white
linen rags.”

Elcy trotted in with the plant, vowing that she had never in all her
life seen such beautiful flowers as the man had in his basket,—the
geraniums quite made her eyes ache to look at them; and then she told
her mother that the man said he would take anything for them, even old
rags.

The novelty of the transaction, the beauty of the plants, and the
seeming wonderful cheapness of them, all produced such an effect upon
Mrs. Sandboy’s mind, that she began to consider what useless article she
had with her that she could offer the man in exchange for one of them.

After much cogitation, they both came to the conclusion that the
trowsers which Mr. Sandboys had worn in the morning were too shabby for
him to put on in London; they were the “old things” said his wife, which
he had split to pieces in going after that tiresome pig, and which, on
second thoughts, she had considered quite good enough for him to travel
in; and now, as the new ones she had bought him at Cockermouth had come
to hand, why, there was no necessity for her keeping the others any
longer; and she knew very well, unless she got rid of the nasty, shabby
old things, Cursty would be making his appearance in them some day;
whereas if she took them out in flowers, it would prevent his ever
wearing them again.

The determination once formed, Mrs. Sandboys motioned the flower-seller
to the street-door, while Elcy was despatched to fetch the trowsers that
her father had recently taken off.

The street-seller, on seeing the garments, declared that they were
hardly worth putting in his basket, and carrying home. “If the lady had
got an old coat, he’d let her have that there handsome fuchsia for it,
’cause the skirts was valuable—let it be ever so much worn—for making
cloth caps for boys, and the officers in the army; or, he wouldn’t mind
chucking in that partic’lar fine ’artsease for an old weskit, for _they_
came in handy for parsons’ gaiters, but trowsers was no account at all;
however, he didn’t like to be hard with the ladies so he’d give ’em that
there lovely Chaney rose for the trowsers and a silver sixpence.”

Mrs. Sandboys, however, was woman of the world enough to be a good
bargainer; so, as fast as the huckster decried her husband’s old
breeches, she did the same for the street-seller’s flowers. In due
commercial style each professed to be equally careless about dealing
with the other, and yet each was equally anxious for the bargain.

At length, after much haggling, it was agreed that Mrs. Sandboys should
have a pot of mignionette and a couple of cut moss-roses for the
garment; whereupon the old trowsers were transferred to the
flower-seller’s long black bag, and the flowers to the care of Mrs.
Sandboys.

Immediately the man had closed the door, the native of Buttermere
hastened to Mrs. Fokesell to show her the bargain she had effected; and
while the ladies were engaged in sniffing one after another at the
delicious perfume of the blossoms, a violent knock came to the door, and
in a minute the breathless Mr. Sandboys stood panting before his wife.

Presently he explained, by snatches between his gasps, how he had got
into an omnibus on his way to the station-house to which Jobby had been
taken by the policeman, for, as he said, he considered that would be the
best place to obtain tidings of any missing party—and how, after having
ridden a short distance, he had put his hand into his pocket to feel for
his money, and discovered to his horror that he had come out without
any. The consequence was, he proceeded to say, that he had to stop the
’artsease and acquaint the conductor with his misfortune; whereupon the
man abused him in the most shameful manner, and collared him in the
middle of the road, saying he was a hoary-headed old cheat, and it would
serve him right if he knocked his head off his shoulders, as a lesson to
him for the future—and Mr. Sandboys wound up by declaring he verily
believed the fellow would have done it, too, if it hadn’t been that, as
luck would have it, he had taken his silk umbrella with him; which,
after a good deal of trouble, he had got the man to consent to hold as
security for the fare.

When Mr. Sandboys had finished his story, his wife asked him how he
could be such a simpleton as to leave his money behind him, and
requested to be informed where he had it.

“In t’ pockets of mey auld breeks,” responded the innocent Cursty.

The words came upon his dear Aggy like a thunderclap. As the lady said
afterwards, “any one might have knocked her down with a feather.” Elcy
stared at her mother, and the mother stared at the daughter, in a maze
of bewilderment. Neither liked to confess the truth to Cursty, and yet
to delay doing so was every minute to diminish the probability of
obtaining possession of the precious garments again.

At length Mrs. Sandboys _did_ venture to break the matter to her
husband. She told him she had disposed of his trowsers only a few
moments before his return for a pot of mignionette and a couple of moss
roses.

“Well, Aggy,” cried Cursty, when he had recovered from the first shock,
“thee’ll have to suffer for’t as well as meysel for forty t’ notes I’d
got in t’ pocket-book, thar was thy marriage lines that thee wud mek me
bring up wi’ me, to show thee wast an honest woman, if ever thee sud
want as much.”

“Waistoma! waistoma!” cried poor Mrs. Sandboys, when she heard of this,
to her, the greatest loss of all. At first she raved against London, and
London people, and London wickedness. Then she declared it was all
Cursty’s fault, and owing to his nasty idle habits of never emptying his
pockets, when he changed his clothes, but leaving everything to her to
do. Next, she vowed she would go back to Buttermere that very night, for
nothing but misery had befallen her ever since they had made up their
mind to enjoy themselves.

However, when her anger had somewhat exhausted itself, she entreated her
own dear Cursty to hasten after the flower-seller. The man could not be
far off, unless he had discovered the prize he had got, and decamped
with it to some other part of the town; but she was almost certain he
had not felt anything in the pockets at the time he was looking the
trowsers over in the passage, or else he would have been more anxious to
have purchased them than he was.

Mr. Sandboys she directed to go one way, and Jobby another; for if her
marriage lines were really gone, it was impossible to tell what might
happen.

In obedience to her commands, Cursty and Jobby were soon out of the
house, exploring every street and corner in quest of the flower-seller.

And here, we must, reader, for the present drop the curtain.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                               CHAPTER X.

               “Here mirth and merchandise are mix’d,
                 There trick wi’ tumult rages;
                Here fraud an’ ignorance are fix’d,
                 An’ sense wi’ craft engages.

                   *    *    *    *    *

               “Here pedlars frae a’ pairts repair,
                 Beath Yorkshire beytes and Scotch fwoak;
                An’ Paddeys wi’ their feyne lin’ ware,
                 Tho’ a’ deseyned to botch fwoak.

                   *    *    *    *    *

               “Here’s Yorkshire impudence, d’e see,
                 Advancin’ for a brek,
                Just askin’ threyce as much as he
                 Kens he’ll consent to tek.
                ‘Here, maister, buy a coat cloith here,
                 Ye’s have it chep, believe me;
                ’Tis of the foinest ’ool, I swear.
                 Mon, think ye I’d deceive ye?’”
                            _Rosley Fair, by John Stagg._


WE left Mr. Sandboys engaged in the interesting occupation of hunting
after his lost inexpressibles—the very inexpressibles which his wife had
mended previous to his departure from Buttermere, and which that lady
had since exchanged, together with forty pounds in bank notes and her
own marriage certificate in the pockets, for a pot of mignionette and a
couple of cut roses.

His son Jobby, too, was employed upon the same agreeable mission; but
the researches of the youth were neither vigorous nor profitable, for
remembering the unpleasant issue of his previous wanderings in the
metropolis, he feared to travel far from the domestic precincts of
Craven Street, lest his rambles might end in his being flayed; stripped
of his cloth cuticle—his sartorial integuments, once more; the timid boy
therefore kept pacing to and fro within view of his own knocker, or if
he allowed the domestic door-step to fade from his sight, he did so only
when at the heels of the proximate Policeman.

Mr. Cursty, however, was far more venturesome. He thought of his lost
bank notes and missing marriage certificate, and what with the matter o’
money and the matrimony, he rushed on, determined not to leave a paving
nor a flag-stone untrodden throughout the streets of London, till he
regained possession of his lost treasures. So away he went, as the north
country people say, “tappy lappy,” with his coat laps flying
“helter-skelter,” as if he were “heighty-flighty.”

Up and down, in and out of all the neighbouring streets he hurried,
stopping only to ask of the passers-by whether they had met a hawker of
flowers on their way. Not a public-house in the neighbourhood but he
entered to search and inquire after the missing flower-seller; and when
he had explored every adjacent thoroughfare, and bar, and taproom, and,
after all, grown none the wiser, and got none the nearer to the
whereabouts of the floral “distributor,” he proceeded to unbosom himself
respecting the nature and extent of his losses to the police on duty,
and to consult with them as to the best means of recovering his notes
and “marriage lines.”

All the “authorities” whom he spoke to on the subject, agreed that the
only chance he had of ever again setting eyes on his property, was of
proceeding direct to the Old Clothes Exchange in Houndsditch, whither
the purchasers of the united “left off wearing apparel” of the
metropolis and its suburbs daily resort, to get “the best price given
for their old rags.”

Accordingly, Mr. Cursty Sandboys, having minutely copied down, in order
to prevent mistakes—for his care increased with each fresh disaster—the
name and description of the locality which he was advised to explore,
called a cab, and directed the driver to convey him, with all possible
speed, to the quarter in which the left-off apparel market was situated.

He was not long in reaching the desired spot. The cabman drew up at the
end of the narrow passage leading to the most fashionable of the Old
Clothes Marts, and Mr. Sandboys having paid the driver well for the
haste he had made, proceeded at once to plunge into the vortex of the
musty market.

Outside the gateway stood the celebrated “Barney Aaron,” the hook-nosed
janitor, with his hook-nosed son by his side—the father ready to receive
the halfpenny toll from each of the buyers and sellers as he entered the
Exchange, and the youth with a leathern pouch filled with “coppers,” to
give as change for any silver that might be tendered.

As Cursty passed through the gate, the stench of the congregated old
clothes and rags and hareskins was almost overpowering. The place stank
like a close damp cellar. There was that peculiar sour smell in the
atmosphere which appertains to stale infants, blended with the mildewy
odour of what is termed “mother”—a mixture of mouldiness, mustiness, and
fustiness, that was far from pleasant in the nostrils.

Scarcely had Cursty entered the Mart before he was surrounded by some
half-dozen eager Jews, some with long grizzly beards, and others in
greasy gaberdines—each seizing him by the arm, or pulling him by his
coat, or tapping him on the shoulder, as they one and all clamoured for
a sight of whatever he might have to sell.

“Ha’ you cot any preaking?” asked one who bought old coats to cut up
into cloth caps—“cot any fushtian—old cordsh—or old pootsh?”

“I’m shure you’ve shometing vot will shoot me,” cried another.

“You know me,” said a third—“I’m little Ikey, the pest of puyersh, and
always give a cood prishe.”

Such was the anxiety and eagerness of the Israelites, that it was more
than Mr. Sandboys could do to force his way through them, and it was not
until a new-comer entered with a sack at his back, that they left him to
hurry off and feel the old clothes-bag, as they clamoured for first peep
at its contents.

Once in the body of the Market, Cursty had time to look well about him,
and a curious sight it was—perhaps one of the most curious in all
London. He had never heard, never dreamt of there being such a place. A
greater bustle and eagerness appear to rage among the buyers of the
refuse of London, than among the traders in its most valuable
commodities.

Here, ranged on long narrow wooden benches, which extended from one side
of the market to the other, and over which sloped a narrow, eaves-like
roofing, that projected sufficiently forward only to shelter the sitter
from the rain, were to be seen the many merchants of the streets—the
buyers of hareskins—the bone-grubbers, and the rag-gatherers—the
“bluey-hunters,” or juvenile purloiners of lead—the bottle
collectors—the barterers of crockery-ware for old clothes—the
flower-swoppers—the umbrella menders—and all the motley fraternity of
petty dealers and chapmen. Each had his store of old clothes—or metal—or
boots—or rags—or bonnets—or hats—or bottles—or hareskins—or umbrellas,
spread out in a heap before him.

There sat a barterer of crockery and china, in a bright red plush
waistcoat and knee breeches, with legs like balustrades, beside his
half-emptied basket of “stone-ware,” while at his feet lay piled the
apparently worthless heap of rags and tatters, for which he had
exchanged his jugs, and cups, and basins. A few yards from him was a
woman done up in a coachman’s drab and many-caped box-coat, with a pair
of men’s cloth boots on her feet, and her limp-looking straw-bonnet
flattened down on her head, as if with repeated loads, while the ground
near her was strewn with hareskins, some old and so stiff that they
seemed frozen, and the fresher ones looking shiny and crimson as tinsel.
Before this man was a small mound of old cracked boots, dappled with
specks of mildew—beside that one lay a hillock of washed-out light
waistcoats, and yellow stays, and straw bonnets half in shreds. Farther
on was a black-chinned and lantern-jawed bone-grubber, clad in dirty
greasy rags, with his wallet emptied on the stones, and the bones and
bits of old iron and pieces of rags that he had gathered in his day’s
search, each sorted into different piles before him; and as he sat
waiting anxiously for a purchaser, he chewed a piece of mouldy
pie-crust, that he had picked up or had given him on his rounds. In one
part of the Exchange was to be perceived some well-known tinker behind a
heap of old battered saucepans or metal tea-pots, side by side with an
umbrella mender, in front of whom lay a store of whalebone ribs and
sticks. In another quarter might be seen the familiar face of some
popular peep-showman, with his “back-show” on the form on one side of
him, while on the other were ranged the physic phials and wine bottles
and glass pickle jars that he had taken of the children for a sight at
his exhibition; and next to him was located a flower-seller, with his
basket emptied of all its blooming and fragrant contents, with the
exception of one or two of the more expensive plants, and the places of
the missing flowers filled with coats, waistcoats, boots, and hats.

To walk down the various passages between the seats, and run the eye
over the several heaps of refuse, piled on the ground like treasure, was
to set the mind wondering as to what could possibly be the uses of each
and every of them. Everything there seemed to have fulfilled to the very
utmost the office for which it was made; and now that its functions were
finished, and it seemed to be utterly worthless, the novice to such
scenes could not refrain from marvelling what remaining purpose could
possibly give value to “the rubbish.”

The buyers, too, were as picturesque and motley a group almost as were
the sellers—for the purchasers were of all nations, and habited in every
description of costume. Some were Greeks, others were Swiss, while
others were Germans. Some had come there to buy up the old rough charity
clothing, and the army grey great-coats, for the “Irish” market; others
had come to purchase the hareskins or old furs, or to give “the best
price” for old tea-pots and tea-urns. One man, with a long flowing beard
and greasy tattered gaberdine, was said to be worth thousands; thither
he had come to add another sixpence to his hoard, by dabbling in the
rags and refuse, strewn about the ground in heaps, for sale: others were
there to purchase the old Wellingtons, and to have them new-fronted or
their cracks heel-balled over, and then vended to clerks, who are
“expected to appear respectable” on the smallest salaries. That Jewess
is intent on buying up the left-off wardrobes “of the nobility,” so as
to dispose of the faded finery to the actresses of the minor theatres,
or the “gay” ladies of the upper boxes. Yonder old Israelite, who goes
prowling between the seats, is looking out for such black garments as
will admit of being “clobbered” up, or “turned” into “genteel suits” for
poor curates, or half-paid ushers of classical academies. Nor does he
reject those which are worn even threadbare in parts, for he well knows
they will admit of being transformed into the “best boys’ tunics;” while
such as are too far gone for _that_, he buys to be torn to pieces by the
“devil,” and made up again into new cloth, or “shoddy,” as it is termed;
and others, which his practised eye tells him have already done that
duty, he bids for, knowing that they will still fetch him a good price,
even as manure for the ground. Some of the buyers have come principally
to purchase the old silk hats—and as they wander among the heaps of old
clothes, and rags, and metal, they stop every now and then, and crumple
up the shapes in their hands to try whether they have been—as they call
it—“through the fire or not,” and those which will stand the test of
their experienced touch, they buy for the shops, to have converted into
the “best new hats” for the country. Some, again, are there chiefly to
“pick up” the old umbrellas, which they value not only for the whalebone
ribs but the metal supporters—the latter articles furnishing the
material for the greater part of the iron skewers of London; while some
of the buyers, on the other hand, have come to look after the old linen
shirts, which they sell again to the paper-mills, to be converted, by
the alchemy of science, into the newspaper, the best “Bath post,” or
even the bank-note.

As the purchasers go pacing up and down the narrow pathways, and pick
their way, now among the old bottles, bonnets, boots, rags, and now
among the bones, the old metal, the stays, the gowns, the hats and
coats, a thick-lipped Jew-boy spouts from his high stage in the centre
of the market, “Hot vine a ha’penny a clarsh! a ha’penny a clarsh!”
Between the seats, too, women worm their way along, carrying baskets of
“trotters” and screaming, as they go, “Legs of mutton two for a penny!
two for a penny! Who’ll give me a handsell?—who’ll give me a handsell?”
After them comes a man with a large tin can under his arm, and roaring,
“Hot peas, oh! hot peas, oh!” In the middle of the market is another
vender of street luxuries, with a smoking can of “hot eels” before him,
and next to him is a sweetmeat stall, with a crowd of young Hebrews
gathered round the keeper of it, gambling eagerly, with marbles, for
“Albert rock” and “hardbake;” while at one end of the market stands a
coffee and beer-shop, and inside this are Jews playing at draughts, or
settling and wrangling about the goods they have bought of one another.

In no other part of London—and, perhaps, in no other part of the entire
world—is such a scene of riot, rags, and filth to be witnessed. Every
one there is dressed in his _worst_—for none who know the nature of the
place would think of venturing thither in even decent apparel.

Mr. Sandboys was the universal object of observation. What _he_ could
have to do in such a place, every one was puzzling his brains to think;
and as Cursty hurried up and down between the seats, in the hopes of
catching a glimpse of his lost inexpressibles, the buyers and sellers,
one and all delighted, as he passed, to crack some rude jest upon him.
The women wished to know whether he wasn’t hunting after a “nice pair of
stays” for his “missus;” the men would hold up some faded livery, and
request to be informed whether he was looking for “an ’andsome suit for
his Johnny.” But, regardless of their gibes, round and round, like the
hyena at the Surrey Gardens, Mr. Sandboys went, in the hope of
eventually lighting on his precious nether garments. Not a flower-seller
entered the place but Cursty watched him intently, until he had seen
every article turned out of his bag, and satisfied himself that the
anonymous part of his apparel formed no portion of the man’s left-off
stores.

Nor did he think of moving from the place until all the buyers and
sellers had quitted it; and when the hour arrived for closing the gates,
Cursty hardly knew what course of action to adopt.

At one time it struck him that it would not be a bad plan to do as
Aladdin did when he lost his “wonderful lamp,” and go round the town
crying, “New breeches for old ones;” but, on second thoughts, he
perceived that, however feasible such a plan might have been in Bagdad,
it was far from practicable in London; for he felt satisfied, from the
universal habit of wearing such articles of dress among the male portion
of the metropolitan population—(and, indeed, among not a few of the
married females)—that the Londoners’ love of a good bargain, no matter
at whose cost, would render them so particularly anxious to make the
exchange, that the business he would be likely to do in one street alone
would be sufficient, not only to ruin him in pocket, but to break his
back with the burden. If the lady denizens of the capital were to be
attracted to the linen-drapers’ establishments, solely by the enlivening
inducement that somebody was to be ruined by their custom—if, like the
Hindoo widows, they delighted in “awful sacrifices,” (at any other
persons’ expense than their own) how eager, thought the philosophic
Cursty, would wives of London be to deal with him, when they imagined
that they could breech their husbands by stripping him of all he had.

After revolving in his mind many equally sagacious plans for the
recovery of his precious pantaloons, Mr. Cursty decided that, perhaps,
the wisest course to pursue, under all the circumstances, would be to
return to his temporary domicile, and there consult with his wife as to
the future mode of action. Accordingly, he hailed the first omnibus
travelling Strandward, that passed him, and depositing himself within
it, was once more on his way towards home.

                  *       *       *       *       *

While Mr. Sandboys, fagged out with his unprofitable and wearisome day’s
work, is dozing away the distance from Whitechapel to the Strand in the
corner of the long “short stage,” let us take advantage of that
uneventful interval to communicate the circumstances that had occurred
during his absence to mar again the peace and happiness of his family.

Some three or four hours had elapsed after that gentleman’s departure
from home, when Mrs. Fokesell “bounced” breathless into the back attic,
which now constituted the sitting-room, bed-room, dressing-room, and
kitchen, of the united Sandboys.

“Oh, mum,” the landlady exclaimed, gasping as she wiped her forehead
with the corner of her dirty pink cotton apron; “O—oh, mum! here’s a man
come from the Station-’us.”

“From t’ Station-house!” echoed Mrs. Sandboys, who had hardly had time
to recover the shock of the sudden entry of Mrs. Fokesell; but, on
second thoughts, imagining the messenger had brought her tidings of the
missing garments, she added: “So then, thank guidness, they’ve caught t’
man with t’ flowers and t’ trousers at last.”

“They’ve caught _your_ man, you means, mum,” returned Mrs. Fokesell,
shaking her head till the little bunch of vermicular ringlets at each
side of her face swung backwards and forwards, like the “wings” of a
kite in the wind.

“My man!” ejaculated the terrified Aggy, as she began to have a vague
perception that “something dreadful” had occurred to her beloved Cursty.
“What in t’ warl’ do’sta mean—what do’sta mean?”

“Why, it’s just this here, mum—that your good man, as you call him”—here
the circumspect landlady opened the room-door mysteriously, to satisfy
herself that nobody was listening, and then closing it again, advanced
towards Mrs. Sandboys, and said, in a half-whisper, “your good man has
been and got took up for being drunk and disorderly, and oncapable of
taking care of hisself.”

Mrs. Sandboys threw up her hands, and dropped into the nearest chair;
while Elcy came and leant over and tried to assure her that “it must be
some shocking mistake again.”

But Mrs. Fokesell would not hear of such a thing; she had made most
particular inquiries of the “party” below—for at first, she herself
could hardly bring herself to believe that such a thorough gentleman, as
Mr. Sandboys always appeared to be, could so lower hisself as to be seen
intosticated in the public streets—but there couldn’t be no mistake this
time, because the “party” had brought one of the “gent’s” cards with
him. And when she heard Mrs. Sandboys and Elcy both sobbing at the
intelligence, the landlady begged of them “not to go and take on in that
manner,” for after his last voyage, Mr. Fokesell hisself—though he was
as good a man as ever walked in shoe-leather, so long as he was at sea
out of harm’s way—had gone and got overtook by liquor, and been skinned
and robbed of everything he had, for all the world like young Mr.
Sandboys was, by them painted dolls nigh the docks, and, as if that
wasn’t enough to ruin her peace of mind, he must get hisself fined two
pounds, or ten days imprisonment, for an assault on a policeman. Here
the lady digressed into a long account of Mr. Fokesell’s failings,
saying, that ever since their marriage she had never been a penny the
better for his money, and that she didn’t know what would have become of
her if it hadn’t been for her lodgers and the rent of a six-roomed
cottage, that had been left her by her fust husband, who was an
undertaker with a large connexion, but a weak, though an uncommon fine
man, and who might have made her very comfortable at his death, if he
had only done by her as he ought. Whereupon, wholly forgetting the
object of her errand to Mrs. Sandboys, she further digressed into a
narrative of the mixed qualities of Mr. Bolsh’s—her poor dear first
husband’s—character.

Mrs. Cursty, who had been too deeply absorbed in her own family
misfortunes to listen to those of Mrs. Fokesell, at length, on
recovering her self-possession, requested to be informed where Mr.
Sandboys had been “picked up” previous to being taken into custody.

The landlady, anxious to produce as great a sensation as she could, made
no more ado, but informed her that her “good man” had been found lying
on his back in a gutter in Wild Street, Drury Lane, and that it was a
mercy that he hadn’t been druv over by one of them Safety Cabs as was
dashing along, as they always does, at the risk of people’s lives.

The circumstance of the messenger having brought Cursty’s card with him
was sufficient to preclude all doubt from Mrs. Sandboys’ mind;
nevertheless she sat for a minute or two wondering how the misfortune
could possibly have happened. At one moment she imagined that the loss
of his bank notes had produced so depressing an effect on his spirits
that Cursty had gone into some tavern to procure a glass of wine, in the
hopes of cheering himself up amid his many misfortunes, and being
unaccustomed to take anything of the kind before dinner, had perhaps
been suddenly overcome by it. The next minute she felt satisfied that he
had been entrapped into some dreadful place and drugged, like poor dear
Jobby. Then she began to ask herself whether he could have lighted upon
any friend from Cumberland, and in the excitement of the meeting been
induced to take a glass or two more than he otherwise would; and
immediately after this she felt half convinced that Cursty had
discovered the flower-seller, and been so delighted at recovering
possession of his pocket-book, that he had accompanied the fellow to
some “low place” to treat him, and there, perhaps, been imprudent enough
to take a glass of hot spirits and water “on an empty stomach,” and that
this had flown to his head, and rendered him quite insensible to
everything around him; or else she was satisfied that it was owing to
the nasty bit of red herring which he would have that morning for
breakfast.

When Mrs. Sandboys communicated to Mrs. Fokesell the several results of
her ruminations, that lady was far from being of the same opinion, and
did not hesitate to confess that she had long been convinced that the
men were all alike, and that, for herself, she wouldn’t trust anyone of
them—and especially her Fokesell—further than she could see him.

Mrs. Sandboys, however, was in no humour to listen to such harangues,
and starting from her seat, desired to know whether the messenger from
the station-house was still below stairs, so that she might accompany
him back to her husband. On being answered in the affirmative, she
proceeded to “put on her things” with all speed, while Elcy, with her
eyes still full of tears, implored to be allowed to go with her.

When her toilet was finished, she kissed her gentle-hearted daughter
previous to leaving her (for it was not fit, she said, that young girls
should visit such places), and bidding her dry up her tears, for that
all would yet be right, she hastened down the stairs, and in a minute
afterwards she was on her way, in company with the messenger, towards
Bow-street station-house.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The reader must not do poor Mr. Sandboys the injustice to imagine that
he had so far forgotten himself as to have made a pillow of one of the
metropolitan kerb-stones. Nor was he, at the time referred to, the
temporary tenant of one of the Bow-street police cells; for that much
maligned gentleman, far from being then in “durance vile,” was still
enjoying a disjointed kind of nap in the corner of the Mile-end omnibus.

Let us explain.

The flower-seller, immediately on handling the discarded inexpressibles
of Mr. Christopher Sandboys, had discovered that one of the pockets was
not wholly empty; and though he was sufficiently alive to the
impositions occasionally practised upon members of his fraternity by
coachmen, grooms, footmen, and others, to be well aware that
articles—especially buttons and pieces of silver paper—were frequently
inserted in the fob of cast-off pantaloons, with the view of leading
them to imagine that either some notes or coin had been accidentally
left in the garments by their late innocent possessors, and so inducing
them to give a higher sum for the articles than they were really
worth—the flower-seller was, nevertheless, we say, too fully satisfied
of the thorough rusticity and consequent simplicity of Mrs. and Miss
Sandboys, to believe that they could be capable of any such trick. The
hawker, too, was clever tradesman enough to lead Mrs. Sandboys to
suppose that he was in no way anxious to become the purchaser of the
articles offered to him; and he was particularly careful, as he turned
the garments over and over to examine them, never to allow either of the
pockets to fall under the notice of Mrs. Sandboys.

As soon as the bargain was settled, and the street-seller of flowers had
got fairly out of sight of the house, he was joined by the female who
usually accompanied him on his rounds, and of whose services he
occasionally availed himself when any feminine article of dress was
proffered for exchange. To her the hawker did not hesitate to make known
his impression that he had got a “prize.” Accordingly, the two retired
up the first court they came to on their way from the house, to examine
what it was that the pockets really contained. The pocket-book was soon
had out—each compartment being carefully searched—and when the roll of
notes was found, their glee knew no bounds; but the woman, who acted as
interpreter on the occasion—the man himself being unable to read—was
perhaps even more delighted when she discovered the certificate of Mr.
and Mrs. Sandboys’ marriage at Lorton Vale Church, in Cumberland; for,
though not attaching a particularly high moral value to the hymeneal
ceremony, she thought, knowing the prejudices of society in this
respect, that the possession of such a document might prove of some
little service to her on some future occasion. When, therefore, the two
came to divide the proceeds of their good fortune, the lady stipulated
that the marriage certificate should be hers, and that in consideration
of this, she said her mate might take three of the notes, and she would
be satisfied with two. This appeared so advantageous an arrangement to
the gentleman, that, caring nothing for the possession of the “lines,”
he immediately closed with the offer.

The arrangement, however, was far from being so advantageous as it
appeared; for the lady, on proceeding to divide the treasure, availed
herself of her “mate’s” want of education, so as, while giving him the
greater number of notes, to retain for herself those of the higher
value. Accordingly she handed him over three fives out of the forty,
keeping a twenty and a five for her own portion. It was then settled
between them that the man should proceed to the Old Exchange and dispose
of the contents of his bag, while his partner should return home and get
a bit of “summut particular good” against his arrival.

The sense of being the possessor of so large a sum of money, was too
great a temptation for the hawker’s slender sobriety to withstand; while
the treasure remained in his pocket, he could hardly assure himself of
its worth, for people of his grade in life have generally an utter want
of faith in the value of what appears to them to be nothing more than a
strip of silver paper. Besides, he thought it would be prudent to “run
for gold” as soon as possible, for he well knew that the current coin of
the realm, unlike bank notes, bore no numbers by which one sovereign or
shilling could be distinguished from another.

A variety of circumstances, therefore, conspired to lead the man into
the first public-house he came to. Here he entered the taproom, and
placing his basket of flowers on the seat beside him, called for a pint
of “dog’s nose”—a combination of gin and beer, to which the gentleman
was particularly partial.

This had the effect of rendering the hawker indisposed for prosecuting
his journey to Houndsditch. What was the use, he began to ask himself,
of his going all that way to sell a few rags, when he didn’t want for a
pound or two? Accordingly, as the liquor got to make him feel more and
more careless, he commenced tossing and raffling away the remaining
flowers in his basket, among such as entered the taproom during his stay
there; and while the gambling was going on, he partook of a second and a
third quantum of his favourite potion, so that, by the time he had got
rid of all his plants, he felt inclined to enjoy himself, and disposed
to go anywhere but home. Still, however, he entertained some little
difficulty respecting his costume, which certainly was not fitted for
holiday-making, for, like the rest of the old clothes’ dealers, he was
habited in his worst, with the view of attending the Houndsditch
Exchange at the close of his day’s labours; and as he ran over to
himself the several places of amusement that he should like to visit, he
debated in his own mind as to what he should do for a “change.” To
return home and put on his brown Petersham coat and bright “yellow
kingsman” neckerchief, that he delighted to sport in Battersea Fields on
a Sunday, was to go through a greater amount of exertion, at that
precise moment, than he was inclined to undertake; and as he discussed
within himself the several other modes of supplying his deficiency, it
struck him that he had swopped a cactus that morning with a lady up in
Clarendon Square for a “very tidy Pallytott,” and “these,” as he justly
observed, “with the pair of breeches as he took with the pocket-book in
’em, would turn him out fit even for the ‘HEAGLE.’” Accordingly, he
emptied the contents of his clothes-bag on one of the tables, and having
selected therefrom such articles as he thought would suit him for the
occasion, he proceeded at once, amid the laughter of all present, to
indue himself with the garments; then having obtained permission of the
landlord to leave the basket and bag in his charge for awhile, the
hawker sallied forth, determined, like the quondam possessor of the
trowsers he then wore, upon “enjoying himself.”

Still the flower-seller was undecided whither to direct his steps. At
first he thought of Greenwich Park and a feast of tea and shrimps; but,
though Greenwich had attractions, tea had none for him. Next he turned
his attention to the Red House, but he knew of no pigeon match that was
to come off there that day, so _that_ would not suit him. “Then he made
up his mind to pay a visit to the BOWER,” and the minute after he
changed it in favour of “Lord Effingham’s concerts.” Still, what was he
to do with himself till they began? He had it! he wouldn’t go to any of
the places—he’d be off that moment to Rosherville—and yet it was getting
late in the day for a trip to Gravesend, so he’d take a run down to
Hungerford instead, and go on to the roof of the Swan and have a treat
of periwinkles and ale. Accordingly he turned round and proceeded in the
opposite direction to that on which he was before journeying.

But the flower-seller was too fond of halting at each tavern on the way
to get even that far. The money he possessed, as the street people
themselves say, “seemed to burn in his pocket;” and the drink he had
already taken made him crave for more, so that it would have required
greater strength of mind than he was master of to have refrained from
entering the next public house he came to. The liquor that he here
swallowed served as usual only to increase his thirst for more of the
same maddening fluid. So on he went, “dropping in” at every “public” on
his way, and standing at the bar drinking, wrangling, or tossing with
any one whom he could “pick up.” At length, with the many glasses of raw
spirit that he had taken on his road, the drink got to produce so
violent an effect upon his temper, that the more respectable of the
landlords refused to serve him; but this tended only to make him still
more furious, so that at almost every tavern he visited, he was forced
to be turned into the street before he could be got rid of. At one
house, however, it was found impossible to get rid of him without
closing the doors; for each time that he was thrust out, back he came
staggering and offering to fight everybody at the bar. Seeing,
therefore, that it was useless attempting to enter, he sat himself down
on the step and went fast asleep against the door; on being roused by
the pot-boy and desired to go about his business, the hawker grew so
enraged that he jumped from his resting-place and strove to seize hold
of the lad so that he might wreak his vengeance upon him. In the
attempt, however, to catch the youth, the flower-seller stumbled and
fell heavily on his back beside the kerb, and there he lay unable to
raise himself, with a crowd of boys shouting and playing every
imaginable trick upon him.

The arrival of the police at length put an end to the whole affair, and
the hawker, with a dense crowd after him, was carried off, struggling
and bellowing among four of the stoutest of the force, each holding him
by one of his extremities. On being searched at the station-house, Mr.
Sandboys’ pocket-book was found in the hawker’s possession; in one of
its compartments were the cards of address belonging to that gentleman.
The authorities, believing these to be the rightful property of the
flower-seller, proceeded at once to enter, among the list of offenders
of that day, the name of Mr. Christopher Sandboys, of Craven-street,
Strand, as having been found drunk, disorderly, and incapable of taking
care of himself.

The reader knows the occurrences that followed. A messenger was
despatched to the residence of Mr. Sandboys, to apprise that gentleman’s
family of his unpleasant position.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Sandboys had been gone but a short while, before Cursty, who had
been “dropped,” as the idiom runs, by the omnibus, at the top of the
street, staggered, half asleep and half awake, up to the door.

He had no sooner set foot on the door-mat, than Mrs. Fokesell, who had
espied him from the kitchen window, and run up to answer his knock,
threw up her hands in astonishment, and exclaimed, in a familiar way,
“How in the world did you ever get out?”

The innocent Christopher was unable to comprehend either the cause of
the lady’s surprise, or the meaning of her question. “What do’sta mean,
woman?” he said.

“Oh!” returned Mrs. Fokesell, winking her eye as she nudged his elbow;
“you needn’t mind telling me—I knows all about it. There’s been a party
up here, and told us of all your goings on.”

“My gangings an!” exclaimed Cursty. “Ye may well say that, for I’ve been
half ow’r London.”

“Very well turned off”!” retorted Mrs. Fokesell; “but it won’t do. We’re
up to all your tricks, we are: so you’d much better confess at once. Oh,
you’re a sly old fox—though perhaps you ain’t much wuss than the rest of
you men. Fokesell was almost as bad—hardly a pin to choose betwixt
you.”’

Mr. Sandboys, fatigued and vexed with the futility of his journey, felt
in no way inclined for jesting; so, brushing past the unceremonious
landlady, he darted up the stairs to the family garret.

Mrs. Fokesell, however, in anticipation of a “scene,” which she longed
to witness, hastened after him, and was just in time to behold Elcy
throw herself into her father’s arms, and burst into subdued hysterics
at the unexpected pleasure of his return.

For a few minutes the landlady stood unobserved at the doorway, and
while Cursty was wondering within himself why his daughter should
receive him with so unusual an outburst of affection, and coupling her
tears with the mysterious conduct and insinuations of Mrs. Fokesell, he
began to ask himself, half in fear, “What fresh disaster could have
befallen them now?”

Elcy kissed him again and again, telling him each time how happy she was
that she had him home again. “Could she get him anything, or would he
not like to lie down?” she inquired.

“Yes, Miss,” interrupted the busy Mrs. Fokesell, “if your Pa will be
advised by me, he’ll take off his boots, and go and lie on the bed for
an hour or two—and let me get him a bottle of soda water, while you puts
a wet towel round his head, for if you looks at his eyes you’ll see
they’re quite bloodshot.”

“My e’en bluidshot!” ejaculated Mr. Sandboys, growing half enraged at
the apparent unmeaningness of the whole of the landlady’s remarks;
however he went to the glass to see if there were anything odd enough in
his looks to account for the peculiarity of the landlady’s behaviour.
His eyes were a little red, certainly, he thought, as he scrutinized his
countenance, but that arose from the “nap” he had indulged in during his
ride home, and beyond this he could see nothing which could call forth
so much anxiety on his behalf.

“Do, father,” said Elcy, “_do_ go and lie down, or you’ll be ill, I am
sure.”

“Yes;” chimed in Mrs. Fokesell, “I’m sure it’s a wonder you hasn’t got
the ‘_delirious trimmings_‘ as it is. Fokesell, I know, once had ’em
after one of these bouts, and then he fancied he was aboard his ship, in
our back parlour, and that the house was agoing down, all hands, ’cause
I wouldn’t work the pumps. Now, come, there’s a good gentleman, _do_ be
persuaded by Miss Elcy, and go to bed for an hour or two.”

“Go to bed!” echoed Sandboys, tetchily. “I’m not tired—I’ve had a nap.”

“Oh, yes, we know,” retorted Mrs. Fokesell, winking her eye and nodding
her head, in a manner that is considered to speak volumes, and which was
certainly meant to insinuate to the unsuspecting Sandboys that the lady
was acquainted with the fact of his having tried to take “forty winks”
in the gutter; “and we know _where_ you had your nap too. Fine times,
indeed, when you gents must needs go falling asleep in the ‘kennel.’”

“In t’ ‘kennel,’” shouted Sandboys, in none of the mildest tones. “What
do’sta mean, woman, what do’sta mean, I say?”

“Oh, you knows what I means, well enough, Mr. Slyboots—going and doing
such things, thinking it ’ud be unbeknown to your missus. A nice time
she’d have on it if she only knowed all, I’ll be bound to say.” And here
Mrs. Fokesell gave herself a jerk, expressive, as she imagined, of the
highest possible indignation.

“How daresta speak to me in that way?” demanded the incensed Cursty.
“Leave t’ room, woman.”

“Father! father! pray calm yourself,” said Elcy, growing alarmed at what
she imagined to be the lingering effect of her parent’s indiscretion.
“Pray be calm, and go and lie down just a little while.”

“Lie down! why, what’s come to you aw’? You seem to be aw’ mad tegidder.
But where’s your mother?”

“Ah! you may well ask that,” answered the pert Mrs. Fokesell—“gone to
look after you; and I suppose you can remember the kind of place you’ve
come from?”

“I come from Houndsditch, I tell tha, woman,” replied Mr. Sandboys,
curtly, for he was afraid to give full vent to his feeling, lest he
might receive “notice to quit,” and then be left without a roof to
shelter himself or family.

“You must tell that to the marines, as my Fokesell used to say,”
retorted the landlady; “for I knows better—so it’s no use your denying
the tricks you have been at no longer; and all I got to say is, the
sooner you has your temples bathed with winegar, the better it will be
for you in the morning. Come, now. I’m a married woman, and knows all
about these matters. Bless you! my Fokesell has taken a drop too much
many a time; so just let me go and get you a Seidelitz powder, or, if
them’s too cold for you, be persuaded by me, and take a couple of
‘Cockles.’”

Poor Mr. Sandboys sat all this time almost “boiling over” with rage. He
bit his lip between his teeth to prevent his saying a word, for he now
began to see that not only the landlady, but his daughter, both imagined
that he had been drinking. Why they should imagine as much was more than
he could conceive, but it was evident that such was their impression.

“I’m sure your head must ache, father,” said Elcy, observing her parent
bite his lip, as she fancied, with pain. “It really burns like a fire,”
she added, as she laid her hand across his forehead.

“Doan’t be a fuil, child!” cried Cursty, as he angrily dragged down her
arm. “I shall go mad among you aw’, I shall. What in t’ warl’s happened,
to put sic notions in tha head?”

Here the girl of all-work tapped at the attic-door, and informed Mrs.
Fokesell that there was a young man below stairs as wanted to speak with
the lady of the house.

The landlady disappeared for a few minutes, and then suddenly darted
back into the room, with cap-strings flying a yard behind her.

“Well, I _do_ declare,” she exclaimed, standing with her hands on her
hips, “if you ain’t all of a piece;—fust it’s you, and then it’s your
missus. Ah, you may stare, but I’ve got a pretty set in my house, it
seems. Here’s a young man below as has come to say that Mrs. Sandboys
has got took up for assaulting a policeman, and that she’s a lying in
the station-house till her case comes on for hearing.”

“Heavens!” cried Cursty, “it canna be true——”

“Oh, father! father! what will become of her?” said the afflicted Elcy,
as her head fell on her parent’s shoulder, in terror at the thoughts of
her mother being in such a place.

“What can it aw’ mean?” shouted Sandboys.

“Why, the lad says, as well as I can make it out, that Mrs. Sandboys
went into the Black Bull public house—of all places in the world for a
lady—to ask for change—and that there some noise or other arose about
the money; that then the police was called in to settle the matter, and
that on his stating that Mrs. Sandboys was not a proper woman, she flew
at him, and nearly tore him to bits. And the young man does tell me,”
continued the landlady, “that the language she used on the occasion was
quite dreadful for decent people to hear—so a pretty set indeed it seems
I’ve let into my house. Well, I always thought you was a queer lot, that
I did—and I said as much to Mrs. Quinine as had my second floor. I’m
sure the house has been like a common bear-garden ever since I’ve had
you in it—what with your screams when a few coals was shot on top of
you—and what with your frightening poor Mrs. Quinine nearly out of her
life, and alarming the whole house with the screams of the dear
thing—and what with your threatening to murder the policeman in my
kitchen with my red-hot poker—and what with the springing of rattles,
and collecting a mob round my _hairy_ rails—and what with your allowing
your son to be brought home here by a common policeman in the
disrespectable state he was; and now what with the two police reports as
there will be in the paper about you to-morrow morning, there’ll be fine
talk about my house and my people all up and down both sides of the
street. You’ll bring a scandal upon me, you will. I’m sure I’ve never
knowed a moment’s peace—never since I was fool enough to be persuaded to
allow you to set foot under my roof. But you’ll please to provide
yourself with some other lodging the moment your week is up, for not
another minute after do you stay here, I can tell you.”

Mrs. Fokesell, who had grown red in the face with the long catalogue of
her grievances, was obliged to come to an end for sheer want of breath.

It was useless for Cursty to seek to obtain any more definite
information from her in the excited state of her mind, for immediately
he ventured to question her as to what had befallen his wife, it was but
the signal for her to renew her vituperations. At last, putting on his
hat, he hastened down stairs to the youth who had brought the
intelligence, and proceeded to accompany him in search of his dearest
Aggy.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Sandboys, however, it should be made known, had been no more
concerned in the occurrence above detailed than her lord and master had
been the hero of the scene previously described; for the “lady” who had
passed under that name was none other than the mate of the
flower-seller, who had become possessed of the Sandboys’ marriage
certificate. Proceeding on her way home, it had struck the woman that it
would be as well to convert the twenty pound note into sovereigns as
soon as she possibly could, for on a closer inspection of the valuable,
she had perceived that the name of the gentleman mentioned in the
marriage certificate was inscribed on the back of it. Accordingly she
entered a public house where she was not known, and after having
partaken of a glass of gin-and-rue, and the half of a pork pie, she
tendered the bank note in payment for what she had devoured. The
landlord, however, looked upon the possession of a note for so large a
sum by one of so mean an appearance as a very suspicious circumstance,
and believing that she had not come honestly by the money, began to
question her as to how and where she had obtained it. Finding that her
answers were not particularly lucid or consistent on the subject, he
thought it best to send for a policeman, and leave the officer to decide
upon what course to take. The official, on seeing the woman, was as
confident as the landlord that the note had been got hold of by unfair
means, nor did he hesitate to tell the woman that he was satisfied she
had stolen it from some gentleman, insinuating at the same time that she
was, as the phrase runs, “no better than she should be.” The words were
no sooner uttered than the woman, incensed at being foiled in her prize,
flew at the policeman, and with her clenched fist beat him in the face
so vigorously that before the man had time to defend himself he was
covered with blood.

In a few moments afterwards she was on her way, handcuffed, to the
station-house, while the landlord, who had handed the note over to the
officer, thought it best to send the messenger before mentioned to the
address inscribed on the back of it.

On reaching the station house, the superintendent directed that the
woman should be immediately taken before the sitting magistrate, so that
the charge might be disposed of with the least possible delay.

His worship, on hearing the evidence of the policeman, demanded to know
what proof the woman could adduce as to the note being her own lawful
property, as she asserted; whereupon she drew forth the marriage
certificate of the Sandboys, protesting most loudly that it was her own.
The magistrate, having perused the document carefully throughout, and
satisfied himself of its authenticity, said there could be no doubt that
the woman was really the person whom she represented herself to be.

Finding the magistrate take this view of the case, the female
flower-seller then laid a formal complaint against the policeman,
declaring that he had insulted her in the grossest manner that a
respectable married woman could possibly be insulted, insinuating that
she was a person of immoral character, when his worship could see by the
marriage lines as she had shown him, that she was as honest a woman as
any in London. The man’s conduct, she added, had thrown her into such a
passion that she really did not know what she had done to him after he
had insulted her: and she put it to his lordship whether his good lady
would not have done the same.

The magistrate, though hardly inclined to take that extreme view of the
case, still acknowledged that every excuse was to be made for the woman,
adding that the officer had no right whatever to make any such
insinuation without having indisputable proof of the fact—and that, as
it was, he should dismiss the case, warning the policeman to be more
cautious in future, and ordering the note to be restored to the woman,
upon whose character he was bound to say there was not the slightest
stain.

                  *       *       *       *       *

But to return to our lost mutton—Mr. Christopher Sandboys.

Immediately on learning from the boy of the “Black Bull,” the precise
part of the town in which the lady passing by the name of Mrs. Sandboys
was held in “safe custody,” Cursty called a cab, and having placed the
lad on the box beside the driver, deposited himself within it, ordering
the man to carry him with all haste whither the youth should direct.

On reaching the station-house, to Cursty’s great delight, he was
informed that Mrs. Sandboys had been discharged, as the magistrate said,
“without the slightest stain on her character,” while the policeman, who
had suffered so severely from the lady’s indignation, and who now began
to fear, from the presence of Mr. Sandboys, that the magistrate had been
perfectly correct in his conviction as to the honesty of the woman who
had been brought before him, thought it prudent to apologize for his
mistake, lest an action for something or other might be commenced
against him.

The consequence was, that Cursty hastened back home quite as fast, if
not faster, than he had hastened from it, in the hopes of clutching his
poor injured Aggy to his bosom, and consoling her under her heavy
trials, with the assurance of his undoubting affection.

                  *       *       *       *       *

During the absence of Mr. Sandboys, his better half had returned from
Bow-street, where she had been agreeably surprised to find that Mr.
Sandboys, or rather the gentleman known there by that name, had been
bailed out a few minutes before her arrival, and had left the station
accompanied by his friends. In vain did she make inquiries as to the
name of the bail, in the hope of ascertaining who the friends could have
been that had done her husband so great a service; for she was not aware
of his being acquainted with a single individual in London: nor did the
names and addresses of the sureties, when read over to her, tend in the
least to enlighten her on the subject; so, as she found the authorities
little disposed to enter into that minute account of the proceedings
which was necessary to clear up the mystery, she left the police-office,
and proceeded on her way home, wondering within herself who “in t’ name
of guidness” the friends could be; and coming to the conclusion that
they were some Cumberland people who had come up for the opening of the
Exhibition, and whom her Cursty had stumbled upon in the course of his
rambles through London.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On reaching home, Mrs. Fokesell, who had recognised, from the kitchen,
the skirt of Mrs. Sandboys’ dress as it whisked round the corner of the
door-step, ran up the stairs in immediate answer to her knock; and no
sooner had she closed the door after the lady, than she began wondering
how she could have the impudence to show her face in that house after
what had happened, and begging to assure her, with a significant shake
of her cap, that she was not in the habit of letting lodgings to people
who occasionally occupied an apartment in the station-house.

Mrs. Sandboys imagined, of course, that she alluded to her husband’s
recent incarceration, and not being particularly proud of the
circumstance herself, endeavoured to calm the landlady’s irritation on
the subject.

But Mrs. Fokesell was not to be appeased, and she gave Mrs. Sandboys
plainly to understand, that she ought to think herself highly favoured
to be allowed to set foot within her door again, after her shameful,
unlady-like conduct to the policeman.

Aggy, imagining that the landlady referred to her inquiries at the
station-house, endeavoured to call to mind how she could possibly have
committed herself.

But Mrs. Fokesell soon informed her, that it was useless her attempting
to play the innocent to her, for a man had been down there and told her
about her shameful goings on, and how she had beaten one of the force
within an inch of his life.

Mrs. Sandboys stood aghast at the accusation. At first she wondered how
such a charge could possibly be trumped up against her; then she
imagined it must surely be some jest of the landlady’s; but Mrs.
Fokesell soon put that notion to flight, by not only repeating the
aspersion, but adding, that she had been informed, on the very best
authority, that she was well known to the whole of the police, as not
being the most respectable person in the world.

This was more than the Cumberland blood of Mrs. Sandboys could bear;
and, holding in her breath with the effort of subduing her wrath, she
demanded to know what Mrs. Fokesell meant by such an assertion.

Mrs. Fokesell, who was nothing daunted, did not make the slightest
attempt to mince the matter, but proceeded to tell her lodger, in the
most unequivocal terms, that the policeman had declared that he knew she
was not an honest woman.

Mrs. Sandboys could hardly contain herself for rage. If ever she had
felt inclined to commit an assault upon any one, it was at that
particular moment. Her fingers were all of a work, and it was evidently
as much as she could do to keep her hands from tearing the landlady’s
cap from her head. She could have borne any imputation in the world save
an aspersion on her virtue.

Again she demanded of Mrs. Fokesell an immediate and full explanation.
How dare a low-bred woman like her tell her she was not an honest
woman—when Mrs. Fokesell, herself a married female, (and Mrs. Sandboys
laid a strong emphasis on both of the words,) was without so much as a
husband to show for herself. It was very well to make out that he was at
sea, but nothing was easier than to _say_ as much.

It was now Mrs. Fokesell’s turn to grow scarlet with rage, and the words
were scarcely uttered before she thrust her hands in the huge pocket she
wore at her side, and drawing out an old “housewife,” she took from it a
piece of paper, which, having torn open, she thrust into the face of the
terrified Mrs. Sandboys, saying, as she shook it vigorously, “There’s my
marriage lines, woman! show your’n! show your’n, if you can, and prove
yourself to be what you says you are.”

Poor Mrs. Sandboys felt the helplessness of her position. She knew that
she had parted with her certificate in the act of disposing of her
husband’s old trowsers. It was idle for her to think of an
explanation—of course it could but appear as a lame excuse on the
present occasion; so prudence made her gulp down her indignation, and
try to soothe the infuriated Mrs. Fokesell, who was once more making her
misfortune the laughing-stock of the whole house—for the lodgers,
hearing the wrangling of the two ladies in the passage, had crept one by
one from their respective apartments, and stood with their necks
stretched out over the balusters, giggling at the disputants below.

But the gentle Fokesell was rather anxious to make a public case of the
matter, and finding that she was getting a good audience about her,
shouted at the top of her voice, “Where’s your marriage lines? where’s
your marriage lines?—where’s your marriage lines, I ask again, in the
presence of all these respectable gentlemen.”

This was the unkindest cut of all, and Mrs. Sandboys sought to escape up
stairs, but Mrs. Fokesell was in no humour to let her off so easily. She
could not forget the base insinuations that the lady had presumed to
throw out respecting the apocryphal character of her absent Fokesell,
and feeling satisfied of Mrs. Sandboys’ inability to justify _her_
character, by the production of her marriage certificate, she felt the
more enraged that such a stigma should be cast upon her by such a
person; accordingly, as Mrs. Sandboys endeavoured to get away from her,
she seized that lady by the arms, and with her teeth clenched, proceeded
to shake her violently against the wall, while the terrified Aggy
shrieked “murder!” in her shrillest tones.

At this critical state of affairs, a loud double knock at the street
door made the passage echo with its clamour. This had the effect of
inducing Mrs. Fokesell to relax her hold of the poor trembling Mrs.
Sandboys, to whose great relief, on the door being opened, no less a
person than her own dear Cursty made his appearance.

Immediately that gentleman was fairly in the passage, the exasperated
landlady sought to empty the vials of her wrath on the heads of the
innocent couple, but Mr. Sandboys, observing the agitated state of his
wife, and judging from a glance the nature of the scene that had
transpired, thought it prudent to withdraw to his own apartment; though
as he and Aggy ascended the stairs, they could hear Mrs. Fokesell in the
passage below vowing all kinds of vengeance against them both on the
morrow, and heaping on their names epithets that were not of the most
choice or flattering description.

Once by themselves, each began to console the other. Cursty of course
believed that his beloved Aggy had suffered imprisonment for assaulting
a policeman. Aggy too, in her turn, fancied that her dear Cursty had
been only just released from the station-house, where he had been
confined for being drunk and disorderly, and each sought to learn from
the other what circumstances could possibly have induced them so far to
forget themselves. Elcy, who looked upon them both as martyrs, was
delighted to welcome them back again, for while each of her parents
believed that the other had transgressed, she had been led to imagine
that they both had been incarcerated for violating the law in some way
or other.

Mrs. Sandboys was anxious that Cursty should retire to rest, for she was
afraid that he must have taken cold from sleeping in the street, as she
had been informed he had done; and Cursty begged that she would dismiss
the whole affair from her mind until the morrow, when they would both be
in a better condition to speak calmly on the subject. He was sure a
glass of wine would do her good, after all the violent exertion she had
gone through. But Mrs. Sandboys, alluding to her trip to the
station-house after her husband, begged to assure him that it was solely
on his account that she had done what she had, and all she could say
was, she’d do it again to-morrow for his sake. Cursty, however, who
believed that she referred to her late assault on the policeman, felt
within himself in no way anxious that she should encourage a habit of
resenting any attack upon her honour, in the Amazonian manner in which
she had so recently distinguished herself, lest some day or other, she
might resort to the same unpleasant means of vindicating herself, when
aggrieved, even with him. Then he told how he had gone off to the
station-house merely out of his regard to her. But Mrs. Sandboys was
unable to perceive how his falling asleep in the gutter was calculated
in any way to benefit her; and thus the worthy couple went on for some
time, playing at cross purposes, until at last an explanation became
necessary; and then they both saw clearly that their names had been
assumed by some unprincipled persons, though with what motive they
neither of them could comprehend. Cursty, however, was determined to
sift the affair to the bottom, and hurrying back to the station-house
whither the woman had been conveyed, he obtained a minuter account of
the whole circumstances than he had previously been able to receive, and
soon became convinced that the woman was an accomplice of the
flower-seller, who had got possession of part of the notes, and the
marriage certificate that had been deposited in the missing pocket-book.

When he returned home and cleared up the mystery to his wife, Aggy could
plainly see through it all, and what was more, she felt satisfied that
they’d many more troubles to come, for so long as that certificate was
out of their possession they could not tell what might turn up against
them.

The next morning a climax was put to their distress of mind, in the
shape of a long “comic” police report in all the daily papers, detailing
how Mrs. Christopher Sandboys, of Cumberland, who had come up to town to
see the Great Exhibition, had made a furious attack upon one of the most
active members of the metropolitan police force.

[Illustration:

  The OPERA BOXES during the time of the GREAT EXHIBITION!

  In consequence of the great pressure for Lodgings, the Proprietor of
    Her Majesty’s Theatre, with his usual readiness to meet the wishes
    and to give every possible accommodation to the Public, allows
    parties visiting the Opera, to rent their Boxes as Dormitories
    untill the following day
]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XI.

               Hark! where th’ inveytin’ drum o’ Mars
                 Athwart the far land rattles,
               It minds me aye o’ wounds an’ scars,
                 O’ bruolliments an’ battles.
               But Sargin’ Keyte wad fain persuade
                 It’s but the call of honour,
               Where certain fortune shall be made,
                 By those who wait upon her,
                                       Off han’ this day.
                   *    *    *    *    *    *
               I leyke the king, I leyke the state,
                 The kurk and constitution,
               An’ on their foes buith soon and late,
                 Wish downfa’ an’ confusion.
               But may nae frien’ o’ mine,
                 By cheats turn out that maizlin ninny,
               To barter aw’ the Briton’s reeghts,
                 For nonsense an’ a guinea.
                                  Wi’ Keyte this day.
                                       _Rosley Fair._


ON the morrow the Sandboys received formal notice to quit the
establishment of Mrs. Fokesell on that day week.

What was to be done?

Where were they to go?

London was filling rapidly. In the extensive lodging district on the
southern side of the Strand, scarcely a bill was to be seen bearing the
significant inscription of

                              _APARTMENTS
                               TO BE LET,
                         ELEGANTLY FURNISHED._

and even where cards of vacant lodgings were to be seen, so enormous
were the present demands, that the economical mind of Mrs. Sandboys
stood aghast at the contemplation of the weekly outlay.

The Chelsea and Camden Town colonies of clerks she had explored; but
there nothing was to be had but bed-rooms for single gentlemen who were
expected to breakfast only on the premises.

The great commercial retreats of Stoke Newington, Haggerstone, Clapham,
and Camberwell, were likewise scoured in their turn, but with no better
success. Attics were quoted at ten shillings; second floors were at a
high premium; and very little parlours and drawing-rooms were letting at
very large prices.

The day of the opening of the Grand Exhibition was fast drawing near;
and the rumour had already spread over the country that the Queen
intended to open the “Great Glass Hive” in state. Already did the
streets swarm with straw-colour-haired Germans, and chicory-complexioned
Egyptians—already was Regent Street crammed with beards, full
pantaloons, and felt hats—already was the terminus of the Dover line
daily disgorging some hundreds of Parisians habited in quaint cut
cloaks, with hoods like huge jelly-bags dangling at their backs—already
were the thoroughfares at the West End crowded with holiday-looking
folk, and streams of gaily-dressed idlers seemed to be pouring in the
direction of some fair in the outskirts—hairs seemed to have sprung up
on the lips and chin of every other passerby in a night, like mustard
and cress—the huge waggons, piled high as the house-tops with large
wooden cases, each indorsed in bold letters,

                FOR THE GREAT EXHIBITION OF ALL NATIONS,

had ceased to appear in the streets, and all seemed to be preparing for
the great fair—the world’s holiday.

The Sandboys held a family council, the result of which was, that it was
unanimously agreed it would be advisable, under the circumstances, for
them to retire some short distance from the metropolis; and accordingly
expeditions were sent out provisioned for the day, in search of the
suburban regions.

After considerable difficulty, a bill was discovered pasted in a
cheesemonger’s window, announcing that

    “ANY NUMBER OF LADIES OR GENTLEMEN MAY BE ACCOMMODATED WITH
    APARTMENTS FOR A LIMITED PERIOD, IN A HEALTHY SITUATION, WITHIN
    A SIXPENNY RIDE OF THE GREAT EXHIBITION.

                            ENQUIRE WITHIN.”

This was too good news to let slip. Accordingly, Mrs. Sandboys no sooner
received the information from her son Jobby, than she sallied forth,
intent on ascertaining further particulars respecting the suburban
domicile. On her return, she informed Mr. Sandboys that she thought it
would be the “very thing” for them. The lodging was close to Wimbledon
Common, at an establishment for young ladies, where the Easter vacation
had been extended to a month, in honour of the opening of the Great
Exhibition. Miss Wewitz herself was at present staying, on a visit, with
one of her pupils in the metropolis; and Mrs. Wewitz had very properly
thought it a pity to allow so large a house, making up, as it did,
upwards of sixty beds, to remain unoccupied, just at a time when so many
strangers were wanting a place to put their head in.

The next day, Mrs. Sandboys made an excursion to Wimbledon, and came
back to Town delighted with the “ladies’ establishment.” Everything was
so scrupulously clean,—the bed-furniture and the boards were as white as
the Sour Milk Gill opposite their window at Buttermere; and the whole
place was so airy and beautifully ventilated, that she believed Jobby
might have flown his kite in the principal bed-room. Then the terms were
so moderate, and the lady so obliging—she really thought she was one of
the nicest old bodies she had seen for many a long day;—altogether, she
was quite in love with the place, and everything and everybody about it.

She had arranged, she said, to go in the very next day; for, really,
that spiteful old thing of a Mrs. Fokesell did make the house so
uncomfortable, that the sooner they got out of her power the better.

                  *       *       *       *       *

The next morning a cab was hired, to carry the Sandboys and their
luggage to the Waterloo terminus.

The parting with Mrs. Fokesell was by no means of a pathetic character,
though, when the time came for saying good bye, the landlady, who had
been considerably mollified by the payment of her bill, hoped as how
that bygones would be bygones, and acknowledged that she might have
behaved a little “hindiscreet” on the late occasion, but her blood was
up, she said, and then she wasn’t her own missus.

In a few hours afterwards, the family of the Sandboys were safely landed
at “Parthenon House,” Wimbledon Common.

Here nothing occurred to ruffle the serenity of their retirement for
some few days.

On the fifth day, however, from their entering the establishment, the
French master, who was _really_ a “Natif de Paris,” and had published a
sheet wherein the whole of the French genders were ingeniously reduced
to two, called to request that a friend of his might be accommodated
with a temporary apartment under that roof. His friend had come to
England to be present at the opening of the Great Exhibition, and wished
for a large airy room. The mother of the head of the establishment was
delighted to have the opportunity of disposing of her left wing—if the
gentleman would not object to the beds remaining in the apartment, for
she had no other place wherein to stow them. The French master observed,
that he was sure his friend and compatriot would be too happy to oblige
so young and beautiful a lady (the mother had long ago taken to false
fronts), and with this enchanting tara-diddle, he withdrew from the
premises, leaving the old lady to declare that there was a something—she
didn’t know what—about French manners, that to her mind far surpassed
the English.

The day after this, the French master accompanied his friend M. le Comte
de Sanschemise, who came in a large cloak, an immense Spanish hat, and a
small reticule-like carpet bag, to take possession of his apartment and
its extensive range of beds.

Now it so happened that the day after M. le Comte had entered the
ladies’ establishment, three thousand of the French Gardes Nationales,
who had come over to be present at the opening of the Crystal Palace on
the 1st of May, were deposited in the very heart of the metropolis by a
monster train from Dover.

To locate so large a colony in the foreign districts of London was
impossible. The Frenchmen were already ten in a room in all the purlieus
of Golden-square. Leicester, on the other hand, what with the world in
the centre, and the denizens of all nations swarming on every side of
it, was as full as it could well hold. The Quadrant had become as
Frenchified as the Palais Royal, and the boxes of the several cheap
Restaurants round about the Haymarket were swarming with parties of poor
Parisians, who invariably demanded portions for one and plates for six.

It was in this emergency that the French master of Parthenon House, who
was known to some of the troop, bethought him of the many spare beds in
the apartment of his friend, M. le Comte de Sanschemise, and immediately
proposed that as many of them should retire to that establishment as the
room could hold. For the sake of appearances, however, it was arranged
that they should proceed to the house in not more than two at one time,
and accordingly every conveyance that left London deposited its couple
of “citoyens” at the door of the Wimbledon Establishment for Young
Ladies.

By the close of the evening the arrivals had already amounted to
two-and-twenty, and during the next day nearly double that number were
brought to the gate.

Mrs. Wewitz had already been given to understand that two-and-twenty
Frenchmen had slept the night previous in the bed-room of the young
ladies belonging to the upper school, and now, to her great horror, she
saw the number of foreigners under her roof increased by couples almost
every half-hour throughout the day.

At dusk she thought it high time to remonstrate with M. le Comte, and on
requesting to be informed how many there were at present lodged in his
room, she was horrified to hear that, including himself, there were no
less than eight-and-forty occupants. She begged to remind the Comte that
she had let the room to him alone. But the Comte, with the greatest
politeness possible, assured her that he was at liberty to do with the
apartment as he pleased so long as he paid the rent for it, and that she
need not be under the least alarm, for that they were all perfect
gentlemen, and that many of them, like himself, were persons of title.

Mrs. Wewitz knew not what to do under the circumstances. To endeavour to
put eight-and-forty soldiers to the rout was more than she dare
attempt—and to call in the aid of the police would be, perhaps, not only
to cause bloodshed, but to get the whole affair published in the
newspapers, and so ruin the school; for what parent, as she justly
observed to herself, would dream of confiding an innocent daughter to
the care of an establishment where as many as four dozen foreigners were
in the habit of being located in one apartment alone. Then she was in a
state of continual alarm lest the Sandboys should discover the colony of
National Guards she had under her left wing; and how to keep their
presence a secret from them was beyond her power to conceive. If she
only dare venture to break the distressing intelligence to her daughter
in town, she perhaps might be able to bring the business to a happy and
speedy termination; but she knew that her dearest Cleopatra would never
forgive her imprudence. Then, again, how was she to get rid of the
fellows, even before the young ladies returned? for if they would not go
now, how was it likely that they would stir at a time when London would
have become more full, and there would then be the extra inducement of
the impudent fellows remaining on the premises to make love to the young
ladies? She would not have that Emily Bonpoint back while those wretches
of Frenchmen were about for all she was worth. For if she and her
daughter couldn’t be a match for her at other times, a pretty life she
would lead them with the left wing packed full of foreigners. It would
break her Cleopatra’s heart she knew when she came to hear of it, that
the filthy, dirty fellows had been sleeping two together in those
beautiful white beds of hers—though how they managed in the short,
narrow slips of things, was impossible to say. Besides, if there was one
thing that her daughter paid more attention to than another, it was the
morals of the tender plants that were placed under her culture—and she
would never forgive herself, she was sure, if with all those Frenchmen
under the roof any elopement should take place—for not one of them, she
was sure, had got a halfpenny to bless himself.

For a few days the Sandboys remained in a state of comparative ignorance
as to the small army that was then barracked under the same roof with
them. Jobby, to be sure, had noticed the number of men in red pantaloons
that continually kept going in and out of the premises; but, beyond a
passing remark, this had excited little or no astonishment.

Mrs. Sandboys moreover, had noticed, on the very first day of the
foreigners entering the establishment, a strong smell of tobacco smoke,
and a fogginess in every one of the rooms that she could in no way
account for; but this had worn off, and she had since paid but little
attention to the matter, for, whether from continual use her senses had
become in a measure accustomed to the smell, or whether from the
Sandboys being located at the other side of the house, it was difficult
to say, but certain it was, that after the first evening she had not
been heard to complain.

One night, however, the lady being rather nervous, after partaking
heartily of a cold rice-pudding for supper, she felt satisfied that she
heard some noise in the house. Sandboys had been fast asleep for some
time, but she thumped him on the back and confided to him her suspicions
that all was not right below stairs. But Cursty was too tired to trouble
himself much about the matter, so he merely murmured that it was all
owing to that cold rice-pudding she _would_ eat, and immediately
re-arranged himself for the continuation of his slumbers.

Mrs. Sandboys was too firmly convinced of the soundness of the
conclusion at which she had arrived, to be able to rest quiet in her
bed. She tried to close her eyes and shut out all thought of the
unpleasant circumstance from her mind, but it was useless; the noise
still forced itself upon her, and she could not help thinking of the
lonely situation of the house, so near that wicked London as it was.
They might all scream their very lives out before they could make any
one hear. Nor did the stories told of the highwaymen that in the last
century had infested the common, and the anecdotes she had heard of the
parties who used to wait at the road-side inn, at the corner of it, till
a sufficient number of travellers had arrived to allow them to cross the
deserted place in a body formidable enough to prevent their being
plundered.

Mrs. Sandboys, therefore, rose from her bed, determined to satisfy
herself whence the noise proceeded. At times she would declare that she
heard voices at the opposite side of the building. Accordingly, slipping
on her flannel gown, she proceeded with the rushlight shade to inspect
the premises.

She had not gone far in the direction of the other wing of the
establishment, when the smoke grew so thick that it was almost
impossible for her to see her hand before her, and it was of so pungent
a nature, that it almost blinded as well as stifled her. At first it
smelt to her very like the fumes of tobacco, but as she was not aware of
there being any one addicted to “the weed” in the “Establishment for
Young Ladies”—a taste, indeed, that seemed utterly at variance with the
feminine character of the institution—she got to be convinced that there
was some tarry substance smouldering away in one of the rooms, and that
it only required a breath of air to cause it to burst into a sheet of
flame, when they would be all burnt alive in their beds.

Perhaps, thought Mrs. Sandboys, there might yet be time to extinguish
the smouldering mass. Accordingly, she hurried back to her bed-room for
the jug of cold water, so that she might empty its contents upon the
burning body immediately she discovered whereabouts it lay.

The lady’s steps grew quicker and quicker, as, led by her nose, she
followed the smoke, sniffing away like a terrier at a rat-hole—while the
further she advanced the thicker the cloud became, until it was as much
as she could do to fetch her breath in it.

Nothing daunted, however, she proceeded with the cape of her
flannel-gown to her nose, and at length reached the doorway of the
apartment of the United Frenchmen, whence she perceived the fumes were
issuing. She opened the door cautiously, lest the flames, that she now
felt convinced were raging within, should burst out upon her—indeed, at
one time, as she stood outside shivering with fright, she was confident
that she could hear the “devouring element” roaring within; though,
truth to say, it was nothing more horrible than the snoring of the
drowsiest of the eight-and-forty foreigners.

As she entered the apartment, all was in such a fog of fume, that it was
impossible to distinguish a single object. Presently, however, she
caught sight of a burning mass—she knew not where or what it was—but
there she could see it, growing brighter and brighter at intervals, as
if the breeze were fanning it, and it wanted but a few minutes longer to
burst into flame.

Without hesitating for one moment, she dropped the rushlight shade on
the ground, and dashed the contents of the water-jug full in the
direction of the ignited body.

Immediately after the first splash, there was heard the panting of some
one gasping for breath, and then a hoarse cry of—“Sacr-r-re mille nommes
de tonnerre!”

Mrs. Sandboys no sooner heard the sound of a man’s voice—and that man a
Frenchman—than, letting the empty water-jug fall with a loud crash, she
uttered a shrill scream, and flew from the man’s apartment in the
direction of her own.

The astonished and drenched Frenchman, who, like the rest of his
comrades, had been indulging in the Parisian luxury of a pipe in bed,
and who had fallen asleep with his large “meerschaum” still alight in
his mouth, hearing the shriek of a female, immediately sprang from his
bed, and darted off after the lady, in the hope of making her explain
and apologize for the unceremonious manner in which she had roused him
from his slumbers.

Mrs. Sandboys, however, had so good a start of the foreigner, that she
was able to reach her apartment before he could lay hold of her; and
then rushing into it, she slammed to the door, and throwing herself upon
her beloved Cursty, fell shrieking and kicking and crying, “There’s a
man, Cursty—there’s a man!”

Mr. Sandboys, on being roused so suddenly, required to shake himself two
or three times before he could collect himself sufficiently to
comprehend whether or not he was finishing the nightmare that the cold
rice-pudding had produced. At length, however, he had a vague,
indistinct recollection of his wife having previously roused him with an
alarm of thieves; so, making up his mind that this was the cause of his
Aggy’s fright, and that she had been actually pursued by some daring
burglar, he dashed from his bed-room armed with a good stout stick.

Immediately outside the door he encountered the Frenchman, who was busy
in the dark, feeling for some mark by which he could recognise the
apartment in the morning. Cursty no sooner laid hands upon the strange
man, than he prepared to seize him by the throat. On attempting to do
this, he discovered, to his great surprise, that the supposed
housebreaker was “bearded like the pard;” accordingly, he grasped, with
a tight hold, the hairy appendage to the foreigner’s chin with one hand,
while with the other he proceeded, with his ash stick, to belabour him,
in his shirt as he was, till his cries raised the whole house.

Then the ladies, maids and all, threw up the windows of their bed-rooms,
and proceeded, some to shriek “Police!” others to scream “Murder!” and
“Thieves!” while the rest busied themselves with springing the entire
battery of watchmen’s rattles that were kept, for the safety of the
young ladies, always at hand on the premises.

Mrs. Wewitz, when she discovered the cause of the disturbance, was more
alarmed than ever; for she plainly began to perceive that the
eight-and-forty Frenchmen, whom in a moment of weakness she had admitted
within the sacred precincts of “Parthenon House,” would ultimately bring
ruin upon the hitherto unsullied reputation of her daughter’s
“Establishment for Young Ladies.”

Mrs. Sandboys, on becoming acquainted with the fact that she and her
daughter were living beneath the same roof with nearly half a hundred
Frenchmen, grew extremely uneasy at not only the proverbial amatory
tendency of the dispositions of _jeune France_, but the equally
notorious want of cleanliness in the natives of the same enlightened
country.

Not a moment would she allow Elcy to be out of her sight, for she knew
that even when she herself accompanied her for a walk round the
playground, the nasty impudent fellows were all up at their windows in a
moment, and kept continually dropping notes of assignation done up as
“_cornichons_” of sweetmeats on to her parasol as they passed.

But what troubled her perhaps quite as much was, the utter absence of
all weekly contributions of linen for the wash on the part of the united
eight-and-forty Parisians. She had made particular inquiries on this
subject of Mrs. Wewitz, just to satisfy herself whether the rumoured
indifference of _la belle France_ for a change of linen was in any way
founded upon truth, and when that lady assured her that though the four
dozen had been in her house upwards of a fortnight not so much as a
shirt front even, or a pair of socks, had they forwarded to the
laundress.

The cleanly Mrs. Sandboys became so horrified at the idea of a small
battalion being shut up in the same house as herself, without having so
much as a change of linen for two entire weeks, that she did not
hesitate to tell the alarmed Mrs. Wewitz that now the warm weather was
coming on, they would be sure to be having a malignant fever break out
on the premises; for it was the universal opinion of the best medical
authorities, that all of the most dangerous diseases arose merely from
dirt—and serve the people quite right too, she said; she didn’t pity one
of the nasty filthy things. But it was only for the poor young ladies’
sakes that she spoke, for most likely they’d be coming back just in the
thick of it. She would only ask Mrs. Wewitz to picture to herself what
the small-pox would be among sixty young ladies, the majority of whom
perhaps had nothing but their good looks to depend upon for their
advancement in life; besides vaccination, she must well know, was held
to be of no good after seven years, and as Miss Wewitz, her daughter,
didn’t receive any young ladies under that age, she might readily
imagine the ravages that such a pestilence would be likely to make in
such a place, and the number of poor miserable old maids that they’d
have to answer for.

The urgent appeals of Mrs. Sandboys took so firm a hold on the mind of
Mrs. Wewitz, that she said she would do anything that Mrs. Sandboys
might think best. Whereupon, that lady suggested that, as it was Monday,
she should be allowed to send Ann Lightfoot up to the Frenchmen, and
desire to know whether they had any “things” for the wash—at least, Mrs.
Sandboys said, it would shame them into making up some bundle, however
small it might be.

Accordingly, Ann Lightfoot was dispatched on the errand, with strict
orders to bring back the answer as quickly as possible.

Some considerable time elapsed, however, before the maid returned with
the reply, what washing the gentlemen needed, they said they themselves
did; and in proof of the truth of the statement, the maid told her
mistress that on entering the room, she found the Count and some of the
Officers around the wash-hand basin busily engaged in soaping and
rubbing away at their dirty collars.

The message once delivered, Mrs. Sandboys began to question the girl as
to the cause of her delay. The maid, in a confused manner, endeavoured
to stammer out that she couldn’t make the gentlemen understand her.

Mrs. Sandboys, however, observing, on a close scrutiny of the girl’s
appearance, that her cap was awry, desired her to come closer to her,
and then taking hold of her, she turned the maid round, and to her
horror discovered imprinted on her cheek a series of exact copies in
“_cire de moustache_” of every shape and variety of mustachio. Then
seizing the girl by the arm, she dragged her round to the looking-glass,
and begged to be informed whether it was necessary for the Frenchmen’s
lips to be placed so near to her before they could make her understand
what they meant.

Ann Lightfoot coloured crimson as she perceived that the black wax with
which the Parisians were in the habit of darkening their beards, had
left its mark upon her skin, and bursting into tears, she said it was
impossible for her to get away from them; for first it was one, and then
the other, till at last she really thought that they would have torn her
to pieces among them, and if there was one, added the girl, that was
wuss than another, it was the one as said he only wished he could have
caught hold of you, mum, if you please, the other night.

Mrs. Sandboys gave a faint scream at the bare idea of such an accident
having occurred to her; and feeling in no way inclined to continue the
conversation, after the unpleasant turn it had taken, she desired the
girl to go below, and take good care how she trusted herself again
within a mile of those impudent foreigners.

Some two or three days after the above occurrence, Mrs. Wewitz, who now
began to keep a strict eye upon all the movements of the detachment of
the _Garde Nationale_ quartered within her domicile, hastened up to the
sitting-room of Mrs. Sandboys to inform her that she verily believed
every one of the fellows had left the house for a stroll. She had
counted forty-seven of them go out of the gate, and she was convinced
she must have made a mistake of one somewhere, for though she had been
up to their room, and listened at the door for nearly half-an-hour, she
could not hear a soul stirring—and now she added, “My dear, it will be a
good opportunity for us to see the state in which the room really is,
for, with the exception of Ann Lightfoot, not a creature has ever been
in it—no, not even to make their beds, since the first day they took
possession of the place.”

Mrs. Sandboys was as eager for the survey as Mrs. Wewitz herself, and
accordingly they started off together, intent upon having what the
ladies called a “good rout out” of all the things during the absence of
the Frenchmen.

On reaching the bed-room, they stood for some few minutes outside,
listening, but hearing no sound within, they ventured to push the door
open, so that they might be able to have a full view of the apartment,
and satisfy themselves of there being no one in it before they ventured
upon entering.

Not a creature was to be seen, so the two ladies crept cautiously in;
and no sooner did Mrs. Wewitz set eyes on the coffee colour of the once
white dimity bed-curtains, than she threw up her hands, as if in despair
of ever seeing them a “good colour” again. Then placing the corner of
the counterpane to her nose, the smell of stale tobacco was almost
overpowering. How she should ever sweeten them for the young ladies, was
more than she could tell.

Mrs. Sandboys next drew her attention to the state of the boards—the
very boards which it was her pride to hear all who saw them say they
could eat their dinner off them—and now, owing to the four dozen
foreigners not possessing so much as one spittoon among them, they were
stained over with the juice and ashes of tobacco. The bright bars and
sides of the stove, too, were all spotted red with rust.

On a chair in the middle of the room stood the blacking bottle and
brushes, and beside them, on one of the white toilet-covered tables, was
a basin half full of inky water, in which the gallant sons of “_la belle
France_” had recently rinsed their hands and faces—near this was a
bottle of bandoline for gumming down the hair, and an old tooth-brush
standing up in it—the only tooth-brush to be seen in the place. Lying
next to these was a dirty, mangy-looking hair-brush, with several sticks
of different coloured _cires de moustache_—looking like the ends of
candles—and a bottle of lavender water. On the mantelpiece stood a pair
of curling-tongs, a leaden whisker-comb, and a pot of patent polish for
the boots, while above were ranged the entire pipes of the fraternity.
Pinned to a string that stretched across the room from bed to bed, hung
a couple of shirt fronts, left to dry, together with several dozen pairs
of fresh-cleaned, lemon-coloured kid gloves, that emitted a strong smell
of turpentine.

As the two ladies “poked about” the apartment, each seemed to find
especial delight in dragging the other to witness some fresh evidence of
filth or foppery that she had just discovered; and while they were thus
agreeably engaged, speaking in whispers to one another, Mrs. Sandboys,
who had ventured to stray further into the depths of the apartment than
the more cautious Mrs. Wewitz, had almost reached the end of the
chamber, when, to her horror, she discovered some one fast asleep in one
of the beds. All that was visible above the clothes was the upper part
of a head, profusely done up in curl papers.

Mrs. Sandboys no sooner caught sight of the “crackers,” than, breathless
with indignation, she hurried back, on tiptoe, to her companion, and
whispered in her ear, “My dear, there’s a woman in one of the beds!”

“A wo——!” Mrs. Wewitz was about to scream, when Aggy placed her hand on
the lady’s mouth.

“Yes, a woman, my love! I tell tha I saw her curl-papers,” ejaculated
Mrs. Sandboys, in a subdued tone of the deepest horror.

“The wretches!” cried Mrs. Wewitz, “they’ll be the ruin of us all—they
will; but I’ll soon have the hussy out!” and so saying she hurried
towards the bed which Mrs. Sandboys had indicated; and seizing the
sleeper by the shoulders, began shaking the individual violently.

The suddenness and severity of the agitation roused the slumberer, when
lifting his head up from under the clothes, he displayed to the
terrified ladies a huge beard and pair of mustachios.

“Its a brute of a man, after all!” screamed Mrs. Wewitz, as she let go
the shoulders of the hirsute Parisian.

“Goodness, gracious!” shrieked Mrs. Sandboys, and away they both
scampered out of the apartment.

As they hastened back to their sitting-room, they met Ann Lightfoot on
one of the landings, and communicating to her what had happened, the
girl begged to know whether the man’s beard was red?

On being answered in the affirmative, she told the horror-stricken Mrs.
Sandboys that it was the same man as had run after her the other night,
and who assured her yesterday that he only wished he could have caught
her; he’d have served her out finely.

“He was the wust of the whole bunch,” Ann Lightfoot said.

Mrs. Sandboys gave a faint scream, for, as she observed to Mrs. Wewitz,
she shouldn’t wonder but what the nasty hairy brute of a fellow would be
imagining that she was in love with him, and then what on earth would
become of her!


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XII.

                “Do, walk in, gentlemen, walk in,
                  The price is only threepence,
                 We’re just a-going to begin—
                  You two step in for fi’pence.
                 You ne’er have seen in all your days,
                  So fine a show as this is;
                 Go where we will, it gains the praise
                  Of gentlemen and misses.
                    *    *    *    *    *
                “See hurdum-durdum, dust an’ din,
                  Wi’ showman an’ physician,
                 You’d think that they meeght Babel fin’
                  Class’d for a new edition.”
                                      _Cumberland Song._


The long-looked-for first of May, 1851, had at length arrived, and the
morning was ushered in with merry peals from almost every steeple; afar
off the drone of the thousand bells sounded like the boom of a huge
gong—the signal, as it were, for the swarming of the Great Hive.

For miles round all wore a holiday aspect; the work-people with clean
and smiling faces, and decked out in all the bright colours of their
Sunday attire, were up and about shortly after daybreak, and, with their
bundle of provisions on their arms, were soon seen streaming along the
road, like so many living rays, converging towards the Crystal focus of
the World.

It was the great Jubilee of art and industry, to which almost every
corner of the earth had sent some token of its skill and brotherly
feeling, and to which the inhabitants of the most distant climes had
come, each to gaze at the science and handicraft of the other. Never was
labour—whether mental or manual, whether the craft of the hand or of the
brain—so much honoured—the first great recognition, perhaps, of the
artistic qualities of the artizan.

With the first gleam of daylight, the boys of London, ever foremost at a
sight, had taken up their places in the trees, like their impudent
counterparts, the London sparrows, and men and women grouped round the
rails, determined at least to have a good place for seeing the opening
of the World’s Show. Hammers were to be heard on all sides, fastening
the timbers of the wooden stages that were being set up by the many who
delight in holidays solely as a matter of business. Some were pouring in
at the Park-gates, laden with tables and chairs for the sight-seers to
stand upon. Others again, came with the omnipresent street
provisions—huge trucks filled with bottles of ginger beer—baskets of
gingerbread and “fatty cakes”—and tins of brandy-balls and
hardbake—while from every quarter there streamed girls and women with
round wicker sieves piled up in pyramids with oranges. Then there were
the women with the brown-looking trotters, spread on white cloths, and
the men with their ham sandwiches, as thin as if made out of
whitey-brown paper; while at the gates and all along the roads, stood
men with trays of bright silvery-looking medals of the Crystal Palace,
and filling the air with the cheapness and attractions of their wares.
Nor were the beggars absent from the scene, for in every direction along
which the great mass of people came pouring, there were the blind and
the crippled, reaping their holiday harvest.

As the morning advanced the crowds that came straggling on, grew denser
and denser, till at last it was one compact kind of road, paved with
heads; and on they went—fathers with their wives and children, skipping
jauntily along, and youths with their gaily-dressed sweethearts, in
lively-coloured shawls and ribbons—and many—early as it was—munching
apples, or cracking nuts as they trudged on their way.

All London, and half the country, and a good part of the world, were
wending their way to see the Queen pass in state on her way to open the

                    GREAT EXHIBITION OF ALL NATIONS,


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XIII.

               “See frae a’ quarters, east and west,
                 I’ drwoves th’ country coman,
                Wheyle flocks o’ naigs an’ kye are press’d
                 By flocks o’ men an’ women;
                Buss’d i’ their best the blythesome troop
                 Bang forrat helter-skelter,
                Wheyle monny ’mang the mingled group
                 O’ th’ geat war fit to swelter
                                     Wi’ heat that day.

                   *    *    *    *    *

                Whist! what’s yon noise amang yon crowd,
                 Yon rantin an’ huzzain?
                Whar trumpets skirl an’ drums beat loud,
                 An’ organs sweet are pleyin.”
                                            _Rosley Fair._


The Great Exhibition of the Industry of all Countries is the first
public national expression ever made in this country, as to the dignity
and artistic quality of labour.

Our “working men,” until within the last few years, we have been in the
habit of looking upon as mere labourers—as muscular machines—creatures
with whom the spinning-jenny and the power-loom might be brought into
competition, and whom the sense of fatigue, and consequent demand for
rest, rendered immeasurably inferior “as producers,” to the instruments
of brass and iron.

It is only within the last ten years, perhaps, that we have got to
acknowledge the artistic and intellectual quality of many forms of
manual labour, speaking of certain classes of operatives no longer as
handicraftsmen—that is to say, as men who, from long habit, acquired a
dexterity of finger which fitted them for the “automatic” performance of
certain operations,—but styling them artisans, or the artists of our
manufactures. It is because we have been so slow to perceive and express
this “great fact”—the artistic character of artisanship—that so much
intellectual power has been lost to society, and there has been so much
more toil and suffering in the world than there has been any necessity
for.

Had we, as a really great people, been impressed with the sense of the
heavy debt we owed to labour, we should long ago have sought to
acknowledge and respect the mental operations connected with many forms
of it, and have striven to have ennobled and embellished and enlivened
the intellect of those several modes of industry that still remained as
purely physical employments among us. Had the men of mind done as much
for the men of labour, as these had done for those, we might long ago
have learned how to have made toil pleasant rather than irksome, and to
have rendered it noble instead of mean.

The ploughman, at the tail of the plough, has been allowed to continue
with us almost the same animal as the horses in front of it, with no
other incentive to work but the craving of his stomach.

Had we striven to elevate ploughing into an art, and the ploughman into
an artist—teaching him to understand the several subtle laws and forces
concerned in the cultivation of every plant—and more especially of those
with which he was dealing—had we thus made the turning up of the soil
not a brute operation, but an intellectual process, we might have
rendered the work a pleasure, and the workman a man of thought, dignity,
and refinement.

As yet, the art-exhibitions of this country have been confined solely to
the handiworks of artists-proper. We have been led to suppose, by the
restricted sense which we have given to the term _artist_, that Art was
confined solely to the several forms of pleasing—pictorially, musically,
or literarily. A more comprehensive view of the subject, however, is now
teaching us that the different modes of operating on the intellectual
emotions, of attracting attention, of exciting interest, of producing a
feeling of astonishment, beauty, sublimity, or ludicrousness in others,
are but one species of Art, for not only are the means of affecting the
intellect, of inducing a sense of truth and causation an equally
artistic operation, but, assuredly, the affection of material objects in
a desired manner is just as worthy of being ranked in the same category.
Whether the wished-for object be to operate upon mental, moral, or
physical nature—whether it be to induce in the intellect, the heart, or
the unconscious substances around us a certain predetermined state, such
an end can be brought about solely by conforming to the laws of the
object on which we seek to operate.

Art, literally rendered, is cunning, and cunning is “kenning,” or
knowing. It means, simply and strictly, intellectual power. _Ars_ is the
power of mind, in contradistinction to the _In-ers_, or power of matter.

Art, therefore, is merely the exercise of the mind towards a certain
object—that express operation of the intellect which enables us to
compass our intentions, no matter what the object may be—whether to
convince, to astonish, to convulse with laughter, to charm with beauty,
to overwhelm with the sense of the sublime, or even to extract metal
from the ore, or weave the fibres of a plant into a covering for the
body—each of these processes differs, not in the intellectual operation,
but solely in the nature of the substances operated upon, every one
requiring the knowledge of a different set of laws, and thus, in most
instances, necessitating a distinct operator.

Such are the marvellous effects of some of the more ordinary arts of
civilization. Art, it has been said, lies simply in the adaptation of
the means to the end—the more cunning or knowing this adaptation
appears—that is to say, the greater the knowledge, intuitive or
acquired, that it evinces, or is felt to require, the greater, of
course, is the art, or, in other words, the more _artful_ the process
becomes.

As yet, but few modes of industry in this country have been rendered
artistic; our handicraftsmen have remained pure mechanics, because
wanting that knowledge which alone could convert their operation into an
art; they have merely repeated, mechanically, the series of acts that
others had performed before them, while such processes which had been
elevated into intellectual exercises had been rendered so by mere
scientific knowledge.

By means of Mechanics’ Institutes and cheap literature, we had so
extended the discoveries of our philosophers, that the truths of science
were, in many instances, no longer confined to the laboratory, the
observatory, or the library, but made to permeate the mine, the forge,
the workshop, the factory, and the fields.

Still, it was only science that reached our working men.

Taste, as yet, was scarcely known to them.

A knowledge of the laws of nature might make better and more cunning
handicraftsmen, but a knowledge of the laws of pleasing could alone
render their works more elegant in design; and, since every material
object must necessarily partake of form and colour, it is surely as well
it should be made to please as to displease the eye in these qualities.

As yet we have sought to develop only the utilities of art—the
beautiful, as an essential element of all manufacture, we have entirely
neglected. As a stranger recently come among us, this defect appears to
have forced itself deeply into the mind of Prince Albert; for, as far
back as 1846, his Royal Highness urged upon a deputation that waited
upon him from the Society of Arts, that the department of that Society
“most likely to prove immediately beneficial to the public, was that
which encouraged, most efficiently, the application of the Fine Arts to
the various manufactures of the country;” and, added the Prince, after
speaking of the excellence and solidity of British manufactures
generally, “to wed mechanical skill with high art is a task worthy of
the Society of Arts, and directly in the path of its duty.”

The Great Exhibition of the Works of Industry and Art of all Nations is,
then, the first attempt to dignify and refine toil; and, by collecting
the several products of scientific and æsthetic art from every quarter
of the globe into one focus, to diffuse a high standard of excellence
among our operatives, and thus to raise the artistic qualities of
labour, so that men, no longer working with their fingers alone, shall
find that which is now mere drudgery converted into a delight, their
intellects expanded, their natures softened, and their pursuits ennobled
by the process.

When mining becomes with us a geological art—when the agricultural
labourer is an organic chemist—when the feeder and breeder of cattle is
an experimental physiologist—when, indeed, every handicraft is made both
a scientific and æsthetic operation—then, and then alone, will the
handicraftsmen hold that high and honourable position in the country,
which, as the producers of all our wealth—as those to whom we owe our
every comfort and luxury, they ought most assuredly to occupy.

The Great Exhibition is a higher boon to labour than a general advance
of wages. An increase of pay might have brought the working men a larger
share of creature comforts, but high feeding, unfortunately, is not high
thinking nor high feeling.

Anything which tends to elevate the automatic operation of the mere
labourer to the dignity of an artistic process, tends to confer on the
working classes the greatest possible benefit.

Such appears to be the probable issue of the Great Exhibition!

Nor can we conceive a nobler pride than that which must be felt by
working men when they behold arranged all around them the several
trophies and triumphs of labour over the elements of the whole material
universe. The sight cannot fail to inspire them with a sense of their
position in the State, and to increase their self-respect in the same
ratio as it must tend to increase the respect of all others for their
vocation.

                  *       *       *       *       *

London, for some time previous to the opening of the Great Exhibition,
had been a curious sight even to Londoners. In all the main
thoroughfares, especially those leading from the railways and the docks,
heavy vans, piled high with unwieldy packing-cases, or laden with some
cumbrous machine, and drawn by a long team of horses, crawled along,
creaking, on their way towards the Crystal Palace. The greater part of
the principal streets were being repaired, preparatory to the increased
traffic; shops were being newly-painted and newspapers were announcing
in huge placards that they proposed publishing supplements in several
languages.

In almost every omnibus, some two or three foreigners were to be seen
among the passengers,—either some light-haired Germans, or high-cheeked
Americans, or sallow Turks, with their “fez-caps” of scarlet cloth. In
the pit of the theatres, Chinamen, with their peculiar slanting eyes,
and old-woman-like look and dress, might occasionally be perceived
gaping with wonder at the scene; while from the number of gentlemen in
beards, felt-hats, and full pantaloons, visible at the West-end,
Regent-street had much the Anglo-Frenchified character of
Boulogne-sur-Mer.

New amusements were daily springing into existence, or old ones being
revived. The Chinese Collection had returned to the Metropolis, with a
family from Pekin, and a lady with feet two inches and a half long, as a
proof of the superior _standing_ she had in society; Mr. Catlin had
re-opened his Indian exhibition; Mr. Wyld had bought up the interior of
Leicester Square, with the view of cramming into it—“yea, the great
globe itself!” The geographical panoramas had rapidly increased, no less
than three Jerusalems having been hatched, as it were, by steam—like
eggs, by the patent incubator—within the last three weeks. “Australia”
and “New Zealand,” like floating islands, had shifted their quarters
from Miss Linwood’s Gallery to the Strand, while the cost of immigrating
thither for half-an-hour was reduced from sixpence for each country, to
“threepence all the way;” while those who felt indisposed for so long a
journey, could make the “Grand Tour of Europe” for one shilling, or take
the “Overland Route to India” for the same price, or be set down by the
Waterloo omnibus at the entrance to the “Dardanelles,” and see all over
“Constantinople” for less than a trip to Gravesend.

The road to the Crystal Palace had for a long time been an extraordinary
scene. Extensive trains of waggons stretched far away, like an Eastern
caravan, each waiting for its turn to be unloaded, monopolised one side
of the carriage-way. Omnibuses, with their roofs crowded with people,
went dashing by, while carts laden with building materials crept
leisurely along.

At almost every one of the public-houses some huge flag was flying from
the upper windows, and around the doors were groups of men and soldiers
either about to enter or depart. Along the edge of the foot-path stood
hawkers, shouting out the attractions of their wares—some had trays
filled with bright silvery-looking medals of the Exhibition—others,
pictures of it printed in gold on “gelatine cards”—while others had
merely barrows of nuts, baskets of oranges or trucks of the omnipresent
penny ginger-beer.

Groups of foreigners, their beards yellow with dust, walked along with
their hands stuck in their pockets, so as to make their full pantaloons
even fuller than ordinary; and as the omnibuses stopped to “pick up” or
“set down” their passengers, parties of Germans or Frenchmen were heard
jabbering loudly within. Along Rotten-row, endless troops of equestrians
galloped noiselessly along on the soft loose ground at the rear of the
Crystal Palace—in front of it an interminable line of carriages drawled
slowly past, and while some of those within thrust their heads out at
the windows, others leant back, so as to be able to see the height or
length of the giant building.

On every side were mobs of spectators pressing close up to the rails,
and standing on tiptoe, with their necks out-stretched, in the hope of
getting a peep of what was going on within. All along the building were
ladders, one beside each of the columns, with painters perched high upon
them, busy colouring the iron-work against the opening day. On top of
the huge glass arch that formed the roof of the transept, the tiny
figures of workmen were to be seen, some walking along the crystal
covering, and making one wonder how the fragile substance bore them.

At the end of the building were steam-engines puffing out their white
clouds of steam, and amid the _debris_ of a thousand packing-cases stood
giant blocks of granite, mammoth lumps of coal, stupendous anchors, and
such huge articles as were too bulky to be placed within the building
itself.

All was bustle, life, confusion, and amazement.

Those who were not working, were wondering at those who were; and many,
as they looked at what still remained to be done, shook their heads in
doubt as to the possibility of completing it against the appointed time.

Nor was it difficult to read disappointment in the countenances of the
new-comers on their first beholding the building. To say the truth, the
engravings and the imagination had failed to convey any adequate notion
of the structure. The very name of the Crystal Palace had led people to
conjure up in their minds a phantasm that could not be realized—a
transparent edifice, pellucid as if built of blocks of ice instead of
stone—a prismatic kind of fairy mansion, glittering in the sun, and
breaking up and scattering the light all around in a thousand rainbow
tints.

But how different the scene on the earliest dawn of the morrow!

Then to stand in the centre of the huge crystal pile, and cast the eye
thence in any direction, was indeed to behold a sight that had no
parallel in excellence. The exquisite lightness and tone of colour that
pervaded the entire structure was a visual feast, and a rare delight of
air, colour, and space. The vitrious material which outside was to be
seen only in one point, here appeared really to form the sides and roof
of the entire building, while the combined effect of the three “primary”
colours of the decorations showed with what rare artistic skill and
exquisite æsthetic appreciation they had been put together. It seemed
more like one harmonious tone—a concert of mellifluous tints—than mere
painting. A kind of coloured rainbowy air appeared to pervade the whole
building, while, as the eye travelled down the long vista of galleries,
and beheld the forms and tints at the end of the avenues, dimmed by the
haze of distance, one was struck with a solemn sense of the majesty of
the building.

Before the 1st of May, 1851, it was impossible to form an adequate idea
of the magnificence of the scene which was to render its opening
memorable for all time. Those who the day before had made the journey of
the avenues from end to end, above and below, could not have believed it
possible that in so few hours so great a change could have been wrought.

There was the glass fountain in the centre of the building, shining, as
the sun’s rays came slanting down upon it through the crystal roofs, as
if it had been carved out of icicles, or as if the water streaming from
the fountain had been made suddenly solid, and transfixed into beautiful
forms. In the machine-room, with its seeming infinity of engines puffing
and twirling away, were the “self-acting mules” at work, drawing out
almost spontaneously their long lines of threads, as if from a thousand
spiders; the huge Jacquard lace machines were busy weaving the finest
embroidered “edgings;” the pumps were throwing up their huge cascades of
water, while the steam printing-press was whirling its vast sheets
through a maze of tapes, and then pouring them forth, one after another,
impressed with a whole firmament of “signs and symbols;” the envelope
machine, with its magic “finger”—the power-looms—the model
locomotives—the centrifugal pumps—the horizontal and vertical
steam-engines—were each and all at work—snorting, whirring, and
clattering. There was the canopy above the royal seat, and adorned with
its golden cornice and fringe, and with a small plume of blue and white
feathers at each of its angles. The floors were no longer strewn, but
clean and matted, and at each corner of the central square, stages had
been raised for the most illustrious visitors. As you glanced down the
avenues, objects of exquisite texture, form, or colour, everywhere
saluted the eye. From the top of the galleries were hung huge carpets
and pieces of tapestry, gorgeous in their tints, and exquisite in their
designs. Here was reared, high towards the crystal roof, the
“Spitalfields trophy,” from the top of which hung the richest silks,
with their glossy colours variegated with tints and forms of surpassing
beauty; and looking still farther down the nave, the eye could just
catch sight of the colossal mirror, set in its massive gilt frame, and
mounted on crimson cloth. At every corner were statues, made doubly
white by the scarlet drapery arranged behind them, while immediately at
the back of the throne were two equestrian statues of the Prince and
Queen, one on either side. Behind these was another fountain, that made
the stream, as it rushed up from the centre and divided itself into a
hundred drops, flashing in the sun as they fell, look like a shower of
silver sparks—a kind of fire-work of water; and beside this rose the
green plumage of the palm-trees embedded in moss, while close at their
feet was ranged a bed of flowers, whose tints seemed to have been dyed
by the prismatic hues of the water-drops of the neighbouring fountain.
Then appeared the old elm-trees of the park, looking almost like the
lions of the forest caught in a net of glass; and behind them again was
a screen of iron tracery, so light and delicate that it seemed like a
lacework of bronze.

The opposite side of the transept was filled with sight-seers, and the
galleries, around and all along, as far as the eye could stretch, were
dotted over with the yellow, white, and pink bonnets of the fairer
portion of the company.

But it was when the retinue of the court began to assemble that the
scene became one—perhaps the most gorgeous in colouring and splendour
ever beheld; for it was seen in the clear light of the transparent roof
above. The gold embroidered bosoms of the officers of State seemed to be
almost alight with the glitter of their ornaments; and as the
ambassadors of all nations stood grouped in the centre, the various
forms and colours and embellishments of their costumes were a sight to
see and never to forget.

There stood all the ministers of state in their glittering suits; the
ambassadors of every country, some in light blue and silver, others in
green and gold, and others in white, with their bosoms studded with
their many-coloured “orders.” There was the Chinese mandarin in his red
cap, with peacock’s feathers dangling behind, and his silken robes with
quaint devices painted upon them in front and at the back. There was the
turbaned Turk, and the red fez-capped Egyptian; and there were the
chocolate-coloured court suits, with their filagree steel buttons, and
long, white, embroidered silk waistcoats.

There was the old Duke, too, with his silver hair and crooked back
showing most conspicuous amongst the whole. At the back and sides of the
throne, stood the gentlemen-at-arms, in their golden helmets, with the
long plumes of white ribbon-like feathers drooping over them. Beside
these were the portly-looking beef-eaters, in their red suits and black
velvet caps; and near them were the trumpeters, in their golden coats
and close-fitting jockey-caps, with silver trumpets in their hands. Near
these were the Aldermen, in their red gowns of office, trimmed with fur;
and the Common-councilmen, in their blue silk gowns; and the Recorder,
in long, big, powdered judge’s wig—the Archbishop, in full lawn sleeves,
and close, curly wig—and the “Musical Doctor,” in his white satin,
damask robe, and quaint-looking black cap—and the heralds in their blue
silk robes, emblazoned with gold-looking lions, and other silken
devices—and the Garter King-at-Arms, in his gorgeous red velvet coat,
becrested all over in gold—while, round all these were ranged sappers
and miners, in their red and yellow uniforms; and behind them were seen
the dark blue coats of the police.

It was a feast of colour and splendour to sit and gloat over—a congress
of all the nations for the most hallowed and blessed of objects—one,
perhaps, that made the two old soldiers, as they tottered backwards and
forwards across the scene, the most noticeable, because in such a
gathering for such an object, the mind could hardly help looking upon
them as the last of the warriors to whom the nation would owe its future
greatness.

At a few minutes before the appointed hour, the royal carriages with
their bright liveries were seen to flash past the windows of the
northern entrance—then darted by a troop of the Life Guards, with their
steel helmets and breast-plates glistening in the sunshine, and
immediately after, the glass sides and roof of the Crystal Palace
twanged with the flourish of trumpets, that announced the arrival of the
Queen.

At this moment the gates were flung back, and within the crimson
vestibule appeared a blaze of gold and bright colours.

Then advanced the royal retinue, with the ushers and chamberlain in
front, bowing as they moved backwards towards the throne; and after them
the Prince leading the Princess Royal, and the Queen with the Prince of
Wales, and followed by their court.

The equerries, in their golden-striped coats and powdered hair, and the
Life Guards with their glittering steel accoutrements, brought up the
rear, and formed the background to such a picture as could be seen
perhaps in no other country but England.

As the Queen moved onwards with her diamond tiara and little crown of
brilliants scintillating in the light, the whole assembly rose, and
waving their hats and fluttering their handkerchiefs, they shouted forth
peal after peal of welcome.

[Illustration:

  THE OPENING OF THE GREAT HIVE OF THE WORLD
  MAY 1 1851
  OR THE INDUSTRIAL EXHIBITION OF ALL NATIONS
]

Then was sung the National Anthem—the white head and bright blue coat of
the courtly old leader appeared in the red rostrum raised above the
royal entrance, and high in the air his baton might be seen waving to
and fro; while, as the “melodious thunder” of the organ

rolled through the building, the choristers in their white robes chanted
in the rich unison of many voices.

The Archbishop then invoked a blessing on the objects of the
building—this was followed by a chorus sung in exquisite harmony by the
large band of singers—and then the Queen and Prince, preceded by the
officers of state, walked round the building in procession; while, as
she went, the people who lined the nave and galleries saluted her and
her consort with their acclamations.

On her Majesty declaring the Exhibition opened, there followed another
flourish of trumpets, and the gorgeous ceremony was at an end.
Immediately were heard the booming of the hundred guns without, telling
the people of the metropolis that the Great Exhibition of the Industry
of all Nations had been formally inaugurated.

And well may the nation be proud of its Crystal Palace. No other people
in the world could have raised such a building—without one shilling
being drawn from the national resources, or have stocked it with the
same marvellous triumphs of industry and art. The machine-room alone,
with its thousand iron monsters snorting and clattering, was a sight to
overwhelm the mind with a positive sense of awe; stories were current of
many of the strongest minds having been affected to tears at the
spectacle; and most assuredly, what with the noise and the motion, there
was a sense of reverent humility forced upon the mind, together with a
feeling of gratitude to the Almighty, who had vouchsafed to confer upon
us so much of his own power, that filled the bosom with the very pathos
of admiration.

You might wander where you pleased—to “France”—and see the exquisite
tapestry; you might step across to “Austria”—and wonder at the carving
of the furniture; but though beneath the crystal roof were ranged all
the choicest works of the whole world, there was nothing in any way
comparable for skill, for mind, for work—nothing so plain, so solid, and
yet so eminently handsome—nothing, indeed, so thoroughly English as that
iron type of our indomitable energy to be found in the machinery.

One glance was quite sufficient to account for the greatness of the
nation to which it belonged!

The foreigners appeared to be in no way prepared for so overpowering an
example of England’s immeasurable pre-eminence in this respect. And it
was curious to see the Frenchmen and Germans grouped round the several
machines in operation, with their noses almost touching the wheels, as
they vainly endeavoured to make themselves acquainted with their
bewildering details; nor was it less interesting to notice the innocent
pride which the attendants appeared to take in pointing out to the
visitors of other nations the uses of the several parts of the complex
tool.

But if the machinery department were especially attractive for the
striking evidence it afforded of the supremacy of this nation over all
others in mechanical genius and industry—exhibiting at once the cause
and effect of Britain’s greatness—assuredly the mineral department,
though having less surface attractions, still displayed our peculiar
national characteristics. Without our coal and without our iron, where
would have been our machinery?

Watt, Arkwright, Stevenson, born in another quarter of the globe that
possessed less metallic treasures, might have lived and died mere clods
perhaps, removed from the minerals that were necessary both to the
production and achievement of their genius; and more marvellous than all
is it, after having cast the eye over the several huge lumps of ore that
here are to be seen, to pass into the several branches of manufactures,
and behold the things of special interest that the skill and genius of
man have learned to fashion them into—to contrast the dull-looking iron
ore with the glittering, bright-polished, and sharp-edged steel
instruments that are made from it—to see the opaque and powdery sand,
and then behold the pellucid and massive glass fountains, chandeliers,
and vases into which we have learned to convert it.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIV.

               “But now the lang-expected mworn
                 Of murriment arrives,
                Wheyle helter-skelter frae a’ airts
                 I’ swarms the country drives,
                The lasses in their feyne pearce claes,
                 The lads baith trig an’ souple;
                Ower hill an’ knowe, thro’ seugh an’ sowe,
                 Comes tiftan many o’ couple
                                   Hauf saim’d that day.

               “Frae Angerton Wheyte to Dubbmill,
                 Hin mist, as yen may say,
                But a’ wi’ yae consent seem’d met
                 To mence this merry day.
                Wheyle Allonby turn’d out en masse,
                 Ding-dang, baith man an’ woman,
                An’ parlish pranks ’mang Silloth banks
                 They hed as they were comin’
                               To th’ town that day.

               “But it wad need a Homer’s head
                 War I to tak’ in han’,
                To sing or say what fwok that day
                 War there, or how they wan;
                So far and near, an’ God kens whare,
                 By common invitation,
                Wi’ young an’ auld, an’ great an’ laal.
                 Seem’d met on this occasion,
                                     Wi’ glee that day.”
                                        _Cumberland Poem._


IN the ardour of our admiration at the Crystal Palace, we have forgotten
the Hero of our story, the simple, but ill-starred individual, who
quitted his native mountains with the special view of beholding the
wonders of the Great Exhibition.

Like all those who could spare the money, and like many who could not,
Mr. Christopher Sandboys, at the special injunction of his beloved Aggy,
had made up his mind to invest five golden pieces of the lawful and
current coin of Great Britain in the purchase of a brace of
admission-tickets for himself and his better half, so that he and his
“good lady” might join the rest of the world in witnessing the ceremony
of the inauguration.

After a series of visits, first to Mr. Sams the librarian, thence to the
Society of Arts in John-street, and thence to the office of the
Executive Committee, Christopher was at last permitted, as a special
favour, to convert his five sovereigns into two small pieces of
pasteboard, entitling himself and his wife to the right of admission to
the Crystal Palace throughout the season. Having achieved this great
feat, he made the best of his way back to the partner of his bosom, to
gratify her with the tidings of the successful issue of his errand.

Then, of course, came the important inquiry as to what dress Mrs.
Sandboys should make her appearance in at the ceremony, and it was
unanimously declared, as usual, that the lady had not “a thing to put
on;” woman like, she had much rather stay at home unless she could
appear “decent, at least,” on the auspicious occasion; she had no
particular wish to go, and Cursty could take Jobby with him in her
place.

Mr. Christopher Sandboys, though he found that his funds—what with the
losses and expenses that he had incurred since his departure from
Cumberland—were getting unpleasantly low, still, to obtain that domestic
peace and quietude, which, as an aspiring philosopher, he valued above
all earthly things, at length, with becoming resignation, submitted to
the infliction of a new dress, a mantle, and bonnet for the occasion.

On the eventful morning, Mrs. Sandboys was up and stirring long before
the sparrows, and they, according to the celebrated ornithologist (who
sat up every night for a whole year, in order to discover the usual
hours of getting up among the different species of the feathered race),
are the earliest risers of all the early birds. Nor would the impatient
Aggy allow Cursty to enjoy those extra forty winks for which he prayed,
before proceeding to the operations of his toilet.

But though Mrs. Sandboys was going to take part in the opening of the
Great Exhibition, Ann Lightfoot, her maid, felt in no way inclined to
have her night’s rest curtailed of its fair proportion, in order that
Mr. Sandboys’ shaving-water might be ready some few hours before the
usual time.

It was in vain that Mrs. Sandboys pulled, and pulled, at the bed-room
bell; for though peal followed peal in smart succession, still no Ann
Lightfoot made her appearance in answer to the summons.

At length the patience of Mrs. Sandboys became exhausted; for, though it
was hardly daylight, she felt satisfied they would be hours too late for
the ceremony, unless the tedious operation of shaving could be
immediately performed by her husband; and the lady accordingly insisted
that Mr. Sandboys should slip on his trousers and proceed to the maid’s
door, with the view of rousing the sluggard from her slumbers. She would
go herself, she said, but swarming as the establishment was with
foreigners, and considering her late perilous adventure with one of the
French lodgers, she did not consider it prudent to hazard a repetition
of the circumstances.

Cursty therefore proceeded to do the bidding of his wife, and groping
his way in the twilight—for it was not yet morning—to the apartment of
their serving-maid, he mounted the stairs as softly as he could, so that
he might not alarm the other sleepers in the house.

On gaining the landing that led to Ann Lightfoot’s room, the sounds of a
gentle tapping caught Mr. Sandboys’ ear, and in the dusk he could just
perceive the figure of a man standing outside the door. He paused for a
minute, and then heard the individual, as he softly repeated the
tapping, request, in broken English, that the “angel” would get up and
heat him a flat iron at the kitchen fire.

Now Mr. Sandboys had been informed by the partner of his fortunes and
four-poster of the pattern of a huge pair of moustachios, in black wax,
having been discovered imprinted on the cheek of Ann Lightfoot, after
her late visit to the Frenchmen’s apartment, and no sooner heard the
term “angel” applied to the maid, than immediately a shrewd suspicion
flashed across his mind, that the individual then at the girl’s door was
none other than the owner of the original moustachios, of which Ann had
borne away so faithful a copy.

In an instant he made a rush at the hirsute gentleman, and, seizing him
by the shoulders, proceeded to shake him violently, and to rate him in
no very gentle terms, threatening to throw the scoundrel over the
stairs.

The proprietor of the moustachios immediately grew as indignant as the
hot-blooded native of Cumberland, and declaring, with several violent
taps of his bosom, that his honour had been mortally wounded, demanded
the gentleman’s card, in order that he might obtain satisfaction for the
insult.

Mr. Sandboys, though unused to such a mode of redressing injury, and far
more disposed to use his fists than pistols as a means of settling a
quarrel, still was sufficient of the gentleman to fall in upon such an
occasion with the French, rather than the English mode of terminating a
dispute. Accordingly he thrust his hand into his breeches’ pocket, and
drawing forth his pocket-book, gave the foreigner the first piece of
card-board that he could lay his hands upon, and received in exchange
the address of his adversary; after which, having seen the gentleman
safely down the stairs, he proceeded to rouse the girl, and then
returned to his apartment.

Cursty, as he descended to his room, decided within himself that it
would be better not to inform his wife of the occurrence until he saw
what turn the affair might take. The consequence was, that his
pocket-book, once consigned to its usual abiding place, was not opened
again. This was especially unfortunate, for, had he done so, he could
not have failed to have discovered, that in the excitement of the moment
and the darkness of the morning he had parted with his season ticket to
the Great Exhibition instead of his card of address.

At length the toilet of the Cumbrian couple was settled, and Mr. and
Mrs. Sandboys proceeded forth on their way to the “World’s Show,” happy
in the unconsciousness of the loss they had sustained, and overjoyed at
the idea of the attainment of the object of their visit to London being
so near at hand.

After considerable difficulty, and some hours’ delay, they were at
length able to procure a couple of seats in the Putney omnibus, one
“in,” and the other “out.” While Mrs. Sandboys was stowed away in the
interior of the vehicle, Cursty proceeded to mount the roof, already
covered with the sight-seers as thick as a house-top on a coronation
day. Mr. Sandboys, being what his dearest Aggy delighted to term a
remarkably fine man, was no “feather-weight,” and as he took his seat on
the exterior of the long conveyance, the roofing, already considerably
depressed with the load, was seen to belly downwards, very much like a
fat sailor’s hammock.

All went safely, however, until the omnibus reached the little bridge
that spans the muddy moat alongside of the Brompton Cemetery; here, as
the vehicle gave a sudden jolt in ascending the curve of the bridge,
that minute increase of force which is said to break the back of the
over-burdened camel, was applied to the roof of the over-laden vehicle.
Crash! went the boards directly beneath the seat of the luckless Mr.
Christopher Sandboys, and immediately the lower extremities of the
Cumberland gentleman were kicking and plunging amidst the affrighted
“insides,” committing a terrible amount of havoc among the new or “best”
bonnets and gowns of the ladies consigned to the Exhibition.

As Fate would have it, Mrs. Sandboys no sooner heard the crash and saw
the legs, and recognised the pantaloons of her lord and master dangling
in the interior of the conveyance, than with a scream she scrambled to
his assistance. The consequence was that, with each fresh plunge of the
intruding limbs, some fresh damage was done to the new lace mantilla, or
white chip bonnet, that Mrs. Sandboys had purchased expressly for the
occasion.

And when, by the united efforts of the conductor and driver, assisted by
the strongest of the male passengers, poor Sandboys was lifted out of
his perilous situation, the Cumberland couple presented a most
melancholy spectacle: the nether garments of the wretched Cursty were
almost in the same tattered condition as when he had made his first
essay in pig-driving; while the flounces, the flowers, the ribbons, and
laces of his beloved Aggy were nearly as dusty and ragged-looking as
cobwebs.

At first, the couple felt inclined to return home, and abandon all
further attempts at “enjoying themselves” as a vain and fruitless
endeavour; but on second thoughts, they could hardly make up their
minds, after the money they had invested in their season-tickets, to
forego the opportunity of being present at a ceremony to which all the
world seemed to be then flocking, eager to obtain the faintest glimpse
of the show.

Accordingly the lady sought out the nearest milliner’s, and the
gentleman the shop of a neighbouring tailor, there to have their
garments cobbled into something like decency; and after some half-hour’s
delay, they once more set forth on their journey, looking as respectable
and happy as was possible under the circumstances.

As they neared the Exhibition, the crowd of sight-seers became more and
more dense. The pathways were as black with human beings as a grocer’s
window with flies in the dog-days, and the carriage-ways were filled
with long lines of vehicles, jammed almost as tight as the blocks in the
wood pavement.

On entering the Prince of Wales Gate, dense groups of people were
clustered round the south transept, clamouring and pushing their way
towards the doors. Upon the top of the building were several workmen,
fastening the flag-staffs of the various countries to their respective
positions, while here and there were seen flying the different national
ensigns.

It was as much as Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys could do to force their way
towards the doors. When they had passed within the gates, and the
“authorities” had demanded of the couple their tickets of admission,
then the unconscious Cursty drew forth the pocket-book that through all
the crowd he had grasped firmly with his hand in his pocket. On opening
it, to his great dismay he discovered, for the first time since his
adventure, that the ticket which he had placed securely in it among his
cards on the previous evening was nowhere to be found.

For a time he was utterly at a loss to conceive what could possibly have
come of the precious piece of pasteboard. At length, however, as he
turned his cards over and over again, his eye fell upon the name and
address of the Frenchman, and then the truth darted upon his mind.

What was to be done?

It was impossible to purchase another ticket at that time; and for Mrs.
Sandboys to trust herself alone in such a crowd was more than he or she
felt inclined to hazard. And yet it was hard,—after all they had gone
through, in order to get to the Great Exhibition,—now that they stood on
the very threshold of the building, to be obliged to return home.

Mr. Sandboys endeavoured to explain the circumstances to the officers;
but many would not listen to him; those who did could hardly refrain
from laughing at his misfortune.

The authorities were ruthless; and some, who were more suspicious, and
consequently did not hesitate to look upon the circumstance as a trick
to obtain admission to the building without payment, were more
unceremonious than the rest; so, finding the gentleman still loitering
in the lobby, they at length thrust him and his lady outside the gates.

When Mr. Sandboys and his wife had been ejected from the building, they
stood for a few minutes looking with envy at the people showing their
cards, and obtaining admission to the interior. Cursty, then, to his
supreme annoyance, saw the identical Frenchman whom he had encountered
that morning at his maid’s door present—what he felt satisfied was the
card that he himself had given him, and pass in to the interior of the
building.

Aggy, to whom Mr. Sandboys had communicated all the circumstances
immediately on the discovery of his loss, was convinced, from the
inquiry she had made, that the Frenchman, who had obtained admission
with their season ticket, was none other than the wretch who had pursued
her in the dead of the night through the corridors of Miss Wewitz’
establishment.

After vowing all kinds of vengeance against the foreigner, and making up
their minds to have justice done them immediately on their return home,
the Sandboys began to think, when their wrath had in a measure cooled
down, that, if Fate had denied them the privilege of witnessing the
“pageant” from the interior, which they had paid the sum of five guineas
to be enabled to do, they might as well, now that they were there, make
the best of their bargain, and enjoy a gratuitous sight of the
procession from without.

Accordingly, they proceeded to push their way, as well as they could,
towards the north side of the Transept, where they were informed the
Queen was to make her entrance. Here, on the Serpentine, a miniature
frigate lay at anchor; and on board were several youths making
preparations for the royal salute. Youths and men were seen climbing the
trees on the south bank; some sitting astride a forked branch, and
others standing on the spreading boughs; while some few urchins, who had
attained the topmost part of the trees, caused the branches to bend
beneath their weight. Every minute the crowd round about the building
grew thicker; the pressure against the bars, and the squeezing of the
masses of people, grew greater and greater; so that, when the police
began to clear the road, and to make way for the carriages, that were
rapidly advancing one after another with the officers of State, the
crush became terrific.

Mrs. Sandboys, eager to obtain a peep at the Queen at all risks, was at
first in no way daunted at the sight of the crowd, and sought, under the
care of her husband, to get as near as possible to the Transept; but
though Cursty was as powerful a man as any there, it was useless for him
to strive to keep the pressure of the throng off his wife; they had not
been in the thick of the crowd more than a few minutes before—what with
the police driving back the people in front, and what with the people at
the back pressing forwards—poor Mrs. Sandboys was so crammed in and
jammed in, so jostled and hustled, and so pushed and crushed, that all
of a sudden her senses went from her, and she fell like a lifeless lump
into her Cursty’s arms.

Then and then only was it possible for them to get extricated from the
dense mass of human beings that hemmed them in on all sides; for
immediately it was made known that the lady had fainted, a passage was
made for Mr. Sandboys, so that he might carry her to some more open
part.

On “coming to herself,” Aggy was in no way inclined to venture into the
crowd a second time; and accordingly, she and her husband proceeded, as
best they could, to the other side of the Serpentine. Here they stood
for some little time on the bank, till, the multitude growing
inconveniently great as the hour for the opening drew near, they both
agreed that it would be far better and safer for them to take a seat in
one of the boats of the watermen, who were there plying for hire up and
down the river.

Their minds were no sooner made up on this point than they hailed the
first boatman that passed, and entering his wherry they proceeded to
seat themselves therein, and were rowed up and down the small river
under the safe conduct of the sculler.

This was pleasant enough for a short time, and the Sandboys amused
themselves by observing the freaks of the crowd. Across the Park, they
could see the people coming in streams from all directions, like ants to
a nest. There were men in flannel jackets; women with children in their
arms; hawkers, some with Programmes of the Procession, others with long
panoramic pictures of the Lord Mayor’s Show fluttering in the wind,
which they were crying as “a correct view” of the opening of the Great
Exhibition by the Queen in State; countrymen some in their smockfrocks,
and others in their fluffy beaver hats. Never was there such a crowd
congregated in any part of London, and certainly in no other part of the
world. The multitudes that had entered the Building were but as a few
grains of sand collected, as it were, from the vast shore of human
beings without.

It has been said that not less than half a million of people were
gathered together in the Parks alone, and doubtlessly with truth, for it
had been declared a general holiday, as it were by universal
acclamation, throughout the metropolis.

Some few of the shops had opened for an hour or two, but finding all
their customers had departed to the “Great Show,” the masters had
followed their customers’ example, and, putting up their shutters, had
started with their families to have a peep at the sight themselves. The
omnibuses had many of them begun running from all parts of the suburbs
to the Crystal Palace from six o’clock in the morning. The “Atlases,”
the “Paragons,” the “Waterloos,” the “King’s Crosses,” the
“Paddingtons,” the “Camberwells,” &c., had all abandoned their
accustomed routes, and taken to carry passengers, for the time being, to
Knightsbridge—many of them being covered with large placards of “To the
Exhibition,” pasted over their wonted destinations. Most of the ’busses,
too, had a very gay appearance, with their new reins and trappings, the
large rosettes at their horses’ ears, and bows on their whips, with long
streamers flying, and bunches of flowers in the button-holes of the
coachmen’s coats.

Through the streets travelled excursion-vans, with the curtains
festooned and looped up, with huge bunches of flowers and evergreens at
each fastening, and filled with holiday folk, with a table in the
centre, and a barrel of beer at the end.

Not a part of London but what bad poured forth its countless throngs.
The main thoroughfares, that were usually almost impassable at mid-day,
were as still and deserted as in the dead of night. Not a cab was to be
seen in the streets; and even the fruit-stalls had left their accustomed
corners. The sparrows hopped and chirruped in the middle of the
causeways. A stray Jack in the Green might occasionally be seen, but
though the musician blew his pipes with all his might, and beat his drum
with all his force, not a boy was to be drawn after them—not a child to
be attracted to the windows by the sound, even though, owing to the
stillness of the streets, the drum and pipes sounded doubly as loud and
shrill as usual.

Every one had gone to the Great Exhibition! and certainly the multitudes
assembled in the Park were proof demonstrative of the fact.

The Sandboys, as they flitted across the Serpentine, could hear the
shouts of the people, as some well-known Minister or nobleman was
recognised in his carriage by the populace. Then, as they stood up in
the boat, they could catch sight of the bright breast-plates and helmets
of the Life Guards, as they galloped rapidly by. Next they could see the
scarlet and gold coats of the royal coachmen dart along between the open
spaces of the trees; then they heard the hoarse cheers of the multitude,
as the Queen entered the Crystal Palace; and they saw the solitary
Sapper-and-Miner, standing beside the flag-staff, on the topmost curve
of the crystal roof, hoist the Royal Standard immediately her Majesty
crossed the threshold.

For a short time afterwards all was still and silent, with the exception
of the cries of the hawkers, who, immediately that the cheers had
ceased, might be heard again shouting at the tops of their voices their
“full and correct Programmes of the Procession—only a penny.” Presently
they could catch by gusts the faint sound of the organ, peeling forth
its full rich harmonious tones within the Crystal Palace.

Then the sculler pulled the boat down towards the spot where the mimic
frigate lay at anchor, so that Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys might see the
signal made, telling those on board that the Queen had declared the
Great Exhibition to be opened.

Once more they stood up in the boat, so as to obtain a better view of
the movements of the man on the roof. In a few minutes they beheld the
soldier prepare to raise the flag, and no sooner had he lifted it high
in the air, than the guns of the frigate thundered forth a deafening
“broadside.” Poor Mrs. Sandboys was standing up in the boat with her
back to the frigate, and being in no way prepared for the shock, she was
so startled with the suddenness and intensity of the noise, that she
staggered as if stunned by it, and fell back head-foremost into the
river.

It was the act of a moment for Cursty to dive after her, and presently
up the two came together.

Mrs. Sandboys, in her terror, threw her arms round about her husband’s
neck, so as effectually to prevent his rendering her the least
assistance; and so tightly did she cling to him, that it was some
considerable time before even the waterman could manage to lift either
the one or the other into the boat.

In a short while, however, the men of the Humane Society were on the
spot, attracted by the shrieks of the affrighted Mrs. Sandboys in the
water, and the sympathizing ladies on the shore.

The wretched Mrs. Sandboys, by the time she was extricated from the
flood, was, what with the fright and the water she had swallowed, almost
insensible, while Cursty had been held down sufficiently long by his
wife in the river to feel “far from himself.”

The moist and miserable couple were immediately carried to the Society’s
Receiving House, where, having been stripped of their drenched apparel,
and placed in warm beds, the attendants proceeded, some to rub them till
they were nearly flayed, and others to inflate their lungs, by means of
a pair of bellows being inserted up their nostrils.

Here they remained for some considerable time between the blankets of
the Humane Society, and when they were sufficiently invigorated to be
thought fit to leave the establishment, their dried clothes were brought
to them, in order that they might prepare for their return home.

Mrs. Sandboys, when she saw the limp and ungainly state of her
two-guinea chip bonnet, the artificial flowers of which looked as if
they had been boiled,—for the colours had run one into the other, and
dyed the once white bonnet like “Joseph’s coat of many colours,”—Mrs.
Sandboys, we repeat, when she saw the wreck of her former loveliness,
could not help bursting into tears, and indulging in the feminine luxury
of a “good cry.” Her green satin dress, which she had bought, as they
say, “expressly for the occasion,” had lost all its gloss and a good
part of its colour, which had run into her petticoats, till both the
satin and under clothing were about as green and attractive as a gingham
umbrella. Her bronze shoes she had left in the bed of the river, there
to astonish and puzzle some future geologist, when examining the fossils
in the miocene formation of the tertiary deposits; her auburn front,
too, had been unfortunately dried by a quick fire, so that the
foundation had shrivelled up, and the natural parting had been scorched
into a deep brown, while the hair looked as fuzzy and rusty as cocoa-nut
fibre.

At length, having made herself look as decent as she could under the
circumstances, and having been provided with a pair of list slippers at
the expense of the Society, Aggy was ushered into the presence of the
sharer of her sorrows and her “ducking;” and after many mutual
congratulations on their lucky escape, and consolations under their
afflictions, the melancholy Sandboys set out at dusk on their way back
to the establishment of Mrs. Wewitz; and as they rode along in the cab,
they did not forget to attribute the whole of their disasters to that
wretch of a Frenchman.

Before they reached “Parthenon House,” they had formed the conclusion
that Fate had irrevocably forbid their ever seeing the Great Exhibition;
and come what may, they were determined immediately to return to the
peace and happiness of their native mountains of Buttermere.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XV.

              “The justice flung them beath in jail—
                My faith! what’s duin they’ll sair repent.”
                                                _Bad News._


ON reaching their temporary home, the Sandboys immediately made
inquiries as to whether the French gentleman—M. Le Comte de
Sanschemise—whose card Cursty had received that morning, and to whom he
had given his season ticket for the Exhibition in exchange, had returned
from the Crystal Palace. No tidings, however, were to be obtained of the
gentleman, further than that he had been seen to leave the establishment
shortly after themselves in the morning.

Cursty, when he and his dear Aggy had partaken of some refreshment,
proceeded to take up his residence in one of the rooms immediately
adjoining the hall; and having provided himself with a thick ash stick,
sat himself down to await the coming of the Comte; for the sturdy
mountaineer had made up his mind to have satisfaction for the injuries
of himself and his wife in a very different way from what the Frenchman
demanded or expected.

Aggy, too, who did not fail to attribute her dip in the Serpentine, and
the consequent destruction of her best white chip bonnet and Sunday
front, solely to the abstraction of her husband’s season ticket by M. le
Comte de Sanschemise, was only too glad to wait with Cursty, in hopes of
seeing “the wretch” severely punished for his dishonesty.

But though the determined Mr. Christopher Sandboys sat in the
waiting-room, with his thick ground-ash stick, till long past midnight,
no M. Le Comte made his appearance; and when the want of sleep had got
the better of the Cumberland man’s indignation, he began to think that
he should have many future opportunities of making the Frenchman pay the
penalty of his peccadilloes.

Accordingly, when the exhausted couple heard the hall clock strike two,
they considered it best to retire to rest, and see what luck the morrow
would bring them.

The first inquiry of the Sandboys in the morning was, as to whether the
Comte had entered the establishment in the course of the night? The
answer, unfortunately, was in the negative.

What _could_ have become of the man?

On descending to the breakfast-room, however, their suspense was
speedily put an end to; for the first words uttered by Mrs. Wewitz, to
whom they had communicated the whole of the circumstances immediately on
their return, were concerning the fate of the missing gentleman. She
placed that morning’s paper in Mr. Sandboys hand; and there, in the
police reports, the horrified and enraged Christopher beheld an account
as to how a gentleman, of respectable exterior, who gave the name of Mr.
Cursty Sandboys, had entered the Exhibition, and been detected in the
act of stealing a stiletto, with a silver handle, set with jewels.

Then followed a long account as to how the gentleman, on being committed
for trial, had, on entering the prison, refused to put on the prison
dress; and how, on being divested of his coat, he was found, although
externally “got” up in the most expensive and elaborate manner, to be
literally without a shirt to his back—the wrist-bands, of which he made
so prodigious a display, being tacked to the cuffs of his coat, and the
collar, apparently of his shirt, pinned to his stock. On divesting him
of his patent leather boots, it was stated, moreover, that Mr. Cursty
Sandboys’ feet were found to be swathed, brigand-fashion, in dirty linen
rags.

The veritable Mr. Cursty Sandboys knew not how to act.

From the peculiarity of the name he was satisfied that he, and none
other, would be mistaken for the shirtless culprit. The inexperienced
native of Buttermere was ignorant of all the ordinary methods by which
the error might be rectified, and seeing no way but to sit down
patiently under the stigma, he very resignedly submitted to the
disgrace, consoling himself with the idea that at least the man would be
severely punished for his misdemeanours.

Despite her annoyance at the use of her husband’s name, Mrs. Cursty read
the account of the linenless state of the pretended foreign nobleman
with a kind of inward satisfaction, complimenting herself continually
upon the shrewdness of her suspicions as to the extent of the
Frenchman’s wardrobe, and glorying over the punishment of one to whom
she attributed so many of her late misfortunes.

The imprisonment of the assumed Comte was a great consolation to the
Sandboys, and tended considerably to weaken their determination to quit
London without seeing the Great Exhibition.

On reconsidering the matter, it began to appear to them that it would be
folly, and betray great want of firmness on their part, if, after all
they had gone through during their sojourn in the Great Metropolis, they
should return to Cumberland without seeing the very thing which had
brought them up to town.

All they wanted was to be able to _say_ they had seen the Exhibition.
Mrs. Cursty did not hesitate to confess, that after all she had
suffered, she did not, for her part, care whether she saw it or not. All
she desired was just to put her nose inside the door, so as not to be
obliged to go back and acknowledge that, though they had come up to town
for the express purpose of witnessing the Great Exhibition, and paying
goodness knows what for season tickets and “new things” they had been
“stupids enough” to go back without having had a glimpse at a single
article in the Crystal Palace after all.

No, that would never do.

The accounts which they read in the papers, moreover, served to make
them still more anxious to see what all appeared to consider the great
wonder of the age. Besides, Cursty himself began to perceive that the
Great Exhibition was not the mere gewgaw show that he had anticipated,
and the more he read about it, the more desirous he felt to make himself
acquainted with its various details.

Mrs. Cursty, too, after a little while, became, in her turn, eager to
see the “Mountain of Light” in its gilt cage,—and the Queen of Spain’s
jewels,—and the French tapestry, and the stomacher of brilliants that
she had heard so much about—and the carpet worked by one hundred and
fifty ladies as a present to the Queen—and the beautiful state-bed—and
the poplin loom, which could make the poplin a quarter of a yard wider
than usual, which, in her opinion, was one of the greatest improvements
in the whole place;—and then there was that love of a glass fountain
which she should not rest easy in her bed, she knew, if she went back to
Cumberland without seeing,—and, better still, that delicious fountain of
“_Aqua d’Oro_,” which the ladies were at liberty to dip their
handkerchiefs in as much and as often as they pleased.

Cursty, however, wanted to see objects of a very different character. He
had heard of the splendid specimens of black-lead from the Borrowdale
mines in his native county; and he longed to know how it was possible to
make the refuse dust into solid cakes, equal if not better than the pure
article. He wanted to see the different specimens of slate, for the
quarries on Honister Craig were close by his home; and he knew all about
the working, and the different sizes—the “Ladies,” the “Duchesses,” the
“Countesses,” the “Queens,” the “Imperials,” and the “Rags.” He was
deeply versed in Mundic and Galena, and all the ores of lead; and he
longed to see the huge specimens of those minerals that he had read of
as being shown in the Great Exhibition. He knew a little of coal, too,
and had just managed to get a peep at the colossal pieces of “Cannel,”
of “Steam,” and of “Anthracite,” arranged outside the building. He also
wanted to see the large lump of silver that had been obtained from the
lead ore by the crystallizing process. More than all, he was anxious to
see the machinery-room, which everybody spoke of with such enthusiasm.
There was the monster pump, with its two mouths, pouring out its river
of water,—he wanted to see the steam printing-press, and the carding and
spinning-machines, and the power-looms, of which he had heard such
marvels.

Eager to see all these, and many more things which he had heard and read
were deposited within the building of the Great Exhibition, Cursty
talked the matter calmly over with his wife, and finally agreed that, as
he was anxious to get back to Cumberland as soon as possible, and could
not afford to wait till the prices of admission fell to a shilling, it
would be better for him to buy another season ticket directly, and then
he and Aggy could go for an hour or so each day for the next fortnight,
and so be able to examine every object of interest in the collection
without fatiguing themselves.

Accordingly, Mr. Christopher, the very next day, applied at the office,
and obtained the requisite document.

Once more, then, the Sandboys set forth on their pilgrimage to the
Exhibition of the Works of Industry and Art of all Nations.

Mrs. Sandboys, having learnt experience from her previous disasters,
managed to make the “things,” (for so the lady would persist in calling
her several articles of dress,) which she possessed suffice for her
without purchasing new.

On reaching the doors at which their tickets of admission were to be
presented, and where they arrived, extraordinary to say, without any
particular accident, they tendered the official cards, and were handed
the books in which to insert their signatures,

As the clerk observed the name of the gentleman on the card, and saw Mr.
Cursty Sandboys prepare to write a similar title in the Autograph Book,
he remembered that this was the very appellation of the individual who
had been detected, a few days back, in abstracting a silver-handled
stiletto from one of the counters in the interior.

Before the lady had time to insert her autograph in the official
register, the clerk begged to be excused, saying he was called away upon
important business; and, proceeding to some of his brother officials, he
informed them that the impudent thief Cursty Sandboys had dared to seek
admission at the Crystal Palace once more.

In an instant, the news that the expert Cursty Sandboys, the pickpocket,
was about to enter the building, spread throughout the Crystal Palace,
literally with the rapidity of lightning, for the electric telegraph was
immediately set to work, telling the officials, one and all, to—

                       BEWARE OF CURSTY SANDBOYS!

No sooner did the alarming intelligence become general among the
authorities, than many, anxious to obtain a peep at the singularly-named
“swell-mobsman,” congregated round the entrance, where he was still
standing, and the innocent Christopher could observe them nudging one
another, and whispering, evidently concerning himself, in a way that he
did not half like, and could not possibly understand.

The clerk, on his return, proceeded to compare the signature of the
present Mr. Sandboys with that of the individual who had made his
appearance on the day of the opening.

Observing an evident discrepancy between the two, he beckoned a
brother-official to his side, and immediately they both set to work,
contrasting the one signature with the other, and looking backwards and
forwards in the most mysterious manner at the unoffending Mr. Sandboys.

Christopher, who got more and more bewildered at the manner of the
officials, could not for the life of him comprehend what it all meant.
At length, however, he heard one of the dozen policemen, who were now
grouped close round about him, whisper to another at his elbow that he,
Mr. Sandboys, had shaved off his moustachios, while another-officer put
his lips close to the ear of a brother official, and said, in an under
tone, that he had left his beard behind him.

In an instant the telegraph was at work, communicating the fact to the
authorities at each end of the building, and informing them that Cursty
Sandboys had come close shaved on the present occasion, and instructing
them one and all to keep a sharp eye upon his movements.

Mr. Sandboys, to his horror, at last began to perceive that he was
mistaken for no less illustrious a character than M. le Comte de
Sanschemise, who had gained admission to the building on the first day
by means of Cursty’s season ticket; and that the many policemen who were
gathered round him had come with the confident expectation that he had
repeated his visit to the establishment in the hopes of abstracting some
more valuable prize than on the previous occasion.

The clerk, who had been examining the books, at last ventured to hint to
the real Christopher, that there was a marked difference between the
signature of Mr. Cursty Sandboys of the first day and the gentleman who
now sought to gain admission; and, having previously arranged with the
Detective at his elbow, that the safest plan to be pursued would be to
make sure of the party then and there, while he was in their power, he
proceeded to inform the wretched Mr. Sandboys that it was his duty to
give him into custody on a charge of forgery. The Detective had not been
able to understand how it was possible for the Cursty Sandboys, who had
been committed for trial for stealing the stiletto a few days
previously, could make his appearance there, unless he had escaped from
prison that morning. This he strongly suspected must have been the case;
for he felt satisfied that no one would ever dream of assuming so
singular a name, and one, moreover, which at that moment was not in the
best public odour. Under all the circumstances, therefore, it was better
to secure the party now he was there.

Poor Aggy, when she heard the awful character of the charge that was now
made against her darling and innocent Cursty, and saw the policeman
proceed to lay hands upon him, swooned right off into the arms of the
nearest inspector. The official, however, looking upon the lady as the
brazen-faced partner of one of the light-fingered gentry, was in no
humour to resort to any gentle restoratives as a means of bringing the
lady back to her senses; so, shaking Mrs. Sandboys violently, he, in the
most unceremonious manner, said that they were up to all them fainting
dodges, and it was no use trying ’em on with them.

It was in vain for Cursty either to expostulate or to explain, for being
looked upon as a thief, of course he was treated as one; so that when he
endeavoured to make known the real facts of the case, the officers
winked their eyes and grinned at one another at what they considered the
extreme lameness of the excuse. After he had wasted some ten minutes in
attempting to assert and prove his innocence, he was dragged off by two
policemen, and being placed in a cab, was conveyed, without loss of
time, before the sitting magistrate at the nearest police-office.

There the charge was immediately entered upon, when, the magistrate
observing that further proof was required, the Detective prayed for a
remand of the prisoner, stating he felt convinced that in a few days he
should be able to bring a large body of evidence to bear against the
individual, for he was perfectly satisfied that if the party was not the
notorious Cursty Sandboys himself, he was at least one of his gang, and
had made use of that person’s ticket whilst he was in prison.

Aggy, who, on recovering her senses, had ascertained where her lord and
master had been carried, entered the police-court at this precise
juncture, and no sooner heard the officer pronounce her husband to
belong to a well-known gang of pickpockets, than she insisted upon being
heard, and was about to enter into a long family history of her husband
and herself, when the magistrate informed her, that unless she would
keep silence he should be compelled to have her put out of the court.

Cursty, finding himself likely to be committed to prison, sought to
explain to the magistrate how he was a plain country gentleman, come up
from Cumberland to enjoy himself and see the Great Exhibition; but his
statement was received with no more belief than the excuses of
individuals when similarly circumstanced, for the felon’s dock is not
exactly the place where a gentleman is likely to obtain much credit for
his assertions.

The magistrate, looking sternly at the melancholy Christopher, shook his
head, as much as to say that, after what the Detective had stated, the
case appeared rather black against him.

Cursty, however, finding himself standing, as it were, on the threshold
of a prison, protested his innocence so loudly, and persisted with such
pertinacity in his statements, that the magistrate was induced to
inquire of the turnkey in attendance whether he knew anything of the
prisoner, whereupon the official replied that he remembered the name
perfectly well, and having retired to refresh his memory on the subject,
returned shortly and stated, that he found Cursty Sandboys had been
charged only a short time back with being drunk and disorderly, and
incapable of taking care of himself; while the wife of the same “party”
had been given into custody about the same time for assaulting the
police.

This was more than the blood of Aggy could bear; and immediately she
rushed forward and began to enter into an explanation as to how the
hussey who had been taken up had used her name at the police-office,
after stealing her marriage certificate; but the manner of Mrs. Sandboys
was so excited, while her whole story sounded so improbable, that she
appeared to the magistrate to be just the kind of woman to commit such
an act under the influence of temper.

Accordingly, all things considered, the magistrate decided upon
remanding the ill-fated Cursty Sandboys till a future day, and, amid the
shrieks of his distracted wife, he was dragged off by the turnkey to be
locked up in his cell.

[Illustration:

  The first Shilling-day——going in——
]

[Illustration:

  The first Shilling-day—coming out——
]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XVI.

      “I yence follow’d Marget, the toast amang aw maks—
       An Peg hed a red cheek and bonny dark e’e—
       _But suin as she fan I depended on labour,
       She snurl’d up her neb and nae mair luik’d at me_.

      “This meks my words gud; nobbet brag o’ your uncle,
       And get a peer hawf-wit to trumpet yer praise,
       You may catch whee you will, they’ll caress ye and bless ye,
       _It’s money, nit merit, they seek now-a-days_.”
                                             _The Lasses of Carel._


LET us now shift the scene for awhile, and turn our attention once more
to the Crystal Palace.

At last, the long looked-for shilling-day had arrived. Barriers had been
placed up outside the building, so as to stem the expected crush, and a
double force of police had been “laid on” from Scotland-yard, and the
whole of the officials had been ordered to be at their posts an hour or
two earlier than usual, so that by opening the door before the appointed
time, the “rush” might be prevented. Even George Cruikshank himself,
confident that a moiety of the metropolis, at least, would be
congregated outside the building, had prepared a most vivid delineation
of the probable consequences of the rush and crush—the cram and the
jam—that every one expected to take place on the eventful occasion. If
twenty thousand people attend at five shillings, surely, according to
Cocker, said the Executive Committee, five times as many more will come
when the charge of admission is five times less.

But alas for the vain hopes of this vain world! as all the speakers at
all the “May meetings” invariably exclaim; for, on the eventful day, the
hundred thousand visitors “_in posse_,” dwindled down to twenty thousand
“_in esse_.” The two policemen who had been placed outside the gilt cage
of the Mountain of Light, the extra “force” that was stationed beside
the Queen of Spain’s jewels, the additional “Peelites” who had been
quartered at every point and turn of the interior to direct the crowd
which way to move, stared and grinned at one another as they saw the
people saunter, one by one, into the building, instead of pouring in by
tens of thousands, as had been anticipated. The Executive Committee knit
their brows, and bit their thumbs, and then suddenly discovered the
cause of the absence of the people. The masses are busy working for
their bread, and are waiting for their holiday-time, when they always
spend a large amount of their earnings in recreation and enjoyment; and
if they come even by twenty thousands now, surely they will come by
hundreds of thousands then.

Accordingly, the same farce, of barriers and police, is enacted again,
with the same disappointment; for, to the inscrutable wonder of the
Executive Committee, the number of visitors during the Whitsun holidays
is even less than the week before, and then ensue various speculations
as to the cause, and the following reason is, after much cogitation,
gravely propounded in explanation of the anomaly:—“The self-denying
patience of the people, their habitual tendency to postpone pleasure to
business, and their little inclination to rush madly forward in quest of
what can be seen as well, or better, a week or a month hence—these seem
to be the natural and truest solutions of the result.”

Now, unfortunately for this pretty compliment, a trip to Greenwich Fair
or Hampton Court, on this same Whit-Monday, would soon have convinced
the Executive Committee that “the shilling folk” were neither remarkable
for self-denial nor extreme patience in their enjoyments; while the
general observance of “Saint Monday” by the operatives might have
assured any one, in the least acquainted with their characters, that,
far from being distinguished by any habitual tendency to postpone
pleasure to business, they are peculiarly prone to make business give
way to pleasure.

But it was necessary, in order to account for the disappointment, to put
some sentimental gloss on the occurrence; and, therefore, men whose
lives were passed in toil, and to whom pleasure is therefore the highest
possible luxury—merely as rest to the body and recreation to the
faculties—were made to prefer work to enjoyment; while patience,
self-denial, and every virtue under heaven, were ascribed to people,
who, as contra-distinguished from the moneyed classes, are ignorant of
the advantages of saving, and who, getting their money hardly, are ever
ready to taste the delight of spending it. This disposition to cant, and
varnish matters over with a sickly sentimentality, angelizing or
canonizing the whole body of operatives of this country, instead of
speaking of them as possessing the ordinary vices and virtues of human
nature,—as being the same patchwork of black and white,—the same
chequered chessboard, fitted for the game and moves of life,—this
tendency to put high and heroic motives on every-day conduct is the
besetting sin of the age.

None admire the simple sturdy honesty of the working men of England more
than ourselves; but to say that they like work better than pleasure,
would be to chime in with the rhodomontade of the time, and make out
that there is an especial delight in industry,—that is to say, in
continuous labour; whereas this is precisely what is repulsive to human
nature, and what all men are striving, and, indeed, paying large sums of
money to avoid. If industry be such a supreme enjoyment, as the idle
rich ever rejoice in declaring, then where is the virtue of it? where
the merit of doing that which we have a natural bias to do? Let those
who think work a pleasure try a week’s mental or manual labour, and
then, feeling what a negative bliss there is in mere rest, get to know
what it is to yearn, like a schoolboy, for a day’s leisure, ease, and
amusement. It is well for fat and phlegmatic citizens to call people
“lazy scoundrels,” and bid them “go and work;” but let these gentlemen
themselves try their soft hands at labour, even for a day, and then they
will feel how much easier, and, as the world goes, how much more
profitable, it is to trade on others’ labour than to labour for oneself.
No man, says the adage, makes a fortune by the work of his own hands.
“Oh, sir!” replied the “valiant” Spanish beggar, when asked by the rich
merchant why he did not go and work, “You don’t know how lazy I am.” The
rich merchant was, of course, disgusted with the reply, but then he was
not aware how lazy he himself naturally was. He was one of those who
felt satisfied that industry is a special delight (though but rarely
known to be industrious themselves), and who, consequently, believed
that the honest poor always prefer labour to enjoyment, having, in the
words of the Executive Committee, an habitual tendency to postpone
pleasure for business.

But the reason why the shilling folk absented themselves from the Great
Exhibition at first was, because none of their own class had seen it,
and they had not yet heard of its wonders, one from the other. But once
seen, and once talked about in their workshops, their factories, and—it
must be said—their taprooms, each gradually became curious to see what
had astonished and delighted his fellows.

They soon began to see that the Great Exhibition, rightly considered, is
a huge academy for teaching the nobility of labour, and demonstrating
the various triumphs of the useful arts over external nature.

It may to the unreflecting appear to require but a small exercise of
skill to grow their food, weave their garments, or construct their
houses; but set your “_independent_” gentleman to do either one or the
other, and what a poor useless wretch he immediately becomes. We have,
indeed, too long been taught to think, that an independent man, like an
honest man, is “the noblest work of God;” as if it were not the noblest
thing a man could do to labour for the food he eats, and as if what we
are led to call an independent gentleman were not the most dependent of
all animals in creation. Put such an one on an uninhabited island, and
would he not be as helpless as an infant? What could he—this
_independent_ man—do, when he had really to _depend_ on none others but
himself for his living?

Far be it from us to assert that manual dexterity or muscular labour is
the _summum bonum_ of human existence; but what we wish to say is, that,
owing so much of our comfort and happiness to both, we should honour
them more than we do; and that, above all, if society would really have
the world progress, it should do away with the cheat, which makes those
men the most “_respectable_” who do the least for the bread they eat. If
we wish to make gentlemen of our working men (we use the word
“gentleman” in its highest Dekkerian sense, and certainly not in its
mere conventional signification), our first step must be to assert the
natural dignity of labour. So long as we look upon work or to it as a
meanness, so long will our workers and toilers remain mean. Let industry
be with us “respectable”—as it is really in the natural arrangement of
things—and the industrious poor instead of the idle rich will then be
the really respectable men of this country.

Let those who doubt the respectability of labour, consider for one
moment what years of thought, and study, and patience, are involved in
even the commonest industrial process. “A man would be laughed at,” says
Mandeville, in his “Fable of the Bees,” “that should discover luxury in
the plain dress of the pauper, in the thick parish coat, and coarse
workhouse shirt beneath it. And yet what a number of people, how many
different trades, and what a variety of skill and tools must be employed
to have the most ordinary Yorkshire cloth! What depth of thought and
ingenuity, and what length of time must it have cost, before man could
have learned from a seed to raise and prepare so useful a product as
linen! Must not that society be vainly curious among whom this admirable
commodity, after it is made, shall not be thought fit to be used _even
by the poorest of all_, before it is brought to a perfect whiteness,
which is not to be done but with the assistance of great chemical
knowledge, joined to a world of industry and patience? Can we reflect,”
he continues, “not only on the cost laid out in this luxurious
invention, but likewise on the little time the whiteness of it endures
(in which great part of its beauty consists), so that at every six or
seven days, at farthest, it wants cleaning, and is, consequently, while
it lasts, a continual charge to the wearer—can we, I say, reflect on all
this, and not think it an extravagant piece of nicety, that those who
receive alms of the parish should not only have whole garments made of
this operose manufacture, but likewise, that as soon as they are soiled,
we should make use of, in order to restore them to their original
purity, one of the most judicious, as well as difficult compositions
that chemistry can boast—a composition with which, when dissolved in
water, by the help of fire, the most detersive and yet innocent lixivium
is prepared, that human industry or ingenuity has been able to invent?”

But if these arts are sufficient to excite our wonder, especially when
made to contribute to the happiness of the most destitute of our race,
and to confer on our paupers comforts and luxuries, formerly unknown to
our princes, surely the art of working in metal—the manufacture of the
buttons on the workhouse coat, the making of the nails on the bottom of
the workhouse floor, is a thousand times more wonderful. Who can look at
the commonest pocket-knife or padlock, and not feel an intense reverence
for the art and artists that could fashion those most useful instruments
out of a lump of stone? To become conscious of the skill displayed in
the various processes, we should have a knowledge of the difficulties to
be overcome; and nothing will give us so profound a sense of these as to
endeavour to make one or other similar instruments for ourselves. Or if
we wish to have a just appreciation of the intellect required for the
discovery and perfection of the metallurgic arts, let us imagine
ourselves placed on an uninhabited island—another Juan Fernandez—and
then fancy how we, even though we have lived among the very arts all our
days, should set to work. Let us think whether we could make a pin or a
needle out of a piece of rock to save our lives.

Is there any more skill to put words together than to manufacture a
razor out of a lump of iron-stone? _We_ know which seems to us by far
the easier occupation of the two. Nevertheless, without any wish to
indulge in that mock humility which seeks to disparage our own
productions, when, if there be an innate propensity, it is to value our
own work immeasurably beyond its true worth, we must confess that the
one craft appears no more worthy of respect than the other; so, we say
again, the Great Exhibition, where all these matters are forced upon the
mind, rightly considered, is a huge academy for teaching men the true
dignity of even what are thought the inferior grades of labour.

The great fallacy—the most pernicious error of the present day—is the
belief that a knowledge of reading and writing constitutes education.
“Reading and writing,” it has been well said, “is no more education than
a knife and fork is a good dinner.” To teach a man how to read and write
is, as it were, to confer upon him a new sense. All our senses differ
one from another in having various _telescopic_ powers—that is to say,
of perceiving external objects at greater or less distances. For
touching and tasting, it is necessary that the object should be in
immediate contact with the body; for smelling, the object may be
slightly removed from us; for hearing, it may be still more remote; and
for seeing, it may be the most distant of all. Nevertheless, it is
necessary in all these cases that the object of perception should be
_present_ with us: with reading and writing, however, the telescopic
power is immeasurably extended, and we are made cognizant of phenomena
occurring hundreds of miles distant, and hundreds of years ago. As our
senses, therefore, are merely ducts of knowledge, so are reading and
writing merely the means of acquiring information. We might as well
believe that the addition of a nose, or a pair of eyes or ears—that the
faculty of seeing, hearing, or smelling, in short, should make creatures
wise or good, as that the arts of orthoëpy and orthography were the
great panacea for all social and moral evil.

No! if we would really make people wiser and better, we must make them
acquainted with the laws of the material, mental, and moral universe in
which they are placed, and upon which their happiness is made to depend.
A knowledge of the laws of _matter_ enables a man to promote the
physical good—of the laws of mind, the intellectual good—of the laws of
the heart, the moral good, both of himself and his fellow-creatures.
According as we become acquainted with the various substances and
circumstances existing and occurring in the material world, and thereby
come to understand their relation to each other as well as to ourselves,
so are we enabled to give a particular direction to the succession of
events without, and so to alleviate the wants and increase the pleasures
of ourselves and others. According, too, as we get to know the links
which bind thought to thought, as well as the ties which connect our
perceptions with certain classes of relations—with our feelings of
beauty, sublimity, or ludicrousness—so are we enabled to induce pleasant
trains of ideas, and to promote the delight of those around us. And thus
it is in the moral universe. According as we study the connexions
between our acts and emotions, and become convinced of the felicity
which attends the contemplation of any benefit disinterestedly
conferred, and the uneasiness which accompanies the remembrance of any
wanton injury, so are we the more anxious to encourage the good and
restrain the evil impulses of our nature.

Now, the Great Exhibition, looked at in its true light, is, we say once
more, a huge academy for teaching men the laws of the material universe,
by demonstrating the various triumphs of the useful arts over external
nature.

One great good the Exhibition assuredly must do, and that is to decrease
the large amount of slop or inferior productions that are flooding the
country, and which, in the rage for cheapness, are palmed off as equal
to the handiwork of the most dexterous operatives. Were the public
judges of workmanship—had they been made acquainted with the best work
of the best workmen, and so possessed some standard of excellence by
which to test the various kinds of labour, it would be impossible for
the productions of the unskilful artisan to be brought into competition
with those of the most skilful. Owing to the utter ignorance of the
public, however, upon all such matters, the tricky employer is now
enabled to undersell the honourable master by engaging inferior workmen,
while the honourable master, in order to keep pace with the tricky
employer, is obliged to reduce the wages of the more dexterous “hands.”
Hence, we see the tendency of affairs at present is, for the worse to
drag the better handicraftsmen down to their degradation, instead of the
better raising the worse up to their pre-eminence.

The sole remedy for this state of things is greater knowledge on the
part of the public. Accustom the people continually to the sight of the
best works, and they will no longer submit to have bad workmanship
foisted upon them as equal to good.

To those unversed in the “labour question,” this may appear but a small
benefit, but to those who know what it is to inculcate a pride of art—to
make the labourer find delight in his labour—to change him from a
muscular machine into an intellectual artist, it will seem perhaps as
great a boon as can be offered to working men. At present, workmen are
beginning to feel that skill—the “art of industrial occupations”—is
useless, seeing that want of skill is now beating them out of the
market. One of the most eminent of the master shoemakers in London
assured us that the skilled workmen in his business were fast
disappearing before the children-workers in Northampton; and, indeed, we
heard the same story from almost every trade in the metropolis. The bad
are destroying the good, instead of the good improving the bad.

The antidote for this special evil is a periodical exhibition of the
works of industry and art. Make the public critics of industrial art,
and they will be sure to call into existence a new race of industrial
artists—but as it is, both the public and the workmen are the prey of
greedy, tricky tradesman.

It was some time before “the shilling folk” could be got to see these
things, and therefore they did not go down in a body, and besiege the
doors of the Crystal Palace, clamouring for admission all of them
together, immediately the price was brought within their means.
Gradually, however, they have come to see the true uses of the Great
Show, and they now attend in almost the same vast concourses as the
sanguine Executive Committee were led to believe they would on the first
day.

The consequence is, that the groups within the building have already
assumed a very picturesque appearance. To those who have watched the
character of the visitors since the opening—the change in the dresses,
manners, and objects of the sight-seers has been most marked and
peculiar.

The alteration, too, has been almost as striking outside the building as
it has in the interior. For the first week or two, the road within a
mile of the “Glass Hive” was blocked with carriages. From the Prince of
Wales’ Gate to Apsley House there stretched one long line of cabs,
omnibusses, carriages, “broughams,” “flies,” now moving for a few
minutes, and now stopping for double the time, while the impatient
visitors within let down the blinds and thrust their heads out to see
how far the line extended.

At every intersecting thoroughfare stood clusters of busy policemen,
seizing horses by the reins, and detaining the vehicles till the cross
current had in a measure ceased. And here might be seen persons
threading between the blocked carriages, and bobbing beneath the horses’
heads, in order to pass from one side of the road to the other. To seek
to pass through the Park gates was about as dangerous an experiment as
“shooting” the centre arch of “Old London Bridge.”

_Then_ the journey to and from the Great Exhibition consumed some hours
of the day, but now there is scarcely a carriage or a Hansom cab to be
seen. The great stream of carriage visitors has ceased (except on the
more expensive days), and the ebb and flood of pedestrians set. The
“southern entrance” is no longer beset with broughams, but gathered
round it are groups of gazers, too poor or too “prudent” to pay for
admission within. The public-houses along the road are now filled to
overflowing, for outside them are ranged long benches, on which sit
visitors in their holiday attire, resting on their way. Almost all the
pedestrians, too, have baskets on their arms, evidently filled with the
day’s store of provisions. The ladies are all “got up” in their
brightest-coloured bonnets and polkas, and as they haste along, they
“step out” till their faces are seen to glow again with their eagerness
to get to the Grand Show; while the gentlemen in green or brown felt
“wide-awakes,” or fluffy beaver hats, and with the cuffs of their best
coats, and the bottoms of their best trowsers turned up, are marching
heavily on—some with babies in their arms, others with baskets, and
others carrying corpulent cotton umbrellas.

And inside the Great Exhibition the scene is equally different from that
of the first week or two. The nave is no longer filled with elegant and
inert loungers—lolling on seats, and evidently come there to be seen
rather than to see. Those who are now to be found there, however, have
come to look at the Exhibition, and not to make an exhibition of
themselves. There is no air of display about them—no social falsity—all
is the plain unvarnished truth. The jewels and the tapestry, and the
Lyons silks, are not now the sole objects of attraction. The shilling
folk may be an “inferior” class of visitors, but at least they know
something about the works of industry, and what they do not know, they
have come to learn.

Here you see a railway guard, with the silver letters on his collar, and
his japan pouch by his side, hurrying, with his family, towards the
locomotive department. Next, you come to a carpenter, in his yellow
fluffy flannel jacket, descanting on the beauties of a huge top, formed
of one section of a mahogany tree. Then may be seen a hatless and
yellow-legged Blue-coat boy mounting the steps of one of the huge
prismatic lighthouses, to have a glance at the arrangements of the
interior. Peeping into the model of the Italian Opera are several
short-red-bodied and long-black-legged Life-Guardsmen; while, among the
agricultural implements, saunter clusters of countrymen in smockfrocks.
On the steps of the crimson-covered pedestals are seated small groups of
tired women and children, some munching thick slices of bread and meat,
the edges of which are yellow with the oozing mustard. Around the
fountains are gathered other families, drinking out of small mugs,
inscribed as “presents for Charles or Mary;” while all over the
floor—walk where you will—are strewn the greasy papers of devoured
sandwiches. The minute and extensive model of Liverpool, with its long
strip of looking-glass sea and thousands of card-board vessels, is
blocked round with wondering artisans, some, more familiar with the
place, pointing out particular streets and houses. And as you pass by
the elaborate representation, in plaster, of Underdown Cliff, you may
hear a young sailor—the gloss upon whose jacket indicates that he has
but recently returned from sea—tell how he went round the Needles last
voyage in a gale of wind. Most of the young men have catalogues or small
guide-books in their hands, and have evidently, from the earnest manner
in which they now gaze at the object, and now refer to the book, come
there to study the details of the whole building.

[Illustration:

  _Some of the Drolleries of The Great Exhibition of 1851._
]

But if the other parts of the Great Exhibition are curious and
instructive, the machinery, which has been from the first the grand
focus of attraction, is, on the “shilling days,” the most peculiar sight
of the whole. Here every other man you rub against is habited in a
corduroy jacket, or a blouse, or leathern gaiters; and round every
object more wonderful than the rest, the people press, two and three
deep, with their heads stretched out, watching intently the operations
of the moving mechanism. You see the farmers, their dusty hats telling
of the distance they have come, with their mouths wide agape, leaning
over the bars to see the self-acting mills at work, and smiling as they
behold the frame spontaneously draw itself out, and then spontaneously
run back again. Some, with great smockfrocks, were gazing at the girls
in their long pinafores engaged at the doubling-machines.

But the chief centres of curiosity are the power-looms, and in front of
these are gathered small groups of artisans, and labourers, and young
men whose red coarse hands tell you they do something for their living,
all eagerly listening to the attendant, as he explains the operations,
after stopping the loom. Here, too, as you pass along, you meet, now a
member of the National Guard, in his peculiar conical hat, with its
little ball on top, and horizontal peak, and his red worsted epaulettes
and full-plaited trowsers; then you come to a long, thin, and
bilious-looking Quaker, with his tidy and clean-looking Quakeress by his
side; and the next minute, may be, you encounter a school of
charity-girls, in their large white collars and straw bonnets, with the
mistress at their head, instructing the children as she goes. Round the
electro-plating and the model diving-bell are crowds jostling one
another for a foremost place. At the steam brewery, crowds of men and
women are continually ascending and descending the stairs; youths are
watching the model carriages moving along the new pneumatic railway;
young girls are waiting to see the hemispherical lamp-shades made out of
a flat sheet of paper; indeed, whether it be the noisy flax-crushing
machine, or the splashing centrifugal pump, or the clatter of the
Jacquard lace machine, or the bewildering whirling of the cylindrical
steam-press,—round each and all these are anxious, intelligent, and
simple-minded artisans, and farmers, and servants, and youths, and
children clustered, endeavouring to solve the mystery of its complex
operations.

For many days before the “shilling people” were admitted to the
building, the great topic of conversation was the probable behaviour of
the people. Would they come sober? will they destroy the things? will
they want to cut their initials, or scratch their names on the panes of
the glass lighthouses? But they have surpassed in decorum the hopes of
their well-wishers. The fact is, the Great Exhibition is to them more of
a school than a show. The working-man has often little book-learning,
but of such knowledge as constitutes the education of life—viz., the
understanding of human motives, and the acquisition of power over
natural forces, so as to render them subservient to human happiness—of
such knowledge as this, we repeat, the working-man has generally a
greater share than those who are said to belong to the “superior
classes.” Hence it is, that what was a matter of tedium, and became
ultimately a mere lounge, for gentlefolks, is used as a place of
instruction by the people.

We have been thus prolix on the classes attending the Great Exhibition,
because it is the influence that this institution is likely to exercise
upon labour which constitutes its most interesting and valuable feature.
If we really desire the improvement of our social state, (and surely we
are far from perfection yet,) we must address ourselves to the elevation
of the people; and it is because the Great Exhibition is fitted to
become a special instrument towards this end, that it forms one of the
most remarkable and hopeful characteristics of our time.

[Illustration:

  _Odds & Ends, in, out, & about, The Great Exhibition of 1851.
  Pub. by D. Bogue 86 Fleet Street_
]

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XVII.

                 “But if Misfortune’s han?
                  We plunge an’ feel her smartin’ wan’,
                  Let us wi’ fortitude withstan’,
                               The lash extended.
                  As a’ things come by Heaven’s comman’,
                               An’ whea can mend it.”
                  _A New Year’s Epistle, by John Stagg._


ALREADY had the customary advertisement in the daily papers announced to
the world that—

            THE YOUNG LADIES OF PARTHENON HOUSE, WIMBLEDON
            COMMON, will resume their studies on the 1st of
            August, 1851,—

and still, to Mrs. Wewitz’s great horror, those “filthy, hairy monsters
of Frenchmen” remained located in the best bed-room. She had tried
entreaties, threats, compliments, and abuse—everything by turns, and
nothing long—but still all her efforts had been in vain. Unfortunately,
she had, in an unguarded moment, revealed to the Count de Sanschemise
(who had returned to Parthenon House after a short mysterious absence),
that she required the room which he and his friends occupied, as the
young ladies of the school would arrive in the course of a few days; but
the Count no sooner heard the news than he declared, in as good English
as he was master of, that he always understood the apartment had been
let to him and his friends for a twelvemonth, and that he could not
think of leaving under a quarter’s notice.

This so terrified the poor old lady, that knowing the partiality of the
younger members of her own sex for those “impudent wretches of
Frenchmen,” and having had proof positive, in the case of Ann Lightfoot
and her mistress, “poor dear Mrs. Sandboys,” that the Frenchmen were
similarly inclined towards the ladies, she thought it would be better,
under all the circumstances, to acquaint her daughter with the worst.

Now, it so happened that Miss Wewitz was at this period on a visit with
Miss Chutney (an East Indian pupil, who had been sent over from Quilon
by her parents to be educated in England) to one of her dear, good
girls, a parlour boarder, who loved Miss Chutney with “something more
than a sister’s love.” Miss Wewitz was partaking of a dish of macaroni
boiled in milk, by way of a slight lunch, when the letter from her
respected parent arrived, informing her of what had happened. The lady,
so that her macaroni might not grow cold while she read the epistle,
placed it by her side on the table, and swallowed a spoonful and a
sentence at one and the same time. She was in the act of swallowing one
of the long, limp, white tubes that she had fished out of the basin with
her spoon, when her eye fell upon the passage which informed her that
the bed-room of her first class was occupied by a colony of Frenchmen,
and that they had resolutely refused to quit the premises. In the horror
of the moment, she gave a gasp, and instantly the long slippery tube was
hurried down her throat so rapidly and unexpectedly, that what with her
anguish and the macaroni, she was nearly choked on the spot. Her two
“dear girls,” seeing Miss Wewitz turn a light plum colour in the face,
immediately flew to her aid, and by dint of several severe thumps on the
back, ultimately succeeded in shaking the macaroni down the lady’s
throat.

It was in vain that the young ladies requested to be apprised of the
cause of her sudden alarm, for Miss Wewitz knew well enough that it
would not be safe to make them acquainted with the real state of the
case; accordingly, she excused herself by saying that she was called
home suddenly, and begged that Miss Chutney would prepare to return to
Parthenon House as soon as possible.

During the whole of the journey home. Miss Wewitz was arranging in her
own mind what course of action she should adopt—that her mother had been
imprudent enough to act as she had, hardly surprised her, for she was
continually doing the most peculiar things “for the best,” as she called
it, which invariably turned out for the worst. A few months back, she
had consented to receive the daughter of a neighbouring milkman, as a
pupil on the “reciprocal system;” and no sooner was it discovered by the
attorney’s daughter that there was what they were pleased to call a
milkmaid in the establishment, than she lost no less than six of her
pupils, and “all carriage people,” the very next vacation; and now Mrs.
Wewitz had let off “one of her wings” to a swarm of dirty Frenchmen, in
the hopes, as she said, of getting the taxes out of them.

What was to be done with Chutney, thought Miss Wewitz to herself, under
the distressing circumstances, was more than she could tell; she only
knew _that_ girl’s morals had cost her more trouble than all her other
pupils put together. To trust her out of her sight was more than she
dare do, or else she certainly would have left her at her schoolfellow’s
until the Frenchman had been got out of the house. But while the girl
was under her own eye no harm could possibly come to her, though, with a
swarm of horrid Frenchmen on the premises, it would be as much as she
could do to look after her, she was such a giddy, weak thing, ready to
fall in love with the first man who looked at her. However, Miss Wewitz
had made up her mind to one thing—and that was, to keep her in the
music-room so long as these men were in the house.

Thus ruminating, Miss Wewitz passed the journey. On reaching Wimbledon
Common, she was horrified to find that, in front of her best bed-room
windows, immediately above the long board which stretched across the
entire length of the house, and on which was inscribed, in large gilt
letters,

                   “ESTABLISHMENT FOR YOUNG LADIES,”

there dangled some dozen of newly-washed shirt-collars, and about half
the number of dickeys, while, lolling out of the windows, appeared two
or three long-bearded Frenchmen, puffing away huge meerschaum pipes, and
enveloped in clouds of smoke, as they amused themselves by spitting at
the sun-dial.

No sooner did the gate-bell announce the arrival of Miss Wewitz and her
pupil, than the Frenchmen, who could just distinguish the bonnets of the
ladies above the top of the boards before the railings, began whistling,
and making that peculiar noise with the lips which is supposed to be
especially agreeable to birds and babies.

This was more than the discreet schoolmistress could tolerate; she
thought all the eyes of all the mothers of Europe were directed towards
Parthenon House at that moment; so, before the gate could be opened, she
commenced shaking the end of her parasol between the railings with
considerable violence at the Frenchmen, who appeared to be mightily
taken with the mysterious lady’s menaces, for no sooner did they
perceive the mystic parasol waggling about, apparently by itself,
between the railings, than they—one and all—set up a loud roar of
laughter, while the more they laughed, the more the parasol shook with
rage—the one merely serving to increase the excitement of the other.

Now, Miss Wewitz was a lady of almost Roman virtue. She was, or rather
she _had been_, in the heyday of her youth, what little men delight to
term a remarkably fine woman; that is to say, she stood so near the
“regulation height,” and her upper lip was shaded with so delicate a
_moustache_, that, in male attire, she would have found little
difficulty in ’listing in the Life Guards, had she felt so inclined. She
was, however, one of those ladies upon whom food is said to be thrown
away; for, though she made a special point of taking the most nourishing
things—little and good, and often, was her dietetic rule of life—still,
eat as she would, her figure remained as long, as thin, and as angular
at all the joints, as a Dutch doll. At an early age—as the lady herself
delighted to tell her pupils—she had made a resolution never to marry,
but to dedicate her life to study and her dear mother; for, soon after
she had turned up her back hair, she formed so bad an opinion of the
male sex, that not if Plutus himself, with all the gold that Lemprière
tells he was possessed of, had come and thrown himself at her feet,
would she have condescended to have become the partner of his handsome
fortune. But, if Miss Wewitz was not exactly a Venus in her “outward
woman,” (as she termed it,) at least she was very nearly a Minerva
within; and, as if to label herself “a woman of mind,” she dressed in
the approved costume of feminine genius. Her hair was turned back _à la
Chinoise_, as if to stretch her forehead up as high as possible, and
behind each ear there dangled a solitary ringlet, that a discarded cook
had been heard to declare was “never her own.” And, to be candid, there
certainly was an intensity in the blackness of Miss Wewitz’ raven
tresses, coupled with a ruddy rustiness at the roots, that raised up
before you a vivid picture of the lady’s head done up in cabbage-leaves
once a month; while, as she smiled, and showed her front teeth, which
she was a little proud of, there might occasionally be seen a small
prong of gold twinkling at the corner of her mouth; but this was only
when the lady forgot herself, and was foolish enough to smile with
unfeigned pleasure. Her invariable dress was black satin, and this of
the glossiest description, so that she shone as if done up in
court-plaster. But though the lady looked as dry and stiff as
schoolmistresses usually are, she was not without her genial qualities;
and many a tale was told of girls educated and put out in the world by
her, whose parents had placed them under her charge, and disappeared
shortly afterwards. Moreover, it was whispered that her father, having
squandered a large property, had died suddenly in his chair after
dinner, leaving her mother and herself to fight their way through life,
without resources and without friends. The young girl, so the story ran,
had first gone as teacher, and afterwards become partner, in the school,
of which, by the death of the late mistress, she was now sole
proprietress.

Immediately the gate was opened, Miss Wewitz took Miss Chutney by the
arm and hurried into the house, where the smell of stale tobacco nearly
overpowered her, while the thought of her hard-earned reputation being
sacrificed in so cruel a manner made the tears rush in a flood to her
eyes. The house never could be got sweet again—that was certain; and
what would the mothers think on bringing their daughters back to an
establishment, reeking of tobacco smoke worse than a common taproom!
and, in the excitement of her feelings, she upbraided her mother
bitterly for her indiscretion, telling her that she had brought ruin
upon their heads.

Then suddenly recollecting that she was giving way to her feelings
before Miss Chutney, she retired with that young lady to the music-room,
and gave her strict injunctions on no account whatever to stir from the
spot.

After this, she begged her mother to make her acquainted with the entire
transaction, from beginning to end; and when that lady had confided to
her the whole of the circumstances. Miss Wewitz, who had by that time
resumed the natural calmness of her temper, observed, that it was no
time for bickering, and that before taking off her bonnet, she would
just step on to that remarkably civil young man, the inspector at the
police station, and ascertain from him what she had better do, situated
as she was.

Miss Wewitz had no sooner closed the outer gate, than the Count de
Sanschemise, who had all the time been leaning over the banisters, end
watching every movement of the ladies below, crept softly down the
stairs, and moved on tiptoe towards the room in which he had seen Miss
Chutney placed.

Opening the door, he entered the music-room, as though he was unaware of
any one being in it, and pretended to start back with surprise on
finding it occupied by a stranger.

The Frenchman bowed, and apologized with all the superlative gallantry
of a Parisian, and said in broken English, that he had come to seek a
piece of music which he had mislaid.

Miss Chutney could hardly speak for the first few minutes after the
gentleman’s entrance—she was lost, half in terror and half in admiration
of the Count’s moustachios—he was the very image of that love of a
brigand that she had worked, “last half,” on a kettle-holder! At length
she did manage to stammer out a request that he would leave her _that
instant_; for if Miss Wewitz were to return and find him there alone
with her, she would never forgive her.

The words were barely uttered, before a loud and impatient ring at the
gate-bell assured Miss Chutney that it could be none other than Miss
Wewitz herself come back, and again she hurriedly entreated the
Frenchman to be gone.

The cunning foreigner, however, told her it was impossible for him to
escape unseen, alleging that the servant had already opened the
hall-door on her way to the gate, so that for him even to attempt to
cross the passage now, would be to publish that which she was so anxious
to keep secret.

“But you cannot remain here, sir!” exclaimed the terrified girl—“Miss
Wewitz will be sure to look into this room, and if she catches you with
me—oh, dear!—oh, dear! Please _do_ go; there’s a good man—do, please.”

“_N’ayez pas peur, mon ange! ma déesse!_” cried the hyperbolic _Natif de
Paris_, kissing the tips of his fingers as he spoke; and then, as he
heard the gate close, he looked hurriedly round the room, exclaiming,
“Vere vill I go—vere vill I go? Mese, vere vill I go?”

But there was not in the whole apartment a cupboard, nor a screen,
within or behind which the Count could secrete himself; and he flew
round the room, as he looked wildly about, like a cat in a strange
house. “Vat vill I do?” he cried again and again; and then, as he heard
the footsteps in the passage approaching the music-room, he suddenly
raised the stiff leathern cover from off one of the large globes that
stood at opposite corners of the room, and, hastily putting it over his
head and shoulders, knelt down beneath it, so that it concealed his
whole body.

The Frenchman had scarcely had time to settle himself under the huge
cover when Miss Wewitz entered the apartment hastily—saying, “A thought
has just struck me, my love. You know, my dear Chutney, you are not a
child, and I can speak to you as I would to a sister. Mine, my good
girl, is a delicate position. You are far away from your parents, and an
orphan, as it were, placed under my charge; and if anything were to
happen to you your papa and mamma would never forgive me, and I’m sure I
should never be able to hold my head up again. Now you know, my love,
mamma has been imprudent enough to admit a number of those horrid
foreigners under our roof, and you must really be aware how necessary it
is, both for your and my sake, that I should take every precaution, so
that there may be no possibility of your being insulted by the
creatures. Now promise me, dear Miss Chutney, you’ll keep this door
locked until I return. Directly it struck me that I had left you alone
here, with all those men on the premises, I couldn’t go a step further
until I had assured myself of your perfect safety. Now you’ll lock
yourself in the moment I’ve quitted you, and not open the door again
till I come back to any one, under any pretence. You’ll promise me,
now—won’t you, there’s a dear girl?”

Miss Chutney stood close in front of the globe, trembling lest the cover
should move and discover one of the much-dreaded foreigners to be hidden
beneath, and stammered out, as well as she was able under the
circumstances, that she would be “sure and do as Miss Wewitz desired.”

Miss Wewitz was about to take her departure, and, indeed, had closed the
music-room door after her, when she suddenly opened it again, as the
affrighted Miss Chutney jumped once more in front of the heavenly
sphere.

“Oh!” exclaimed the schoolmistress, “upon second thoughts, my dear
child, I should be far more easy and comfortable in my mind, if I were
to lock you in myself, and take the key with me in my pocket; for then,
you know, my love, I should be sure no harm _could_ come to you.”

Chutney turned as pale as a young lady of East Indian extraction could
turn, and replied: “I’m sure—it’s—a—very good of you, ma’am—a—to take
care of me, but—a—I can assure you I shall be safe—a—indeed I shall,
ma’am.”

“No, no, my dear child!” returned Miss Wewitz, with her blandest smile,
“you think so, I dare say—giddy, foolish thing as you are; for how can
_you_ be expected to know the ways of the world at your time of life.
But I shall not be gone above half-an-hour at the utmost, so you can
easily find something to amuse yourself for so short a time. You can
play over some of your pieces, you know; and you’re far from perfect in
your Battle of Prague, as yet. Your ‘cries of the wounded’ were anything
but well marked, the last time I heard you——”

Suddenly the schoolmistress’ eye caught the uncovered globe in the
corner of the room, and, advancing towards the spot, she said: “Why,
there’s the cover off the celestial globe, I declare, my dear! It will
be all scratched, and covered with dust. What ever have you been doing
with it?”

Miss Chutney was ready to drop with fright; for a minute she was so
confused that she could make no answer, and only sought to interpose
herself between Miss Wewitz and the leathern case.

“What ever have you been doing with it, child?” inquired the
schoolmistress, once more.

“Oh, if you please, ma’am,” stammered out the terrified girl, “I was
studying the position of the ‘Great Bear’ when you came in.”

“Oh, indeed! Well, I don’t want to interfere with your studies; but I
had no idea you had any taste that way,” returned the schoolmistress,
delighted in the belief that her pupil was astronomically given, and
that she could henceforth lengthen the list of her extras by the item of
“the use of the globes.”

“Well, proceed! proceed! I shall be back in less than half-an-hour, and
then I’ll come and sit with you—for I dare say you will feel it lonely
here for awhile. Now, I know you’ll excuse me, my dear; but really I
_do_ think it would break my heart if I were to know that one of those
horrid, horrid foreigners had been saying a word to you;” and then,
having hastily arranged her bonnet at the pier-glass, she simpered, and
withdrew once more.

Miss Chutney stood still, horror-stricken, for a few minutes, and when
she heard the key turned in the door with a sharp snap, it sounded as
awful to her as the click of the trigger of a highwayman’s pistol.

Her first impulse was to rush to the door and assure herself that it was
really locked, and when, after pulling impatiently at it, she became
impressed with a full sense of the awkwardness of her position, Miss
Chutney thought at first that she would stand still and scream; but
then, it struck her immediately afterwards, that by so doing, the whole
would be discovered, and Miss Wewitz would be certain to believe that it
was all her doing, especially as she had been silly enough not to
acquaint her with what had happened directly she entered the room. She
had it on the tip of her tongue two or three times, but _that_ Miss
Wewitz was so severe, and took such strange views of things; then,
again, she always expected the young ladies to be so discreet and
circumspect, as she called it, in their behaviour, though she dare say
she liked to have a bit of fun as well as they did, in her younger days;
“only,” she added to herself, as she grew half vexed at her position,
“perhaps that’s so long ago, that it’s quite slipped the old thing’s
memory.”

Then, throwing herself into the easy chair, she put her hands up before
her face, and indulged in what young ladies are pleased to call “a good
cry.”

The sound of the young lady’s sobs no sooner reached the ears of the
secreted Count, than he started up, with the leathern cover still over
his head and shoulders, and stood for a few minutes vainly endeavouring
to extricate himself from beneath it.

Miss Chutney hearing the smothered exclamations of “tonnère!” and
“parbleu!” that involuntarily escaped from the struggling Count,
suddenly ceased her sobs, and turned round to see what was the matter,
and no sooner did she set eyes on the ludicrous figure of the Frenchman,
with his legs alone showing beneath the yellow cover, than she could not
refrain from bursting, half hysterically, into a loud fit of laughter;
and so irresistible was the impulse upon her—for the more the foreigner
struggled and swore, the louder she laughed—that it was not until a
sense of her position had forced itself upon her, and she had half
bitten her lips through in dread of Mrs. Wewitz overhearing her, that
the young lady was in any way able to control herself.

At length, however, by dint of much struggling, the Count succeeded in
ridding himself of the leathern extinguisher, and then followed a
“love-making” scene between the artful and bombastic Frenchman and the
simple, credulous school-girl, that may easily, and, for the matter of
that, must be imagined.

The Frenchman of course flattered the poor girl, who, too ready to think
well of herself, like the best of us, and wanting the worldly skill to
detect his motive for the adulation, drank in at her burning and
tingling ears every word of his honied phrases, till, liking the words,
she grew gradually to like the wretch that uttered them; and it was not
long before she got to think the Count de Sanschemise one of the most
polite and amiable gentlemen she had ever met with. Once or twice the
Frenchman, pretending to be struck with the exquisite beauty of her
hand, seized it, and was about to press it in feigned admiration to his
lips, when a sense of the impropriety of her conduct burst upon the
girl, and she indignantly snatched it from him; but the expert trickster
soon knew how to heal the wound he had inflicted, and in a few minutes,
by some dexterous mode of pleasing—by some infallible appeal to her
self-love—had made himself appear to her the same charming, agreeable
man as ever. Thus matters progressed, until, at the expiration of the
half-hour that was to constitute the term of Miss Wewitz’s absence, the
weak-minded and warm-hearted school-girl had told him, the Frenchman, in
approved maiden language, that she certainly must confess she liked him
a little bit; but it was impossible for her to say she loved him, when
she had only known him for so short a time. She shouldn’t wonder but he
only wanted to make a silly of her, after all; and then to go and tell
all the other gentlemen up stairs what a simpleton she was, and how she
had believed all the many fine things and the soft nonsense he had been
whispering in her ear—though, for the matter of that, she had not paid
the least attention to a single word he had said—it had all gone in at
one ear and out at the other, she could tell him; for she knew well
enough what a pack of deceitful things the French gentlemen were,—they
were all general lovers; and she dare say that he’d go and repeat the
very same things—silly things—that he’d been telling her, to the first
poor girl he met after leaving.

Of course, M. le Comte de Sanschemise threw his eyes up to the ceiling,
and gazed steadfastly at the pink, pickled-looking Cupid that was
painted in the centre of it, and supposed to be supporting, while in the
act of flying, the heavy ormolu lamp that dangled from his hand; then he
whispered, in subdued recitative, an impassioned French “roman,”
commencing,—

                    “Vous le savez! je vous adore!”

all the while gesticulating in the most theatrical manner: now he
extended his arms out, and leaned far forward towards her; now he
suddenly threw back the lapel of his surtout, and tapped quickly and
repeatedly the left side of his embroidered waistcoat; then, as the
sentiment of the “chanson” grew more desperate, he clasped his forehead
with his two hands, and rolled himself backwards and forwards,
exclaiming,—

        “Un seul mot pour me satisfaire!
         Dites le moi (ange du ciel), je vous en pr-r-r-ie! dites le
            moi!”

after which he tore his wig for a few minutes, and then dropped,
exhausted, into the nearest chair. Unfortunately, however, for the
pathos of the Count, the nearest chair happened to be a “devotional,”
and the seat being lower, and the back less substantial than those of
the ordinary style, and the Frenchman, being unprepared for the extra
distance that he had to descend, fell with such force on the cushion,
that the back gave way with a crash, while M. le Comte himself was
thrown with his head backwards, and his legs up in the air, with such
violence, that the buttons of his braces and straps were heard to burst
with a loud explosion.

At this particular juncture, the gate-bell was again heard to sound in
the same authoritative manner as that in which Miss Wewitz was known to
delight by way of announcing her advent.

The Count was instantly on his feet, while the terrified Miss
Chutney—suffering the double fright of the Frenchman’s fall and the
schoolmistress’s return—begged and prayed of him, if he really _did_
adore her only half as much as he had been making such a noise about,
that he’d return that minute to his former hiding-place.

M. le Comte was busy in trying to shake his trousers down over his
patent-leather half-boots, so that the stockingless state of his feet
might not be discovered, and he stamped on the floor, apparently with
the energy of his devotion, but really in the hope of forcing down his
pantaloons; he exclaimed that he was her slave for life, and, hearing
the gate close, proceeded, with all possible haste, to ensconce himself
once more beneath the leathern cover of the celestial globe, kissing his
hand passionately several times to the young lady before finally
disappearing from her sight.

Miss Chutney had only time enough to place the devotional close against
the wall, and to arrange the back so that it would not immediately
appear to have been broken, when she heard the key placed in the door,
and in a minute afterwards Miss Wewitz made her appearance.

To Chutney’s great horror, on looking at her a second time, she
discovered that Miss Wewitz had positively brought her work, and had
evidently made up her mind to sit with her the whole time.

What ever should she do? The poor dear Count would be smothered, even if
he could remain quiet in his hiding-place all that time. Would it not be
better to tell her all that had occurred—but then she would be sure to
scold so—besides, it never would be possible to tell her all that the
Count had said—and really she’d have to make up so many fibs, if she
confessed, that perhaps, after all, it would be more honest of her to
keep the whole affair secret from her.

Miss Wewitz merely observing that she thought she had not exceeded her
half-hour by many minutes, and that Miss Chutney had not been very
lonely during her absence, sat herself down in the easy chair, saying
that she had ordered the servant to bring the tea in there, and that
they would have a nice long evening’s chat together.

As soon as Miss Wewitz had settled herself fairly down to her work—she
was busy fresh trimming one of her old last year’s bonnets for her dear
mother—she commenced informing Miss Chutney, in the most confidential
manner, as to the issue of her visit to the inspector. That
gentleman—and a perfect gentleman he certainly was—for he was always
exceedingly civil to her, though, for the life of her, she couldn’t tell
why—well, that gentleman had been kind enough to advise her to get rid
of the Frenchmen as rapidly as she could, saying that they were all a
pack of swindlers together, and that there was one whom the Detectives
had traced to her house—a Count de Sangshimmy, the inspector called him,
and whom they well knew to be nothing more nor less than a _Chevalier
d’Industrie_, or, in plain English, a common pickpocket.

Here the cover of the celestial globe betrayed evident symptoms of
internal uneasiness, and Miss Chutney, attracted by the motion of the
cover, could not help casting a side glance towards the spot.

Miss Wewitz, however, was too deeply concerned in what she was relating
to pay any attention to other matters; and though her pupil kept
continually interjecting “Indeed!” and “Dear me!” and “Really, you don’t
say so!” it was evident that her thoughts were otherwise occupied, and
that she had really not the slightest idea of what Miss Wewitz was
talking about.

“And would you believe it, my love?” continued the schoolmistress; “the
inspector tells me I have no means of getting quit of the wretches but
by an action of ejectment, and that will take a year at least; so, do
you know, he advises me”—and here the lady looked towards the door, to
satisfy herself that no one was within hearing—“do you know, my dear, he
advises me, I say”—but, to satisfy herself that the communication she
was about to make could not be overheard, the lady rose from her seat,
and opened the music-room door to see whether any one were in the
passage listening—“he advises, I repeat, if I find I cannot get them out
of the house by any other means, to offer them, first, ten pounds to go,
and even to go as high as fifty, rather than allow them to continue
under the roof; though of course, my love, for obvious reasons, I don’t
want this to be known to a soul beside ourselves, for, if it should get
to the ears of any of the gang, why of course they wouldn’t stir a foot
until I had given them the whole fifty. And you’d hardly credit it, my
dear, but the inspector—he really is a very nice, agreeable man, and the
poor fellow lost his wife last Easter holidays—he tells me that the
wretches of Frenchmen might, if they chose, open a show in my best
bed-room. Oh! my dear child, think of that! So pray, for gracious sake!
do be cautious not to let a word of this escape your lips; for, should
they but come to hear, by any accident, what lengths the law will allow
them to go to, they would never leave the place until they had succeeded
in draining me of my last penny.”

Here again the cover of the celestial globe was seen to shake its side
violently, as if internally convulsed with laughter—when Miss Wewitz,
observing the glances of her pupil to be turned in that direction,
suddenly perceived that the globe still remained uncovered.

“My dear Miss Chutney!” she exclaimed, “how forgetful you are—do you see
that you have left the case off the globe; and are you aware that those
things cost a great deal of money.”

“Oh, if you please, ma’am,” stammered the East Indian, “a—a—I
was—em—a—waiting for you just to show to me which was the dragon that is
so near the bear, if you please, ma’am.”

“That will do another time, Miss Chutney,” answered the schoolmistress,
pettishly; “for really I have something else to think of just now—so
pray put the cover on—there’s a good child.”

“But I shall only want to be taking it off again directly, if you
please; for as to-night promises to be very fine, I’m going to see if I
can learn the stars by the aid of this globe,” exclaimed Miss Chutney,
starting from her seat, so as to be ready to prevent Miss Wewitz going
towards the cover.

“Very well, my dear girl, just as you like,” added the schoolmistress;
“but as it wants some hours yet till night, it will surely be as well to
cover it up. Are you aware that those globes cost me £15 at Miss
Peabody’s sale, just after her bankruptcy; and that if by accident they
got scratched, they would not be worth one penny. Now pray don’t let me
have to speak again, but _do_ put on the case immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am; but really it is so heavy, that I shall only be obliged to
come and trouble you to take it off for me again in an hour or two; and
you needn’t be alarmed, I will see that no harm comes to the celestial
globe;” and then, perceiving Miss Wewitz about to get up from her chair,
Miss Chutney hurried towards her, and leaned over, with pretended regard
for her, but really and truly to keep her close fixed to her seat.

Miss Wewitz was too shrewd a woman not to perceive, by her pupil’s
manner, that she had some secret motive for wishing the globe to remain
uncovered; so, laying her work down, she said, in her most dignified
manner, “If Miss Chutney has not strength enough to put the case on the
globe, after having had quite strength enough to take it off, why Miss
Wewitz must do it for her, I suppose;” so saying, the lady made an
effort to rise; whereupon Miss Chutney clung round her neck more tightly
than ever, and the tighter she clung, the harder Miss Wewitz struggled
to get from her. At length, however, she succeeded in freeing herself
from her embraces, when the terrified girl gave a loud shriek, and
immediately, to Miss Wewitz’s inexplicable horror, she beheld the
dome-like cover of the globe heave and heave, and finally rise up and
rush out of the room, with a pair of black pantaloons dangling beneath
it.

It was now Miss Wewitz’s turn to scream, which she did louder and
sharper than Miss Chutney had screamed before her—crying frantically,
“There’s a man in the house!—there’s a man!—there’s a man!—there’s a
man!” and then, determined to solve the mystery, she set off after the
two-legged cover of the globe as fast as her own legs would carry her.
The first object of M. le Comte de Sanschemise was to make for the
stairs that led to his bed-room; but with the huge leathern cover of the
globe over his head, and reaching nearly to his knees, it was impossible
for him to tell the direction in which he was going. In his eagerness to
escape detection, he ran towards the top of the kitchen stairs, instead
of the bottom of those that led to the upper part of the house; and Miss
Wewitz had just reached the music-room door when she saw him
precipitated headlong down the flight; and heard him afterwards, as he
got near to the bottom, go bump, bump—rolling heavily from stair to
stair, almost like the globe whose place he had taken.

Miss Wewitz shrieked involuntarily at the sight of the catastrophe—Miss
Chutney shrieked sympathetically—and Mrs. Wewitz, who came rushing from
the housekeeper’s room—and the servants, who came hurrying from the
kitchen—all shrieked, they hardly knew why or wherefore, but principally
because they heard the others shriek.

Then came all the Frenchmen, tearing down the stairs—two and three at a
time—some with their hair in paper, and a silk handkerchief thrown
hastily over their heads—others with the curling-tongs still in their
hands, and half their locks curled, and the other half hanging in matted
hanks about their faces—while others had one of their moustachios and
whiskers bright red, and the other jet black—others, again, were in
their paper collars, and others in embroidered slippers and no socks.

When Miss Wewitz saw the human avalanche descending from the first
landing, she uttered a piercing “Oh!” and, suddenly closing the door,
turned the key, so that she and Chutney at least might be safe. Then she
threw herself into the _fauteuil_, and buried her face in her
handkerchief—first tittering and then sobbing, and ultimately screaming,
and pattering her feet upon the carpet like two drum-sticks doing the
“roll” upon a drum.

The alarmed Chutney threw herself upon her neck, and begged her not to
“give way” so, for that she’d be sure to make herself ill—and that her
eyes would be red and swollen for hours afterwards.

“Indeed! indeed! Miss Wewitz, if you’ll only believe—it was no fault of
mine—indeed—and _indeed_ it wasn’t.”

Miss Wewitz “came to” for a moment, and exclaimed—“Oh, you bad, bad,
base girl—after all the attention I’ve paid to your morals, too! How you
dare stand there and say such a thing, and not expect the floor to open
under you, is a mystery to me! Oh, you wicked, wicked story, you! Where
do you expect to go to, Miss? But you’ll write out the first chapter of
Telemachus before you have any supper to-night—and it’s that cold
rice-pudding that you’re remarkably fond of.”

Then Miss Chutney, in her turn, gave vent to her feelings. “I’m sure,
ma’am, it wasn’t my fault,” sobbed the girl—“it was you yourself that
would lock him in the room with me, though I begged of you not to lock
the door—but you would do it, and what could I do?”

“Do!” retorted the angry Miss Wewitz—“_Do!_” (and this she pitched at
least two octaves higher)—“you could have screamed, couldn’t you—or you
could have pulled the bell—or even broken the windows,—it wouldn’t have
mattered to you, they would have all gone down in the bill, you know.
Don’t you think I would have raised the whole house, and the whole
neighbourhood, indeed, if I had been, in your place. I’d have torn all
the beard off the creature’s face by handfuls, that I would;—but you, of
course, must hide the wretch away from your best friends, and pretend
you had been looking out for the Great Bear—the Great Bear, you might
well say, indeed—and the impudent monkey, too. But you’ll bring a
scandal upon my school, you will—you wicked, wicked girl.”

“Well, I don’t care how much I’m punished for it, Miss Wewitz—but I’m
not to blame. If you were to stop my puddings for the whole of next
“half,” it wouldn’t make me think otherwise. I didn’t want to be shut up
with the man, but _you_ would do it.”

“How dare you say I did it, Miss,” asked the schoolmistress, in her most
authoritative manner, “when I didn’t?”

“I’m sure you did, Miss Wewitz.”

“How often am I to tell you not to contradict, Miss? I tell you I
didn’t.”

“I’m sure I don’t wish to contradict, ma’am, but I’m quite certain you
did.”

“There, you are contradicting again, Miss,—for I say, once for all, I
didn’t.”

“Well, then, I say you did.”

“Hold your tongue, Miss Chutney, and remember whom you’re speaking to.
Have I not informed you, Miss, that I did no such thing?”

“Well, I don’t care, but I’ll stand to it as long as I’ve got a word to
say—you _did_ lock me up alone with the Frenchman,—so there!” cried the
headstrong East Indian.

Miss Wewitz drew herself up as erect as she could, and said, in her very
mildest tones, as if she were in no way annoyed by what the young lady
had spoken, though inwardly she could scarcely contain herself for
passion,—“Very well, Miss; we will see who is mistress in this
establishment; so, if you please, you will come with me, and I shall
lock you up in the linen-room at the top of the house until you are
willing to acknowledge your fault, and beg my pardon. There, go along
with you, do! I’m quite astonished at your bad behaviour,—and after all
I’ve done for you!” And with these words Miss Wewitz pushed the sobbing
and muttering girl up the stairs before her.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XVIII.

             “True friendship, when fwok throw aseyde,
               What then are riches, preyde, or power?—
              Vain gewgaws! Mekin sec their gueyde,
               May sair repent lang ere deeth’s hour.

             “True friendship that can ne’er cause streyfe,
               But e’en keep frae distress and pain,
              An’ show what bliss it gie’s thro’ leyfe,
               In every bwosom still sud reign.?
                  _Friendship. Ballad, by Robert Anderson._


We must leave Miss Chutney for awhile imprisoned in the linen room, and
return to Mr. Sandboys, imprisoned in the police cell; for it was during
the absence of himself and wife from Parthenon House, that the incidents
detailed in the previous chapter had taken place.

Mrs. Sandboys soon began to perceive that feelings were quite foreign to
a police-office; and after her first outburst of indignation, she set
herself to work, like a shrewd woman of the world, to discover some
means of procuring bail for her poor incarcerated Cursty.

The question was, whom could she send to? Strangers in London, to whom
could they apply for assistance under the distressing circumstances? She
was half-ashamed to send to Mrs. Wewitz, and acquaint her that Mr.
Sandboys was locked up on suspicion of being a common thief; but there
was no one else that she knew who could vouch for their respectability.
This was all that was required, and, appearing so little to ask, she
summoned up all her courage, and scribbled a hasty and pathetic appeal
to the lady.

Jobby, who had accompanied Elcy to view the outside of the Crystal
Palace, while the father and mother were inspecting the interior, and
who had seen his father carried off by the police, and followed him,
with his affrighted sister, to the police-office, was ready at his
mother’s call to hurry with the note she had written to Wimbledon
Common. Elcy was but of little use; for though Mrs. Sandboys was too
much occupied with the thoughts of releasing her husband to display at
present much concern for his painful position, the girl could think of
nothing else, and sat in the waiting-room of the police court, sobbing
aloud, and trembling with fear, lest her father should be injured in any
way.

The dutiful lad started off at a rapid pace; and though hailed by many
an omnibus that was wending his way, they were by far too slow for him;
for on he ran, as youths only can run, with his handkerchief tied round
his waist, and racing with every cab that came up with him. At length,
however, when he had reached Brompton, he was fairly beaten, and was
glad to avail himself, spent and out of breath as he was, of the first
omnibus that passed him.

Scarcely half-an-hour after this, he was pulling violently at the
gate-bell of their temporary lodgings.

The impatience of the summons brought Miss Wewitz rapidly down from the
linen-room, wherein she had safely locked Miss Chutney, having this time
assured herself, by carefully examining every cupboard and hole and
corner in the place, that she was “all alone.”

Mrs. Wewitz had no sooner made herself acquainted with the purport of
the letter, than she informed her daughter of the shocking news it
contained.

“Here! Mr. Sandboys is in prison, on suspicion of robbery, and wants us
to come and speak to his respectability! Well, really,” exclaimed the
old lady, “I can’t think what’s come to all the people of late! What do
you think, my dear Di?—would it be prudent, now, for us, situated as we
are, to mix ourselves up in the matter?”

“Pr-r-rudent!” echoed Miss Diana Wewitz, who was certainly not in the
humour to grant favours—“in the first place, pray let me ask you what we
know of the Sandboys? They say they have come from Cumberland; but what
proof have we of the fact? How, then, could you, dear mother, lay your
hand on your heart, and swear before a magistrate that you believe Mr.
Sandboys to be a perfect gentleman? And very respectable it would be,
indeed, to have it published in all the morning papers, that the lady of
Parthenon House Establishment for Young Ladies had appeared at a
police-office to speak to the character of a person detained on
suspicion of robbery, and of whom it turned out, on cross-examination
(for the counsel would be sure to cross-examine you severely) she knew
nothing whatever, and very probably, under the excitement of the moment,
you would get so confused, that you’d swear to almost anything that was
asked you, and so lay yourself open to be indicted for wilful and
corrupt perjury.”

“Oh, my dear child! don’t say another word,” cried Mrs. Wewitz,
horrified at the picture which her talented daughter had given her of
the probable consequences attendant upon her assenting to Mrs. Sandboys’
simple request. “Well, my love. I’m sure I should have done it, if you
had not been by me to advise me; and it would have been with the best of
motives, too.”

“Yes, mother; and, as usual with you, with the worst possible results,”
replied Miss Wewitz, with a triumphant smile. “Besides, dear mother, do
just reflect for one minute! Here have we a gang of French swindlers
already located in the house—of that we are certain, for we have it on
the very best authority—that nice civil young man, the inspector, told
me as much only this very day, you know, mother; and isn’t it very
likely that you may have been imprudent enough to admit into this
establishment some similar characters belonging to this country. I
shouldn’t wonder at all now but they’re only part and parcel of the same
gang.”

“Well, my dear Di,” said the old lady, with a most reverential shake of
the head, “I’m sure, with the education I’ve given you, you ought to
know much better than I do about such things. But Mrs. Sandboys was such
a nice homely body, and the gentleman himself appeared the last person
on earth to be guilty of anything mean or bad.”

“Ah, my dear mother! you don’t know the wickedness of the world, and if
you did, you wouldn’t be at all surprised to find out that the nice
homely body, as you call her, was only part of a deep-laid scheme, and
it’s only a wonder that the place was not stripped. But how I go through
it all is far more than I can tell—if I was an ordinary-minded woman it
would kill me. Here, this morning, I return to my home, on the eve of
receiving my pupils—the daughters of some of the first families—and I am
informed that I have a gang of swindlers under my roof; and this
afternoon I learn that another party, who has been residing in my house,
is now detained on suspicion of robbery. However it is that my mind
doesn’t give way under it, is to me incomprehensible.” And then,
fetching a deep-drawn sigh, she added, “but a single straw extra will
break the over-burthened camel’s back. However, go you and write a note
to the woman, saying, that you regret you cannot _conscientiously_
comply with her request, and adding, at the same time, that you would
thank her to send for her luggage at the earliest opportunity, as, after
what has transpired, you cannot think of allowing the family to continue
their apartments at PARTHENON HOUSE.”


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XIX.

               “Of a’ the scenes in leyfe’s lang round;
                Sweet youth! leyke thee nin can be found;
                With plizzer thou dost meast abound—
                                 Threyce happy teymes!
                Wi’ joys wheyte parfit fair an’ sound,
                                 Unclogg’d by creymes.

               “Or when of luive the kittlin’ dart
                Furst whithers i’ th’ unconscious heart,
                Wi’ a’ the pleasin’ painfu’ smart
                                 See passions awn;
                An raptures dirl thro’ every part,
                                 Befwore unknown.”
                        _A New Year’s Epistle, by Stagg._


WHILE Master Jobby Sandboys is on his road back to his parents at the
Police Station, we will avail ourselves of the uninteresting interval,
and continue our narrative of the course of events at Parthenon House.

We left Miss Chutney, with Miss Wewitz, in the linen-room, at the top of
the Establishment for Young Ladies.

The key had no sooner been turned upon the young East Indian, than the
pride which had borne her up till then gave way in her solitude; and,
now that nobody could see her, she sat down on the inverted
clothes-basket, and indulged in a “good cry.” This, however, served but
little to mollify the stubbornness of her spirit; for in a few minutes
she started up again from her seat, and biting her lips, as if annoyed
with herself for her weakness, said between her teeth, as she tossed her
head till her ringlets shook again—“Beg her pardon, indeed!—no! not if
she was to starve me to death up here, I wouldn’t!—and, what’s more, _I_
wont be the first to make it up, I can tell her. I’ll let her see I can
sulk as well as she can.” And then suddenly she burst out singing,
ascending and descending the “chromatic scale” in as loud a voice as she
possibly could, till the whole house seemed to echo again with the
notes.

Presently she stopped abruptly, and said, as she laughed to herself,
half in triumph, “There! that will just let the old thing know I’m not
very miserable!” After this, she amused herself by thinking how nice and
savage Wewitz would be to hear she was so happy—and how she would scold
the maids.

The next moment, to pass the time, she pulled all her hair down, and
began plaiting it in a series of tails, to see how she would look with
it “crimped” in the morning; but, in a few minutes, the thought struck
her that she would wear it like that affected old thing, Wewitz—just to
tease her. “She would let her see,” she murmured, as she passed her comb
through her long tresses, “that other people had got foreheads as well
as herself.”

At last, by dint of pulling all her front hair nearly from the roots,
and tying it back tight with the ribbon from her collar, she managed to
make it keep as she wished. Whereupon she went to the window, and looked
into one of the panes, to see how it became her.

“Ha!” she exclaimed, as she caught a faint sight of a reflection of her
face, “it makes me look just like a cockatoo. I declare to goodness,
too, it quite hurts me to shut my eyes, and my nostrils are both drawn
up, for all the world as if I’d got under them a cup of that filthy
senna and prunes that Miss Wewitz will force us to take once a month—to
sweeten our blood, as she calls it, though it’s only to make us eat
less. I’m sure!”

As there was no bearing the torture of what Miss Chutney termed the
cockatoo-style of _coiffure_, she proceeded forthwith to arrange her
locks in a series of those hairy black puddings, which are known by the
name of sausage curls;—this done, she threw up the window, and looked
out into the gravelly and deserted playground, her arms resting on the
sill. In a few minutes she began singing, or rather humming to herself
thoughtlessly, the finale to “La Cenerentola,” and immediately, to her
great alarm, she saw the head of the Count de Sanschemise thrust from
one of the lower windows, and his face turned up towards her. Miss
Chutney stopped in the middle of one of her runs, and started back from
where she was standing. “Well, if that isn’t the French gentleman! and
he’ll be sure to fancy I did it on purpose,” she inwardly exclaimed.
“Oh, what ever will he think of me! I’d have given anything rather than
it should have occurred. It will be putting such silly notions in the
man’s head; making him think, I dare say, that one’s quite taken with
him, and _that_ I’m sure I’m not. He’s got very fine expressive eyes of
his own, certainly—but, oh dear! Frenchmen are so deceitful! His
countenance is the very image of that love of a head that Miss Tatting
did in crayons last ‘half.’ I wonder if he’s gone in yet.”

The latter remark Miss Chutney uttered in a half whisper, as if afraid
to let herself hear it; and then she crept softly back towards the
window, where she stood beside the shutters, stretching herself forward
by degrees, and raising herself on tiptoe, so that she might look down
without thrusting her head so far out as to be visible. Unfortunately,
however, just as she had got to the point of seeing the tassel of the
Count’s smoking cap, she lost her balance, and, tipping suddenly
forward, was thrust, head and shoulders, half out of the window. In the
fright of the moment she uttered a suppressed scream, and immediately
disappeared. “Gracious! gracious! and it’s impossible to let him know I
didn’t mean it,” she cried;—“it must have seemed to him for all the
world like as if I was calling to him. Oh dear! oh dear! oh dear!? and,
in the flurry of her emotions, she sat herself down on the top of the
screw-press for the table-cloths, that stood in the extreme corner of
the room, and hiding her face in her hands, beat a tattoo with her feet
on the floor in vexation at what had happened.

In this position she remained, thinking over her past conduct with the
Frenchman. Perhaps she had been too forward with him from the first. He
must think her a very bold, rude girl,—oh, yes, that he must. She ought
never to have been a party to his secreting himself in the music-room.
Yes! yes! she had behaved very imprudently and wrong all through, though
she would never acknowledge as much to Miss Wewitz;—no! not if she was
to be torn to pieces by a thousand wild horses. Then the young lady only
wished she could go over it all again; she’d be as cold and distant with
him as ever that prosy old methodist preacher of a Mentor, in that
horrid Telemachus, could have desired any young lady to be.

Suddenly, she was awakened from her reflections by a gentle tapping at
the window. Had the noise been louder, Miss Chutney would have favoured
the inmates of Parthenon House with one of her best shrieks; but as it
was, the sound was so slight, that it was not until repeated several
times that the young lady even noticed it. It was like the beak of a
bird pecking against the glass, or the twig of an adjacent tree blown
against the window,—and yet there was nothing to be seen.

Miss Chutney rose from her seat and moved a few steps towards the
casement, when there suddenly appeared outside the top joint of a
fishing-rod. Instinctively she drew back, and, still watching the
mysterious implement, she saw it swing to and fro, while presently the
line which dangled from the tip of it was jerked into the room, and
deposited on the floor a three-cornered pink note, fastened to the hook.
Without a thought, and almost mechanically, as it were, Miss Chutney ran
forward and put her foot upon the letter, when, the line being detained,
the top joint of the rod outside was seen to bend, until at last the
hook tore its way through the paper, and being suddenly released sprung
back again out of the window.

For some little time Miss Chutney stood still, looking at the epistolary
triangle, half afraid to raise it. It was from the Frenchman, she felt
assured, and she ought to have nothing to do with it; it would only be
encouraging him. She’d send it back to him—but how? thought she, the
moment afterwards. If she threw it from the window, it must fall into
the playground, that was certain; and then Wewitz, with her hawk’s eyes,
would get hold of it, and be sure to blame her all the more; and if she
went to the window and made signs to the man that she wanted him to take
the letter back, of course he’d pretend he didn’t understand her, and
would be certain to get kissing his hand to her, and all that nonsense;
so it would be better to let it lie where it was—and lie there it might
for her, for she wasn’t going to read it, she was sure.

Accordingly, she resumed her seat on the edge of the inverted
clothes-basket, and, taking her crochet needles out of her pocket, set
to work at the pincushion-cover she had half finished, with the view of
dismissing the subject entirely from her mind. She had, however, made
but half-a-dozen loops when she paused, and, stretching out her foot,
drew the letter towards her along the boards; then she made two or three
more loops—all wrong—and then looked down sideways, like a bird, at the
note, to read the address on the floor; but, unluckily, the letter was
face downwards, so, upon second thoughts, she began to think that, as
the thing was there, she might as well see what was in it; for, whether
she read it or not, the Frenchman, of course, would make certain that
she _had_,—and so would Miss Wewitz, for the matter of that, if she came
to find out anything about it; so, as she wasn’t going to be suspected
unjustly, she’d just have a peep, and see what ever he could want in
writing to her?

Miss Chutney took up the letter—read it—and, as she did so, the blood
mounted to her cheeks, suffusing her ears with her blushes. It was
filled with the same high-flown and voluptuous sentiment, and the same
exaggerated terms of admiration, as the Count de Sanschemise had poured
into her ear only a few hours before. It was grateful, nevertheless, to
the weak girl to think she was so much admired; she contrasted in her
own mind the difference of the terms in which the Frenchman addressed
her from those in which Miss Wewitz had spoken of her, and it was no
little consolation to her, in her punishment, to believe that there was
one who thought well of her. But still he could not possibly mean all he
said. How could he know enough of her to tell what kind of a girl she
was in so a short time? Oh, it was merely what every Frenchman said to
every girl, and she was foolish, very foolish, to fancy otherwise.

As this varying train of reflections was passing through Miss Chutney’s
mind, the fishing-rod again appeared at the window, and again, after the
same movements had been gone through, the hook was jerked into the room,
with a slip of paper attached, on which was written, in large French
characters—

                _“Repondez vite, mon souris adorable!”_

Miss Chutney could not help ejaculating, “Well, what impudence! Besides,
I’ve got nothing to say to the man,” she added; “and even if I had, I’m
sure I’ve got nothing to say it with up here.” Then the thought suddenly
struck her, that if she were to give the gentleman to understand as
much, he might remain quiet, for he’d soon get tired of writing to her
when he found that he could get no answer; “and if he goes on in this
way, with that fishing-rod continually being poked up to my window,” she
added, “old Wewitz is sure, before long, to find it out somehow, for I
do believe she’s got eyes in her back hair.”

Accordingly, she went to the window, and made signs to the Frenchman
that she had no writing materials at her command. This she expressed by
first moving her fingers, as if engaged in a rapid act of penmanship;
and then, shaking her head and lifting up her hands, expressed, in the
most intelligible pantomime she was mistress of, that it was impossible
for her to perform the operation—after which, she smiled, bowed, and
withdrew.

She had, however, scarcely settled down to crochet again, when the
fishing-rod once more made its appearance at the window, and immediately
afterwards a pencil and a sheet of paper were whisked into the room.

“Well, I never!” cried Chutney, though by no means so displeased at the
circumstance as she tried to persuade herself she was—“though I
certainly must say he’s very persevering. But I’ll offend him—I’ll scold
him well for daring to send me such things. No, I wont; it would look so
unkind after all the trouble he’s taken. Oh, no! I’ll tell him I’m
locked up here, and beg of him to desist, as it’s all through him that
I’ve been punished.” So, seizing the paper and pencil, she hastily
proceeded to indite a communication to the gentleman to that effect.

In a few minutes after the fishing-rod had disappeared with her note, it
returned, carrying a letter of intense condolence, and a cornichon of
chocolate drops.

Now, if one thing in the world could have made Miss Chutney think more
highly of the Frenchman than another, it would have been the present he
had chosen—for, of all the young ladies in the “first class,” she was
the most renowned for her love of “sweeties.” So she immediately
proceeded to devour the love-letter and the _bonbons_ at the same time,
and both with all the ardour of a boarding-school miss.

“Oh, how kind of him!” she exclaimed, as she crunched between her teeth
the little white sugar-plums that ornamented the top of the drops—“and
it’s really so thoughtful. Well, I _do_ think he’s one of the
nicest-mannered Frenchmen I’ve ever known. He must be very
good-tempered—and he writes such beautiful letters, and sympathises with
me so warmly. Oh, how glad I am I paid such attention to my French last
‘half.’”

Having finished the drops, she tore off the back of the letter last
conveyed to her, and scribbled, with the paper on her knee, a brief
expression of thanks for his commiseration and confectionery.

This, of course, was followed by a third epistle—still more impassioned
than the last—and with it a long stick of candied angelica, both of
which were so extremely gratifying to the young lady, that she was
puzzled in her mind to know which pleased her the most.

Thus matters went on till long past dusk, so that, when her supper of
bread and water was brought to her by Miss Wewitz’s orders, Miss Chutney
had already had such a feast of sweetmeats and gingerbread, that she
felt delighted her appetite would allow her to tell the maid to take the
supper back to Miss Wewitz, with her compliments, and say, that as her
parents paid for something a _little_ better than bread and water, she
would rather go without food altogether than submit to be imposed upon;
this message the maid, who had suffered from the schoolmistress’s
ill-humour, was only too glad to have it in her power to deliver
faithfully—and the consequence was, that Miss Wewitz felt herself called
upon to pay a visit to the young lady.

On entering the linen-room, the schoolmistress, who had carried the
bread and water back with her, placed it on one of the shelves, in her
most dignified manner, and, telling Miss Chutney that she was utterly
astounded at her bad, bad behaviour, begged to inform the young lady
that she would get nothing else in that establishment, until she had
partaken of the wholesome, though frugal meal that had been provided for
her; adding, that if she went on in the way she was now going, it would
not be long ere she would jump to have a meal of good white bread and
water before retiring to rest. There was not a more proud, dainty girl
in the whole establishment, she regretted to say, than Miss Chutney, nor
one that left more orts on her plate. Miss Wewitz had long thought she
wanted a good lesson on this point, and now she should have one that she
would carry with her through life. And then the schoolmistress proceeded
to narrate to the young lady how her dear, dear mother had once had
occasion to punish her for her daintiness; for that, in her early days,
boiled rice-pudding was not good enough for her; and how her dear mother
had locked her up in her bed-room, for three whole days, with the plate
of boiled rice pudding by her side; at the end of which time she was
glad enough to eat up every scrap of it, and had really enjoyed it so
much, that now she verily believed she preferred that kind of pudding to
any other, and never partook of it without blessing her parent for the
wholesome lesson she had taught her.

Miss Chutney said not a word, but tossed her head haughtily, and smiled,
as she mentally contrasted the story with the schoolmistress’s total
abstinence from her favourite dish on their “horrid rice-pudding days.”

Miss Wewitz, finding that her moral lecture on the beauties of boiled
rice-pudding did not produce that solemn impression on the young lady’s
mind which she had been induced to expect, requested to be informed
whether Miss Chutney meant to partake of the repast that had been
provided for her, or not?

Miss Wewitz paused for a reply, but Miss Chutney condescended to make no
answer, and proceeded with the crimping of the lace round the edge of
her apron, as if she had not even heard the question.

Miss Wewitz smiled, as she bit her lips with suppressed anger, and,
bowing in her politest manner, said, perhaps Miss Chutney would wish her
to go down on her _bended_ knees, and beg of her to partake of some
nourishment; adding, that of course _she_ was nobody in that
establishment—and there was not the least respect due to _her_—oh, no!
to be sure not!—she wasn’t even worthy of being answered, not _she_—it
wouldn’t make the slightest difference to _her_ if Miss Chutney was
seriously to injure her health by her perverse conduct—no! not the
slightest in the world!—and here she simpered sarcastically, as if the
bare idea of her want of sympathy with one of her parlour-boarders was
an excellent joke.

The irony of the schoolmistress, however, was wholly lost upon Miss
Chutney; for though Miss Wewitz continued simpering for some few
minutes, the young lady did not so much as turn her head, but went on
measuring the border of her apron over her middle finger.

Miss Wewitz could endure the _nonchalance_ of Miss Chutney no longer;
so, seizing her by the arm, she desired her to be off to bed that
moment; and, as she dragged the young lady up from the inverted
clothes-basket on which she was seated, she bade her take her bread and
water with her; for long before daylight she knew she would be only too
glad to have it, and feel thankful for it, too.

Miss Chutney walked as leisurely as she possibly could towards the shelf
on which the tray was placed, and had just raised it in her hand, when
the exasperated Wewitz seized her by the arm, and began shaking her,
saying, “Do move, girl, as if you had some little life in you, _do_!” In
the warmth of her indignation, however, she agitated the young lady so
violently, that the contents of the tray—bread, plate, glass, water and
all—were dashed to the floor and deposited at her feet, splashing the
front breadths of Miss Wewitz’s black satin dress, much to the annoyance
of the schoolmistress, and the amusement of the pupil.

As the pedagogue in petticoats stooped down to wipe the liquid from the
bottom of her skirt, she vowed all kinds of vengeance against the
delighted Chutney, and among other threats she declared that, before she
laid her head down on her pillow that night, she would pen a letter to
the young lady’s guardian, and desire him to fetch her from the school
immediately, or she would be sure to destroy her hard-earned reputation.
In this manner Miss Wewitz continued to threaten and rail at Miss
Chutney, as she followed her down the stairs to her bed-room.

The young East Indian, however, said not a word in reply; all that
passed her lips was an occasional sarcastic simper; and though Miss
Wewitz begged to assure her, on leaving her bed-room, that she would
have no breakfast in that establishment on the morrow, provided the
slice of bread that she had picked up and brought with her down stairs
remained uneaten, Miss Chutney merely bowed in answer, for she was
determined not to give way. She had said at the beginning that she would
not be the first to make it up, and she would let the sour old thing see
that she was no longer a child, to be kept under lock and key, indeed.

When the enraged schoolmistress had quitted the apartment, slamming the
door after her, and Miss Chutney was left alone, she could not help
thinking how desolate and friendless she was, without a soul near her to
share or soothe her sorrows. As her head lay upon the pillow, she
thought how all her schoolfellows were with their friends at home,
enjoying themselves, while she was thousands of miles away from every
one that cared for her. The only kind word she had received all that day
was from a stranger, and if it hadn’t been for the sweetmeats he had
given her, she really didn’t know what would have happened to her. All
she _did_ know was, she would have starved before she had touched that
horrid bread and water. Still, she could not help thinking how odd it
was that the French gentleman should trouble himself so much about her!
what could he see in her? His whole manner had been so strange, and he
had seemed so anxious to make her acquaintance from the very first! Of
course, she could tell very well that all he had said about the piece of
music he had lost was a little white fib, just as an excuse to introduce
himself to her. It was very impudent of him, though, and she ought to be
very much vexed with him for daring to take such a liberty with her,
but—she knew not how it was—she really couldn’t.

Then she wondered _who_ he was. She had heard he was a French Count, and
he himself had told her he was single. He’d make a very good husband,
whoever had him; for if he could be so good to one whom he scarcely knew
at all, what wouldn’t he do for one whom he had sworn at the altar to
“love and cherish.” (Miss Chutney, and the whole of the first class, had
the marriage-service by heart, it being their usual custom to pass the
time in church by reading it during the sermon.)

Thus the school-girl continued ruminating and ruminating upon the more
pleasant part of her day’s adventures, until she gradually glided into
sleep.

In the morning, the self-willed Miss Chutney woke as determined as ever,
and though the first thing that met her sight was the piece of dry bread
on the chair at her bedside, she chuckled triumphantly, as she said, “I
wonder which of us will be tired out first?” Then, as she once more
turned over in her mind all the occurrences of the previous evening, and
remembered Miss Wewitz’s threat of sending for her guardian, she grew
red in the face, and bit her lips with vexation, for he’d be sure to
read her one of his long prosy lectures, and write a solemn account of
the whole affair to her papa, by the very next mail to India. The moment
after this, however, she was laughing the threat to scorn, and saying to
herself, that old Wewitz was too fond of parlour-boarders to think of
expelling one—and especially one who remained at the school all the
holidays, as she did.

All of a sudden it struck her that, just to let Wewitz see she didn’t
mind about being locked up, she’d dress herself that minute, and be off
up into the linen-room, so that when the old thing got up, she would
find that she had gone up there of her own accord, and then she’d be
ready to bite her fingers off with vexation—which would be such fun.

Accordingly, the young lady “slipped on her things” as rapidly as she
could, and, having done so, crept stealthily up to her place of
confinement. Then it struck her that she would open the window, and just
let Wewitz know that she was already in the linen-room, and, what was
more, that she wasn’t breaking her heart about it either, by singing
over that lovely—

                _“Tyrant! soon I’ll burst thy chains.”_

To tell the truth, too, though Miss Chutney did not dare confess as much
to herself, and would doubtlessly have shrieked had any one ventured to
hint as much to her—the young lady had a secret wish to let the kind
French gentleman know that she was still incarcerated at the top of the
house.

Miss Chutney had just got to “chains,” and was inwardly congratulating
herself on the excellent quality of her lower notes that morning, when
the head of M. le Comte de Sanschemise, done up in a Bandana silk
neckerchief, bobbed suddenly out of the best bed-room window.

The head of Miss Chutney bobbed as suddenly in; and then she went
through the same course of timid doubts and fears as she had indulged in
on the preceding day. Again she felt satisfied that the Count would
fancy she had commenced singing only to attract his attention; again she
asked herself, for about the hundredth time, “What ever would he think
of her?” and again her girlish reveries were put to flight by the
appearance of the fishing-rod, which the Count used as the postal
arrangement for “dropping her a line.”

The billet that it now conveyed was, if possible, penned in a more
superlative strain than those of the preceding day, and Miss Chutney,
after having read it, her ears burning with her blushes the while,
scribbled a hasty reply with the pencil that accompanied it—thanking the
Count for his tender inquiries, saying she was afraid she was unworthy
of the high eulogiums he was kind enough to heap upon her, and informing
him that she was undergoing a short term of solitary confinement, and
bread and water, for having been imprudent enough to permit him to
secrete himself in the music-room during the absence of her
schoolmistress.

The reply had not been despatched many minutes, when the piscatorial
post brought back a second communication from the Count, and this time
it bore _substantial_ proofs of the Frenchman’s sympathy for the tender
prisoner, for attached to one of the hooks that dangled at the end of
the line was a _petit pain_, while hanging to another was a bunch of
grapes. The bread and fruit alone would have been sufficient to make a
deep and lasting impression on the very impressionable Miss Chutney,
even had they been unaccompanied by any verbal expression of
commiseration or attachment; but when she found, on breaking the roll in
two, a letter secreted in the crumb, vowing everlasting affection, and
protesting that he would be her slave for life if she would but fly with
him to _La belle France_, her delight knew no bounds.

Miss Chutney had only just finished perusing the proposal, when she
heard the sound of Miss Wewitz’s foot upon the stairs. Hastily dashing
the line out of the window, she ran to her accustomed seat on the edge
of the inverted clothes-basket, and, pushing the roll and grapes and
letter under her apron, sat there, waiting the coming of her tyrant, as
calm, and almost as lifeless, as a vegetarian.

Miss Wewitz was lost in astonishment to find Miss Chutney so utterly
hardened, as she termed it. However, she had written to her guardian,
and the tone of her letter was such, that she felt confidently he would
be with them the next day, so Miss Chutney could do as she pleased; from
that moment Miss Wewitz washed her hands of her—though she could not
help observing that, after the unremitting attention she had paid to her
morals, such conduct was a most heart-rending return. With this pathetic
sentiment she closed the door, and, having turned the key, descended the
stairs with it in her pocket.

Miss Chutney could hardly contain herself for passion when she found
that the cross, spiteful old thing, as she termed Miss Wewitz, had
_really_ sent for her guardian. She never thought she would have carried
matters to that length. She had half a mind to, and it would just serve
Miss Wewitz right if she _did_, accept the French gentleman’s offer, and
place herself under his protection. “_Then_,” she added, exultingly,
“how nicely Miss Clever would be caught in her own trap, when Miss
Chutney’s guardian _did_ come down, and find that that young lady had
eloped with a Frenchman to the Continent. Where would her trumpery
hard-earned reputation, that she was always making such a fuss about, be
then, she would like to know?—for of course,” continued Miss Chutney to
herself, “the news wouldn’t be very long in travelling to all the
mothers’ ears, who would be sure to take fright, and leave her without a
pupil in the house.”

“Oh, wouldn’t it be a game!” she exclaimed, “and I should so like to do
it, just to be revenged upon her; for if there’s one thing I can bear
less than another, it is for persons to show their ill-temper, as she
has been doing to me for these last two days. And I’m sure that nice,
good-tempered creature of a Count would behave so differently to me.
It’s quite evident, from all he says and does, that he would go down on
his knees to be allowed to gratify my slightest wish; and, after all his
kindness, it really would seem quite cruel to reject him. Besides,” she
said to herself, “he was just the kind of man to take it seriously to
heart, and perhaps commit some rash act; for it was evident that he was
quite smitten with her—though she was sure she couldn’t tell why; and if
anything were to occur to the poor man, she felt convinced she should
end her days in a madhouse.”

While Miss Chutney was ruminating after this fashion, the postal
fishing-rod again made its appearance, bearing a small slip of paper, on
which were printed the well-known epistolary initials—

                               R V S V P.

At the sight of the request for a reply, the young lady’s courage failed
her; and after some little reflection, she decided in her own mind that
the best course to adopt would be to put it to the Count’s own good
sense as to how it would be possible for her to quit the house with him,
when she was kept in that room all day under lock and key. This, she
said, would not be a positive refusal to the poor man, but it would be a
nice gentle way of breaking to him what she felt he would take as a very
severe disappointment.

Accordingly, having written as much, she threw the line out of the
window, and sat down once more to reflect on what had occurred.

An answer was quickly returned, entreating the young lady, in the
warmest possible language, to trust to the Frenchman’s honour and
ingenuity, promising, that if she would but faithfully follow his
directions, he would not only liberate her from her confinement on the
morrow, but ensure her boundless happiness for ever after.

Miss Chutney’s curiosity was piqued. However was it possible for the
Count to get her out of that room—much less the house—with Wewitz’s eyes
continually watching both him and her: and then she ran over several of
the best means of escape among heroines similarly situated. She thought
of secret doors and sliding panels; but in that unromantic linen-room
she felt satisfied that charming pieces of mechanism were hopeless; then
she fixed her mind for a moment on a rope; but, on looking cautiously
out of the window, she soon convinced herself that even if she could get
down one, it would be utterly impossible for him to get one up such a
height; next she turned her attention to tying Wewitz’s clean sheets
together, and descending from the attic, as she had read of young ladies
doing by means of their scarves; but, oh dear! that would never suit
her, and she would much prefer a fire-escape, if there were such a thing
handy. After this, her thoughts took a higher flight, and she dwelt for
a moment on the delightful convenience of signet-rings, and of
flinty-hearted keepers mollified by pathetic appeals, together with
pampered menials, bribed by “purses of gold;” but these were all equally
hopeless; and as she saw no other mode of escape but through the door,
the windows, or the panels, and had exhausted every possible method of
making her exit by any such means, she felt satisfied that the Count
spoke without weighing the difficulties of the task that he proposed.
However, as it was certain that there was no chance of his succeeding in
such a project, why there _could_ be no harm in just letting the poor
man have a try—besides, it would save her the unpleasantness of telling
him that she could not listen to his request.

Accordingly, after some little cogitation. Miss Chutney wrote in pencil
on the blank leaf of the Count’s note—

                      _“I will do as you direct;”_

and hooking it on to the line, flung it from the window.

In less than five minutes there was another delivery by the piscatorial
post, bringing instructions for the young lady as to how she was to
proceed.

For the present she was not to speak a word to a living creature, but to
feign sulkiness with everybody, and return no answer to any question
that might be put to her. Upon this the success of the whole plan
depended.

Moreover, it would aid the plot greatly if, when any one entered her
place of confinement, she appeared sitting with her face buried in her
hands, and her apron thrown over her head, as if in deep grief.

What could it all mean?

She really began to feel half frightened. The instructions were so very
odd—to pretend to be in the sulks, and to hide her face! Where _could_
be the good of that? How could that get her out of the room? She had
tried the sulks ever since yesterday evening, and she was not a bit
nearer the other side of the door than when she was first locked up, she
was sure. However, as that was all the Count required her to do, and she
felt just in the humour to carry out that part of the instructions to
the letter—for she had declared from the very beginning that she
wouldn’t be the first to make advances, and she wasn’t going either—why,
she didn’t mind acting as the Count desired, if it was only just to see
what would come of it all.

Shortly after Miss Chutney had come to the above determination, she
heard the key turned in the door; and immediately, in compliance with
the Frenchman’s directions, she threw her black silk apron over her
head, and buried her face in her hands.

Miss Wewitz, as she saw the girl’s figure bent down, her head almost
resting on her knees, apparently overcome with sorrow, smiled with
satisfaction, regarding the assumed attitude as evidence of that
penitence which she was so anxious to bring about.

Finding that her presence was unheeded by her pupil, the schoolmistress
gave one or two slight coughs, to apprise the young lady that she was in
the room, and fidgeted rather noisily about the “presses,” pretending
she had come up to put out some linen.

Miss Wewitz, however, was too gratified with what she was pleased to
call a great alteration for the better, to think of interfering with the
natural workings of Miss Chutney’s better nature, as she termed it; and
accordingly stole out of the room again, satisfied that everything was
going on so well, that when she again visited her pupil, she would find
the piece of dry bread had been eaten, and the young lady dissolved in
tears of shame and repentance.

Immediately the schoolmistress had quitted the apartment, Miss Chutney
burst into as loud a titter as she felt it safe to give vent to under
the circumstances, and again began wondering whatever would come of it
all.

Then, to relieve her tedium and appease her hunger, came another packet
from the Count, filled with affection and “goodies,” in the shape of a
slice of a German sausage, a _petit pain_, and a small dab of
mortar-like _Pâte de Guimauve_, accompanied by a tender epistle,
informing her that all was progressing most favourably; that he and his
friends had come to terms with Miss Wewitz, and had consented to take
£20 as a small compensation for the inconvenience they would be put to
in leaving, and that they intended to quit the establishment early the
next morning: concluding by entreating her to be discreet, and carry out
to the letter the instructions he had given her.

The _Pâte de Guimauve_—to which Miss Chutney was particularly
partial—was a fresh force brought to bear against the heart and stomach
of the susceptible young lady; and as she devoured the sugared words,
and sucked the sweetmeat, she had a twofold reason for thinking the
Count the kindest and most polite person she had ever known.

Still, the notion of leaving on the morrow was far from being agreeable
to her. She wished the Count had made it a day or two later. And yet,
how stupid she was; there was not the least chance of her being able to
get out of the house—so, of course, it would be all the same to
her;—and, perhaps, after all, it would be better, as it would put an end
to a very silly transaction on her part: not that she wished to break
off her acquaintance with the Count, but the misfortune was, she had not
been formally introduced to him. And people did make such a fuss if a
girl even looked at a stranger. On that account alone she knew she never
could be happy with him.

At this juncture, the key again sounded in the door, and again Miss
Chutney hastily threw her apron over her head, and hid her face in her
hands.

This time, the visitor was Mrs. Wewitz; for the old lady, hearing that
the dry bread still remained untouched, had grown alarmed at the fancied
stubbornness of the girl, and had come to see whether she could not
prevail upon her to comply with her daughter’s injunctions.

But Mrs. Wewitz had what is called an unfortunate way with her, and
although, as usual, she did everything for the best, she unluckily dwelt
so long and so forcibly on the coming of Miss Chutney’s guardian, that
the girl grew more sulky than ever, and maintained a solemn silence,
notwithstanding the old lady’s entreaties and threats; so that, on her
quitting the room, Miss Chutney, who before had felt inclined to waver
in the course she was pursuing with the Frenchman, was now most anxious
to embrace any opportunity that presented itself of avoiding an
interview, which, as the time drew near, she got positively to dread.

Thus matters progressed until dusk, and then came a letter from the
Count, informing her that on her retiring to rest that night, she would
find secreted between the mattresses of her bed the garb of a Sister of
Charity—(it would become her admirably, he said)—and requesting that she
would favour him with her own clothes in exchange for the others. He
would be in the playground after dark, and construe the extinguishing of
her candle as a signal that she was about to drop them from her window,
when he would place himself immediately below the balcony ready to
receive them.

“Dear! dear!” exclaimed the anxious Miss Chutney, “how mysterious he is.
What ever is he going to do! If it wasn’t for the dress of the Sister of
Charity, I’m sure I should never consent to do what he asks me; but
everybody tells me I look well in black, and I _do_ think the costume of
those dear good creatures is so interesting, and, what’s more, so very
becoming to persons of a dark complexion.”

Then she thought it would be a good bit of fun, and how the other girls
in her class would laugh over it when they came to hear of it; besides,
she assured herself nobody could kill her for doing it: and she seemed
to derive no little consolation from the assurance. But why was she
dressed up in such an odd way? that was what she wanted to know; and
though Miss Chutney amused herself by framing many reasons for the
masquerading, none, upon reflection, seemed sufficient to account for
the strange proposal.

The remainder of the evening she passed in considerable suspense,
anxious for the arrival of Miss Wewitz to conduct her to her
bed-room—for she was longing to make her first appearance as a Sister of
Charity; and to while away the time, she kept turning back her hair, and
making a cap of a pocket-handkerchief, by way of trying how her new
costume would suit her.

Nor did Miss Chutney utter one word to Miss Wewitz when that lady
unlocked the door, previous to escorting her to her bed-chamber; for the
girl had now made up her mind to quit the house, if possible, before the
coming of her guardian, and was desirous of strictly fulfilling the
instructions of the Count.

The schoolmistress, who was growing alarmed at what appeared to her the
extraordinary firmness of the young lady, but nevertheless, too proud to
think for one moment of giving way to her, as she descended the stairs
did not forget to tell Miss Chutney that, on the morrow, her guardian
would take her under _his_ care.

On being left alone, the first act of Miss Chutney was to lock the door,
and look between the mattresses for the promised dress, and, to her
great delight, there it was, rosary and all. She was not long in
exchanging her own for that of the _“chère sœur”_ and as she put on each
fresh portion of the costume, she stood for several minutes before the
_cheval_ glass, examining the effect of it, and laughing to herself at
the novel appearance it gave her; and when she had finally arranged the
cap and veil, she placed the candle on the ground, the better to see
herself from head to foot, remaining no little time in front of the
glass, now kneeling down and crossing her hands upon her bosom, and now
telling her beads, with upturned eyes, with all the affectation of
excessive devotion.

Suddenly, as she heard the rain-drops pattering like shot against the
window-panes, she thought of the poor Count, whom she was keeping out in
the wet all the while she was admiring herself; so, putting the
extinguisher hastily on the candle, she seized the clothes she had
recently discarded, and making them into a bundle, she opened the window
as noiselessly as possible, and dropped them into his arms.

She had no sooner closed the sash than she began to look with
considerable trepidation on what she had done, and proceeded to divest
herself of the disguise, lest Miss Wewitz should return and discover
all. Nor was it until she began to take off the clothes she had so
imprudently received in exchange for her own, that she thought to
inquire what she was to do with them on the morrow. To be seen by any
one but the Count in them, would be to “let out” the whole affair. “What
a great big silly she was!”

The exclamation had barely escaped her lips, when her fingers ran
against the sharp point of a pin inside the bosom of the dress, and she
discovered fastened there a three-cornered note. This was some little
relief to her; but in the dark, as she was, how was it possible for her
to know what was in it? It was just like her thoughtlessness—why didn’t
she examine the dress well before putting it on?—she might have known
the Count, after all the consideration he had shown, would never have
dreamt of leaving her in such a predicament. And thus she went on
talking to herself—reflecting and imagining the future—now regretting
her imprudence, and now viewing the coming adventure as a “good bit of
fun”—then glorying in the discomfiture of the schoolmistress when her
flight was found out—and then thinking over all the Count’s kindnesses
to her, and assuring herself of his extreme goodness, until sleep put an
end to her reveries.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XX.

               “Luok, whar i’ th’ nuok o’ yonder tent
                 Yon crew are slyly smugglin’.
                I warrant ye now thar gang are bent
                 To tek fwonk in by jugglin’;
                Some cut purse dow-for-nought, nae doubt,
                 That deevilments hev skill in,
                An’ some’at com’ weel leaden out
                 May gang widout a shillin’.”
                              _Rosley Fair, by J. Stagg._


THE intimate friend and bosom companion of M. le Comte de Sanschemise
was ADOLPHE SHEEK, _Peinteur et Philosophe_, and a recent addition to
the small French colony that had located itself in the best bed-room of
Parthenon House.

Adolphe was, by profession, an artist in hair—ingeniously forming
weeping willows out of auburn tresses, and baskets of flowers out of
chesnut, or, indeed, any other kind of locks. His hairy nosegays, he
boasted, were the admiration of all who had seen them; and his flaxen
roses and raven lilies he prided himself upon being the perfection of
imitative art. Still, the hairy art was _merely_ an imitative one, and
the talented Sheek had a soul for nobler things. He had occasionally
soared as high as a fancy composition in hair, and had executed an
elaborate hairy marine piece, displaying a hairy sea and a hairy ship in
the distance, with a hairy cottage, thatched with hair, in the
foreground, and a small hairy pond in front of it, with two hairy ducks
swimming among a thicket of hairy weeds.

But, alas! there was no encouragement for genius in hair, so the
magnanimous Adolphe had determined—in an artistical point of view at
least—to cut his hair, and devote himself to what he was pleased to call
the sister art. This consisted in taking portraits in black paper by
means of the “machine”—and adding the additional attraction of gold hair
and whiskers, for a small extra charge. But Sheek, in his heart,
despised the means of living that prudence compelled him to adopt—though
he occasionally indulged in a full, or three-quarter face, executed in
crayon, water colours, or oil, whenever he was fortunate enough to
obtain a sitter; and though he had already produced several highly
natural “larder pieces,” in the shape of quartern loaves, gammons of
bacon, pots of porter, and wedges of double Glo’ster, each having the
same small mouse nibbling at the corner; and though his moonlight pieces
had been highly admired, especially the reflection of the moon on the
water, and the light in the cottage-window beside the water-mill, still
Sheek longed to signalize himself in higher branches of the pictorial
art, and was now devoting his leisure to the completion of an historic
production, that he hoped might link his name with the great artists of
the age.

At the time we write of, M. Adolphe was busily engaged upon an elaborate
allegory, commemorative of the cosmopolitan character of the Great
Exhibition.

In this great work of high art, Britannia, who is attended by the four
quarters of the globe, has thrown one of her boxing-gloves to the
ground, in token that she invites all nations to a friendly trial of
skill; while France, in the garb of a Sister of Charity, is, in the same
friendly spirit, pointing with one hand to the retreat of the English
from the field of Waterloo, and, with the other, extracting the thorn
from the foot of the British Lion.

For the true perfecting of this grand, and, according to M. Sheek’s
friend, national work of art, the dress of the Charitable Sister had
been hired expressly from a masquerade warehouse, and the lay figure,
which the talented Adolphe used to guide him in the arrangement of the
drapery for his half-lengths, appropriately costumed for the occasion.
It was this dress that the Count had prevailed upon his friend Adolphe
to permit him to forward to Miss Chutney, as a means of facilitating her
escape the following day, on the understanding that the painter should
share with him any property that the girl might be entitled to on her
marriage.

At daybreak on the morning appointed for the Frenchmen’s departure from
Parthenon House, the Comte de Sanschemise and his friend, Adolphe Sheek,
were preparing for the perilous adventure they were about to enter upon.
Having assured themselves no one was yet stirring in the house, they
proceeded to dress the lay figure of the artist in the apparel of Miss
Chutney; and, the toilet of the dummy being finished, the two Frenchmen
crept stealthily up the stairs without their shoes, carrying the wooden
model between them.

On reaching the linen-room, they bent the legs of the huge Dutch doll in
such a manner, that it could be made to sit upon the edge of the
inverted clothes-basket; then, depressing the back, they threw Miss
Chutney’s black silk apron over the face of the model, and, raising the
arms, forced down the head until the face appeared to be buried in the
hands.

This done, they retired a few paces to observe the effect, and when they
perceived how closely it resembled the description the young lady had
given of the attitude she had adopted, in compliance with the Count’s
request, it was as much as the pair of them could do to repress their
laughter. Then, to assure themselves that the deception was as perfect
as possible, they retired from the room, and, closing the door gently
after them, retreated a few paces along the passage, after which they
returned, and entered the room suddenly, so as to judge what effect the
figure would be likely to produce upon a stranger, on first coming into
the apartment.

In suppressed whispers they both pronounced it to be “Soopairb!” and in
the ardour of their admiration proceeded to embrace one another.

They then noiselessly descended the stairs, and, returning to their
rooms, began to arrange their toilet against the coming of Miss
Chutney—the Count being engaged in the gentlemanly operation of taking
his hair out of paper, while M. Sheek was busy removing the
cabbage-leaves, and brushing the lime-powder from his whiskers, in which
elegant occupations we will for the present leave them.

Miss Chutney was awake long before daylight, anxious to learn the
contents of the note, and growing more and more timid as the time for
her departure drew near. Even before there was sufficient light whereby
to decipher the characters in the letter, she was standing by the window
with the note in her hand, poring over each word in the dusk, and so
making out the wishes of the Count, as it were, piecemeal. In this
manner she found out that, before Miss Wewitz was stirring, she was to
descend to the Frenchmen’s apartment in the disguise of the Sister of
Charity, when she would be apprised of all the arrangements that had
been made for her safety.

It was impossible now to retract—with her guardian coming in a few
hours. It would be a nice story for Miss Wewitz to tell him—and a very
pretty tale she would be sure to make out of it. So, come what might,
she had made up her mind to throw herself on the Count’s protection.
Accordingly, she proceeded to dress herself in the disguise the Count
had provided for her, her hand trembling the while so violently, that
she could scarcely fasten the clothes; and though she strove to make as
little noise as possible, there was not a brush nor a glass she touched
without knocking it against some neighbouring thing, and then was nearly
ready to faint at the noise.

At last, however, her toilet was completed, and she opened the door as
gently as possible on her way to the Count. As the handle still remained
in her hand, she heard, to her great horror, the voice of Miss Wewitz
calling to her from her bed-room—for the schoolmistress, knowing that it
was the day for the Frenchmen’s departure, and expecting that there
would be a scene of some kind or other before she got them clear out of
the house, had herself been awake since daylight; and having caught
repeated sounds of glasses jingling, and other noises, proceeding from
Miss Chutney’s room, had felt satisfied that all was not right, and had
been sitting up in her bed for some little time, listening attentively
to what was going on, when she was convinced she heard the door of that
young lady’s bed-room opened.

Miss Chutney no sooner heard the voice, than she felt it was no time for
her to hesitate; so, descending the stairs as rapidly as she could, she
hurried to the Count, begging of him to hide her, for Miss Wewitz was
following her.

The Count did not take long to tell the terrified girl how well he had
arranged matters in the linen-room, and that she need be under no fear
of detection if she would but do as he requested her; and then he
explained that he intended her to take the place of the lay figure of
his talented friend, Adolphe, and to have her removed immediately from
the house in that character. All she had to do was, to keep every limb
perfectly rigid, and not to move a muscle of her body on any account.

The schoolmistress, who now grew considerably alarmed for the safety of
the wayward girl, hastily threw on her dressing-gown, and hurried as
quickly as possible to the linen-room. To confess the truth, however,
she had little hope of finding her in that place; and as she mounted the
stairs, she panted with trepidation, lest she should discover that the
young lady had sought protection from that wretch of a Frenchman.

It would be impossible to picture Miss Wewitz’s astonishment and joy at
perceiving, on opening the linen-room door, the figure of the girl, bent
down in the same attitude of penitence and shame as she had observed her
in on the preceding day; she felt like a female Atlas, with the weight
of the world suddenly taken off her shoulders. Then, noticing that the
despised crust of dry bread was no longer there, (the fact was, M.
Adolphe Sheek had eaten it that morning, with the view of keeping the
wind off his stomach,) Miss Wewitz threw up her hands with delight, to
think all was progressing so favourably, and again congratulated herself
that, if the girl was only left to the workings of her better nature,
she would have her at her feet before dinner-time.

With this consolatory reflection the schoolmistress closed the door, and
having locked it securely, placed the key in her pocket, exclaiming to
herself as she did so, “Thank goodness, my lady, you’re all safe!”

Miss Wewitz descended the stairs with a much lighter step than she had
mounted them a few moments before, comforting herself with the
reflection, that precisely the same change was taking place in Miss
Chutney as had been wrought in her own nature, on the memorable occasion
of her refusing to eat that delicious boiled rice-pudding.

On reaching her bed-room, however, she thought, as she overheard the
Frenchmen on the move, that it would be advisable just to “pop down,”
and assure herself that all was right; “for she could not rest easy,”
she said, “until she had seen the last lock of their back hair.”
Notwithstanding she felt satisfied she had got her parlour boarder safe
under lock and key, there was no telling what tricks the creatures might
be at—they were such a set!”

Accordingly, having adjusted her cap and patted down her front hair, she
tripped down the stairs with one of her most amiable smiles on her
countenance, and putting her head in at the door, said in her softest
tone, and in a mixture of English and French, “I am ready to pay you
_votre argent_, Monsieur le Comte, whenever you please.” (Miss Wewitz
was to be numbered among the many ladies who understand the language
perfectly, but cannot speak it.)

The Count and M. Adolphe had just finished “posing” Miss Chutney in the
same attitude as the model, and had retired a few paces back to admire
her, as she stood with her hands crossed on her bosom, and her head bent
down, as if at her devotions, and were congratulating one another on the
perfect resemblance the young lady bore to the “lay” sister, when the
head of the schoolmistress was discovered peeping round the door.

Miss Chutney no sooner heard the voice of Miss Wewitz, than she felt all
the rigidity she had been throwing into her limbs suddenly leave her,
and her legs become as limp and bendy as sugar-sticks in hot weather;
and it was merely the conviction that they would all be ruined if she
moved a joint, that sustained her in her statuesque position.

The Count ran to the door, and bowing in the face of the schoolmistress,
so as to obstruct her view, thanked her for her polite information, and
excused himself for shutting her out, by saying that some of his friends
were not yet dressed.

Immediately the schoolmistress had left, Miss Chutney, who began to feel
in no way equal to the task she had undertaken, entreated of the Count
to allow her to return to the linen-room. But this, of course, was a
proposition that the Frenchman, now that he had obtained possession of
the girl, felt in no way inclined to listen to; so, by dint of
compliments on her charming appearance in her new character, and
protestations of the most fervent devotion, and assurances of the
unceasing happiness that awaited her in Paris, he at length succeeded in
calming the young lady’s perturbation.

Miss Chutney, however, had not much time to think over the consequences
of the step she was about to take, for scarcely had the Count finished
his exhortation and eulogium, when the servant announced that the cab
was at the door, and the men were ready to carry down the luggage.

It was then arranged that Adolphe should escort the rest of the
Frenchmen out of the house as soon as possible, so that the girl might
not be flurried by the presence of so many. And as soon as this part of
the operations had been executed, the Count, who had remained
continually by the side of the wavering girl, exhorting her to have
“courage” but for a few moments longer, quitted her for a few minutes,
in order to come to a settlement with Miss Wewitz.

He had scarcely left the room when the cabman and his companion, in
obedience to the instructions of M. Adolphe Sheek, stepped up from the
hall to remove the lay figure, with the greatest possible care, to the
cab.

On entering the apartment, the men were mightily taken with the figure
of the Sister of Charity, and declared to one another that if they
hadn’t been given to understand it was an artist’s model, they should
have taken it for a living woman.

For some little time they amused themselves by merely contemplating the
model, and wondering what character it could be intended to represent.
The sombreness and peculiarity of the costume seemed to take their fancy
vastly. In a few minutes, as the novelty of the impression began to wear
away, they commenced handling the rosary, lifting up the white apron,
and, ultimately, the black crape veil.

This was a severe trial for the nerves of Miss Chutney; but with her
teeth firmly set, and holding her breath, she remained with her eyes
upturned, and with every feature and limb as rigid as if they were
petrified.

The men grew more pleased than ever with the life-like appearance of the
figure, and could not keep from laughing at the apparent intensity of
the model’s devotion. Presently, the cab-driver drew the short clay pipe
from under the band of his hat, and saying to his companion, “I say,
Jem, here’s a lark!” thrust the end of it into the corner of poor Miss
Chutney’s mouth.

The girl, though ready to shriek with horror and faint with disgust,
still, by a violent effort, held the “dodeen” between her lips. The
Count, she said to herself, would be sure to return directly, and then
she would be free from all further insult and persecution.

The friend of the cab-driver, determined not to be outdone by his
companion, and discovering on the hob a lump of the charcoal that the
Frenchmen had used to heat their bachelor’s kettle, seized it, and,
approaching the alarmed Miss Chutney, began tracing on her upper lip a
huge pair of black mustachios.

This drollery tickled the driver of the cab to such a degree, that,
spurred on by the comical appearance of the “model,” he ran to the
grate, and having provided himself with another piece of the dingy
material, began, in his turn, to adorn the lady’s cheeks with an equally
enormous pair of whiskers.

The wretched Miss Chutney felt every minute that she _must_ give way
under the accumulated insults she was enduring, and had it not been for
her reliance on the Count’s immediate return, she would have startled
her tormentors by taking to her heels; but every minute she consoled and
sustained herself with the assurance, that the next moment would bring
her protector to her relief. “Oh!” she thought to herself, as she felt
the cabman charcoaling her eyebrows, “if I had only known half I should
have to go through, I’m sure I should never have dreamt of making such a
silly of myself.”

The embellishment of the “model’s” countenance being finished, the
cabman and his “buck” retired a few paces to examine the effect of their
handiwork, and burst into a suppressed fit of laughter at the extreme
incongruity of the lady’s appearance—and certainly the extraordinary
hirsute character of Miss Chutney’s countenance at that moment,
embellished, as it was, with the most extravagant hairy appendages, was
sufficient to burst the waistcoat-strings of any gentleman gifted with
the slightest sense of the ridiculous.

The cabman and his companion were roused from their mirth by the sound
of footsteps on the stairs. In their fear of discovery, it was the work
of a moment for the driver to pull his wash-leather from his pocket, and
endeavour, by rubbing at Miss Chutney’s face, to remove the black marks
from it. This, however, had the effect of distributing the charcoal
evenly over the whole of the young lady’s countenance, so that the
operation served merely to transform her into a negress.

But there was no time for the men to resort to more effectual means of
cleaning the face of the model, so, letting fall the black crape, they
began to prepare for the removal of the “figure” down stairs; and then
Miss Chutney, to her indescribable horror, heard the men propose that
one should take the “old gal” by the head, and the other by the feet. A
dispute, however, arose as to the practicability of that measure, owing
to the peculiar construction of the staircase, whereupon it was
suggested by the driver, that the best way perhaps, after all, would be
to have up the rope from the foot of the cab, and lower the thing down
out of the window; and no sooner was this course agreed upon, than the
men retired together for the cord with which to put it into execution.

Immediately the driver and his companion had quitted the apartment, the
terrified Chutney lifted up the long black robe of the Sister of
Charity, and scampered off as fast as her legs, under the circumstances,
could carry her. She had just reached the door, when the Count, who was
hurrying back to her with all possible speed, ran bump against her, and,
seizing her by the arm, exclaimed in as good English as he was master
of—

“_Mon petit chou!_ vot go you to do? _Reste tranquille_, je t’en prie!
In von minoot you sall be mine for nevare!”

“Oh, if I could tell you all!” she cried, falling into his arms; “take
me away!” she whispered—“take me away! if you would not have me die!”

“Silence! silence, mon ange! von leetel minoot more, and you sall be
mine for nevare!” he said in her ear, as he lifted her in his arms, and
proceeded to carry her down the stairs.

In the passage, to the great discomfort of himself and the alarm of the
girl, stood Miss Wewitz beside the door, determined to see the Frenchmen
safe off the premises. Placing the girl carefully in the corner of the
hall, with her face turned towards the wall, he whispered in her ear,
“_Courage! courage! ma souris_;” and then requested to speak a word with
the schoolmistress in the music-room, so that he might there occupy her
with some little matter, while he returned and placed the trembling girl
in the cab.

The men no sooner perceived that the figure was in the passage, than
they began arranging which was the best place to stow it in the cab;
whereupon the half-dead Chutney was doomed once more to hear the driver
and his companion discuss the most effectual plan of removing her from
the premises.

The cabman was for laying her at full length on the roof of his vehicle,
and lashing her down with the cord, so that, as he said, “there wouldn’t
be no chance of the thing’s rolling off.”

The “buck,” however, hinted that, in going over the stones, “some of her
j’ints might get broke, so he was for tying her up on the board behind
the cab; but this proposal was quickly overruled by the cabman, who
observed that “that there would never do, for them boys would be sartin
to get pelting the thing with stones and mud on the road, and a pretty
pickle it would be in by the time they got to town. No! no! he was for
shoving the old gal right across the foot-board; she could lay there
very heasy under their feet; and where was the hodds, if so be as her
legs did stick out a little bit; there wouldn’t be no danger of their
getting broke off, with them right under his hi.”

The last proposition being considered quite unobjectionable by the
cabman’s companion, Miss Chutney heard the heavy boots of the men moving
across the passage towards the corner in which she stood. She made up
her mind to give a good shriek immediately the fellows laid hands upon
her again, and, indeed, had just got her mouth wide open, ready to utter
one of her most piercing, when, to her unbounded delight, she caught the
voice of the Count de Sanschemise at the end of the passage, shouting—

“_Ne la touchez pas!_ Toosh it not! toosh it not!”

Hurrying towards the girl, the Frenchman seized her in his arms and
carried her to the cab;—there he pretended to adjust the joints of the
imaginary figure, much to the delight of the cabmen, so that it might be
made to assume a sitting posture, and occupy the cushion beside him in
the interior of the vehicle.

He had but barely completed the pretended adjustment, when Miss Wewitz
emerged from the music-room, bearing the receipt in quittance of all
claims upon the Count de Sanschemise, which that gentleman, as a means
of keeping her out of the way for a few minutes, had requested her to
write for him.

The Count hastened back to the schoolmistress, thanking her for her
kindness, raised his Spanish hat from his head, and then, making her a
profound bow, he saluted her with the greatest possible respect, and
jumped into the cab, with his leathern reticule of a portmanteau in his
hand.

In another minute the vehicle was whirling across Wimbledon Common; the
driver and his companion turning round on the “box,” as they dashed
along, to make signs to the servants, who still loitered about the gate,
indicative of the novel character of their fare, and folding their hands
across their bosom, in imitation of the attitude of the fancied model
within.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                              CHAPTER XXI.

        “Them that’s fash’d wi’ nae bairns iver happy mun be,
         For we’ve yen, and she’s maister o’ baith thee and me.

        “I can’t for the life o’ me get her to work,
         Nor aw the lang Sunday to go near a kirk;
         Nor frae week en’ to week en’ a chapter to read,
         For the Bible ligs stoury abuin the duir-head.

        “She yence cud ha’e crammel’d and writ her awn neame,
         And Sunday and warday was teydey at heame:
         Now to see her whol’d stockin’s, her brat, and her gown,
         She’s a shem and a byzen to all the heale town.

        “O wad she be guided, and stick to her wheel,
         There’s nane kens how fain I wad see her dui weel.”
                                         “_O Wife,” by Anderson._


THE house once cleared of the Frenchmen, Miss Wewitz’s first act was to
throw up all the windows of the best bed-room, amid an infinity of
lamentations as to the state of her property in that apartment—and
endless doubts as to the possibility of ever getting the smell of that
horrid tobacco smoke out of the curtains, or restoring the place to its
wonted cleanliness and sweetness.

This done, she mounted the stairs towards the linen-room, congratulating
herself on having got rid of the fellows without something dreadful
occurring between them and Chutney, the bare thoughts of which had
prevented her having a wink of sleep for the last two nights.

On entering the linen-room, there sat the figure in the same dejected
attitude as that in which Miss Wewitz had found it in the morning. The
schoolmistress began to grow alarmed at what she imagined to be the
extreme stubbornness of the girl; and addressing the figure in her most
impressive manner, said—

“I hope and trust, Miss, you have by this time been awakened to a sense
of the impropriety of your conduct.”

Miss Wewitz paused a moment or two for a reply, and obtaining no answer,
she continued, raising her voice—

“I did hope, Miss Chutney, I repeat, that you had become sensible of the
shameful manner in which you have been behaving for the last two days.”

Here she paused again.

“But,” she continued, finding no notice taken of her observation on the
subject of Miss Chutney’s penitence, “from your silence I am led to
believe that you still require some few hours more self-communion, to
bring you to a perfect consciousness of the wickedness of your ways.”

Miss Wewitz made another pause in her discourse, believing that the
girl’s sulkiness could not possibly hold out much longer; and then
proceeded to inform her, that, in consideration of her attention to her
French last “half,” if she chose to ask her pardon for all she had done,
she might leave her place of confinement, and go down stairs
immediately.

Still, to Miss Wewitz’s horror at what she could not but consider as an
instance of stubbornness unparalleled in the whole annals of scholastic
misdemeanours, not a syllable was spoken by way of reply to her liberal
offer.

“What am I to think of you?” she exclaimed, in the depth of her
indignation. “Are you aware what will become of you, if you persist in
your present line of conduct?” (Here she stopped once more.) “Are you
aware, Miss,” she cried, in a loud voice, as she grew angry at the
continued inattention to all she said—“that your behaviour is most
insulting to those whom it is your duty to respect? In all my long
experience, I never knew such wicked, wicked sulkiness on the part of
any of my pupils before. Well, Miss,” she added, as she bowed
sarcastically to the lay figure, “all I have to say is, that as it is
not my place to play the suppliant to you, I must leave you until such
time as your guardian arrives, and then we shall see, perhaps, whether
_his_ authority can make any impression on your stubborn nature.”

With this dignified remonstrance, Miss Wewitz turned round to leave the
room; and as she grasped the handle of the door, she thought she would
try one more appeal.

“Now, come, there’s a good thing,” she said, appealing tenderly to the
figure, “do give over your sulks, and come down stairs with me, like a
dear.”

But finding that neither remonstrances, upbraidings, nor entreaties
produced the least effect upon the object of her discourse, she turned
haughtily upon her heel and slammed the door after her, mentally
observing, as she descended the stairs, that she wouldn’t take it upon
herself to say what would be the end of that wicked, obstinate thing.

It was not long after Miss Wewitz’s visit to the linen-room that a loud
ring at the gate-bell, making it sound half across the Common, announced
the arrival of Miss Chutney’s guardian.

Miss Wewitz received the gentleman with great joy, for she was growing
quite alarmed at the peculiar and unaccountable conduct of the young
lady, and wished to consult her “friend” as to the best means of dealing
with her.

The schoolmistress was not long in detailing to her visitor all the
occurrences of the last two days, and concluded by informing him that
the young lady had partaken of no nourishment but a small piece of dry
bread during the entire forty-eight hours; and that she would really
take it as a personal obligation if he would exert his influence in
bringing her to a right sense of her conduct.

The guardian, who was a shipping agent in a “large way,” and had a habit
of talking of his ships on every possible opportunity, in such a manner,
that, christened as they mostly were after private and public
individuals, it was often difficult to understand whether he was
alluding to a thing of flesh and blood, or merely wood and iron.

“You astonish me, my dear madam,” he said, in as pompous a tone as
possible—for the gentleman was particularly anxious at all times to
produce an impression upon strangers—“Miss Chutney’s conduct reminds me
forcibly of our ‘Maria of North Shields.’”

“Indeed!” cried Miss Wewitz, judging from the name that the gentleman
alluded to some young lady-friend of his resident in that quarter of the
kingdom, and smiling blandly at the bare idea of the chance of adding
the said Maria to the list of her parlour-boarders.

“Yes,” returned the shipping agent; “our ‘MARIA’ was as pretty a little
thing as ever you set eyes on; but, you see, she was so queer about the
head, we couldn’t get her to steer the right course any how.”

“Bless me!” exclaimed the astonished Miss Wewitz, “you don’t say so.”

“Yes,” continued the shipping agent, leaning back in the easy chair, and
swinging his seals round and round; “but that’s a very common fault.
Why, there was our ‘ELIZA,’ that’s being overhauled now, she was so
cranky, that I’m sure she wanted ballast enough for six; but then, you
see, she was so long in the back, that she was always a-missing her
stays.”

“Dear me!—poor thing! she found them a great support to her, I dare
say,” observed the ingenuous Miss Wewitz, fancying that the said Eliza
was none other than a daughter of her visitor, and a young lady
suffering under weakness of the spine.

“But gentlemen in my way of business,” continued the shipbroker, “always
expect these kind of casualties. Now, only this last season, there was
my ‘Saucy Jane,’ that was coming from Russia with as much tallow and
hides as she could carry, when, hang me, if she didn’t go ashore at
Portsmouth; and the captain didn’t do his duty to her, and so she was
abandoned there.”

“Lord bless my heart, how shocking!” exclaimed the moral Miss Wewitz;
“but those seaport towns are dreadful places for all young persons; and
maybe, sir, there was not that strict attention paid to her in her early
days, that is so necessary to future well-being.”

“Oh, yes; but my Saucy Jane, you see, had every attention paid to her
that was requisite,” responded the pompous shipping agent. “She was
splendidly victualled, and, what was more, she had her full complement
of hands.”

“Her full complement of hands!” echoed the astounded schoolmistress. I
suppose he must mean that she wasn’t deformed; “but maybe your poor
Jane, sir, went astray through temptation; for, you know, it is said we
cannot serve two masters.”

“Not serve two masters!” exclaimed the man of ships; “why, I’ve several
masters, and I know many that would jump to serve them. But my time’s
precious; so if you’ll just let me step up to this young lady, I’ll just
give her a bit of a talking to, and see what can be done with her.”

Miss Wewitz, who was too glad to put an end to a conversation that was
far from interesting to her, owing to the apparent oddity of the
characters to which it referred, rose from her chair, and requesting the
gentleman to follow her, proceeded to conduct him up the stairs to the
linen-room.

The schoolmistress held back the door as she pointed to the figure of
the young lady, with her face still buried in her hands, and whispered
in the ear of the gentleman, “that she had been in the same attitude a
good part of the previous day, and the whole of that morning.”

The shipping agent advanced pompously into the room, and, as he stood in
the centre of the small apartment, he addressed himself to the figure,
saying—

“I have been requested to speak to you, in the name of my old friend,
your father, on the perverseness of your late conduct to your
preceptress, Miss Wewitz, and I have now to command you, in the name of
your parents, to leave your present position, and follow me and your
schoolmistress down stairs.”

To the ineffable astonishment of the guardian, not a limb of the form
before him moved.

“Do you hear, miss!” he exclaimed, stamping his foot on the boards, as
if to give additional force and authority to his commands,—“do you hear
me, I say! Get up this minute, when I command you!”

The semi-nautical gentleman was so unused to this utter disregard of his
orders, that when he saw not the least effort made to stir, even at the
end of his second appeal, he stood, as it were, dumbfoundered for a
moment, at the determination of the fancied school-girl.

Then he shouted sharply, and in a tone of extreme anger, “Miss Chutney,
I say!—Miss Chutney!—do you mean to rise from your present position, or
do you wish me to degrade you so far as to force you to do so?”

Still no movement was made; whereupon the impatient guardian, unable to
brook the slight any longer, seized the figure roughly by the arm, and
began shaking it violently.

In the act of so doing, the hands were forced down, and the black silk
apron fell from before the face, revealing the wooden features of the
artist’s model.

The schoolmistress no sooner discovered the trick that had been played,
and thought of the pains she had taken to expose her misfortune to the
young lady’s guardian, than she uttered a piercing shriek, and swooned
into the arms of the shipping agent.

“D——n it, madam!” cried the city gentleman, who had but little belief in
hysterics, fainting fits, or, indeed, any other of the feminine arts of
producing an impression, “this will never do;” and seizing the glass of
water that had been originally placed there, with the bread, for the
imprisoned Chutney, he dashed the whole contents into the lady’s face.

Miss Wewitz started up suddenly, and shaking the water from her hair,
till the sprinkles flew about as from a twirling mop, she hurried down
the stairs, shrieking, in her shrillest voice, “She’s gone! she’s gone!
she’s gone!”

In a minute the whole establishment were in the hall—staring in mute
astonishment at one another—and endeavouring to pacify the frantic
Wewitz.

No sooner did the schoolmistress set eyes upon her respected mother,
than she rushed madly to her, and told her that she had been the ruin of
her, and that if it hadn’t been for her, Miss Chutney would still have
been in the house: this so affected the elder Wewitz, that she began, in
her turn, to tear her hair; but, unfortunately, each time she clasped
her head, as if distracted, the front of her wig was seen to move
gradually round, until the natural parting stood right over one ear,
while the top-knot was seen projecting above the other.

The schoolmistress, who, notwithstanding the intensity of her agony,
observed the eyes of the shipping agent fixed upon the wig of her
respected mother, ordered her parent to retire to her room immediately,
and then endeavoured to apologize as best she could, for the
disappearance of his ward, to the shipping agent.

That gentleman was not to be appeased by any such means, however, and
left the house, vowing that he would commence an action at law against
her immediately for damages, and publish the transaction to the whole
world.

                  *       *       *       *       *

What poor Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys, their son and daughter, had been doing
all this while, must be reserved for the next chapter.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXII.

                “And is it thee, my Jobby lad—
                  And safe return’d frae war?
                 Thou’rt dearer to thy mother’s heart
                  Sin’ thou hast been sae far.
                 But tell me aw that’s happen’d thee,
                  The neet is wearing fast;
                 There’s nought I like sae weel to hear,
                  As dangers that are past.”
                              _The Sailor Lad’s Return._


WE must now return to our poor lost muttons, “Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys,
their son and daughter.”

The journey of Master Jobby to Wimbledon and back was sufficiently long
to try the patience of poor Mrs. Cursty. Though the youth was fleet of
foot, the “busses” on the road were unluckily on the most amicable
terms; and being unopposed, the “CELERITIES” drawled along at little
better than hearse-pace, as if they belonged to the “Mors omnibus”
species, and had no great inclination to “look alive.”

Mrs. Sandboys, after having been dragged by the authorities from the
presence of the magistrate, at the commencement of an oration, in which
she was about to tell his Worship a “bit of her mind,” and torn in the
outer office from the coat-tails of her beloved Cursty, passed the
time—when her paroxysm of conjugal sympathy had in a measure subsided—by
inquiring of such of the officers as she could seduce into conversation,
what wretched fate awaited the ill-starred Christopher, in the event of
Jobby not arriving in time with the expected witnesses to character.
When the lady was informed, to her indescribable horror, that the police
van, under such circumstances, would remove Mr. Sandboys that evening to
the nearest prison, she drew a vivid but melancholy picture in ideal
black-lead upon imaginary paper, of the partner of her bosom ushered
across the flagstones, between files of giggling unsympathetic boys, to
become an inside passenger in that dismal-looking, mulberry-coloured
’artsease, which runs daily between the Police Offices and the Houses of
Correction—“nothing all the way.” And when Mrs. Cursty learnt, moreover,
in answer to her numerous queries as to the treatment of the inmates of
the Metropolitan Prisons, that there was a special costume and
_coiffure_ set aside for such persons, and to which every one, on
conviction, was made to conform, she commenced executing a series of
mental cartoons in unsubstantial crayons, portraying her lord and master
with his hair cropped as short as the plush of a footman’s
bree—ahem!—that is to say, gentle reader, trouserlets, picturing him
done up in pepper and salt, and looking like a representation in Scotch
granite of one of the very lowest of the “lower orders.” Then, as the
scenes of her visionary diorama glided dreamily along, she beheld the
phantasm of the wretched man, whom she had taken for better or worse, at
one moment busily engaged in the arduous process of mounting a spectral
treadmill, or “everlasting staircase,” and now reduced to the not
particularly honourable nor lively occupation of picking phantom
oakum—for as the authorities described the manners and customs of prison
life to Mrs. Cursty, there popped up immediately before the eyes of the
excited lady an air-drawn picture of each discreditable scene, with a
phantasmagoric Mr. Sandboys figuring prominently in the foreground.

The long hand of the official clock moved on as slow and unconcerned as
a government clerk; but in the eyes of the anxious Mrs. Sandboys it
seemed to be spinning round like the index to a pieman’s gaming-dial;
Time, to her, appeared to have parted with his scythe for a reaping
machine, and to be mowing down the minutes as if they were incipient
bristles on a chin undergoing “a clean shave for a halfpenny.” It wanted
but a short time to the appointed hour for the arrival of the dreaded
van; and Mrs. Sandboys, with the weeping Elcy at her side, sat trembling
in her Adelaides, and experiencing at each fresh opening of the door the
same breathless and “sinking” sensation as is peculiar to steamboats on
pitching deep down into the trough of the sea. To her ineffable relief,
however, the red-faced Jobby at length darted into the office, carrying
the reply from Parthenon House in his hand. The boy was unable to speak
for the speed he had made (for he believed the letter he bore would be
sufficient to gain his father’s liberty), and stood panting—now wiping
his forehead, and now, to cool himself, tearing open the collar of his
shirt.

His mother, in her anxiety, had not sufficient patience to wait till the
boy had breath to tell the issue of his journey, but snatching the
letter from his hand, tore it eagerly open. She had, however, no sooner
run her eyes over its contents, than she uttered a faint cry, and fell
back against the wall. Jobby and Elcy were instantly at their mother’s
side, endeavouring to comfort her, and seeking to know what fresh
catastrophe had befallen them; and when Jobby learnt that Mrs. Wewitz
had declined vouching for the respectability of his father, the effect
of the news upon the lad, who had made certain that all was right, was
almost painful to contemplate. For a moment, he turned pale as marble,
and stood as if half incredulous of what he heard; then the blood
crimsoned his face, and the tears filled his eyes, as he fell on his
mother’s neck, and sobbed like a child with her. Elcy, however, seemed
to gain new courage from their combined distress, and as she loosened
the strings of her mother’s bonnet, and entreated Jobby, in a whisper,
to remember where he was, telling him all the people were looking at
him, she suddenly recollected Mrs. Fokesell, who she felt sure would
willingly come and speak for her father. As the thought flashed across
her mind, she turned hastily to the clock, and then, bending over her
mother, told her in a low voice to be of good heart, for she still saw a
way of obtaining her father’s liberation. Mrs. Sandboys no sooner caught
the words, and learnt from Elcy the course she meant to pursue, than she
became as confident as the girl of success, and bidding her take a cab,
she told her that there might be yet time, if she departed with all
possible speed.

Elcy had forestalled her mother’s injunctions, and before Mrs. Sandboys
had finished what she had to say on the subject, had quitted the office,
and was hastening along on her way to Craven-street. Winged by her
anxiety, she was but a few minutes in reaching their former residence;
but there, alas! a new disappointment awaited her.

The partner of the hand and lodging-house of Mrs. Fokesell had suddenly
returned from a long voyage, and after having passed a week in a state
of almost helpless intoxication, and been deprived of his boots on the
previous day by his superior moiety, with a view to prevent the
possibility of his leaving the premises for more drink, and so reducing
him to a state of sufficient sobriety to accompany her to the Great
Exhibition, the sailor and his wife had left the house early that
morning for the World’s Show, intent upon making a good long day of it.

The maid of all work—and something more—had just been called away from
the week’s washing, in which she was busily engaged, to brush the
highlows of the Baron de Boltzoff, who occupied the drawing rooms, and
had been obliged to throw them aside to give the newsboy the
_Times_—which she was in the act of doing when Major Oldschool, in the
parlours, desired her to bring up the tea-things; and no sooner had she
filled the urn, than Mrs. Quinine, in the second floor, “touched her
bell” to know whether she had got the hare down yet for her dinner; and
while the maid was making up her fire for roasting it, down popped the
medical student from the back attic with a request that she would just
run up the street and get him half-an-ounce of “bird’s-eye,” for which
she was about to start when Elcy’s double-knock “came to the door.”

The girl, who had hurried up to answer the summons, and still held the
knob of the street-door in her dirty hand covered with her apron, had no
sooner informed the young lady of the absence of Mrs. Fokesell, than
Elcy, who had borne up bravely against the previous misfortunes,
suddenly lost all hope and courage, so that when she heard that there
was no probability of the landlady returning home till late that
evening, she could control her feelings no longer, and the pent-up tears
burst from her eyes with double anguish.

The maid, who had always been partial to Miss Elcy, and had taken a
liking to her from the first, when she found that the young lady,
“though she were a real lady bred and borned,” was not above thinking of
how she could save a poor girl’s legs, was moved not a little by the
sight of Miss Sandboys’ distress—and declared, as she led the staggering
girl into the passage, and helped her to the hall chair, that she
“couldn’t abear to see her take on so.”

But Elcy’s misery did not admit of consolation. Her last chance of
saving her father from prison had vanished; and now that the hope which
had sustained her had gone, her grief knew no bounds—though she strove
with all a woman’s pride to hide her sorrow from strangers, and would
willingly have left the house for fear of causing a “scene” in such a
place, she had no power to move a limb; and do what she would, there was
no checking the sobs that rose, despite her every effort, louder and
louder, as she thought of the utter friendlessness of them all.

In a few minutes the sound of Elcy’s continued sobbings attracted the
attention of Major Oldschool, who was waiting in the “parlours” rather
impatiently for his tea, and he popped his head out of the door as he
half opened it, partly to learn what was the matter in the hall, and
partly to see about the cup that cheers, but not, &c. The sight of “the
British female in distress” was of course sufficient to excite a lively
interest in the bosom of the gallant soldier. “The white flag hoisted in
the cheek of beauty,” as the gentleman engaged for “general utility” on
the stage metaphorically expresses it, when done up in full regimentals,
was always the signal for a truce with Major Oldschool; and though but
the moment before he had felt ready to burst out like a bombshell for
the want of his Twankay, he no sooner caught sight of the young lady in
tears, than he became—as Mr. Braham sings—“mild as the moonbeams”—and
almost as sentimental into the bargain.

“Ods! grapeshot and canister!” of course the Major should have cried, to
have kept up the character of the veteran; but like the generality of
soldiers off the stage, he gave vent to no such military exclamation,
and was about to advance towards the young lady, when Mrs. Coddle, his
female Mentor, and tor-mentor too, detained him by the skirt of his
dressing-gown, informing him that his behaviour was “exceeding
onpolite,” and begging to know what was the use of bells in a house if
he was to go dancing after the servants in that there way—and observing,
moreover, that one would imagine he had never been accustomed to genteel
society in all his life.

As the unceremonious and excited Major struggled to get away from the
clutches of his punctilious housekeeper, he d——d her and all her genteel
society, and then with a sudden jerk that made the stitches of his
duffel skirts crack again, freed himself from the grasp of the mistress
of the ceremonies of his front parlour, and hobbled towards the weeping
girl.

Elcy, on being patted consolingly on the shoulder, looked up for a
minute, and the Major no sooner recognised the features of the young
lady who had so recently been an inmate of Mrs. Fokesell’s
establishment, than he took her by the hand, and saying _that_ was no
place for her, bade her step into his room and let him know all about
what had happened. Then, as he raised the hesitating girl from her seat,
and led her along the passage, he said, comfortingly—“There—there: you
need have no foolish ceremony with me; for, do you know, I find, on
talking with Mrs. Fokesell, that your papa is the neighbour of my old
East Indian friend, Colonel Benson. Why, I’ve heard the colonel talk by
the hour of old Cursty Sandboys, and all his family, till I’ve known you
every one without seeing you, as well as if I’d been bred and born in
Buttermere. You’re Elcy Sandboys, I’m certain: you’re the little girl
that used to be so fond of pet squirrels and doves,—oh! yes, I know all
about you: and there’s that hairbrained young brother of yours, Master
Jobby: and Mrs. Sandboys, that cleanly and tidy mother of your own, whom
Colonel Benson gave away to your father at Lan-something-or-other Green
Church,—eh? There, you needn’t fidget with me! You see I know all about
the whole of you: and how ever I could have been so foolish as not to
have guessed when I first heard your name that you were the Colonel’s
old friends, I can’t say. I’ve been puzzling my head about it ever since
Mrs. Fokesell told me where you came from. But, you see, London and
Buttermere are so wide apart, that I never should have dreamt of your
being the same people, if I hadn’t learnt as much the day after you had
gone.”

Then, as the Major saw the girl half rise from her seat, as if she
wished to depart, he exclaimed, in as tender a tone as he could manage,
“Come! come! what _are_ you fidgeting about there? Come, tell me now,
where’s your father and mother? I quite long to shake them both by the
hand. But what’s all this fretting about, my little one, eh? Come, now;
make a friend of me! Have some of those big-whiskered foreign fellows
been insulting you in the street. D——n ’em, I only wish I could have
caught them at it. I’d have let them feel the tip of my wooden leg, I
warrant them. Come, tell me about it, like a good girl; for if it were
only for Colonel Benson’s sake, you’d always find a friend in me.”

The kindness and the friendship of the Major came so unexpectedly upon
the heartbroken girl, that she could scarcely speak for very joy. The
change from utter hopelessness to assurance of assistance had been so
sudden, too, and the transition from one intense emotion to another of a
precisely opposite character so unprepared, that the conflict of feeling
was too much for Elcy. The tears now flooded her eyes with exceeding
happiness, while her sobs were changed to an hysteric laugh, till at
length it became impossible for her to repress her feelings any longer,
and the “scene,” whose occurrence she had so much dreaded before
strangers, ultimately came to pass.

The Major, unused to such events, no sooner saw the unconscious girl
fall heavily back in the chair, and heard her shriek one minute, as if
with intense agony, and laugh the next, as if convulsed with the wildest
mirth, than believing she had become suddenly crazed, he rang every bell
he could lay hands upon, and swore at his old housekeeper in a manner,
as she said, that she had never been accustomed to in all her life
afore, having lived only in the first of families—and which, in the
vivid language of Mrs. Coddle, made her blood run quite cold down her
back, as if some one was emptying buckets and buckets of spring water
over her head.

At length, by the aid of cold water, and sal-volatile, and vinegar, and
burnt feathers, and hartshorn, and all the other approved methods of
female revivification, the young lady was restored to consciousness, and
in a few minutes afterwards was able to communicate to the open-hearted
Major the many troubles of herself and family.

The old soldier was all excitement when he heard that the intimate
acquaintance and early companion of one of his oldest friends was
detained in custody, and about to be removed to the House of Correction,
for the want of some one to vouch that he was not the common pickpocket
he had been mistaken for; and the Major fumed and swore at his old
housekeeper worse than ever when she whispered in his ear, while helping
him on with his coat, that he had much better stop at home and take his
tea, than trouble his head about other people’s affairs—exciting hisself
in the way he was a-doing about parties he had never even so much as
spoken to. She could see plain enough what it would all end in;—he’d go
and overheat hisself, and catch cold on top of it: and then, if it only
struck inn’ards, who would have to nuss and take care on him, she would
like to know!

Though the Major called the dame “a suspicious old fool,” and kept
abusing her all the while she was fastening the hooks and eyes of his
military surtout, she continued to give vent to her feelings, and begged
to remind him that it would be no fault of hern if he went and got his
blood chilled, and had the cold lay in his bones to the end of his days.
Nor would she let him quit the house until she had placed the cork sock
in his shoe, and stowed away his comforter in the crown of his hat,
saying, that there was no telling how late he might be kept on such a
herrand. And as she accompanied him to the street-door, she drew her
little bag of camphor from her bosom, and slipping it into his hand,
bade him keep it about him; for with that in his pocket, there was no
chance of his ketching any of the nasty fevers that was always flying
about in such low places.

The Major, impatient as he was, could hardly refrain from laughing at
Mistress Coddle’s extreme care; and as they hurried up the street, he
dilated on the medicinal and domestic virtues of his housekeeper—half by
way of apology for the familiarity of her manner, and half as the means
of diverting or alleviating the distress of his young companion.

But poor Elcy paid little attention to what was said; she was too much
alarmed, lest they should reach the office when it was too late to save
her father from being consigned to prison, and responding Yes and No,
smiled mechanically at the Major’s remarks, without understanding one
word of what he was telling her. As the old East Indian warmed in his
description of the valuable services of his housekeeper, he occasionally
paused on the way, standing still, much to Elcy’s horror, to give her a
more vivid idea of the doings of his female factotum. Then the anxious
girl would strive, by every gentle art, to lead him on, and when she
found she could stir him by no indirect means, she would timidly remind
the Major that they had little time to spare; then away they would hurry
again—the Major’s wooden leg sounding on the pavement, as they went,
like a cooper’s hammer at an empty cask.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXIII.

             “True friendship leyfe’s deleyte still pruives,
              Nor ever flings mankeyn’ to woe,
              The gud whea still their brethren luives
              What leads to virtue ay will shew.

             “True friendship that can neer cause streyfe,
              But e’en keep frae distress and pain,
              An’ shew what bliss it gie’s thro’ leyfe
              In every bwosom still s’ud reign.”
                             “_To Friendship,” by Anderson._


IN less than an hour after the incident above recorded, Major Oldschool
was seated in the parlour, at the head of the table, entertaining “Mr.
and Mrs. Sandboys, their son and daughter,” to a “quiet cup of tea;”
while Mrs. Coddle kept continually fidgeting in and out of the
room—bobbing in now with a plate of muffins—and now with a pot of
marmalade; and each time she did so, whispering in the Major’s ear, as
she placed “the delicacy” on the table, some fresh instructions as to
the mode of conducting the ceremonies on such important occasions. At
one time she would nudge his elbow, as she leant over the table, and
say, aside, to him, “There you are again draining the teapot down to the
very dregs!” and at another, she would exclaim, in an under-tone, “What
ever are you about, filling up the cups without emptying the
slops!”—until the poor Major grew so confused as to the formalities of
the tea-table, that he emptied the entire contents of the cream jug into
the slop-basin; and in his anxiety to hand the tea-cake to Mrs.
Sandboys, and prevail upon her to take “just one small piece more,” left
the tap of the urn running, and was not aware of his neglect until
Cursty suddenly jumped up from his chair, startled by a stream of
boiling-hot pouring on to his knees.

The Sandboys, however, were all too well pleased with their recent good
fortune to do other than laugh at the little mishaps of the tea-table;
and Mr. Sandboys himself had been so often in hot water of late, that
after the first smart of that from the urn, he could afford to chuckle
over the accident almost as heartily as his son Jobby, who no sooner saw
his father start up, and wildly drag the front of his trousers from his
knee, than guessing what had happened, the lad was seized with a comic
convulsion while in the act of drinking his fourth cup, and spurted the
entire contents of it over the clean cap of Mrs. Coddle as she rushed
frantically to the urn to stay the scalding torrent that was pouring
from the tap.

When the tea-things had been removed, and the party had settled
themselves down for a friendly chat, Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys recounted to
the Major all the adventures they had gone through since their departure
from Buttermere; and the Major, in his turn, when he had sympathized and
laughed with them at their many troubles, ran over the several feats of
arms performed by himself and their mutual friend, the Colonel, in
India. He told them how they had gouged a diamond worth several lacs of
rupees out of the eye of one of the idols they had taken;—and the
Sandboys, on the other hand, informed him how they had been defrauded of
their season ticket for the Great Exhibition by a scoundrelly Frenchman
styling himself the Count de Sangshimmy. And thus they continued, each
narrating to the other the several scenes in which they had figured as
principal actors, till Mr. Sandboys, in summing up the long list of
mishaps he had experienced in his endeavours to get a sight of the
contents of the Great Exhibition, was irresistibly led to the conclusion
that the whole series of events was the work of a stony-hearted Fate,
and that it formed part of the records of Destiny, as kept by the
Registrar-General of Calamities-to-come, that neither he nor any member
of his family should ever set foot in the interior of the Crystal
Palace. He began to regard himself as the hero in some Greek tragedy,
which he had a faint remembrance of reading in his college days at St.
Bees. Accordingly, he communicated to his dear Aggy the resolution which
the recapitulation of his many trials had induced in his mind—namely,
that it was sheer pig-headedness on their part to attempt to swim
against the current of events, or to play the Canute of 1851, and seek
to drive back the tide in their affairs.

Mrs. Sandboys did not require much persuasion to bring her to the same
opinion. She was sick and tired of t’wretched place, she said, and would
gladly send, “t’first thing” on t’morrow to Mrs. Wewitz for their boxes,
so that they might start for Cockermouth by that evening’s train. Major
Oldschool did all he could to laugh the Cumberland couple out of their
fatalistic fancies, but his gibes and jests were of no avail. Mr.
Sandboys assured him he was as immoveable as the Great Pyramid, and that
Archimedes himself, even with his huge lever and the required fulcrum,
would find that something more than a straw was needed to stir him. And
thus the evening passed, the Major striving by every means to induce
them to prolong their visit, telling them of the many wonders of the
“Great Show”—at one moment describing to them the splendour of the glass
fountain—and the next, picturing the beauty of the Veiled Vestal;—now
speaking in hyperbolical raptures to Mrs. Sandboys of the magnificence
of the silks and velvets from Lyons, and the ribbons from Coventry,—then
turning to Elcy, and descanting on the size and value and brilliance of
the far-famed Koh-i-noor, and the admired jewels of the Queen of
Spain,—and afterwards trying to excite the curiosity of Mr. Sandboys
with a glowing detail of the marvels of machinery in motion—the
self-acting mules, and the Jacquard lace machinery, and the centrifugal
pumps, and the steam printing-press, and the envelope machine—but
despite the enthusiasm of his friend, Cursty remained fixed in his
determination; and so as not to allow the Major even the chance of
shaking it, the resolute Mountaineer took his chamber candlestick, and
retired with his family to the apartments that the Major had directed
Mrs. Coddle to have prepared for them.

In the morning, Mr. Sandboys, having slept upon his determination of the
previous evening, and being several hours nearer to the time which he
had fixed for his return to Buttermere, began to think what his
neighbours down there would say, when they heard that he and his whole
family had been up to London to see the Great Exhibition, and had come
away again without ever setting foot in the place. He would be the
laughing-stock of the country for miles round; there wouldn’t be a
keeping-room far or near but what would have some cock-and-a-bull story
or other to tell about them. Besides, why should he deprive the children
of the sight? If Fate had decreed _he_ was never to witness it, that was
no reason why Elcy and Jobby should be kept away; and after all that
dear girl had gone through for him, he was sure she deserved some little
return for her goodness. Then again, he knew Jobby, poor boy, was mad to
have a peep at the machinery room, which he had heard and read so much
about; and it would be something for him to talk about when he got to be
an old man, that he had seen the first Exhibition of Industry in this
country: besides, the lad was naturally of a mechanical turn of mind; he
had spoilt no less than three Dutch clocks out of the kitchen in trying
to clean them; and then at making bird-traps and artificial flies for
fishing, there wasn’t a boy in the village could come near him. Who
could say what effect the Great Exhibition might have on such a mind?
And thus Mr. Sandboys continued inwardly framing excuses to himself why
they should delay their departure to Buttermere for four-and-twenty
hours longer at least.

While the preceding train of thoughts had been passing through the mind
of the wavering Cursty, a like chain of reasoning had been going on in
Mrs. Sandboys’ brain, unknown to her husband. She, too, had been asking
herself “how it would look,” when the neighbours came to know that they
had never so much as put their heads inside the doors of the very place
they had come hundreds of miles to see; and she, like her lord and
master, had been persuading herself, that at least, if she chose to keep
away, it was her bounden duty to let the “dear” children see the grand
sight.

Neither, however, ventured to give the least hint to the other as to the
nature of their morning’s reflections; and it was only when Mr. Sandboys
sat in front of the looking-glass, rubbing the lather over his chin
previously to shaving, till he looked like a twelfth-cake, that he
communicated to his darling Aggy, while she was in the act of hunting
after the grey hairs among her front curls, his doubts as to the
propriety of their quitting London for Buttermere that evening. After he
had exhausted the arguments in favour of the children—to all of which
Mrs. Sandboys, as she poked the top part of her head close against the
looking-glass over the mantelpiece, the better to find the stray silver
threads she was searching for, gave her most cordial assent—the
Cumberland gentleman touched upon the point which constituted, as it
were, the fulcrum upon which his moral lever turned, and confessed that
he did not like to be beaten in the object he had undertaken. If they
had tried to gain admittance to the Exhibition only once, he urged, and
had been prevented by some unforeseen accident, it would not have
mattered so much, and they might have returned then with even a good
grace; but now that they had made so many attempts, and failed so
repeatedly, they would naturally look ridiculous in every person’s eyes,
provided they left London without succeeding in their purpose, after all
the pains they had taken, and the sufferings they had endured to
accomplish it. Of course, all the neighbours would say, “Well, hang it!
I wud ha’seen t’ pleace, if I’d died for it!” and only laugh at them for
their weakness.

Aggy, who seemed to have excellent sport that morning, and kept
twitching out the grey hairs like a Thames angler does gudgeons, fully
concurred with all the sapient Cursty uttered, and expressed her
approbation with each fresh jerk, though with greater warmth, perhaps,
than she otherwise might have done, owing to the sharp twinge which
accompanied the delicate operation in which she was engaged.

But Mr. Christopher Sandboys had yet to tackle the moral part of his
subject; and as, in the process of shaving, he laid hold of himself by
the nose the better to accomplish the razorial fancy-work round the
corners, he frankly acknowledged, that to run away from the metropolis,
after what they had experienced, would betray a deficiency of moral
courage on their parts, which would be utterly unworthy of the sturdy
mountain race to which they belonged. Besides, it was the sure criterion
of a weak mind to give way to the force of circumstances; and he asked
himself and his wife, what was nobler than to see an honest man driving
his head, like a moral battering-ram, against a thick wall of
difficulties, and ultimately overthrowing it. Then, as he called to mind
the fortitude of the Grecian and Roman heroes of his college days, he
added—“Did not moral greatness consist merely in bearing and subduing
the misfortunes that beset us, and certainly not in packing up our boxes
and running from them by the first express train.” And as Mr. Sandboys
delivered himself of this heroic sentiment, he, in the ardour of his
enthusiasm, gave his head so self-satisfied a jerk, that, forgetting the
perilous act in which he was engaged, he inflicted a gash that put his
powers of endurance severely to the test, and immediately dissipated the
whole of the stock of courage upon which he was priding himself.

The upshot of the above conjugal consultation was, that there was passed
that morning at the breakfast-table a resolution, proposed by Mr.
Sandboys, seconded by his darling Aggy, and carried with acclamations by
the Major and the entire family, declaring that one more attempt should
be made to visit the Great Exhibition, and expressive of the opinion of
the meeting, that the sooner such attempt was made the better.
Accordingly, it was finally arranged, as the weather at that time looked
particularly promising, that the whole family should “slip on their
things” immediately after breakfast, and start for the Crystal Palace by
the first omnibus.

Again the Sandboys were, one and all, in high glee at the prospect of
witnessing the “World’s Show” at last, and Elcy and Jobby immediately
lost their appetite in expectation of the coming treat.

The morning meal finished, the boy flew up the stairs four at a time,
dragging his laughing sister after him, and kept bobbing in and out of
her room all the while she was dressing, intent upon playing her some
monkey trick or other. Now, to his sister’s horror, he would seize her
white drawn-bonnet, and putting it on the crown of his head like an
apple-woman’s, scamper off with it, sliding down the banisters; then he
would bounce suddenly into her room again, and dab down a cup of sour
milk on her dressing-table, telling her she would find that a plummy
thing to bathe her freckles with.

Mrs. Sandboys was perhaps more fidgety than ever over the toilet of
herself and Cursty. She _would_ insist upon arranging his neckcloth, and
tying his waistcoat in for him; nor did she spare any pains to set
herself off to the best possible advantage.

And when they were all ready, they assembled in the parlour to receive
the instructions of the Major as to the precautions they should take
against losing one another in the monster building. The old soldier was
in the course of impressing upon the family the necessity of keeping
together, and arranging to meet at the glass fountain in the transept at
a stated hour, in case they should get parted from one another in the
crowd—or else, as he said jokingly, they might be all the day hunting
after each other through the several countries of the globe—first
bobbing into China, and then scampering through Russia, and after that
scouring round America, while perhaps the missing one was wandering
quietly among the Channel Islands, or taking a five minutes’ lounge
through India; and he had scarcely completed his many injunctions as to
how they were always to keep an eye upon “the party” who carried the
sandwiches—for they must remember that he was the most important member
of the whole body, and that if he were lost, their dinner was lost
too—when—

There was a faint tap at the parlour door, and the moment after Mrs.
Fokesell, popping her head into the room, requested to speak with Mr.
Sandboys.

A cold shiver passed through Cursty’s frame at the mysterious nature of
the summons. After so many slips ’twixt the (crystal) cup and his lip,
he could not help having a presentiment that something dreadful was
about to happen; and as a means of acquiring additional courage to bear
up against the calamity, whatever it might be, he begged Mrs. Fokesell
to step in and communicate what she had to say in the presence of the
company.

The landlady coughed hesitatingly, and nodded, and beckoned to Mr.
Sandboys, so as to indicate to him, in the most expressive pantomime she
was mistress of, that she wished to speak with him alone.

Cursty, who was now more alarmed than ever, hurried over to Mrs.
Sandboys, who had been intently watching the landlady’s gestures, and
requested her to see what it was the woman wanted.

Aggy stepped across to the door, and in a whisper begged to be made
acquainted with the nature of Mrs. Fokesell’s business; but the landlady
still hesitated, saying, “in a nasty insinuating way, that Mrs. Sandboys
didn’t half like,” that “she had rayther tell what she had to tell to
the gentleman hisself.” When Mrs, Sandboys, whose curiosity was now
piqued almost to a painful degree, found that it was useless trying to
get out of the woman the purport of the tidings she had to communicate,
she returned and intimated as much to her husband, who, though
pretending to be deep in conversation with the Major, had been listening
the while to what was passing at the door.

Cursty felt his heart sink heavily into his boots, like a stone in a
well, and solemnly summoning Mrs. Fokesell into the room, bade her, in
as firm a voice as he could manage under the circumstances, tell him
then and there what it was all about.

Mrs. Fokesell, who grew angry on finding that her regard for delicacy
was in no way appreciated, bounced boldly into the room, and, looking
Mr. Sandboys full in the face, said, as she shook her head rapidly at
him—

“Well, then, if you _will_ have it! there’s the beadle from the work’us
has come after you.”

Mr. Sandboys stood aghast;—his jaw fell like a French toy nut-cracker’s,
and his hair stood on end till it looked almost like a grenadier’s cap.

The Major, to conceal the smiles which he could not suppress, turned a
half _pirouette_ on his wooden leg, as if he were a pair of animated
compasses describing the arc of a circle.

Mrs. Sandboys looked a whole library, or several hundred volumes, of
doubt and fears at her wretched partner. What _could_ it all mean? she
mentally inquired, as she untied her bonnet strings, and began fanning
herself violently with her pocket-handkerchief.

A solemn silence reigned for a minute or two after Mrs. Fokesell’s
announcement—a silence like that which succeeds a violent peal of
thunder.

“T’ beadle from t’ workhouse!” exclaimed the amazed north countryman.
“What in t’ warld can t’ man want wi’ me?”

“Want!” echoed the indignant landlady, with a jerk of her head that made
the grubby artificial flowers in her cap shake again. “Well, if your own
conscience wont tell you, there’s the beadle hisself in the passage, and
you’d better step out and ask him; for it ain’t my place to breed words
in a family.”

Here the shoulders of the Major, who was pretending to be looking out of
the window, were seen to shake violently, while Mrs. Sandboys cried,
“Breed words! What _can_ t’ mean?”

Cursty, who began to perceive that matters were assuming a very serious
complexion, summoned all his little philosophy to his aid, and making
the greatest possible show of it in his countenance, like a tradesman
with a small stock of goods dressing his shop-window to the best
advantage, directed Mrs. Fokesell to desire the parish functionary to
step in.

The next moment the Terror of boys at church, and the Leader of parish
engines to chimneys on fire, marched into the room in all the imposing
pomp of gold lace, cocked hat, and capes, and the countenance, which was
all austerity to the children in the free seats, relaxed into a pleasing
benignity immediately the possessor of it discovered that the “party” of
whom he had come in quest belonged to the “respectable classes.”

Mr. Sandboys, in the best style of injured innocence, inquired briskly
of the officer what was the nature of his business with him.

The discreet functionary looked cautiously round the apartment, and then
winking the eye that was nearest to Mrs. Sandboys, as much as to remind
the gentleman that ladies were present, began fiddling with the gold
lace round his cocked hat, and replied that he had been sent on to him
by the Board.

“T’ Board!—what Board?” shouted Christopher.

“The Board of Guardians,” was the reply. And then the beadle proceeded
to ask the gentleman whether his name was not Christopher Sandboys; and
receiving an answer in the affirmative, he begged further to be informed
whether the gentleman did not reside in Buttermere, in the county of
Cumberland. Mr. Sandboys having assented, the functionary then inquired
whether he had not been married at Lanthwaite Green Church: and on
learning that such was the case, he told the horror-stricken Cursty that
he regretted to say he must go with him on to Marrowbone workhouse,
where the Board was a-sitting.

“But what for?” shrieked Cursty, as he stamped rapidly up and down the
room, in positive bewilderment at the extraordinary character of the
occurrence. There could be no mistake this time as to his being the
person who was wanted, for the man had got his name and place of
residence, and evidently knew all about him.

The only reply the parish officer made to the inquiry was to wink his
eye a second time in a more marked manner than before, and to jerk his
elbow two or three times in the direction of Mrs. Sandboys.

“Don’t stand there, man!” shouted the infuriated mountaineer, “winking
your d——d eye at me! But tell me what you want here!”

The parish functionary, who was anxious for the sake of the prospective
perquisite, to break the matter as mildly as possible to the gentleman,
replied that he had a hunpleasant hoffice to preform, and that he was
hanxious to preform it in as delikit a manner as he could—and hoping no
offence, if the gen’elman would step into the passage with him, he’d
give him all the particlers: but it wasn’t hexactly a case to speak on
afore ladies. And here the official winked his eye again, and nudged his
elbow in the direction of Mrs. Sandboys.

“Ladies!” echoed the almost maddened Christopher—“that lady is my wife,
and I’ve no secrets from her, man;” and so saying, he drew forth his
handkerchief, and wiped away the perspiration that now stood upon his
brow like the moisture on the inside of the windows of a hackney-coach
on a frosty day.

“In coorse she is!” responded the beadle, with a knowing air; “every
party I wisits says the very hidentical same thing; but it ain’t no
business of mine, and I’m not the kerackter to take a pleasure in
ruining the peace of families; so, if you’ll just step outside here for
a minute, I’ll tell you about it, and I’ve no doubt but what the whole
sore can be heasily ’ealed with a little palm-oil, you know.” And here
the functionary described a small circle inside his hand, and winked
once more at the wonder-stricken Mr. Sandboys.

Mr. Cursty, on second thoughts, began to imagine that perhaps it might
end the affair more quietly if he did as the man urged, and though Mrs.
Sandboys was for having the whole matter explained in her presence,
Cursty deemed it more prudent to retire in company with the beadle, and
accordingly stepped into the passage to ascertain what on earth could be
the nature of the present charge against him.

There the parish official explained to the gentleman, in as low a tone
as possible, that he was wanted at the work’us on a case of desertion.

“Desertion of what?—of whom?—shouted out the innocent Mr. Sandboys, in
the height of his indignation. “I never was in t’army in all my life.”

But the beadle mildly insinuated that he was afeard the matter didn’t
consarn the harmy, though p’raps it might have summat to do with the
hinfant-ry; but whether it were a child or a wife what Mr. Sandboys had
left chargeable to the parish, he couldn’t say; all he knowed was, that
he had horders to take the gen’elman back with him, on a charge of that
naytur, and then he hoped no offence, and he axed the gen’elman’s
pardon, but he’d a delikit dooty to preform, and he always struv to
preform it with every regard to the feelings of the ladies and gen’elmen
consarned; whereupon, having looked cautiously round, and whispered in
Cursty’s ear that if he’d leave it all to him, it shouldn’t stand him in
no more than 3_s._ 6_d._ a week, and what was more, he’d take care the
papers didn’t get hold on it, the officer kept touching his hair and
nodding his head in a manner that plainly indicated he expected some
small gratuity for the discretion he had used, and the services he had
proffered in connexion with the “delikit” dooty he had to preform.

“I thought I’d keep it dark, you know, sir, from your old ’ooman,” he
added, as Mr. Sandboys seemed disposed to pay no attention to his hints.
“Females takes these little tender matters to heart, so that many
gen’elmen’s told me it’s been worth scores of pounds to ’em my minding
my p’s and q’s in the presence of their good ladies. Bless you, if I was
to out with all I knows, I should ruin the peace of half the families in
our parish. Gen’elmen will be gen’elmen, you know, sir;” and then making
that peculiar noise out of the corner of his mouth, in which the drivers
of horses delight, he nudged the astounded Cursty familiarly in the
ribs, while he added, “but ladies can’t, for the lives on ’em, make no
allowance for the secret _hammers_ of the lawful partners of their
buzzems.” And “the authority” having delivered himself of these
sentiments, went through the same insinuating pantomime as before.

But Mr. Sandboys being wholly unaccustomed to hints of such a nature,
hurried quickly past the obsequious functionary, and telling his
bewildered Aggy that some other misunderstanding had occurred, though
what it was, and what it referred to, was more than he could make out
just then, seized his hat, and without waiting to listen to her
remonstrances, suddenly left the house in company with the parochial
officer.

On reaching the workhouse, the mystery concerning which the bewildered
Cursty had been puzzling his brains for the last hour, was quickly
explained. The Flower Hawker, who had become possessed of Mr. Sandboys’
inexpressibles, had retired into the country on the “tramp,” leaving his
“pardner” behind to take up her abode in the workhouse until his return.
On entering that establishment, however, and undergoing the change of
dress customary on such occasions, the “marriage lines” belonging to Mr.
and Mrs. Sandboys, which the woman had appropriated (owing to the total
absence of any similar document appertaining to herself) were discovered
secreted in her bosom, and the name Christopher Sandboys being
recognised by the authorities as that of the pickpocket who had been
arrested at the Crystal Palace, the parish officers had made it their
business to track out the whereabouts of the said Christopher; and
learning at the police-office that he had recently been discharged from
custody, and had afterwards retired in company with his witness, a
gentleman from Craven-street in the Strand, they had directed their
constable to bring “the man” before them, so that he might be made
responsible for the maintenance of his wife.

Mr. Sandboys had no little difficulty in making “the Board” comprehend
and believe the facts of the case; for though the woman denied that he
was her husband, as stoutly as Cursty did that she was his wife, the
ever suspicious authorities could not help fancying but what there was
some trick in the affair, and that the woman persisted in her statement
of having picked up the paper in the street, merely from a desire to
keep “her pardner” out of trouble, so that it was not until Mr. Sandboys
had sent for Major Oldschool to speak once more to his respectability,
that he was allowed to return to the bosom of his family.

Mrs. Sandboys was too delighted at obtaining possession of her marriage
certificate once more to do other than laugh heartily at what had
occurred, and though Cursty felt inclined to trace the finger of Destiny
in the whole affair, Aggy, from the pleasant termination of the
occurrence, could not consent to look upon the circumstance as a
disappointment, and made up her mind to go the very next shilling-day to
the Exhibition. Cursty, however, was fully persuaded that they should
never set foot within the Crystal Palace, and was for going home by the
first train in the morning; and it was not until Major Oldschool
consented, provided Mr. Sandboys would remain his guest till the Monday
following, that he himself would accompany them and see them safe
through the entire expedition.

This offer was more than Mr. Sandboys could withstand; and accordingly,
on the condition that, come what may, the family should leave town for
Buttermere the day after their visit to the Exhibition, he at length
consented to make one more trial under the guidance of his excellent
friend, Major Oldschool. In this frame of mind we must now leave the
family for awhile, to revert to another member of the same
establishment.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Quinine, whose health had in no way improved since we left her, lay
still stretched upon the sofa of Mrs. Fokesell’s second floor, enacting
the part of the interesting invalid as usual. For the last three months,
however, her hand had been removed from her cheek, and her fingers
busily engaged in inserting tiny embroidered crowns into tiny muslin
caps—little things that seemed fit only to serve for the head-dress to
an apple-dumpling. Dr. Twaddles had called daily at the house for eight
weeks past to inquire “how we were getting on,” and had held himself in
readiness, for the same lengthened space of time, to answer the lady’s
summons with the least possible delay. Mrs. Pilchers had arrived with
her bundle, and had been sleeping on chairs in the studio for the last
six weeks. The white satin pincushion ornamented with the well-known
infantine greeting of



                                WELCOME

                            LITTLE STRANGER.


inscribed in pins, had been forwarded by one of the lady’s “dearest”
schoolfellows, so long since that it had lost much of the original
delicacy of its complexion. “The basket” had been prepared for many
weeks, and stood on the toilet-table in the lady’s bed-room with its
powder-box and puff, and its little soft goat’s-hair brush stuck in the
side-pockets, and the bassinet remained done up in silver paper in the
corner of the room; but though all these extensive preparations had been
made for the “little stranger,” and its welcome had been _pinned_ by a
friendly hand, the lady and all her female friends were kept in a state
of the most tantalizing suspense; for no “little stranger” came.

Each day some new article was added to the infantine wardrobe or
furniture, in anticipation of the arrival of the long-looked-for little
guest. To-day, Mrs. Pilchers was despatched for the newly-invented
“artificial mother” that the lady had seen advertised, and thought it
best to be prepared with; to-morrow, the same accommodating dame was
hurried off after a half-guinea bottle of the immortal Mrs. Johnson’s
Soothing Syrup. Then Mr. Quinine would signalize himself as a “dear
man,” by one day presenting his wife with a “sweet pretty” coral and
bells, and another, sending her home a “love” of a baby-jumper. All the
preliminary arrangements were on the most extensive scale; quarts of
dill-water, pound packets of “soujie,” cashmere cloaks and hoods,
india-rubber rings, wicker rattles, nursing-aprons, pap-warming
nightlamps—each and every of the several puerperal properties had been
got ready, even down to the white glove for the knocker, (indicative of
a “little kid,”) together with the small five-shilling advertisement in
the morning papers concerning “the lady of Fuseli Quinine, Esq.” Indeed,
the entire _mise en scene_ of the forthcoming spectacle had been “got
up,” as the theatrical managers say, “utterly regardless of expense.”

Suddenly, however, it struck “the lady of Fuseli Quinine, Esq.,” that
one thing was still wanting to complete her stock of infantine
furniture. She had forgotten that time-honoured preserver of the peace
of families—a nurse’s chair; and felt convinced that, without the aid of
the popular soporific seat, her “tiddy ickle sing” would never close its
eyes; for Mrs. Quinine, enlightened by the profound experiences of
Pilchers, was assured that that kind of wabbly, waggly, bobby motion
which is peculiar to steam-boats, and the horror of children of a larger
growth, was the delight of all those of a tender age, as if the
homuncule was specially pleased in having a taste of “the ups and downs”
of life at the earliest possible period in its existence.

And certainly Mesdames Pilchers and Quinine were fully borne out in
their opinions by the prevailing pacific treatment adopted by mothers
and nurses in general. The fashionable theory among those entrusted with
the care of infants seems to be, that babies, like physic, “when taken
should be well shaken;” and, accordingly, the early existence of the
poor little things is made to consist of a series of agitations in every
possible direction. In the arms they are bobbed up and down—in the
rocking chair they are waggled backwards and forwards—in the cradle they
wabble from side to side—on the knee they are joggled till they shake
again, like lumps of _blanc-mange_—and if allowed to remain quiet for a
few minutes in that position, they are continually thumped on the back,
as if they had swallowed a fish bone in their pap.

“The lady of Fuseli Quinine, Esq.,” was sufficiently impressed with the
correctness of what may be styled “the undulating theory” of nursing,
that she no sooner discovered she had overlooked what, as newspaper
critics say, “should be in every nursery,” than the lady began to think
how she could remedy the defect.

A domestic consultation was held with the sagacious Pilchers, when it
was arranged that it would be useless purchasing a new chair for the
express purpose of wabbling the little stranger about, when “any old
thing could be cut down, and have the rockers put to it, at a quarter
the expense; whereupon Mrs. Quinine suddenly remembered that they had a
spare arm-chair in the studio, which would be the very thing.” Mrs.
Pilchers having retired to try the quality of the article, returned in a
few moments, saying that the legs would want cutting down about
one-half, and then “it would do capital.” It was accordingly arranged
that “Nurse” should learn the address of Mrs. Fokesell’s jobbing
carpenter, and get him to come in for an hour or two, and make such
alterations as were wanted.

While Mrs. Pilchers is thus engaged, we will avail ourselves of the
uninteresting circumstance to return to “Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys, their
son and daughter.”

The day appointed for the family’s visit to the Great Exhibition, under
the escort of the gallant Major Oldschool, had at length arrived; and
the old soldier and his friends having partaken of an early breakfast,
the Sandboys retired to their rooms, to prepare once more for the
eventful occasion, confident that at length their long-pent-up curiosity
was about to be gratified.

Mrs. Sandboys had not only to arrange her own toilet, but to look after
that of her boy Jobby, and his father Cursty as well. She had to tie the
neckcloth and the waistcoat-strings of the elder Sandboys, and to sew
fresh strap buttons on to the trousers of the younger male member of the
family, as well as to take in a large sippet in the back of one of his
father’s “white vests,” before _that_ boy could be made to look, as his
mother said, in any way decent; adding that, really he did grow so fast,
that it was as much as she could do to keep his trousers strapped down
below the top of his socks.

Elcy’s toilet, too, was not a matter of a moment to arrange. There was
her front hair to take out of the “crackers,” which she had concealed
during breakfast behind her bandeaus, and there was her “back hair” to
plait, and this, even with a young lady from the mountains of
Cumberland, was a good half-hour’s occupation.

During the unusually long toilet of the Sandboys family, Major Oldschool
fidgeted about his room for a few minutes, and then it struck him that
as he should have to “beau” the ladies about, he really ought to treat
himself to a pair of new gloves for the occasion; for really, as he
said, he had carried his black kid about with him screwed up in his
hands so long during the hot weather, that they were as stiff and
crinkly as French plums. Accordingly he put on his hat, and, lest he
should detain the ladies, hurried as fast as his wooden leg would carry
him into the Strand, there to purchase, for the “first time these thirty
years,” a pair of “yellow kids.”

In the meantime, the jobbing carpenter had stepped round “first thing in
the morning,” as he had been ordered, to cut down the arm-chair, and fix
on the rockers which he had brought with him. Mrs. Quinine was no sooner
informed of his arrival than she directed Mrs. Pilchers to take the
chair to the man, and let him do it down stairs, for that to have him
sawing in the next room to her would be more than her nerves could bear.

Accordingly, “Nurse” having called the carpenter to fetch the chair,
followed him with it into the passage: there she happened to catch sight
of the open door and unoccupied state of Major Oldschool’s apartments,
and having heard on the previous evening in the kitchen that the
“parlours” were going to spend the day at the Great Exhibition, she
immediately concluded that the Major had left with his friends for the
Crystal Palace: so Mrs. Pilchers, being a discreet woman, and averse to
“noises” and “breeding words,” as she called it, in strange places,
thought it would be better, since Mrs. Fokesell was a very odd person
and had very odd ways with her, if the man just stepped into Major
Oldschool’s room, while the old gentleman was out, and did what little
he had to do to the chair in that place, without asking any favours of
the landlady. Then having strictly enjoined the man to be careful and
make no dirt, she told him he might go into the parlour, and there alter
the chair.

The carpenter accordingly carried the arm-chair into the Major’s
apartment, while Mrs. Pilchers returned to “her lady.” The workman, to
obtain as much light as possible, proceeded with the chair to the
window, and placed it down on its side, the better to shorten the legs.
He was in the act of opening his basket of tools, when hearing Mrs.
Fokesell’s voice calling him from above stairs, he hastened away to
learn what she desired. On reaching the drawing-room, the landlady
requested the carpenter to bring his tools with him, saying that she
wanted him to look to the lock of the cheffonier in the first floor, for
that Baron de Boltzoff, the foreign gentleman who had her drawing-rooms,
and was as mean as a Scotch pawnbroker, complained that the thing
wouldn’t fasten properly, and had even lowered hisself to that degree to
accuse her and the poor girl of pilfering his trumpery tea and sugar,
confessing that he actually counted the lumps, and marked where the
gunpowder stood in the caddy in black-lead pencil. Mrs. Fokesell then
told the man she should like him to cobble the lock up somehow, but not
to put her to any expense about it, as it was only an old rickety affair
that she had picked up in Brokers’-row cheap, and to make it lock at all
fast it must have a new bolt put to it, she knew, but that was more than
she could afford to have done to the thing. All she wanted was just to
keep the gentleman quiet by letting him see she had had it attended to.

The carpenter having hastened down stairs again for his basket of tools,
hurried off, as requested, to the drawing-rooms for a short while,
leaving Mrs. Quinine’s arm-chair lying on its side in front of the
parlour window, as he had placed it.

The man had scarcely quitted the parlour of Major Oldschool, when that
gentleman returned, admiring the unusually delicate appearance of his
hands, as he entered the room. The first thing that struck his
attention, after having taken off his gloves, and placed them carefully
on the brim of his hat, in readiness against the coming of the Sandboys
family, was the “strange chair” lying on its side by the front window of
his apartment.

“Bless my soul!—how extraordinary! Who on earth could have brought this
thing here?—and whatever could they have been doing, for it to get
thrown down on its side in this manner? It’s very odd,—very odd,
indeed!” exclaimed the Major, as he stood for a minute or two, eyeing it
suspiciously behind his glasses.

But, nothing resulting from his profound reflections, Major Oldschool
lifted up the chair from its recumbent position, and having placed it on
its legs, sat himself down in it to try what kind of accommodation it
might afford a gentleman of his “build.”

“‘Pon my soul!” he inwardly ejaculated, as he wriggled himself into the
seat, and rested his shoulders against the back; “it’s deuced
comfortable—just suits me, for all the world, as if it was made to
measure! Precious deal better than those d—d “confessionals” that they
have now, and that keep you as upright as a ramrod, and shove your knees
almost into your mouth; or those cursed Yankee things, that keep you on
the wabble like a rocking-horse, and make you look as rickety and
short-legged as one of those Italian ‘tombelas.’”

“A-ah!” he exclaimed, with great gusto, as he stretched himself far back
in his new seat, “there’s nothing like your good old-fashioned
arm-chair, after all, with double the regulation allowance of
horse-hair.” Then stretching his arms above his head as he yawned, he
added, “‘Pon my word, if it wasn’t for the swarms of flies at my bald
head, I _do_ think I should drop off to sleep in the chair, for really
it is _so_ precious comfortable and I got up _so_ plaguey early, that
it’s as much as I can do to keep my eyelids apart. Well, bless me, those
Sandboys are long enough pipe-claying their facings; if I’d known only
as much, I might have managed to have treated myself to forty winks more
this morning, instead of being up with the milk.”

“‘Pon my life!” he cried, as he shook himself after the first drowsy
nod, “if the ladies are not down soon, they’ll find me driving my pigs
to market when they _do_ come;” then, suddenly giving a violent pat on
his forehead, that ‘went off’ like a percussion cap, he exclaimed, “D—n
the flies, how they do bite;—and I was just dropping off so
nicely;—there is no resting for the sharp, needle-like things,—one would
fancy my head was a small sugar-cask, from the way in which they dig
their proboscises into it. D—n the flies!” he roared again, giving his
cranium another and a harder slap; “they’ll pick me to the bone if they
go on in this way.” Then, to screen himself from the flies, he seized
the red moreen curtain that hung close beside the chair in which he was
seated, and withdrawing it from the brass sunflower-like pin, threw it
over him, so that his whole body was concealed behind its drapery, and
there was no trace of him to be seen, beyond his wooden leg, which
struck straight out from the side of the curtain, and had very much the
appearance of the handle of the cinder-sifter, as it projects half out
of the dust-bin.

In a few minutes, what with the warmth of the day, the early rising, and
the relief from the fangs of his tiny tormentors, the flies, the Major
was dead asleep.

It was at this critical point that Mrs. Pilchers descended the stairs to
see how the carpenter was proceeding with the transmogrification of the
arm-chair, into a nurse’s _ditto_—and as she bobbed her head in at the
parlour door, she discovered, to her great surprise, that the room was
apparently empty.

With that due regard to the interest of “her lady” which distinguishes
every “monthly nuss,” when in no way benefited by the defrauding of her,
Mrs. Pilchers proceeded to search the house in a state of high
excitement for the truant journeyman, and learning from Mrs. Fokesell
that the man was engaged in the drawing-room, at an odd job for her, the
consciousness that this same odd job was being performed at “her lady’s”
expense, caused Mrs. Pilchers, in the height of her indignation, to give
a jerk of her christening cap, that made its ultramarine geraniums bob
backwards and forwards on their wire stalks like the ship in the paper
sea of the clock-work pictures. The “nuss” then bounced out of the
kitchen as if she were a baby’s india-rubber ball, inflated with anger,
mentally dilating on the “unheerd on imperence” of the act, and made the
best of her way to the first floor in quest of her carpenter.

Having called the man out of the room, Mrs. Pilchers communicated to him
“just a bit of her mind” on the heinousness of his allowing “any one” to
take an hour of his time out of “her lady’s half day;” and having
lectured the carpenter in her most moral style, she desired him to take
his tools down that minute and do the chair, or she would have in
“somebody what would.”

The poor man, who, like the rest of the “jobbing operatives,” was of
rather an obsequious, if not servile turn, stammered out an apology, and
returned in a state of considerable flurry to the drawing-room to fetch
the saw required for the operation.

For fear of giving offence to Mrs. Fokesell, the carpenter descended the
stairs as softly as he could, but he had scarcely reached the passage
before the drawing-room bell was rung violently, and Mrs. Fokesell,
suspecting that “nuss” had been and taken the man off the job she had
set him, hurried up from the kitchen.

The carpenter, who shrewdly imagined that the bell was rung to inquire
into the cause of his leaving his work in the drawing-room before it was
finished, and being anxious, above all things, not to give offence to
the landlady, who was one of his best customers, hastened into the
parlour to get Mrs. Quinine’s job over as quickly as possible. With
scarcely a thought as to what he was doing, the nervous man rushed saw
in hand to the window, where he had left the arm-chair, and perceiving
the wooden leg of Major Oldschool protruding from behind the window
curtain, he, in the flurry of the moment, mistook it for the upper
fore-leg of the chair that he had left lying on its side, and
immediately set to work to reduce it one half.

At this moment, the united voices of Fokesell and Pilchers were heard
wrangling as the ladies descended the stairs, and the carpenter, in his
trepidation, sawed quicker than ever. He had nearly severed the Major’s
wooden limb in two, when, to his horror, he felt the leg suddenly
withdrawn from his hold, and immediately he saw the curtains thrown on
one side, and the face of the angry Major Oldschool glaring fiercely at
him.

The man stood for a moment spell-bound, as it suddenly flashed across
his mind that he had mistaken a human wooden leg for one of the lower
limbs of a chair, and that he had been caught in the act of curtailing
it of its proper proportions; and the old Major no sooner discovered the
nature of the attack that had been made upon his artificial limb, than
he remained transfixed with astonishment at the outrageous audacity of
the deed.

The two stared wildly at each other, utterly tongue-tied for the
instant; and before the Major could proceed to wreak his vengeance on
the man, the carpenter had rushed madly from the room.

The Major, furious at the outrage, jumped from his seat, and was about
to give chase to the workman, but no sooner did he place the
half-divided limb on the ground, than snap went the wooden member,
breaking under his weight, and he was thrown heavily on his side upon
the floor; while, at the same time, the carpenter, on turning the corner
of the door, ran, in his hurry, full butt against the contending
Fokesell and Pilchers, who, being utterly unprepared for so sudden a
concussion, were precipitated forcibly to the ground, the carpenter
falling with his whole weight upon them; and as he did so, the ladies
gave vent to the peculiar sound made by paviours on the descent of their
heavy rammers.

It was at this alarming crisis that the family of the Sandboys came down
from their respective bed-rooms, all smiles and ribbons, and on the
tiptoe of expectation for the long-looked-for peep at the Great
Exhibition. The first thing that met their eyes on reaching the passage
were the forms of the wretched landlady and nurse buried beneath the
heavy body of the jobbing carpenter.

It was no time to stand still and inquire what it all could possibly
mean, so the Cimbrians at once proceeded to clear a way to the Major’s
room by exhuming the bodies of the ladies from beneath the superficial
stratum of the bewildered journeyman; while Jobby, having stepped over
the heap, and entered the parlour, shrieked to his terrified parents
that the Major was lying prostrate there on the carpet, with his wooden
leg broken off sharp at the calf.

Then followed the explanation, with all its disheartening results. Of
course it would be impossible for the Major to accompany them to the
Exhibition shorn of half his leg, while to get it mended in sufficient
time was an equal impossibility. Though Jobby hinted that the glue-pot
was on the fire below, the Major felt in no way inclined to trust the
maintenance of his perpendicular to so weak a foundation; nor did the
several parts admit of being spliced, seeing that the limb would be
reduced several inches by the operation; and as there was no such thing
as borrowing a wooden leg at a moment’s notice in a neighbourhood that
was some miles distant from either Chelsea or Greenwich Hospital, why it
was evident that the Major must remain at home until such time as he
could get his injuries repaired; for to proceed without him was more
than Mr. Sandboys would consent to do.

Accordingly, amid much disappointment and sorrow, the family of the
Sandboys _once_ more made up their minds to abandon all hope of seeing
the interior of the Crystal Palace, and to return to their native
mountains at the earliest possible opportunity.

It was quite evident, Mr.Sandboys again repeated, that Fate had set her
face against their ever enjoying the treat, and, for his part, he was
not going to thrust his head any longer against the wall that Destiny
had run up between them and the building.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                             CHAPTER XXIV.

          “Waes me! what’s this that lugs sae at my heart,
           And fills my breast with seck a dispert smart?
           Can’t be that thing cawt luive? Good folks now tell,
           And I’se set down just how I find mysel.

          “I used to sing my sang, and crack my joke,
           And shake my sides at murth like other folk,
           But I’se sare chang’d frae what I used to be;
           Luik i’ my feace, and you may fairly see.”
                      _The Costard’s Complaint, by Ewan Clark._


IT was a profound remark of Mrs. Coddle—and women, however humble, read
characters very quickly, especially when their own interests are
concerned—that there was no telling what ever had come to her Major
since them Sandboys had got back to the place. She only knew he hadn’t
been “all there” for the last ten days.

And certainly a peculiar change _had_ taken place in Major Oldschool’s
deportment in general, and to his housekeeper in particular. Do what she
might, there was no pleasing him. For a long time, Mrs. Coddle
speculated as to the cause of the alteration of the gentleman’s conduct
towards her. At first, with a true nurse’s discrimination, she had been
inclined to refer his ill-temper to what she termed the bad state of his
“digester,” being convinced that his stomach rather than his head was
deranged, and felt satisfied it was all owing to his having left off his
nightly brace of “Cockles.” Accordingly, she provided him with a
miniature bandbox of the best antibilious, and endeavoured to persuade
him to swallow a double allowance of the tiny medicinal dumplings—but
all to no avail. Then she felt certain it must be the nasty rheumatiz
flying about him, for he’d been and got his blood chilled the evening he
went to the station-’us, she knew, cause, on taking his shoe off that
night, she had found his sock was quite damp, and the cold must have
struck in’ards; so she made him tureensful of white wine whey and
treacle-posset, and hot milk and suet, but he would not touch a
thimbleful, as she said, of any of them, vowing he never was better in
all his life.

At length, however, Mrs. Coddle communicated in confidence to Mrs.
Fokesell that she had that morning discovered the cause of all her
Major’s tantrums of late, for, on examining the bottom of her teacup at
breakfast that day, she had seen a wedding among the grouts as plain as
she had ever seed any think in all her life; and what was more, so as to
satisfy herself that she couldn’t be mistaken, she had took the trouble
to burn a letter, and watch the sparks among the ashes, and there was
the parson and the clerk a-going one after the other, for all the world
as if they had been right afore her; and so, she said, putting this and
that, and a many other things together, Mrs. Fokesell might take her
word for it that there would be a wedding in that very house afore the
twelvemonth was over.

Mrs. Fokesell shook her head, and remarked that there was no going agin
such things, and that she too remembered of dreaming three times running
of tumbling into a bed of nettles, and that meant marriage all the world
over—adding, that _her_ Fokesell was going to sea again directly, and
there was no telling what might happen afore the year was out. But Mrs.
Coddle had, as she observed, her eye on a very different party, and all
she would then say was, “that there was no fools like _old_ fools,” and
she laid a most significant emphasis on that part of the proverb which
refers to the age of the simpletons.

Every day Mrs. Coddle discovered some fresh evidence to confirm her in
the opinion she had formed as to the cause of the Major’s odd ways of
late. Now she would catch him seated at his desk, and scribbling on his
blotting-pad, in a fit of abstraction, the name of “Elcy.” Then he had
taken to paying daily visits to Covent Garden Market in quest of
bouquets and bunches of violets, or baskets of choice fruit, which he
always sent up stairs with his compliments to the ladies. Then again he
had grown all of a sudden “so dreadful purticlar” about his dress, that
there was no bearing him. To-day the plaiting of his frill wouldn’t suit
him—to-morrow his shoe wasn’t polished to his liking—and he had actually
been and ordered a light poplin palletott, just because he had seed some
of the “young bloods” about in them.

And, to tell the truth, Mrs. Coddle was not very wrong in her surmises
as to the reason of the Major’s altered behaviour towards her. Ever
since he had first seen Elcy Sandboys weeping in the passage, and had
discovered the tenderness of her care and regard for her father, he had
had thoughts that he had never known before. Major Oldschool had left
England as a mere boy of a cadet, and before he had been a year up at
his station in India, he had discontinued corresponding with his
mother’s lady’s-maid, to whom he had sworn eternal attachment on
quitting the country. While out in India, the want of female society
had, in a measure, inured him to celibacy, till at last he had gradually
sunk into what the ladies termed “a hardened old bachelor.”

On his return to England, however, Major Oldschool soon began to find
that the Indian life, food, and climate, had made such inroads upon his
constitution, and accustomed him to such habits of indolence, or rather
dependence upon others for the execution of even his most trifling
wants, that now that his retinue of black domestics was no longer at his
command, he found it was utterly impossible to remain without some one
to look after him, so he provided himself with that most miserable of
all matrimonial make-shifts, an old crone of a housekeeper. Mrs. Coddle
was not long in discovering how necessary she was to the comfort of the
Major, nor in taking every advantage of him that his dependence upon her
permitted. Major Oldschool, however, had not been altogether blind to
the exactions of his housekeeper—but being naturally deficient in
energy, and not exactly seeing any way of immediately extricating
himself from the web that she had spun round him, he had tolerated her
tyranny in as patient a manner as possible.

On becoming acquainted with Elcy, the Major began to feel the thraldom
of Mrs. Coddle unusually irksome to him. He was continually contrasting
the truthfulness of the young girl with the artifice and deceit of the
old woman, and comparing the gentleness and loving care of the one with
the exactions and hollow sympathy of the other; and as he grew to like
the younger one, he got almost to hate the older in an equal degree.
Still he would hardly allow himself to imagine that he could be in love
at his time of life; and whenever he caught himself thinking how
wretched he was with old Mrs. Coddle, and how happy he could be with
Elcy Sandboys to attend upon him, he drove the thought from his mind,
calling himself an old fool, and mentally inquiring what the world would
think of him marrying a girl who was young enough to be his daughter.

The gentle cause of all this disturbance in the bosom and domestic
arrangements of Major Oldschool was utterly unconscious of the effect
she had produced; nor did she reciprocate the feelings of that
gentleman. It is true, she was much struck with his kindness to herself
and to her father during their trouble, and that she did not hesitate to
confess she thought him a very nice old gentleman indeed; and whenever
the Major had formed the subject of conversation with her family during
his absence, she had always spoken warmly of his kindness and attention
to them; but this the girl had done on every occasion, frankly and
without a blush.

Mrs. Coddle, however, who was sufficiently well skilled in the
development of the gentle passion, from the budding, as it were, to the
blossoming of the orange flowers—not having lived all her years, as she
said, for nothing,—soon required no prophetic vane to tell her which way
the wind blew in the front parlour of Mrs. Fokesell’s establishment, and
did not hesitate to confess as much to the landlady herself. She knew
how it would all turn out from the very first time the Major set eyes on
the “chit” a-snivelling in the passage. His going out without his tea
was quite enough for her: and of all artful young husseys, Miss Sandboys
was the wust she ever come a-nigh. She couldn’t abear to see such
scheming and planning as there was with young gals, now-a-days, to get
well settled in life—no matter to them what poor cretur they threw out
of bread by it: and she had no doubt that after all she had done for the
Major, she’d be thrown o’ one side, like an old shoe, when she wasn’t
wanted no longer. But she could tell the pair on ’em that she wasn’t
agoing to be got rid on quite so easy; and if they didn’t know their
dooty, and had never given it so much as a thought what was to become of
her, why, she’d just let them see what she considered was her rights. It
made her quite ill to think of the deceit there was in the world; and
what business had that “bit of a girl” to come turning her out of house
and home—especially when she thought she were comfortable settled for
life—was all she wanted to know.

Thus matters went on, the hatred of Mrs. Coddle toward Elcy Sandboys
increasing in a direct ratio with the liking of the Major for the same
person, and when the housekeeper learnt that the intended visit of the
Sandboys to the Exhibition, in company with the Major, had been
postponed by the amputation of his wooden leg, she was as delighted at
first as she was annoyed on hearing afterwards that the Cumberland folk
had been prevailed upon by the Major to remain in London until such time
as he could get his leg repaired, and fulfil his engagement with them.

Indeed the Major, much to Mrs. Coddle’s discomfort, would not listen to
the departure of his friends, and promised to make all haste in
providing himself with a new limb, expressly for their visit to the
Crystal Palace. Accordingly, he set himself to work, thinking what kind
of a new leg he should have, and whom he should get to make it. This
time he made up his mind he would employ a person who had some
experience in the line, for the last leg he had made was by a mere
novice, and had cost him no little trouble; at first the manufacturer
had constructed it of too great a length, and it had made him lean on
one side, for all the world like a human tower of Pisa,—then the man cut
it down too short, and he had been thrown from one side to the other,
like a fresh-water sailor in a heavy swell,—then, too, the fellow had
manufactured the thing out of green stuff, and it had warped so, that
the wooden leg positively looked bandy.

Having by these cogent reasons convinced himself that it would be far
better to place his leg in the hands of an experienced artificer, the
Major next began to debate within himself as to what should be the style
and material of the limb. One thing he had made his mind up to; he was
not going to continue in the Greenwich pensioner style any longer,
hobbling about on a leg that was as straight, and had no more symmetry
in it than a stork’s. No! he would have a cork one. He had often seen in
the shops some beautiful fellows, with a black silk stocking over them,
and a calf as plump as a footman’s in high life. Yes! he would despatch
a letter that moment to the very place where he remembered having seen
one worthy of a fashionable physician in the window. Accordingly, he
hopped along to his desk, as best he could, and scribbled a hasty
summons to the artificial limb-maker.

It was not long before the human centipede—the modern Briaræus—the Argus
of the nineteenth century, made his appearance; and having learnt from
the Major the nature of the accident, proceeded to describe to the
gentleman the quality of the several artifices at present in vogue for
supplying the various defects in the human frame. The limb-maker had an
odd way with him of describing the respective artificial appurtenances
of his business, as if they were his own individual possessions, and
formed part of his own frame, instead of his stock in trade.

“Yes, sir, I believe I may say, without vanity,” observed the loquacious
Frankenstein of 1851, “that I have been long celebrated for the make of
my legs. It is universally allowed that there are not such legs as mine
in all Europe, sir. A lady of quality had one of my legs—the right leg
it was—and she danced the polka in it as well as ever she could have
done it with her own, sir.”

Major Oldschool threw up his eyebrows with astonishment, while he smiled
with delight.

“I can assure you, sir,” continued the man, rubbing his hands as if he
were washing them in phantom soap and water, “you will find my knees not
at all stiff nor shaky; not like the cheap slop articles, that—if you
will permit me to say so—are very much in the hackney-coach-horse style.
Then, doubtlessly, you may have heard of the superior quality of my arms
and hands, sir. Only the other day I sent home an arm to a general
officer, with a dessert service fitted up inside, knife and fork,
table-spoon, tea-spoon, meerschaum pipe, cork-screw, and boot-hooks, and
the fingers made to take a pinch of snuff positively with an air of
grace, sir—an air of grace, I may say, sir.”

Major Oldschool was too glad to listen, and therefore refrained from
saying a word that might interrupt the strain of the tradesman’s
boastings.

“Then again,” resumed the man, “there are my eyes, sir, which I will
challenge the whole world to equal. I will put my eyes against theirs
for any sum they please, let them be black, blue, grey, or hazel, sir.
Perhaps you may have noticed my eyes in the shop window, sir. I have
_one_—a black one, sir—that obtained me the prize from the Society of
Arts last year, sir. I don’t think, sir, you could go into any
fashionable church or chapel without their being either one or two of my
eyes in the place. I serve all the first people, I can assure you, sir.
Then I have a charitable society in connexion with my establishment, for
the gratuitous distribution of eyes to the poor, and a very great relief
it is to them, sir. To servants they are a real blessing—for mistresses
object to one-eyed nurses, or lady’s-maids, or cooks, you know, sir—so I
let those kind of people have my eyes at what they cost me, and they are
very thankful for them, indeed, sir. I should think I have got at least
a hundred eyes in place at the present time, sir.”

“Bless me! bless me!” cried the Major; “I had no idea that art was
carried to such perfection;—but we live in wonderful times.”

“You may say that, sir,” replied the man of _eye art_. “We can remedy
any defect—no matter what, sir. Humpbacks we can pad out into perfect
symmetry; spindle legs we can plump into the finest calves. If you will
take my word for it, there are several tragedians and footmen in high
life who are strutting about at this present time in my calves; and as
for waiters and dancing-masters, we do a prodigious business with them
in the course of the year. You would not believe it, perhaps, sir, but I
have known a leg that was modelled into mahogany bootjacks that was
merely made up of my calves, after all. But you will excuse me, sir;
this but little concerns you. Touching your own leg, sir, I think you
said you should like cork; but if you will allow me to recommend, I
should advise you to have a gutta percha one. We are now making up some
beautiful limbs in that material. I had one leg at home that I did
intend to have brought round with me under my arm, just for your
inspection, sir. I am sure you would have liked it, the article is so
light and elastic: indeed, it is one of my best legs, and not at all
dear, sir. Now, let me make you up one of those; for I can assure you,
sir, if you will only leave your leg in my hands, I will turn you out
such a nice, light, elegant one”—and here he smiled and bowed—“that will
make you regret you have not lost the other. Our art, you see, sir, is
no base imitation of Nature, but I may say an improvement upon her—as,
indeed, all high art _should_ be, sir. All our limbs are warranted to be
true Grecian proportions. If you will oblige me by taking a seat, I will
just take the dimensions of your limb, sir.”

Then, as the Major sank into the nearest chair, the leg-maker proceeded
to take his measure, and as he pushed up the trousers, said, after
having passed the tape round the ankle, “How shall we do about the calf,
sir? Shall we reduce the proportions of the artificial, or plump out
those of the natural limb? For my own part, I should recommend a little
of both; and if you will allow me, sir, to send you round just one or
two of my calves to look at, I think you would be exceedingly pleased
with them. I could let you have one calf at a very low figure just now,
for I remember I have an odd calf by me, as I supplied an Admiral of the
Blue with one just your size, for her Majesty’s last Levee—or else, you
see, sir, it would become expensive to break the pair. The one I should
send you is made on the best plan; it forms part of the web of the
stocking, and so there is no fear of its turning round to the shin while
dancing or taking any other active exercise, sir, as I dare say you
remember used frequently to happen with the dreadful things they wore a
few years back, and which you may perhaps recollect, sir, looked more
like the cricketer’s paddings than improvers of the ‘form divine.’”

Major Oldschool thought of the ladies, and assented to the tradesman’s
proposal.

The limb-furnisher rose from his kneeling position, and having rolled up
his measure, and brushed his hat with his sleeve, previous to his taking
his departure, drew a card from his pocket, and presenting it to the
Major, said—“Should you be in want of any teeth at any time, sir, you
will find that gentleman very skilful and moderate in his charges. He
has some remarkably fine china sets just now; you may have noticed one
in our window, sir, in a beautiful working wax head, with the eyes
moving, the mouth opening, and the teeth going in and out every other
minute, by clock-work. I have not the least doubt you remember seeing
the model, sir; it has a fine jet-black beard; at one moment the figure
is as toothless as a sloth, sir—and the next minute his mouth is filled
with an entire set, as beautiful and white as a sweep’s. But perhaps,
sir,” he added, finding the Major made no reply, “you are not in want of
anything in that way. You will see, sir, the gentleman states at the
bottom of the card that his teeth are so much admired, that he has no
doubt that his china sets will shortly supersede all others.” Here the
man made a profound bow, and, saying the Major should have his leg home
in a day or two, quitted the room.

The limb-maker had no sooner closed the door than he returned, and
presenting a small pamphlet, said—“I beg your pardon, sir; but would you
allow me to present you with this little list of testimonials; you, or
some of your friends from the country may, perhaps, be troubled with
corns or bunions, and I can assure you that Professor Rootzemout,
Chiropodist to her Royal Highness the Duchess of Gloucester, and the
rest of the royal family, extracts them with no more pain than corks,
sir. You will see that the Professor has had the feet of the ‘first of
the land’ under his hands, sir. The Bishop of Calcutta certifies that
the Professor has removed a bunion from his great toe, that he had been
suffering a martyrdom from for months; and even the Prime Minister of
the country publicly expresses his gratitude to the Professor for the
eradication of a soft corn that had allowed him no rest for years. The
Professor’s specimens in his museum are really quite marvellous, sir.
One he has from a late Lord Mayor of London, I give you my word, sir, is
as big as a spring onion; but I fear I am intruding on your valuable
time;” and so saying, the enterprising tradesman wiped his shoes several
times on the carpet as he bowed obsequiously and withdrew.

                  *       *       *       *       *

True to the appointed time, the anxiously-expected leg was sent home
carefully enveloped in silver paper, and shortly afterwards the maker
arrived to fit it on, and see whether his limb was sufficiently well-set
to be allowed to run alone. When he had fixed it the man was in raptures
with his own handiwork; and while the Major paced the room, the
limb-maker declared, as he bobbed about to look at him from every point
of view, that the Major’s leg was the very best he had yet made in the
same material.

Major Oldschool was almost as pleased as the man, and exclaimed, on
looking at himself in the pier-glass, that he positively shouldn’t have
known his own figure again; adding, as he thrust the leg forward, and
leant his head on one side to look at the calf of it, that no one could
tell it was not his own: and, as he paid the maker, he expressed himself
much indebted to his skill for his improved appearance.

When the artificer had left, the Major gave full vent to his feelings,
and strutted about the room inwardly gloating over the surprise that the
ladies and old Sandboys would feel on beholding him firmly on his legs
once more. Then he wondered however he could have gone hobbling about on
that spindle of a leg so long, with the iron tip thumping, as he went
along, like a blind man’s stick on the ground; and he promised himself
that immediately after dinner he would arrange with the Sandboys to be
off, the first thing in the morning, to the Exhibition; for he longed to
show himself there with his new leg quite as much as his Cumberland
friends wished to look at the wonders of the Show.

When the Sandboys _did_ behold the Major’s new leg, they were one and
all as much astonished as he expected or wished them to be, and the
evening was spent in jests at his previous appearance, and in mirthful
remembrances of the accident which had brought about the change. Even
the fatalistic Mr. Sandboys was obliged to declare that Destiny, for
once, had done them a good turn, and before retiring to rest, he had
grown to look upon the past adventure as a propitious omen, foretelling
their speedy attainment of the object they had so repeatedly sought.

Nor could Elcy herself help speaking in terms of admiration at the
Major’s improved appearance, declaring, that had she not seen him with
his previous wooden substitute, she should never have been aware of his
loss of limb—all of which was so extremely gratifying to the old
soldier, that he felt more delighted with the girl than ever.

Major Oldschool got but little rest that night, for he kept thinking
over and over again of all that had occurred,—muttering to himself, half
unconsciously, when he _did_ doze off, what Elcy had said in admiration
of the change that had taken place in him. Nor were the slumbers of Elcy
and Jobby more profound; they both ran over in their minds the several
wonders they had read of in the Exhibition, and longed for the daylight
that was to reveal to them all the marvels of the Crystal Palace.

Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys themselves were up with the sparrows the next
morning, alive with the conviction that at last the eventful day which
was to consummate their hopes and wishes had really arrived; and in a
short time they would be back again to Cumberland in their quiet
mountain home, talking over the many wonders they had seen, and laughing
with their neighbours over the perplexing adventures they had gone
through.

When the party were assembled, Major Oldschool propounded the order of
the day’s amusements, as he had mentally arranged them previously to
rising that morning. He had crammed the day, he said, as full of sights
and shows as he possibly could. He proposed that they should first, as
it was a lovely morning, go by the steamer up to the New Houses of
Parliament, and having viewed them, and looked in at the Courts of Law,
they were to step over to the Abbey and take a peep at the Poet’s
Corner. Then they could have a beautiful stroll through the parks, past
Buckingham Palace, and along Constitution Hill, to the Wellington
Statue; after which they could just drop in at the St. George’s Gallery,
and see the splendid Diorama of the Holy Land, and Cumming’s African
Hunter’s Exhibition; which done, they could step along to the Chinese
Collection, and look at the lady who had only two inches to stand upon,
instead of a foot; and after that, just to fortify them against the
fatigues of the day, they could drop into M. Mouflet’s restaurant, and
have a nice little luncheon, for the Major said it was whispered that
the tepid ices, and soupy jellies, and Bath buns—strongly resembling
their hard and dry relations the Bath bricks—which were to be had at the
Exhibition, could not be included among the _chef-d’œuvres_ of the
Crystal Palace. After luncheon, Major Oldschool told them they would be
ready for a good four-hours’ feast of their eyes at the Grand Show; and
this over, he proposed they should retire to M. Soyer’s Imposium and
have a nice little dinner of cold meat and pickles in the Baronial Hall,
at the small charge of half-a-guinea a head; and in the evening, he
said, they could take a cab, and drive to Leicester-square, and have a
turn round the Great Globe, and be nearly broiled by the gas up among
the Polar Regions; next, they might step across to M. Cantelo’s
Incubator, and see the process of hatching chickens, which was
remarkably curious, for he _had_ been informed by one of the first
physiologists of the age that the young brood invariably evinced an
instinctive attachment to their maternal boiler, striving to nestle
themselves under their parent kettle immediately it began to sing. And
as a conclusion to the day’s entertainments, they might all pop in at
the Adelphi, and having passed an hour or two there, they might then be
able to get to Vauxhall just in time to see the horsemanship and
fireworks; and there, after a cold fowl and lobster salad, by way of a
little supper, they could return home ready and thankful for bed.

The Sandboys were all delighted with the Major’s programme for the day’s
festivities, and having swallowed a hasty breakfast, and decked
themselves out in their holiday costume, they once more descended to the
parlour, ready to start for the Great Sight, with Cursty fidgeting at
their heels, in inward fear of something or other occurring that would
once more delay their departure.

At length, however, the whole party were fairly off; and as Mr. Sandboys
stood on the door-step, wondering within himself how they had succeeded
in getting even that far towards their destination, he said thoughtfully
to the Major, as he held him by the button-hole, while Jobby, Elcy, and
Mrs. Sandboys went tripping along lightly up the street, “I’ll tell thee
what I’ll do, Major——”

“Yes, yes,” answered his friend, “but tell me as we go, or we shall miss
the ladies.”

Cursty paid little or no attention to the Major’s impatience, but still
musing, said, “I’ll wager thee a crown, man, that we never get inside t’
Girt Exhibition to-day.”

“Done!” shouted the Major, and he dragged the fatalistic Cursty Sandboys
with him, as he hobbled up the street.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




                           CHAPTER THE LAST.

                  “Wi’ sic thoughts i’ my mind,
                    Time thro’ the warl may gae,
                   And find me still, in twenty years,
                    The same as I’m to-day:
                    ’Tis friendship bears the sway,
                    And keeps friends i’ the e’e;
                   And gin I think I see thee still,
                    Wha can part thee and me?”
                              _Song, by Miss Blamire._


IN a few moments the Sandboys and Major Oldschool were safe on board the
penny “Bee,” steaming along the Thames towards the Westminster pier.

The Major, who had found it impossible, with his artificial leg, to keep
up with the ladies, had availed himself of the circumstance of his being
left alone with Cursty, to paint a vivid picture (as they hobbled
through Hungerford Market) of the solitary state of his household, and
the horrors of a life dependent for its comforts and enjoyments on the
tender mercies of a selfish old housekeeper, expatiating in the meantime
on the sufficiency of his funds to maintain a wife in ease, if not in
luxury; and winding up with a modest eulogium as to the amiability of
his temper—the domesticity of his habits—and his cat-like love of a
quiet hearth.

Mr. Sandboys had just inquired how it was—if such were the bent of his
inclinations—that he remained in a state of wretched bachelorhood; and
the Major had just answered that it was the very thing he wished to
speak to him about, when a shrill voice suddenly shouted, “Pay here for
the ‘Bee,’ gents! pay here!”

The demand having been complied with, the Major, immediately he was on
board the penny steamer, sought out a retired spot where he might
continue the delicate subject of their previous conversation, and
perceiving that the most quiet part of the vessel was immediately
adjoining the line of demarcation between the lovers and the haters of
the “fragrant weed,” drew his friend Cursty towards the gangway: leaning
their backs against the funnel, the couple resumed the tender topic
which had recently engaged them.

As the “Bee” went buzzing over the water, the Major made the father of
Elcy his own father-confessor as to the state of his bosom at that
particular moment, declaring the object of his affection to be none
other than that gentleman’s daughter.

The simple and unobservant, because unsuspicious, Cursty was nearly
taken off his nautical legs by the announcement: but referring the Major
to Elcy herself for an answer, he confessed that, provided she saw no
cause or impediment, &c., he himself would not be the man to forbid the
banns; whereupon they both grew so interested in the “momentous
question”—the Major intent on making the most of his qualifications for
a good husband, and descanting rapturously on Miss Elcy’s possession of
all the requisites for a good wife, and Cursty Sandboys lost in the
pleasure of listening to the praises of his child—that, though the heat
of the funnel at their backs was almost sufficient to cook an omelette,
it was utterly unheeded by them.

[Illustration:

  The Dispersion of the Works of all Nations From the great Exhibition
    of 1851
]

Now, gutta percha is a most admirable material, especially adapted for
boats, ropes, and other commodities to be used in the Arctic regions;
but, unfortunately, it has the slight drawback of softening like
“hardbake” at a high temperature, and consequently it is _not
particularly_ suited for firemen’s helmets, owing to its liability to
run down the faces of the “brigade” like treacle, when exposed to a
“terrific conflagration;” nor is it especially adapted to the
manufacture of shaving-pots, seeing that the infusion of the boiling
water is certain to elongate the vessel into something approximating the
form and appearance of a huge German sausage; and we _have_ known
candlesticks made of the treacherous “gutta” _gutter_ away with the
expiring “stearine” until nothing was left of the antique candelabrum
but a leathery pancake on the tablecloth; picture-frames, too, composed
of the same uncertain substance have been found, in the dog-days, to
suffer almost as much as aldermen from the extreme heat of the weather,
and to grow as limp and bendy at the joints as an acrobat, while the
cornices ran down into a series of chocolate-coloured stalactites. Nor
is the soluble stuff better adapted to the formation of harness, for
gutta percha traces have been occasionally seen, when the thermometer
stood at 80° in the shade, to elongate like vulcanized India-rubber, and
to leave the vehicle a considerable distance behind the horse which was
supposed to be drawing it, while the whip which was intended for the
flagellation of the animal has gone as soft as a lollipop, and of no
more service than a straw; and to this catalogue of commodities unfitted
to be manufactured in gutta percha still one other article must be
added, and that is—as an Irishman would say—wooden legs; for though legs
are intended to run as well as to walk, it is somewhat inconvenient to
find them, on the least increase of temperature, run away altogether,
and the limb which was meant as a crutchlike support give way, for all
the world as though the wearer had become suddenly afflicted with the
“rickets,” his gutta percha leg gradually bending in or bulging out,
like a barley-sugar bird-cage at an evening party.

Presently the tender thread of Major Oldschool’s discourse was rudely
snapped asunder by a kind of echo duet performed by the captain of the
“Busy Bee” in deep bass, and the call-boy in shrill treble, the burden
of which was—“ease her! _ease her!_—back her! _back her!_—stop her!
_stop her!_”—and then bump went the vessel against the Westminster pier,
making the barge wabble on the water like a yeast dumpling in a
saucepan.

Until this moment the Major, whose back had been resting against the
funnel, had not attempted to stir a foot, and no sooner was he roused
from his reverie by the cry of “Now, then, any one for Westminster?”
than, seizing Mr. Sandboys by the arm, he cried, “Here we are. Come
along, quick! or we shall be carried off to Chelsea;” and made a
desperate effort to reach the plank that connected the “Bee” with the
pier; but no sooner did he trust the weight of his body to the
treacherous gutta percha limb, which the heat of the funnel had by this
time rendered as limp as a stale sugar-stick in a confectioner’s window,
than it bent under him like a soldier’s penny cane, and down went the
Major on his side, dragging the terrified Cursty along with him.

The Major was so unprepared for the mishap, that he was utterly unaware
of the cause of his sudden fall, until, on attempting to get up, and
trusting once more to his “gummy” leg, he was again precipitated on top
of the bewildered Cursty, before that gentleman had time to rise. On
looking to the state of his new limb, however, the problem was speedily
solved, for he found that his gutta percha calf, softened by the heat of
the funnel, had run into his boot, while his artificial ankle had
swollen into a “model gout,” while what was originally the thick part of
the leg, had been attenuated into a mere tendon, no thicker than a
harp-string.

Major Oldschool raved at all new-fangled inventions, and vowed as he
clasped his head with vexation, that there was nothing like wood, after
all, and called himself an idiot for allowing himself to be talked into
any such “tomfoolery,” while the passengers laughed violently at the
catastrophe; and even the Sandboys, vexed as they felt at the further
postponement of their visit to the Crystal Palace, could not refrain
from taking part in the merriment excited on the occasion.

To proceed to the Exhibition with such a leg was utterly impossible, and
to the Sandboys’ great discomfiture nothing remained to be done but to
have the _uni-ped_ Major carried to a cab, and conveyed back to
Craven-street as rapidly as possible.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Cursty Sandboys, as usual, saw that the calamity had been planned by
some of the invisible sprites and mischievous elfins in the employ of
that blind and spiteful old maid passing under the name of Destiny or
Fate, and whom he felt thoroughly convinced were having a hearty
demoniac laugh in their phantom sleeves at the many annoyances they were
causing him; and no sooner was he once more located within the parlour
of Major Oldschool, than he registered a vow on the ceiling of that
apartment, that he would never again move a leg to get to that bothering
Crystal Palace. It was no use talking to him—go home he _would_—and
people might laugh as they pleased.

That evening, as the Major and Cursty sat enjoying their toddy after the
family had retired to rest, and Mr. Sandboys was growing eloquent, under
the influence of the whisky punch, on the many beauties of his native
Buttermere, Major Oldschool begged Cursty to defer his return to
Cumberland until he (the Major) had escorted Elcy to the Exhibition, and
availed himself of that opportunity to speak to the young lady on the
subject of their morning’s conversation; for, as he said, half laughing,
he could not think of marrying a lady who was unacquainted with the
wonders of the Exhibition—he might as well pick a wife from a convent at
once, and unite himself with one who had had her head shaved, and
foresworn the world and every kind of _show_. As an additional
inducement, moreover, the Major promised that if he were fortunate
enough to gain the young lady’s consent, he would return with the
family, be married at Lanthwaite Green Church, as his old friend had
been, and pass the rest of his days with the family at Buttermere.

As soon as the Major was provided with a new limb, he accompanied Elcy
and her brother to the Great Exhibition, and there, as he led her
through all the countries of the civilized globe, he endeavoured to
reveal the state of his feelings—now, as they paused for a moment in
France, he asked her whether she thought she could be happy with him for
life—and now, as they rambled through China, he inquired whether she
fancied she would be very miserable if she had him for a companion for
the remainder of her days. Elcy replied that he had been so kind to them
all, that she was sure she should always be glad to be in his company,
and that ever since her first acquaintance with him, she had esteemed
him as one of her father’s best friends—all which so encouraged the
Major, that he availed himself of the solitude of America to beg to be
informed whether her esteem for him as a friend could make her love him
as a husband?

The young lady was wholly unprepared for such an inquiry, and as she
thought of the disparity of their ages, she hurried on and pretended to
be so absorbed with the ingenuity of the sewing machine, as not to have
heard the question; the Major, however, had no sooner led his fair
companion into Russia, than he whispered the same tender question in her
ear as she stood admiring the beauty of the malachite doors. Elcy,
finding at last that it was impossible to evade the question, begged of
the Major not to press her for an answer, telling him that the
remembrance of his great kindness would always insure him her best
regard, and as she said so, the frank-hearted girl shook him by the hand
in token of her friendship; all of which the sanguine Major construed
into a modest assent to his proposal, and he plucked up his shirt
collar, as he felt as if the snows of some thirty winters had been
suddenly swept away from his head. On the return home of the party,
after their day’s tour of the world, the Major announced at tea that he
proposed passing the remainder of his days in Buttermere, and it was
accordingly arranged between himself and Cursty that they should leave
London for Cumberland with the least possible delay.

But the departure of the Sandboys and the Major was doomed to be delayed
once more; for Mrs. Cursty no sooner received a full and impartial
account from Elcy and Jobby, of all the many curiosities contained
beneath the huge glass case of the Crystal Palace, than she made up her
mind she would have one peep at it before she left.

And when Mrs. Sandboys had feasted her eyes on the banquet of the works
of Industry of all nations, she in her turn came back with a glowing
account of its many marvels, so that poor Cursty began inwardly to long
for a peep at it himself, but remembering the vow he had registered on
the ceiling, he still pretended to be firm, though in his heart he was
really waiting for his friends to press him to abandon his resolution,
and to find some little excuse by which he could, with any show of
honour, sneak out of the determination he had come to; and in the hope
of their so doing, he managed to put off their departure, day after day,
until at last, on the Monday morning fixed for their return to
Buttermere, as Cursty sat at breakfast, sipping his hot tea hastily, so
as to be in time for the train to the North, he confessed it would be a
shame for him to go back without seeing the Exhibition. Accordingly, he
asked the Major if, as a man of honour, he thought he could rescind his
vow, saying that it struck him that, as he had taken an oath he would
not stir a foot to get to the Great Exhibition, that did not prevent his
being carried there. The Major smiled at the equivocation, and telling
his friend that he might do so, and still preserve his honour unsullied,
Mr. Sandboys consented that the cab which was then at the door to convey
them to the station on their way back to their mountain home, should go
round by the Exhibition, and drop him at the transept, so that he might
pop his head in, and just be able to say that he had seen it, after all.

The Major who, while Cursty was coquetting with his conscience, stood at
the window entertaining himself with the perusal of the morning paper,
which he had bought to lighten the tedium of the long journey, no sooner
heard the announcement of his friend’s altered determination, than he
shouted out, “It’s no use now, Cursty! for here is a long account of the
closing of the Exhibition last Saturday.” Mr. Sandboys’ jaw fell like a
carriage dog’s, and, knocking his “wide-awake” on his head, he hurried
into the cab, and in a minute the Sandboys family, in company with the
Major, were on their way back to Buttermere, Cursty vowing that if there
was ever another Exhibition, he would never think of coming up to London
again to enjoy himself.



                                THE END.



     Savill & Edwards, Printers, 4, Chandos-street, Covent garden.


------------------------------------------------------------------------




 ● Transcriber’s Notes:
    ○ The inconsistent formatting of chapter headings was regularized.
    ○ Missing or obscured punctuation was silently corrected.
    ○ Typographical errors were silently corrected.
    ○ Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation were made consistent only
      when a predominant form was found in this book.
    ○ Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_);
      text that was bold by “equal” signs (=bold=).