Sketches by Boz


Illustrative of Every-Day Life
and Every-Day People

by Charles Dickens


_With Illustrations by George Cruickshank and Phiz_


LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, ld.
NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1903




PREFACE


The whole of these Sketches were written and published, one by one,
when I was a very young man. They were collected and republished while
I was still a very young man; and sent into the world with all their
imperfections (a good many) on their heads.

They comprise my first attempts at authorship—with the exception of
certain tragedies achieved at the mature age of eight or ten, and
represented with great applause to overflowing nurseries. I am
conscious of their often being extremely crude and ill-considered, and
bearing obvious marks of haste and inexperience; particularly in that
section of the present volume which is comprised under the general head
of Tales.

But as this collection is not originated now, and was very leniently
and favourably received when it was first made, I have not felt it
right either to remodel or expunge, beyond a few words and phrases here
and there.




OUR PARISH




CHAPTER I—THE BEADLE. THE PARISH ENGINE. THE SCHOOLMASTER


How much is conveyed in those two short words—‘The Parish!’ And with
how many tales of distress and misery, of broken fortune and ruined
hopes, too often of unrelieved wretchedness and successful knavery, are
they associated! A poor man, with small earnings, and a large family,
just manages to live on from hand to mouth, and to procure food from
day to day; he has barely sufficient to satisfy the present cravings of
nature, and can take no heed of the future. His taxes are in arrear,
quarter-day passes by, another quarter-day arrives: he can procure no
more quarter for himself, and is summoned by—the parish. His goods are
distrained, his children are crying with cold and hunger, and the very
bed on which his sick wife is lying, is dragged from beneath her. What
can he do? To whom is he to apply for relief? To private charity? To
benevolent individuals? Certainly not—there is his parish. There are
the parish vestry, the parish infirmary, the parish surgeon, the parish
officers, the parish beadle. Excellent institutions, and gentle,
kind-hearted men. The woman dies—she is buried by the parish. The
children have no protector—they are taken care of by the parish. The
man first neglects, and afterwards cannot obtain, work—he is relieved
by the parish; and when distress and drunkenness have done their work
upon him, he is maintained, a harmless babbling idiot, in the parish
asylum.

The parish beadle is one of the most, perhaps _the_ most, important
member of the local administration. He is not so well off as the
churchwardens, certainly, nor is he so learned as the vestry-clerk, nor
does he order things quite so much his own way as either of them. But
his power is very great, notwithstanding; and the dignity of his office
is never impaired by the absence of efforts on his part to maintain it.
The beadle of our parish is a splendid fellow. It is quite delightful
to hear him, as he explains the state of the existing poor laws to the
deaf old women in the board-room passage on business nights; and to
hear what he said to the senior churchwarden, and what the senior
churchwarden said to him; and what ‘we’ (the beadle and the other
gentlemen) came to the determination of doing. A miserable-looking
woman is called into the boardroom, and represents a case of extreme
destitution, affecting herself—a widow, with six small children. ‘Where
do you live?’ inquires one of the overseers. ‘I rents a two-pair back,
gentlemen, at Mrs. Brown’s, Number 3, Little King William’s-alley,
which has lived there this fifteen year, and knows me to be very
hard-working and industrious, and when my poor husband was alive,
gentlemen, as died in the hospital’—‘Well, well,’ interrupts the
overseer, taking a note of the address, ‘I’ll send Simmons, the beadle,
to-morrow morning, to ascertain whether your story is correct; and if
so, I suppose you must have an order into the House—Simmons, go to this
woman’s the first thing to-morrow morning, will you?’ Simmons bows
assent, and ushers the woman out. Her previous admiration of ‘the
board’ (who all sit behind great books, and with their hats on) fades
into nothing before her respect for her lace-trimmed conductor; and her
account of what has passed inside, increases—if that be possible—the
marks of respect, shown by the assembled crowd, to that solemn
functionary. As to taking out a summons, it’s quite a hopeless case if
Simmons attends it, on behalf of the parish. He knows all the titles of
the Lord Mayor by heart; states the case without a single stammer: and
it is even reported that on one occasion he ventured to make a joke,
which the Lord Mayor’s head footman (who happened to be present)
afterwards told an intimate friend, confidentially, was almost equal to
one of Mr. Hobler’s.

See him again on Sunday in his state-coat and cocked-hat, with a
large-headed staff for show in his left hand, and a small cane for use
in his right. How pompously he marshals the children into their places!
and how demurely the little urchins look at him askance as he surveys
them when they are all seated, with a glare of the eye peculiar to
beadles! The churchwardens and overseers being duly installed in their
curtained pews, he seats himself on a mahogany bracket, erected
expressly for him at the top of the aisle, and divides his attention
between his prayer-book and the boys. Suddenly, just at the
commencement of the communion service, when the whole congregation is
hushed into a profound silence, broken only by the voice of the
officiating clergyman, a penny is heard to ring on the stone floor of
the aisle with astounding clearness. Observe the generalship of the
beadle. His involuntary look of horror is instantly changed into one of
perfect indifference, as if he were the only person present who had not
heard the noise. The artifice succeeds. After putting forth his right
leg now and then, as a feeler, the victim who dropped the money
ventures to make one or two distinct dives after it; and the beadle,
gliding softly round, salutes his little round head, when it again
appears above the seat, with divers double knocks, administered with
the cane before noticed, to the intense delight of three young men in
an adjacent pew, who cough violently at intervals until the conclusion
of the sermon.

Such are a few traits of the importance and gravity of a parish
beadle—a gravity which has never been disturbed in any case that has
come under our observation, except when the services of that
particularly useful machine, a parish fire-engine, are required: then
indeed all is bustle. Two little boys run to the beadle as fast as
their legs will carry them, and report from their own personal
observation that some neighbouring chimney is on fire; the engine is
hastily got out, and a plentiful supply of boys being obtained, and
harnessed to it with ropes, away they rattle over the pavement, the
beadle, running—we do not exaggerate—running at the side, until they
arrive at some house, smelling strongly of soot, at the door of which
the beadle knocks with considerable gravity for half-an-hour. No
attention being paid to these manual applications, and the turn-cock
having turned on the water, the engine turns off amidst the shouts of
the boys; it pulls up once more at the work-house, and the beadle
‘pulls up’ the unfortunate householder next day, for the amount of his
legal reward. We never saw a parish engine at a regular fire but once.
It came up in gallant style—three miles and a half an hour, at least;
there was a capital supply of water, and it was first on the spot. Bang
went the pumps—the people cheered—the beadle perspired profusely; but
it was unfortunately discovered, just as they were going to put the
fire out, that nobody understood the process by which the engine was
filled with water; and that eighteen boys, and a man, had exhausted
themselves in pumping for twenty minutes, without producing the
slightest effect!

The personages next in importance to the beadle, are the master of the
workhouse and the parish schoolmaster. The vestry-clerk, as everybody
knows, is a short, pudgy little man, in black, with a thick gold
watch-chain of considerable length, terminating in two large seals and
a key. He is an attorney, and generally in a bustle; at no time more
so, than when he is hurrying to some parochial meeting, with his gloves
crumpled up in one hand, and a large red book under the other arm. As
to the churchwardens and overseers, we exclude them altogether, because
all we know of them is, that they are usually respectable tradesmen,
who wear hats with brims inclined to flatness, and who occasionally
testify in gilt letters on a blue ground, in some conspicuous part of
the church, to the important fact of a gallery having being enlarged
and beautified, or an organ rebuilt.

The master of the workhouse is not, in our parish—nor is he usually in
any other—one of that class of men the better part of whose existence
has passed away, and who drag out the remainder in some inferior
situation, with just enough thought of the past, to feel degraded by,
and discontented with the present. We are unable to guess precisely to
our own satisfaction what station the man can have occupied before; we
should think he had been an inferior sort of attorney’s clerk, or else
the master of a national school—whatever he was, it is clear his
present position is a change for the better. His income is small
certainly, as the rusty black coat and threadbare velvet collar
demonstrate: but then he lives free of house-rent, has a limited
allowance of coals and candles, and an almost unlimited allowance of
authority in his petty kingdom. He is a tall, thin, bony man; always
wears shoes and black cotton stockings with his surtout; and eyes you,
as you pass his parlour-window, as if he wished you were a pauper, just
to give you a specimen of his power. He is an admirable specimen of a
small tyrant: morose, brutish, and ill-tempered; bullying to his
inferiors, cringing to his superiors, and jealous of the influence and
authority of the beadle.

Our schoolmaster is just the very reverse of this amiable official. He
has been one of those men one occasionally hears of, on whom misfortune
seems to have set her mark; nothing he ever did, or was concerned in,
appears to have prospered. A rich old relation who had brought him up,
and openly announced his intention of providing for him, left him
10,000_l._ in his will, and revoked the bequest in a codicil. Thus
unexpectedly reduced to the necessity of providing for himself, he
procured a situation in a public office. The young clerks below him,
died off as if there were a plague among them; but the old fellows over
his head, for the reversion of whose places he was anxiously waiting,
lived on and on, as if they were immortal. He speculated and lost. He
speculated again and won—but never got his money. His talents were
great; his disposition, easy, generous and liberal. His friends
profited by the one, and abused the other. Loss succeeded loss;
misfortune crowded on misfortune; each successive day brought him
nearer the verge of hopeless penury, and the quondam friends who had
been warmest in their professions, grew strangely cold and indifferent.
He had children whom he loved, and a wife on whom he doted. The former
turned their backs on him; the latter died broken-hearted. He went with
the stream—it had ever been his failing, and he had not courage
sufficient to bear up against so many shocks—he had never cared for
himself, and the only being who had cared for him, in his poverty and
distress, was spared to him no longer. It was at this period that he
applied for parochial relief. Some kind-hearted man who had known him
in happier times, chanced to be churchwarden that year, and through his
interest he was appointed to his present situation.

He is an old man now. Of the many who once crowded round him in all the
hollow friendship of boon-companionship, some have died, some have
fallen like himself, some have prospered—all have forgotten him. Time
and misfortune have mercifully been permitted to impair his memory, and
use has habituated him to his present condition. Meek, uncomplaining,
and zealous in the discharge of his duties, he has been allowed to hold
his situation long beyond the usual period; and he will no doubt
continue to hold it, until infirmity renders him incapable, or death
releases him. As the grey-headed old man feebly paces up and down the
sunny side of the little court-yard between school hours, it would be
difficult, indeed, for the most intimate of his former friends to
recognise their once gay and happy associate, in the person of the
Pauper Schoolmaster.




CHAPTER II—THE CURATE. THE OLD LADY. THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN


We commenced our last chapter with the beadle of our parish, because we
are deeply sensible of the importance and dignity of his office. We
will begin the present, with the clergyman. Our curate is a young
gentleman of such prepossessing appearance, and fascinating manners,
that within one month after his first appearance in the parish, half
the young-lady inhabitants were melancholy with religion, and the other
half, desponding with love. Never were so many young ladies seen in our
parish church on Sunday before; and never had the little round angels’
faces on Mr. Tomkins’s monument in the side aisle, beheld such devotion
on earth as they all exhibited. He was about five-and-twenty when he
first came to astonish the parishioners. He parted his hair on the
centre of his forehead in the form of a Norman arch, wore a brilliant
of the first water on the fourth finger of his left hand (which he
always applied to his left cheek when he read prayers), and had a deep
sepulchral voice of unusual solemnity. Innumerable were the calls made
by prudent mammas on our new curate, and innumerable the invitations
with which he was assailed, and which, to do him justice, he readily
accepted. If his manner in the pulpit had created an impression in his
favour, the sensation was increased tenfold, by his appearance in
private circles. Pews in the immediate vicinity of the pulpit or
reading-desk rose in value; sittings in the centre aisle were at a
premium: an inch of room in the front row of the gallery could not be
procured for love or money; and some people even went so far as to
assert, that the three Miss Browns, who had an obscure family pew just
behind the churchwardens’, were detected, one Sunday, in the free seats
by the communion-table, actually lying in wait for the curate as he
passed to the vestry! He began to preach extempore sermons, and even
grave papas caught the infection. He got out of bed at half-past twelve
o’clock one winter’s night, to half-baptise a washerwoman’s child in a
slop-basin, and the gratitude of the parishioners knew no bounds—the
very churchwardens grew generous, and insisted on the parish defraying
the expense of the watch-box on wheels, which the new curate had
ordered for himself, to perform the funeral service in, in wet weather.
He sent three pints of gruel and a quarter of a pound of tea to a poor
woman who had been brought to bed of four small children, all at
once—the parish were charmed. He got up a subscription for her—the
woman’s fortune was made. He spoke for one hour and twenty-five
minutes, at an anti-slavery meeting at the Goat and Boots—the
enthusiasm was at its height. A proposal was set on foot for presenting
the curate with a piece of plate, as a mark of esteem for his valuable
services rendered to the parish. The list of subscriptions was filled
up in no time; the contest was, not who should escape the contribution,
but who should be the foremost to subscribe. A splendid silver inkstand
was made, and engraved with an appropriate inscription; the curate was
invited to a public breakfast, at the before-mentioned Goat and Boots;
the inkstand was presented in a neat speech by Mr. Gubbins, the
ex-churchwarden, and acknowledged by the curate in terms which drew
tears into the eyes of all present—the very waiters were melted.

One would have supposed that, by this time, the theme of universal
admiration was lifted to the very pinnacle of popularity. No such
thing. The curate began to cough; four fits of coughing one morning
between the Litany and the Epistle, and five in the afternoon service.
Here was a discovery—the curate was consumptive. How interestingly
melancholy! If the young ladies were energetic before, their sympathy
and solicitude now knew no bounds. Such a man as the curate—such a
dear—such a perfect love—to be consumptive! It was too much. Anonymous
presents of black-currant jam, and lozenges, elastic waistcoats, bosom
friends, and warm stockings, poured in upon the curate until he was as
completely fitted out with winter clothing, as if he were on the verge
of an expedition to the North Pole: verbal bulletins of the state of
his health were circulated throughout the parish half-a-dozen times a
day; and the curate was in the very zenith of his popularity.

About this period, a change came over the spirit of the parish. A very
quiet, respectable, dozing old gentleman, who had officiated in our
chapel-of-ease for twelve years previously, died one fine morning,
without having given any notice whatever of his intention. This
circumstance gave rise to counter-sensation the first; and the arrival
of his successor occasioned counter-sensation the second. He was a
pale, thin, cadaverous man, with large black eyes, and long straggling
black hair: his dress was slovenly in the extreme, his manner ungainly,
his doctrines startling; in short, he was in every respect the
antipodes of the curate. Crowds of our female parishioners flocked to
hear him; at first, because he was _so_ odd-looking, then because his
face was _so_ expressive, then because he preached _so_ well; and at
last, because they really thought that, after all, there was something
about him which it was quite impossible to describe. As to the curate,
he was all very well; but certainly, after all, there was no denying
that—that—in short, the curate wasn’t a novelty, and the other
clergyman was. The inconstancy of public opinion is proverbial: the
congregation migrated one by one. The curate coughed till he was black
in the face—it was in vain. He respired with difficulty—it was equally
ineffectual in awakening sympathy. Seats are once again to be had in
any part of our parish church, and the chapel-of-ease is going to be
enlarged, as it is crowded to suffocation every Sunday!

The best known and most respected among our parishioners, is an old
lady, who resided in our parish long before our name was registered in
the list of baptisms. Our parish is a suburban one, and the old lady
lives in a neat row of houses in the most airy and pleasant part of it.
The house is her own; and it, and everything about it, except the old
lady herself, who looks a little older than she did ten years ago, is
in just the same state as when the old gentleman was living. The little
front parlour, which is the old lady’s ordinary sitting-room, is a
perfect picture of quiet neatness; the carpet is covered with brown
Holland, the glass and picture-frames are carefully enveloped in yellow
muslin; the table-covers are never taken off, except when the leaves
are turpentined and bees’-waxed, an operation which is regularly
commenced every other morning at half-past nine o’clock—and the little
nicknacks are always arranged in precisely the same manner. The greater
part of these are presents from little girls whose parents live in the
same row; but some of them, such as the two old-fashioned watches
(which never keep the same time, one being always a quarter of an hour
too slow, and the other a quarter of an hour too fast), the little
picture of the Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold as they appeared
in the Royal Box at Drury Lane Theatre, and others of the same class,
have been in the old lady’s possession for many years. Here the old
lady sits with her spectacles on, busily engaged in needlework—near the
window in summer time; and if she sees you coming up the steps, and you
happen to be a favourite, she trots out to open the street-door for you
before you knock, and as you must be fatigued after that hot walk,
insists on your swallowing two glasses of sherry before you exert
yourself by talking. If you call in the evening you will find her
cheerful, but rather more serious than usual, with an open Bible on the
table, before her, of which ‘Sarah,’ who is just as neat and methodical
as her mistress, regularly reads two or three chapters in the parlour
aloud.

The old lady sees scarcely any company, except the little girls before
noticed, each of whom has always a regular fixed day for a periodical
tea-drinking with her, to which the child looks forward as the greatest
treat of its existence. She seldom visits at a greater distance than
the next door but one on either side; and when she drinks tea here,
Sarah runs out first and knocks a double-knock, to prevent the
possibility of her ‘Missis’s’ catching cold by having to wait at the
door. She is very scrupulous in returning these little invitations, and
when she asks Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so, to meet Mr. and Mrs.
Somebody-else, Sarah and she dust the urn, and the best china
tea-service, and the Pope Joan board; and the visitors are received in
the drawing-room in great state. She has but few relations, and they
are scattered about in different parts of the country, and she seldom
sees them. She has a son in India, whom she always describes to you as
a fine, handsome fellow—so like the profile of his poor dear father
over the sideboard, but the old lady adds, with a mournful shake of the
head, that he has always been one of her greatest trials; and that
indeed he once almost broke her heart; but it pleased God to enable her
to get the better of it, and she would prefer your never mentioning the
subject to her again. She has a great number of pensioners: and on
Saturday, after she comes back from market, there is a regular levee of
old men and women in the passage, waiting for their weekly gratuity.
Her name always heads the list of any benevolent subscriptions, and
hers are always the most liberal donations to the Winter Coal and Soup
Distribution Society. She subscribed twenty pounds towards the erection
of an organ in our parish church, and was so overcome the first Sunday
the children sang to it, that she was obliged to be carried out by the
pew-opener. Her entrance into church on Sunday is always the signal for
a little bustle in the side aisle, occasioned by a general rise among
the poor people, who bow and curtsey until the pew-opener has ushered
the old lady into her accustomed seat, dropped a respectful curtsey,
and shut the door: and the same ceremony is repeated on her leaving
church, when she walks home with the family next door but one, and
talks about the sermon all the way, invariably opening the conversation
by asking the youngest boy where the text was.

Thus, with the annual variation of a trip to some quiet place on the
sea-coast, passes the old lady’s life. It has rolled on in the same
unvarying and benevolent course for many years now, and must at no
distant period be brought to its final close. She looks forward to its
termination, with calmness and without apprehension. She has everything
to hope and nothing to fear.

A very different personage, but one who has rendered himself very
conspicuous in our parish, is one of the old lady’s next-door
neighbours. He is an old naval officer on half-pay, and his bluff and
unceremonious behaviour disturbs the old lady’s domestic economy, not a
little. In the first place, he _will_ smoke cigars in the front court,
and when he wants something to drink with them—which is by no means an
uncommon circumstance—he lifts up the old lady’s knocker with his
walking-stick, and demands to have a glass of table ale, handed over
the rails. In addition to this cool proceeding, he is a bit of a Jack
of all trades, or to use his own words, ‘a regular Robinson Crusoe;’
and nothing delights him better than to experimentalise on the old
lady’s property. One morning he got up early, and planted three or four
roots of full-grown marigolds in every bed of her front garden, to the
inconceivable astonishment of the old lady, who actually thought when
she got up and looked out of the window, that it was some strange
eruption which had come out in the night. Another time he took to
pieces the eight-day clock on the front landing, under pretence of
cleaning the works, which he put together again, by some undiscovered
process, in so wonderful a manner, that the large hand has done nothing
but trip up the little one ever since. Then he took to breeding
silk-worms, which he _would_ bring in two or three times a day, in
little paper boxes, to show the old lady, generally dropping a worm or
two at every visit. The consequence was, that one morning a very stout
silk-worm was discovered in the act of walking up-stairs—probably with
the view of inquiring after his friends, for, on further inspection, it
appeared that some of his companions had already found their way to
every room in the house. The old lady went to the seaside in despair,
and during her absence he completely effaced the name from her brass
door-plate, in his attempts to polish it with aqua-fortis.

But all this is nothing to his seditious conduct in public life. He
attends every vestry meeting that is held; always opposes the
constituted authorities of the parish, denounces the profligacy of the
churchwardens, contests legal points against the vestry-clerk, will
make the tax-gatherer call for his money till he won’t call any longer,
and then he sends it: finds fault with the sermon every Sunday, says
that the organist ought to be ashamed of himself, offers to back
himself for any amount to sing the psalms better than all the children
put together, male and female; and, in short, conducts himself in the
most turbulent and uproarious manner. The worst of it is, that having a
high regard for the old lady, he wants to make her a convert to his
views, and therefore walks into her little parlour with his newspaper
in his hand, and talks violent politics by the hour. He is a
charitable, open-hearted old fellow at bottom, after all; so, although
he puts the old lady a little out occasionally, they agree very well in
the main, and she laughs as much at each feat of his handiwork when it
is all over, as anybody else.




CHAPTER III—THE FOUR SISTERS


The row of houses in which the old lady and her troublesome neighbour
reside, comprises, beyond all doubt, a greater number of characters
within its circumscribed limits, than all the rest of the parish put
together. As we cannot, consistently with our present plan, however,
extend the number of our parochial sketches beyond six, it will be
better perhaps, to select the most peculiar, and to introduce them at
once without further preface.

The four Miss Willises, then, settled in our parish thirteen years ago.
It is a melancholy reflection that the old adage, ‘time and tide wait
for no man,’ applies with equal force to the fairer portion of the
creation; and willingly would we conceal the fact, that even thirteen
years ago the Miss Willises were far from juvenile. Our duty as
faithful parochial chroniclers, however, is paramount to every other
consideration, and we are bound to state, that thirteen years since,
the authorities in matrimonial cases, considered the youngest Miss
Willis in a very precarious state, while the eldest sister was
positively given over, as being far beyond all human hope. Well, the
Miss Willises took a lease of the house; it was fresh painted and
papered from top to bottom: the paint inside was all wainscoted, the
marble all cleaned, the old grates taken down, and register-stoves, you
could see to dress by, put up; four trees were planted in the back
garden, several small baskets of gravel sprinkled over the front one,
vans of elegant furniture arrived, spring blinds were fitted to the
windows, carpenters who had been employed in the various preparations,
alterations, and repairs, made confidential statements to the different
maid-servants in the row, relative to the magnificent scale on which
the Miss Willises were commencing; the maid-servants told their
‘Missises,’ the Missises told their friends, and vague rumours were
circulated throughout the parish, that No. 25, in Gordon-place, had
been taken by four maiden ladies of immense property.

At last, the Miss Willises moved in; and then the ‘calling’ began. The
house was the perfection of neatness—so were the four Miss Willises.
Everything was formal, stiff, and cold—so were the four Miss Willises.
Not a single chair of the whole set was ever seen out of its place—not
a single Miss Willis of the whole four was ever seen out of hers. There
they always sat, in the same places, doing precisely the same things at
the same hour. The eldest Miss Willis used to knit, the second to draw,
the two others to play duets on the piano. They seemed to have no
separate existence, but to have made up their minds just to winter
through life together. They were three long graces in drapery, with the
addition, like a school-dinner, of another long grace afterwards—the
three fates with another sister—the Siamese twins multiplied by two.
The eldest Miss Willis grew bilious—the four Miss Willises grew bilious
immediately. The eldest Miss Willis grew ill-tempered and religious—the
four Miss Willises were ill-tempered and religious directly. Whatever
the eldest did, the others did, and whatever anybody else did, they all
disapproved of; and thus they vegetated—living in Polar harmony among
themselves, and, as they sometimes went out, or saw company ‘in a
quiet-way’ at home, occasionally icing the neighbours. Three years
passed over in this way, when an unlooked for and extraordinary
phenomenon occurred. The Miss Willises showed symptoms of summer, the
frost gradually broke up; a complete thaw took place. Was it possible?
one of the four Miss Willises was going to be married!

Now, where on earth the husband came from, by what feelings the poor
man could have been actuated, or by what process of reasoning the four
Miss Willises succeeded in persuading themselves that it was possible
for a man to marry one of them, without marrying them all, are
questions too profound for us to resolve: certain it is, however, that
the visits of Mr. Robinson (a gentleman in a public office, with a good
salary and a little property of his own, besides) were received—that
the four Miss Willises were courted in due form by the said Mr
Robinson—that the neighbours were perfectly frantic in their anxiety to
discover which of the four Miss Willises was the fortunate fair, and
that the difficulty they experienced in solving the problem was not at
all lessened by the announcement of the eldest Miss Willis,—‘_We_ are
going to marry Mr. Robinson.’

It was very extraordinary. They were so completely identified, the one
with the other, that the curiosity of the whole row—even of the old
lady herself—was roused almost beyond endurance. The subject was
discussed at every little card-table and tea-drinking. The old
gentleman of silk-worm notoriety did not hesitate to express his
decided opinion that Mr. Robinson was of Eastern descent, and
contemplated marrying the whole family at once; and the row, generally,
shook their heads with considerable gravity, and declared the business
to be very mysterious. They hoped it might all end well;—it certainly
had a very singular appearance, but still it would be uncharitable to
express any opinion without good grounds to go upon, and certainly the
Miss Willises were _quite_ old enough to judge for themselves, and to
be sure people ought to know their own business best, and so forth.

At last, one fine morning, at a quarter before eight o’clock, a.m., two
glass-coaches drove up to the Miss Willises’ door, at which Mr.
Robinson had arrived in a cab ten minutes before, dressed in a
light-blue coat and double-milled kersey pantaloons, white neckerchief,
pumps, and dress-gloves, his manner denoting, as appeared from the
evidence of the housemaid at No. 23, who was sweeping the door-steps at
the time, a considerable degree of nervous excitement. It was also
hastily reported on the same testimony, that the cook who opened the
door, wore a large white bow of unusual dimensions, in a much smarter
head-dress than the regulation cap to which the Miss Willises
invariably restricted the somewhat excursive tastes of female servants
in general.

The intelligence spread rapidly from house to house. It was quite clear
that the eventful morning had at length arrived; the whole row
stationed themselves behind their first and second floor blinds, and
waited the result in breathless expectation.

At last the Miss Willises’ door opened; the door of the first
glass-coach did the same. Two gentlemen, and a pair of ladies to
correspond—friends of the family, no doubt; up went the steps, bang
went the door, off went the first class-coach, and up came the second.

The street door opened again; the excitement of the whole row
increased—Mr. Robinson and the eldest Miss Willis. ‘I thought so,’ said
the lady at No. 19; ‘I always said it was _Miss_ Willis!’—‘Well, I
never!’ ejaculated the young lady at No. 18 to the young lady at No.
17.—‘Did you ever, dear!’ responded the young lady at No. 17 to the
young lady at No. 18. ‘It’s too ridiculous!’ exclaimed a spinster of an
_un_certain age, at No. 16, joining in the conversation. But who shall
portray the astonishment of Gordon-place, when Mr. Robinson handed in
_all_ the Miss Willises, one after the other, and then squeezed himself
into an acute angle of the glass-coach, which forthwith proceeded at a
brisk pace, after the other glass-coach, which other glass-coach had
itself proceeded, at a brisk pace, in the direction of the parish
church! Who shall depict the perplexity of the clergyman, when _all_
the Miss Willises knelt down at the communion-table, and repeated the
responses incidental to the marriage service in an audible voice—or who
shall describe the confusion which prevailed, when—even after the
difficulties thus occasioned had been adjusted—_all_ the Miss Willises
went into hysterics at the conclusion of the ceremony, until the sacred
edifice resounded with their united wailings!

As the four sisters and Mr. Robinson continued to occupy the same house
after this memorable occasion, and as the married sister, whoever she
was, never appeared in public without the other three, we are not quite
clear that the neighbours ever would have discovered the real Mrs.
Robinson, but for a circumstance of the most gratifying description,
which _will_ happen occasionally in the best-regulated families. Three
quarter-days elapsed, and the row, on whom a new light appeared to have
been bursting for some time, began to speak with a sort of implied
confidence on the subject, and to wonder how Mrs. Robinson—the youngest
Miss Willis that was—got on; and servants might be seen running up the
steps, about nine or ten o’clock every morning, with ‘Missis’s
compliments, and wishes to know how Mrs. Robinson finds herself this
morning?’ And the answer always was, ‘Mrs. Robinson’s compliments, and
she’s in very good spirits, and doesn’t find herself any worse.’ The
piano was heard no longer, the knitting-needles were laid aside,
drawing was neglected, and mantua-making and millinery, on the smallest
scale imaginable, appeared to have become the favourite amusement of
the whole family. The parlour wasn’t quite as tidy as it used to be,
and if you called in the morning, you would see lying on a table, with
an old newspaper carelessly thrown over them, two or three particularly
small caps, rather larger than if they had been made for a
moderate-sized doll, with a small piece of lace, in the shape of a
horse-shoe, let in behind: or perhaps a white robe, not very large in
circumference, but very much out of proportion in point of length, with
a little tucker round the top, and a frill round the bottom; and once
when we called, we saw a long white roller, with a kind of blue margin
down each side, the probable use of which, we were at a loss to
conjecture. Then we fancied that Dr. Dawson, the surgeon, &c., who
displays a large lamp with a different colour in every pane of glass,
at the corner of the row, began to be knocked up at night oftener than
he used to be; and once we were very much alarmed by hearing a
hackney-coach stop at Mrs. Robinson’s door, at half-past two o’clock in
the morning, out of which there emerged a fat old woman, in a cloak and
night-cap, with a bundle in one hand, and a pair of pattens in the
other, who looked as if she had been suddenly knocked up out of bed for
some very special purpose.

When we got up in the morning we saw that the knocker was tied up in an
old white kid glove; and we, in our innocence (we were in a state of
bachelorship then), wondered what on earth it all meant, until we heard
the eldest Miss Willis, _in propriâ personâ_ say, with great dignity,
in answer to the next inquiry, ‘_My_ compliments, and Mrs. Robinson’s
doing as well as can be expected, and the little girl thrives
wonderfully.’ And then, in common with the rest of the row, our
curiosity was satisfied, and we began to wonder it had never occurred
to us what the matter was, before.




CHAPTER IV—THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE


A great event has recently occurred in our parish. A contest of
paramount interest has just terminated; a parochial convulsion has
taken place. It has been succeeded by a glorious triumph, which the
country—or at least the parish—it is all the same—will long remember.
We have had an election; an election for beadle. The supporters of the
old beadle system have been defeated in their stronghold, and the
advocates of the great new beadle principles have achieved a proud
victory.

Our parish, which, like all other parishes, is a little world of its
own, has long been divided into two parties, whose contentions,
slumbering for a while, have never failed to burst forth with unabated
vigour, on any occasion on which they could by possibility be renewed.
Watching-rates, lighting-rates, paving-rates, sewer’s-rates,
church-rates, poor’s-rates—all sorts of rates, have been in their turns
the subjects of a grand struggle; and as to questions of patronage, the
asperity and determination with which they have been contested is
scarcely credible.

The leader of the official party—the steady advocate of the
churchwardens, and the unflinching supporter of the overseers—is an old
gentleman who lives in our row. He owns some half a dozen houses in it,
and always walks on the opposite side of the way, so that he may be
able to take in a view of the whole of his property at once. He is a
tall, thin, bony man, with an interrogative nose, and little restless
perking eyes, which appear to have been given him for the sole purpose
of peeping into other people’s affairs with. He is deeply impressed
with the importance of our parish business, and prides himself, not a
little, on his style of addressing the parishioners in vestry
assembled. His views are rather confined than extensive; his principles
more narrow than liberal. He has been heard to declaim very loudly in
favour of the liberty of the press, and advocates the repeal of the
stamp duty on newspapers, because the daily journals who now have a
monopoly of the public, never give _verbatim_ reports of vestry
meetings. He would not appear egotistical for the world, but at the
same time he must say, that there are _speeches_—that celebrated speech
of his own, on the emoluments of the sexton, and the duties of the
office, for instance—which might be communicated to the public, greatly
to their improvement and advantage.

His great opponent in public life is Captain Purday, the old naval
officer on half-pay, to whom we have already introduced our readers.
The captain being a determined opponent of the constituted authorities,
whoever they may chance to be, and our other friend being their steady
supporter, with an equal disregard of their individual merits, it will
readily be supposed, that occasions for their coming into direct
collision are neither few nor far between. They divided the vestry
fourteen times on a motion for heating the church with warm water
instead of coals: and made speeches about liberty and expenditure, and
prodigality and hot water, which threw the whole parish into a state of
excitement. Then the captain, when he was on the visiting committee,
and his opponent overseer, brought forward certain distinct and
specific charges relative to the management of the workhouse, boldly
expressed his total want of confidence in the existing authorities, and
moved for ‘a copy of the recipe by which the paupers’ soup was
prepared, together with any documents relating thereto.’ This the
overseer steadily resisted; he fortified himself by precedent, appealed
to the established usage, and declined to produce the papers, on the
ground of the injury that would be done to the public service, if
documents of a strictly private nature, passing between the master of
the workhouse and the cook, were to be thus dragged to light on the
motion of any individual member of the vestry. The motion was lost by a
majority of two; and then the captain, who never allows himself to be
defeated, moved for a committee of inquiry into the whole subject. The
affair grew serious: the question was discussed at meeting after
meeting, and vestry after vestry; speeches were made, attacks
repudiated, personal defiances exchanged, explanations received, and
the greatest excitement prevailed, until at last, just as the question
was going to be finally decided, the vestry found that somehow or
other, they had become entangled in a point of form, from which it was
impossible to escape with propriety. So, the motion was dropped, and
everybody looked extremely important, and seemed quite satisfied with
the meritorious nature of the whole proceeding.

This was the state of affairs in our parish a week or two since, when
Simmons, the beadle, suddenly died. The lamented deceased had
over-exerted himself, a day or two previously, in conveying an aged
female, highly intoxicated, to the strong room of the work-house. The
excitement thus occasioned, added to a severe cold, which this
indefatigable officer had caught in his capacity of director of the
parish engine, by inadvertently playing over himself instead of a fire,
proved too much for a constitution already enfeebled by age; and the
intelligence was conveyed to the Board one evening that Simmons had
died, and left his respects.

The breath was scarcely out of the body of the deceased functionary,
when the field was filled with competitors for the vacant office, each
of whom rested his claims to public support, entirely on the number and
extent of his family, as if the office of beadle were originally
instituted as an encouragement for the propagation of the human
species. ‘Bung for Beadle. Five small children!’—‘Hopkins for Beadle.
Seven small children!!’—‘Timkins for Beadle. Nine small children!!!’
Such were the placards in large black letters on a white ground, which
were plentifully pasted on the walls, and posted in the windows of the
principal shops. Timkins’s success was considered certain: several
mothers of families half promised their votes, and the nine small
children would have run over the course, but for the production of
another placard, announcing the appearance of a still more meritorious
candidate. ‘Spruggins for Beadle. Ten small children (two of them
twins), and a wife!!!’ There was no resisting this; ten small children
would have been almost irresistible in themselves, without the twins,
but the touching parenthesis about that interesting production of
nature, and the still more touching allusion to Mrs. Spruggins, must
ensure success. Spruggins was the favourite at once, and the appearance
of his lady, as she went about to solicit votes (which encouraged
confident hopes of a still further addition to the house of Spruggins
at no remote period), increased the general prepossession in his
favour. The other candidates, Bung alone excepted, resigned in despair.
The day of election was fixed; and the canvass proceeded with briskness
and perseverance on both sides.

The members of the vestry could not be supposed to escape the
contagious excitement inseparable from the occasion. The majority of
the lady inhabitants of the parish declared at once for Spruggins; and
the _quondam_ overseer took the same side, on the ground that men with
large families always had been elected to the office, and that although
he must admit, that, in other respects, Spruggins was the least
qualified candidate of the two, still it was an old practice, and he
saw no reason why an old practice should be departed from. This was
enough for the captain. He immediately sided with Bung, canvassed for
him personally in all directions, wrote squibs on Spruggins, and got
his butcher to skewer them up on conspicuous joints in his shop-front;
frightened his neighbour, the old lady, into a palpitation of the
heart, by his awful denunciations of Spruggins’s party; and bounced in
and out, and up and down, and backwards and forwards, until all the
sober inhabitants of the parish thought it inevitable that he must die
of a brain fever, long before the election began.

The day of election arrived. It was no longer an individual struggle,
but a party contest between the ins and outs. The question was, whether
the withering influence of the overseers, the domination of the
churchwardens, and the blighting despotism of the vestry-clerk, should
be allowed to render the election of beadle a form—a nullity: whether
they should impose a vestry-elected beadle on the parish, to do their
bidding and forward their views, or whether the parishioners,
fearlessly asserting their undoubted rights, should elect an
independent beadle of their own.

The nomination was fixed to take place in the vestry, but so great was
the throng of anxious spectators, that it was found necessary to
adjourn to the church, where the ceremony commenced with due solemnity.
The appearance of the churchwardens and overseers, and the
ex-churchwardens and ex-overseers, with Spruggins in the rear, excited
general attention. Spruggins was a little thin man, in rusty black,
with a long pale face, and a countenance expressive of care and
fatigue, which might either be attributed to the extent of his family
or the anxiety of his feelings. His opponent appeared in a cast-off
coat of the captain’s—a blue coat with bright buttons; white trousers,
and that description of shoes familiarly known by the appellation of
‘high-lows.’ There was a serenity in the open countenance of Bung—a
kind of moral dignity in his confident air—an ‘I wish you may get it’
sort of expression in his eye—which infused animation into his
supporters, and evidently dispirited his opponents.

The ex-churchwarden rose to propose Thomas Spruggins for beadle. He had
known him long. He had had his eye upon him closely for years; he had
watched him with twofold vigilance for months. (A parishioner here
suggested that this might be termed ‘taking a double sight,’ but the
observation was drowned in loud cries of ‘Order!’) He would repeat that
he had had his eye upon him for years, and this he would say, that a
more well-conducted, a more well-behaved, a more sober, a more quiet
man, with a more well-regulated mind, he had never met with. A man with
a larger family he had never known (cheers). The parish required a man
who could be depended on (‘Hear!’ from the Spruggins side, answered by
ironical cheers from the Bung party). Such a man he now proposed (‘No,’
‘Yes’). He would not allude to individuals (the ex-churchwarden
continued, in the celebrated negative style adopted by great speakers).
He would not advert to a gentleman who had once held a high rank in the
service of his majesty; he would not say, that that gentleman was no
gentleman; he would not assert, that that man was no man; he would not
say, that he was a turbulent parishioner; he would not say, that he had
grossly misbehaved himself, not only on this, but on all former
occasions; he would not say, that he was one of those discontented and
treasonable spirits, who carried confusion and disorder wherever they
went; he would not say, that he harboured in his heart envy, and
hatred, and malice, and all uncharitableness. No! He wished to have
everything comfortable and pleasant, and therefore, he would
say—nothing about him (cheers).

The captain replied in a similar parliamentary style. He would not say,
he was astonished at the speech they had just heard; he would not say,
he was disgusted (cheers). He would not retort the epithets which had
been hurled against him (renewed cheering); he would not allude to men
once in office, but now happily out of it, who had mismanaged the
workhouse, ground the paupers, diluted the beer, slack-baked the bread,
boned the meat, heightened the work, and lowered the soup (tremendous
cheers). He would not ask what such men deserved (a voice, ‘Nothing
a-day, and find themselves!’). He would not say, that one burst of
general indignation should drive them from the parish they polluted
with their presence (‘Give it him!’). He would not allude to the
unfortunate man who had been proposed—he would not say, as the vestry’s
tool, but as Beadle. He would not advert to that individual’s family;
he would not say, that nine children, twins, and a wife, were very bad
examples for pauper imitation (loud cheers). He would not advert in
detail to the qualifications of Bung. The man stood before him, and he
would not say in his presence, what he might be disposed to say of him,
if he were absent. (Here Mr. Bung telegraphed to a friend near him,
under cover of his hat, by contracting his left eye, and applying his
right thumb to the tip of his nose). It had been objected to Bung that
he had only five children (‘Hear, hear!’ from the opposition). Well; he
had yet to learn that the legislature had affixed any precise amount of
infantine qualification to the office of beadle; but taking it for
granted that an extensive family were a great requisite, he entreated
them to look to facts, and compare _data_, about which there could be
no mistake. Bung was 35 years of age. Spruggins—of whom he wished to
speak with all possible respect—was 50. Was it not more than
possible—was it not very probable—that by the time Bung attained the
latter age, he might see around him a family, even exceeding in number
and extent, that to which Spruggins at present laid claim (deafening
cheers and waving of handkerchiefs)? The captain concluded, amidst loud
applause, by calling upon the parishioners to sound the tocsin, rush to
the poll, free themselves from dictation, or be slaves for ever.

On the following day the polling began, and we never have had such a
bustle in our parish since we got up our famous anti-slavery petition,
which was such an important one, that the House of Commons ordered it
to be printed, on the motion of the member for the district. The
captain engaged two hackney-coaches and a cab for Bung’s people—the cab
for the drunken voters, and the two coaches for the old ladies, the
greater portion of whom, owing to the captain’s impetuosity, were
driven up to the poll and home again, before they recovered from their
flurry sufficiently to know, with any degree of clearness, what they
had been doing. The opposite party wholly neglected these precautions,
and the consequence was, that a great many ladies who were walking
leisurely up to the church—for it was a very hot day—to vote for
Spruggins, were artfully decoyed into the coaches, and voted for Bung.
The captain’s arguments, too, had produced considerable effect: the
attempted influence of the vestry produced a greater. A threat of
exclusive dealing was clearly established against the vestry-clerk—a
case of heartless and profligate atrocity. It appeared that the
delinquent had been in the habit of purchasing six penn’orth of
muffins, weekly, from an old woman who rents a small house in the
parish, and resides among the original settlers; on her last weekly
visit, a message was conveyed to her through the medium of the cook,
couched in mysterious terms, but indicating with sufficient clearness,
that the vestry-clerk’s appetite for muffins, in future, depended
entirely on her vote on the beadleship. This was sufficient: the stream
had been turning previously, and the impulse thus administered directed
its final course. The Bung party ordered one shilling’s-worth of
muffins weekly for the remainder of the old woman’s natural life; the
parishioners were loud in their exclamations; and the fate of Spruggins
was sealed.

It was in vain that the twins were exhibited in dresses of the same
pattern, and night-caps, to match, at the church door: the boy in Mrs.
Spruggins’s right arm, and the girl in her left—even Mrs. Spruggins
herself failed to be an object of sympathy any longer. The majority
attained by Bung on the gross poll was four hundred and twenty-eight,
and the cause of the parishioners triumphed.




CHAPTER V—THE BROKER’S MAN


The excitement of the late election has subsided, and our parish being
once again restored to a state of comparative tranquillity, we are
enabled to devote our attention to those parishioners who take little
share in our party contests or in the turmoil and bustle of public
life. And we feel sincere pleasure in acknowledging here, that in
collecting materials for this task we have been greatly assisted by Mr.
Bung himself, who has imposed on us a debt of obligation which we fear
we can never repay. The life of this gentleman has been one of a very
chequered description: he has undergone transitions—not from grave to
gay, for he never was grave—not from lively to severe, for severity
forms no part of his disposition; his fluctuations have been between
poverty in the extreme, and poverty modified, or, to use his own
emphatic language, ‘between nothing to eat and just half enough.’ He is
not, as he forcibly remarks, ‘one of those fortunate men who, if they
were to dive under one side of a barge stark-naked, would come up on
the other with a new suit of clothes on, and a ticket for soup in the
waistcoat-pocket:’ neither is he one of those, whose spirit has been
broken beyond redemption by misfortune and want. He is just one of the
careless, good-for-nothing, happy fellows, who float, cork-like, on the
surface, for the world to play at hockey with: knocked here, and there,
and everywhere: now to the right, then to the left, again up in the
air, and anon to the bottom, but always reappearing and bounding with
the stream buoyantly and merrily along. Some few months before he was
prevailed upon to stand a contested election for the office of beadle,
necessity attached him to the service of a broker; and on the
opportunities he here acquired of ascertaining the condition of most of
the poorer inhabitants of the parish, his patron, the captain, first
grounded his claims to public support. Chance threw the man in our way
a short time since. We were, in the first instance, attracted by his
prepossessing impudence at the election; we were not surprised, on
further acquaintance, to find him a shrewd, knowing fellow, with no
inconsiderable power of observation; and, after conversing with him a
little, were somewhat struck (as we dare say our readers have
frequently been in other cases) with the power some men seem to have,
not only of sympathising with, but to all appearance of understanding
feelings to which they themselves are entire strangers. We had been
expressing to the new functionary our surprise that he should ever have
served in the capacity to which we have just adverted, when we
gradually led him into one or two professional anecdotes. As we are
induced to think, on reflection, that they will tell better in nearly
his own words, than with any attempted embellishments of ours, we will
at once entitle them.

MR BUNG’S NARRATIVE


‘It’s very true, as you say, sir,’ Mr. Bung commenced, ‘that a broker’s
man’s is not a life to be envied; and in course you know as well as I
do, though you don’t say it, that people hate and scout ’em because
they’re the ministers of wretchedness, like, to poor people. But what
could I do, sir? The thing was no worse because I did it, instead of
somebody else; and if putting me in possession of a house would put me
in possession of three and sixpence a day, and levying a distress on
another man’s goods would relieve my distress and that of my family, it
can’t be expected but what I’d take the job and go through with it. I
never liked it, God knows; I always looked out for something else, and
the moment I got other work to do, I left it. If there is anything
wrong in being the agent in such matters—not the principal, mind
you—I’m sure the business, to a beginner like I was, at all events,
carries its own punishment along with it. I wished again and again that
the people would only blow me up, or pitch into me—that I wouldn’t have
minded, it’s all in my way; but it’s the being shut up by yourself in
one room for five days, without so much as an old newspaper to look at,
or anything to see out o’ the winder but the roofs and chimneys at the
back of the house, or anything to listen to, but the ticking, perhaps,
of an old Dutch clock, the sobbing of the missis, now and then, the low
talking of friends in the next room, who speak in whispers, lest “the
man” should overhear them, or perhaps the occasional opening of the
door, as a child peeps in to look at you, and then runs half-frightened
away—it’s all this, that makes you feel sneaking somehow, and ashamed
of yourself; and then, if it’s wintertime, they just give you fire
enough to make you think you’d like more, and bring in your grub as if
they wished it ’ud choke you—as I dare say they do, for the matter of
that, most heartily. If they’re very civil, they make you up a bed in
the room at night, and if they don’t, your master sends one in for you;
but there you are, without being washed or shaved all the time, shunned
by everybody, and spoken to by no one, unless some one comes in at
dinner-time, and asks you whether you want any more, in a tone as much
to say, “I hope you don’t,” or, in the evening, to inquire whether you
wouldn’t rather have a candle, after you’ve been sitting in the dark
half the night. When I was left in this way, I used to sit, think,
think, thinking, till I felt as lonesome as a kitten in a wash-house
copper with the lid on; but I believe the old brokers’ men who are
regularly trained to it, never think at all. I have heard some on ’em
say, indeed, that they don’t know how!

‘I put in a good many distresses in my time (continued Mr. Bung), and
in course I wasn’t long in finding, that some people are not as much to
be pitied as others are, and that people with good incomes who get into
difficulties, which they keep patching up day after day and week after
week, get so used to these sort of things in time, that at last they
come scarcely to feel them at all. I remember the very first place I
was put in possession of, was a gentleman’s house in this parish here,
that everybody would suppose couldn’t help having money if he tried. I
went with old Fixem, my old master, ’bout half arter eight in the
morning; rang the area-bell; servant in livery opened the door:
“Governor at home?”—“Yes, he is,” says the man; “but he’s breakfasting
just now.” “Never mind,” says Fixem, “just you tell him there’s a
gentleman here, as wants to speak to him partickler.” So the servant he
opens his eyes, and stares about him all ways—looking for the
gentleman, as it struck me, for I don’t think anybody but a man as was
stone-blind would mistake Fixem for one; and as for me, I was as seedy
as a cheap cowcumber. Hows’ever, he turns round, and goes to the
breakfast-parlour, which was a little snug sort of room at the end of
the passage, and Fixem (as we always did in that profession), without
waiting to be announced, walks in arter him, and before the servant
could get out, “Please, sir, here’s a man as wants to speak to you,”
looks in at the door as familiar and pleasant as may be. “Who the devil
are you, and how dare you walk into a gentleman’s house without leave?”
says the master, as fierce as a bull in fits. “My name,” says Fixem,
winking to the master to send the servant away, and putting the warrant
into his hands folded up like a note, “My name’s Smith,” says he, “and
I called from Johnson’s about that business of Thompson’s.”—“Oh,” says
the other, quite down on him directly, “How _is_ Thompson?” says he;
“Pray sit down, Mr. Smith: John, leave the room.” Out went the servant;
and the gentleman and Fixem looked at one another till they couldn’t
look any longer, and then they varied the amusements by looking at me,
who had been standing on the mat all this time. “Hundred and fifty
pounds, I see,” said the gentleman at last. “Hundred and fifty pound,”
said Fixem, “besides cost of levy, sheriff’s poundage, and all other
incidental expenses.”—“Um,” says the gentleman, “I shan’t be able to
settle this before to-morrow afternoon.”—“Very sorry; but I shall be
obliged to leave my man here till then,” replies Fixem, pretending to
look very miserable over it. “That’s very unfort’nate,” says the
gentleman, “for I have got a large party here to-night, and I’m ruined
if those fellows of mine get an inkling of the matter—just step here,
Mr. Smith,” says he, after a short pause. So Fixem walks with him up to
the window, and after a good deal of whispering, and a little chinking
of suverins, and looking at me, he comes back and says, “Bung, you’re a
handy fellow, and very honest I know. This gentleman wants an assistant
to clean the plate and wait at table to-day, and if you’re not
particularly engaged,” says old Fixem, grinning like mad, and shoving a
couple of suverins into my hand, “he’ll be very glad to avail himself
of your services.” Well, I laughed: and the gentleman laughed, and we
all laughed; and I went home and cleaned myself, leaving Fixem there,
and when I went back, Fixem went away, and I polished up the plate, and
waited at table, and gammoned the servants, and nobody had the least
idea I was in possession, though it very nearly came out after all; for
one of the last gentlemen who remained, came down-stairs into the hall
where I was sitting pretty late at night, and putting half-a-crown into
my hand, says, “Here, my man,” says he, “run and get me a coach, will
you?” I thought it was a do, to get me out of the house, and was just
going to say so, sulkily enough, when the gentleman (who was up to
everything) came running down-stairs, as if he was in great anxiety.
“Bung,” says he, pretending to be in a consuming passion. “Sir,” says
I. “Why the devil an’t you looking after that plate?”—“I was just going
to send him for a coach for me,” says the other gentleman. “And I was
just a-going to say,” says I—“Anybody else, my dear fellow,” interrupts
the master of the house, pushing me down the passage to get out of the
way—“anybody else; but I have put this man in possession of all the
plate and valuables, and I cannot allow him on any consideration
whatever, to leave the house. Bung, you scoundrel, go and count those
forks in the breakfast-parlour instantly.” You may be sure I went
laughing pretty hearty when I found it was all right. The money was
paid next day, with the addition of something else for myself, and that
was the best job that I (and I suspect old Fixem too) ever got in that
line.

‘But this is the bright side of the picture, sir, after all,’ resumed
Mr. Bung, laying aside the knowing look and flash air, with which he
had repeated the previous anecdote—‘and I’m sorry to say, it’s the side
one sees very, very seldom, in comparison with the dark one. The
civility which money will purchase, is rarely extended to those who
have none; and there’s a consolation even in being able to patch up one
difficulty, to make way for another, to which very poor people are
strangers. I was once put into a house down George’s-yard—that little
dirty court at the back of the gas-works; and I never shall forget the
misery of them people, dear me! It was a distress for half a year’s
rent—two pound ten, I think. There was only two rooms in the house, and
as there was no passage, the lodgers up-stairs always went through the
room of the people of the house, as they passed in and out; and every
time they did so—which, on the average, was about four times every
quarter of an hour—they blowed up quite frightful: for their things had
been seized too, and included in the inventory. There was a little
piece of enclosed dust in front of the house, with a cinder-path
leading up to the door, and an open rain-water butt on one side. A
dirty striped curtain, on a very slack string, hung in the window, and
a little triangular bit of broken looking-glass rested on the sill
inside. I suppose it was meant for the people’s use, but their
appearance was so wretched, and so miserable, that I’m certain they
never could have plucked up courage to look themselves in the face a
second time, if they survived the fright of doing so once. There was
two or three chairs, that might have been worth, in their best days,
from eightpence to a shilling a-piece; a small deal table, an old
corner cupboard with nothing in it, and one of those bedsteads which
turn up half way, and leave the bottom legs sticking out for you to
knock your head against, or hang your hat upon; no bed, no bedding.
There was an old sack, by way of rug, before the fireplace, and four or
five children were grovelling about, among the sand on the floor. The
execution was only put in, to get ’em out of the house, for there was
nothing to take to pay the expenses; and here I stopped for three days,
though that was a mere form too: for, in course, I knew, and we all
knew, they could never pay the money. In one of the chairs, by the side
of the place where the fire ought to have been, was an old ’ooman—the
ugliest and dirtiest I ever see—who sat rocking herself backwards and
forwards, backwards and forwards, without once stopping, except for an
instant now and then, to clasp together the withered hands which, with
these exceptions, she kept constantly rubbing upon her knees, just
raising and depressing her fingers convulsively, in time to the rocking
of the chair. On the other side sat the mother with an infant in her
arms, which cried till it cried itself to sleep, and when it ’woke,
cried till it cried itself off again. The old ’ooman’s voice I never
heard: she seemed completely stupefied; and as to the mother’s, it
would have been better if she had been so too, for misery had changed
her to a devil. If you had heard how she cursed the little naked
children as was rolling on the floor, and seen how savagely she struck
the infant when it cried with hunger, you’d have shuddered as much as I
did. There they remained all the time: the children ate a morsel of
bread once or twice, and I gave ’em best part of the dinners my missis
brought me, but the woman ate nothing; they never even laid on the
bedstead, nor was the room swept or cleaned all the time. The
neighbours were all too poor themselves to take any notice of ’em, but
from what I could make out from the abuse of the woman up-stairs, it
seemed the husband had been transported a few weeks before. When the
time was up, the landlord and old Fixem too, got rather frightened
about the family, and so they made a stir about it, and had ’em taken
to the workhouse. They sent the sick couch for the old ’ooman, and
Simmons took the children away at night. The old ’ooman went into the
infirmary, and very soon died. The children are all in the house to
this day, and very comfortable they are in comparison. As to the
mother, there was no taming her at all. She had been a quiet,
hard-working woman, I believe, but her misery had actually drove her
wild; so after she had been sent to the house of correction
half-a-dozen times, for throwing inkstands at the overseers,
blaspheming the churchwardens, and smashing everybody as come near her,
she burst a blood-vessel one mornin’, and died too; and a happy release
it was, both for herself and the old paupers, male and female, which
she used to tip over in all directions, as if they were so many
skittles, and she the ball.

‘Now this was bad enough,’ resumed Mr. Bung, taking a half-step towards
the door, as if to intimate that he had nearly concluded. ‘This was bad
enough, but there was a sort of quiet misery—if you understand what I
mean by that, sir—about a lady at one house I was put into, as touched
me a good deal more. It doesn’t matter where it was exactly: indeed,
I’d rather not say, but it was the same sort o’ job. I went with Fixem
in the usual way—there was a year’s rent in arrear; a very small
servant-girl opened the door, and three or four fine-looking little
children was in the front parlour we were shown into, which was very
clean, but very scantily furnished, much like the children themselves.
“Bung,” says Fixem to me, in a low voice, when we were left alone for a
minute, “I know something about this here family, and my opinion is,
it’s no go.” “Do you think they can’t settle?” says I, quite anxiously;
for I liked the looks of them children. Fixem shook his head, and was
just about to reply, when the door opened, and in come a lady, as white
as ever I see any one in my days, except about the eyes, which were red
with crying. She walked in, as firm as I could have done; shut the door
carefully after her, and sat herself down with a face as composed as if
it was made of stone. “What is the matter, gentlemen?” says she, in a
surprisin’ steady voice. “_Is_ this an execution?” “It is, mum,” says
Fixem. The lady looked at him as steady as ever: she didn’t seem to
have understood him. “It is, mum,” says Fixem again; “this is my
warrant of distress, mum,” says he, handing it over as polite as if it
was a newspaper which had been bespoke arter the next gentleman.

‘The lady’s lip trembled as she took the printed paper. She cast her
eye over it, and old Fixem began to explain the form, but saw she
wasn’t reading it, plain enough, poor thing. “Oh, my God!” says she,
suddenly a-bursting out crying, letting the warrant fall, and hiding
her face in her hands. “Oh, my God! what will become of us!” The noise
she made, brought in a young lady of about nineteen or twenty, who, I
suppose, had been a-listening at the door, and who had got a little boy
in her arms: she sat him down in the lady’s lap, without speaking, and
she hugged the poor little fellow to her bosom, and cried over him,
till even old Fixem put on his blue spectacles to hide the two tears,
that was a-trickling down, one on each side of his dirty face. “Now,
dear ma,” says the young lady, “you know how much you have borne. For
all our sakes—for pa’s sake,” says she, “don’t give way to this!”—“No,
no, I won’t!” says the lady, gathering herself up, hastily, and drying
her eyes; “I am very foolish, but I’m better now—much better.” And then
she roused herself up, went with us into every room while we took the
inventory, opened all the drawers of her own accord, sorted the
children’s little clothes to make the work easier; and, except doing
everything in a strange sort of hurry, seemed as calm and composed as
if nothing had happened. When we came down-stairs again, she hesitated
a minute or two, and at last says, “Gentlemen,” says she, “I am afraid
I have done wrong, and perhaps it may bring you into trouble. I
secreted just now,” she says, “the only trinket I have left in the
world—here it is.” So she lays down on the table a little miniature
mounted in gold. “It’s a miniature,” she says, “of my poor dear father!
I little thought once, that I should ever thank God for depriving me of
the original, but I do, and have done for years back, most fervently.
Take it away, sir,” she says, “it’s a face that never turned from me in
sickness and distress, and I can hardly bear to turn from it now, when,
God knows, I suffer both in no ordinary degree.” I couldn’t say
nothing, but I raised my head from the inventory which I was filling
up, and looked at Fixem; the old fellow nodded to me significantly, so
I ran my pen through the “_Mini_” I had just written, and left the
miniature on the table.

‘Well, sir, to make short of a long story, I was left in possession,
and in possession I remained; and though I was an ignorant man, and the
master of the house a clever one, I saw what he never did, but what he
would give worlds now (if he had ’em) to have seen in time. I saw, sir,
that his wife was wasting away, beneath cares of which she never
complained, and griefs she never told. I saw that she was dying before
his eyes; I knew that one exertion from him might have saved her, but
he never made it. I don’t blame him: I don’t think he _could_ rouse
himself. She had so long anticipated all his wishes, and acted for him,
that he was a lost man when left to himself. I used to think when I
caught sight of her, in the clothes she used to wear, which looked
shabby even upon her, and would have been scarcely decent on any one
else, that if I was a gentleman it would wring my very heart to see the
woman that was a smart and merry girl when I courted her, so altered
through her love for me. Bitter cold and damp weather it was, yet,
though her dress was thin, and her shoes none of the best, during the
whole three days, from morning to night, she was out of doors running
about to try and raise the money. The money _was_ raised and the
execution was paid out. The whole family crowded into the room where I
was, when the money arrived. The father was quite happy as the
inconvenience was removed—I dare say he didn’t know how; the children
looked merry and cheerful again; the eldest girl was bustling about,
making preparations for the first comfortable meal they had had since
the distress was put in; and the mother looked pleased to see them all
so. But if ever I saw death in a woman’s face, I saw it in hers that
night.

‘I was right, sir,’ continued Mr. Bung, hurriedly passing his
coat-sleeve over his face; ‘the family grew more prosperous, and good
fortune arrived. But it was too late. Those children are motherless
now, and their father would give up all he has since gained—house,
home, goods, money: all that he has, or ever can have, to restore the
wife he has lost.’




CHAPTER VI—THE LADIES’ SOCIETIES


Our Parish is very prolific in ladies’ charitable institutions. In
winter, when wet feet are common, and colds not scarce, we have the
ladies’ soup distribution society, the ladies’ coal distribution
society, and the ladies’ blanket distribution society; in summer, when
stone fruits flourish and stomach aches prevail, we have the ladies’
dispensary, and the ladies’ sick visitation committee; and all the year
round we have the ladies’ child’s examination society, the ladies’
bible and prayer-book circulation society, and the ladies’
childbed-linen monthly loan society. The two latter are decidedly the
most important; whether they are productive of more benefit than the
rest, it is not for us to say, but we can take upon ourselves to
affirm, with the utmost solemnity, that they create a greater stir and
more bustle, than all the others put together.

We should be disposed to affirm, on the first blush of the matter, that
the bible and prayer-book society is not so popular as the
childbed-linen society; the bible and prayer-book society has, however,
considerably increased in importance within the last year or two,
having derived some adventitious aid from the factious opposition of
the child’s examination society; which factious opposition originated
in manner following:—When the young curate was popular, and all the
unmarried ladies in the parish took a serious turn, the charity
children all at once became objects of peculiar and especial interest.
The three Miss Browns (enthusiastic admirers of the curate) taught, and
exercised, and examined, and re-examined the unfortunate children,
until the boys grew pale, and the girls consumptive with study and
fatigue. The three Miss Browns stood it out very well, because they
relieved each other; but the children, having no relief at all,
exhibited decided symptoms of weariness and care. The unthinking part
of the parishioners laughed at all this, but the more reflective
portion of the inhabitants abstained from expressing any opinion on the
subject until that of the curate had been clearly ascertained.

The opportunity was not long wanting. The curate preached a charity
sermon on behalf of the charity school, and in the charity sermon
aforesaid, expatiated in glowing terms on the praiseworthy and
indefatigable exertions of certain estimable individuals. Sobs were
heard to issue from the three Miss Browns’ pew; the pew-opener of the
division was seen to hurry down the centre aisle to the vestry door,
and to return immediately, bearing a glass of water in her hand. A low
moaning ensued; two more pew-openers rushed to the spot, and the three
Miss Browns, each supported by a pew-opener, were led out of the
church, and led in again after the lapse of five minutes with white
pocket-handkerchiefs to their eyes, as if they had been attending a
funeral in the churchyard adjoining. If any doubt had for a moment
existed, as to whom the allusion was intended to apply, it was at once
removed. The wish to enlighten the charity children became universal,
and the three Miss Browns were unanimously besought to divide the
school into classes, and to assign each class to the superintendence of
two young ladies.

A little learning is a dangerous thing, but a little patronage is more
so; the three Miss Browns appointed all the old maids, and carefully
excluded the young ones. Maiden aunts triumphed, mammas were reduced to
the lowest depths of despair, and there is no telling in what act of
violence the general indignation against the three Miss Browns might
have vented itself, had not a perfectly providential occurrence changed
the tide of public feeling. Mrs. Johnson Parker, the mother of seven
extremely fine girls—all unmarried—hastily reported to several other
mammas of several other unmarried families, that five old men, six old
women, and children innumerable, in the free seats near her pew, were
in the habit of coming to church every Sunday, without either bible or
prayer-book. Was this to be borne in a civilised country? Could such
things be tolerated in a Christian land? Never! A ladies’ bible and
prayer-book distribution society was instantly formed: president, Mrs.
Johnson Parker; treasurers, auditors, and secretary, the Misses Johnson
Parker: subscriptions were entered into, books were bought, all the
free-seat people provided therewith, and when the first lesson was
given out, on the first Sunday succeeding these events, there was such
a dropping of books, and rustling of leaves, that it was morally
impossible to hear one word of the service for five minutes afterwards.

The three Miss Browns, and their party, saw the approaching danger, and
endeavoured to avert it by ridicule and sarcasm. Neither the old men
nor the old women could read their books, now they had got them, said
the three Miss Browns. Never mind; they could learn, replied Mrs.
Johnson Parker. The children couldn’t read either, suggested the three
Miss Browns. No matter; they could be taught, retorted Mrs. Johnson
Parker. A balance of parties took place. The Miss Browns publicly
examined—popular feeling inclined to the child’s examination society.
The Miss Johnson Parkers publicly distributed—a reaction took place in
favour of the prayer-book distribution. A feather would have turned the
scale, and a feather did turn it. A missionary returned from the West
Indies; he was to be presented to the Dissenters’ Missionary Society on
his marriage with a wealthy widow. Overtures were made to the
Dissenters by the Johnson Parkers. Their object was the same, and why
not have a joint meeting of the two societies? The proposition was
accepted. The meeting was duly heralded by public announcement, and the
room was crowded to suffocation. The Missionary appeared on the
platform; he was hailed with enthusiasm. He repeated a dialogue he had
heard between two negroes, behind a hedge, on the subject of
distribution societies; the approbation was tumultuous. He gave an
imitation of the two negroes in broken English; the roof was rent with
applause. From that period we date (with one trifling exception) a
daily increase in the popularity of the distribution society, and an
increase of popularity, which the feeble and impotent opposition of the
examination party, has only tended to augment.

Now, the great points about the childbed-linen monthly loan society
are, that it is less dependent on the fluctuations of public opinion
than either the distribution or the child’s examination; and that, come
what may, there is never any lack of objects on which to exercise its
benevolence. Our parish is a very populous one, and, if anything,
contributes, we should be disposed to say, rather more than its due
share to the aggregate amount of births in the metropolis and its
environs. The consequence is, that the monthly loan society flourishes,
and invests its members with a most enviable amount of bustling
patronage. The society (whose only notion of dividing time, would
appear to be its allotment into months) holds monthly tea-drinkings, at
which the monthly report is received, a secretary elected for the month
ensuing, and such of the monthly boxes as may not happen to be out on
loan for the month, carefully examined.

We were never present at one of these meetings, from all of which it is
scarcely necessary to say, gentlemen are carefully excluded; but Mr.
Bung has been called before the board once or twice, and we have his
authority for stating, that its proceedings are conducted with great
order and regularity: not more than four members being allowed to speak
at one time on any pretence whatever. The regular committee is composed
exclusively of married ladies, but a vast number of young unmarried
ladies of from eighteen to twenty-five years of age, respectively, are
admitted as honorary members, partly because they are very useful in
replenishing the boxes, and visiting the confined; partly because it is
highly desirable that they should be initiated, at an early period,
into the more serious and matronly duties of after-life; and partly,
because prudent mammas have not unfrequently been known to turn this
circumstance to wonderfully good account in matrimonial speculations.

In addition to the loan of the monthly boxes (which are always painted
blue, with the name of the society in large white letters on the lid),
the society dispense occasional grants of beef-tea, and a composition
of warm beer, spice, eggs, and sugar, commonly known by the name of
‘candle,’ to its patients. And here again the services of the honorary
members are called into requisition, and most cheerfully conceded.
Deputations of twos or threes are sent out to visit the patients, and
on these occasions there is such a tasting of candle and beef-tea, such
a stirring about of little messes in tiny saucepans on the hob, such a
dressing and undressing of infants, such a tying, and folding, and
pinning; such a nursing and warming of little legs and feet before the
fire, such a delightful confusion of talking and cooking, bustle,
importance, and officiousness, as never can be enjoyed in its full
extent but on similar occasions.

In rivalry of these two institutions, and as a last expiring effort to
acquire parochial popularity, the child’s examination people
determined, the other day, on having a grand public examination of the
pupils; and the large school-room of the national seminary was, by and
with the consent of the parish authorities, devoted to the purpose.
Invitation circulars were forwarded to all the principal parishioners,
including, of course, the heads of the other two societies, for whose
especial behoof and edification the display was intended; and a large
audience was confidently anticipated on the occasion. The floor was
carefully scrubbed the day before, under the immediate superintendence
of the three Miss Browns; forms were placed across the room for the
accommodation of the visitors, specimens in writing were carefully
selected, and as carefully patched and touched up, until they
astonished the children who had written them, rather more than the
company who read them; sums in compound addition were rehearsed and
re-rehearsed until all the children had the totals by heart; and the
preparations altogether were on the most laborious and most
comprehensive scale. The morning arrived: the children were
yellow-soaped and flannelled, and towelled, till their faces shone
again; every pupil’s hair was carefully combed into his or her eyes, as
the case might be; the girls were adorned with snow-white tippets, and
caps bound round the head by a single purple ribbon: the necks of the
elder boys were fixed into collars of startling dimensions.

The doors were thrown open, and the Misses Brown and Co. were
discovered in plain white muslin dresses, and caps of the same—the
child’s examination uniform. The room filled: the greetings of the
company were loud and cordial. The distributionists trembled, for their
popularity was at stake. The eldest boy fell forward, and delivered a
propitiatory address from behind his collar. It was from the pen of Mr.
Henry Brown; the applause was universal, and the Johnson Parkers were
aghast. The examination proceeded with success, and terminated in
triumph. The child’s examination society gained a momentary victory,
and the Johnson Parkers retreated in despair.

A secret council of the distributionists was held that night, with Mrs.
Johnson Parker in the chair, to consider of the best means of
recovering the ground they had lost in the favour of the parish. What
could be done? Another meeting! Alas! who was to attend it? The
Missionary would not do twice; and the slaves were emancipated. A bold
step must be taken. The parish must be astonished in some way or other;
but no one was able to suggest what the step should be. At length, a
very old lady was heard to mumble, in indistinct tones, ‘Exeter Hall.’
A sudden light broke in upon the meeting. It was unanimously resolved,
that a deputation of old ladies should wait upon a celebrated orator,
imploring his assistance, and the favour of a speech; and the
deputation should also wait on two or three other imbecile old women,
not resident in the parish, and entreat their attendance. The
application was successful, the meeting was held; the orator (an
Irishman) came. He talked of green isles—other shores—vast
Atlantic—bosom of the deep—Christian charity—blood and
extermination—mercy in hearts—arms in hands—altars and homes—household
gods. He wiped his eyes, he blew his nose, and he quoted Latin. The
effect was tremendous—the Latin was a decided hit. Nobody knew exactly
what it was about, but everybody knew it must be affecting, because
even the orator was overcome. The popularity of the distribution
society among the ladies of our parish is unprecedented; and the
child’s examination is going fast to decay.




CHAPTER VII—OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR


We are very fond of speculating as we walk through a street, on the
character and pursuits of the people who inhabit it; and nothing so
materially assists us in these speculations as the appearance of the
house doors. The various expressions of the human countenance afford a
beautiful and interesting study; but there is something in the
physiognomy of street-door knockers, almost as characteristic, and
nearly as infallible. Whenever we visit a man for the first time, we
contemplate the features of his knocker with the greatest curiosity,
for we well know, that between the man and his knocker, there will
inevitably be a greater or less degree of resemblance and sympathy.

For instance, there is one description of knocker that used to be
common enough, but which is fast passing away—a large round one, with
the jolly face of a convivial lion smiling blandly at you, as you twist
the sides of your hair into a curl or pull up your shirt-collar while
you are waiting for the door to be opened; we never saw that knocker on
the door of a churlish man—so far as our experience is concerned, it
invariably bespoke hospitality and another bottle.

No man ever saw this knocker on the door of a small attorney or
bill-broker; they always patronise the other lion; a heavy
ferocious-looking fellow, with a countenance expressive of savage
stupidity—a sort of grand master among the knockers, and a great
favourite with the selfish and brutal.

Then there is a little pert Egyptian knocker, with a long thin face, a
pinched-up nose, and a very sharp chin; he is most in vogue with your
government-office people, in light drabs and starched cravats; little
spare, priggish men, who are perfectly satisfied with their own
opinions, and consider themselves of paramount importance.

We were greatly troubled a few years ago, by the innovation of a new
kind of knocker, without any face at all, composed of a wreath
depending from a hand or small truncheon. A little trouble and
attention, however, enabled us to overcome this difficulty, and to
reconcile the new system to our favourite theory. You will invariably
find this knocker on the doors of cold and formal people, who always
ask you why you _don’t_ come, and never say _do_.

Everybody knows the brass knocker is common to suburban villas, and
extensive boarding-schools; and having noticed this genus we have
recapitulated all the most prominent and strongly-defined species.

Some phrenologists affirm, that the agitation of a man’s brain by
different passions, produces corresponding developments in the form of
his skull. Do not let us be understood as pushing our theory to the
full length of asserting, that any alteration in a man’s disposition
would produce a visible effect on the feature of his knocker. Our
position merely is, that in such a case, the magnetism which must exist
between a man and his knocker, would induce the man to remove, and seek
some knocker more congenial to his altered feelings. If you ever find a
man changing his habitation without any reasonable pretext, depend upon
it, that, although he may not be aware of the fact himself, it is
because he and his knocker are at variance. This is a new theory, but
we venture to launch it, nevertheless, as being quite as ingenious and
infallible as many thousands of the learned speculations which are
daily broached for public good and private fortune-making.

Entertaining these feelings on the subject of knockers, it will be
readily imagined with what consternation we viewed the entire removal
of the knocker from the door of the next house to the one we lived in,
some time ago, and the substitution of a bell. This was a calamity we
had never anticipated. The bare idea of anybody being able to exist
without a knocker, appeared so wild and visionary, that it had never
for one instant entered our imagination.

We sauntered moodily from the spot, and bent our steps towards
Eaton-square, then just building. What was our astonishment and
indignation to find that bells were fast becoming the rule, and
knockers the exception! Our theory trembled beneath the shock. We
hastened home; and fancying we foresaw in the swift progress of events,
its entire abolition, resolved from that day forward to vent our
speculations on our next-door neighbours in person. The house adjoining
ours on the left hand was uninhabited, and we had, therefore, plenty of
leisure to observe our next-door neighbours on the other side.

The house without the knocker was in the occupation of a city clerk,
and there was a neatly-written bill in the parlour window intimating
that lodgings for a single gentleman were to be let within.

It was a neat, dull little house, on the shady side of the way, with
new, narrow floorcloth in the passage, and new, narrow stair-carpets up
to the first floor. The paper was new, and the paint was new, and the
furniture was new; and all three, paper, paint, and furniture, bespoke
the limited means of the tenant. There was a little red and black
carpet in the drawing-room, with a border of flooring all the way
round; a few stained chairs and a pembroke table. A pink shell was
displayed on each of the little sideboards, which, with the addition of
a tea-tray and caddy, a few more shells on the mantelpiece, and three
peacock’s feathers tastefully arranged above them, completed the
decorative furniture of the apartment.

This was the room destined for the reception of the single gentleman
during the day, and a little back room on the same floor was assigned
as his sleeping apartment by night.

The bill had not been long in the window, when a stout, good-humoured
looking gentleman, of about five-and-thirty, appeared as a candidate
for the tenancy. Terms were soon arranged, for the bill was taken down
immediately after his first visit. In a day or two the single gentleman
came in, and shortly afterwards his real character came out.

First of all, he displayed a most extraordinary partiality for sitting
up till three or four o’clock in the morning, drinking
whiskey-and-water, and smoking cigars; then he invited friends home,
who used to come at ten o’clock, and begin to get happy about the small
hours, when they evinced their perfect contentment by singing songs
with half-a-dozen verses of two lines each, and a chorus of ten, which
chorus used to be shouted forth by the whole strength of the company,
in the most enthusiastic and vociferous manner, to the great annoyance
of the neighbours, and the special discomfort of another single
gentleman overhead.

Now, this was bad enough, occurring as it did three times a week on the
average, but this was not all; for when the company _did_ go away,
instead of walking quietly down the street, as anybody else’s company
would have done, they amused themselves by making alarming and
frightful noises, and counterfeiting the shrieks of females in
distress; and one night, a red-faced gentleman in a white hat knocked
in the most urgent manner at the door of the powdered-headed old
gentleman at No. 3, and when the powdered-headed old gentleman, who
thought one of his married daughters must have been taken ill
prematurely, had groped down-stairs, and after a great deal of
unbolting and key-turning, opened the street door, the red-faced man in
the white hat said he hoped he’d excuse his giving him so much trouble,
but he’d feel obliged if he’d favour him with a glass of cold spring
water, and the loan of a shilling for a cab to take him home, on which
the old gentleman slammed the door and went up-stairs, and threw the
contents of his water jug out of window—very straight, only it went
over the wrong man; and the whole street was involved in confusion.

A joke’s a joke; and even practical jests are very capital in their
way, if you can only get the other party to see the fun of them; but
the population of our street were so dull of apprehension, as to be
quite lost to a sense of the drollery of this proceeding: and the
consequence was, that our next-door neighbour was obliged to tell the
single gentleman, that unless he gave up entertaining his friends at
home, he really must be compelled to part with him.

The single gentleman received the remonstrance with great good-humour,
and promised from that time forward, to spend his evenings at a
coffee-house—a determination which afforded general and unmixed
satisfaction.

The next night passed off very well, everybody being delighted with the
change; but on the next, the noises were renewed with greater spirit
than ever. The single gentleman’s friends being unable to see him in
his own house every alternate night, had come to the determination of
seeing him home every night; and what with the discordant greetings of
the friends at parting, and the noise created by the single gentleman
in his passage up-stairs, and his subsequent struggles to get his boots
off, the evil was not to be borne. So, our next-door neighbour gave the
single gentleman, who was a very good lodger in other respects, notice
to quit; and the single gentleman went away, and entertained his
friends in other lodgings.

The next applicant for the vacant first floor, was of a very different
character from the troublesome single gentleman who had just quitted
it. He was a tall, thin, young gentleman, with a profusion of brown
hair, reddish whiskers, and very slightly developed moustaches. He wore
a braided surtout, with frogs behind, light grey trousers, and
wash-leather gloves, and had altogether rather a military appearance.
So unlike the roystering single gentleman. Such insinuating manners,
and such a delightful address! So seriously disposed, too! When he
first came to look at the lodgings, he inquired most particularly
whether he was sure to be able to get a seat in the parish church; and
when he had agreed to take them, he requested to have a list of the
different local charities, as he intended to subscribe his mite to the
most deserving among them.

Our next-door neighbour was now perfectly happy. He had got a lodger at
last, of just his own way of thinking—a serious, well-disposed man, who
abhorred gaiety, and loved retirement. He took down the bill with a
light heart, and pictured in imagination a long series of quiet
Sundays, on which he and his lodger would exchange mutual civilities
and Sunday papers.

The serious man arrived, and his luggage was to arrive from the country
next morning. He borrowed a clean shirt, and a prayer-book, from our
next-door neighbour, and retired to rest at an early hour, requesting
that he might be called punctually at ten o’clock next morning—not
before, as he was much fatigued.

He _was_ called, and did not answer: he was called again, but there was
no reply. Our next-door neighbour became alarmed, and burst the door
open. The serious man had left the house mysteriously; carrying with
him the shirt, the prayer-book, a teaspoon, and the bedclothes.

Whether this occurrence, coupled with the irregularities of his former
lodger, gave our next-door neighbour an aversion to single gentlemen,
we know not; we only know that the next bill which made its appearance
in the parlour window intimated generally, that there were furnished
apartments to let on the first floor. The bill was soon removed. The
new lodgers at first attracted our curiosity, and afterwards excited
our interest.

They were a young lad of eighteen or nineteen, and his mother, a lady
of about fifty, or it might be less. The mother wore a widow’s weeds,
and the boy was also clothed in deep mourning. They were poor—very
poor; for their only means of support arose from the pittance the boy
earned, by copying writings, and translating for booksellers.

They had removed from some country place and settled in London; partly
because it afforded better chances of employment for the boy, and
partly, perhaps, with the natural desire to leave a place where they
had been in better circumstances, and where their poverty was known.
They were proud under their reverses, and above revealing their wants
and privations to strangers. How bitter those privations were, and how
hard the boy worked to remove them, no one ever knew but themselves.
Night after night, two, three, four hours after midnight, could we hear
the occasional raking up of the scanty fire, or the hollow and
half-stifled cough, which indicated his being still at work; and day
after day, could we see more plainly that nature had set that unearthly
light in his plaintive face, which is the beacon of her worst disease.

Actuated, we hope, by a higher feeling than mere curiosity, we
contrived to establish, first an acquaintance, and then a close
intimacy, with the poor strangers. Our worst fears were realised; the
boy was sinking fast. Through a part of the winter, and the whole of
the following spring and summer, his labours were unceasingly
prolonged: and the mother attempted to procure needle-work,
embroidery—anything for bread.

A few shillings now and then, were all she could earn. The boy worked
steadily on; dying by minutes, but never once giving utterance to
complaint or murmur.

One beautiful autumn evening we went to pay our customary visit to the
invalid. His little remaining strength had been decreasing rapidly for
two or three days preceding, and he was lying on the sofa at the open
window, gazing at the setting sun. His mother had been reading the
Bible to him, for she closed the book as we entered, and advanced to
meet us.

‘I was telling William,’ she said, ‘that we must manage to take him
into the country somewhere, so that he may get quite well. He is not
ill, you know, but he is not very strong, and has exerted himself too
much lately.’ Poor thing! The tears that streamed through her fingers,
as she turned aside, as if to adjust her close widow’s cap, too plainly
showed how fruitless was the attempt to deceive herself.

We sat down by the head of the sofa, but said nothing, for we saw the
breath of life was passing gently but rapidly from the young form
before us. At every respiration, his heart beat more slowly.

The boy placed one hand in ours, grasped his mother’s arm with the
other, drew her hastily towards him, and fervently kissed her cheek.
There was a pause. He sunk back upon his pillow, and looked long and
earnestly in his mother’s face.

‘William, William!’ murmured the mother, after a long interval, ‘don’t
look at me so—speak to me, dear!’

The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards his features
resolved into the same cold, solemn gaze.

‘William, dear William! rouse yourself; don’t look at me so, love—pray
don’t! Oh, my God! what shall I do!’ cried the widow, clasping her
hands in agony—‘my dear boy! he is dying!’ The boy raised himself by a
violent effort, and folded his hands together—‘Mother! dear, dear
mother, bury me in the open fields—anywhere but in these dreadful
streets. I should like to be where you can see my grave, but not in
these close crowded streets; they have killed me; kiss me again,
mother; put your arm round my neck—’

He fell back, and a strange expression stole upon his features; not of
pain or suffering, but an indescribable fixing of every line and
muscle.

The boy was dead.


SCENES




CHAPTER I—THE STREETS—MORNING


The appearance presented by the streets of London an hour before
sunrise, on a summer’s morning, is most striking even to the few whose
unfortunate pursuits of pleasure, or scarcely less unfortunate pursuits
of business, cause them to be well acquainted with the scene. There is
an air of cold, solitary desolation about the noiseless streets which
we are accustomed to see thronged at other times by a busy, eager
crowd, and over the quiet, closely-shut buildings, which throughout the
day are swarming with life and bustle, that is very impressive.

The last drunken man, who shall find his way home before sunlight, has
just staggered heavily along, roaring out the burden of the drinking
song of the previous night: the last houseless vagrant whom penury and
police have left in the streets, has coiled up his chilly limbs in some
paved comer, to dream of food and warmth. The drunken, the dissipated,
and the wretched have disappeared; the more sober and orderly part of
the population have not yet awakened to the labours of the day, and the
stillness of death is over the streets; its very hue seems to be
imparted to them, cold and lifeless as they look in the grey, sombre
light of daybreak. The coach-stands in the larger thoroughfares are
deserted: the night-houses are closed; and the chosen promenades of
profligate misery are empty.

An occasional policeman may alone be seen at the street corners,
listlessly gazing on the deserted prospect before him; and now and then
a rakish-looking cat runs stealthily across the road and descends his
own area with as much caution and slyness—bounding first on the
water-butt, then on the dust-hole, and then alighting on the
flag-stones—as if he were conscious that his character depended on his
gallantry of the preceding night escaping public observation. A
partially opened bedroom-window here and there, bespeaks the heat of
the weather, and the uneasy slumbers of its occupant; and the dim
scanty flicker of the rushlight, through the window-blind, denotes the
chamber of watching or sickness. With these few exceptions, the streets
present no signs of life, nor the houses of habitation.

An hour wears away; the spires of the churches and roofs of the
principal buildings are faintly tinged with the light of the rising
sun; and the streets, by almost imperceptible degrees, begin to resume
their bustle and animation. Market-carts roll slowly along: the sleepy
waggoner impatiently urging on his tired horses, or vainly endeavouring
to awaken the boy, who, luxuriously stretched on the top of the
fruit-baskets, forgets, in happy oblivion, his long-cherished curiosity
to behold the wonders of London.

Rough, sleepy-looking animals of strange appearance, something between
ostlers and hackney-coachmen, begin to take down the shutters of early
public-houses; and little deal tables, with the ordinary preparations
for a street breakfast, make their appearance at the customary
stations. Numbers of men and women (principally the latter), carrying
upon their heads heavy baskets of fruit, toil down the park side of
Piccadilly, on their way to Covent-garden, and, following each other in
rapid succession, form a long straggling line from thence to the turn
of the road at Knightsbridge.

Here and there, a bricklayer’s labourer, with the day’s dinner tied up
in a handkerchief, walks briskly to his work, and occasionally a little
knot of three or four schoolboys on a stolen bathing expedition rattle
merrily over the pavement, their boisterous mirth contrasting forcibly
with the demeanour of the little sweep, who, having knocked and rung
till his arm aches, and being interdicted by a merciful legislature
from endangering his lungs by calling out, sits patiently down on the
door-step, until the housemaid may happen to awake.

Covent-garden market, and the avenues leading to it, are thronged with
carts of all sorts, sizes, and descriptions, from the heavy lumbering
waggon, with its four stout horses, to the jingling costermonger’s
cart, with its consumptive donkey. The pavement is already strewed with
decayed cabbage-leaves, broken hay-bands, and all the indescribable
litter of a vegetable market; men are shouting, carts backing, horses
neighing, boys fighting, basket-women talking, piemen expatiating on
the excellence of their pastry, and donkeys braying. These and a
hundred other sounds form a compound discordant enough to a Londoner’s
ears, and remarkably disagreeable to those of country gentlemen who are
sleeping at the Hummums for the first time.

Another hour passes away, and the day begins in good earnest. The
servant of all work, who, under the plea of sleeping very soundly, has
utterly disregarded ‘Missis’s’ ringing for half an hour previously, is
warned by Master (whom Missis has sent up in his drapery to the
landing-place for that purpose), that it’s half-past six, whereupon she
awakes all of a sudden, with well-feigned astonishment, and goes
down-stairs very sulkily, wishing, while she strikes a light, that the
principle of spontaneous combustion would extend itself to coals and
kitchen range. When the fire is lighted, she opens the street-door to
take in the milk, when, by the most singular coincidence in the world,
she discovers that the servant next door has just taken in her milk
too, and that Mr. Todd’s young man over the way, is, by an equally
extraordinary chance, taking down his master’s shutters. The inevitable
consequence is, that she just steps, milk-jug in hand, as far as next
door, just to say ‘good morning’ to Betsy Clark, and that Mr. Todd’s
young man just steps over the way to say ‘good morning’ to both of ’em;
and as the aforesaid Mr. Todd’s young man is almost as good-looking and
fascinating as the baker himself, the conversation quickly becomes very
interesting, and probably would become more so, if Betsy Clark’s
Missis, who always will be a-followin’ her about, didn’t give an angry
tap at her bedroom window, on which Mr. Todd’s young man tries to
whistle coolly, as he goes back to his shop much faster than he came
from it; and the two girls run back to their respective places, and
shut their street-doors with surprising softness, each of them poking
their heads out of the front parlour window, a minute afterwards,
however, ostensibly with the view of looking at the mail which just
then passes by, but really for the purpose of catching another glimpse
of Mr. Todd’s young man, who being fond of mails, but more of females,
takes a short look at the mails, and a long look at the girls, much to
the satisfaction of all parties concerned.

The mail itself goes on to the coach-office in due course, and the
passengers who are going out by the early coach, stare with
astonishment at the passengers who are coming in by the early coach,
who look blue and dismal, and are evidently under the influence of that
odd feeling produced by travelling, which makes the events of yesterday
morning seem as if they had happened at least six months ago, and
induces people to wonder with considerable gravity whether the friends
and relations they took leave of a fortnight before, have altered much
since they have left them. The coach-office is all alive, and the
coaches which are just going out, are surrounded by the usual crowd of
Jews and nondescripts, who seem to consider, Heaven knows why, that it
is quite impossible any man can mount a coach without requiring at
least sixpenny-worth of oranges, a penknife, a pocket-book, a last
year’s annual, a pencil-case, a piece of sponge, and a small series of
caricatures.

Half an hour more, and the sun darts his bright rays cheerfully down
the still half-empty streets, and shines with sufficient force to rouse
the dismal laziness of the apprentice, who pauses every other minute
from his task of sweeping out the shop and watering the pavement in
front of it, to tell another apprentice similarly employed, how hot it
will be to-day, or to stand with his right hand shading his eyes, and
his left resting on the broom, gazing at the ‘Wonder,’ or the
‘Tally-ho,’ or the ‘Nimrod,’ or some other fast coach, till it is out
of sight, when he re-enters the shop, envying the passengers on the
outside of the fast coach, and thinking of the old red brick house
‘down in the country,’ where he went to school: the miseries of the
milk and water, and thick bread and scrapings, fading into nothing
before the pleasant recollection of the green field the boys used to
play in, and the green pond he was caned for presuming to fall into,
and other schoolboy associations.

Cabs, with trunks and band-boxes between the drivers’ legs and outside
the apron, rattle briskly up and down the streets on their way to the
coach-offices or steam-packet wharfs; and the cab-drivers and
hackney-coachmen who are on the stand polish up the ornamental part of
their dingy vehicles—the former wondering how people can prefer ‘them
wild beast cariwans of homnibuses, to a riglar cab with a fast
trotter,’ and the latter admiring how people can trust their necks into
one of ‘them crazy cabs, when they can have a ’spectable ’ackney cotche
with a pair of ’orses as von’t run away with no vun;’ a consolation
unquestionably founded on fact, seeing that a hackney-coach horse never
was known to run at all, ‘except,’ as the smart cabman in front of the
rank observes, ‘except one, and _he_ run back’ards.’

The shops are now completely opened, and apprentices and shopmen are
busily engaged in cleaning and decking the windows for the day. The
bakers’ shops in town are filled with servants and children waiting for
the drawing of the first batch of rolls—an operation which was
performed a full hour ago in the suburbs: for the early clerk
population of Somers and Camden towns, Islington, and Pentonville, are
fast pouring into the city, or directing their steps towards
Chancery-lane and the Inns of Court. Middle-aged men, whose salaries
have by no means increased in the same proportion as their families,
plod steadily along, apparently with no object in view but the
counting-house; knowing by sight almost everybody they meet or
overtake, for they have seen them every morning (Sunday excepted)
during the last twenty years, but speaking to no one. If they do happen
to overtake a personal acquaintance, they just exchange a hurried
salutation, and keep walking on either by his side, or in front of him,
as his rate of walking may chance to be. As to stopping to shake hands,
or to take the friend’s arm, they seem to think that as it is not
included in their salary, they have no right to do it. Small office
lads in large hats, who are made men before they are boys, hurry along
in pairs, with their first coat carefully brushed, and the white
trousers of last Sunday plentifully besmeared with dust and ink. It
evidently requires a considerable mental struggle to avoid investing
part of the day’s dinner-money in the purchase of the stale tarts so
temptingly exposed in dusty tins at the pastry-cooks’ doors; but a
consciousness of their own importance and the receipt of seven
shillings a-week, with the prospect of an early rise to eight, comes to
their aid, and they accordingly put their hats a little more on one
side, and look under the bonnets of all the milliners’ and stay-makers’
apprentices they meet—poor girls!—the hardest worked, the worst paid,
and too often, the worst used class of the community.

Eleven o’clock, and a new set of people fill the streets. The goods in
the shop-windows are invitingly arranged; the shopmen in their white
neckerchiefs and spruce coats, look as it they couldn’t clean a window
if their lives depended on it; the carts have disappeared from
Covent-garden; the waggoners have returned, and the costermongers
repaired to their ordinary ‘beats’ in the suburbs; clerks are at their
offices, and gigs, cabs, omnibuses, and saddle-horses, are conveying
their masters to the same destination. The streets are thronged with a
vast concourse of people, gay and shabby, rich and poor, idle and
industrious; and we come to the heat, bustle, and activity of Noon.




CHAPTER II—THE STREETS—NIGHT


But the streets of London, to be beheld in the very height of their
glory, should be seen on a dark, dull, murky winter’s night, when there
is just enough damp gently stealing down to make the pavement greasy,
without cleansing it of any of its impurities; and when the heavy lazy
mist, which hangs over every object, makes the gas-lamps look brighter,
and the brilliantly-lighted shops more splendid, from the contrast they
present to the darkness around. All the people who are at home on such
a night as this, seem disposed to make themselves as snug and
comfortable as possible; and the passengers in the streets have
excellent reason to envy the fortunate individuals who are seated by
their own firesides.

In the larger and better kind of streets, dining parlour curtains are
closely drawn, kitchen fires blaze brightly up, and savoury steams of
hot dinners salute the nostrils of the hungry wayfarer, as he plods
wearily by the area railings. In the suburbs, the muffin boy rings his
way down the little street, much more slowly than he is wont to do; for
Mrs. Macklin, of No. 4, has no sooner opened her little street-door,
and screamed out ‘Muffins!’ with all her might, than Mrs. Walker, at
No. 5, puts her head out of the parlour-window, and screams ‘Muffins!’
too; and Mrs. Walker has scarcely got the words out of her lips, than
Mrs. Peplow, over the way, lets loose Master Peplow, who darts down the
street, with a velocity which nothing but buttered muffins in
perspective could possibly inspire, and drags the boy back by main
force, whereupon Mrs. Macklin and Mrs. Walker, just to save the boy
trouble, and to say a few neighbourly words to Mrs. Peplow at the same
time, run over the way and buy their muffins at Mrs. Peplow’s door,
when it appears from the voluntary statement of Mrs. Walker, that her
‘kittle’s jist a-biling, and the cups and sarsers ready laid,’ and
that, as it was such a wretched night out o’ doors, she’d made up her
mind to have a nice, hot, comfortable cup o’ tea—a determination at
which, by the most singular coincidence, the other two ladies had
simultaneously arrived.

After a little conversation about the wretchedness of the weather and
the merits of tea, with a digression relative to the viciousness of
boys as a rule, and the amiability of Master Peplow as an exception,
Mrs. Walker sees her husband coming down the street; and as he must
want his tea, poor man, after his dirty walk from the Docks, she
instantly runs across, muffins in hand, and Mrs. Macklin does the same,
and after a few words to Mrs. Walker, they all pop into their little
houses, and slam their little street-doors, which are not opened again
for the remainder of the evening, except to the nine o’clock ‘beer,’
who comes round with a lantern in front of his tray, and says, as he
lends Mrs. Walker ‘Yesterday’s ‘Tiser,’ that he’s blessed if he can
hardly hold the pot, much less feel the paper, for it’s one of the
bitterest nights he ever felt, ’cept the night when the man was frozen
to death in the Brick-field.

After a little prophetic conversation with the policeman at the
street-corner, touching a probable change in the weather, and the
setting-in of a hard frost, the nine o’clock beer returns to his
master’s house, and employs himself for the remainder of the evening,
in assiduously stirring the tap-room fire, and deferentially taking
part in the conversation of the worthies assembled round it.

The streets in the vicinity of the Marsh-gate and Victoria Theatre
present an appearance of dirt and discomfort on such a night, which the
groups who lounge about them in no degree tend to diminish. Even the
little block-tin temple sacred to baked potatoes, surmounted by a
splendid design in variegated lamps, looks less gay than usual, and as
to the kidney-pie stand, its glory has quite departed. The candle in
the transparent lamp, manufactured of oil-paper, embellished with
‘characters,’ has been blown out fifty times, so the kidney-pie
merchant, tired with running backwards and forwards to the next
wine-vaults, to get a light, has given up the idea of illumination in
despair, and the only signs of his ‘whereabout,’ are the bright sparks,
of which a long irregular train is whirled down the street every time
he opens his portable oven to hand a hot kidney-pie to a customer.

Flat-fish, oyster, and fruit vendors linger hopelessly in the kennel,
in vain endeavouring to attract customers; and the ragged boys who
usually disport themselves about the streets, stand crouched in little
knots in some projecting doorway, or under the canvas blind of a
cheesemonger’s, where great flaring gas-lights, unshaded by any glass,
display huge piles of blight red and pale yellow cheeses, mingled with
little fivepenny dabs of dingy bacon, various tubs of weekly Dorset,
and cloudy rolls of ‘best fresh.’

Here they amuse themselves with theatrical converse, arising out of
their last half-price visit to the Victoria gallery, admire the
terrific combat, which is nightly encored, and expatiate on the
inimitable manner in which Bill Thompson can ‘come the double monkey,’
or go through the mysterious involutions of a sailor’s hornpipe.

It is nearly eleven o’clock, and the cold thin rain which has been
drizzling so long, is beginning to pour down in good earnest; the
baked-potato man has departed—the kidney-pie man has just walked away
with his warehouse on his arm—the cheesemonger has drawn in his blind,
and the boys have dispersed. The constant clicking of pattens on the
slippy and uneven pavement, and the rustling of umbrellas, as the wind
blows against the shop-windows, bear testimony to the inclemency of the
night; and the policeman, with his oilskin cape buttoned closely round
him, seems as he holds his hat on his head, and turns round to avoid
the gust of wind and rain which drives against him at the
street-corner, to be very far from congratulating himself on the
prospect before him.

The little chandler’s shop with the cracked bell behind the door, whose
melancholy tinkling has been regulated by the demand for quarterns of
sugar and half-ounces of coffee, is shutting up. The crowds which have
been passing to and fro during the whole day, are rapidly dwindling
away; and the noise of shouting and quarrelling which issues from the
public-houses, is almost the only sound that breaks the melancholy
stillness of the night.

There was another, but it has ceased. That wretched woman with the
infant in her arms, round whose meagre form the remnant of her own
scanty shawl is carefully wrapped, has been attempting to sing some
popular ballad, in the hope of wringing a few pence from the
compassionate passer-by. A brutal laugh at her weak voice is all she
has gained. The tears fall thick and fast down her own pale face; the
child is cold and hungry, and its low half-stifled wailing adds to the
misery of its wretched mother, as she moans aloud, and sinks
despairingly down, on a cold damp door-step.

Singing! How few of those who pass such a miserable creature as this,
think of the anguish of heart, the sinking of soul and spirit, which
the very effort of singing produces. Bitter mockery! Disease, neglect,
and starvation, faintly articulating the words of the joyous ditty,
that has enlivened your hours of feasting and merriment, God knows how
often! It is no subject of jeering. The weak tremulous voice tells a
fearful tale of want and famishing; and the feeble singer of this
roaring song may turn away, only to die of cold and hunger.

One o’clock! Parties returning from the different theatres foot it
through the muddy streets; cabs, hackney-coaches, carriages, and
theatre omnibuses, roll swiftly by; watermen with dim dirty lanterns in
their hands, and large brass plates upon their breasts, who have been
shouting and rushing about for the last two hours, retire to their
watering-houses, to solace themselves with the creature comforts of
pipes and purl; the half-price pit and box frequenters of the theatres
throng to the different houses of refreshment; and chops, kidneys,
rabbits, oysters, stout, cigars, and ‘goes’ innumerable, are served up
amidst a noise and confusion of smoking, running, knife-clattering, and
waiter-chattering, perfectly indescribable.

The more musical portion of the play-going community betake themselves
to some harmonic meeting. As a matter of curiosity let us follow them
thither for a few moments.

In a lofty room of spacious dimensions, are seated some eighty or a
hundred guests knocking little pewter measures on the tables, and
hammering away, with the handles of their knives, as if they were so
many trunk-makers. They are applauding a glee, which has just been
executed by the three ‘professional gentlemen’ at the top of the centre
table, one of whom is in the chair—the little pompous man with the bald
head just emerging from the collar of his green coat. The others are
seated on either side of him—the stout man with the small voice, and
the thin-faced dark man in black. The little man in the chair is a most
amusing personage,—such condescending grandeur, and _such_ a voice!

‘Bass!’ as the young gentleman near us with the blue stock forcibly
remarks to his companion, ‘bass! I b’lieve you; he can go down lower
than any man: so low sometimes that you can’t hear him.’ And so he
does. To hear him growling away, gradually lower and lower down, till
he can’t get back again, is the most delightful thing in the world, and
it is quite impossible to witness unmoved the impressive solemnity with
which he pours forth his soul in ‘My ’art’s in the ’ighlands,’ or ‘The
brave old Hoak.’ The stout man is also addicted to sentimentality, and
warbles ‘Fly, fly from the world, my Bessy, with me,’ or some such
song, with lady-like sweetness, and in the most seductive tones
imaginable.

‘Pray give your orders, gen’l’m’n—pray give your orders,’—says the
pale-faced man with the red head; and demands for ‘goes’ of gin and
‘goes’ of brandy, and pints of stout, and cigars of peculiar mildness,
are vociferously made from all parts of the room. The ‘professional
gentlemen’ are in the very height of their glory, and bestow
condescending nods, or even a word or two of recognition, on the
better-known frequenters of the room, in the most bland and patronising
manner possible.

The little round-faced man, with the small brown surtout, white
stockings and shoes, is in the comic line; the mixed air of
self-denial, and mental consciousness of his own powers, with which he
acknowledges the call of the chair, is particularly gratifying.
‘Gen’l’men,’ says the little pompous man, accompanying the word with a
knock of the president’s hammer on the table—‘Gen’l’men, allow me to
claim your attention—our friend, Mr. Smuggins, will oblige.’—‘Bravo!’
shout the company; and Smuggins, after a considerable quantity of
coughing by way of symphony, and a most facetious sniff or two, which
afford general delight, sings a comic song, with a
fal-de-ral—tol-de-ral chorus at the end of every verse, much longer
than the verse itself. It is received with unbounded applause, and
after some aspiring genius has volunteered a recitation, and failed
dismally therein, the little pompous man gives another knock, and says
‘Gen’l’men, we will attempt a glee, if you please.’ This announcement
calls forth tumultuous applause, and the more energetic spirits express
the unqualified approbation it affords them, by knocking one or two
stout glasses off their legs—a humorous device; but one which
frequently occasions some slight altercation when the form of paying
the damage is proposed to be gone through by the waiter.

Scenes like these are continued until three or four o’clock in the
morning; and even when they close, fresh ones open to the inquisitive
novice. But as a description of all of them, however slight, would
require a volume, the contents of which, however instructive, would be
by no means pleasing, we make our bow, and drop the curtain.




CHAPTER III—SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS


What inexhaustible food for speculation, do the streets of London
afford! We never were able to agree with Sterne in pitying the man who
could travel from Dan to Beersheba, and say that all was barren; we
have not the slightest commiseration for the man who can take up his
hat and stick, and walk from Covent-garden to St. Paul’s Churchyard,
and back into the bargain, without deriving some amusement—we had
almost said instruction—from his perambulation. And yet there are such
beings: we meet them every day. Large black stocks and light
waistcoats, jet canes and discontented countenances, are the
characteristics of the race; other people brush quickly by you,
steadily plodding on to business, or cheerfully running after pleasure.
These men linger listlessly past, looking as happy and animated as a
policeman on duty. Nothing seems to make an impression on their minds:
nothing short of being knocked down by a porter, or run over by a cab,
will disturb their equanimity. You will meet them on a fine day in any
of the leading thoroughfares: peep through the window of a west-end
cigar shop in the evening, if you can manage to get a glimpse between
the blue curtains which intercept the vulgar gaze, and you see them in
their only enjoyment of existence. There they are lounging about, on
round tubs and pipe boxes, in all the dignity of whiskers, and gilt
watch-guards; whispering soft nothings to the young lady in amber, with
the large ear-rings, who, as she sits behind the counter in a blaze of
adoration and gas-light, is the admiration of all the female servants
in the neighbourhood, and the envy of every milliner’s apprentice
within two miles round.

One of our principal amusements is to watch the gradual progress—the
rise or fall—of particular shops. We have formed an intimate
acquaintance with several, in different parts of town, and are
perfectly acquainted with their whole history. We could name off-hand,
twenty at least, which we are quite sure have paid no taxes for the
last six years. They are never inhabited for more than two months
consecutively, and, we verily believe, have witnessed every retail
trade in the directory.

There is one, whose history is a sample of the rest, in whose fate we
have taken especial interest, having had the pleasure of knowing it
ever since it has been a shop. It is on the Surrey side of the water—a
little distance beyond the Marsh-gate. It was originally a substantial,
good-looking private house enough; the landlord got into difficulties,
the house got into Chancery, the tenant went away, and the house went
to ruin. At this period our acquaintance with it commenced; the paint
was all worn off; the windows were broken, the area was green with
neglect and the overflowings of the water-butt; the butt itself was
without a lid, and the street-door was the very picture of misery. The
chief pastime of the children in the vicinity had been to assemble in a
body on the steps, and to take it in turn to knock loud double knocks
at the door, to the great satisfaction of the neighbours generally, and
especially of the nervous old lady next door but one. Numerous
complaints were made, and several small basins of water discharged over
the offenders, but without effect. In this state of things, the
marine-store dealer at the corner of the street, in the most obliging
manner took the knocker off, and sold it: and the unfortunate house
looked more wretched than ever.

We deserted our friend for a few weeks. What was our surprise, on our
return, to find no trace of its existence! In its place was a handsome
shop, fast approaching to a state of completion, and on the shutters
were large bills, informing the public that it would shortly be opened
with ‘an extensive stock of linen-drapery and haberdashery.’ It opened
in due course; there was the name of the proprietor ‘and Co.’ in gilt
letters, almost too dazzling to look at. Such ribbons and shawls! and
two such elegant young men behind the counter, each in a clean collar
and white neckcloth, like the lover in a farce. As to the proprietor,
he did nothing but walk up and down the shop, and hand seats to the
ladies, and hold important conversations with the handsomest of the
young men, who was shrewdly suspected by the neighbours to be the ‘Co.’
We saw all this with sorrow; we felt a fatal presentiment that the shop
was doomed—and so it was. Its decay was slow, but sure. Tickets
gradually appeared in the windows; then rolls of flannel, with labels
on them, were stuck outside the door; then a bill was pasted on the
street-door, intimating that the first floor was to let unfurnished;
then one of the young men disappeared altogether, and the other took to
a black neckerchief, and the proprietor took to drinking. The shop
became dirty, broken panes of glass remained unmended, and the stock
disappeared piecemeal. At last the company’s man came to cut off the
water, and then the linen-draper cut off himself, leaving the landlord
his compliments and the key.

The next occupant was a fancy stationer. The shop was more modestly
painted than before, still it was neat; but somehow we always thought,
as we passed, that it looked like a poor and struggling concern. We
wished the man well, but we trembled for his success. He was a widower
evidently, and had employment elsewhere, for he passed us every morning
on his road to the city. The business was carried on by his eldest
daughter. Poor girl! she needed no assistance. We occasionally caught a
glimpse of two or three children, in mourning like herself, as they sat
in the little parlour behind the shop; and we never passed at night
without seeing the eldest girl at work, either for them, or in making
some elegant little trifle for sale. We often thought, as her pale face
looked more sad and pensive in the dim candle-light, that if those
thoughtless females who interfere with the miserable market of poor
creatures such as these, knew but one-half of the misery they suffer,
and the bitter privations they endure, in their honourable attempts to
earn a scanty subsistence, they would, perhaps, resign even
opportunities for the gratification of vanity, and an immodest love of
self-display, rather than drive them to a last dreadful resource, which
it would shock the delicate feelings of these _charitable_ ladies to
hear named.

But we are forgetting the shop. Well, we continued to watch it, and
every day showed too clearly the increasing poverty of its inmates. The
children were clean, it is true, but their clothes were threadbare and
shabby; no tenant had been procured for the upper part of the house,
from the letting of which, a portion of the means of paying the rent
was to have been derived, and a slow, wasting consumption prevented the
eldest girl from continuing her exertions. Quarter-day arrived. The
landlord had suffered from the extravagance of his last tenant, and he
had no compassion for the struggles of his successor; he put in an
execution. As we passed one morning, the broker’s men were removing the
little furniture there was in the house, and a newly-posted bill
informed us it was again ‘To Let.’ What became of the last tenant we
never could learn; we believe the girl is past all suffering, and
beyond all sorrow. God help her! We hope she is.

We were somewhat curious to ascertain what would be the next stage—for
that the place had no chance of succeeding now, was perfectly clear.
The bill was soon taken down, and some alterations were being made in
the interior of the shop. We were in a fever of expectation; we
exhausted conjecture—we imagined all possible trades, none of which
were perfectly reconcilable with our idea of the gradual decay of the
tenement. It opened, and we wondered why we had not guessed at the real
state of the case before. The shop—not a large one at the best of
times—had been converted into two: one was a bonnet-shape maker’s, the
other was opened by a tobacconist, who also dealt in walking-sticks and
Sunday newspapers; the two were separated by a thin partition, covered
with tawdry striped paper.

The tobacconist remained in possession longer than any tenant within
our recollection. He was a red-faced, impudent, good-for-nothing dog,
evidently accustomed to take things as they came, and to make the best
of a bad job. He sold as many cigars as he could, and smoked the rest.
He occupied the shop as long as he could make peace with the landlord,
and when he could no longer live in quiet, he very coolly locked the
door, and bolted himself. From this period, the two little dens have
undergone innumerable changes. The tobacconist was succeeded by a
theatrical hair-dresser, who ornamented the window with a great variety
of ‘characters,’ and terrific combats. The bonnet-shape maker gave
place to a greengrocer, and the histrionic barber was succeeded, in his
turn, by a tailor. So numerous have been the changes, that we have of
late done little more than mark the peculiar but certain indications of
a house being poorly inhabited. It has been progressing by almost
imperceptible degrees. The occupiers of the shops have gradually given
up room after room, until they have only reserved the little parlour
for themselves. First there appeared a brass plate on the private door,
with ‘Ladies’ School’ legibly engraved thereon; shortly afterwards we
observed a second brass plate, then a bell, and then another bell.

When we paused in front of our old friend, and observed these signs of
poverty, which are not to be mistaken, we thought as we turned away,
that the house had attained its lowest pitch of degradation. We were
wrong. When we last passed it, a ‘dairy’ was established in the area,
and a party of melancholy-looking fowls were amusing themselves by
running in at the front door, and out at the back one.




CHAPTER IV—SCOTLAND-YARD


Scotland-yard is a small—a very small-tract of land, bounded on one
side by the river Thames, on the other by the gardens of Northumberland
House: abutting at one end on the bottom of Northumberland-street, at
the other on the back of Whitehall-place. When this territory was first
accidentally discovered by a country gentleman who lost his way in the
Strand, some years ago, the original settlers were found to be a
tailor, a publican, two eating-house keepers, and a fruit-pie maker;
and it was also found to contain a race of strong and bulky men, who
repaired to the wharfs in Scotland-yard regularly every morning, about
five or six o’clock, to fill heavy waggons with coal, with which they
proceeded to distant places up the country, and supplied the
inhabitants with fuel. When they had emptied their waggons, they again
returned for a fresh supply; and this trade was continued throughout
the year.

As the settlers derived their subsistence from ministering to the wants
of these primitive traders, the articles exposed for sale, and the
places where they were sold, bore strong outward marks of being
expressly adapted to their tastes and wishes. The tailor displayed in
his window a Lilliputian pair of leather gaiters, and a diminutive
round frock, while each doorpost was appropriately garnished with a
model of a coal-sack. The two eating-house keepers exhibited joints of
a magnitude, and puddings of a solidity, which coalheavers alone could
appreciate; and the fruit-pie maker displayed on his well-scrubbed
window-board large white compositions of flour and dripping, ornamented
with pink stains, giving rich promise of the fruit within, which made
their huge mouths water, as they lingered past.

But the choicest spot in all Scotland-yard was the old public-house in
the corner. Here, in a dark wainscoted-room of ancient appearance,
cheered by the glow of a mighty fire, and decorated with an enormous
clock, whereof the face was white, and the figures black, sat the lusty
coalheavers, quaffing large draughts of Barclay’s best, and puffing
forth volumes of smoke, which wreathed heavily above their heads, and
involved the room in a thick dark cloud. From this apartment might
their voices be heard on a winter’s night, penetrating to the very bank
of the river, as they shouted out some sturdy chorus, or roared forth
the burden of a popular song; dwelling upon the last few words with a
strength and length of emphasis which made the very roof tremble above
them.

Here, too, would they tell old legends of what the Thames was in
ancient times, when the Patent Shot Manufactory wasn’t built, and
Waterloo-bridge had never been thought of; and then they would shake
their heads with portentous looks, to the deep edification of the
rising generation of heavers, who crowded round them, and wondered
where all this would end; whereat the tailor would take his pipe
solemnly from his mouth, and say, how that he hoped it might end well,
but he very much doubted whether it would or not, and couldn’t rightly
tell what to make of it—a mysterious expression of opinion, delivered
with a semi-prophetic air, which never failed to elicit the fullest
concurrence of the assembled company; and so they would go on drinking
and wondering till ten o’clock came, and with it the tailor’s wife to
fetch him home, when the little party broke up, to meet again in the
same room, and say and do precisely the same things, on the following
evening at the same hour.

About this time the barges that came up the river began to bring vague
rumours to Scotland-yard of somebody in the city having been heard to
say, that the Lord Mayor had threatened in so many words to pull down
the old London-bridge, and build up a new one. At first these rumours
were disregarded as idle tales, wholly destitute of foundation, for
nobody in Scotland-yard doubted that if the Lord Mayor contemplated any
such dark design, he would just be clapped up in the Tower for a week
or two, and then killed off for high treason.

By degrees, however, the reports grew stronger, and more frequent, and
at last a barge, laden with numerous chaldrons of the best Wallsend,
brought up the positive intelligence that several of the arches of the
old bridge were stopped, and that preparations were actually in
progress for constructing the new one. What an excitement was visible
in the old tap-room on that memorable night! Each man looked into his
neighbour’s face, pale with alarm and astonishment, and read therein an
echo of the sentiments which filled his own breast. The oldest heaver
present proved to demonstration, that the moment the piers were
removed, all the water in the Thames would run clean off, and leave a
dry gully in its place. What was to become of the coal-barges—of the
trade of Scotland-yard—of the very existence of its population? The
tailor shook his head more sagely than usual, and grimly pointing to a
knife on the table, bid them wait and see what happened. He said
nothing—not he; but if the Lord Mayor didn’t fall a victim to popular
indignation, why he would be rather astonished; that was all.

They did wait; barge after barge arrived, and still no tidings of the
assassination of the Lord Mayor. The first stone was laid: it was done
by a Duke—the King’s brother. Years passed away, and the bridge was
opened by the King himself. In course of time, the piers were removed;
and when the people in Scotland-yard got up next morning in the
confident expectation of being able to step over to Pedlar’s Acre
without wetting the soles of their shoes, they found to their
unspeakable astonishment that the water was just where it used to be.

A result so different from that which they had anticipated from this
first improvement, produced its full effect upon the inhabitants of
Scotland-yard. One of the eating-house keepers began to court public
opinion, and to look for customers among a new class of people. He
covered his little dining-tables with white cloths, and got a painter’s
apprentice to inscribe something about hot joints from twelve to two,
in one of the little panes of his shop-window. Improvement began to
march with rapid strides to the very threshold of Scotland-yard. A new
market sprung up at Hungerford, and the Police Commissioners
established their office in Whitehall-place. The traffic in
Scotland-yard increased; fresh Members were added to the House of
Commons, the Metropolitan Representatives found it a near cut, and many
other foot passengers followed their example.

We marked the advance of civilisation, and beheld it with a sigh. The
eating-house keeper who manfully resisted the innovation of
table-cloths, was losing ground every day, as his opponent gained it,
and a deadly feud sprung up between them. The genteel one no longer
took his evening’s pint in Scotland-yard, but drank gin and water at a
‘parlour’ in Parliament-street. The fruit-pie maker still continued to
visit the old room, but he took to smoking cigars, and began to call
himself a pastrycook, and to read the papers. The old heavers still
assembled round the ancient fireplace, but their talk was mournful: and
the loud song and the joyous shout were heard no more.

And what is Scotland-yard now? How have its old customs changed; and
how has the ancient simplicity of its inhabitants faded away! The old
tottering public-house is converted into a spacious and lofty
‘wine-vaults;’ gold leaf has been used in the construction of the
letters which emblazon its exterior, and the poet’s art has been called
into requisition, to intimate that if you drink a certain description
of ale, you must hold fast by the rail. The tailor exhibits in his
window the pattern of a foreign-looking brown surtout, with silk
buttons, a fur collar, and fur cuffs. He wears a stripe down the
outside of each leg of his trousers: and we have detected his
assistants (for he has assistants now) in the act of sitting on the
shop-board in the same uniform.

At the other end of the little row of houses a boot-maker has
established himself in a brick box, with the additional innovation of a
first floor; and here he exposes for sale, boots—real Wellington
boots—an article which a few years ago, none of the original
inhabitants had ever seen or heard of. It was but the other day, that a
dress-maker opened another little box in the middle of the row; and,
when we thought that the spirit of change could produce no alteration
beyond that, a jeweller appeared, and not content with exposing gilt
rings and copper bracelets out of number, put up an announcement, which
still sticks in his window, that ‘ladies’ ears may be pierced within.’
The dress-maker employs a young lady who wears pockets in her apron;
and the tailor informs the public that gentlemen may have their own
materials made up.

Amidst all this change, and restlessness, and innovation, there remains
but one old man, who seems to mourn the downfall of this ancient place.
He holds no converse with human kind, but, seated on a wooden bench at
the angle of the wall which fronts the crossing from Whitehall-place,
watches in silence the gambols of his sleek and well-fed dogs. He is
the presiding genius of Scotland-yard. Years and years have rolled over
his head; but, in fine weather or in foul, hot or cold, wet or dry,
hail, rain, or snow, he is still in his accustomed spot. Misery and
want are depicted in his countenance; his form is bent by age, his head
is grey with length of trial, but there he sits from day to day,
brooding over the past; and thither he will continue to drag his feeble
limbs, until his eyes have closed upon Scotland-yard, and upon the
world together.

A few years hence, and the antiquary of another generation looking into
some mouldy record of the strife and passions that agitated the world
in these times, may glance his eye over the pages we have just filled:
and not all his knowledge of the history of the past, not all his
black-letter lore, or his skill in book-collecting, not all the dry
studies of a long life, or the dusty volumes that have cost him a
fortune, may help him to the whereabouts, either of Scotland-yard, or
of any one of the landmarks we have mentioned in describing it.




CHAPTER V—SEVEN DIALS


We have always been of opinion that if Tom King and the Frenchman had
not immortalised Seven Dials, Seven Dials would have immortalised
itself. Seven Dials! the region of song and poetry—first effusions, and
last dying speeches: hallowed by the names of Catnach and of
Pitts—names that will entwine themselves with costermongers, and
barrel-organs, when penny magazines shall have superseded penny yards
of song, and capital punishment be unknown!

Look at the construction of the place. The Gordian knot was all very
well in its way: so was the maze of Hampton Court: so is the maze at
the Beulah Spa: so were the ties of stiff white neckcloths, when the
difficulty of getting one on, was only to be equalled by the apparent
impossibility of ever getting it off again. But what involutions can
compare with those of Seven Dials? Where is there such another maze of
streets, courts, lanes, and alleys? Where such a pure mixture of
Englishmen and Irishmen, as in this complicated part of London? We
boldly aver that we doubt the veracity of the legend to which we have
adverted. We _can_ suppose a man rash enough to inquire at random—at a
house with lodgers too—for a Mr. Thompson, with all but the certainty
before his eyes, of finding at least two or three Thompsons in any
house of moderate dimensions; but a Frenchman—a Frenchman in Seven
Dials! Pooh! He was an Irishman. Tom King’s education had been
neglected in his infancy, and as he couldn’t understand half the man
said, he took it for granted he was talking French.

The stranger who finds himself in ‘The Dials’ for the first time, and
stands Belzoni-like, at the entrance of seven obscure passages,
uncertain which to take, will see enough around him to keep his
curiosity and attention awake for no inconsiderable time. From the
irregular square into which he has plunged, the streets and courts dart
in all directions, until they are lost in the unwholesome vapour which
hangs over the house-tops, and renders the dirty perspective uncertain
and confined; and lounging at every corner, as if they came there to
take a few gasps of such fresh air as has found its way so far, but is
too much exhausted already, to be enabled to force itself into the
narrow alleys around, are groups of people, whose appearance and
dwellings would fill any mind but a regular Londoner’s with
astonishment.

On one side, a little crowd has collected round a couple of ladies, who
having imbibed the contents of various ‘three-outs’ of gin and bitters
in the course of the morning, have at length differed on some point of
domestic arrangement, and are on the eve of settling the quarrel
satisfactorily, by an appeal to blows, greatly to the interest of other
ladies who live in the same house, and tenements adjoining, and who are
all partisans on one side or other.

‘Vy don’t you pitch into her, Sarah?’ exclaims one half-dressed matron,
by way of encouragement. ‘Vy don’t you? if _my_ ’usband had treated her
with a drain last night, unbeknown to me, I’d tear her precious eyes
out—a wixen!’

‘What’s the matter, ma’am?’ inquires another old woman, who has just
bustled up to the spot.

‘Matter!’ replies the first speaker, talking _at_ the obnoxious
combatant, ‘matter! Here’s poor dear Mrs. Sulliwin, as has five blessed
children of her own, can’t go out a charing for one arternoon, but what
hussies must be a comin’, and ’ticing avay her oun’ ’usband, as she’s
been married to twelve year come next Easter Monday, for I see the
certificate ven I vas a drinkin’ a cup o’ tea vith her, only the werry
last blessed Ven’sday as ever was sent. I ’appen’d to say
promiscuously, “Mrs. Sulliwin,” says I—’

‘What do you mean by hussies?’ interrupts a champion of the other
party, who has evinced a strong inclination throughout to get up a
branch fight on her own account (‘Hooroar,’ ejaculates a pot-boy in
parenthesis, ‘put the kye-bosk on her, Mary!’), ‘What do you mean by
hussies?’ reiterates the champion.

‘Niver mind,’ replies the opposition expressively, ‘niver mind; _you_
go home, and, ven you’re quite sober, mend your stockings.’

This somewhat personal allusion, not only to the lady’s habits of
intemperance, but also to the state of her wardrobe, rouses her utmost
ire, and she accordingly complies with the urgent request of the
bystanders to ‘pitch in,’ with considerable alacrity. The scuffle
became general, and terminates, in minor play-bill phraseology, with
‘arrival of the policemen, interior of the station-house, and
impressive _dénouement_.’

In addition to the numerous groups who are idling about the gin-shops
and squabbling in the centre of the road, every post in the open space
has its occupant, who leans against it for hours, with listless
perseverance. It is odd enough that one class of men in London appear
to have no enjoyment beyond leaning against posts. We never saw a
regular bricklayer’s labourer take any other recreation, fighting
excepted. Pass through St. Giles’s in the evening of a week-day, there
they are in their fustian dresses, spotted with brick-dust and
whitewash, leaning against posts. Walk through Seven Dials on Sunday
morning: there they are again, drab or light corduroy trousers, Blucher
boots, blue coats, and great yellow waistcoats, leaning against posts.
The idea of a man dressing himself in his best clothes, to lean against
a post all day!

The peculiar character of these streets, and the close resemblance each
one bears to its neighbour, by no means tends to decrease the
bewilderment in which the unexperienced wayfarer through ‘the Dials’
finds himself involved. He traverses streets of dirty, straggling
houses, with now and then an unexpected court composed of buildings as
ill-proportioned and deformed as the half-naked children that wallow in
the kennels. Here and there, a little dark chandler’s shop, with a
cracked bell hung up behind the door to announce the entrance of a
customer, or betray the presence of some young gentleman in whom a
passion for shop tills has developed itself at an early age: others, as
if for support, against some handsome lofty building, which usurps the
place of a low dingy public-house; long rows of broken and patched
windows expose plants that may have flourished when ‘the Dials’ were
built, in vessels as dirty as ‘the Dials’ themselves; and shops for the
purchase of rags, bones, old iron, and kitchen-stuff, vie in
cleanliness with the bird-fanciers and rabbit-dealers, which one might
fancy so many arks, but for the irresistible conviction that no bird in
its proper senses, who was permitted to leave one of them, would ever
come back again. Brokers’ shops, which would seem to have been
established by humane individuals, as refuges for destitute bugs,
interspersed with announcements of day-schools, penny theatres,
petition-writers, mangles, and music for balls or routs, complete the
‘still life’ of the subject; and dirty men, filthy women, squalid
children, fluttering shuttlecocks, noisy battledores, reeking pipes,
bad fruit, more than doubtful oysters, attenuated cats, depressed dogs,
and anatomical fowls, are its cheerful accompaniments.

If the external appearance of the houses, or a glance at their
inhabitants, present but few attractions, a closer acquaintance with
either is little calculated to alter one’s first impression. Every room
has its separate tenant, and every tenant is, by the same mysterious
dispensation which causes a country curate to ‘increase and multiply’
most marvellously, generally the head of a numerous family.

The man in the shop, perhaps, is in the baked ‘jemmy’ line, or the
fire-wood and hearth-stone line, or any other line which requires a
floating capital of eighteen-pence or thereabouts: and he and his
family live in the shop, and the small back parlour behind it. Then
there is an Irish labourer and _his_ family in the back kitchen, and a
jobbing man—carpet-beater and so forth—with _his_ family in the front
one. In the front one-pair, there’s another man with another wife and
family, and in the back one-pair, there’s ‘a young ’oman as takes in
tambour-work, and dresses quite genteel,’ who talks a good deal about
‘my friend,’ and can’t ‘a-bear anything low.’ The second floor front,
and the rest of the lodgers, are just a second edition of the people
below, except a shabby-genteel man in the back attic, who has his
half-pint of coffee every morning from the coffee-shop next door but
one, which boasts a little front den called a coffee-room, with a
fireplace, over which is an inscription, politely requesting that, ‘to
prevent mistakes,’ customers will ‘please to pay on delivery.’ The
shabby-genteel man is an object of some mystery, but as he leads a life
of seclusion, and never was known to buy anything beyond an occasional
pen, except half-pints of coffee, penny loaves, and ha’porths of ink,
his fellow-lodgers very naturally suppose him to be an author; and
rumours are current in the Dials, that he writes poems for Mr. Warren.

Now anybody who passed through the Dials on a hot summer’s evening, and
saw the different women of the house gossiping on the steps, would be
apt to think that all was harmony among them, and that a more primitive
set of people than the native Diallers could not be imagined. Alas! the
man in the shop ill-treats his family; the carpet-beater extends his
professional pursuits to his wife; the one-pair front has an undying
feud with the two-pair front, in consequence of the two-pair front
persisting in dancing over his (the one-pair front’s) head, when he and
his family have retired for the night; the two-pair back will interfere
with the front kitchen’s children; the Irishman comes home drunk every
other night, and attacks everybody; and the one-pair back screams at
everything. Animosities spring up between floor and floor; the very
cellar asserts his equality. Mrs. A. ‘smacks’ Mrs. B.’s child for
‘making faces.’ Mrs. B. forthwith throws cold water over Mrs. A.’s
child for ‘calling names.’ The husbands are embroiled—the quarrel
becomes general—an assault is the consequence, and a police-officer the
result.




CHAPTER VI—MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH-STREET


We have always entertained a particular attachment towards
Monmouth-street, as the only true and real emporium for second-hand
wearing apparel. Monmouth-street is venerable from its antiquity, and
respectable from its usefulness. Holywell-street we despise; the
red-headed and red-whiskered Jews who forcibly haul you into their
squalid houses, and thrust you into a suit of clothes, whether you will
or not, we detest.

The inhabitants of Monmouth-street are a distinct class; a peaceable
and retiring race, who immure themselves for the most part in deep
cellars, or small back parlours, and who seldom come forth into the
world, except in the dusk and coolness of the evening, when they may be
seen seated, in chairs on the pavement, smoking their pipes, or
watching the gambols of their engaging children as they revel in the
gutter, a happy troop of infantine scavengers. Their countenances bear
a thoughtful and a dirty cast, certain indications of their love of
traffic; and their habitations are distinguished by that disregard of
outward appearance and neglect of personal comfort, so common among
people who are constantly immersed in profound speculations, and deeply
engaged in sedentary pursuits.

We have hinted at the antiquity of our favourite spot. ‘A
Monmouth-street laced coat’ was a by-word a century ago; and still we
find Monmouth-street the same. Pilot great-coats with wooden buttons,
have usurped the place of the ponderous laced coats with full skirts;
embroidered waistcoats with large flaps, have yielded to
double-breasted checks with roll-collars; and three-cornered hats of
quaint appearance, have given place to the low crowns and broad brims
of the coachman school; but it is the times that have changed, not
Monmouth-street. Through every alteration and every change,
Monmouth-street has still remained the burial-place of the fashions;
and such, to judge from all present appearances, it will remain until
there are no more fashions to bury.

We love to walk among these extensive groves of the illustrious dead,
and to indulge in the speculations to which they give rise; now fitting
a deceased coat, then a dead pair of trousers, and anon the mortal
remains of a gaudy waistcoat, upon some being of our own conjuring up,
and endeavouring, from the shape and fashion of the garment itself, to
bring its former owner before our mind’s eye. We have gone on
speculating in this way, until whole rows of coats have started from
their pegs, and buttoned up, of their own accord, round the waists of
imaginary wearers; lines of trousers have jumped down to meet them;
waistcoats have almost burst with anxiety to put themselves on; and
half an acre of shoes have suddenly found feet to fit them, and gone
stumping down the street with a noise which has fairly awakened us from
our pleasant reverie, and driven us slowly away, with a bewildered
stare, an object of astonishment to the good people of Monmouth-street,
and of no slight suspicion to the policemen at the opposite street
corner.

We were occupied in this manner the other day, endeavouring to fit a
pair of lace-up half-boots on an ideal personage, for whom, to say the
truth, they were full a couple of sizes too small, when our eyes
happened to alight on a few suits of clothes ranged outside a
shop-window, which it immediately struck us, must at different periods
have all belonged to, and been worn by, the same individual, and had
now, by one of those strange conjunctions of circumstances which will
occur sometimes, come to be exposed together for sale in the same shop.
The idea seemed a fantastic one, and we looked at the clothes again
with a firm determination not to be easily led away. No, we were right;
the more we looked, the more we were convinced of the accuracy of our
previous impression. There was the man’s whole life written as legibly
on those clothes, as if we had his autobiography engrossed on parchment
before us.

The first was a patched and much-soiled skeleton suit; one of those
straight blue cloth cases in which small boys used to be confined,
before belts and tunics had come in, and old notions had gone out: an
ingenious contrivance for displaying the full symmetry of a boy’s
figure, by fastening him into a very tight jacket, with an ornamental
row of buttons over each shoulder, and then buttoning his trousers over
it, so as to give his legs the appearance of being hooked on, just
under the armpits. This was the boy’s dress. It had belonged to a town
boy, we could see; there was a shortness about the legs and arms of the
suit; and a bagging at the knees, peculiar to the rising youth of
London streets. A small day-school he had been at, evidently. If it had
been a regular boys’ school they wouldn’t have let him play on the
floor so much, and rub his knees so white. He had an indulgent mother
too, and plenty of halfpence, as the numerous smears of some sticky
substance about the pockets, and just below the chin, which even the
salesman’s skill could not succeed in disguising, sufficiently
betokened. They were decent people, but not overburdened with riches,
or he would not have so far outgrown the suit when he passed into those
corduroys with the round jacket; in which he went to a boys’ school,
however, and learnt to write—and in ink of pretty tolerable blackness,
too, if the place where he used to wipe his pen might be taken as
evidence.

A black suit and the jacket changed into a diminutive coat. His father
had died, and the mother had got the boy a message-lad’s place in some
office. A long-worn suit that one; rusty and threadbare before it was
laid aside, but clean and free from soil to the last. Poor woman! We
could imagine her assumed cheerfulness over the scanty meal, and the
refusal of her own small portion, that her hungry boy might have
enough. Her constant anxiety for his welfare, her pride in his growth
mingled sometimes with the thought, almost too acute to bear, that as
he grew to be a man his old affection might cool, old kindnesses fade
from his mind, and old promises be forgotten—the sharp pain that even
then a careless word or a cold look would give her—all crowded on our
thoughts as vividly as if the very scene were passing before us.

These things happen every hour, and we all know it; and yet we felt as
much sorrow when we saw, or fancied we saw—it makes no difference
which—the change that began to take place now, as if we had just
conceived the bare possibility of such a thing for the first time. The
next suit, smart but slovenly; meant to be gay, and yet not half so
decent as the threadbare apparel; redolent of the idle lounge, and the
blackguard companions, told us, we thought, that the widow’s comfort
had rapidly faded away. We could imagine that coat—imagine! we could
see it; we _had_ seen it a hundred times—sauntering in company with
three or four other coats of the same cut, about some place of
profligate resort at night.

We dressed, from the same shop-window in an instant, half a dozen boys
of from fifteen to twenty; and putting cigars into their mouths, and
their hands into their pockets, watched them as they sauntered down the
street, and lingered at the corner, with the obscene jest, and the
oft-repeated oath. We never lost sight of them, till they had cocked
their hats a little more on one side, and swaggered into the
public-house; and then we entered the desolate home, where the mother
sat late in the night, alone; we watched her, as she paced the room in
feverish anxiety, and every now and then opened the door, looked
wistfully into the dark and empty street, and again returned, to be
again and again disappointed. We beheld the look of patience with which
she bore the brutish threat, nay, even the drunken blow; and we heard
the agony of tears that gushed from her very heart, as she sank upon
her knees in her solitary and wretched apartment.

A long period had elapsed, and a greater change had taken place, by the
time of casting off the suit that hung above. It was that of a stout,
broad-shouldered, sturdy-chested man; and we knew at once, as anybody
would, who glanced at that broad-skirted green coat, with the large
metal buttons, that its wearer seldom walked forth without a dog at his
heels, and some idle ruffian, the very counterpart of himself, at his
side. The vices of the boy had grown with the man, and we fancied his
home then—if such a place deserve the name.

We saw the bare and miserable room, destitute of furniture, crowded
with his wife and children, pale, hungry, and emaciated; the man
cursing their lamentations, staggering to the tap-room, from whence he
had just returned, followed by his wife and a sickly infant, clamouring
for bread; and heard the street-wrangle and noisy recrimination that
his striking her occasioned. And then imagination led us to some
metropolitan workhouse, situated in the midst of crowded streets and
alleys, filled with noxious vapours, and ringing with boisterous cries,
where an old and feeble woman, imploring pardon for her son, lay dying
in a close dark room, with no child to clasp her hand, and no pure air
from heaven to fan her brow. A stranger closed the eyes that settled
into a cold unmeaning glare, and strange ears received the words that
murmured from the white and half-closed lips.

A coarse round frock, with a worn cotton neckerchief, and other
articles of clothing of the commonest description, completed the
history. A prison, and the sentence—banishment or the gallows. What
would the man have given then, to be once again the contented humble
drudge of his boyish years; to have been restored to life, but for a
week, a day, an hour, a minute, only for so long a time as would enable
him to say one word of passionate regret to, and hear one sound of
heartfelt forgiveness from, the cold and ghastly form that lay rotting
in the pauper’s grave! The children wild in the streets, the mother a
destitute widow; both deeply tainted with the deep disgrace of the
husband and father’s name, and impelled by sheer necessity, down the
precipice that had led him to a lingering death, possibly of many
years’ duration, thousands of miles away. We had no clue to the end of
the tale; but it was easy to guess its termination.

We took a step or two further on, and by way of restoring the naturally
cheerful tone of our thoughts, began fitting visionary feet and legs
into a cellar-board full of boots and shoes, with a speed and accuracy
that would have astonished the most expert artist in leather, living.
There was one pair of boots in particular—a jolly, good-tempered,
hearty-looking pair of tops, that excited our warmest regard; and we
had got a fine, red-faced, jovial fellow of a market-gardener into
them, before we had made their acquaintance half a minute. They were
just the very thing for him. There was his huge fat legs bulging over
the tops, and fitting them too tight to admit of his tucking in the
loops he had pulled them on by; and his knee-cords with an interval of
stocking; and his blue apron tucked up round his waist; and his red
neckerchief and blue coat, and a white hat stuck on one side of his
head; and there he stood with a broad grin on his great red face,
whistling away, as if any other idea but that of being happy and
comfortable had never entered his brain.

This was the very man after our own heart; we knew all about him; we
had seen him coming up to Covent-garden in his green chaise-cart, with
the fat, tubby little horse, half a thousand times; and even while we
cast an affectionate look upon his boots, at that instant, the form of
a coquettish servant-maid suddenly sprung into a pair of Denmark satin
shoes that stood beside them, and we at once recognised the very girl
who accepted his offer of a ride, just on this side the Hammersmith
suspension-bridge, the very last Tuesday morning we rode into town from
Richmond.

A very smart female, in a showy bonnet, stepped into a pair of grey
cloth boots, with black fringe and binding, that were studiously
pointing out their toes on the other side of the top-boots, and seemed
very anxious to engage his attention, but we didn’t observe that our
friend the market-gardener appeared at all captivated with these
blandishments; for beyond giving a knowing wink when they first began,
as if to imply that he quite understood their end and object, he took
no further notice of them. His indifference, however, was amply
recompensed by the excessive gallantry of a very old gentleman with a
silver-headed stick, who tottered into a pair of large list shoes, that
were standing in one corner of the board, and indulged in a variety of
gestures expressive of his admiration of the lady in the cloth boots,
to the immeasurable amusement of a young fellow we put into a pair of
long-quartered pumps, who we thought would have split the coat that
slid down to meet him, with laughing.

We had been looking on at this little pantomime with great satisfaction
for some time, when, to our unspeakable astonishment, we perceived that
the whole of the characters, including a numerous _corps de ballet_ of
boots and shoes in the background, into which we had been hastily
thrusting as many feet as we could press into the service, were
arranging themselves in order for dancing; and some music striking up
at the moment, to it they went without delay. It was perfectly
delightful to witness the agility of the market-gardener. Out went the
boots, first on one side, then on the other, then cutting, then
shuffling, then setting to the Denmark satins, then advancing, then
retreating, then going round, and then repeating the whole of the
evolutions again, without appearing to suffer in the least from the
violence of the exercise.

Nor were the Denmark satins a bit behindhand, for they jumped and
bounded about, in all directions; and though they were neither so
regular, nor so true to the time as the cloth boots, still, as they
seemed to do it from the heart, and to enjoy it more, we candidly
confess that we preferred their style of dancing to the other. But the
old gentleman in the list shoes was the most amusing object in the
whole party; for, besides his grotesque attempts to appear youthful,
and amorous, which were sufficiently entertaining in themselves, the
young fellow in the pumps managed so artfully that every time the old
gentleman advanced to salute the lady in the cloth boots, he trod with
his whole weight on the old fellow’s toes, which made him roar with
anguish, and rendered all the others like to die of laughing.

We were in the full enjoyment of these festivities when we heard a
shrill, and by no means musical voice, exclaim, ‘Hope you’ll know me
agin, imperence!’ and on looking intently forward to see from whence
the sound came, we found that it proceeded, not from the young lady in
the cloth boots, as we had at first been inclined to suppose, but from
a bulky lady of elderly appearance who was seated in a chair at the
head of the cellar-steps, apparently for the purpose of superintending
the sale of the articles arranged there.

A barrel-organ, which had been in full force close behind us, ceased
playing; the people we had been fitting into the shoes and boots took
to flight at the interruption; and as we were conscious that in the
depth of our meditations we might have been rudely staring at the old
lady for half an hour without knowing it, we took to flight too, and
were soon immersed in the deepest obscurity of the adjacent ‘Dials.’




CHAPTER VII—HACKNEY-COACH STANDS


We maintain that hackney-coaches, properly so called, belong solely to
the metropolis. We may be told, that there are hackney-coach stands in
Edinburgh; and not to go quite so far for a contradiction to our
position, we may be reminded that Liverpool, Manchester, ‘and other
large towns’ (as the Parliamentary phrase goes), have _their_
hackney-coach stands. We readily concede to these places the possession
of certain vehicles, which may look almost as dirty, and even go almost
as slowly, as London hackney-coaches; but that they have the slightest
claim to compete with the metropolis, either in point of stands,
drivers, or cattle, we indignantly deny.

Take a regular, ponderous, rickety, London hackney-coach of the old
school, and let any man have the boldness to assert, if he can, that he
ever beheld any object on the face of the earth which at all resembles
it, unless, indeed, it were another hackney-coach of the same date. We
have recently observed on certain stands, and we say it with deep
regret, rather dapper green chariots, and coaches of polished yellow,
with four wheels of the same colour as the coach, whereas it is
perfectly notorious to every one who has studied the subject, that
every wheel ought to be of a different colour, and a different size.
These are innovations, and, like other miscalled improvements, awful
signs of the restlessness of the public mind, and the little respect
paid to our time-honoured institutions. Why should hackney-coaches be
clean? Our ancestors found them dirty, and left them so. Why should we,
with a feverish wish to ‘keep moving,’ desire to roll along at the rate
of six miles an hour, while they were content to rumble over the stones
at four? These are solemn considerations. Hackney-coaches are part and
parcel of the law of the land; they were settled by the Legislature;
plated and numbered by the wisdom of Parliament.

Then why have they been swamped by cabs and omnibuses? Or why should
people be allowed to ride quickly for eightpence a mile, after
Parliament had come to the solemn decision that they should pay a
shilling a mile for riding slowly? We pause for a reply;—and, having no
chance of getting one, begin a fresh paragraph.

Our acquaintance with hackney-coach stands is of long standing. We are
a walking book of fares, feeling ourselves, half bound, as it were, to
be always in the right on contested points. We know all the regular
watermen within three miles of Covent-garden by sight, and should be
almost tempted to believe that all the hackney-coach horses in that
district knew us by sight too, if one-half of them were not blind. We
take great interest in hackney-coaches, but we seldom drive, having a
knack of turning ourselves over when we attempt to do so. We are as
great friends to horses, hackney-coach and otherwise, as the renowned
Mr. Martin, of costermonger notoriety, and yet we never ride. We keep
no horse, but a clothes-horse; enjoy no saddle so much as a saddle of
mutton; and, following our own inclinations, have never followed the
hounds. Leaving these fleeter means of getting over the ground, or of
depositing oneself upon it, to those who like them, by hackney-coach
stands we take our stand.

There is a hackney-coach stand under the very window at which we are
writing; there is only one coach on it now, but it is a fair specimen
of the class of vehicles to which we have alluded—a great, lumbering,
square concern of a dingy yellow colour (like a bilious brunette), with
very small glasses, but very large frames; the panels are ornamented
with a faded coat of arms, in shape something like a dissected bat, the
axletree is red, and the majority of the wheels are green. The box is
partially covered by an old great-coat, with a multiplicity of capes,
and some extraordinary-looking clothes; and the straw, with which the
canvas cushion is stuffed, is sticking up in several places, as if in
rivalry of the hay, which is peeping through the chinks in the boot.
The horses, with drooping heads, and each with a mane and tail as
scanty and straggling as those of a worn-out rocking-horse, are
standing patiently on some damp straw, occasionally wincing, and
rattling the harness; and now and then, one of them lifts his mouth to
the ear of his companion, as if he were saying, in a whisper, that he
should like to assassinate the coachman. The coachman himself is in the
watering-house; and the waterman, with his hands forced into his
pockets as far as they can possibly go, is dancing the ‘double
shuffle,’ in front of the pump, to keep his feet warm.

The servant-girl, with the pink ribbons, at No. 5, opposite, suddenly
opens the street-door, and four small children forthwith rush out, and
scream ‘Coach!’ with all their might and main. The waterman darts from
the pump, seizes the horses by their respective bridles, and drags
them, and the coach too, round to the house, shouting all the time for
the coachman at the very top, or rather very bottom of his voice, for
it is a deep bass growl. A response is heard from the tap-room; the
coachman, in his wooden-soled shoes, makes the street echo again as he
runs across it; and then there is such a struggling, and backing, and
grating of the kennel, to get the coach-door opposite the house-door,
that the children are in perfect ecstasies of delight. What a
commotion! The old lady, who has been stopping there for the last
month, is going back to the country. Out comes box after box, and one
side of the vehicle is filled with luggage in no time; the children get
into everybody’s way, and the youngest, who has upset himself in his
attempts to carry an umbrella, is borne off wounded and kicking. The
youngsters disappear, and a short pause ensues, during which the old
lady is, no doubt, kissing them all round in the back parlour. She
appears at last, followed by her married daughter, all the children,
and both the servants, who, with the joint assistance of the coachman
and waterman, manage to get her safely into the coach. A cloak is
handed in, and a little basket, which we could almost swear contains a
small black bottle, and a paper of sandwiches. Up go the steps, bang
goes the door, ‘Golden-cross, Charing-cross, Tom,’ says the waterman;
‘Good-bye, grandma,’ cry the children, off jingles the coach at the
rate of three miles an hour, and the mamma and children retire into the
house, with the exception of one little villain, who runs up the street
at the top of his speed, pursued by the servant; not ill-pleased to
have such an opportunity of displaying her attractions. She brings him
back, and, after casting two or three gracious glances across the way,
which are either intended for us or the potboy (we are not quite
certain which), shuts the door, and the hackney-coach stand is again at
a standstill.

We have been frequently amused with the intense delight with which ‘a
servant of all work,’ who is sent for a coach, deposits herself inside;
and the unspeakable gratification which boys, who have been despatched
on a similar errand, appear to derive from mounting the box. But we
never recollect to have been more amused with a hackney-coach party,
than one we saw early the other morning in Tottenham-court-road. It was
a wedding-party, and emerged from one of the inferior streets near
Fitzroy-square. There were the bride, with a thin white dress, and a
great red face; and the bridesmaid, a little, dumpy, good-humoured
young woman, dressed, of course, in the same appropriate costume; and
the bridegroom and his chosen friend, in blue coats, yellow
waist-coats, white trousers, and Berlin gloves to match. They stopped
at the corner of the street, and called a coach with an air of
indescribable dignity. The moment they were in, the bridesmaid threw a
red shawl, which she had, no doubt, brought on purpose, negligently
over the number on the door, evidently to delude pedestrians into the
belief that the hackney-coach was a private carriage; and away they
went, perfectly satisfied that the imposition was successful, and quite
unconscious that there was a great staring number stuck up behind, on a
plate as large as a schoolboy’s slate. A shilling a mile!—the ride was
worth five, at least, to them.

What an interesting book a hackney-coach might produce, if it could
carry as much in its head as it does in its body! The autobiography of
a broken-down hackney-coach, would surely be as amusing as the
autobiography of a broken-down hackneyed dramatist; and it might tell
as much of its travels _with_ the pole, as others have of their
expeditions _to_ it. How many stories might be related of the different
people it had conveyed on matters of business or profit—pleasure or
pain! And how many melancholy tales of the same people at different
periods! The country-girl—the showy, over-dressed woman—the drunken
prostitute! The raw apprentice—the dissipated spendthrift—the thief!

Talk of cabs! Cabs are all very well in cases of expedition, when it’s
a matter of neck or nothing, life or death, your temporary home or your
long one. But, besides a cab’s lacking that gravity of deportment which
so peculiarly distinguishes a hackney-coach, let it never be forgotten
that a cab is a thing of yesterday, and that he never was anything
better. A hackney-cab has always been a hackney-cab, from his first
entry into life; whereas a hackney-coach is a remnant of past
gentility, a victim to fashion, a hanger-on of an old English family,
wearing their arms, and, in days of yore, escorted by men wearing their
livery, stripped of his finery, and thrown upon the world, like a
once-smart footman when he is no longer sufficiently juvenile for his
office, progressing lower and lower in the scale of four-wheeled
degradation, until at last it comes to—_a stand_!




CHAPTER VIII—DOCTORS’ COMMONS


Walking without any definite object through St. Paul’s Churchyard, a
little while ago, we happened to turn down a street entitled
‘Paul’s-chain,’ and keeping straight forward for a few hundred yards,
found ourself, as a natural consequence, in Doctors’ Commons. Now
Doctors’ Commons being familiar by name to everybody, as the place
where they grant marriage-licenses to love-sick couples, and divorces
to unfaithful ones; register the wills of people who have any property
to leave, and punish hasty gentlemen who call ladies by unpleasant
names, we no sooner discovered that we were really within its
precincts, than we felt a laudable desire to become better acquainted
therewith; and as the first object of our curiosity was the Court,
whose decrees can even unloose the bonds of matrimony, we procured a
direction to it; and bent our steps thither without delay.

Crossing a quiet and shady court-yard, paved with stone, and frowned
upon by old red brick houses, on the doors of which were painted the
names of sundry learned civilians, we paused before a small,
green-baized, brass-headed-nailed door, which yielding to our gentle
push, at once admitted us into an old quaint-looking apartment, with
sunken windows, and black carved wainscoting, at the upper end of
which, seated on a raised platform, of semicircular shape, were about a
dozen solemn-looking gentlemen, in crimson gowns and wigs.

At a more elevated desk in the centre, sat a very fat and red-faced
gentleman, in tortoise-shell spectacles, whose dignified appearance
announced the judge; and round a long green-baized table below,
something like a billiard-table without the cushions and pockets, were
a number of very self-important-looking personages, in stiff
neckcloths, and black gowns with white fur collars, whom we at once set
down as proctors. At the lower end of the billiard-table was an
individual in an arm-chair, and a wig, whom we afterwards discovered to
be the registrar; and seated behind a little desk, near the door, were
a respectable-looking man in black, of about twenty-stone weight or
thereabouts, and a fat-faced, smirking, civil-looking body, in a black
gown, black kid gloves, knee shorts, and silks, with a shirt-frill in
his bosom, curls on his head, and a silver staff in his hand, whom we
had no difficulty in recognising as the officer of the Court. The
latter, indeed, speedily set our mind at rest upon this point, for,
advancing to our elbow, and opening a conversation forthwith, he had
communicated to us, in less than five minutes, that he was the
apparitor, and the other the court-keeper; that this was the Arches
Court, and therefore the counsel wore red gowns, and the proctors fur
collars; and that when the other Courts sat there, they didn’t wear red
gowns or fur collars either; with many other scraps of intelligence
equally interesting. Besides these two officers, there was a little
thin old man, with long grizzly hair, crouched in a remote corner,
whose duty, our communicative friend informed us, was to ring a large
hand-bell when the Court opened in the morning, and who, for aught his
appearance betokened to the contrary, might have been similarly
employed for the last two centuries at least.

The red-faced gentleman in the tortoise-shell spectacles had got all
the talk to himself just then, and very well he was doing it, too, only
he spoke very fast, but that was habit; and rather thick, but that was
good living. So we had plenty of time to look about us. There was one
individual who amused us mightily. This was one of the bewigged
gentlemen in the red robes, who was straddling before the fire in the
centre of the Court, in the attitude of the brazen Colossus, to the
complete exclusion of everybody else. He had gathered up his robe
behind, in much the same manner as a slovenly woman would her
petticoats on a very dirty day, in order that he might feel the full
warmth of the fire. His wig was put on all awry, with the tail
straggling about his neck; his scanty grey trousers and short black
gaiters, made in the worst possible style, imported an additional
inelegant appearance to his uncouth person; and his limp,
badly-starched shirt-collar almost obscured his eyes. We shall never be
able to claim any credit as a physiognomist again, for, after a careful
scrutiny of this gentleman’s countenance, we had come to the conclusion
that it bespoke nothing but conceit and silliness, when our friend with
the silver staff whispered in our ear that he was no other than a
doctor of civil law, and heaven knows what besides. So of course we
were mistaken, and he must be a very talented man. He conceals it so
well though—perhaps with the merciful view of not astonishing ordinary
people too much—that you would suppose him to be one of the stupidest
dogs alive.

The gentleman in the spectacles having concluded his judgment, and a
few minutes having been allowed to elapse, to afford time for the buzz
of the Court to subside, the registrar called on the next cause, which
was ‘the office of the Judge promoted by Bumple against Sludberry.’ A
general movement was visible in the Court, at this announcement, and
the obliging functionary with silver staff whispered us that ‘there
would be some fun now, for this was a brawling case.’

We were not rendered much the wiser by this piece of information, till
we found by the opening speech of the counsel for the promoter, that,
under a half-obsolete statute of one of the Edwards, the court was
empowered to visit with the penalty of excommunication, any person who
should be proved guilty of the crime of ‘brawling,’ or ‘smiting,’ in
any church, or vestry adjoining thereto; and it appeared, by some
eight-and-twenty affidavits, which were duly referred to, that on a
certain night, at a certain vestry-meeting, in a certain parish
particularly set forth, Thomas Sludberry, the party appeared against in
that suit, had made use of, and applied to Michael Bumple, the
promoter, the words ‘You be blowed;’ and that, on the said Michael
Bumple and others remonstrating with the said Thomas Sludberry, on the
impropriety of his conduct, the said Thomas Sludberry repeated the
aforesaid expression, ‘You be blowed;’ and furthermore desired and
requested to know, whether the said Michael Bumple ‘wanted anything for
himself;’ adding, ‘that if the said Michael Bumple did want anything
for himself, he, the said Thomas Sludberry, was the man to give it
him;’ at the same time making use of other heinous and sinful
expressions, all of which, Bumple submitted, came within the intent and
meaning of the Act; and therefore he, for the soul’s health and
chastening of Sludberry, prayed for sentence of excommunication against
him accordingly.

Upon these facts a long argument was entered into, on both sides, to
the great edification of a number of persons interested in the
parochial squabbles, who crowded the court; and when some very long and
grave speeches had been made _pro_ and _con_, the red-faced gentleman
in the tortoise-shell spectacles took a review of the case, which
occupied half an hour more, and then pronounced upon Sludberry the
awful sentence of excommunication for a fortnight, and payment of the
costs of the suit. Upon this, Sludberry, who was a little, red-faced,
sly-looking, ginger-beer seller, addressed the court, and said, if
they’d be good enough to take off the costs, and excommunicate him for
the term of his natural life instead, it would be much more convenient
to him, for he never went to church at all. To this appeal the
gentleman in the spectacles made no other reply than a look of virtuous
indignation; and Sludberry and his friends retired. As the man with the
silver staff informed us that the court was on the point of rising, we
retired too—pondering, as we walked away, upon the beautiful spirit of
these ancient ecclesiastical laws, the kind and neighbourly feelings
they are calculated to awaken, and the strong attachment to religious
institutions which they cannot fail to engender.

We were so lost in these meditations, that we had turned into the
street, and run up against a door-post, before we recollected where we
were walking. On looking upwards to see what house we had stumbled
upon, the words ‘Prerogative-Office,’ written in large characters, met
our eye; and as we were in a sight-seeing humour and the place was a
public one, we walked in.

The room into which we walked, was a long, busy-looking place,
partitioned off, on either side, into a variety of little boxes, in
which a few clerks were engaged in copying or examining deeds. Down the
centre of the room were several desks nearly breast high, at each of
which, three or four people were standing, poring over large volumes.
As we knew that they were searching for wills, they attracted our
attention at once.

It was curious to contrast the lazy indifference of the attorneys’
clerks who were making a search for some legal purpose, with the air of
earnestness and interest which distinguished the strangers to the
place, who were looking up the will of some deceased relative; the
former pausing every now and then with an impatient yawn, or raising
their heads to look at the people who passed up and down the room; the
latter stooping over the book, and running down column after column of
names in the deepest abstraction.

There was one little dirty-faced man in a blue apron, who after a whole
morning’s search, extending some fifty years back, had just found the
will to which he wished to refer, which one of the officials was
reading to him in a low hurried voice from a thick vellum book with
large clasps. It was perfectly evident that the more the clerk read,
the less the man with the blue apron understood about the matter. When
the volume was first brought down, he took off his hat, smoothed down
his hair, smiled with great self-satisfaction, and looked up in the
reader’s face with the air of a man who had made up his mind to
recollect every word he heard. The first two or three lines were
intelligible enough; but then the technicalities began, and the little
man began to look rather dubious. Then came a whole string of
complicated trusts, and he was regularly at sea. As the reader
proceeded, it was quite apparent that it was a hopeless case, and the
little man, with his mouth open and his eyes fixed upon his face,
looked on with an expression of bewilderment and perplexity
irresistibly ludicrous.

A little further on, a hard-featured old man with a deeply-wrinkled
face, was intently perusing a lengthy will with the aid of a pair of
horn spectacles: occasionally pausing from his task, and slily noting
down some brief memorandum of the bequests contained in it. Every
wrinkle about his toothless mouth, and sharp keen eyes, told of avarice
and cunning. His clothes were nearly threadbare, but it was easy to see
that he wore them from choice and not from necessity; all his looks and
gestures down to the very small pinches of snuff which he every now and
then took from a little tin canister, told of wealth, and penury, and
avarice.

As he leisurely closed the register, put up his spectacles, and folded
his scraps of paper in a large leathern pocket-book, we thought what a
nice hard bargain he was driving with some poverty-stricken legatee,
who, tired of waiting year after year, until some life-interest should
fall in, was selling his chance, just as it began to grow most
valuable, for a twelfth part of its worth. It was a good speculation—a
very safe one. The old man stowed his pocket-book carefully in the
breast of his great-coat, and hobbled away with a leer of triumph. That
will had made him ten years younger at the lowest computation.

Having commenced our observations, we should certainly have extended
them to another dozen of people at least, had not a sudden shutting up
and putting away of the worm-eaten old books, warned us that the time
for closing the office had arrived; and thus deprived us of a pleasure,
and spared our readers an infliction.

We naturally fell into a train of reflection as we walked homewards,
upon the curious old records of likings and dislikings; of jealousies
and revenges; of affection defying the power of death, and hatred
pursued beyond the grave, which these depositories contain; silent but
striking tokens, some of them, of excellence of heart, and nobleness of
soul; melancholy examples, others, of the worst passions of human
nature. How many men as they lay speechless and helpless on the bed of
death, would have given worlds but for the strength and power to blot
out the silent evidence of animosity and bitterness, which now stands
registered against them in Doctors’ Commons!




CHAPTER IX—LONDON RECREATIONS


The wish of persons in the humbler classes of life, to ape the manners
and customs of those whom fortune has placed above them, is often the
subject of remark, and not unfrequently of complaint. The inclination
may, and no doubt does, exist to a great extent, among the small
gentility—the would-be aristocrats—of the middle classes. Tradesmen and
clerks, with fashionable novel-reading families, and
circulating-library-subscribing daughters, get up small assemblies in
humble imitation of Almack’s, and promenade the dingy ‘large room’ of
some second-rate hotel with as much complacency as the enviable few who
are privileged to exhibit their magnificence in that exclusive haunt of
fashion and foolery. Aspiring young ladies, who read flaming accounts
of some ‘fancy fair in high life,’ suddenly grow desperately
charitable; visions of admiration and matrimony float before their
eyes; some wonderfully meritorious institution, which, by the strangest
accident in the world, has never been heard of before, is discovered to
be in a languishing condition: Thomson’s great room, or Johnson’s
nursery-ground, is forthwith engaged, and the aforesaid young ladies,
from mere charity, exhibit themselves for three days, from twelve to
four, for the small charge of one shilling per head! With the exception
of these classes of society, however, and a few weak and insignificant
persons, we do not think the attempt at imitation to which we have
alluded, prevails in any great degree. The different character of the
recreations of different classes, has often afforded us amusement; and
we have chosen it for the subject of our present sketch, in the hope
that it may possess some amusement for our readers.

If the regular City man, who leaves Lloyd’s at five o’clock, and drives
home to Hackney, Clapton, Stamford-hill, or elsewhere, can be said to
have any daily recreation beyond his dinner, it is his garden. He never
does anything to it with his own hands; but he takes great pride in it
notwithstanding; and if you are desirous of paying your addresses to
the youngest daughter, be sure to be in raptures with every flower and
shrub it contains. If your poverty of expression compel you to make any
distinction between the two, we would certainly recommend your
bestowing more admiration on his garden than his wine. He always takes
a walk round it, before he starts for town in the morning, and is
particularly anxious that the fish-pond should be kept specially neat.
If you call on him on Sunday in summer-time, about an hour before
dinner, you will find him sitting in an arm-chair, on the lawn behind
the house, with a straw hat on, reading a Sunday paper. A short
distance from him you will most likely observe a handsome paroquet in a
large brass-wire cage; ten to one but the two eldest girls are
loitering in one of the side walks accompanied by a couple of young
gentlemen, who are holding parasols over them—of course only to keep
the sun off—while the younger children, with the under nursery-maid,
are strolling listlessly about, in the shade. Beyond these occasions,
his delight in his garden appears to arise more from the consciousness
of possession than actual enjoyment of it. When he drives you down to
dinner on a week-day, he is rather fatigued with the occupations of the
morning, and tolerably cross into the bargain; but when the cloth is
removed, and he has drank three or four glasses of his favourite port,
he orders the French windows of his dining-room (which of course look
into the garden) to be opened, and throwing a silk handkerchief over
his head, and leaning back in his arm-chair, descants at considerable
length upon its beauty, and the cost of maintaining it. This is to
impress you—who are a young friend of the family—with a due sense of
the excellence of the garden, and the wealth of its owner; and when he
has exhausted the subject, he goes to sleep.

There is another and a very different class of men, whose recreation is
their garden. An individual of this class, resides some short distance
from town—say in the Hampstead-road, or the Kilburn-road, or any other
road where the houses are small and neat, and have little slips of back
garden. He and his wife—who is as clean and compact a little body as
himself—have occupied the same house ever since he retired from
business twenty years ago. They have no family. They once had a son,
who died at about five years old. The child’s portrait hangs over the
mantelpiece in the best sitting-room, and a little cart he used to draw
about, is carefully preserved as a relic.

In fine weather the old gentleman is almost constantly in the garden;
and when it is too wet to go into it, he will look out of the window at
it, by the hour together. He has always something to do there, and you
will see him digging, and sweeping, and cutting, and planting, with
manifest delight. In spring-time, there is no end to the sowing of
seeds, and sticking little bits of wood over them, with labels, which
look like epitaphs to their memory; and in the evening, when the sun
has gone down, the perseverance with which he lugs a great watering-pot
about is perfectly astonishing. The only other recreation he has, is
the newspaper, which he peruses every day, from beginning to end,
generally reading the most interesting pieces of intelligence to his
wife, during breakfast. The old lady is very fond of flowers, as the
hyacinth-glasses in the parlour-window, and geranium-pots in the little
front court, testify. She takes great pride in the garden too: and when
one of the four fruit-trees produces rather a larger gooseberry than
usual, it is carefully preserved under a wine-glass on the sideboard,
for the edification of visitors, who are duly informed that Mr.
So-and-so planted the tree which produced it, with his own hands. On a
summer’s evening, when the large watering-pot has been filled and
emptied some fourteen times, and the old couple have quite exhausted
themselves by trotting about, you will see them sitting happily
together in the little summerhouse, enjoying the calm and peace of the
twilight, and watching the shadows as they fall upon the garden, and
gradually growing thicker and more sombre, obscure the tints of their
gayest flowers—no bad emblem of the years that have silently rolled
over their heads, deadening in their course the brightest hues of early
hopes and feelings which have long since faded away. These are their
only recreations, and they require no more. They have within
themselves, the materials of comfort and content; and the only anxiety
of each, is to die before the other.

This is no ideal sketch. There _used_ to be many old people of this
description; their numbers may have diminished, and may decrease still
more. Whether the course female education has taken of late
days—whether the pursuit of giddy frivolities, and empty nothings, has
tended to unfit women for that quiet domestic life, in which they show
far more beautifully than in the most crowded assembly, is a question
we should feel little gratification in discussing: we hope not.

Let us turn now, to another portion of the London population, whose
recreations present about as strong a contrast as can well be
conceived—we mean the Sunday pleasurers; and let us beg our readers to
imagine themselves stationed by our side in some well-known rural
‘Tea-gardens.’

The heat is intense this afternoon, and the people, of whom there are
additional parties arriving every moment, look as warm as the tables
which have been recently painted, and have the appearance of being
red-hot. What a dust and noise! Men and women—boys and
girls—sweethearts and married people—babies in arms, and children in
chaises—pipes and shrimps—cigars and periwinkles—tea and tobacco.
Gentlemen, in alarming waistcoats, and steel watch-guards, promenading
about, three abreast, with surprising dignity (or as the gentleman in
the next box facetiously observes, ‘cutting it uncommon fat!’)—ladies,
with great, long, white pocket-handkerchiefs like small table-cloths,
in their hands, chasing one another on the grass in the most playful
and interesting manner, with the view of attracting the attention of
the aforesaid gentlemen—husbands in perspective ordering bottles of
ginger-beer for the objects of their affections, with a lavish
disregard of expense; and the said objects washing down huge quantities
of ‘shrimps’ and ‘winkles,’ with an equal disregard of their own bodily
health and subsequent comfort—boys, with great silk hats just balanced
on the top of their heads, smoking cigars, and trying to look as if
they liked them—gentlemen in pink shirts and blue waistcoats,
occasionally upsetting either themselves, or somebody else, with their
own canes.

Some of the finery of these people provokes a smile, but they are all
clean, and happy, and disposed to be good-natured and sociable. Those
two motherly-looking women in the smart pelisses, who are chatting so
confidentially, inserting a ‘ma’am’ at every fourth word, scraped an
acquaintance about a quarter of an hour ago: it originated in
admiration of the little boy who belongs to one of them—that diminutive
specimen of mortality in the three-cornered pink satin hat with black
feathers. The two men in the blue coats and drab trousers, who are
walking up and down, smoking their pipes, are their husbands. The party
in the opposite box are a pretty fair specimen of the generality of the
visitors. These are the father and mother, and old grandmother: a young
man and woman, and an individual addressed by the euphonious title of
‘Uncle Bill,’ who is evidently the wit of the party. They have some
half-dozen children with them, but it is scarcely necessary to notice
the fact, for that is a matter of course here. Every woman in ‘the
gardens,’ who has been married for any length of time, must have had
twins on two or three occasions; it is impossible to account for the
extent of juvenile population in any other way.

Observe the inexpressible delight of the old grandmother, at Uncle
Bill’s splendid joke of ‘tea for four: bread-and-butter for forty;’ and
the loud explosion of mirth which follows his wafering a paper
‘pigtail’ on the waiter’s collar. The young man is evidently ‘keeping
company’ with Uncle Bill’s niece: and Uncle Bill’s hints—such as ‘Don’t
forget me at the dinner, you know,’ ‘I shall look out for the cake,
Sally,’ ‘I’ll be godfather to your first—wager it’s a boy,’ and so
forth, are equally embarrassing to the young people, and delightful to
the elder ones. As to the old grandmother, she is in perfect ecstasies,
and does nothing but laugh herself into fits of coughing, until they
have finished the ‘gin-and-water warm with,’ of which Uncle Bill
ordered ‘glasses round’ after tea, ‘just to keep the night air out, and
to do it up comfortable and riglar arter sitch an as-tonishing hot
day!’

It is getting dark, and the people begin to move. The field leading to
town is quite full of them; the little hand-chaises are dragged wearily
along, the children are tired, and amuse themselves and the company
generally by crying, or resort to the much more pleasant expedient of
going to sleep—the mothers begin to wish they were at home
again—sweethearts grow more sentimental than ever, as the time for
parting arrives—the gardens look mournful enough, by the light of the
two lanterns which hang against the trees for the convenience of
smokers—and the waiters who have been running about incessantly for the
last six hours, think they feel a little tired, as they count their
glasses and their gains.




CHAPTER X—THE RIVER


‘Are you fond of the water?’ is a question very frequently asked, in
hot summer weather, by amphibious-looking young men. ‘Very,’ is the
general reply. ‘An’t you?’—‘Hardly ever off it,’ is the response,
accompanied by sundry adjectives, expressive of the speaker’s heartfelt
admiration of that element. Now, with all respect for the opinion of
society in general, and cutter clubs in particular, we humbly suggest
that some of the most painful reminiscences in the mind of every
individual who has occasionally disported himself on the Thames, must
be connected with his aquatic recreations. Who ever heard of a
successful water-party?—or to put the question in a still more
intelligible form, who ever saw one? We have been on water excursions
out of number, but we solemnly declare that we cannot call to mind one
single occasion of the kind, which was not marked by more miseries than
any one would suppose could be reasonably crowded into the space of
some eight or nine hours. Something has always gone wrong. Either the
cork of the salad-dressing has come out, or the most anxiously expected
member of the party has not come out, or the most disagreeable man in
company would come out, or a child or two have fallen into the water,
or the gentleman who undertook to steer has endangered everybody’s life
all the way, or the gentlemen who volunteered to row have been ‘out of
practice,’ and performed very alarming evolutions, putting their oars
down into the water and not being able to get them up again, or taking
terrific pulls without putting them in at all; in either case, pitching
over on the backs of their heads with startling violence, and
exhibiting the soles of their pumps to the ‘sitters’ in the boat, in a
very humiliating manner.

We grant that the banks of the Thames are very beautiful at Richmond
and Twickenham, and other distant havens, often sought though seldom
reached; but from the ‘Red-us’ back to Blackfriars-bridge, the scene is
wonderfully changed. The Penitentiary is a noble building, no doubt,
and the sportive youths who ‘go in’ at that particular part of the
river, on a summer’s evening, may be all very well in perspective; but
when you are obliged to keep in shore coming home, and the young ladies
will colour up, and look perseveringly the other way, while the married
dittos cough slightly, and stare very hard at the water, you feel
awkward—especially if you happen to have been attempting the most
distant approach to sentimentality, for an hour or two previously.

Although experience and suffering have produced in our minds the result
we have just stated, we are by no means blind to a proper sense of the
fun which a looker-on may extract from the amateurs of boating. What
can be more amusing than Searle’s yard on a fine Sunday morning? It’s a
Richmond tide, and some dozen boats are preparing for the reception of
the parties who have engaged them. Two or three fellows in great rough
trousers and Guernsey shirts, are getting them ready by easy stages;
now coming down the yard with a pair of sculls and a cushion—then
having a chat with the ‘Jack,’ who, like all his tribe, seems to be
wholly incapable of doing anything but lounging about—then going back
again, and returning with a rudder-line and a stretcher—then solacing
themselves with another chat—and then wondering, with their hands in
their capacious pockets, ‘where them gentlemen’s got to as ordered the
six.’ One of these, the head man, with the legs of his trousers
carefully tucked up at the bottom, to admit the water, we presume—for
it is an element in which he is infinitely more at home than on land—is
quite a character, and shares with the defunct oyster-swallower the
celebrated name of ‘Dando.’ Watch him, as taking a few minutes’ respite
from his toils, he negligently seats himself on the edge of a boat, and
fans his broad bushy chest with a cap scarcely half so furry. Look at
his magnificent, though reddish whiskers, and mark the somewhat native
humour with which he ‘chaffs’ the boys and ’prentices, or cunningly
gammons the gen’lm’n into the gift of a glass of gin, of which we
verily believe he swallows in one day as much as any six ordinary men,
without ever being one atom the worse for it.

But the party arrives, and Dando, relieved from his state of
uncertainty, starts up into activity. They approach in full aquatic
costume, with round blue jackets, striped shirts, and caps of all sizes
and patterns, from the velvet skull-cap of French manufacture, to the
easy head-dress familiar to the students of the old spelling-books, as
having, on the authority of the portrait, formed part of the costume of
the Reverend Mr. Dilworth.

This is the most amusing time to observe a regular Sunday water-party.
There has evidently been up to this period no inconsiderable degree of
boasting on everybody’s part relative to his knowledge of navigation;
the sight of the water rapidly cools their courage, and the air of
self-denial with which each of them insists on somebody else’s taking
an oar, is perfectly delightful. At length, after a great deal of
changing and fidgeting, consequent upon the election of a stroke-oar:
the inability of one gentleman to pull on this side, of another to pull
on that, and of a third to pull at all, the boat’s crew are seated.
‘Shove her off!’ cries the cockswain, who looks as easy and comfortable
as if he were steering in the Bay of Biscay. The order is obeyed; the
boat is immediately turned completely round, and proceeds towards
Westminster-bridge, amidst such a splashing and struggling as never was
seen before, except when the Royal George went down. ‘Back wa’ater,
sir,’ shouts Dando, ‘Back wa’ater, you sir, aft;’ upon which everybody
thinking he must be the individual referred to, they all back water,
and back comes the boat, stern first, to the spot whence it started.
‘Back water, you sir, aft; pull round, you sir, for’ad, can’t you?’
shouts Dando, in a frenzy of excitement. ‘Pull round, Tom, can’t you?’
re-echoes one of the party. ‘Tom an’t for’ad,’ replies another. ‘Yes,
he is,’ cries a third; and the unfortunate young man, at the imminent
risk of breaking a blood-vessel, pulls and pulls, until the head of the
boat fairly lies in the direction of Vauxhall-bridge. ‘That’s right—now
pull all on you!’ shouts Dando again, adding, in an under-tone, to
somebody by him, ‘Blowed if hever I see sich a set of muffs!’ and away
jogs the boat in a zigzag direction, every one of the six oars dipping
into the water at a different time; and the yard is once more clear,
until the arrival of the next party.

A well-contested rowing-match on the Thames, is a very lively and
interesting scene. The water is studded with boats of all sorts, kinds,
and descriptions; places in the coal-barges at the different wharfs are
let to crowds of spectators, beer and tobacco flow freely about; men,
women, and children wait for the start in breathless expectation;
cutters of six and eight oars glide gently up and down, waiting to
accompany their _protégés_ during the race; bands of music add to the
animation, if not to the harmony of the scene; groups of watermen are
assembled at the different stairs, discussing the merits of the
respective candidates; and the prize wherry, which is rowed slowly
about by a pair of sculls, is an object of general interest.

Two o’clock strikes, and everybody looks anxiously in the direction of
the bridge through which the candidates for the prize will
come—half-past two, and the general attention which has been preserved
so long begins to flag, when suddenly a gun is heard, and a noise of
distant hurra’ing along each bank of the river—every head is bent
forward—the noise draws nearer and nearer—the boats which have been
waiting at the bridge start briskly up the river, and a well-manned
galley shoots through the arch, the sitters cheering on the boats
behind them, which are not yet visible.

‘Here they are,’ is the general cry—and through darts the first boat,
the men in her, stripped to the skin, and exerting every muscle to
preserve the advantage they have gained—four other boats follow close
astern; there are not two boats’ length between them—the shouting is
tremendous, and the interest intense. ‘Go on, Pink’—‘Give it her,
Red’—‘Sulliwin for ever’—‘Bravo! George’—‘Now, Tom, now—now—now—why
don’t your partner stretch out?’—‘Two pots to a pint on Yellow,’ &c.,
&c. Every little public-house fires its gun, and hoists its flag; and
the men who win the heat, come in, amidst a splashing and shouting, and
banging and confusion, which no one can imagine who has not witnessed
it, and of which any description would convey a very faint idea.

One of the most amusing places we know is the steam-wharf of the London
Bridge, or St. Katharine’s Dock Company, on a Saturday morning in
summer, when the Gravesend and Margate steamers are usually crowded to
excess; and as we have just taken a glance at the river above bridge,
we hope our readers will not object to accompany us on board a
Gravesend packet.

Coaches are every moment setting down at the entrance to the wharf, and
the stare of bewildered astonishment with which the ‘fares’ resign
themselves and their luggage into the hands of the porters, who seize
all the packages at once as a matter of course, and run away with them,
heaven knows where, is laughable in the extreme. A Margate boat lies
alongside the wharf, the Gravesend boat (which starts first) lies
alongside that again; and as a temporary communication is formed
between the two, by means of a plank and hand-rail, the natural
confusion of the scene is by no means diminished.

‘Gravesend?’ inquires a stout father of a stout family, who follow him,
under the guidance of their mother, and a servant, at the no small risk
of two or three of them being left behind in the confusion.
‘Gravesend?’

‘Pass on, if you please, sir,’ replies the attendant—‘other boat, sir.’

Hereupon the stout father, being rather mystified, and the stout mother
rather distracted by maternal anxiety, the whole party deposit
themselves in the Margate boat, and after having congratulated himself
on having secured very comfortable seats, the stout father sallies to
the chimney to look for his luggage, which he has a faint recollection
of having given some man, something, to take somewhere. No luggage,
however, bearing the most remote resemblance to his own, in shape or
form, is to be discovered; on which the stout father calls very loudly
for an officer, to whom he states the case, in the presence of another
father of another family—a little thin man—who entirely concurs with
him (the stout father) in thinking that it’s high time something was
done with these steam companies, and that as the Corporation Bill
failed to do it, something else must; for really people’s property is
not to be sacrificed in this way; and that if the luggage isn’t
restored without delay, he will take care it shall be put in the
papers, for the public is not to be the victim of these great
monopolies. To this, the officer, in his turn, replies, that that
company, ever since it has been St. Kat’rine’s Dock Company, has
protected life and property; that if it had been the London Bridge
Wharf Company, indeed, he shouldn’t have wondered, seeing that the
morality of that company (they being the opposition) can’t be answered
for, by no one; but as it is, he’s convinced there must be some
mistake, and he wouldn’t mind making a solemn oath afore a magistrate
that the gentleman’ll find his luggage afore he gets to Margate.

Here the stout father, thinking he is making a capital point, replies,
that as it happens, he is not going to Margate at all, and that
‘Passenger to Gravesend’ was on the luggage, in letters of full two
inches long; on which the officer rapidly explains the mistake, and the
stout mother, and the stout children, and the servant, are hurried with
all possible despatch on board the Gravesend boat, which they reached
just in time to discover that their luggage is there, and that their
comfortable seats are not. Then the bell, which is the signal for the
Gravesend boat starting, begins to ring most furiously: and people keep
time to the bell, by running in and out of our boat at a double-quick
pace. The bell stops; the boat starts: people who have been taking
leave of their friends on board, are carried away against their will;
and people who have been taking leave of their friends on shore, find
that they have performed a very needless ceremony, in consequence of
their not being carried away at all. The regular passengers, who have
season tickets, go below to breakfast; people who have purchased
morning papers, compose themselves to read them; and people who have
not been down the river before, think that both the shipping and the
water, look a great deal better at a distance.

When we get down about as far as Blackwall, and begin to move at a
quicker rate, the spirits of the passengers appear to rise in
proportion. Old women who have brought large wicker hand-baskets with
them, set seriously to work at the demolition of heavy sandwiches, and
pass round a wine-glass, which is frequently replenished from a flat
bottle like a stomach-warmer, with considerable glee: handing it first
to the gentleman in the foraging-cap, who plays the harp—partly as an
expression of satisfaction with his previous exertions, and partly to
induce him to play ‘Dumbledumbdeary,’ for ‘Alick’ to dance to; which
being done, Alick, who is a damp earthy child in red worsted socks,
takes certain small jumps upon the deck, to the unspeakable
satisfaction of his family circle. Girls who have brought the first
volume of some new novel in their reticule, become extremely plaintive,
and expatiate to Mr. Brown, or young Mr. O’Brien, who has been looking
over them, on the blueness of the sky, and brightness of the water; on
which Mr. Brown or Mr. O’Brien, as the case may be, remarks in a low
voice that he has been quite insensible of late to the beauties of
nature, that his whole thoughts and wishes have centred in one object
alone—whereupon the young lady looks up, and failing in her attempt to
appear unconscious, looks down again; and turns over the next leaf with
great difficulty, in order to afford opportunity for a lengthened
pressure of the hand.

Telescopes, sandwiches, and glasses of brandy-and-water cold without,
begin to be in great requisition; and bashful men who have been looking
down the hatchway at the engine, find, to their great relief, a subject
on which they can converse with one another—and a copious one
too—Steam.

‘Wonderful thing steam, sir.’ ‘Ah! (a deep-drawn sigh) it is indeed,
sir.’ ‘Great power, sir.’ ‘Immense—immense!’ ‘Great deal done by steam,
sir.’ ‘Ah! (another sigh at the immensity of the subject, and a knowing
shake of the head) you may say that, sir.’ ‘Still in its infancy, they
say, sir.’ Novel remarks of this kind, are generally the commencement
of a conversation which is prolonged until the conclusion of the trip,
and, perhaps, lays the foundation of a speaking acquaintance between
half-a-dozen gentlemen, who, having their families at Gravesend, take
season tickets for the boat, and dine on board regularly every
afternoon.




CHAPTER XI—ASTLEY’S


We never see any very large, staring, black Roman capitals, in a book,
or shop-window, or placarded on a wall, without their immediately
recalling to our mind an indistinct and confused recollection of the
time when we were first initiated in the mysteries of the alphabet. We
almost fancy we see the pin’s point following the letter, to impress
its form more strongly on our bewildered imagination; and wince
involuntarily, as we remember the hard knuckles with which the reverend
old lady who instilled into our mind the first principles of education
for ninepence per week, or ten and sixpence per quarter, was wont to
poke our juvenile head occasionally, by way of adjusting the confusion
of ideas in which we were generally involved. The same kind of feeling
pursues us in many other instances, but there is no place which recalls
so strongly our recollections of childhood as Astley’s. It was not a
‘Royal Amphitheatre’ in those days, nor had Ducrow arisen to shed the
light of classic taste and portable gas over the sawdust of the circus;
but the whole character of the place was the same, the pieces were the
same, the clown’s jokes were the same, the riding-masters were equally
grand, the comic performers equally witty, the tragedians equally
hoarse, and the ‘highly-trained chargers’ equally spirited. Astley’s
has altered for the better—we have changed for the worse. Our
histrionic taste is gone, and with shame we confess, that we are far
more delighted and amused with the audience, than with the pageantry we
once so highly appreciated.

We like to watch a regular Astley’s party in the Easter or Midsummer
holidays—pa and ma, and nine or ten children, varying from five foot
six to two foot eleven: from fourteen years of age to four. We had just
taken our seat in one of the boxes, in the centre of the house, the
other night, when the next was occupied by just such a party as we
should have attempted to describe, had we depicted our _beau idéal_ of
a group of Astley’s visitors.

First of all, there came three little boys and a little girl, who, in
pursuance of pa’s directions, issued in a very audible voice from the
box-door, occupied the front row; then two more little girls were
ushered in by a young lady, evidently the governess. Then came three
more little boys, dressed like the first, in blue jackets and trousers,
with lay-down shirt-collars: then a child in a braided frock and high
state of astonishment, with very large round eyes, opened to their
utmost width, was lifted over the seats—a process which occasioned a
considerable display of little pink legs—then came ma and pa, and then
the eldest son, a boy of fourteen years old, who was evidently trying
to look as if he did not belong to the family.

The first five minutes were occupied in taking the shawls off the
little girls, and adjusting the bows which ornamented their hair; then
it was providentially discovered that one of the little boys was seated
behind a pillar and could not see, so the governess was stuck behind
the pillar, and the boy lifted into her place. Then pa drilled the
boys, and directed the stowing away of their pocket-handkerchiefs, and
ma having first nodded and winked to the governess to pull the girls’
frocks a little more off their shoulders, stood up to review the little
troop—an inspection which appeared to terminate much to her own
satisfaction, for she looked with a complacent air at pa, who was
standing up at the further end of the seat. Pa returned the glance, and
blew his nose very emphatically; and the poor governess peeped out from
behind the pillar, and timidly tried to catch ma’s eye, with a look
expressive of her high admiration of the whole family. Then two of the
little boys who had been discussing the point whether Astley’s was more
than twice as large as Drury Lane, agreed to refer it to ‘George’ for
his decision; at which ‘George,’ who was no other than the young
gentleman before noticed, waxed indignant, and remonstrated in no very
gentle terms on the gross impropriety of having his name repeated in so
loud a voice at a public place, on which all the children laughed very
heartily, and one of the little boys wound up by expressing his
opinion, that ‘George began to think himself quite a man now,’
whereupon both pa and ma laughed too; and George (who carried a dress
cane and was cultivating whiskers) muttered that ‘William always was
encouraged in his impertinence;’ and assumed a look of profound
contempt, which lasted the whole evening.

The play began, and the interest of the little boys knew no bounds. Pa
was clearly interested too, although he very unsuccessfully endeavoured
to look as if he wasn’t. As for ma, she was perfectly overcome by the
drollery of the principal comedian, and laughed till every one of the
immense bows on her ample cap trembled, at which the governess peeped
out from behind the pillar again, and whenever she could catch ma’s
eye, put her handkerchief to her mouth, and appeared, as in duty bound,
to be in convulsions of laughter also. Then when the man in the
splendid armour vowed to rescue the lady or perish in the attempt, the
little boys applauded vehemently, especially one little fellow who was
apparently on a visit to the family, and had been carrying on a child’s
flirtation, the whole evening, with a small coquette of twelve years
old, who looked like a model of her mamma on a reduced scale; and who,
in common with the other little girls (who generally speaking have even
more coquettishness about them than much older ones), looked very
properly shocked, when the knight’s squire kissed the princess’s
confidential chambermaid.

When the scenes in the circle commenced, the children were more
delighted than ever; and the wish to see what was going forward,
completely conquering pa’s dignity, he stood up in the box, and
applauded as loudly as any of them. Between each feat of horsemanship,
the governess leant across to ma, and retailed the clever remarks of
the children on that which had preceded: and ma, in the openness of her
heart, offered the governess an acidulated drop, and the governess,
gratified to be taken notice of, retired behind her pillar again with a
brighter countenance: and the whole party seemed quite happy, except
the exquisite in the back of the box, who, being too grand to take any
interest in the children, and too insignificant to be taken notice of
by anybody else, occupied himself, from time to time, in rubbing the
place where the whiskers ought to be, and was completely alone in his
glory.

We defy any one who has been to Astley’s two or three times, and is
consequently capable of appreciating the perseverance with which
precisely the same jokes are repeated night after night, and season
after season, not to be amused with one part of the performances at
least—we mean the scenes in the circle. For ourself, we know that when
the hoop, composed of jets of gas, is let down, the curtain drawn up
for the convenience of the half-price on their ejectment from the ring,
the orange-peel cleared away, and the sawdust shaken, with mathematical
precision, into a complete circle, we feel as much enlivened as the
youngest child present; and actually join in the laugh which follows
the clown’s shrill shout of ‘Here we are!’ just for old acquaintance’
sake. Nor can we quite divest ourself of our old feeling of reverence
for the riding-master, who follows the clown with a long whip in his
hand, and bows to the audience with graceful dignity. He is none of
your second-rate riding-masters in nankeen dressing-gowns, with brown
frogs, but the regular gentleman-attendant on the principal riders, who
always wears a military uniform with a table-cloth inside the breast of
the coat, in which costume he forcibly reminds one of a fowl trussed
for roasting. He is—but why should we attempt to describe that of which
no description can convey an adequate idea? Everybody knows the man,
and everybody remembers his polished boots, his graceful demeanour,
stiff, as some misjudging persons have in their jealousy considered it,
and the splendid head of black hair, parted high on the forehead, to
impart to the countenance an appearance of deep thought and poetic
melancholy. His soft and pleasing voice, too, is in perfect unison with
his noble bearing, as he humours the clown by indulging in a little
badinage; and the striking recollection of his own dignity, with which
he exclaims, ‘Now, sir, if you please, inquire for Miss Woolford, sir,’
can never be forgotten. The graceful air, too, with which he introduces
Miss Woolford into the arena, and, after assisting her to the saddle,
follows her fairy courser round the circle, can never fail to create a
deep impression in the bosom of every female servant present.

When Miss Woolford, and the horse, and the orchestra, all stop together
to take breath, he urbanely takes part in some such dialogue as the
following (commenced by the clown): ‘I say, sir!’—‘Well, sir?’ (it’s
always conducted in the politest manner.)—‘Did you ever happen to hear
I was in the army, sir?’—‘No, sir.’—‘Oh, yes, sir—I can go through my
exercise, sir.’—‘Indeed, sir!’—‘Shall I do it now, sir?’—‘If you
please, sir; come, sir—make haste’ (a cut with the long whip, and ‘Ha’
done now—I don’t like it,’ from the clown). Here the clown throws
himself on the ground, and goes through a variety of gymnastic
convulsions, doubling himself up, and untying himself again, and making
himself look very like a man in the most hopeless extreme of human
agony, to the vociferous delight of the gallery, until he is
interrupted by a second cut from the long whip, and a request to see
‘what Miss Woolford’s stopping for?’ On which, to the inexpressible
mirth of the gallery, he exclaims, ‘Now, Miss Woolford, what can I come
for to go, for to fetch, for to bring, for to carry, for to do, for
you, ma’am?’ On the lady’s announcing with a sweet smile that she wants
the two flags, they are, with sundry grimaces, procured and handed up;
the clown facetiously observing after the performance of the latter
ceremony—‘He, he, oh! I say, sir, Miss Woolford knows me; she smiled at
me.’ Another cut from the whip, a burst from the orchestra, a start
from the horse, and round goes Miss Woolford again on her graceful
performance, to the delight of every member of the audience, young or
old. The next pause affords an opportunity for similar witticisms, the
only additional fun being that of the clown making ludicrous grimaces
at the riding-master every time his back is turned; and finally
quitting the circle by jumping over his head, having previously
directed his attention another way.

Did any of our readers ever notice the class of people, who hang about
the stage-doors of our minor theatres in the daytime? You will rarely
pass one of these entrances without seeing a group of three or four men
conversing on the pavement, with an indescribable public-house-parlour
swagger, and a kind of conscious air, peculiar to people of this
description. They always seem to think they are exhibiting; the lamps
are ever before them. That young fellow in the faded brown coat, and
very full light green trousers, pulls down the wristbands of his check
shirt, as ostentatiously as if it were of the finest linen, and cocks
the white hat of the summer-before-last as knowingly over his right
eye, as if it were a purchase of yesterday. Look at the dirty white
Berlin gloves, and the cheap silk handkerchief stuck in the bosom of
his threadbare coat. Is it possible to see him for an instant, and not
come to the conclusion that he is the walking gentleman who wears a
blue surtout, clean collar, and white trousers, for half an hour, and
then shrinks into his worn-out scanty clothes: who has to boast night
after night of his splendid fortune, with the painful consciousness of
a pound a-week and his boots to find; to talk of his father’s mansion
in the country, with a dreary recollection of his own two-pair back, in
the New Cut; and to be envied and flattered as the favoured lover of a
rich heiress, remembering all the while that the ex-dancer at home is
in the family way, and out of an engagement?

Next to him, perhaps, you will see a thin pale man, with a very long
face, in a suit of shining black, thoughtfully knocking that part of
his boot which once had a heel, with an ash stick. He is the man who
does the heavy business, such as prosy fathers, virtuous servants,
curates, landlords, and so forth.

By the way, talking of fathers, we should very much like to see some
piece in which all the dramatis personae were orphans. Fathers are
invariably great nuisances on the stage, and always have to give the
hero or heroine a long explanation of what was done before the curtain
rose, usually commencing with ‘It is now nineteen years, my dear child,
since your blessed mother (here the old villain’s voice falters)
confided you to my charge. You were then an infant,’ &c., &c. Or else
they have to discover, all of a sudden, that somebody whom they have
been in constant communication with, during three long acts, without
the slightest suspicion, is their own child: in which case they
exclaim, ‘Ah! what do I see? This bracelet! That smile! These
documents! Those eyes! Can I believe my senses?—It must be!—Yes—it is,
it is my child!’—‘My father!’ exclaims the child; and they fall into
each other’s arms, and look over each other’s shoulders, and the
audience give three rounds of applause.

To return from this digression, we were about to say, that these are
the sort of people whom you see talking, and attitudinising, outside
the stage-doors of our minor theatres. At Astley’s they are always more
numerous than at any other place. There is generally a groom or two,
sitting on the window-sill, and two or three dirty shabby-genteel men
in checked neckerchiefs, and sallow linen, lounging about, and
carrying, perhaps, under one arm, a pair of stage shoes badly wrapped
up in a piece of old newspaper. Some years ago we used to stand
looking, open-mouthed, at these men, with a feeling of mysterious
curiosity, the very recollection of which provokes a smile at the
moment we are writing. We could not believe that the beings of light
and elegance, in milk-white tunics, salmon-coloured legs, and blue
scarfs, who flitted on sleek cream-coloured horses before our eyes at
night, with all the aid of lights, music, and artificial flowers, could
be the pale, dissipated-looking creatures we beheld by day.

We can hardly believe it now. Of the lower class of actors we have seen
something, and it requires no great exercise of imagination to identify
the walking gentleman with the ‘dirty swell,’ the comic singer with the
public-house chairman, or the leading tragedian with drunkenness and
distress; but these other men are mysterious beings, never seen out of
the ring, never beheld but in the costume of gods and sylphs. With the
exception of Ducrow, who can scarcely be classed among them, who ever
knew a rider at Astley’s, or saw him but on horseback? Can our friend
in the military uniform ever appear in threadbare attire, or descend to
the comparatively un-wadded costume of every-day life? Impossible! We
cannot—we will not—believe it.




CHAPTER XII—GREENWICH FAIR


If the Parks be ‘the lungs of London,’ we wonder what Greenwich Fair
is—a periodical breaking out, we suppose, a sort of spring-rash: a
three days’ fever, which cools the blood for six months afterwards, and
at the expiration of which London is restored to its old habits of
plodding industry, as suddenly and completely as if nothing had ever
happened to disturb them.

In our earlier days, we were a constant frequenter of Greenwich Fair,
for years. We have proceeded to, and returned from it, in almost every
description of vehicle. We cannot conscientiously deny the charge of
having once made the passage in a spring-van, accompanied by thirteen
gentlemen, fourteen ladies, an unlimited number of children, and a
barrel of beer; and we have a vague recollection of having, in later
days, found ourself the eighth outside, on the top of a hackney-coach,
at something past four o’clock in the morning, with a rather confused
idea of our own name, or place of residence. We have grown older since
then, and quiet, and steady: liking nothing better than to spend our
Easter, and all our other holidays, in some quiet nook, with people of
whom we shall never tire; but we think we still remember something of
Greenwich Fair, and of those who resort to it. At all events we will
try.

The road to Greenwich during the whole of Easter Monday, is in a state
of perpetual bustle and noise. Cabs, hackney-coaches, ‘shay’ carts,
coal-waggons, stages, omnibuses, sociables, gigs, donkey-chaises—all
crammed with people (for the question never is, what the horse can
draw, but what the vehicle will hold), roll along at their utmost
speed; the dust flies in clouds, ginger-beer corks go off in volleys,
the balcony of every public-house is crowded with people, smoking and
drinking, half the private houses are turned into tea-shops, fiddles
are in great request, every little fruit-shop displays its stall of
gilt gingerbread and penny toys; turnpike men are in despair; horses
won’t go on, and wheels will come off; ladies in ‘carawans’ scream with
fright at every fresh concussion, and their admirers find it necessary
to sit remarkably close to them, by way of encouragement;
servants-of-all-work, who are not allowed to have followers, and have
got a holiday for the day, make the most of their time with the
faithful admirer who waits for a stolen interview at the corner of the
street every night, when they go to fetch the beer—apprentices grow
sentimental, and straw-bonnet makers kind. Everybody is anxious to get
on, and actuated by the common wish to be at the fair, or in the park,
as soon as possible.

Pedestrians linger in groups at the roadside, unable to resist the
allurements of the stout proprietress of the ‘Jack-in-the-box, three
shies a penny,’ or the more splendid offers of the man with three
thimbles and a pea on a little round board, who astonishes the
bewildered crowd with some such address as, ‘Here’s the sort o’ game to
make you laugh seven years arter you’re dead, and turn ev’ry air on
your ed gray vith delight! Three thimbles and vun little pea—with a
vun, two, three, and a two, three, vun: catch him who can, look on,
keep your eyes open, and niver say die! niver mind the change, and the
expense: all fair and above board: them as don’t play can’t vin, and
luck attend the ryal sportsman! Bet any gen’lm’n any sum of money, from
harf-a-crown up to a suverin, as he doesn’t name the thimble as kivers
the pea!’ Here some greenhorn whispers his friend that he distinctly
saw the pea roll under the middle thimble—an impression which is
immediately confirmed by a gentleman in top-boots, who is standing by,
and who, in a low tone, regrets his own inability to bet, in
consequence of having unfortunately left his purse at home, but
strongly urges the stranger not to neglect such a golden opportunity.
The ‘plant’ is successful, the bet is made, the stranger of course
loses: and the gentleman with the thimbles consoles him, as he pockets
the money, with an assurance that it’s ‘all the fortin of war! this
time I vin, next time you vin: niver mind the loss of two bob and a
bender! Do it up in a small parcel, and break out in a fresh place.
Here’s the sort o’ game,’ &c.—and the eloquent harangue, with such
variations as the speaker’s exuberant fancy suggests, is again repeated
to the gaping crowd, reinforced by the accession of several new-comers.

The chief place of resort in the daytime, after the public-houses, is
the park, in which the principal amusement is to drag young ladies up
the steep hill which leads to the Observatory, and then drag them down
again, at the very top of their speed, greatly to the derangement of
their curls and bonnet-caps, and much to the edification of lookers-on
from below. ‘Kiss in the Ring,’ and ‘Threading my Grandmother’s
Needle,’ too, are sports which receive their full share of patronage.
Love-sick swains, under the influence of gin-and-water, and the tender
passion, become violently affectionate: and the fair objects of their
regard enhance the value of stolen kisses, by a vast deal of
struggling, and holding down of heads, and cries of ‘Oh! Ha’ done,
then, George—Oh, do tickle him for me, Mary—Well, I never!’ and similar
Lucretian ejaculations. Little old men and women, with a small basket
under one arm, and a wine-glass, without a foot, in the other hand,
tender ‘a drop o’ the right sort’ to the different groups; and young
ladies, who are persuaded to indulge in a drop of the aforesaid right
sort, display a pleasing degree of reluctance to taste it, and cough
afterwards with great propriety.

The old pensioners, who, for the moderate charge of a penny, exhibit
the mast-house, the Thames and shipping, the place where the men used
to hang in chains, and other interesting sights, through a telescope,
are asked questions about objects within the range of the glass, which
it would puzzle a Solomon to answer; and requested to find out
particular houses in particular streets, which it would have been a
task of some difficulty for Mr. Horner (not the young gentleman who ate
mince-pies with his thumb, but the man of Colosseum notoriety) to
discover. Here and there, where some three or four couple are sitting
on the grass together, you will see a sun-burnt woman in a red cloak
‘telling fortunes’ and prophesying husbands, which it requires no
extraordinary observation to describe, for the originals are before
her. Thereupon, the lady concerned laughs and blushes, and ultimately
buries her face in an imitation cambric handkerchief, and the gentleman
described looks extremely foolish, and squeezes her hand, and fees the
gipsy liberally; and the gipsy goes away, perfectly satisfied herself,
and leaving those behind her perfectly satisfied also: and the
prophecy, like many other prophecies of greater importance, fulfils
itself in time.

But it grows dark: the crowd has gradually dispersed, and only a few
stragglers are left behind. The light in the direction of the church
shows that the fair is illuminated; and the distant noise proves it to
be filling fast. The spot, which half an hour ago was ringing with the
shouts of boisterous mirth, is as calm and quiet as if nothing could
ever disturb its serenity: the fine old trees, the majestic building at
their feet, with the noble river beyond, glistening in the moonlight,
appear in all their beauty, and under their most favourable aspect; the
voices of the boys, singing their evening hymn, are borne gently on the
air; and the humblest mechanic who has been lingering on the grass so
pleasant to the feet that beat the same dull round from week to week in
the paved streets of London, feels proud to think as he surveys the
scene before him, that he belongs to the country which has selected
such a spot as a retreat for its oldest and best defenders in the
decline of their lives.

Five minutes’ walking brings you to the fair; a scene calculated to
awaken very different feelings. The entrance is occupied on either side
by the vendors of gingerbread and toys: the stalls are gaily lighted
up, the most attractive goods profusely disposed, and unbonneted young
ladies, in their zeal for the interest of their employers, seize you by
the coat, and use all the blandishments of ‘Do, dear’—‘There’s a
love’—‘Don’t be cross, now,’ &c., to induce you to purchase half a
pound of the real spice nuts, of which the majority of the regular
fair-goers carry a pound or two as a present supply, tied up in a
cotton pocket-handkerchief. Occasionally you pass a deal table, on
which are exposed pen’orths of pickled salmon (fennel included), in
little white saucers: oysters, with shells as large as cheese-plates,
and divers specimens of a species of snail (_wilks_, we think they are
called), floating in a somewhat bilious-looking green liquid. Cigars,
too, are in great demand; gentlemen must smoke, of course, and here
they are, two a penny, in a regular authentic cigar-box, with a lighted
tallow candle in the centre.

Imagine yourself in an extremely dense crowd, which swings you to and
fro, and in and out, and every way but the right one; add to this the
screams of women, the shouts of boys, the clanging of gongs, the firing
of pistols, the ringing of bells, the bellowings of speaking-trumpets,
the squeaking of penny dittos, the noise of a dozen bands, with three
drums in each, all playing different tunes at the same time, the
hallooing of showmen, and an occasional roar from the wild-beast shows;
and you are in the very centre and heart of the fair.

This immense booth, with the large stage in front, so brightly
illuminated with variegated lamps, and pots of burning fat, is
‘Richardson’s,’ where you have a melodrama (with three murders and a
ghost), a pantomime, a comic song, an overture, and some incidental
music, all done in five-and-twenty minutes.

The company are now promenading outside in all the dignity of wigs,
spangles, red-ochre, and whitening. See with what a ferocious air the
gentleman who personates the Mexican chief, paces up and down, and with
what an eye of calm dignity the principal tragedian gazes on the crowd
below, or converses confidentially with the harlequin! The four clowns,
who are engaged in a mock broadsword combat, may be all very well for
the low-minded holiday-makers; but these are the people for the
reflective portion of the community. They look so noble in those Roman
dresses, with their yellow legs and arms, long black curly heads, bushy
eyebrows, and scowl expressive of assassination, and vengeance, and
everything else that is grand and solemn. Then, the ladies—were there
ever such innocent and awful-looking beings; as they walk up and down
the platform in twos and threes, with their arms round each other’s
waists, or leaning for support on one of those majestic men! Their
spangled muslin dresses and blue satin shoes and sandals (a _leetle_
the worse for wear) are the admiration of all beholders; and the
playful manner in which they check the advances of the clown, is
perfectly enchanting.

‘Just a-going to begin! Pray come for’erd, come for’erd,’ exclaims the
man in the countryman’s dress, for the seventieth time: and people
force their way up the steps in crowds. The band suddenly strikes up,
the harlequin and columbine set the example, reels are formed in less
than no time, the Roman heroes place their arms a-kimbo, and dance with
considerable agility; and the leading tragic actress, and the gentleman
who enacts the ‘swell’ in the pantomime, foot it to perfection. ‘All in
to begin,’ shouts the manager, when no more people can be induced to
‘come for’erd,’ and away rush the leading members of the company to do
the dreadful in the first piece.

A change of performance takes place every day during the fair, but the
story of the tragedy is always pretty much the same. There is a
rightful heir, who loves a young lady, and is beloved by her; and a
wrongful heir, who loves her too, and isn’t beloved by her; and the
wrongful heir gets hold of the rightful heir, and throws him into a
dungeon, just to kill him off when convenient, for which purpose he
hires a couple of assassins—a good one and a bad one—who, the moment
they are left alone, get up a little murder on their own account, the
good one killing the bad one, and the bad one wounding the good one.
Then the rightful heir is discovered in prison, carefully holding a
long chain in his hands, and seated despondingly in a large arm-chair;
and the young lady comes in to two bars of soft music, and embraces the
rightful heir; and then the wrongful heir comes in to two bars of quick
music (technically called ‘a hurry’), and goes on in the most shocking
manner, throwing the young lady about as if she was nobody, and calling
the rightful heir ‘Ar-recreant—ar-wretch!’ in a very loud voice, which
answers the double purpose of displaying his passion, and preventing
the sound being deadened by the sawdust. The interest becomes intense;
the wrongful heir draws his sword, and rushes on the rightful heir; a
blue smoke is seen, a gong is heard, and a tall white figure (who has
been all this time, behind the arm-chair, covered over with a
table-cloth), slowly rises to the tune of ‘Oft in the stilly night.’
This is no other than the ghost of the rightful heir’s father, who was
killed by the wrongful heir’s father, at sight of which the wrongful
heir becomes apoplectic, and is literally ‘struck all of a heap,’ the
stage not being large enough to admit of his falling down at full
length. Then the good assassin staggers in, and says he was hired in
conjunction with the bad assassin, by the wrongful heir, to kill the
rightful heir; and he’s killed a good many people in his time, but he’s
very sorry for it, and won’t do so any more—a promise which he
immediately redeems, by dying off hand without any nonsense about it.
Then the rightful heir throws down his chain; and then two men, a
sailor, and a young woman (the tenantry of the rightful heir) come in,
and the ghost makes dumb motions to them, which they, by supernatural
interference, understand—for no one else can; and the ghost (who can’t
do anything without blue fire) blesses the rightful heir and the young
lady, by half suffocating them with smoke: and then a muffin-bell
rings, and the curtain drops.

The exhibitions next in popularity to these itinerant theatres are the
travelling menageries, or, to speak more intelligibly, the ‘Wild-beast
shows,’ where a military band in beef-eater’s costume, with
leopard-skin caps, play incessantly; and where large highly-coloured
representations of tigers tearing men’s heads open, and a lion being
burnt with red-hot irons to induce him to drop his victim, are hung up
outside, by way of attracting visitors.

The principal officer at these places is generally a very tall, hoarse
man, in a scarlet coat, with a cane in his hand, with which he
occasionally raps the pictures we have just noticed, by way of
illustrating his description—something in this way. ‘Here, here, here;
the lion, the lion (tap), exactly as he is represented on the canvas
outside (three taps): no waiting, remember; no deception. The
fe-ro-cious lion (tap, tap) who bit off the gentleman’s head last
Cambervel vos a twelvemonth, and has killed on the awerage three
keepers a-year ever since he arrived at matoority. No extra charge on
this account recollect; the price of admission is only sixpence.’ This
address never fails to produce a considerable sensation, and sixpences
flow into the treasury with wonderful rapidity.

The dwarfs are also objects of great curiosity, and as a dwarf, a
giantess, a living skeleton, a wild Indian, ‘a young lady of singular
beauty, with perfectly white hair and pink eyes,’ and two or three
other natural curiosities, are usually exhibited together for the small
charge of a penny, they attract very numerous audiences. The best thing
about a dwarf is, that he has always a little box, about two feet six
inches high, into which, by long practice, he can just manage to get,
by doubling himself up like a boot-jack; this box is painted outside
like a six-roomed house, and as the crowd see him ring a bell, or fire
a pistol out of the first-floor window, they verily believe that it is
his ordinary town residence, divided like other mansions into
drawing-rooms, dining-parlour, and bedchambers. Shut up in this case,
the unfortunate little object is brought out to delight the throng by
holding a facetious dialogue with the proprietor: in the course of
which, the dwarf (who is always particularly drunk) pledges himself to
sing a comic song inside, and pays various compliments to the ladies,
which induce them to ‘come for’erd’ with great alacrity. As a giant is
not so easily moved, a pair of indescribables of most capacious
dimensions, and a huge shoe, are usually brought out, into which two or
three stout men get all at once, to the enthusiastic delight of the
crowd, who are quite satisfied with the solemn assurance that these
habiliments form part of the giant’s everyday costume.

The grandest and most numerously-frequented booth in the whole fair,
however, is ‘The Crown and Anchor’—a temporary ball-room—we forget how
many hundred feet long, the price of admission to which is one
shilling. Immediately on your right hand as you enter, after paying
your money, is a refreshment place, at which cold beef, roast and
boiled, French rolls, stout, wine, tongue, ham, even fowls, if we
recollect right, are displayed in tempting array. There is a raised
orchestra, and the place is boarded all the way down, in patches, just
wide enough for a country dance.

There is no master of the ceremonies in this artificial Eden—all is
primitive, unreserved, and unstudied. The dust is blinding, the heat
insupportable, the company somewhat noisy, and in the highest spirits
possible: the ladies, in the height of their innocent animation,
dancing in the gentlemen’s hats, and the gentlemen promenading ‘the gay
and festive scene’ in the ladies’ bonnets, or with the more expensive
ornaments of false noses, and low-crowned, tinder-box-looking hats:
playing children’s drums, and accompanied by ladies on the penny
trumpet.

The noise of these various instruments, the orchestra, the shouting,
the ‘scratchers,’ and the dancing, is perfectly bewildering. The
dancing, itself, beggars description—every figure lasts about an hour,
and the ladies bounce up and down the middle, with a degree of spirit
which is quite indescribable. As to the gentlemen, they stamp their
feet against the ground, every time ‘hands four round’ begins, go down
the middle and up again, with cigars in their mouths, and silk
handkerchiefs in their hands, and whirl their partners round, nothing
loth, scrambling and falling, and embracing, and knocking up against
the other couples, until they are fairly tired out, and can move no
longer. The same scene is repeated again and again (slightly varied by
an occasional ‘row’) until a late hour at night: and a great many
clerks and ’prentices find themselves next morning with aching heads,
empty pockets, damaged hats, and a very imperfect recollection of how
it was they did _not_ get home.




CHAPTER XIII—PRIVATE THEATRES


‘Richard the Third.—Duke of Glo’ster 2_l._; Earl of Richmond, 1_l_;
Duke of Buckingham, 15_s._; Catesby, 12_s._; Tressel, 10_s._ 6_d._;
Lord Stanley, 5_s._; Lord Mayor of London, 2_s._ 6_d._’


Such are the written placards wafered up in the gentlemen’s
dressing-room, or the green-room (where there is any), at a private
theatre; and such are the sums extracted from the shop-till, or
overcharged in the office expenditure, by the donkeys who are prevailed
upon to pay for permission to exhibit their lamentable ignorance and
boobyism on the stage of a private theatre. This they do, in proportion
to the scope afforded by the character for the display of their
imbecility. For instance, the Duke of Glo’ster is well worth two
pounds, because he has it all to himself; he must wear a real sword,
and what is better still, he must draw it, several times in the course
of the piece. The soliloquies alone are well worth fifteen shillings;
then there is the stabbing King Henry—decidedly cheap at
three-and-sixpence, that’s eighteen-and-sixpence; bullying the
coffin-bearers—say eighteen-pence, though it’s worth much more—that’s a
pound. Then the love scene with Lady Ann, and the bustle of the fourth
act can’t be dear at ten shillings more—that’s only one pound ten,
including the ‘off with his head!’—which is sure to bring down the
applause, and it is very easy to do—‘Orf with his ed’ (very quick and
loud;—then slow and sneeringly)—‘So much for Bu-u-u-uckingham!’ Lay the
emphasis on the ’uck;’ get yourself gradually into a corner, and work
with your right hand, while you’re saying it, as if you were feeling
your way, and it’s sure to do. The tent scene is confessedly worth
half-a-sovereign, and so you have the fight in, gratis, and everybody
knows what an effect may be produced by a good combat.
One—two—three—four—over; then, one—two—three—four—under; then thrust;
then dodge and slide about; then fall down on one knee; then fight upon
it, and then get up again and stagger. You may keep on doing this, as
long as it seems to take—say ten minutes—and then fall down (backwards,
if you can manage it without hurting yourself), and die game: nothing
like it for producing an effect. They always do it at Astley’s and
Sadler’s Wells, and if they don’t know how to do this sort of thing,
who in the world does? A small child, or a female in white, increases
the interest of a combat materially—indeed, we are not aware that a
regular legitimate terrific broadsword combat could be done without;
but it would be rather difficult, and somewhat unusual, to introduce
this effect in the last scene of Richard the Third, so the only thing
to be done, is, just to make the best of a bad bargain, and be as long
as possible fighting it out.

The principal patrons of private theatres are dirty boys, low
copying-clerks, in attorneys’ offices, capacious-headed youths from
city counting-houses, Jews whose business, as lenders of fancy dresses,
is a sure passport to the amateur stage, shop-boys who now and then
mistake their masters’ money for their own; and a choice miscellany of
idle vagabonds. The proprietor of a private theatre may be an
ex-scene-painter, a low coffee-house-keeper, a disappointed eighth-rate
actor, a retired smuggler, or uncertificated bankrupt. The theatre
itself may be in Catherine-street, Strand, the purlieus of the city,
the neighbourhood of Gray’s-inn-lane, or the vicinity of Sadler’s
Wells; or it may, perhaps, form the chief nuisance of some shabby
street, on the Surrey side of Waterloo-bridge.

The lady performers pay nothing for their characters, and it is
needless to add, are usually selected from one class of society; the
audiences are necessarily of much the same character as the performers,
who receive, in return for their contributions to the management,
tickets to the amount of the money they pay.

All the minor theatres in London, especially the lowest, constitute the
centre of a little stage-struck neighbourhood. Each of them has an
audience exclusively its own; and at any you will see dropping into the
pit at half-price, or swaggering into the back of a box, if the price
of admission be a reduced one, divers boys of from fifteen to
twenty-one years of age, who throw back their coat and turn up their
wristbands, after the portraits of Count D’Orsay, hum tunes and whistle
when the curtain is down, by way of persuading the people near them,
that they are not at all anxious to have it up again, and speak
familiarly of the inferior performers as Bill Such-a-one, and Ned
So-and-so, or tell each other how a new piece called _The Unknown
Bandit of the Invisible Cavern_, is in rehearsal; how Mister Palmer is
to play _The Unknown Bandit_; how Charley Scarton is to take the part
of an English sailor, and fight a broadsword combat with six unknown
bandits, at one and the same time (one theatrical sailor is always
equal to half a dozen men at least); how Mister Palmer and Charley
Scarton are to go through a double hornpipe in fetters in the second
act; how the interior of the invisible cavern is to occupy the whole
extent of the stage; and other town-surprising theatrical
announcements. These gentlemen are the amateurs—the _Richards_,
_Shylocks_, _Beverleys_, and _Othellos_—the _Young Dorntons_, _Rovers_,
_Captain Absolutes_, and _Charles Surfaces_—a private theatre.

See them at the neighbouring public-house or the theatrical
coffee-shop! They are the kings of the place, supposing no real
performers to be present; and roll about, hats on one side, and arms
a-kimbo, as if they had actually come into possession of eighteen
shillings a-week, and a share of a ticket night. If one of them does
but know an Astley’s supernumerary he is a happy fellow. The mingled
air of envy and admiration with which his companions will regard him,
as he converses familiarly with some mouldy-looking man in a fancy
neckerchief, whose partially corked eyebrows, and half-rouged face,
testify to the fact of his having just left the stage or the circle,
sufficiently shows in what high admiration these public characters are
held.

With the double view of guarding against the discovery of friends or
employers, and enhancing the interest of an assumed character, by
attaching a high-sounding name to its representative, these geniuses
assume fictitious names, which are not the least amusing part of the
play-bill of a private theatre. Belville, Melville, Treville, Berkeley,
Randolph, Byron, St. Clair, and so forth, are among the humblest; and
the less imposing titles of Jenkins, Walker, Thomson, Barker, Solomons,
&c., are completely laid aside. There is something imposing in this,
and it is an excellent apology for shabbiness into the bargain. A
shrunken, faded coat, a decayed hat, a patched and soiled pair of
trousers—nay, even a very dirty shirt (and none of these appearances
are very uncommon among the members of the _corps dramatique_), may be
worn for the purpose of disguise, and to prevent the remotest chance of
recognition. Then it prevents any troublesome inquiries or explanations
about employment and pursuits; everybody is a gentleman at large, for
the occasion, and there are none of those unpleasant and unnecessary
distinctions to which even genius must occasionally succumb elsewhere.
As to the ladies (God bless them), they are quite above any formal
absurdities; the mere circumstance of your being behind the scenes is a
sufficient introduction to their society—for of course they know that
none but strictly respectable persons would be admitted into that close
fellowship with them, which acting engenders. They place implicit
reliance on the manager, no doubt; and as to the manager, he is all
affability when he knows you well,—or, in other words, when he has
pocketed your money once, and entertains confident hopes of doing so
again.

A quarter before eight—there will be a full house to-night—six parties
in the boxes, already; four little boys and a woman in the pit; and two
fiddles and a flute in the orchestra, who have got through five
overtures since seven o’clock (the hour fixed for the commencement of
the performances), and have just begun the sixth. There will be plenty
of it, though, when it does begin, for there is enough in the bill to
last six hours at least.

That gentleman in the white hat and checked shirt, brown coat and brass
buttons, lounging behind the stage-box on the O. P. side, is Mr.
Horatio St. Julien, alias Jem Larkins. His line is genteel comedy—his
father’s, coal and potato. He _does_ Alfred Highflier in the last
piece, and very well he’ll do it—at the price. The party of gentlemen
in the opposite box, to whom he has just nodded, are friends and
supporters of Mr. Beverley (otherwise Loggins), the _Macbeth_ of the
night. You observe their attempts to appear easy and gentlemanly, each
member of the party, with his feet cocked upon the cushion in front of
the box! They let them do these things here, upon the same humane
principle which permits poor people’s children to knock double knocks
at the door of an empty house—because they can’t do it anywhere else.
The two stout men in the centre box, with an opera-glass ostentatiously
placed before them, are friends of the proprietor—opulent country
managers, as he confidentially informs every individual among the crew
behind the curtain—opulent country managers looking out for recruits; a
representation which Mr. Nathan, the dresser, who is in the manager’s
interest, and has just arrived with the costumes, offers to confirm
upon oath if required—corroborative evidence, however, is quite
unnecessary, for the gulls believe it at once.

The stout Jewess who has just entered, is the mother of the pale, bony
little girl, with the necklace of blue glass beads, sitting by her; she
is being brought up to ‘the profession.’ Pantomime is to be her line,
and she is coming out to-night, in a hornpipe after the tragedy. The
short thin man beside Mr. St. Julien, whose white face is so deeply
seared with the small-pox, and whose dirty shirt-front is inlaid with
open-work, and embossed with coral studs like ladybirds, is the low
comedian and comic singer of the establishment. The remainder of the
audience—a tolerably numerous one by this time—are a motley group of
dupes and blackguards.

The foot-lights have just made their appearance: the wicks of the six
little oil lamps round the only tier of boxes, are being turned up, and
the additional light thus afforded serves to show the presence of dirt,
and absence of paint, which forms a prominent feature in the audience
part of the house. As these preparations, however, announce the speedy
commencement of the play, let us take a peep ‘behind,’ previous to the
ringing-up.

The little narrow passages beneath the stage are neither especially
clean nor too brilliantly lighted; and the absence of any flooring,
together with the damp mildewy smell which pervades the place, does not
conduce in any great degree to their comfortable appearance. Don’t fall
over this plate basket—it’s one of the ‘properties’—the caldron for the
witches’ cave; and the three uncouth-looking figures, with broken
clothes-props in their hands, who are drinking gin-and-water out of a
pint pot, are the weird sisters. This miserable room, lighted by
candles in sconces placed at lengthened intervals round the wall, is
the dressing-room, common to the gentlemen performers, and the square
hole in the ceiling is _the_ trap-door of the stage above. You will
observe that the ceiling is ornamented with the beams that support the
boards, and tastefully hung with cobwebs.

The characters in the tragedy are all dressed, and their own clothes
are scattered in hurried confusion over the wooden dresser which
surrounds the room. That snuff-shop-looking figure, in front of the
glass, is _Banquo_: and the young lady with the liberal display of
legs, who is kindly painting his face with a hare’s foot, is dressed
for _Fleance_. The large woman, who is consulting the stage directions
in Cumberland’s edition of _Macbeth_, is the _Lady Macbeth_ of the
night; she is always selected to play the part, because she is tall and
stout, and _looks_ a little like Mrs. Siddons—at a considerable
distance. That stupid-looking milksop, with light hair and bow legs—a
kind of man whom you can warrant town-made—is fresh caught; he plays
_Malcolm_ to-night, just to accustom himself to an audience. He will
get on better by degrees; he will play _Othello_ in a month, and in a
month more, will very probably be apprehended on a charge of
embezzlement. The black-eyed female with whom he is talking so
earnestly, is dressed for the ‘gentlewoman.’ It is _her_ first
appearance, too—in that character. The boy of fourteen who is having
his eyebrows smeared with soap and whitening, is _Duncan_, King of
Scotland; and the two dirty men with the corked countenances, in very
old green tunics, and dirty drab boots, are the ‘army.’

‘Look sharp below there, gents,’ exclaims the dresser, a red-headed and
red-whiskered Jew, calling through the trap, ‘they’re a-going to ring
up. The flute says he’ll be blowed if he plays any more, and they’re
getting precious noisy in front.’ A general rush immediately takes
place to the half-dozen little steep steps leading to the stage, and
the heterogeneous group are soon assembled at the side scenes, in
breathless anxiety and motley confusion.

‘Now,’ cries the manager, consulting the written list which hangs
behind the first P. S, wing, ‘Scene 1, open country—lamps down—thunder
and lightning—all ready, White?’ [This is addressed to one of the
army.] ‘All ready.’—‘Very well. Scene 2, front chamber. Is the front
chamber down?’—‘Yes.’—‘Very well.’—‘Jones’ [to the other army who is up
in the flies]. ‘Hallo!’—‘Wind up the open country when we ring
up.’—‘I’ll take care.’—‘Scene 3, back perspective with practical
bridge. Bridge ready, White? Got the tressels there?’—‘All right.’

‘Very well. Clear the stage,’ cries the manager, hastily packing every
member of the company into the little space there is between the wings
and the wall, and one wing and another. ‘Places, places. Now then,
Witches—Duncan—Malcolm—bleeding officer—where’s the bleeding
officer?’—‘Here!’ replies the officer, who has been rose-pinking for
the character. ‘Get ready, then; now, White, ring the second
music-bell.’ The actors who are to be discovered, are hastily arranged,
and the actors who are not to be discovered place themselves, in their
anxiety to peep at the house, just where the audience can see them. The
bell rings, and the orchestra, in acknowledgment of the call, play
three distinct chords. The bell rings—the tragedy (!) opens—and our
description closes.




CHAPTER XIV—VAUXHALL-GARDENS BY DAY


There was a time when if a man ventured to wonder how Vauxhall-gardens
would look by day, he was hailed with a shout of derision at the
absurdity of the idea. Vauxhall by daylight! A porter-pot without
porter, the House of Commons without the Speaker, a gas-lamp without
the gas—pooh, nonsense, the thing was not to be thought of. It was
rumoured, too, in those times, that Vauxhall-gardens by day, were the
scene of secret and hidden experiments; that there, carvers were
exercised in the mystic art of cutting a moderate-sized ham into slices
thin enough to pave the whole of the grounds; that beneath the shade of
the tall trees, studious men were constantly engaged in chemical
experiments, with the view of discovering how much water a bowl of
negus could possibly bear; and that in some retired nooks, appropriated
to the study of ornithology, other sage and learned men were, by a
process known only to themselves, incessantly employed in reducing
fowls to a mere combination of skin and bone.

Vague rumours of this kind, together with many others of a similar
nature, cast over Vauxhall-gardens an air of deep mystery; and as there
is a great deal in the mysterious, there is no doubt that to a good
many people, at all events, the pleasure they afforded was not a little
enhanced by this very circumstance.

Of this class of people we confess to having made one. We loved to
wander among these illuminated groves, thinking of the patient and
laborious researches which had been carried on there during the day,
and witnessing their results in the suppers which were served up
beneath the light of lamps and to the sound of music at night. The
temples and saloons and cosmoramas and fountains glittered and sparkled
before our eyes; the beauty of the lady singers and the elegant
deportment of the gentlemen, captivated our hearts; a few hundred
thousand of additional lamps dazzled our senses; a bowl or two of punch
bewildered our brains; and we were happy.

In an evil hour, the proprietors of Vauxhall-gardens took to opening
them by day. We regretted this, as rudely and harshly disturbing that
veil of mystery which had hung about the property for many years, and
which none but the noonday sun, and the late Mr. Simpson, had ever
penetrated. We shrunk from going; at this moment we scarcely know why.
Perhaps a morbid consciousness of approaching disappointment—perhaps a
fatal presentiment—perhaps the weather; whatever it was, we did _not_
go until the second or third announcement of a race between two
balloons tempted us, and we went.

We paid our shilling at the gate, and then we saw for the first time,
that the entrance, if there had been any magic about it at all, was now
decidedly disenchanted, being, in fact, nothing more nor less than a
combination of very roughly-painted boards and sawdust. We glanced at
the orchestra and supper-room as we hurried past—we just recognised
them, and that was all. We bent our steps to the firework-ground;
there, at least, we should not be disappointed. We reached it, and
stood rooted to the spot with mortification and astonishment. _That_
the Moorish tower—that wooden shed with a door in the centre, and daubs
of crimson and yellow all round, like a gigantic watch-case! _That_ the
place where night after night we had beheld the undaunted Mr. Blackmore
make his terrific ascent, surrounded by flames of fire, and peals of
artillery, and where the white garments of Madame Somebody (we forget
even her name now), who nobly devoted her life to the manufacture of
fireworks, had so often been seen fluttering in the wind, as she called
up a red, blue, or party-coloured light to illumine her temple! _That_
the—but at this moment the bell rung; the people scampered away,
pell-mell, to the spot from whence the sound proceeded; and we, from
the mere force of habit, found ourself running among the first, as if
for very life.

It was for the concert in the orchestra. A small party of dismal men in
cocked hats were ‘executing’ the overture to _Tancredi_, and a numerous
assemblage of ladies and gentlemen, with their families, had rushed
from their half-emptied stout mugs in the supper boxes, and crowded to
the spot. Intense was the low murmur of admiration when a particularly
small gentleman, in a dress coat, led on a particularly tall lady in a
blue sarcenet pelisse and bonnet of the same, ornamented with large
white feathers, and forthwith commenced a plaintive duet.

We knew the small gentleman well; we had seen a lithographed semblance
of him, on many a piece of music, with his mouth wide open as if in the
act of singing; a wine-glass in his hand; and a table with two
decanters and four pine-apples on it in the background. The tall lady,
too, we had gazed on, lost in raptures of admiration, many and many a
time—how different people _do_ look by daylight, and without punch, to
be sure! It was a beautiful duet: first the small gentleman asked a
question, and then the tall lady answered it; then the small gentleman
and the tall lady sang together most melodiously; then the small
gentleman went through a little piece of vehemence by himself, and got
very tenor indeed, in the excitement of his feelings, to which the tall
lady responded in a similar manner; then the small gentleman had a
shake or two, after which the tall lady had the same, and then they
both merged imperceptibly into the original air: and the band wound
themselves up to a pitch of fury, and the small gentleman handed the
tall lady out, and the applause was rapturous.

The comic singer, however, was the especial favourite; we really
thought that a gentleman, with his dinner in a pocket-handkerchief, who
stood near us, would have fainted with excess of joy. A marvellously
facetious gentleman that comic singer is; his distinguishing
characteristics are, a wig approaching to the flaxen, and an aged
countenance, and he bears the name of one of the English counties, if
we recollect right. He sang a very good song about the seven ages, the
first half-hour of which afforded the assembly the purest delight; of
the rest we can make no report, as we did not stay to hear any more.

We walked about, and met with a disappointment at every turn; our
favourite views were mere patches of paint; the fountain that had
sparkled so showily by lamp-light, presented very much the appearance
of a water-pipe that had burst; all the ornaments were dingy, and all
the walks gloomy. There was a spectral attempt at rope-dancing in the
little open theatre. The sun shone upon the spangled dresses of the
performers, and their evolutions were about as inspiriting and
appropriate as a country-dance in a family vault. So we retraced our
steps to the firework-ground, and mingled with the little crowd of
people who were contemplating Mr. Green.

Some half-dozen men were restraining the impetuosity of one of the
balloons, which was completely filled, and had the car already
attached; and as rumours had gone abroad that a Lord was ‘going up,’
the crowd were more than usually anxious and talkative. There was one
little man in faded black, with a dirty face and a rusty black
neckerchief with a red border, tied in a narrow wisp round his neck,
who entered into conversation with everybody, and had something to say
upon every remark that was made within his hearing. He was standing
with his arms folded, staring up at the balloon, and every now and then
vented his feelings of reverence for the aëronaut, by saying, as he
looked round to catch somebody’s eye, ‘He’s a rum ’un is Green; think
o’ this here being up’ards of his two hundredth ascent; ecod, the man
as is ekal to Green never had the toothache yet, nor won’t have within
this hundred year, and that’s all about it. When you meets with real
talent, and native, too, encourage it, that’s what I say;’ and when he
had delivered himself to this effect, he would fold his arms with more
determination than ever, and stare at the balloon with a sort of
admiring defiance of any other man alive, beyond himself and Green,
that impressed the crowd with the opinion that he was an oracle.

‘Ah, you’re very right, sir,’ said another gentleman, with his wife,
and children, and mother, and wife’s sister, and a host of female
friends, in all the gentility of white pocket-handkerchiefs, frills,
and spencers, ‘Mr. Green is a steady hand, sir, and there’s no fear
about him.’

‘Fear!’ said the little man: ‘isn’t it a lovely thing to see him and
his wife a going up in one balloon, and his own son and _his_ wife a
jostling up against them in another, and all of them going twenty or
thirty mile in three hours or so, and then coming back in pochayses? I
don’t know where this here science is to stop, mind you; that’s what
bothers me.’

Here there was a considerable talking among the females in the
spencers.

‘What’s the ladies a laughing at, sir?’ inquired the little man,
condescendingly.

‘It’s only my sister Mary,’ said one of the girls, ‘as says she hopes
his lordship won’t be frightened when he’s in the car, and want to come
out again.’

‘Make yourself easy about that there, my dear,’ replied the little man.
‘If he was so much as to move a inch without leave, Green would jist
fetch him a crack over the head with the telescope, as would send him
into the bottom of the basket in no time, and stun him till they come
down again.’

‘Would he, though?’ inquired the other man.

‘Yes, would he,’ replied the little one, ‘and think nothing of it,
neither, if he was the king himself. Green’s presence of mind is
wonderful.’

Just at this moment all eyes were directed to the preparations which
were being made for starting. The car was attached to the second
balloon, the two were brought pretty close together, and a military
band commenced playing, with a zeal and fervour which would render the
most timid man in existence but too happy to accept any means of
quitting that particular spot of earth on which they were stationed.
Then Mr. Green, sen., and his noble companion entered one car, and Mr.
Green, jun., and _his_ companion the other; and then the balloons went
up, and the aërial travellers stood up, and the crowd outside roared
with delight, and the two gentlemen who had never ascended before,
tried to wave their flags, as if they were not nervous, but held on
very fast all the while; and the balloons were wafted gently away, our
little friend solemnly protesting, long after they were reduced to mere
specks in the air, that he could still distinguish the white hat of Mr.
Green. The gardens disgorged their multitudes, boys ran up and down
screaming ‘bal-loon;’ and in all the crowded thoroughfares people
rushed out of their shops into the middle of the road, and having
stared up in the air at two little black objects till they almost
dislocated their necks, walked slowly in again, perfectly satisfied.

The next day there was a grand account of the ascent in the morning
papers, and the public were informed how it was the finest day but four
in Mr. Green’s remembrance; how they retained sight of the earth till
they lost it behind the clouds; and how the reflection of the balloon
on the undulating masses of vapour was gorgeously picturesque; together
with a little science about the refraction of the sun’s rays, and some
mysterious hints respecting atmospheric heat and eddying currents of
air.

There was also an interesting account how a man in a boat was
distinctly heard by Mr. Green, jun., to exclaim, ‘My eye!’ which Mr.
Green, jun., attributed to his voice rising to the balloon, and the
sound being thrown back from its surface into the car; and the whole
concluded with a slight allusion to another ascent next Wednesday, all
of which was very instructive and very amusing, as our readers will see
if they look to the papers. If we have forgotten to mention the date,
they have only to wait till next summer, and take the account of the
first ascent, and it will answer the purpose equally well.




CHAPTER XV—EARLY COACHES


We have often wondered how many months’ incessant travelling in a
post-chaise it would take to kill a man; and wondering by analogy, we
should very much like to know how many months of constant travelling in
a succession of early coaches, an unfortunate mortal could endure.
Breaking a man alive upon the wheel, would be nothing to breaking his
rest, his peace, his heart—everything but his fast—upon four; and the
punishment of Ixion (the only practical person, by-the-bye, who has
discovered the secret of the perpetual motion) would sink into utter
insignificance before the one we have suggested. If we had been a
powerful churchman in those good times when blood was shed as freely as
water, and men were mowed down like grass, in the sacred cause of
religion, we would have lain by very quietly till we got hold of some
especially obstinate miscreant, who positively refused to be converted
to our faith, and then we would have booked him for an inside place in
a small coach, which travelled day and night: and securing the
remainder of the places for stout men with a slight tendency to
coughing and spitting, we would have started him forth on his last
travels: leaving him mercilessly to all the tortures which the waiters,
landlords, coachmen, guards, boots, chambermaids, and other familiars
on his line of road, might think proper to inflict.

Who has not experienced the miseries inevitably consequent upon a
summons to undertake a hasty journey? You receive an intimation from
your place of business—wherever that may be, or whatever you may
be—that it will be necessary to leave town without delay. You and your
family are forthwith thrown into a state of tremendous excitement; an
express is immediately dispatched to the washerwoman’s; everybody is in
a bustle; and you, yourself, with a feeling of dignity which you cannot
altogether conceal, sally forth to the booking-office to secure your
place. Here a painful consciousness of your own unimportance first
rushes on your mind—the people are as cool and collected as if nobody
were going out of town, or as if a journey of a hundred odd miles were
a mere nothing. You enter a mouldy-looking room, ornamented with large
posting-bills; the greater part of the place enclosed behind a huge,
lumbering, rough counter, and fitted up with recesses that look like
the dens of the smaller animals in a travelling menagerie, without the
bars. Some half-dozen people are ‘booking’ brown-paper parcels, which
one of the clerks flings into the aforesaid recesses with an air of
recklessness which you, remembering the new carpet-bag you bought in
the morning, feel considerably annoyed at; porters, looking like so
many Atlases, keep rushing in and out, with large packages on their
shoulders; and while you are waiting to make the necessary inquiries,
you wonder what on earth the booking-office clerks can have been before
they were booking-office clerks; one of them with his pen behind his
ear, and his hands behind him, is standing in front of the fire, like a
full-length portrait of Napoleon; the other with his hat half off his
head, enters the passengers’ names in the books with a coolness which
is inexpressibly provoking; and the villain whistles—actually
whistles—while a man asks him what the fare is outside, all the way to
Holyhead!—in frosty weather, too! They are clearly an isolated race,
evidently possessing no sympathies or feelings in common with the rest
of mankind. Your turn comes at last, and having paid the fare, you
tremblingly inquire—‘What time will it be necessary for me to be here
in the morning?’—‘Six o’clock,’ replies the whistler, carelessly
pitching the sovereign you have just parted with, into a wooden bowl on
the desk. ‘Rather before than arter,’ adds the man with the
semi-roasted unmentionables, with just as much ease and complacency as
if the whole world got out of bed at five. You turn into the street,
ruminating as you bend your steps homewards on the extent to which men
become hardened in cruelty, by custom.

If there be one thing in existence more miserable than another, it most
unquestionably is the being compelled to rise by candlelight. If you
have ever doubted the fact, you are painfully convinced of your error,
on the morning of your departure. You left strict orders, overnight, to
be called at half-past four, and you have done nothing all night but
doze for five minutes at a time, and start up suddenly from a terrific
dream of a large church-clock with the small hand running round, with
astonishing rapidity, to every figure on the dial-plate. At last,
completely exhausted, you fall gradually into a refreshing sleep—your
thoughts grow confused—the stage-coaches, which have been ‘going off’
before your eyes all night, become less and less distinct, until they
go off altogether; one moment you are driving with all the skill and
smartness of an experienced whip—the next you are exhibiting _à la_
Ducrow, on the off-leader; anon you are closely muffled up, inside, and
have just recognised in the person of the guard an old schoolfellow,
whose funeral, even in your dream, you remember to have attended
eighteen years ago. At last you fall into a state of complete oblivion,
from which you are aroused, as if into a new state of existence, by a
singular illusion. You are apprenticed to a trunk-maker; how, or why,
or when, or wherefore, you don’t take the trouble to inquire; but there
you are, pasting the lining in the lid of a portmanteau. Confound that
other apprentice in the back shop, how he is hammering!—rap, rap,
rap—what an industrious fellow he must be! you have heard him at work
for half an hour past, and he has been hammering incessantly the whole
time. Rap, rap, rap, again—he’s talking now—what’s that he said? Five
o’clock! You make a violent exertion, and start up in bed. The vision
is at once dispelled; the trunk-maker’s shop is your own bedroom, and
the other apprentice your shivering servant, who has been vainly
endeavouring to wake you for the last quarter of an hour, at the
imminent risk of breaking either his own knuckles or the panels of the
door.

You proceed to dress yourself, with all possible dispatch. The flaring
flat candle with the long snuff, gives light enough to show that the
things you want, are not where they ought to be, and you undergo a
trifling delay in consequence of having carefully packed up one of your
boots in your over-anxiety of the preceding night. You soon complete
your toilet, however, for you are not particular on such an occasion,
and you shaved yesterday evening; so mounting your Petersham
great-coat, and green travelling shawl, and grasping your carpet-bag in
your right hand, you walk lightly down-stairs, lest you should awaken
any of the family, and after pausing in the common sitting-room for one
moment, just to have a cup of coffee (the said common sitting-room
looking remarkably comfortable, with everything out of its place, and
strewed with the crumbs of last night’s supper), you undo the chain and
bolts of the street-door, and find yourself fairly in the street.

A thaw, by all that is miserable! The frost is completely broken up.
You look down the long perspective of Oxford-street, the gas-lights
mournfully reflected on the wet pavement, and can discern no speck in
the road to encourage the belief that there is a cab or a coach to be
had—the very coachmen have gone home in despair. The cold sleet is
drizzling down with that gentle regularity, which betokens a duration
of four-and-twenty hours at least; the damp hangs upon the house-tops
and lamp-posts, and clings to you like an invisible cloak. The water is
‘coming in’ in every area, the pipes have burst, the water-butts are
running over; the kennels seem to be doing matches against time,
pump-handles descend of their own accord, horses in market-carts fall
down, and there’s no one to help them up again, policemen look as if
they had been carefully sprinkled with powdered glass; here and there a
milk-woman trudges slowly along, with a bit of list round each foot to
keep her from slipping; boys who ‘don’t sleep in the house,’ and are
not allowed much sleep out of it, can’t wake their masters by
thundering at the shop-door, and cry with the cold—the compound of ice,
snow, and water on the pavement, is a couple of inches thick—nobody
ventures to walk fast to keep himself warm, and nobody could succeed in
keeping himself warm if he did.

It strikes a quarter past five as you trudge down Waterloo-place on
your way to the Golden Cross, and you discover, for the first time,
that you were called about an hour too early. You have not time to go
back; there is no place open to go into, and you have, therefore, no
resource but to go forward, which you do, feeling remarkably satisfied
with yourself, and everything about you. You arrive at the office, and
look wistfully up the yard for the Birmingham High-flier, which, for
aught you can see, may have flown away altogether, for preparations
appear to be on foot for the departure of any vehicle in the shape of a
coach. You wander into the booking-office, which with the gas-lights
and blazing fire, looks quite comfortable by contrast—that is to say,
if any place _can_ look comfortable at half-past five on a winter’s
morning. There stands the identical book-keeper in the same position as
if he had not moved since you saw him yesterday. As he informs you,
that the coach is up the yard, and will be brought round in about a
quarter of an hour, you leave your bag, and repair to ‘The Tap’—not
with any absurd idea of warming yourself, because you feel such a
result to be utterly hopeless, but for the purpose of procuring some
hot brandy-and-water, which you do,—when the kettle boils! an event
which occurs exactly two minutes and a half before the time fixed for
the starting of the coach.

The first stroke of six, peals from St. Martin’s church steeple, just
as you take the first sip of the boiling liquid. You find yourself at
the booking-office in two seconds, and the tap-waiter finds himself
much comforted by your brandy-and-water, in about the same period. The
coach is out; the horses are in, and the guard and two or three
porters, are stowing the luggage away, and running up the steps of the
booking-office, and down the steps of the booking-office, with
breathless rapidity. The place, which a few minutes ago was so still
and quiet, is now all bustle; the early vendors of the morning papers
have arrived, and you are assailed on all sides with shouts of
‘_Times_, gen’lm’n, _Times_,’ ‘Here’s _Chron—Chron—Chron_,’ ‘_Herald_,
ma’am,’ ‘Highly interesting murder, gen’lm’n,’ ‘Curious case o’ breach
o’ promise, ladies.’ The inside passengers are already in their dens,
and the outsides, with the exception of yourself, are pacing up and
down the pavement to keep themselves warm; they consist of two young
men with very long hair, to which the sleet has communicated the
appearance of crystallised rats’ tails; one thin young woman cold and
peevish, one old gentleman ditto ditto, and something in a cloak and
cap, intended to represent a military officer; every member of the
party, with a large stiff shawl over his chin, looking exactly as if he
were playing a set of Pan’s pipes.

‘Take off the cloths, Bob,’ says the coachman, who now appears for the
first time, in a rough blue great-coat, of which the buttons behind are
so far apart, that you can’t see them both at the same time. ‘Now,
gen’lm’n,’ cries the guard, with the waybill in his hand. ‘Five minutes
behind time already!’ Up jump the passengers—the two young men smoking
like lime-kilns, and the old gentleman grumbling audibly. The thin
young woman is got upon the roof, by dint of a great deal of pulling,
and pushing, and helping and trouble, and she repays it by expressing
her solemn conviction that she will never be able to get down again.

‘All right,’ sings out the guard at last, jumping up as the coach
starts, and blowing his horn directly afterwards, in proof of the
soundness of his wind. ‘Let ’em go, Harry, give ’em their heads,’ cries
the coachman—and off we start as briskly as if the morning were ‘all
right,’ as well as the coach: and looking forward as anxiously to the
termination of our journey, as we fear our readers will have done, long
since, to the conclusion of our paper.




CHAPTER XVI—OMNIBUSES


It is very generally allowed that public conveyances afford an
extensive field for amusement and observation. Of all the public
conveyances that have been constructed since the days of the Ark—we
think that is the earliest on record—to the present time, commend us to
an omnibus. A long stage is not to be despised, but there you have only
six insides, and the chances are, that the same people go all the way
with you—there is no change, no variety. Besides, after the first
twelve hours or so, people get cross and sleepy, and when you have seen
a man in his nightcap, you lose all respect for him; at least, that is
the case with us. Then on smooth roads people frequently get prosy, and
tell long stories, and even those who don’t talk, may have very
unpleasant predilections. We once travelled four hundred miles, inside
a stage-coach, with a stout man, who had a glass of rum-and-water,
warm, handed in at the window at every place where we changed horses.
This was decidedly unpleasant. We have also travelled occasionally,
with a small boy of a pale aspect, with light hair, and no perceptible
neck, coming up to town from school under the protection of the guard,
and directed to be left at the Cross Keys till called for. This is,
perhaps, even worse than rum-and-water in a close atmosphere. Then
there is the whole train of evils consequent on a change of the
coachman; and the misery of the discovery—which the guard is sure to
make the moment you begin to doze—that he wants a brown-paper parcel,
which he distinctly remembers to have deposited under the seat on which
you are reposing. A great deal of bustle and groping takes place, and
when you are thoroughly awakened, and severely cramped, by holding your
legs up by an almost supernatural exertion, while he is looking behind
them, it suddenly occurs to him that he put it in the fore-boot. Bang
goes the door; the parcel is immediately found; off starts the coach
again; and the guard plays the key-bugle as loud as he can play it, as
if in mockery of your wretchedness.

Now, you meet with none of these afflictions in an omnibus; sameness
there can never be. The passengers change as often in the course of one
journey as the figures in a kaleidoscope, and though not so glittering,
are far more amusing. We believe there is no instance on record, of a
man’s having gone to sleep in one of these vehicles. As to long
stories, would any man venture to tell a long story in an omnibus? and
even if he did, where would be the harm? nobody could possibly hear
what he was talking about. Again; children, though occasionally, are
not often to be found in an omnibus; and even when they are, if the
vehicle be full, as is generally the case, somebody sits upon them, and
we are unconscious of their presence. Yes, after mature reflection, and
considerable experience, we are decidedly of opinion, that of all known
vehicles, from the glass-coach in which we were taken to be christened,
to that sombre caravan in which we must one day make our last earthly
journey, there is nothing like an omnibus.

We will back the machine in which we make our daily peregrination from
the top of Oxford-street to the city, against any ‘buss’ on the road,
whether it be for the gaudiness of its exterior, the perfect simplicity
of its interior, or the native coolness of its cad. This young
gentleman is a singular instance of self-devotion; his somewhat
intemperate zeal on behalf of his employers, is constantly getting him
into trouble, and occasionally into the house of correction. He is no
sooner emancipated, however, than he resumes the duties of his
profession with unabated ardour. His principal distinction is his
activity. His great boast is, ‘that he can chuck an old gen’lm’n into
the buss, shut him in, and rattle off, afore he knows where it’s
a-going to’—a feat which he frequently performs, to the infinite
amusement of every one but the old gentleman concerned, who, somehow or
other, never can see the joke of the thing.

We are not aware that it has ever been precisely ascertained, how many
passengers our omnibus will contain. The impression on the cad’s mind
evidently is, that it is amply sufficient for the accommodation of any
number of persons that can be enticed into it. ‘Any room?’ cries a hot
pedestrian. ‘Plenty o’ room, sir,’ replies the conductor, gradually
opening the door, and not disclosing the real state of the case, until
the wretched man is on the steps. ‘Where?’ inquires the entrapped
individual, with an attempt to back out again. ‘Either side, sir,’
rejoins the cad, shoving him in, and slamming the door. ‘All right,
Bill.’ Retreat is impossible; the new-comer rolls about, till he falls
down somewhere, and there he stops.

As we get into the city a little before ten, four or five of our party
are regular passengers. We always take them up at the same places, and
they generally occupy the same seats; they are always dressed in the
same manner, and invariably discuss the same topics—the increasing
rapidity of cabs, and the disregard of moral obligations evinced by
omnibus men. There is a little testy old man, with a powdered head, who
always sits on the right-hand side of the door as you enter, with his
hands folded on the top of his umbrella. He is extremely impatient, and
sits there for the purpose of keeping a sharp eye on the cad, with whom
he generally holds a running dialogue. He is very officious in helping
people in and out, and always volunteers to give the cad a poke with
his umbrella, when any one wants to alight. He usually recommends
ladies to have sixpence ready, to prevent delay; and if anybody puts a
window down, that he can reach, he immediately puts it up again.

‘Now, what are you stopping for?’ says the little man every morning,
the moment there is the slightest indication of ‘pulling up’ at the
corner of Regent-street, when some such dialogue as the following takes
place between him and the cad:

‘What are you stopping for?’

Here the cad whistles, and affects not to hear the question.

‘I say [a poke], what are you stopping for?’

‘For passengers, sir. Ba—nk.—Ty.’

‘I know you’re stopping for passengers; but you’ve no business to do
so. _Why_ are you stopping?’

‘Vy, sir, that’s a difficult question. I think it is because we perfer
stopping here to going on.’

‘Now mind,’ exclaims the little old man, with great vehemence, ‘I’ll
pull you up to-morrow; I’ve often threatened to do it; now I will.’

‘Thankee, sir,’ replies the cad, touching his hat with a mock
expression of gratitude;—‘werry much obliged to you indeed, sir.’ Here
the young men in the omnibus laugh very heartily, and the old gentleman
gets very red in the face, and seems highly exasperated.

The stout gentleman in the white neckcloth, at the other end of the
vehicle, looks very prophetic, and says that something must shortly be
done with these fellows, or there’s no saying where all this will end;
and the shabby-genteel man with the green bag, expresses his entire
concurrence in the opinion, as he has done regularly every morning for
the last six months.

A second omnibus now comes up, and stops immediately behind us. Another
old gentleman elevates his cane in the air, and runs with all his might
towards our omnibus; we watch his progress with great interest; the
door is opened to receive him, he suddenly disappears—he has been
spirited away by the opposition. Hereupon the driver of the opposition
taunts our people with his having ‘regularly done ’em out of that old
swell,’ and the voice of the ‘old swell’ is heard, vainly protesting
against this unlawful detention. We rattle off, the other omnibus
rattles after us, and every time we stop to take up a passenger, they
stop to take him too; sometimes we get him; sometimes they get him; but
whoever don’t get him, say they ought to have had him, and the cads of
the respective vehicles abuse one another accordingly.

As we arrive in the vicinity of Lincoln’s-inn-fields, Bedford-row, and
other legal haunts, we drop a great many of our original passengers,
and take up fresh ones, who meet with a very sulky reception. It is
rather remarkable, that the people already in an omnibus, always look
at newcomers, as if they entertained some undefined idea that they have
no business to come in at all. We are quite persuaded the little old
man has some notion of this kind, and that he considers their entry as
a sort of negative impertinence.

Conversation is now entirely dropped; each person gazes vacantly
through the window in front of him, and everybody thinks that his
opposite neighbour is staring at him. If one man gets out at Shoe-lane,
and another at the corner of Farringdon-street, the little old
gentleman grumbles, and suggests to the latter, that if he had got out
at Shoe-lane too, he would have saved them the delay of another
stoppage; whereupon the young men laugh again, and the old gentleman
looks very solemn, and says nothing more till he gets to the Bank, when
he trots off as fast as he can, leaving us to do the same, and to wish,
as we walk away, that we could impart to others any portion of the
amusement we have gained for ourselves.




CHAPTER XVII—THE LAST CAB-DRIVER, AND THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD


Of all the cabriolet-drivers whom we have ever had the honour and
gratification of knowing by sight—and our acquaintance in this way has
been most extensive—there is one who made an impression on our mind
which can never be effaced, and who awakened in our bosom a feeling of
admiration and respect, which we entertain a fatal presentiment will
never be called forth again by any human being. He was a man of most
simple and prepossessing appearance. He was a brown-whiskered,
white-hatted, no-coated cabman; his nose was generally red, and his
bright blue eye not unfrequently stood out in bold relief against a
black border of artificial workmanship; his boots were of the
Wellington form, pulled up to meet his corduroy knee-smalls, or at
least to approach as near them as their dimensions would admit of; and
his neck was usually garnished with a bright yellow handkerchief. In
summer he carried in his mouth a flower; in winter, a straw—slight,
but, to a contemplative mind, certain indications of a love of nature,
and a taste for botany.

His cabriolet was gorgeously painted—a bright red; and wherever we
went, City or West End, Paddington or Holloway, North, East, West, or
South, there was the red cab, bumping up against the posts at the
street corners, and turning in and out, among hackney-coaches, and
drays, and carts, and waggons, and omnibuses, and contriving by some
strange means or other, to get out of places which no other vehicle but
the red cab could ever by any possibility have contrived to get into at
all. Our fondness for that red cab was unbounded. How we should have
liked to have seen it in the circle at Astley’s! Our life upon it, that
it should have performed such evolutions as would have put the whole
company to shame—Indian chiefs, knights, Swiss peasants, and all.

Some people object to the exertion of getting into cabs, and others
object to the difficulty of getting out of them; we think both these
are objections which take their rise in perverse and ill-conditioned
minds. The getting into a cab is a very pretty and graceful process,
which, when well performed, is essentially melodramatic. First, there
is the expressive pantomime of every one of the eighteen cabmen on the
stand, the moment you raise your eyes from the ground. Then there is
your own pantomime in reply—quite a little ballet. Four cabs
immediately leave the stand, for your especial accommodation; and the
evolutions of the animals who draw them, are beautiful in the extreme,
as they grate the wheels of the cabs against the curb-stones, and sport
playfully in the kennel. You single out a particular cab, and dart
swiftly towards it. One bound, and you are on the first step; turn your
body lightly round to the right, and you are on the second; bend
gracefully beneath the reins, working round to the left at the same
time, and you are in the cab. There is no difficulty in finding a seat:
the apron knocks you comfortably into it at once, and off you go.

The getting out of a cab is, perhaps, rather more complicated in its
theory, and a shade more difficult in its execution. We have studied
the subject a great deal, and we think the best way is, to throw
yourself out, and trust to chance for alighting on your feet. If you
make the driver alight first, and then throw yourself upon him, you
will find that he breaks your fall materially. In the event of your
contemplating an offer of eightpence, on no account make the tender, or
show the money, until you are safely on the pavement. It is very bad
policy attempting to save the fourpence. You are very much in the power
of a cabman, and he considers it a kind of fee not to do you any wilful
damage. Any instruction, however, in the art of getting out of a cab,
is wholly unnecessary if you are going any distance, because the
probability is, that you will be shot lightly out before you have
completed the third mile.

We are not aware of any instance on record in which a cab-horse has
performed three consecutive miles without going down once. What of
that? It is all excitement. And in these days of derangement of the
nervous system and universal lassitude, people are content to pay
handsomely for excitement; where can it be procured at a cheaper rate?

But to return to the red cab; it was omnipresent. You had but to walk
down Holborn, or Fleet-street, or any of the principal thoroughfares in
which there is a great deal of traffic, and judge for yourself. You had
hardly turned into the street, when you saw a trunk or two, lying on
the ground: an uprooted post, a hat-box, a portmanteau, and a
carpet-bag, strewed about in a very picturesque manner: a horse in a
cab standing by, looking about him with great unconcern; and a crowd,
shouting and screaming with delight, cooling their flushed faces
against the glass windows of a chemist’s shop.—‘What’s the matter here,
can you tell me?’—‘O’ny a cab, sir.’—‘Anybody hurt, do you know?’—‘O’ny
the fare, sir. I see him a turnin’ the corner, and I ses to another
gen’lm’n “that’s a reg’lar little oss that, and he’s a comin’ along
rayther sweet, an’t he?”—“He just is,” ses the other gen’lm’n, ven bump
they cums agin the post, and out flies the fare like bricks.’ Need we
say it was the red cab; or that the gentleman with the straw in his
mouth, who emerged so coolly from the chemist’s shop and
philosophically climbing into the little dickey, started off at full
gallop, was the red cab’s licensed driver?

The ubiquity of this red cab, and the influence it exercised over the
risible muscles of justice itself, was perfectly astonishing. You
walked into the justice-room of the Mansion-house; the whole court
resounded with merriment. The Lord Mayor threw himself back in his
chair, in a state of frantic delight at his own joke; every vein in Mr.
Hobler’s countenance was swollen with laughter, partly at the Lord
Mayor’s facetiousness, but more at his own; the constables and
police-officers were (as in duty bound) in ecstasies at Mr. Hobler and
the Lord Mayor combined; and the very paupers, glancing respectfully at
the beadle’s countenance, tried to smile, as even he relaxed. A tall,
weazen-faced man, with an impediment in his speech, would be
endeavouring to state a case of imposition against the red cab’s
driver; and the red cab’s driver, and the Lord Mayor, and Mr. Hobler,
would be having a little fun among themselves, to the inordinate
delight of everybody but the complainant. In the end, justice would be
so tickled with the red cab-driver’s native humour, that the fine would
be mitigated, and he would go away full gallop, in the red cab, to
impose on somebody else without loss of time.

The driver of the red cab, confident in the strength of his own moral
principles, like many other philosophers, was wont to set the feelings
and opinions of society at complete defiance. Generally speaking,
perhaps, he would as soon carry a fare safely to his destination, as he
would upset him—sooner, perhaps, because in that case he not only got
the money, but had the additional amusement of running a longer heat
against some smart rival. But society made war upon him in the shape of
penalties, and he must make war upon society in his own way. This was
the reasoning of the red cab-driver. So, he bestowed a searching look
upon the fare, as he put his hand in his waistcoat pocket, when he had
gone half the mile, to get the money ready; and if he brought forth
eightpence, out he went.

The last time we saw our friend was one wet evening in
Tottenham-court-road, when he was engaged in a very warm and somewhat
personal altercation with a loquacious little gentleman in a green
coat. Poor fellow! there were great excuses to be made for him: he had
not received above eighteenpence more than his fare, and consequently
laboured under a great deal of very natural indignation. The dispute
had attained a pretty considerable height, when at last the loquacious
little gentleman, making a mental calculation of the distance, and
finding that he had already paid more than he ought, avowed his
unalterable determination to ‘pull up’ the cabman in the morning.

‘Now, just mark this, young man,’ said the little gentleman, ‘I’ll pull
you up to-morrow morning.’

‘No! will you though?’ said our friend, with a sneer.

‘I will,’ replied the little gentleman, ‘mark my words, that’s all. If
I live till to-morrow morning, you shall repent this.’

There was a steadiness of purpose, and indignation of speech, about the
little gentleman, as he took an angry pinch of snuff, after this last
declaration, which made a visible impression on the mind of the red
cab-driver. He appeared to hesitate for an instant. It was only for an
instant; his resolve was soon taken.

‘You’ll pull me up, will you?’ said our friend.

‘I will,’ rejoined the little gentleman, with even greater vehemence an
before.

‘Very well,’ said our friend, tucking up his shirt sleeves very calmly.
‘There’ll be three veeks for that. Wery good; that’ll bring me up to
the middle o’ next month. Three veeks more would carry me on to my
birthday, and then I’ve got ten pound to draw. I may as well get board,
lodgin’, and washin’, till then, out of the county, as pay for it
myself; consequently here goes!’

So, without more ado, the red cab-driver knocked the little gentleman
down, and then called the police to take himself into custody, with all
the civility in the world.

A story is nothing without the sequel; and therefore, we may state,
that to our certain knowledge, the board, lodging, and washing were all
provided in due course. We happen to know the fact, for it came to our
knowledge thus: We went over the House of Correction for the county of
Middlesex shortly after, to witness the operation of the silent system;
and looked on all the ‘wheels’ with the greatest anxiety, in search of
our long-lost friend. He was nowhere to be seen, however, and we began
to think that the little gentleman in the green coat must have
relented, when, as we were traversing the kitchen-garden, which lies in
a sequestered part of the prison, we were startled by hearing a voice,
which apparently proceeded from the wall, pouring forth its soul in the
plaintive air of ‘All round my hat,’ which was then just beginning to
form a recognised portion of our national music.

We started.—‘What voice is that?’ said we. The Governor shook his head.

‘Sad fellow,’ he replied, ‘very sad. He positively refused to work on
the wheel; so, after many trials, I was compelled to order him into
solitary confinement. He says he likes it very much though, and I am
afraid he does, for he lies on his back on the floor, and sings comic
songs all day!’

Shall we add, that our heart had not deceived us and that the comic
singer was no other than our eagerly-sought friend, the red cab-driver?

We have never seen him since, but we have strong reason to suspect that
this noble individual was a distant relative of a waterman of our
acquaintance, who, on one occasion, when we were passing the
coach-stand over which he presides, after standing very quietly to see
a tall man struggle into a cab, ran up very briskly when it was all
over (as his brethren invariably do), and, touching his hat, asked, as
a matter of course, for ‘a copper for the waterman.’ Now, the fare was
by no means a handsome man; and, waxing very indignant at the demand,
he replied—‘Money! What for? Coming up and looking at me, I
suppose!’—‘Vell, sir,’ rejoined the waterman, with a smile of immovable
complacency, ‘_that’s_ worth twopence.’

The identical waterman afterwards attained a very prominent station in
society; and as we know something of his life, and have often thought
of telling what we _do_ know, perhaps we shall never have a better
opportunity than the present.

Mr. William Barker, then, for that was the gentleman’s name, Mr.
William Barker was born—but why need we relate where Mr. William Barker
was born, or when? Why scrutinise the entries in parochial ledgers, or
seek to penetrate the Lucinian mysteries of lying-in hospitals? Mr.
William Barker _was_ born, or he had never been. There is a son—there
was a father. There is an effect—there was a cause. Surely this is
sufficient information for the most Fatima-like curiosity; and, if it
be not, we regret our inability to supply any further evidence on the
point. Can there be a more satisfactory, or more strictly parliamentary
course? Impossible.

We at once avow a similar inability to record at what precise period,
or by what particular process, this gentleman’s patronymic, of William
Barker, became corrupted into ‘Bill Boorker.’ Mr. Barker acquired a
high standing, and no inconsiderable reputation, among the members of
that profession to which he more peculiarly devoted his energies; and
to them he was generally known, either by the familiar appellation of
‘Bill Boorker,’ or the flattering designation of ‘Aggerawatin Bill,’
the latter being a playful and expressive _sobriquet_, illustrative of
Mr. Barker’s great talent in ‘aggerawatin’ and rendering wild such
subjects of her Majesty as are conveyed from place to place, through
the instrumentality of omnibuses. Of the early life of Mr. Barker
little is known, and even that little is involved in considerable doubt
and obscurity. A want of application, a restlessness of purpose, a
thirsting after porter, a love of all that is roving and cadger-like in
nature, shared in common with many other great geniuses, appear to have
been his leading characteristics. The busy hum of a parochial
free-school, and the shady repose of a county gaol, were alike
inefficacious in producing the slightest alteration in Mr. Barker’s
disposition. His feverish attachment to change and variety nothing
could repress; his native daring no punishment could subdue.

If Mr. Barker can be fairly said to have had any weakness in his
earlier years, it was an amiable one—love; love in its most
comprehensive form—a love of ladies, liquids, and pocket-handkerchiefs.
It was no selfish feeling; it was not confined to his own possessions,
which but too many men regard with exclusive complacency. No; it was a
nobler love—a general principle. It extended itself with equal force to
the property of other people.

There is something very affecting in this. It is still more affecting
to know, that such philanthropy is but imperfectly rewarded.
Bow-street, Newgate, and Millbank, are a poor return for general
benevolence, evincing itself in an irrepressible love for all created
objects. Mr. Barker felt it so. After a lengthened interview with the
highest legal authorities, he quitted his ungrateful country, with the
consent, and at the expense, of its Government; proceeded to a distant
shore; and there employed himself, like another Cincinnatus, in
clearing and cultivating the soil—a peaceful pursuit, in which a term
of seven years glided almost imperceptibly away.

Whether, at the expiration of the period we have just mentioned, the
British Government required Mr. Barker’s presence here, or did not
require his residence abroad, we have no distinct means of
ascertaining. We should be inclined, however, to favour the latter
position, inasmuch as we do not find that he was advanced to any other
public post on his return, than the post at the corner of the
Haymarket, where he officiated as assistant-waterman to the
hackney-coach stand. Seated, in this capacity, on a couple of tubs near
the curbstone, with a brass plate and number suspended round his neck
by a massive chain, and his ankles curiously enveloped in haybands, he
is supposed to have made those observations on human nature which
exercised so material an influence over all his proceedings in later
life.

Mr. Barker had not officiated for many months in this capacity, when
the appearance of the first omnibus caused the public mind to go in a
new direction, and prevented a great many hackney-coaches from going in
any direction at all. The genius of Mr. Barker at once perceived the
whole extent of the injury that would be eventually inflicted on cab
and coach stands, and, by consequence, on watermen also, by the
progress of the system of which the first omnibus was a part. He saw,
too, the necessity of adopting some more profitable profession; and his
active mind at once perceived how much might be done in the way of
enticing the youthful and unwary, and shoving the old and helpless,
into the wrong buss, and carrying them off, until, reduced to despair,
they ransomed themselves by the payment of sixpence a-head, or, to
adopt his own figurative expression in all its native beauty, ‘till
they was rig’larly done over, and forked out the stumpy.’

An opportunity for realising his fondest anticipations, soon presented
itself. Rumours were rife on the hackney-coach stands, that a buss was
building, to run from Lisson-grove to the Bank, down Oxford-street and
Holborn; and the rapid increase of busses on the Paddington-road,
encouraged the idea. Mr. Barker secretly and cautiously inquired in the
proper quarters. The report was correct; the ‘Royal William’ was to
make its first journey on the following Monday. It was a crack affair
altogether. An enterprising young cabman, of established reputation as
a dashing whip—for he had compromised with the parents of three
scrunched children, and just ‘worked out’ his fine for knocking down an
old lady—was the driver; and the spirited proprietor, knowing Mr.
Barker’s qualifications, appointed him to the vacant office of cad on
the very first application. The buss began to run, and Mr. Barker
entered into a new suit of clothes, and on a new sphere of action.

To recapitulate all the improvements introduced by this extraordinary
man into the omnibus system—gradually, indeed, but surely—would occupy
a far greater space than we are enabled to devote to this imperfect
memoir. To him is universally assigned the original suggestion of the
practice which afterwards became so general—of the driver of a second
buss keeping constantly behind the first one, and driving the pole of
his vehicle either into the door of the other, every time it was
opened, or through the body of any lady or gentleman who might make an
attempt to get into it; a humorous and pleasant invention, exhibiting
all that originality of idea, and fine, bold flow of spirits, so
conspicuous in every action of this great man.

Mr. Barker had opponents of course; what man in public life has not?
But even his worst enemies cannot deny that he has taken more old
ladies and gentlemen to Paddington who wanted to go to the Bank, and
more old ladies and gentlemen to the Bank who wanted to go to
Paddington, than any six men on the road; and however much malevolent
spirits may pretend to doubt the accuracy of the statement, they well
know it to be an established fact, that he has forcibly conveyed a
variety of ancient persons of either sex, to both places, who had not
the slightest or most distant intention of going anywhere at all.

Mr. Barker was the identical cad who nobly distinguished himself, some
time since, by keeping a tradesman on the step—the omnibus going at
full speed all the time—till he had thrashed him to his entire
satisfaction, and finally throwing him away, when he had quite done
with him. Mr. Barker it _ought_ to have been, who honestly indignant at
being ignominiously ejected from a house of public entertainment,
kicked the landlord in the knee, and thereby caused his death. We say
it _ought_ to have been Mr. Barker, because the action was not a common
one, and could have emanated from no ordinary mind.

It has now become matter of history; it is recorded in the Newgate
Calendar; and we wish we could attribute this piece of daring heroism
to Mr. Barker. We regret being compelled to state that it was not
performed by him. Would, for the family credit we could add, that it
was achieved by his brother!

It was in the exercise of the nicer details of his profession, that Mr.
Barker’s knowledge of human nature was beautifully displayed. He could
tell at a glance where a passenger wanted to go to, and would shout the
name of the place accordingly, without the slightest reference to the
real destination of the vehicle. He knew exactly the kind of old lady
that would be too much flurried by the process of pushing in and
pulling out of the caravan, to discover where she had been put down,
until too late; had an intuitive perception of what was passing in a
passenger’s mind when he inwardly resolved to ‘pull that cad up
to-morrow morning;’ and never failed to make himself agreeable to
female servants, whom he would place next the door, and talk to all the
way.

Human judgment is never infallible, and it would occasionally happen
that Mr. Barker experimentalised with the timidity or forbearance of
the wrong person, in which case a summons to a Police-office, was, on
more than one occasion, followed by a committal to prison. It was not
in the power of trifles such as these, however, to subdue the freedom
of his spirit. As soon as they passed away, he resumed the duties of
his profession with unabated ardour.

We have spoken of Mr. Barker and of the red cab-driver, in the past
tense. Alas! Mr. Barker has again become an absentee; and the class of
men to which they both belonged is fast disappearing. Improvement has
peered beneath the aprons of our cabs, and penetrated to the very
innermost recesses of our omnibuses. Dirt and fustian will vanish
before cleanliness and livery. Slang will be forgotten when civility
becomes general: and that enlightened, eloquent, sage, and profound
body, the Magistracy of London, will be deprived of half their
amusement, and half their occupation.




CHAPTER XVIII—A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH


We hope our readers will not be alarmed at this rather ominous title.
We assure them that we are not about to become political, neither have
we the slightest intention of being more prosy than usual—if we can
help it. It has occurred to us that a slight sketch of the general
aspect of ‘the House,’ and the crowds that resort to it on the night of
an important debate, would be productive of some amusement: and as we
have made some few calls at the aforesaid house in our time—have
visited it quite often enough for our purpose, and a great deal too
often for our personal peace and comfort—we have determined to attempt
the description. Dismissing from our minds, therefore, all that feeling
of awe, which vague ideas of breaches of privilege, Serjeant-at-Arms,
heavy denunciations, and still heavier fees, are calculated to awaken,
we enter at once into the building, and upon our subject.

Half-past four o’clock—and at five the mover of the Address will be ‘on
his legs,’ as the newspapers announce sometimes by way of novelty, as
if speakers were occasionally in the habit of standing on their heads.
The members are pouring in, one after the other, in shoals. The few
spectators who can obtain standing-room in the passages, scrutinise
them as they pass, with the utmost interest, and the man who can
identify a member occasionally, becomes a person of great importance.
Every now and then you hear earnest whispers of ‘That’s Sir John
Thomson.’ ‘Which? him with the gilt order round his neck?’ ‘No, no;
that’s one of the messengers—that other with the yellow gloves, is Sir
John Thomson.’ ‘Here’s Mr. Smith.’ ‘Lor!’ ‘Yes, how d’ye do, sir?—(He
is our new member)—How do you do, sir?’ Mr. Smith stops: turns round
with an air of enchanting urbanity (for the rumour of an intended
dissolution has been very extensively circulated this morning); seizes
both the hands of his gratified constituent, and, after greeting him
with the most enthusiastic warmth, darts into the lobby with an
extraordinary display of ardour in the public cause, leaving an immense
impression in his favour on the mind of his ‘fellow-townsman.’

The arrivals increase in number, and the heat and noise increase in
very unpleasant proportion. The livery servants form a complete lane on
either side of the passage, and you reduce yourself into the smallest
possible space to avoid being turned out. You see that stout man with
the hoarse voice, in the blue coat, queer-crowned, broad-brimmed hat,
white corduroy breeches, and great boots, who has been talking
incessantly for half an hour past, and whose importance has occasioned
no small quantity of mirth among the strangers. That is the great
conservator of the peace of Westminster. You cannot fail to have
remarked the grace with which he saluted the noble Lord who passed just
now, or the excessive dignity of his air, as he expostulates with the
crowd. He is rather out of temper now, in consequence of the very
irreverent behaviour of those two young fellows behind him, who have
done nothing but laugh all the time they have been here.

‘Will they divide to-night, do you think, Mr. ---’ timidly inquires a
little thin man in the crowd, hoping to conciliate the man of office.

‘How _can_ you ask such questions, sir?’ replies the functionary, in an
incredibly loud key, and pettishly grasping the thick stick he carries
in his right hand. ‘Pray do not, sir. I beg of you; pray do not, sir.’
The little man looks remarkably out of his element, and the uninitiated
part of the throng are in positive convulsions of laughter.

Just at this moment some unfortunate individual appears, with a very
smirking air, at the bottom of the long passage. He has managed to
elude the vigilance of the special constable downstairs, and is
evidently congratulating himself on having made his way so far.

‘Go back, sir—you must _not_ come here,’ shouts the hoarse one, with
tremendous emphasis of voice and gesture, the moment the offender
catches his eye.

The stranger pauses.

‘Do you hear, sir—will you go back?’ continues the official dignitary,
gently pushing the intruder some half-dozen yards.

‘Come, don’t push me,’ replies the stranger, turning angrily round.

‘I will, sir.’

‘You won’t, sir.’

‘Go out, sir.’

‘Take your hands off me, sir.’

‘Go out of the passage, sir.’

‘You’re a Jack-in-office, sir.’

‘A what?’ ejaculates he of the boots.

‘A Jack-in-office, sir, and a very insolent fellow,’ reiterates the
stranger, now completely in a passion.

‘Pray do not force me to put you out, sir,’ retorts the other—‘pray do
not—my instructions are to keep this passage clear—it’s the Speaker’s
orders, sir.’

‘D-n the Speaker, sir!’ shouts the intruder.

‘Here, Wilson!—Collins!’ gasps the officer, actually paralysed at this
insulting expression, which in his mind is all but high treason; ‘take
this man out—take him out, I say! How dare you, sir?’ and down goes the
unfortunate man five stairs at a time, turning round at every stoppage,
to come back again, and denouncing bitter vengeance against the
commander-in-chief, and all his supernumeraries.

‘Make way, gentlemen,—pray make way for the Members, I beg of you!’
shouts the zealous officer, turning back, and preceding a whole string
of the liberal and independent.

You see this ferocious-looking gentleman, with a complexion almost as
sallow as his linen, and whose large black moustache would give him the
appearance of a figure in a hairdresser’s window, if his countenance
possessed the thought which is communicated to those waxen caricatures
of the human face divine. He is a militia-officer, and the most amusing
person in the House. Can anything be more exquisitely absurd than the
burlesque grandeur of his air, as he strides up to the lobby, his eyes
rolling like those of a Turk’s head in a cheap Dutch clock? He never
appears without that bundle of dirty papers which he carries under his
left arm, and which are generally supposed to be the miscellaneous
estimates for 1804, or some equally important documents. He is very
punctual in his attendance at the House, and his self-satisfied
‘He-ar-He-ar,’ is not unfrequently the signal for a general titter.

This is the gentleman who once actually sent a messenger up to the
Strangers’ gallery in the old House of Commons, to inquire the name of
an individual who was using an eye-glass, in order that he might
complain to the Speaker that the person in question was quizzing him!
On another occasion, he is reported to have repaired to Bellamy’s
kitchen—a refreshment-room, where persons who are not Members are
admitted on sufferance, as it were—and perceiving two or three
gentlemen at supper, who, he was aware, were not Members, and could
not, in that place, very well resent his behaviour, he indulged in the
pleasantry of sitting with his booted leg on the table at which they
were supping! He is generally harmless, though, and always amusing.

By dint of patience, and some little interest with our friend the
constable, we have contrived to make our way to the Lobby, and you can
just manage to catch an occasional glimpse of the House, as the door is
opened for the admission of Members. It is tolerably full already, and
little groups of Members are congregated together here, discussing the
interesting topics of the day.

That smart-looking fellow in the black coat with velvet facings and
cuffs, who wears his _D’Orsay_ hat so rakishly, is ‘Honest Tom,’ a
metropolitan representative; and the large man in the cloak with the
white lining—not the man by the pillar; the other with the light hair
hanging over his coat collar behind—is his colleague. The quiet
gentlemanly-looking man in the blue surtout, gray trousers, white
neckerchief and gloves, whose closely-buttoned coat displays his manly
figure and broad chest to great advantage, is a very well-known
character. He has fought a great many battles in his time, and
conquered like the heroes of old, with no other arms than those the
gods gave him. The old hard-featured man who is standing near him, is
really a good specimen of a class of men, now nearly extinct. He is a
county Member, and has been from time whereof the memory of man is not
to the contrary. Look at his loose, wide, brown coat, with capacious
pockets on each side; the knee-breeches and boots, the immensely long
waistcoat, and silver watch-chain dangling below it, the wide-brimmed
brown hat, and the white handkerchief tied in a great bow, with
straggling ends sticking out beyond his shirt-frill. It is a costume
one seldom sees nowadays, and when the few who wear it have died off,
it will be quite extinct. He can tell you long stories of Fox, Pitt,
Sheridan, and Canning, and how much better the House was managed in
those times, when they used to get up at eight or nine o’clock, except
on regular field-days, of which everybody was apprised beforehand. He
has a great contempt for all young Members of Parliament, and thinks it
quite impossible that a man can say anything worth hearing, unless he
has sat in the House for fifteen years at least, without saying
anything at all. He is of opinion that ‘that young Macaulay’ was a
regular impostor; he allows, that Lord Stanley may do something one of
these days, but ‘he’s too young, sir—too young.’ He is an excellent
authority on points of precedent, and when he grows talkative, after
his wine, will tell you how Sir Somebody Something, when he was
whipper-in for the Government, brought four men out of their beds to
vote in the majority, three of whom died on their way home again; how
the House once divided on the question, that fresh candles be now
brought in; how the Speaker was once upon a time left in the chair by
accident, at the conclusion of business, and was obliged to sit in the
House by himself for three hours, till some Member could be knocked up
and brought back again, to move the adjournment; and a great many other
anecdotes of a similar description.

There he stands, leaning on his stick; looking at the throng of
Exquisites around him with most profound contempt; and conjuring up,
before his mind’s eye, the scenes he beheld in the old House, in days
gone by, when his own feelings were fresher and brighter, and when, as
he imagines, wit, talent, and patriotism flourished more brightly too.

You are curious to know who that young man in the rough great-coat is,
who has accosted every Member who has entered the House since we have
been standing here. He is not a Member; he is only an ‘hereditary
bondsman,’ or, in other words, an Irish correspondent of an Irish
newspaper, who has just procured his forty-second frank from a Member
whom he never saw in his life before. There he goes again—another!
Bless the man, he has his hat and pockets full already.

We will try our fortune at the Strangers’ gallery, though the nature of
the debate encourages very little hope of success. What on earth are
you about? Holding up your order as if it were a talisman at whose
command the wicket would fly open? Nonsense. Just preserve the order
for an autograph, if it be worth keeping at all, and make your
appearance at the door with your thumb and forefinger expressively
inserted in your waistcoat-pocket. This tall stout man in black is the
door-keeper. ‘Any room?’ ‘Not an inch—two or three dozen gentlemen
waiting down-stairs on the chance of somebody’s going out.’ Pull out
your purse—‘Are you _quite_ sure there’s no room?’—‘I’ll go and look,’
replies the door-keeper, with a wistful glance at your purse, ‘but I’m
afraid there’s not.’ He returns, and with real feeling assures you that
it is morally impossible to get near the gallery. It is of no use
waiting. When you are refused admission into the Strangers’ gallery at
the House of Commons, under such circumstances, you may return home
thoroughly satisfied that the place must be remarkably full indeed.
[122]

Retracing our steps through the long passage, descending the stairs,
and crossing Palace-yard, we halt at a small temporary doorway
adjoining the King’s entrance to the House of Lords. The order of the
serjeant-at-arms will admit you into the Reporters’ gallery, from
whence you can obtain a tolerably good view of the House. Take care of
the stairs, they are none of the best; through this little
wicket—there. As soon as your eyes become a little used to the mist of
the place, and the glare of the chandeliers below you, you will see
that some unimportant personage on the Ministerial side of the House
(to your right hand) is speaking, amidst a hum of voices and confusion
which would rival Babel, but for the circumstance of its being all in
one language.

The ‘hear, hear,’ which occasioned that laugh, proceeded from our
warlike friend with the moustache; he is sitting on the back seat
against the wall, behind the Member who is speaking, looking as
ferocious and intellectual as usual. Take one look around you, and
retire! The body of the House and the side galleries are full of
Members; some, with their legs on the back of the opposite seat; some,
with theirs stretched out to their utmost length on the floor; some
going out, others coming in; all talking, laughing, lounging, coughing,
oh-ing, questioning, or groaning; presenting a conglomeration of noise
and confusion, to be met with in no other place in existence, not even
excepting Smithfield on a market-day, or a cock-pit in its glory.

But let us not omit to notice Bellamy’s kitchen, or, in other words,
the refreshment-room, common to both Houses of Parliament, where
Ministerialists and Oppositionists, Whigs and Tories, Radicals, Peers,
and Destructives, strangers from the gallery, and the more favoured
strangers from below the bar, are alike at liberty to resort; where
divers honourable members prove their perfect independence by remaining
during the whole of a heavy debate, solacing themselves with the
creature comforts; and whence they are summoned by whippers-in, when
the House is on the point of dividing; either to give their
‘conscientious votes’ on questions of which they are conscientiously
innocent of knowing anything whatever, or to find a vent for the
playful exuberance of their wine-inspired fancies, in boisterous shouts
of ‘Divide,’ occasionally varied with a little howling, barking,
crowing, or other ebullitions of senatorial pleasantry.

When you have ascended the narrow staircase which, in the present
temporary House of Commons, leads to the place we are describing, you
will probably observe a couple of rooms on your right hand, with tables
spread for dining. Neither of these is the kitchen, although they are
both devoted to the same purpose; the kitchen is further on to our
left, up these half-dozen stairs. Before we ascend the staircase,
however, we must request you to pause in front of this little bar-place
with the sash-windows; and beg your particular attention to the steady,
honest-looking old fellow in black, who is its sole occupant. Nicholas
(we do not mind mentioning the old fellow’s name, for if Nicholas be
not a public man, who is?—and public men’s names are public
property)—Nicholas is the butler of Bellamy’s, and has held the same
place, dressed exactly in the same manner, and said precisely the same
things, ever since the oldest of its present visitors can remember. An
excellent servant Nicholas is—an unrivalled compounder of
salad-dressing—an admirable preparer of soda-water and lemon—a special
mixer of cold grog and punch—and, above all, an unequalled judge of
cheese. If the old man have such a thing as vanity in his composition,
this is certainly his pride; and if it be possible to imagine that
anything in this world could disturb his impenetrable calmness, we
should say it would be the doubting his judgment on this important
point.

We needn’t tell you all this, however, for if you have an atom of
observation, one glance at his sleek, knowing-looking head and face—his
prim white neckerchief, with the wooden tie into which it has been
regularly folded for twenty years past, merging by imperceptible
degrees into a small-plaited shirt-frill—and his comfortable-looking
form encased in a well-brushed suit of black—would give you a better
idea of his real character than a column of our poor description could
convey.

Nicholas is rather out of his element now; he cannot see the kitchen as
he used to in the old House; there, one window of his glass-case opened
into the room, and then, for the edification and behoof of more
juvenile questioners, he would stand for an hour together, answering
deferential questions about Sheridan, and Percival, and Castlereagh,
and Heaven knows who beside, with manifest delight, always inserting a
‘Mister’ before every commoner’s name.

Nicholas, like all men of his age and standing, has a great idea of the
degeneracy of the times. He seldom expresses any political opinions,
but we managed to ascertain, just before the passing of the Reform
Bill, that Nicholas was a thorough Reformer. What was our astonishment
to discover shortly after the meeting of the first reformed Parliament,
that he was a most inveterate and decided Tory! It was very odd: some
men change their opinions from necessity, others from expediency,
others from inspiration; but that Nicholas should undergo any change in
any respect, was an event we had never contemplated, and should have
considered impossible. His strong opinion against the clause which
empowered the metropolitan districts to return Members to Parliament,
too, was perfectly unaccountable.

We discovered the secret at last; the metropolitan Members always dined
at home. The rascals! As for giving additional Members to Ireland, it
was even worse—decidedly unconstitutional. Why, sir, an Irish Member
would go up there, and eat more dinner than three English Members put
together. He took no wine; drank table-beer by the half-gallon; and
went home to Manchester-buildings, or Millbank-street, for his
whiskey-and-water. And what was the consequence? Why, the concern
lost—actually lost, sir—by his patronage. A queer old fellow is
Nicholas, and as completely a part of the building as the house itself.
We wonder he ever left the old place, and fully expected to see in the
papers, the morning after the fire, a pathetic account of an old
gentleman in black, of decent appearance, who was seen at one of the
upper windows when the flames were at their height, and declared his
resolute intention of falling with the floor. He must have been got out
by force. However, he was got out—here he is again, looking as he
always does, as if he had been in a bandbox ever since the last
session. There he is, at his old post every night, just as we have
described him: and, as characters are scarce, and faithful servants
scarcer, long may he be there, say we!

Now, when you have taken your seat in the kitchen, and duly noticed the
large fire and roasting-jack at one end of the room—the little table
for washing glasses and draining jugs at the other—the clock over the
window opposite St. Margaret’s Church—the deal tables and wax
candles—the damask table-cloths and bare floor—the plate and china on
the tables, and the gridiron on the fire; and a few other anomalies
peculiar to the place—we will point out to your notice two or three of
the people present, whose station or absurdities render them the most
worthy of remark.

It is half-past twelve o’clock, and as the division is not expected for
an hour or two, a few Members are lounging away the time here in
preference to standing at the bar of the House, or sleeping in one of
the side galleries. That singularly awkward and ungainly-looking man,
in the brownish-white hat, with the straggling black trousers which
reach about half-way down the leg of his boots, who is leaning against
the meat-screen, apparently deluding himself into the belief that he is
thinking about something, is a splendid sample of a Member of the House
of Commons concentrating in his own person the wisdom of a
constituency. Observe the wig, of a dark hue but indescribable colour,
for if it be naturally brown, it has acquired a black tint by long
service, and if it be naturally black, the same cause has imparted to
it a tinge of rusty brown; and remark how very materially the great
blinker-like spectacles assist the expression of that most intelligent
face. Seriously speaking, did you ever see a countenance so expressive
of the most hopeless extreme of heavy dulness, or behold a form so
strangely put together? He is no great speaker: but when he _does_
address the House, the effect is absolutely irresistible.

The small gentleman with the sharp nose, who has just saluted him, is a
Member of Parliament, an ex-Alderman, and a sort of amateur fireman.
He, and the celebrated fireman’s dog, were observed to be remarkably
active at the conflagration of the two Houses of Parliament—they both
ran up and down, and in and out, getting under people’s feet, and into
everybody’s way, fully impressed with the belief that they were doing a
great deal of good, and barking tremendously. The dog went quietly back
to his kennel with the engine, but the gentleman kept up such an
incessant noise for some weeks after the occurrence, that he became a
positive nuisance. As no more parliamentary fires have occurred,
however, and as he has consequently had no more opportunities of
writing to the newspapers to relate how, by way of preserving pictures
he cut them out of their frames, and performed other great national
services, he has gradually relapsed into his old state of calmness.

That female in black—not the one whom the Lord’s-Day-Bill Baronet has
just chucked under the chin; the shorter of the two—is ‘Jane:’ the Hebe
of Bellamy’s. Jane is as great a character as Nicholas, in her way. Her
leading features are a thorough contempt for the great majority of her
visitors; her predominant quality, love of admiration, as you cannot
fail to observe, if you mark the glee with which she listens to
something the young Member near her mutters somewhat unintelligibly in
her ear (for his speech is rather thick from some cause or other), and
how playfully she digs the handle of a fork into the arm with which he
detains her, by way of reply.

Jane is no bad hand at repartees, and showers them about, with a degree
of liberality and total absence of reserve or constraint, which
occasionally excites no small amazement in the minds of strangers. She
cuts jokes with Nicholas, too, but looks up to him with a great deal of
respect—the immovable stolidity with which Nicholas receives the
aforesaid jokes, and looks on, at certain pastoral friskings and
rompings (Jane’s only recreations, and they are very innocent too)
which occasionally take place in the passage, is not the least amusing
part of his character.

The two persons who are seated at the table in the corner, at the
farther end of the room, have been constant guests here, for many years
past; and one of them has feasted within these walls, many a time, with
the most brilliant characters of a brilliant period. He has gone up to
the other House since then; the greater part of his boon companions
have shared Yorick’s fate, and his visits to Bellamy’s are
comparatively few.

If he really be eating his supper now, at what hour can he possibly
have dined! A second solid mass of rump-steak has disappeared, and he
eat the first in four minutes and three quarters, by the clock over the
window. Was there ever such a personification of Falstaff! Mark the air
with which he gloats over that Stilton, as he removes the napkin which
has been placed beneath his chin to catch the superfluous gravy of the
steak, and with what gusto he imbibes the porter which has been
fetched, expressly for him, in the pewter pot. Listen to the hoarse
sound of that voice, kept down as it is by layers of solids, and deep
draughts of rich wine, and tell us if you ever saw such a perfect
picture of a regular _gourmand_; and whether he is not exactly the man
whom you would pitch upon as having been the partner of Sheridan’s
parliamentary carouses, the volunteer driver of the hackney-coach that
took him home, and the involuntary upsetter of the whole party?

What an amusing contrast between his voice and appearance, and that of
the spare, squeaking old man, who sits at the same table, and who,
elevating a little cracked bantam sort of voice to its highest pitch,
invokes damnation upon his own eyes or somebody else’s at the
commencement of every sentence he utters. ‘The Captain,’ as they call
him, is a very old frequenter of Bellamy’s; much addicted to stopping
‘after the House is up’ (an inexpiable crime in Jane’s eyes), and a
complete walking reservoir of spirits and water.

The old Peer—or rather, the old man—for his peerage is of comparatively
recent date—has a huge tumbler of hot punch brought him; and the other
damns and drinks, and drinks and damns, and smokes. Members arrive
every moment in a great bustle to report that ‘The Chancellor of the
Exchequer’s up,’ and to get glasses of brandy-and-water to sustain them
during the division; people who have ordered supper, countermand it,
and prepare to go down-stairs, when suddenly a bell is heard to ring
with tremendous violence, and a cry of ‘Di-vi-sion!’ is heard in the
passage. This is enough; away rush the members pell-mell. The room is
cleared in an instant; the noise rapidly dies away; you hear the
creaking of the last boot on the last stair, and are left alone with
the leviathan of rump-steaks.




CHAPTER XIX—PUBLIC DINNERS


All public dinners in London, from the Lord Mayor’s annual banquet at
Guildhall, to the Chimney-sweepers’ anniversary at White Conduit House;
from the Goldsmiths’ to the Butchers’, from the Sheriffs’ to the
Licensed Victuallers’; are amusing scenes. Of all entertainments of
this description, however, we think the annual dinner of some public
charity is the most amusing. At a Company’s dinner, the people are
nearly all alike—regular old stagers, who make it a matter of business,
and a thing not to be laughed at. At a political dinner, everybody is
disagreeable, and inclined to speechify—much the same thing,
by-the-bye; but at a charity dinner you see people of all sorts, kinds,
and descriptions. The wine may not be remarkably special, to be sure,
and we have heard some hardhearted monsters grumble at the collection;
but we really think the amusement to be derived from the occasion,
sufficient to counterbalance even these disadvantages.

Let us suppose you are induced to attend a dinner of this
description—‘Indigent Orphans’ Friends’ Benevolent Institution,’ we
think it is. The name of the charity is a line or two longer, but never
mind the rest. You have a distinct recollection, however, that you
purchased a ticket at the solicitation of some charitable friend: and
you deposit yourself in a hackney-coach, the driver of which—no doubt
that you may do the thing in style—turns a deaf ear to your earnest
entreaties to be set down at the corner of Great Queen-street, and
persists in carrying you to the very door of the Freemasons’, round
which a crowd of people are assembled to witness the entrance of the
indigent orphans’ friends. You hear great speculations as you pay the
fare, on the possibility of your being the noble Lord who is announced
to fill the chair on the occasion, and are highly gratified to hear it
eventually decided that you are only a ‘wocalist.’

The first thing that strikes you, on your entrance, is the astonishing
importance of the committee. You observe a door on the first landing,
carefully guarded by two waiters, in and out of which stout gentlemen
with very red faces keep running, with a degree of speed highly
unbecoming the gravity of persons of their years and corpulency. You
pause, quite alarmed at the bustle, and thinking, in your innocence,
that two or three people must have been carried out of the dining-room
in fits, at least. You are immediately undeceived by the
waiter—‘Up-stairs, if you please, sir; this is the committee-room.’
Up-stairs you go, accordingly; wondering, as you mount, what the duties
of the committee can be, and whether they ever do anything beyond
confusing each other, and running over the waiters.

Having deposited your hat and cloak, and received a remarkably small
scrap of pasteboard in exchange (which, as a matter of course, you
lose, before you require it again), you enter the hall, down which
there are three long tables for the less distinguished guests, with a
cross table on a raised platform at the upper end for the reception of
the very particular friends of the indigent orphans. Being fortunate
enough to find a plate without anybody’s card in it, you wisely seat
yourself at once, and have a little leisure to look about you. Waiters,
with wine-baskets in their hands, are placing decanters of sherry down
the tables, at very respectable distances; melancholy-looking
salt-cellars, and decayed vinegar-cruets, which might have belonged to
the parents of the indigent orphans in their time, are scattered at
distant intervals on the cloth; and the knives and forks look as if
they had done duty at every public dinner in London since the accession
of George the First. The musicians are scraping and grating and
screwing tremendously—playing no notes but notes of preparation; and
several gentlemen are gliding along the sides of the tables, looking
into plate after plate with frantic eagerness, the expression of their
countenances growing more and more dismal as they meet with everybody’s
card but their own.

You turn round to take a look at the table behind you, and—not being in
the habit of attending public dinners—are somewhat struck by the
appearance of the party on which your eyes rest. One of its principal
members appears to be a little man, with a long and rather inflamed
face, and gray hair brushed bolt upright in front; he wears a wisp of
black silk round his neck, without any stiffener, as an apology for a
neckerchief, and is addressed by his companions by the familiar
appellation of ‘Fitz,’ or some such monosyllable. Near him is a stout
man in a white neckerchief and buff waistcoat, with shining dark hair,
cut very short in front, and a great, round, healthy-looking face, on
which he studiously preserves a half sentimental simper. Next him,
again, is a large-headed man, with black hair and bushy whiskers; and
opposite them are two or three others, one of whom is a little
round-faced person, in a dress-stock and blue under-waistcoat. There is
something peculiar in their air and manner, though you could hardly
describe what it is; you cannot divest yourself of the idea that they
have come for some other purpose than mere eating and drinking. You
have no time to debate the matter, however, for the waiters (who have
been arranged in lines down the room, placing the dishes on table)
retire to the lower end; the dark man in the blue coat and bright
buttons, who has the direction of the music, looks up to the gallery,
and calls out ‘band’ in a very loud voice; out burst the orchestra, up
rise the visitors, in march fourteen stewards, each with a long wand in
his hand, like the evil genius in a pantomime; then the chairman, then
the titled visitors; they all make their way up the room, as fast as
they can, bowing, and smiling, and smirking, and looking remarkably
amiable. The applause ceases, grace is said, the clatter of plates and
dishes begins; and every one appears highly gratified, either with the
presence of the distinguished visitors, or the commencement of the
anxiously-expected dinner.

As to the dinner itself—the mere dinner—it goes off much the same
everywhere. Tureens of soup are emptied with awful rapidity—waiters
take plates of turbot away, to get lobster-sauce, and bring back plates
of lobster-sauce without turbot; people who can carve poultry, are
great fools if they own it, and people who can’t have no wish to learn.
The knives and forks form a pleasing accompaniment to Auber’s music,
and Auber’s music would form a pleasing accompaniment to the dinner, if
you could hear anything besides the cymbals. The substantials
disappear—moulds of jelly vanish like lightning—hearty eaters wipe
their foreheads, and appear rather overcome by their recent
exertions—people who have looked very cross hitherto, become remarkably
bland, and ask you to take wine in the most friendly manner
possible—old gentlemen direct your attention to the ladies’ gallery,
and take great pains to impress you with the fact that the charity is
always peculiarly favoured in this respect—every one appears disposed
to become talkative—and the hum of conversation is loud and general.

‘Pray, silence, gentlemen, if you please, for _Non nobis_!’ shouts the
toast-master with stentorian lungs—a toast-master’s shirt-front,
waistcoat, and neckerchief, by-the-bye, always exhibit three distinct
shades of cloudy-white.—‘Pray, silence, gentlemen, for _Non nobis_!’
The singers, whom you discover to be no other than the very party that
excited your curiosity at first, after ‘pitching’ their voices
immediately begin _too-too_ing most dismally, on which the regular old
stagers burst into occasional cries of—‘Sh—Sh—waiters!—Silence,
waiters—stand still, waiters—keep back, waiters,’ and other exorcisms,
delivered in a tone of indignant remonstrance. The grace is soon
concluded, and the company resume their seats. The uninitiated portion
of the guests applaud _Non nobis_ as vehemently as if it were a capital
comic song, greatly to the scandal and indignation of the regular
diners, who immediately attempt to quell this sacrilegious approbation,
by cries of ‘Hush, hush!’ whereupon the others, mistaking these sounds
for hisses, applaud more tumultuously than before, and, by way of
placing their approval beyond the possibility of doubt, shout
‘_Encore_!’ most vociferously.

The moment the noise ceases, up starts the toast-master:—‘Gentlemen,
charge your glasses, if you please!’ Decanters having been handed
about, and glasses filled, the toast-master proceeds, in a regular
ascending
scale:—‘Gentlemen—_air_—you—all charged? Pray—silence—gentlemen—for—the
cha-i-r!’ The chairman rises, and, after stating that he feels it quite
unnecessary to preface the toast he is about to propose, with any
observations whatever, wanders into a maze of sentences, and flounders
about in the most extraordinary manner, presenting a lamentable
spectacle of mystified humanity, until he arrives at the words,
‘constitutional sovereign of these realms,’ at which elderly gentlemen
exclaim ‘Bravo!’ and hammer the table tremendously with their
knife-handles. ‘Under any circumstances, it would give him the greatest
pride, it would give him the greatest pleasure—he might almost say, it
would afford him satisfaction [cheers] to propose that toast. What must
be his feelings, then, when he has the gratification of announcing,
that he has received her Majesty’s commands to apply to the Treasurer
of her Majesty’s Household, for her Majesty’s annual donation of 25_l._
in aid of the funds of this charity!’ This announcement (which has been
regularly made by every chairman, since the first foundation of the
charity, forty-two years ago) calls forth the most vociferous applause;
the toast is drunk with a great deal of cheering and knocking; and ‘God
save the Queen’ is sung by the ‘professional gentlemen;’ the
unprofessional gentlemen joining in the chorus, and giving the national
anthem an effect which the newspapers, with great justice, describe as
‘perfectly electrical.’

The other ‘loyal and patriotic’ toasts having been drunk with all due
enthusiasm, a comic song having been well sung by the gentleman with
the small neckerchief, and a sentimental one by the second of the
party, we come to the most important toast of the evening—‘Prosperity
to the charity.’ Here again we are compelled to adopt newspaper
phraseology, and to express our regret at being ‘precluded from giving
even the substance of the noble lord’s observations.’ Suffice it to
say, that the speech, which is somewhat of the longest, is rapturously
received; and the toast having been drunk, the stewards (looking more
important than ever) leave the room, and presently return, heading a
procession of indigent orphans, boys and girls, who walk round the
room, curtseying, and bowing, and treading on each other’s heels, and
looking very much as if they would like a glass of wine apiece, to the
high gratification of the company generally, and especially of the lady
patronesses in the gallery. _Exeunt_ children, and re-enter stewards,
each with a blue plate in his hand. The band plays a lively air; the
majority of the company put their hands in their pockets and look
rather serious; and the noise of sovereigns, rattling on crockery, is
heard from all parts of the room.

After a short interval, occupied in singing and toasting, the secretary
puts on his spectacles, and proceeds to read the report and list of
subscriptions, the latter being listened to with great attention. ‘Mr.
Smith, one guinea—Mr. Tompkins, one guinea—Mr. Wilson, one guinea—Mr.
Hickson, one guinea—Mr. Nixon, one guinea—Mr. Charles Nixon, one
guinea—[hear, hear!]—Mr. James Nixon, one guinea—Mr. Thomas Nixon, one
pound one [tremendous applause]. Lord Fitz Binkle, the chairman of the
day, in addition to an annual donation of fifteen pounds—thirty guineas
[prolonged knocking: several gentlemen knock the stems off their
wine-glasses, in the vehemence of their approbation]. Lady, Fitz
Binkle, in addition to an annual donation of ten pound—twenty pound’
[protracted knocking and shouts of ‘Bravo!’] The list being at length
concluded, the chairman rises, and proposes the health of the
secretary, than whom he knows no more zealous or estimable individual.
The secretary, in returning thanks, observes that _he_ knows no more
excellent individual than the chairman—except the senior officer of the
charity, whose health _he_ begs to propose. The senior officer, in
returning thanks, observes that _he_ knows no more worthy man than the
secretary—except Mr. Walker, the auditor, whose health _he_ begs to
propose. Mr. Walker, in returning thanks, discovers some other
estimable individual, to whom alone the senior officer is inferior—and
so they go on toasting and lauding and thanking: the only other toast
of importance being ‘The Lady Patronesses now present!’ on which all
the gentlemen turn their faces towards the ladies’ gallery, shouting
tremendously; and little priggish men, who have imbibed more wine than
usual, kiss their hands and exhibit distressing contortions of visage.

We have protracted our dinner to so great a length, that we have hardly
time to add one word by way of grace. We can only entreat our readers
not to imagine, because we have attempted to extract some amusement
from a charity dinner, that we are at all disposed to underrate, either
the excellence of the benevolent institutions with which London
abounds, or the estimable motives of those who support them.




CHAPTER XX—THE FIRST OF MAY


‘Now ladies, up in the sky-parlour: only once a year, if you please!’

Young Lady with Brass Ladle.


‘Sweep—sweep—sw-e-ep!’

Illegal Watchword.


The first of May! There is a merry freshness in the sound, calling to
our minds a thousand thoughts of all that is pleasant in nature and
beautiful in her most delightful form. What man is there, over whose
mind a bright spring morning does not exercise a magic
influence—carrying him back to the days of his childish sports, and
conjuring up before him the old green field with its gently-waving
trees, where the birds sang as he has never heard them since—where the
butterfly fluttered far more gaily than he ever sees him now, in all
his ramblings—where the sky seemed bluer, and the sun shone more
brightly—where the air blew more freshly over greener grass, and
sweeter-smelling flowers—where everything wore a richer and more
brilliant hue than it is ever dressed in now! Such are the deep
feelings of childhood, and such are the impressions which every lovely
object stamps upon its heart! The hardy traveller wanders through the
maze of thick and pathless woods, where the sun’s rays never shone, and
heaven’s pure air never played; he stands on the brink of the roaring
waterfall, and, giddy and bewildered, watches the foaming mass as it
leaps from stone to stone, and from crag to crag; he lingers in the
fertile plains of a land of perpetual sunshine, and revels in the
luxury of their balmy breath. But what are the deep forests, or the
thundering waters, or the richest landscapes that bounteous nature ever
spread, to charm the eyes, and captivate the senses of man, compared
with the recollection of the old scenes of his early youth? Magic
scenes indeed; for the fancies of childhood dressed them in colours
brighter than the rainbow, and almost as fleeting!

In former times, spring brought with it not only such associations as
these, connected with the past, but sports and games for the
present—merry dances round rustic pillars, adorned with emblems of the
season, and reared in honour of its coming. Where are they now! Pillars
we have, but they are no longer rustic ones; and as to dancers, they
are used to rooms, and lights, and would not show well in the open air.
Think of the immorality, too! What would your sabbath enthusiasts say,
to an aristocratic ring encircling the Duke of York’s column in
Carlton-terrace—a grand _poussette_ of the middle classes, round
Alderman Waithman’s monument in Fleet-street,—or a general
hands-four-round of ten-pound householders, at the foot of the Obelisk
in St. George’s-fields? Alas! romance can make no head against the riot
act; and pastoral simplicity is not understood by the police.

Well; many years ago we began to be a steady and matter-of-fact sort of
people, and dancing in spring being beneath our dignity, we gave it up,
and in course of time it descended to the sweeps—a fall certainly,
because, though sweeps are very good fellows in their way, and moreover
very useful in a civilised community, they are not exactly the sort of
people to give the tone to the little elegances of society. The sweeps,
however, got the dancing to themselves, and they kept it up, and handed
it down. This was a severe blow to the romance of spring-time, but, it
did not entirely destroy it, either; for a portion of it descended to
the sweeps with the dancing, and rendered them objects of great
interest. A mystery hung over the sweeps in those days. Legends were in
existence of wealthy gentlemen who had lost children, and who, after
many years of sorrow and suffering, had found them in the character of
sweeps. Stories were related of a young boy who, having been stolen
from his parents in his infancy, and devoted to the occupation of
chimney-sweeping, was sent, in the course of his professional career,
to sweep the chimney of his mother’s bedroom; and how, being hot and
tired when he came out of the chimney, he got into the bed he had so
often slept in as an infant, and was discovered and recognised therein
by his mother, who once every year of her life, thereafter, requested
the pleasure of the company of every London sweep, at half-past one
o’clock, to roast beef, plum-pudding, porter, and sixpence.

Such stories as these, and there were many such, threw an air of
mystery round the sweeps, and produced for them some of those good
effects which animals derive from the doctrine of the transmigration of
souls. No one (except the masters) thought of ill-treating a sweep,
because no one knew who he might be, or what nobleman’s or gentleman’s
son he might turn out. Chimney-sweeping was, by many believers in the
marvellous, considered as a sort of probationary term, at an earlier or
later period of which, divers young noblemen were to come into
possession of their rank and titles: and the profession was held by
them in great respect accordingly.

We remember, in our young days, a little sweep about our own age, with
curly hair and white teeth, whom we devoutly and sincerely believed to
be the lost son and heir of some illustrious personage—an impression
which was resolved into an unchangeable conviction on our infant mind,
by the subject of our speculations informing us, one day, in reply to
our question, propounded a few moments before his ascent to the summit
of the kitchen chimney, ‘that he believed he’d been born in the vurkis,
but he’d never know’d his father.’ We felt certain, from that time
forth, that he would one day be owned by a lord: and we never heard the
church-bells ring, or saw a flag hoisted in the neighbourhood, without
thinking that the happy event had at last occurred, and that his
long-lost parent had arrived in a coach and six, to take him home to
Grosvenor-square. He never came, however; and, at the present moment,
the young gentleman in question is settled down as a master sweep in
the neighbourhood of Battle-bridge, his distinguishing characteristics
being a decided antipathy to washing himself, and the possession of a
pair of legs very inadequate to the support of his unwieldy and
corpulent body.

The romance of spring having gone out before our time, we were fain to
console ourselves as we best could with the uncertainty that enveloped
the birth and parentage of its attendant dancers, the sweeps; and we
_did_ console ourselves with it, for many years. But, even this wicked
source of comfort received a shock from which it has never recovered—a
shock which has been in reality its death-blow. We could not disguise
from ourselves the fact that whole families of sweeps were regularly
born of sweeps, in the rural districts of Somers Town and Camden
Town—that the eldest son succeeded to the father’s business, that the
other branches assisted him therein, and commenced on their own
account; that their children again, were educated to the profession;
and that about their identity there could be no mistake whatever. We
could not be blind, we say, to this melancholy truth, but we could not
bring ourselves to admit it, nevertheless, and we lived on for some
years in a state of voluntary ignorance. We were roused from our
pleasant slumber by certain dark insinuations thrown out by a friend of
ours, to the effect that children in the lower ranks of life were
beginning to _choose_ chimney-sweeping as their particular walk; that
applications had been made by various boys to the constituted
authorities, to allow them to pursue the object of their ambition with
the full concurrence and sanction of the law; that the affair, in
short, was becoming one of mere legal contract. We turned a deaf ear to
these rumours at first, but slowly and surely they stole upon us. Month
after month, week after week, nay, day after day, at last, did we meet
with accounts of similar applications. The veil was removed, all
mystery was at an end, and chimney-sweeping had become a favourite and
chosen pursuit. There is no longer any occasion to steal boys; for boys
flock in crowds to bind themselves. The romance of the trade has fled,
and the chimney-sweeper of the present day, is no more like unto him of
thirty years ago, than is a Fleet-street pickpocket to a Spanish
brigand, or Paul Pry to Caleb Williams.

This gradual decay and disuse of the practice of leading noble youths
into captivity, and compelling them to ascend chimneys, was a severe
blow, if we may so speak, to the romance of chimney-sweeping, and to
the romance of spring at the same time. But even this was not all, for
some few years ago the dancing on May-day began to decline; small
sweeps were observed to congregate in twos or threes, unsupported by a
‘green,’ with no ‘My Lord’ to act as master of the ceremonies, and no
‘My Lady’ to preside over the exchequer. Even in companies where there
was a ‘green’ it was an absolute nothing—a mere sprout—and the
instrumental accompaniments rarely extended beyond the shovels and a
set of Panpipes, better known to the many, as a ‘mouth-organ.’

These were signs of the times, portentous omens of a coming change; and
what was the result which they shadowed forth? Why, the master sweeps,
influenced by a restless spirit of innovation, actually interposed
their authority, in opposition to the dancing, and substituted a
dinner—an anniversary dinner at White Conduit House—where clean faces
appeared in lieu of black ones smeared with rose pink; and knee cords
and tops superseded nankeen drawers and rosetted shoes.

Gentlemen who were in the habit of riding shy horses; and steady-going
people who have no vagrancy in their souls, lauded this alteration to
the skies, and the conduct of the master sweeps was described beyond
the reach of praise. But how stands the real fact? Let any man deny, if
he can, that when the cloth had been removed, fresh pots and pipes laid
upon the table, and the customary loyal and patriotic toasts proposed,
the celebrated Mr. Sluffen, of Adam-and-Eve-court, whose authority not
the most malignant of our opponents can call in question, expressed
himself in a manner following: ‘That now he’d cotcht the cheerman’s hi,
he vished he might be jolly vell blessed, if he worn’t a goin’ to have
his innings, vich he vould say these here obserwashuns—that how some
mischeevus coves as know’d nuffin about the consarn, had tried to sit
people agin the mas’r swips, and take the shine out o’ their bis’nes,
and the bread out o’ the traps o’ their preshus kids, by a makin’ o’
this here remark, as chimblies could be as vell svept by ‘sheenery as
by boys; and that the makin’ use o’ boys for that there purpuss vos
barbareous; vereas, he ’ad been a chummy—he begged the cheerman’s
parding for usin’ such a wulgar hexpression—more nor thirty year—he
might say he’d been born in a chimbley—and he know’d uncommon vell as
‘sheenery vos vus nor o’ no use: and as to kerhewelty to the boys,
everybody in the chimbley line know’d as vell as he did, that they
liked the climbin’ better nor nuffin as vos.’ From this day, we date
the total fall of the last lingering remnant of May-day dancing, among
the _élite_ of the profession: and from this period we commence a new
era in that portion of our spring associations which relates to the
first of May.

We are aware that the unthinking part of the population will meet us
here, with the assertion, that dancing on May-day still continues—that
‘greens’ are annually seen to roll along the streets—that youths in the
garb of clowns, precede them, giving vent to the ebullitions of their
sportive fancies; and that lords and ladies follow in their wake.

Granted. We are ready to acknowledge that in outward show, these
processions have greatly improved: we do not deny the introduction of
solos on the drum; we will even go so far as to admit an occasional
fantasia on the triangle, but here our admissions end. We positively
deny that the sweeps have art or part in these proceedings. We
distinctly charge the dustmen with throwing what they ought to clear
away, into the eyes of the public. We accuse scavengers, brickmakers,
and gentlemen who devote their energies to the costermongering line,
with obtaining money once a-year, under false pretences. We cling with
peculiar fondness to the custom of days gone by, and have shut out
conviction as long as we could, but it has forced itself upon us; and
we now proclaim to a deluded public, that the May-day dancers are _not_
sweeps. The size of them, alone, is sufficient to repudiate the idea.
It is a notorious fact that the widely-spread taste for register-stoves
has materially increased the demand for small boys; whereas the men,
who, under a fictitious character, dance about the streets on the first
of May nowadays, would be a tight fit in a kitchen flue, to say nothing
of the parlour. This is strong presumptive evidence, but we have
positive proof—the evidence of our own senses. And here is our
testimony.

Upon the morning of the second of the merry month of May, in the year
of our Lord one thousand eight hundred and thirty-six, we went out for
a stroll, with a kind of forlorn hope of seeing something or other
which might induce us to believe that it was really spring, and not
Christmas. After wandering as far as Copenhagen House, without meeting
anything calculated to dispel our impression that there was a mistake
in the almanacks, we turned back down Maidenlane, with the intention of
passing through the extensive colony lying between it and
Battle-bridge, which is inhabited by proprietors of donkey-carts,
boilers of horse-flesh, makers of tiles, and sifters of cinders;
through which colony we should have passed, without stoppage or
interruption, if a little crowd gathered round a shed had not attracted
our attention, and induced us to pause.

When we say a ‘shed,’ we do not mean the conservatory sort of building,
which, according to the old song, Love tenanted when he was a young
man, but a wooden house with windows stuffed with rags and paper, and a
small yard at the side, with one dust-cart, two baskets, a few shovels,
and little heaps of cinders, and fragments of china and tiles,
scattered about it. Before this inviting spot we paused; and the longer
we looked, the more we wondered what exciting circumstance it could be,
that induced the foremost members of the crowd to flatten their noses
against the parlour window, in the vain hope of catching a glimpse of
what was going on inside. After staring vacantly about us for some
minutes, we appealed, touching the cause of this assemblage, to a
gentleman in a suit of tarpaulin, who was smoking his pipe on our right
hand; but as the only answer we obtained was a playful inquiry whether
our mother had disposed of her mangle, we determined to await the issue
in silence.

Judge of our virtuous indignation, when the street-door of the shed
opened, and a party emerged therefrom, clad in the costume and
emulating the appearance, of May-day sweeps!

The first person who appeared was ‘my lord,’ habited in a blue coat and
bright buttons, with gilt paper tacked over the seams, yellow
knee-breeches, pink cotton stockings, and shoes; a cocked hat,
ornamented with shreds of various-coloured paper, on his head, a
_bouquet_ the size of a prize cauliflower in his button-hole, a long
Belcher handkerchief in his right hand, and a thin cane in his left. A
murmur of applause ran through the crowd (which was chiefly composed of
his lordship’s personal friends), when this graceful figure made his
appearance, which swelled into a burst of applause as his fair partner
in the dance bounded forth to join him. Her ladyship was attired in
pink crape over bed-furniture, with a low body and short sleeves. The
symmetry of her ankles was partially concealed by a very perceptible
pair of frilled trousers; and the inconvenience which might have
resulted from the circumstance of her white satin shoes being a few
sizes too large, was obviated by their being firmly attached to her
legs with strong tape sandals.

Her head was ornamented with a profusion of artificial flowers; and in
her hand she bore a large brass ladle, wherein to receive what she
figuratively denominated ‘the tin.’ The other characters were a young
gentleman in girl’s clothes and a widow’s cap; two clowns who walked
upon their hands in the mud, to the immeasurable delight of all the
spectators; a man with a drum; another man with a flageolet; a dirty
woman in a large shawl, with a box under her arm for the money,—and
last, though not least, the ‘green,’ animated by no less a personage
than our identical friend in the tarpaulin suit.

The man hammered away at the drum, the flageolet squeaked, the shovels
rattled, the ‘green’ rolled about, pitching first on one side and then
on the other; my lady threw her right foot over her left ankle, and her
left foot over her right ankle, alternately; my lord ran a few paces
forward, and butted at the ‘green,’ and then a few paces backward upon
the toes of the crowd, and then went to the right, and then to the
left, and then dodged my lady round the ‘green;’ and finally drew her
arm through his, and called upon the boys to shout, which they did
lustily—for this was the dancing.

We passed the same group, accidentally, in the evening. We never saw a
‘green’ so drunk, a lord so quarrelsome (no: not even in the house of
peers after dinner), a pair of clowns so melancholy, a lady so muddy,
or a party so miserable.

How has May-day decayed!




CHAPTER XXI—BROKERS’ AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS


When we affirm that brokers’ shops are strange places, and that if an
authentic history of their contents could be procured, it would furnish
many a page of amusement, and many a melancholy tale, it is necessary
to explain the class of shops to which we allude. Perhaps when we make
use of the term ‘Brokers’ Shop,’ the minds of our readers will at once
picture large, handsome warehouses, exhibiting a long perspective of
French-polished dining-tables, rosewood chiffoniers, and mahogany
wash-hand-stands, with an occasional vista of a four-post bedstead and
hangings, and an appropriate foreground of dining-room chairs. Perhaps
they will imagine that we mean an humble class of second-hand furniture
repositories. Their imagination will then naturally lead them to that
street at the back of Long-acre, which is composed almost entirely of
brokers’ shops; where you walk through groves of deceitful,
showy-looking furniture, and where the prospect is occasionally
enlivened by a bright red, blue, and yellow hearth-rug, embellished
with the pleasing device of a mail-coach at full speed, or a strange
animal, supposed to have been originally intended for a dog, with a
mass of worsted-work in his mouth, which conjecture has likened to a
basket of flowers.

This, by-the-bye, is a tempting article to young wives in the humbler
ranks of life, who have a first-floor front to furnish—they are lost in
admiration, and hardly know which to admire most. The dog is very
beautiful, but they have a dog already on the best tea-tray, and two
more on the mantel-piece. Then, there is something so genteel about
that mail-coach; and the passengers outside (who are all hat) give it
such an air of reality!

The goods here are adapted to the taste, or rather to the means, of
cheap purchasers. There are some of the most beautiful _looking_
Pembroke tables that were ever beheld: the wood as green as the trees
in the Park, and the leaves almost as certain to fall off in the course
of a year. There is also a most extensive assortment of tent and
turn-up bedsteads, made of stained wood, and innumerable specimens of
that base imposition on society—a sofa bedstead.

A turn-up bedstead is a blunt, honest piece of furniture; it may be
slightly disguised with a sham drawer; and sometimes a mad attempt is
even made to pass it off for a book-case; ornament it as you will,
however, the turn-up bedstead seems to defy disguise, and to insist on
having it distinctly understood that he is a turn-up bedstead, and
nothing else—that he is indispensably necessary, and that being so
useful, he disdains to be ornamental.

How different is the demeanour of a sofa bedstead! Ashamed of its real
use, it strives to appear an article of luxury and gentility—an attempt
in which it miserably fails. It has neither the respectability of a
sofa, nor the virtues of a bed; every man who keeps a sofa bedstead in
his house, becomes a party to a wilful and designing fraud—we question
whether you could insult him more, than by insinuating that you
entertain the least suspicion of its real use.

To return from this digression, we beg to say, that neither of these
classes of brokers’ shops, forms the subject of this sketch. The shops
to which we advert, are immeasurably inferior to those on whose outward
appearance we have slightly touched. Our readers must often have
observed in some by-street, in a poor neighbourhood, a small dirty
shop, exposing for sale the most extraordinary and confused jumble of
old, worn-out, wretched articles, that can well be imagined. Our wonder
at their ever having been bought, is only to be equalled by our
astonishment at the idea of their ever being sold again. On a board, at
the side of the door, are placed about twenty books—all odd volumes;
and as many wine-glasses—all different patterns; several locks, an old
earthenware pan, full of rusty keys; two or three gaudy
chimney-ornaments—cracked, of course; the remains of a lustre, without
any drops; a round frame like a capital O, which has once held a
mirror; a flute, complete with the exception of the middle joint; a
pair of curling-irons; and a tinder-box. In front of the shop-window,
are ranged some half-dozen high-backed chairs, with spinal complaints
and wasted legs; a corner cupboard; two or three very dark mahogany
tables with flaps like mathematical problems; some pickle-jars, some
surgeons’ ditto, with gilt labels and without stoppers; an unframed
portrait of some lady who flourished about the beginning of the
thirteenth century, by an artist who never flourished at all; an
incalculable host of miscellanies of every description, including
bottles and cabinets, rags and bones, fenders and street-door knockers,
fire-irons, wearing apparel and bedding, a hall-lamp, and a room-door.
Imagine, in addition to this incongruous mass, a black doll in a white
frock, with two faces—one looking up the street, and the other looking
down, swinging over the door; a board with the squeezed-up inscription
‘Dealer in marine stores,’ in lanky white letters, whose height is
strangely out of proportion to their width; and you have before you
precisely the kind of shop to which we wish to direct your attention.

Although the same heterogeneous mixture of things will be found at all
these places, it is curious to observe how truly and accurately some of
the minor articles which are exposed for sale—articles of wearing
apparel, for instance—mark the character of the neighbourhood. Take
Drury-Lane and Covent-garden for example.

This is essentially a theatrical neighbourhood. There is not a potboy
in the vicinity who is not, to a greater or less extent, a dramatic
character. The errand-boys and chandler’s-shop-keepers’ sons, are all
stage-struck: they ‘gets up’ plays in back kitchens hired for the
purpose, and will stand before a shop-window for hours, contemplating a
great staring portrait of Mr. Somebody or other, of the Royal Coburg
Theatre, ‘as he appeared in the character of Tongo the Denounced.’ The
consequence is, that there is not a marine-store shop in the
neighbourhood, which does not exhibit for sale some faded articles of
dramatic finery, such as three or four pairs of soiled buff boots with
turn-over red tops, heretofore worn by a ‘fourth robber,’ or ‘fifth
mob;’ a pair of rusty broadswords, a few gauntlets, and certain
resplendent ornaments, which, if they were yellow instead of white,
might be taken for insurance plates of the Sun Fire-office. There are
several of these shops in the narrow streets and dirty courts, of which
there are so many near the national theatres, and they all have
tempting goods of this description, with the addition, perhaps, of a
lady’s pink dress covered with spangles; white wreaths, stage shoes,
and a tiara like a tin lamp reflector. They have been purchased of some
wretched supernumeraries, or sixth-rate actors, and are now offered for
the benefit of the rising generation, who, on condition of making
certain weekly payments, amounting in the whole to about ten times
their value, may avail themselves of such desirable bargains.

Let us take a very different quarter, and apply it to the same test.
Look at a marine-store dealer’s, in that reservoir of dirt,
drunkenness, and drabs: thieves, oysters, baked potatoes, and pickled
salmon—Ratcliff-highway. Here, the wearing apparel is all nautical.
Rough blue jackets, with mother-of-pearl buttons, oil-skin hats, coarse
checked shirts, and large canvas trousers that look as if they were
made for a pair of bodies instead of a pair of legs, are the staple
commodities. Then, there are large bunches of cotton
pocket-handkerchiefs, in colour and pattern unlike any one ever saw
before, with the exception of those on the backs of the three young
ladies without bonnets who passed just now. The furniture is much the
same as elsewhere, with the addition of one or two models of ships, and
some old prints of naval engagements in still older frames. In the
window, are a few compasses, a small tray containing silver watches in
clumsy thick cases; and tobacco-boxes, the lid of each ornamented with
a ship, or an anchor, or some such trophy. A sailor generally pawns or
sells all he has before he has been long ashore, and if he does not,
some favoured companion kindly saves him the trouble. In either case,
it is an even chance that he afterwards unconsciously repurchases the
same things at a higher price than he gave for them at first.

Again: pay a visit with a similar object, to a part of London, as
unlike both of these as they are to each other. Cross over to the
Surrey side, and look at such shops of this description as are to be
found near the King’s Bench prison, and in ‘the Rules.’ How different,
and how strikingly illustrative of the decay of some of the unfortunate
residents in this part of the metropolis! Imprisonment and neglect have
done their work. There is contamination in the profligate denizens of a
debtor’s prison; old friends have fallen off; the recollection of
former prosperity has passed away; and with it all thoughts for the
past, all care for the future. First, watches and rings, then cloaks,
coats, and all the more expensive articles of dress, have found their
way to the pawnbroker’s. That miserable resource has failed at last,
and the sale of some trifling article at one of these shops, has been
the only mode left of raising a shilling or two, to meet the urgent
demands of the moment. Dressing-cases and writing-desks, too old to
pawn but too good to keep; guns, fishing-rods, musical instruments, all
in the same condition; have first been sold, and the sacrifice has been
but slightly felt. But hunger must be allayed, and what has already
become a habit, is easily resorted to, when an emergency arises. Light
articles of clothing, first of the ruined man, then of his wife, at
last of their children, even of the youngest, have been parted with,
piecemeal. There they are, thrown carelessly together until a purchaser
presents himself, old, and patched and repaired, it is true; but the
make and materials tell of better days; and the older they are, the
greater the misery and destitution of those whom they once adorned.




CHAPTER XXII—GIN-SHOPS


It is a remarkable circumstance, that different trades appear to
partake of the disease to which elephants and dogs are especially
liable, and to run stark, staring, raving mad, periodically. The great
distinction between the animals and the trades, is, that the former run
mad with a certain degree of propriety—they are very regular in their
irregularities. We know the period at which the emergency will arise,
and provide against it accordingly. If an elephant run mad, we are all
ready for him—kill or cure—pills or bullets, calomel in conserve of
roses, or lead in a musket-barrel. If a dog happen to look unpleasantly
warm in the summer months, and to trot about the shady side of the
streets with a quarter of a yard of tongue hanging out of his mouth, a
thick leather muzzle, which has been previously prepared in compliance
with the thoughtful injunctions of the Legislature, is instantly
clapped over his head, by way of making him cooler, and he either looks
remarkably unhappy for the next six weeks, or becomes legally insane,
and goes mad, as it were, by Act of Parliament. But these trades are as
eccentric as comets; nay, worse, for no one can calculate on the
recurrence of the strange appearances which betoken the disease.
Moreover, the contagion is general, and the quickness with which it
diffuses itself, almost incredible.

We will cite two or three cases in illustration of our meaning. Six or
eight years ago, the epidemic began to display itself among the
linen-drapers and haberdashers. The primary symptoms were an inordinate
love of plate-glass, and a passion for gas-lights and gilding. The
disease gradually progressed, and at last attained a fearful height.
Quiet, dusty old shops in different parts of town, were pulled down;
spacious premises with stuccoed fronts and gold letters, were erected
instead; floors were covered with Turkey carpets; roofs supported by
massive pillars; doors knocked into windows; a dozen squares of glass
into one; one shopman into a dozen; and there is no knowing what would
have been done, if it had not been fortunately discovered, just in
time, that the Commissioners of Bankruptcy were as competent to decide
such cases as the Commissioners of Lunacy, and that a little
confinement and gentle examination did wonders. The disease abated. It
died away. A year or two of comparative tranquillity ensued. Suddenly
it burst out again amongst the chemists; the symptoms were the same,
with the addition of a strong desire to stick the royal arms over the
shop-door, and a great rage for mahogany, varnish, and expensive
floor-cloth. Then, the hosiers were infected, and began to pull down
their shop-fronts with frantic recklessness. The mania again died away,
and the public began to congratulate themselves on its entire
disappearance, when it burst forth with tenfold violence among the
publicans, and keepers of ‘wine vaults.’ From that moment it has spread
among them with unprecedented rapidity, exhibiting a concatenation of
all the previous symptoms; onward it has rushed to every part of town,
knocking down all the old public-houses, and depositing splendid
mansions, stone balustrades, rosewood fittings, immense lamps, and
illuminated clocks, at the corner of every street.

The extensive scale on which these places are established, and the
ostentatious manner in which the business of even the smallest among
them is divided into branches, is amusing. A handsome plate of ground
glass in one door directs you ‘To the Counting-house;’ another to the
‘Bottle Department; a third to the ‘Wholesale Department;’ a fourth to
‘The Wine Promenade;’ and so forth, until we are in daily expectation
of meeting with a ‘Brandy Bell,’ or a ‘Whiskey Entrance.’ Then,
ingenuity is exhausted in devising attractive titles for the different
descriptions of gin; and the dram-drinking portion of the community as
they gaze upon the gigantic black and white announcements, which are
only to be equalled in size by the figures beneath them, are left in a
state of pleasing hesitation between ‘The Cream of the Valley,’ ‘The
Out and Out,’ ‘The No Mistake,’ ‘The Good for Mixing,’ ‘The real
Knock-me-down,’ ‘The celebrated Butter Gin,’ ‘The regular Flare-up,’
and a dozen other, equally inviting and wholesome _liqueurs_. Although
places of this description are to be met with in every second street,
they are invariably numerous and splendid in precise proportion to the
dirt and poverty of the surrounding neighbourhood. The gin-shops in and
near Drury-Lane, Holborn, St. Giles’s, Covent-garden, and Clare-market,
are the handsomest in London. There is more of filth and squalid misery
near those great thorough-fares than in any part of this mighty city.

We will endeavour to sketch the bar of a large gin-shop, and its
ordinary customers, for the edification of such of our readers as may
not have had opportunities of observing such scenes; and on the chance
of finding one well suited to our purpose, we will make for Drury-Lane,
through the narrow streets and dirty courts which divide it from
Oxford-street, and that classical spot adjoining the brewery at the
bottom of Tottenham-court-road, best known to the initiated as the
‘Rookery.’

The filthy and miserable appearance of this part of London can hardly
be imagined by those (and there are many such) who have not witnessed
it. Wretched houses with broken windows patched with rags and paper:
every room let out to a different family, and in many instances to two
or even three—fruit and ‘sweet-stuff’ manufacturers in the cellars,
barbers and red-herring vendors in the front parlours, cobblers in the
back; a bird-fancier in the first floor, three families on the second,
starvation in the attics, Irishmen in the passage, a ‘musician’ in the
front kitchen, and a charwoman and five hungry children in the back
one—filth everywhere—a gutter before the houses and a drain
behind—clothes drying and slops emptying, from the windows; girls of
fourteen or fifteen, with matted hair, walking about barefoot, and in
white great-coats, almost their only covering; boys of all ages, in
coats of all sizes and no coats at all; men and women, in every variety
of scanty and dirty apparel, lounging, scolding, drinking, smoking,
squabbling, fighting, and swearing.

You turn the corner. What a change! All is light and brilliancy. The
hum of many voices issues from that splendid gin-shop which forms the
commencement of the two streets opposite; and the gay building with the
fantastically ornamented parapet, the illuminated clock, the
plate-glass windows surrounded by stucco rosettes, and its profusion of
gas-lights in richly-gilt burners, is perfectly dazzling when
contrasted with the darkness and dirt we have just left. The interior
is even gayer than the exterior. A bar of French-polished mahogany,
elegantly carved, extends the whole width of the place; and there are
two side-aisles of great casks, painted green and gold, enclosed within
a light brass rail, and bearing such inscriptions, as ‘Old Tom, 549;’
‘Young Tom, 360;’ ‘Samson, 1421’—the figures agreeing, we presume, with
‘gallons,’ understood. Beyond the bar is a lofty and spacious saloon,
full of the same enticing vessels, with a gallery running round it,
equally well furnished. On the counter, in addition to the usual spirit
apparatus, are two or three little baskets of cakes and biscuits, which
are carefully secured at top with wicker-work, to prevent their
contents being unlawfully abstracted. Behind it, are two
showily-dressed damsels with large necklaces, dispensing the spirits
and ‘compounds.’ They are assisted by the ostensible proprietor of the
concern, a stout, coarse fellow in a fur cap, put on very much on one
side to give him a knowing air, and to display his sandy whiskers to
the best advantage.

The two old washerwomen, who are seated on the little bench to the left
of the bar, are rather overcome by the head-dresses and haughty
demeanour of the young ladies who officiate. They receive their
half-quartern of gin and peppermint, with considerable deference,
prefacing a request for ‘one of them soft biscuits,’ with a ‘Jist be
good enough, ma’am.’ They are quite astonished at the impudent air of
the young fellow in a brown coat and bright buttons, who, ushering in
his two companions, and walking up to the bar in as careless a manner
as if he had been used to green and gold ornaments all his life, winks
at one of the young ladies with singular coolness, and calls for a
‘kervorten and a three-out-glass,’ just as if the place were his own.
‘Gin for you, sir?’ says the young lady when she has drawn it:
carefully looking every way but the right one, to show that the wink
had no effect upon her. ‘For me, Mary, my dear,’ replies the gentleman
in brown. ‘My name an’t Mary as it happens,’ says the young girl,
rather relaxing as she delivers the change. ‘Well, if it an’t, it ought
to be,’ responds the irresistible one; ‘all the Marys as ever _I_ see,
was handsome gals.’ Here the young lady, not precisely remembering how
blushes are managed in such cases, abruptly ends the flirtation by
addressing the female in the faded feathers who has just entered, and
who, after stating explicitly, to prevent any subsequent
misunderstanding, that ‘this gentleman pays,’ calls for ‘a glass of
port wine and a bit of sugar.’

Those two old men who came in ‘just to have a drain,’ finished their
third quartern a few seconds ago; they have made themselves crying
drunk; and the fat comfortable-looking elderly women, who had ‘a glass
of rum-srub’ each, having chimed in with their complaints on the
hardness of the times, one of the women has agreed to stand a glass
round, jocularly observing that ‘grief never mended no broken bones,
and as good people’s wery scarce, what I says is, make the most on ’em,
and that’s all about it!’ a sentiment which appears to afford unlimited
satisfaction to those who have nothing to pay.

It is growing late, and the throng of men, women, and children, who
have been constantly going in and out, dwindles down to two or three
occasional stragglers—cold, wretched-looking creatures, in the last
stage of emaciation and disease. The knot of Irish labourers at the
lower end of the place, who have been alternately shaking hands with,
and threatening the life of each other, for the last hour, become
furious in their disputes, and finding it impossible to silence one
man, who is particularly anxious to adjust the difference, they resort
to the expedient of knocking him down and jumping on him afterwards.
The man in the fur cap, and the potboy rush out; a scene of riot and
confusion ensues; half the Irishmen get shut out, and the other half
get shut in; the potboy is knocked among the tubs in no time; the
landlord hits everybody, and everybody hits the landlord; the barmaids
scream; the police come in; the rest is a confused mixture of arms,
legs, staves, torn coats, shouting, and struggling. Some of the party
are borne off to the station-house, and the remainder slink home to
beat their wives for complaining, and kick the children for daring to
be hungry.

We have sketched this subject very slightly, not only because our
limits compel us to do so, but because, if it were pursued farther, it
would be painful and repulsive. Well-disposed gentlemen, and charitable
ladies, would alike turn with coldness and disgust from a description
of the drunken besotted men, and wretched broken-down miserable women,
who form no inconsiderable portion of the frequenters of these haunts;
forgetting, in the pleasant consciousness of their own rectitude, the
poverty of the one, and the temptation of the other. Gin-drinking is a
great vice in England, but wretchedness and dirt are a greater; and
until you improve the homes of the poor, or persuade a half-famished
wretch not to seek relief in the temporary oblivion of his own misery,
with the pittance which, divided among his family, would furnish a
morsel of bread for each, gin-shops will increase in number and
splendour. If Temperance Societies would suggest an antidote against
hunger, filth, and foul air, or could establish dispensaries for the
gratuitous distribution of bottles of Lethe-water, gin-palaces would be
numbered among the things that were.




CHAPTER XXIII—THE PAWNBROKER’S SHOP


Of the numerous receptacles for misery and distress with which the
streets of London unhappily abound, there are, perhaps, none which
present such striking scenes as the pawnbrokers’ shops. The very nature
and description of these places occasions their being but little known,
except to the unfortunate beings whose profligacy or misfortune drives
them to seek the temporary relief they offer. The subject may appear,
at first sight, to be anything but an inviting one, but we venture on
it nevertheless, in the hope that, as far as the limits of our present
paper are concerned, it will present nothing to disgust even the most
fastidious reader.

There are some pawnbrokers’ shops of a very superior description. There
are grades in pawning as in everything else, and distinctions must be
observed even in poverty. The aristocratic Spanish cloak and the
plebeian calico shirt, the silver fork and the flat iron, the muslin
cravat and the Belcher neckerchief, would but ill assort together; so,
the better sort of pawnbroker calls himself a silver-smith, and
decorates his shop with handsome trinkets and expensive jewellery,
while the more humble money-lender boldly advertises his calling, and
invites observation. It is with pawnbrokers’ shops of the latter class,
that we have to do. We have selected one for our purpose, and will
endeavour to describe it.

The pawnbroker’s shop is situated near Drury-Lane, at the corner of a
court, which affords a side entrance for the accommodation of such
customers as may be desirous of avoiding the observation of the
passers-by, or the chance of recognition in the public street. It is a
low, dirty-looking, dusty shop, the door of which stands always
doubtfully, a little way open: half inviting, half repelling the
hesitating visitor, who, if he be as yet uninitiated, examines one of
the old garnet brooches in the window for a minute or two with affected
eagerness, as if he contemplated making a purchase; and then looking
cautiously round to ascertain that no one watches him, hastily slinks
in: the door closing of itself after him, to just its former width. The
shop front and the window-frames bear evident marks of having been once
painted; but, what the colour was originally, or at what date it was
probably laid on, are at this remote period questions which may be
asked, but cannot be answered. Tradition states that the transparency
in the front door, which displays at night three red balls on a blue
ground, once bore also, inscribed in graceful waves, the words ‘Money
advanced on plate, jewels, wearing apparel, and every description of
property,’ but a few illegible hieroglyphics are all that now remain to
attest the fact. The plate and jewels would seem to have disappeared,
together with the announcement, for the articles of stock, which are
displayed in some profusion in the window, do not include any very
valuable luxuries of either kind. A few old china cups; some modern
vases, adorned with paltry paintings of three Spanish cavaliers playing
three Spanish guitars; or a party of boors carousing: each boor with
one leg painfully elevated in the air, by way of expressing his perfect
freedom and gaiety; several sets of chessmen, two or three flutes, a
few fiddles, a round-eyed portrait staring in astonishment from a very
dark ground; some gaudily-bound prayer-books and testaments, two rows
of silver watches quite as clumsy and almost as large as Ferguson’s
first; numerous old-fashioned table and tea spoons, displayed,
fan-like, in half-dozens; strings of coral with great broad gilt snaps;
cards of rings and brooches, fastened and labelled separately, like the
insects in the British Museum; cheap silver penholders and snuff-boxes,
with a masonic star, complete the jewellery department; while five or
six beds in smeary clouded ticks, strings of blankets and sheets, silk
and cotton handkerchiefs, and wearing apparel of every description,
form the more useful, though even less ornamental, part, of the
articles exposed for sale. An extensive collection of planes, chisels,
saws, and other carpenters’ tools, which have been pledged, and never
redeemed, form the foreground of the picture; while the large frames
full of ticketed bundles, which are dimly seen through the dirty
casement up-stairs—the squalid neighbourhood—the adjoining houses,
straggling, shrunken, and rotten, with one or two filthy,
unwholesome-looking heads thrust out of every window, and old red pans
and stunted plants exposed on the tottering parapets, to the manifest
hazard of the heads of the passers-by—the noisy men loitering under the
archway at the corner of the court, or about the gin-shop next door—and
their wives patiently standing on the curb-stone, with large baskets of
cheap vegetables slung round them for sale, are its immediate
auxiliaries.

If the outside of the pawnbroker’s shop be calculated to attract the
attention, or excite the interest, of the speculative pedestrian, its
interior cannot fail to produce the same effect in an increased degree.
The front door, which we have before noticed, opens into the common
shop, which is the resort of all those customers whose habitual
acquaintance with such scenes renders them indifferent to the
observation of their companions in poverty. The side door opens into a
small passage from which some half-dozen doors (which may be secured on
the inside by bolts) open into a corresponding number of little dens,
or closets, which face the counter. Here, the more timid or respectable
portion of the crowd shroud themselves from the notice of the
remainder, and patiently wait until the gentleman behind the counter,
with the curly black hair, diamond ring, and double silver watch-guard,
shall feel disposed to favour them with his notice—a consummation which
depends considerably on the temper of the aforesaid gentleman for the
time being.

At the present moment, this elegantly-attired individual is in the act
of entering the duplicate he has just made out, in a thick book: a
process from which he is diverted occasionally, by a conversation he is
carrying on with another young man similarly employed at a little
distance from him, whose allusions to ‘that last bottle of soda-water
last night,’ and ‘how regularly round my hat he felt himself when the
young ’ooman gave ’em in charge,’ would appear to refer to the
consequences of some stolen joviality of the preceding evening. The
customers generally, however, seem unable to participate in the
amusement derivable from this source, for an old sallow-looking woman,
who has been leaning with both arms on the counter with a small bundle
before her, for half an hour previously, suddenly interrupts the
conversation by addressing the jewelled shopman—‘Now, Mr. Henry, do
make haste, there’s a good soul, for my two grandchildren’s locked up
at home, and I’m afeer’d of the fire.’ The shopman slightly raises his
head, with an air of deep abstraction, and resumes his entry with as
much deliberation as if he were engraving. ‘You’re in a hurry, Mrs.
Tatham, this ev’nin’, an’t you?’ is the only notice he deigns to take,
after the lapse of five minutes or so. ‘Yes, I am indeed, Mr. Henry;
now, do serve me next, there’s a good creetur. I wouldn’t worry you,
only it’s all along o’ them botherin’ children.’ ‘What have you got
here?’ inquires the shopman, unpinning the bundle—‘old concern, I
suppose—pair o’ stays and a petticut. You must look up somethin’ else,
old ’ooman; I can’t lend you anything more upon them; they’re
completely worn out by this time, if it’s only by putting in, and
taking out again, three times a week.’ ‘Oh! you’re a rum un, you are,’
replies the old woman, laughing extremely, as in duty bound; ‘I wish
I’d got the gift of the gab like you; see if I’d be up the spout so
often then! No, no; it an’t the petticut; it’s a child’s frock and a
beautiful silk ankecher, as belongs to my husband. He gave four
shillin’ for it, the werry same blessed day as he broke his arm.’—‘What
do you want upon these?’ inquires Mr. Henry, slightly glancing at the
articles, which in all probability are old acquaintances. ‘What do you
want upon these?’—‘Eighteenpence.’—‘Lend you ninepence.’—‘Oh, make it a
shillin’; there’s a dear—do now?’—‘Not another farden.’—‘Well, I
suppose I must take it.’ The duplicate is made out, one ticket pinned
on the parcel, the other given to the old woman; the parcel is flung
carelessly down into a corner, and some other customer prefers his
claim to be served without further delay.

The choice falls on an unshaven, dirty, sottish-looking fellow, whose
tarnished paper-cap, stuck negligently over one eye, communicates an
additionally repulsive expression to his very uninviting countenance.
He was enjoying a little relaxation from his sedentary pursuits a
quarter of an hour ago, in kicking his wife up the court. He has come
to redeem some tools:—probably to complete a job with, on account of
which he has already received some money, if his inflamed countenance
and drunken staggers may be taken as evidence of the fact. Having
waited some little time, he makes his presence known by venting his
ill-humour on a ragged urchin, who, being unable to bring his face on a
level with the counter by any other process, has employed himself in
climbing up, and then hooking himself on with his elbows—an uneasy
perch, from which he has fallen at intervals, generally alighting on
the toes of the person in his immediate vicinity. In the present case,
the unfortunate little wretch has received a cuff which sends him
reeling to this door; and the donor of the blow is immediately the
object of general indignation.

‘What do you strike the boy for, you brute?’ exclaims a slipshod woman,
with two flat irons in a little basket. ‘Do you think he’s your wife,
you willin?’ ‘Go and hang yourself!’ replies the gentleman addressed,
with a drunken look of savage stupidity, aiming at the same time a blow
at the woman which fortunately misses its object. ‘Go and hang
yourself; and wait till I come and cut you down.’—‘Cut you down,’
rejoins the woman, ‘I wish I had the cutting of you up, you wagabond!
(loud.) Oh! you precious wagabond! (rather louder.) Where’s your wife,
you willin? (louder still; women of this class are always sympathetic,
and work themselves into a tremendous passion on the shortest notice.)
Your poor dear wife as you uses worser nor a dog—strike a woman—you a
man! (very shrill;) I wish I had you—I’d murder you, I would, if I died
for it!’—‘Now be civil,’ retorts the man fiercely. ‘Be civil, you
wiper!’ ejaculates the woman contemptuously. ‘An’t it shocking?’ she
continues, turning round, and appealing to an old woman who is peeping
out of one of the little closets we have before described, and who has
not the slightest objection to join in the attack, possessing, as she
does, the comfortable conviction that she is bolted in. ‘Ain’t it
shocking, ma’am? (Dreadful! says the old woman in a parenthesis, not
exactly knowing what the question refers to.) He’s got a wife, ma’am,
as takes in mangling, and is as ’dustrious and hard-working a young
’ooman as can be, (very fast) as lives in the back parlour of our ’ous,
which my husband and me lives in the front one (with great
rapidity)—and we hears him a beaten’ on her sometimes when he comes
home drunk, the whole night through, and not only a beaten’ her, but
beaten’ his own child too, to make her more miserable—ugh, you beast!
and she, poor creater, won’t swear the peace agin him, nor do nothin’,
because she likes the wretch arter all—worse luck!’ Here, as the woman
has completely run herself out of breath, the pawnbroker himself, who
has just appeared behind the counter in a gray dressing-gown, embraces
the favourable opportunity of putting in a word:—‘Now I won’t have none
of this sort of thing on my premises!’ he interposes with an air of
authority. ‘Mrs. Mackin, keep yourself to yourself, or you don’t get
fourpence for a flat iron here; and Jinkins, you leave your ticket here
till you’re sober, and send your wife for them two planes, for I won’t
have you in my shop at no price; so make yourself scarce, before I make
you scarcer.’

This eloquent address produces anything but the effect desired; the
women rail in concert; the man hits about him in all directions, and is
in the act of establishing an indisputable claim to gratuitous lodgings
for the night, when the entrance of his wife, a wretched, worn-out
woman, apparently in the last stage of consumption, whose face bears
evident marks of recent ill-usage, and whose strength seems hardly
equal to the burden—light enough, God knows!—of the thin, sickly child
she carries in her arms, turns his cowardly rage in a safer direction.
‘Come home, dear,’ cries the miserable creature, in an imploring tone;
‘_do_ come home, there’s a good fellow, and go to bed.’—‘Go home
yourself,’ rejoins the furious ruffian. ‘Do come home quietly,’ repeats
the wife, bursting into tears. ‘Go home yourself,’ retorts the husband
again, enforcing his argument by a blow which sends the poor creature
flying out of the shop. Her ‘natural protector’ follows her up the
court, alternately venting his rage in accelerating her progress, and
in knocking the little scanty blue bonnet of the unfortunate child over
its still more scanty and faded-looking face.

In the last box, which is situated in the darkest and most obscure
corner of the shop, considerably removed from either of the gas-lights,
are a young delicate girl of about twenty, and an elderly female,
evidently her mother from the resemblance between them, who stand at
some distance back, as if to avoid the observation even of the shopman.
It is not their first visit to a pawnbroker’s shop, for they answer
without a moment’s hesitation the usual questions, put in a rather
respectful manner, and in a much lower tone than usual, of ‘What name
shall I say?—Your own property, of course?—Where do you
live?—Housekeeper or lodger?’ They bargain, too, for a higher loan than
the shopman is at first inclined to offer, which a perfect stranger
would be little disposed to do; and the elder female urges her daughter
on, in scarcely audible whispers, to exert her utmost powers of
persuasion to obtain an advance of the sum, and expatiate on the value
of the articles they have brought to raise a present supply upon. They
are a small gold chain and a ‘Forget me not’ ring: the girl’s property,
for they are both too small for the mother; given her in better times;
prized, perhaps, once, for the giver’s sake, but parted with now
without a struggle; for want has hardened the mother, and her example
has hardened the girl, and the prospect of receiving money, coupled
with a recollection of the misery they have both endured from the want
of it—the coldness of old friends—the stern refusal of some, and the
still more galling compassion of others—appears to have obliterated the
consciousness of self-humiliation, which the idea of their present
situation would once have aroused.

In the next box, is a young female, whose attire, miserably poor, but
extremely gaudy, wretchedly cold, but extravagantly fine, too plainly
bespeaks her station. The rich satin gown with its faded trimmings, the
worn-out thin shoes, and pink silk stockings, the summer bonnet in
winter, and the sunken face, where a daub of rouge only serves as an
index to the ravages of squandered health never to be regained, and
lost happiness never to be restored, and where the practised smile is a
wretched mockery of the misery of the heart, cannot be mistaken. There
is something in the glimpse she has just caught of her young neighbour,
and in the sight of the little trinkets she has offered in pawn, that
seems to have awakened in this woman’s mind some slumbering
recollection, and to have changed, for an instant, her whole demeanour.
Her first hasty impulse was to bend forward as if to scan more minutely
the appearance of her half-concealed companions; her next, on seeing
them involuntarily shrink from her, to retreat to the back of the box,
cover her face with her hands, and burst into tears.

There are strange chords in the human heart, which will lie dormant
through years of depravity and wickedness, but which will vibrate at
last to some slight circumstance apparently trivial in itself, but
connected by some undefined and indistinct association, with past days
that can never be recalled, and with bitter recollections from which
the most degraded creature in existence cannot escape.

There has been another spectator, in the person of a woman in the
common shop; the lowest of the low; dirty, unbonneted, flaunting, and
slovenly. Her curiosity was at first attracted by the little she could
see of the group; then her attention. The half-intoxicated leer changed
to an expression of something like interest, and a feeling similar to
that we have described, appeared for a moment, and only a moment, to
extend itself even to her bosom.

Who shall say how soon these women may change places? The last has but
two more stages—the hospital and the grave. How many females situated
as her two companions are, and as she may have been once, have
terminated the same wretched course, in the same wretched manner! One
is already tracing her footsteps with frightful rapidity. How soon may
the other follow her example! How many have done the same!




CHAPTER XXIV—CRIMINAL COURTS


We shall never forget the mingled feelings of awe and respect with
which we used to gaze on the exterior of Newgate in our schoolboy days.
How dreadful its rough heavy walls, and low massive doors, appeared to
us—the latter looking as if they were made for the express purpose of
letting people in, and never letting them out again. Then the fetters
over the debtors’ door, which we used to think were a _bonâ fide_ set
of irons, just hung up there, for convenience’ sake, ready to be taken
down at a moment’s notice, and riveted on the limbs of some refractory
felon! We were never tired of wondering how the hackney-coachmen on the
opposite stand could cut jokes in the presence of such horrors, and
drink pots of half-and-half so near the last drop.

Often have we strayed here, in sessions time, to catch a glimpse of the
whipping-place, and that dark building on one side of the yard, in
which is kept the gibbet with all its dreadful apparatus, and on the
door of which we half expected to see a brass plate, with the
inscription ‘Mr. Ketch;’ for we never imagined that the distinguished
functionary could by possibility live anywhere else! The days of these
childish dreams have passed away, and with them many other boyish ideas
of a gayer nature. But we still retain so much of our original feeling,
that to this hour we never pass the building without something like a
shudder.

What London pedestrian is there who has not, at some time or other,
cast a hurried glance through the wicket at which prisoners are
admitted into this gloomy mansion, and surveyed the few objects he
could discern, with an indescribable feeling of curiosity? The thick
door, plated with iron and mounted with spikes, just low enough to
enable you to see, leaning over them, an ill-looking fellow, in a
broad-brimmed hat, Belcher handkerchief and top-boots: with a brown
coat, something between a great-coat and a ‘sporting’ jacket, on his
back, and an immense key in his left hand. Perhaps you are lucky enough
to pass, just as the gate is being opened; then, you see on the other
side of the lodge, another gate, the image of its predecessor, and two
or three more turnkeys, who look like multiplications of the first one,
seated round a fire which just lights up the whitewashed apartment
sufficiently to enable you to catch a hasty glimpse of these different
objects. We have a great respect for Mrs. Fry, but she certainly ought
to have written more romances than Mrs. Radcliffe.

We were walking leisurely down the Old Bailey, some time ago, when, as
we passed this identical gate, it was opened by the officiating
turnkey. We turned quickly round, as a matter of course, and saw two
persons descending the steps. We could not help stopping and observing
them.

They were an elderly woman, of decent appearance, though evidently
poor, and a boy of about fourteen or fifteen. The woman was crying
bitterly; she carried a small bundle in her hand, and the boy followed
at a short distance behind her. Their little history was obvious. The
boy was her son, to whose early comfort she had perhaps sacrificed her
own—for whose sake she had borne misery without repining, and poverty
without a murmur—looking steadily forward to the time, when he who had
so long witnessed her struggles for himself, might be enabled to make
some exertions for their joint support. He had formed dissolute
connexions; idleness had led to crime; and he had been committed to
take his trial for some petty theft. He had been long in prison, and,
after receiving some trifling additional punishment, had been ordered
to be discharged that morning. It was his first offence, and his poor
old mother, still hoping to reclaim him, had been waiting at the gate
to implore him to return home.

We cannot forget the boy; he descended the steps with a dogged look,
shaking his head with an air of bravado and obstinate determination.
They walked a few paces, and paused. The woman put her hand upon his
shoulder in an agony of entreaty, and the boy sullenly raised his head
as if in refusal. It was a brilliant morning, and every object looked
fresh and happy in the broad, gay sunlight; he gazed round him for a
few moments, bewildered with the brightness of the scene, for it was
long since he had beheld anything save the gloomy walls of a prison.
Perhaps the wretchedness of his mother made some impression on the
boy’s heart; perhaps some undefined recollection of the time when he
was a happy child, and she his only friend, and best companion, crowded
on him—he burst into tears; and covering his face with one hand, and
hurriedly placing the other in his mother’s, walked away with her.

Curiosity has occasionally led us into both Courts at the Old Bailey.
Nothing is so likely to strike the person who enters them for the first
time, as the calm indifference with which the proceedings are
conducted; every trial seems a mere matter of business. There is a
great deal of form, but no compassion; considerable interest, but no
sympathy. Take the Old Court for example. There sit the judges, with
whose great dignity everybody is acquainted, and of whom therefore we
need say no more. Then, there is the Lord Mayor in the centre, looking
as cool as a Lord Mayor _can_ look, with an immense _bouquet_ before
him, and habited in all the splendour of his office. Then, there are
the Sheriffs, who are almost as dignified as the Lord Mayor himself;
and the Barristers, who are quite dignified enough in their own
opinion; and the spectators, who having paid for their admission, look
upon the whole scene as if it were got up especially for their
amusement. Look upon the whole group in the body of the Court—some
wholly engrossed in the morning papers, others carelessly conversing in
low whispers, and others, again, quietly dozing away an hour—and you
can scarcely believe that the result of the trial is a matter of life
or death to one wretched being present. But turn your eyes to the dock;
watch the prisoner attentively for a few moments; and the fact is
before you, in all its painful reality. Mark how restlessly he has been
engaged for the last ten minutes, in forming all sorts of fantastic
figures with the herbs which are strewed upon the ledge before him;
observe the ashy paleness of his face when a particular witness
appears, and how he changes his position and wipes his clammy forehead,
and feverish hands, when the case for the prosecution is closed, as if
it were a relief to him to feel that the jury knew the worst.

The defence is concluded; the judge proceeds to sum up the evidence;
and the prisoner watches the countenances of the jury, as a dying man,
clinging to life to the very last, vainly looks in the face of his
physician for a slight ray of hope. They turn round to consult; you can
almost hear the man’s heart beat, as he bites the stalk of rosemary,
with a desperate effort to appear composed. They resume their places—a
dead silence prevails as the foreman delivers in the verdict—‘Guilty!’
A shriek bursts from a female in the gallery; the prisoner casts one
look at the quarter from whence the noise proceeded; and is immediately
hurried from the dock by the gaoler. The clerk directs one of the
officers of the Court to ‘take the woman out,’ and fresh business is
proceeded with, as if nothing had occurred.

No imaginary contrast to a case like this, could be as complete as that
which is constantly presented in the New Court, the gravity of which is
frequently disturbed in no small degree, by the cunning and pertinacity
of juvenile offenders. A boy of thirteen is tried, say for picking the
pocket of some subject of her Majesty, and the offence is about as
clearly proved as an offence can be. He is called upon for his defence,
and contents himself with a little declamation about the jurymen and
his country—asserts that all the witnesses have committed perjury, and
hints that the police force generally have entered into a conspiracy
‘again’ him. However probable this statement may be, it fails to
convince the Court, and some such scene as the following then takes
place:

_Court_: Have you any witnesses to speak to your character, boy?

_Boy_: Yes, my Lord; fifteen gen’lm’n is a vaten outside, and vos a
vaten all day yesterday, vich they told me the night afore my trial vos
a comin’ on.

_Court_. Inquire for these witnesses.

Here, a stout beadle runs out, and vociferates for the witnesses at the
very top of his voice; for you hear his cry grow fainter and fainter as
he descends the steps into the court-yard below. After an absence of
five minutes, he returns, very warm and hoarse, and informs the Court
of what it knew perfectly well before—namely, that there are no such
witnesses in attendance. Hereupon, the boy sets up a most awful
howling; screws the lower part of the palms of his hands into the
corners of his eyes; and endeavours to look the picture of injured
innocence. The jury at once find him ‘guilty,’ and his endeavours to
squeeze out a tear or two are redoubled. The governor of the gaol then
states, in reply to an inquiry from the bench, that the prisoner has
been under his care twice before. This the urchin resolutely denies in
some such terms as—‘S’elp me, gen’lm’n, I never vos in trouble
afore—indeed, my Lord, I never vos. It’s all a howen to my having a
twin brother, vich has wrongfully got into trouble, and vich is so
exactly like me, that no vun ever knows the difference atween us.’

This representation, like the defence, fails in producing the desired
effect, and the boy is sentenced, perhaps, to seven years’
transportation. Finding it impossible to excite compassion, he gives
vent to his feelings in an imprecation bearing reference to the eyes of
‘old big vig!’ and as he declines to take the trouble of walking from
the dock, is forthwith carried out, congratulating himself on having
succeeded in giving everybody as much trouble as possible.




CHAPTER XXV—A VISIT TO NEWGATE


‘The force of habit’ is a trite phrase in everybody’s mouth; and it is
not a little remarkable that those who use it most as applied to
others, unconsciously afford in their own persons singular examples of
the power which habit and custom exercise over the minds of men, and of
the little reflection they are apt to bestow on subjects with which
every day’s experience has rendered them familiar. If Bedlam could be
suddenly removed like another Aladdin’s palace, and set down on the
space now occupied by Newgate, scarcely one man out of a hundred, whose
road to business every morning lies through Newgate-street, or the Old
Bailey, would pass the building without bestowing a hasty glance on its
small, grated windows, and a transient thought upon the condition of
the unhappy beings immured in its dismal cells; and yet these same men,
day by day, and hour by hour, pass and repass this gloomy depository of
the guilt and misery of London, in one perpetual stream of life and
bustle, utterly unmindful of the throng of wretched creatures pent up
within it—nay, not even knowing, or if they do, not heeding, the fact,
that as they pass one particular angle of the massive wall with a light
laugh or a merry whistle, they stand within one yard of a
fellow-creature, bound and helpless, whose hours are numbered, from
whom the last feeble ray of hope has fled for ever, and whose miserable
career will shortly terminate in a violent and shameful death. Contact
with death even in its least terrible shape, is solemn and appalling.
How much more awful is it to reflect on this near vicinity to the
dying—to men in full health and vigour, in the flower of youth or the
prime of life, with all their faculties and perceptions as acute and
perfect as your own; but dying, nevertheless—dying as surely—with the
hand of death imprinted upon them as indelibly—as if mortal disease had
wasted their frames to shadows, and corruption had already begun!

It was with some such thoughts as these that we determined, not many
weeks since, to visit the interior of Newgate—in an amateur capacity,
of course; and, having carried our intention into effect, we proceed to
lay its results before our readers, in the hope—founded more upon the
nature of the subject, than on any presumptuous confidence in our own
descriptive powers—that this paper may not be found wholly devoid of
interest. We have only to premise, that we do not intend to fatigue the
reader with any statistical accounts of the prison; they will be found
at length in numerous reports of numerous committees, and a variety of
authorities of equal weight. We took no notes, made no memoranda,
measured none of the yards, ascertained the exact number of inches in
no particular room: are unable even to report of how many apartments
the gaol is composed.

We saw the prison, and saw the prisoners; and what we did see, and what
we thought, we will tell at once in our own way.

Having delivered our credentials to the servant who answered our knock
at the door of the governor’s house, we were ushered into the ‘office;’
a little room, on the right-hand side as you enter, with two windows
looking into the Old Bailey: fitted up like an ordinary attorney’s
office, or merchant’s counting-house, with the usual fixtures—a
wainscoted partition, a shelf or two, a desk, a couple of stools, a
pair of clerks, an almanack, a clock, and a few maps. After a little
delay, occasioned by sending into the interior of the prison for the
officer whose duty it was to conduct us, that functionary arrived; a
respectable-looking man of about two or three and fifty, in a
broad-brimmed hat, and full suit of black, who, but for his keys, would
have looked quite as much like a clergyman as a turnkey. We were
disappointed; he had not even top-boots on. Following our conductor by
a door opposite to that at which we had entered, we arrived at a small
room, without any other furniture than a little desk, with a book for
visitors’ autographs, and a shelf, on which were a few boxes for
papers, and casts of the heads and faces of the two notorious
murderers, Bishop and Williams; the former, in particular, exhibiting a
style of head and set of features, which might have afforded sufficient
moral grounds for his instant execution at any time, even had there
been no other evidence against him. Leaving this room also, by an
opposite door, we found ourself in the lodge which opens on the Old
Bailey; one side of which is plentifully garnished with a choice
collection of heavy sets of irons, including those worn by the
redoubtable Jack Sheppard—genuine; and those _said_ to have been graced
by the sturdy limbs of the no less celebrated Dick Turpin—doubtful.
From this lodge, a heavy oaken gate, bound with iron, studded with
nails of the same material, and guarded by another turnkey, opens on a
few steps, if we remember right, which terminate in a narrow and dismal
stone passage, running parallel with the Old Bailey, and leading to the
different yards, through a number of tortuous and intricate windings,
guarded in their turn by huge gates and gratings, whose appearance is
sufficient to dispel at once the slightest hope of escape that any
new-comer may have entertained; and the very recollection of which, on
eventually traversing the place again, involves one in a maze of
confusion.

It is necessary to explain here, that the buildings in the prison, or
in other words the different wards—form a square, of which the four
sides abut respectively on the Old Bailey, the old College of
Physicians (now forming a part of Newgate-market), the Sessions-house,
and Newgate-street. The intermediate space is divided into several
paved yards, in which the prisoners take such air and exercise as can
be had in such a place. These yards, with the exception of that in
which prisoners under sentence of death are confined (of which we shall
presently give a more detailed description), run parallel with
Newgate-street, and consequently from the Old Bailey, as it were, to
Newgate-market. The women’s side is in the right wing of the prison
nearest the Sessions-house. As we were introduced into this part of the
building first, we will adopt the same order, and introduce our readers
to it also.

Turning to the right, then, down the passage to which we just now
adverted, omitting any mention of intervening gates—for if we noticed
every gate that was unlocked for us to pass through, and locked again
as soon as we had passed, we should require a gate at every comma—we
came to a door composed of thick bars of wood, through which were
discernible, passing to and fro in a narrow yard, some twenty women:
the majority of whom, however, as soon as they were aware of the
presence of strangers, retreated to their wards. One side of this yard
is railed off at a considerable distance, and formed into a kind of
iron cage, about five feet ten inches in height, roofed at the top, and
defended in front by iron bars, from which the friends of the female
prisoners communicate with them. In one corner of this singular-looking
den, was a yellow, haggard, decrepit old woman, in a tattered gown that
had once been black, and the remains of an old straw bonnet, with faded
ribbon of the same hue, in earnest conversation with a young girl—a
prisoner, of course—of about two-and-twenty. It is impossible to
imagine a more poverty-stricken object, or a creature so borne down in
soul and body, by excess of misery and destitution, as the old woman.
The girl was a good-looking, robust female, with a profusion of hair
streaming about in the wind—for she had no bonnet on—and a man’s silk
pocket-handkerchief loosely thrown over a most ample pair of shoulders.
The old woman was talking in that low, stifled tone of voice which
tells so forcibly of mental anguish; and every now and then burst into
an irrepressible sharp, abrupt cry of grief, the most distressing sound
that ears can hear. The girl was perfectly unmoved. Hardened beyond all
hope of redemption, she listened doggedly to her mother’s entreaties,
whatever they were: and, beyond inquiring after ‘Jem,’ and eagerly
catching at the few halfpence her miserable parent had brought her,
took no more apparent interest in the conversation than the most
unconcerned spectators. Heaven knows there were enough of them, in the
persons of the other prisoners in the yard, who were no more concerned
by what was passing before their eyes, and within their hearing, than
if they were blind and deaf. Why should they be? Inside the prison, and
out, such scenes were too familiar to them, to excite even a passing
thought, unless of ridicule or contempt for feelings which they had
long since forgotten.

A little farther on, a squalid-looking woman in a slovenly,
thick-bordered cap, with her arms muffled in a large red shawl, the
fringed ends of which straggled nearly to the bottom of a dirty white
apron, was communicating some instructions to _her_ visitor—her
daughter evidently. The girl was thinly clad, and shaking with the
cold. Some ordinary word of recognition passed between her and her
mother when she appeared at the grating, but neither hope, condolence,
regret, nor affection was expressed on either side. The mother
whispered her instructions, and the girl received them with her
pinched-up, half-starved features twisted into an expression of careful
cunning. It was some scheme for the woman’s defence that she was
disclosing, perhaps; and a sullen smile came over the girl’s face for
an instant, as if she were pleased: not so much at the probability of
her mother’s liberation, as at the chance of her ‘getting off’ in spite
of her prosecutors. The dialogue was soon concluded; and with the same
careless indifference with which they had approached each other, the
mother turned towards the inner end of the yard, and the girl to the
gate at which she had entered.

The girl belonged to a class—unhappily but too extensive—the very
existence of which, should make men’s hearts bleed. Barely past her
childhood, it required but a glance to discover that she was one of
those children, born and bred in neglect and vice, who have never known
what childhood is: who have never been taught to love and court a
parent’s smile, or to dread a parent’s frown. The thousand nameless
endearments of childhood, its gaiety and its innocence, are alike
unknown to them. They have entered at once upon the stern realities and
miseries of life, and to their better nature it is almost hopeless to
appeal in after-times, by any of the references which will awaken, if
it be only for a moment, some good feeling in ordinary bosoms, however
corrupt they may have become. Talk to _them_ of parental solicitude,
the happy days of childhood, and the merry games of infancy! Tell them
of hunger and the streets, beggary and stripes, the gin-shop, the
station-house, and the pawnbroker’s, and they will understand you.

Two or three women were standing at different parts of the grating,
conversing with their friends, but a very large proportion of the
prisoners appeared to have no friends at all, beyond such of their old
companions as might happen to be within the walls. So, passing hastily
down the yard, and pausing only for an instant to notice the little
incidents we have just recorded, we were conducted up a clean and
well-lighted flight of stone stairs to one of the wards. There are
several in this part of the building, but a description of one is a
description of the whole.

It was a spacious, bare, whitewashed apartment, lighted, of course, by
windows looking into the interior of the prison, but far more light and
airy than one could reasonably expect to find in such a situation.
There was a large fire with a deal table before it, round which ten or
a dozen women were seated on wooden forms at dinner. Along both sides
of the room ran a shelf; below it, at regular intervals, a row of large
hooks were fixed in the wall, on each of which was hung the sleeping
mat of a prisoner: her rug and blanket being folded up, and placed on
the shelf above. At night, these mats are placed on the floor, each
beneath the hook on which it hangs during the day; and the ward is thus
made to answer the purposes both of a day-room and sleeping apartment.
Over the fireplace, was a large sheet of pasteboard, on which were
displayed a variety of texts from Scripture, which were also scattered
about the room in scraps about the size and shape of the copy-slips
which are used in schools. On the table was a sufficient provision of a
kind of stewed beef and brown bread, in pewter dishes, which are kept
perfectly bright, and displayed on shelves in great order and
regularity when they are not in use.

The women rose hastily, on our entrance, and retired in a hurried
manner to either side of the fireplace. They were all cleanly—many of
them decently—attired, and there was nothing peculiar, either in their
appearance or demeanour. One or two resumed the needlework which they
had probably laid aside at the commencement of their meal; others gazed
at the visitors with listless curiosity; and a few retired behind their
companions to the very end of the room, as if desirous to avoid even
the casual observation of the strangers. Some old Irish women, both in
this and other wards, to whom the thing was no novelty, appeared
perfectly indifferent to our presence, and remained standing close to
the seats from which they had just risen; but the general feeling among
the females seemed to be one of uneasiness during the period of our
stay among them: which was very brief. Not a word was uttered during
the time of our remaining, unless, indeed, by the wardswoman in reply
to some question which we put to the turnkey who accompanied us. In
every ward on the female side, a wardswoman is appointed to preserve
order, and a similar regulation is adopted among the males. The
wardsmen and wardswomen are all prisoners, selected for good conduct.
They alone are allowed the privilege of sleeping on bedsteads; a small
stump bedstead being placed in every ward for that purpose. On both
sides of the gaol, is a small receiving-room, to which prisoners are
conducted on their first reception, and whence they cannot be removed
until they have been examined by the surgeon of the prison. [161]

Retracing our steps to the dismal passage in which we found ourselves
at first (and which, by-the-bye, contains three or four dark cells for
the accommodation of refractory prisoners), we were led through a
narrow yard to the ‘school’—a portion of the prison set apart for boys
under fourteen years of age. In a tolerable-sized room, in which were
writing-materials and some copy-books, was the schoolmaster, with a
couple of his pupils; the remainder having been fetched from an
adjoining apartment, the whole were drawn up in line for our
inspection. There were fourteen of them in all, some with shoes, some
without; some in pinafores without jackets, others in jackets without
pinafores, and one in scarce anything at all. The whole number, without
an exception we believe, had been committed for trial on charges of
pocket-picking; and fourteen such terrible little faces we never
beheld.—There was not one redeeming feature among them—not a glance of
honesty—not a wink expressive of anything but the gallows and the
hulks, in the whole collection. As to anything like shame or
contrition, that was entirely out of the question. They were evidently
quite gratified at being thought worth the trouble of looking at; their
idea appeared to be, that we had come to see Newgate as a grand affair,
and that they were an indispensable part of the show; and every boy as
he ‘fell in’ to the line, actually seemed as pleased and important as
if he had done something excessively meritorious in getting there at
all. We never looked upon a more disagreeable sight, because we never
saw fourteen such hopeless creatures of neglect, before.

On either side of the school-yard is a yard for men, in one of
which—that towards Newgate-street—prisoners of the more respectable
class are confined. Of the other, we have little description to offer,
as the different wards necessarily partake of the same character. They
are provided, like the wards on the women’s side, with mats and rugs,
which are disposed of in the same manner during the day; the only very
striking difference between their appearance and that of the wards
inhabited by the females, is the utter absence of any employment.
Huddled together on two opposite forms, by the fireside, sit twenty men
perhaps; here, a boy in livery; there, a man in a rough great-coat and
top-boots; farther on, a desperate-looking fellow in his shirt-sleeves,
with an old Scotch cap upon his shaggy head; near him again, a tall
ruffian, in a smock-frock; next to him, a miserable being of distressed
appearance, with his head resting on his hand;—all alike in one
respect, all idle and listless. When they do leave the fire, sauntering
moodily about, lounging in the window, or leaning against the wall,
vacantly swinging their bodies to and fro. With the exception of a man
reading an old newspaper, in two or three instances, this was the case
in every ward we entered.

The only communication these men have with their friends, is through
two close iron gratings, with an intermediate space of about a yard in
width between the two, so that nothing can be handed across, nor can
the prisoner have any communication by touch with the person who visits
him. The married men have a separate grating, at which to see their
wives, but its construction is the same.

The prison chapel is situated at the back of the governor’s house: the
latter having no windows looking into the interior of the prison.
Whether the associations connected with the place—the knowledge that
here a portion of the burial service is, on some dreadful occasions,
performed over the quick and not upon the dead—cast over it a still
more gloomy and sombre air than art has imparted to it, we know not,
but its appearance is very striking. There is something in a silent and
deserted place of worship, solemn and impressive at any time; and the
very dissimilarity of this one from any we have been accustomed to,
only enhances the impression. The meanness of its appointments—the bare
and scanty pulpit, with the paltry painted pillars on either side—the
women’s gallery with its great heavy curtain—the men’s with its
unpainted benches and dingy front—the tottering little table at the
altar, with the commandments on the wall above it, scarcely legible
through lack of paint, and dust and damp—so unlike the velvet and
gilding, the marble and wood, of a modern church—are strange and
striking. There is one object, too, which rivets the attention and
fascinates the gaze, and from which we may turn horror-stricken in
vain, for the recollection of it will haunt us, waking and sleeping,
for a long time afterwards. Immediately below the reading-desk, on the
floor of the chapel, and forming the most conspicuous object in its
little area, is _the condemned pew_; a huge black pen, in which the
wretched people, who are singled out for death, are placed on the
Sunday preceding their execution, in sight of all their
fellow-prisoners, from many of whom they may have been separated but a
week before, to hear prayers for their own souls, to join in the
responses of their own burial service, and to listen to an address,
warning their recent companions to take example by their fate, and
urging themselves, while there is yet time—nearly four-and-twenty
hours—to ‘turn, and flee from the wrath to come!’ Imagine what have
been the feelings of the men whom that fearful pew has enclosed, and of
whom, between the gallows and the knife, no mortal remnant may now
remain! Think of the hopeless clinging to life to the last, and the
wild despair, far exceeding in anguish the felon’s death itself, by
which they have heard the certainty of their speedy transmission to
another world, with all their crimes upon their heads, rung into their
ears by the officiating clergyman!

At one time—and at no distant period either—the coffins of the men
about to be executed, were placed in that pew, upon the seat by their
side, during the whole service. It may seem incredible, but it is true.
Let us hope that the increased spirit of civilisation and humanity
which abolished this frightful and degrading custom, may extend itself
to other usages equally barbarous; usages which have not even the plea
of utility in their defence, as every year’s experience has shown them
to be more and more inefficacious.

Leaving the chapel, descending to the passage so frequently alluded to,
and crossing the yard before noticed as being allotted to prisoners of
a more respectable description than the generality of men confined
here, the visitor arrives at a thick iron gate of great size and
strength. Having been admitted through it by the turnkey on duty, he
turns sharp round to the left, and pauses before another gate; and,
having passed this last barrier, he stands in the most terrible part of
this gloomy building—the condemned ward.

The press-yard, well known by name to newspaper readers, from its
frequent mention in accounts of executions, is at the corner of the
building, and next to the ordinary’s house, in Newgate-street: running
from Newgate-street, towards the centre of the prison, parallel with
Newgate-market. It is a long, narrow court, of which a portion of the
wall in Newgate-street forms one end, and the gate the other. At the
upper end, on the left hand—that is, adjoining the wall in
Newgate-street—is a cistern of water, and at the bottom a double
grating (of which the gate itself forms a part) similar to that before
described. Through these grates the prisoners are allowed to see their
friends; a turnkey always remaining in the vacant space between, during
the whole interview. Immediately on the right as you enter, is a
building containing the press-room, day-room, and cells; the yard is on
every side surrounded by lofty walls guarded by _chevaux de frise_; and
the whole is under the constant inspection of vigilant and experienced
turnkeys.

In the first apartment into which we were conducted—which was at the
top of a staircase, and immediately over the press-room—were
five-and-twenty or thirty prisoners, all under sentence of death,
awaiting the result of the recorder’s report—men of all ages and
appearances, from a hardened old offender with swarthy face and grizzly
beard of three days’ growth, to a handsome boy, not fourteen years old,
and of singularly youthful appearance even for that age, who had been
condemned for burglary. There was nothing remarkable in the appearance
of these prisoners. One or two decently-dressed men were brooding with
a dejected air over the fire; several little groups of two or three had
been engaged in conversation at the upper end of the room, or in the
windows; and the remainder were crowded round a young man seated at a
table, who appeared to be engaged in teaching the younger ones to
write. The room was large, airy, and clean. There was very little
anxiety or mental suffering depicted in the countenance of any of the
men;—they had all been sentenced to death, it is true, and the
recorder’s report had not yet been made; but, we question whether there
was a man among them, notwithstanding, who did not _know_ that although
he had undergone the ceremony, it never was intended that his life
should be sacrificed. On the table lay a Testament, but there were no
tokens of its having been in recent use.

In the press-room below, were three men, the nature of whose offence
rendered it necessary to separate them, even from their companions in
guilt. It is a long, sombre room, with two windows sunk into the stone
wall, and here the wretched men are pinioned on the morning of their
execution, before moving towards the scaffold. The fate of one of these
prisoners was uncertain; some mitigatory circumstances having come to
light since his trial, which had been humanely represented in the
proper quarter. The other two had nothing to expect from the mercy of
the crown; their doom was sealed; no plea could be urged in extenuation
of their crime, and they well knew that for them there was no hope in
this world. ‘The two short ones,’ the turnkey whispered, ‘were dead
men.’

The man to whom we have alluded as entertaining some hopes of escape,
was lounging, at the greatest distance he could place between himself
and his companions, in the window nearest to the door. He was probably
aware of our approach, and had assumed an air of courageous
indifference; his face was purposely averted towards the window, and he
stirred not an inch while we were present. The other two men were at
the upper end of the room. One of them, who was imperfectly seen in the
dim light, had his back towards us, and was stooping over the fire,
with his right arm on the mantel-piece, and his head sunk upon it. The
other was leaning on the sill of the farthest window. The light fell
full upon him, and communicated to his pale, haggard face, and
disordered hair, an appearance which, at that distance, was ghastly.
His cheek rested upon his hand; and, with his face a little raised, and
his eyes wildly staring before him, he seemed to be unconsciously
intent on counting the chinks in the opposite wall. We passed this room
again afterwards. The first man was pacing up and down the court with a
firm military step—he had been a soldier in the foot-guards—and a cloth
cap jauntily thrown on one side of his head. He bowed respectfully to
our conductor, and the salute was returned. The other two still
remained in the positions we have described, and were as motionless as
statues. [165]

A few paces up the yard, and forming a continuation of the building, in
which are the two rooms we have just quitted, lie the condemned cells.
The entrance is by a narrow and obscure stair-case leading to a dark
passage, in which a charcoal stove casts a lurid tint over the objects
in its immediate vicinity, and diffuses something like warmth around.
From the left-hand side of this passage, the massive door of every cell
on the story opens; and from it alone can they be approached. There are
three of these passages, and three of these ranges of cells, one above
the other; but in size, furniture and appearance, they are all
precisely alike. Prior to the recorder’s report being made, all the
prisoners under sentence of death are removed from the day-room at five
o’clock in the afternoon, and locked up in these cells, where they are
allowed a candle until ten o’clock; and here they remain until seven
next morning. When the warrant for a prisoner’s execution arrives, he
is removed to the cells and confined in one of them until he leaves it
for the scaffold. He is at liberty to walk in the yard; but, both in
his walks and in his cell, he is constantly attended by a turnkey who
never leaves him on any pretence.

We entered the first cell. It was a stone dungeon, eight feet long by
six wide, with a bench at the upper end, under which were a common rug,
a bible, and prayer-book. An iron candlestick was fixed into the wall
at the side; and a small high window in the back admitted as much air
and light as could struggle in between a double row of heavy, crossed
iron bars. It contained no other furniture of any description.

Conceive the situation of a man, spending his last night on earth in
this cell. Buoyed up with some vague and undefined hope of reprieve, he
knew not why—indulging in some wild and visionary idea of escaping, he
knew not how—hour after hour of the three preceding days allowed him
for preparation, has fled with a speed which no man living would deem
possible, for none but this dying man can know. He has wearied his
friends with entreaties, exhausted the attendants with importunities,
neglected in his feverish restlessness the timely warnings of his
spiritual consoler; and, now that the illusion is at last dispelled,
now that eternity is before him and guilt behind, now that his fears of
death amount almost to madness, and an overwhelming sense of his
helpless, hopeless state rushes upon him, he is lost and stupefied, and
has neither thoughts to turn to, nor power to call upon, the Almighty
Being, from whom alone he can seek mercy and forgiveness, and before
whom his repentance can alone avail.

Hours have glided by, and still he sits upon the same stone bench with
folded arms, heedless alike of the fast decreasing time before him, and
the urgent entreaties of the good man at his side. The feeble light is
wasting gradually, and the deathlike stillness of the street without,
broken only by the rumbling of some passing vehicle which echoes
mournfully through the empty yards, warns him that the night is waning
fast away. The deep bell of St. Paul’s strikes—one! He heard it; it has
roused him. Seven hours left! He paces the narrow limits of his cell
with rapid strides, cold drops of terror starting on his forehead, and
every muscle of his frame quivering with agony. Seven hours! He suffers
himself to be led to his seat, mechanically takes the bible which is
placed in his hand, and tries to read and listen. No: his thoughts will
wander. The book is torn and soiled by use—and like the book he read
his lessons in, at school, just forty years ago! He has never bestowed
a thought upon it, perhaps, since he left it as a child: and yet the
place, the time, the room—nay, the very boys he played with, crowd as
vividly before him as if they were scenes of yesterday; and some
forgotten phrase, some childish word, rings in his ears like the echo
of one uttered but a minute since. The voice of the clergyman recalls
him to himself. He is reading from the sacred book its solemn promises
of pardon for repentance, and its awful denunciation of obdurate men.
He falls upon his knees and clasps his hands to pray. Hush! what sound
was that? He starts upon his feet. It cannot be two yet. Hark! Two
quarters have struck;—the third—the fourth. It is! Six hours left. Tell
him not of repentance! Six hours’ repentance for eight times six years
of guilt and sin! He buries his face in his hands, and throws himself
on the bench.

Worn with watching and excitement, he sleeps, and the same unsettled
state of mind pursues him in his dreams. An insupportable load is taken
from his breast; he is walking with his wife in a pleasant field, with
the bright sky above them, and a fresh and boundless prospect on every
side—how different from the stone walls of Newgate! She is looking—not
as she did when he saw her for the last time in that dreadful place,
but as she used when he loved her—long, long ago, before misery and
ill-treatment had altered her looks, and vice had changed his nature,
and she is leaning upon his arm, and looking up into his face with
tenderness and affection—and he does _not_ strike her now, nor rudely
shake her from him. And oh! how glad he is to tell her all he had
forgotten in that last hurried interview, and to fall on his knees
before her and fervently beseech her pardon for all the unkindness and
cruelty that wasted her form and broke her heart! The scene suddenly
changes. He is on his trial again: there are the judge and jury, and
prosecutors, and witnesses, just as they were before. How full the
court is—what a sea of heads—with a gallows, too, and a scaffold—and
how all those people stare at _him_! Verdict, ‘Guilty.’ No matter; he
will escape.

The night is dark and cold, the gates have been left open, and in an
instant he is in the street, flying from the scene of his imprisonment
like the wind. The streets are cleared, the open fields are gained and
the broad, wide country lies before him. Onward he dashes in the midst
of darkness, over hedge and ditch, through mud and pool, bounding from
spot to spot with a speed and lightness, astonishing even to himself.
At length he pauses; he must be safe from pursuit now; he will stretch
himself on that bank and sleep till sunrise.

A period of unconsciousness succeeds. He wakes, cold and wretched. The
dull, gray light of morning is stealing into the cell, and falls upon
the form of the attendant turnkey. Confused by his dreams, he starts
from his uneasy bed in momentary uncertainty. It is but momentary.
Every object in the narrow cell is too frightfully real to admit of
doubt or mistake. He is the condemned felon again, guilty and
despairing; and in two hours more will be dead.




CHARACTERS




CHAPTER I—THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE


It is strange with how little notice, good, bad, or indifferent, a man
may live and die in London. He awakens no sympathy in the breast of any
single person; his existence is a matter of interest to no one save
himself; he cannot be said to be forgotten when he dies, for no one
remembered him when he was alive. There is a numerous class of people
in this great metropolis who seem not to possess a single friend, and
whom nobody appears to care for. Urged by imperative necessity in the
first instance, they have resorted to London in search of employment,
and the means of subsistence. It is hard, we know, to break the ties
which bind us to our homes and friends, and harder still to efface the
thousand recollections of happy days and old times, which have been
slumbering in our bosoms for years, and only rush upon the mind, to
bring before it associations connected with the friends we have left,
the scenes we have beheld too probably for the last time, and the hopes
we once cherished, but may entertain no more. These men, however,
happily for themselves, have long forgotten such thoughts. Old country
friends have died or emigrated; former correspondents have become lost,
like themselves, in the crowd and turmoil of some busy city; and they
have gradually settled down into mere passive creatures of habit and
endurance.

We were seated in the enclosure of St. James’s Park the other day, when
our attention was attracted by a man whom we immediately put down in
our own mind as one of this class. He was a tall, thin, pale person, in
a black coat, scanty gray trousers, little pinched-up gaiters, and
brown beaver gloves. He had an umbrella in his hand—not for use, for
the day was fine—but, evidently, because he always carried one to the
office in the morning. He walked up and down before the little patch of
grass on which the chairs are placed for hire, not as if he were doing
it for pleasure or recreation, but as if it were a matter of
compulsion, just as he would walk to the office every morning from the
back settlements of Islington. It was Monday; he had escaped for
four-and-twenty hours from the thraldom of the desk; and was walking
here for exercise and amusement—perhaps for the first time in his life.
We were inclined to think he had never had a holiday before, and that
he did not know what to do with himself. Children were playing on the
grass; groups of people were loitering about, chatting and laughing;
but the man walked steadily up and down, unheeding and unheeded his
spare, pale face looking as if it were incapable of bearing the
expression of curiosity or interest.

There was something in the man’s manner and appearance which told us,
we fancied, his whole life, or rather his whole day, for a man of this
sort has no variety of days. We thought we almost saw the dingy little
back office into which he walks every morning, hanging his hat on the
same peg, and placing his legs beneath the same desk: first, taking off
that black coat which lasts the year through, and putting on the one
which did duty last year, and which he keeps in his desk to save the
other. There he sits till five o’clock, working on, all day, as
regularly as the dial over the mantel-piece, whose loud ticking is as
monotonous as his whole existence: only raising his head when some one
enters the counting-house, or when, in the midst of some difficult
calculation, he looks up to the ceiling as if there were inspiration in
the dusty skylight with a green knot in the centre of every pane of
glass. About five, or half-past, he slowly dismounts from his
accustomed stool, and again changing his coat, proceeds to his usual
dining-place, somewhere near Bucklersbury. The waiter recites the bill
of fare in a rather confidential manner—for he is a regular
customer—and after inquiring ‘What’s in the best cut?’ and ‘What was up
last?’ he orders a small plate of roast beef, with greens, and
half-a-pint of porter. He has a small plate to-day, because greens are
a penny more than potatoes, and he had ‘two breads’ yesterday, with the
additional enormity of ‘a cheese’ the day before. This important point
settled, he hangs up his hat—he took it off the moment he sat down—and
bespeaks the paper after the next gentleman. If he can get it while he
is at dinner, he eats with much greater zest; balancing it against the
water-bottle, and eating a bit of beef, and reading a line or two,
alternately. Exactly at five minutes before the hour is up, he produces
a shilling, pays the reckoning, carefully deposits the change in his
waistcoat-pocket (first deducting a penny for the waiter), and returns
to the office, from which, if it is not foreign post night, he again
sallies forth, in about half an hour. He then walks home, at his usual
pace, to his little back room at Islington, where he has his tea;
perhaps solacing himself during the meal with the conversation of his
landlady’s little boy, whom he occasionally rewards with a penny, for
solving problems in simple addition. Sometimes, there is a letter or
two to take up to his employer’s, in Russell-square; and then, the
wealthy man of business, hearing his voice, calls out from the
dining-parlour,—‘Come in, Mr. Smith:’ and Mr. Smith, putting his hat at
the feet of one of the hall chairs, walks timidly in, and being
condescendingly desired to sit down, carefully tucks his legs under his
chair, and sits at a considerable distance from the table while he
drinks the glass of sherry which is poured out for him by the eldest
boy, and after drinking which, he backs and slides out of the room, in
a state of nervous agitation from which he does not perfectly recover,
until he finds himself once more in the Islington-road. Poor, harmless
creatures such men are; contented but not happy; broken-spirited and
humbled, they may feel no pain, but they never know pleasure.

Compare these men with another class of beings who, like them, have
neither friend nor companion, but whose position in society is the
result of their own choice. These are generally old fellows with white
heads and red faces, addicted to port wine and Hessian boots, who from
some cause, real or imaginary—generally the former, the excellent
reason being that they are rich, and their relations poor—grow
suspicious of everybody, and do the misanthropical in chambers, taking
great delight in thinking themselves unhappy, and making everybody they
come near, miserable. You may see such men as these, anywhere; you will
know them at coffee-houses by their discontented exclamations and the
luxury of their dinners; at theatres, by their always sitting in the
same place and looking with a jaundiced eye on all the young people
near them; at church, by the pomposity with which they enter, and the
loud tone in which they repeat the responses; at parties, by their
getting cross at whist and hating music. An old fellow of this kind
will have his chambers splendidly furnished, and collect books, plate,
and pictures about him in profusion; not so much for his own
gratification, as to be superior to those who have the desire, but not
the means, to compete with him. He belongs to two or three clubs, and
is envied, and flattered, and hated by the members of them all.
Sometimes he will be appealed to by a poor relation—a married nephew
perhaps—for some little assistance: and then he will declaim with
honest indignation on the improvidence of young married people, the
worthlessness of a wife, the insolence of having a family, the atrocity
of getting into debt with a hundred and twenty-five pounds a year, and
other unpardonable crimes; winding up his exhortations with a
complacent review of his own conduct, and a delicate allusion to
parochial relief. He dies, some day after dinner, of apoplexy, having
bequeathed his property to a Public Society, and the Institution erects
a tablet to his memory, expressive of their admiration of his Christian
conduct in this world, and their comfortable conviction of his
happiness in the next.

But, next to our very particular friends, hackney-coachmen, cabmen and
cads, whom we admire in proportion to the extent of their cool
impudence and perfect self-possession, there is no class of people who
amuse us more than London apprentices. They are no longer an organised
body, bound down by solemn compact to terrify his Majesty’s subjects
whenever it pleases them to take offence in their heads and staves in
their hands. They are only bound, now, by indentures, and, as to their
valour, it is easily restrained by the wholesome dread of the New
Police, and a perspective view of a damp station-house, terminating in
a police-office and a reprimand. They are still, however, a peculiar
class, and not the less pleasant for being inoffensive. Can any one
fail to have noticed them in the streets on Sunday? And were there ever
such harmless efforts at the grand and magnificent as the young fellows
display! We walked down the Strand, a Sunday or two ago, behind a
little group; and they furnished food for our amusement the whole way.
They had come out of some part of the city; it was between three and
four o’clock in the afternoon; and they were on their way to the Park.
There were four of them, all arm-in-arm, with white kid gloves like so
many bridegrooms, light trousers of unprecedented patterns, and coats
for which the English language has yet no name—a kind of cross between
a great-coat and a surtout, with the collar of the one, the skirts of
the other, and pockets peculiar to themselves.

Each of the gentlemen carried a thick stick, with a large tassel at the
top, which he occasionally twirled gracefully round; and the whole
four, by way of looking easy and unconcerned, were walking with a
paralytic swagger irresistibly ludicrous. One of the party had a watch
about the size and shape of a reasonable Ribstone pippin, jammed into
his waistcoat-pocket, which he carefully compared with the clocks at
St. Clement’s and the New Church, the illuminated clock at Exeter
‘Change, the clock of St. Martin’s Church, and the clock of the Horse
Guards. When they at last arrived in St. James’s Park, the member of
the party who had the best-made boots on, hired a second chair
expressly for his feet, and flung himself on this two-pennyworth of
sylvan luxury with an air which levelled all distinctions between
Brookes’s and Snooks’s, Crockford’s and Bagnigge Wells.

We may smile at such people, but they can never excite our anger. They
are usually on the best terms with themselves, and it follows almost as
a matter of course, in good humour with every one about them. Besides,
they are always the faint reflection of higher lights; and, if they do
display a little occasional foolery in their own proper persons, it is
surely more tolerable than precocious puppyism in the Quadrant,
whiskered dandyism in Regent-street and Pall-mall, or gallantry in its
dotage anywhere.




CHAPTER II—A CHRISTMAS DINNER


Christmas time! That man must be a misanthrope indeed, in whose breast
something like a jovial feeling is not roused—in whose mind some
pleasant associations are not awakened—by the recurrence of Christmas.
There are people who will tell you that Christmas is not to them what
it used to be; that each succeeding Christmas has found some cherished
hope, or happy prospect, of the year before, dimmed or passed away;
that the present only serves to remind them of reduced circumstances
and straitened incomes—of the feasts they once bestowed on hollow
friends, and of the cold looks that meet them now, in adversity and
misfortune. Never heed such dismal reminiscences. There are few men who
have lived long enough in the world, who cannot call up such thoughts
any day in the year. Then do not select the merriest of the three
hundred and sixty-five for your doleful recollections, but draw your
chair nearer the blazing fire—fill the glass and send round the
song—and if your room be smaller than it was a dozen years ago, or if
your glass be filled with reeking punch, instead of sparkling wine, put
a good face on the matter, and empty it off-hand, and fill another, and
troll off the old ditty you used to sing, and thank God it’s no worse.
Look on the merry faces of your children (if you have any) as they sit
round the fire. One little seat may be empty; one slight form that
gladdened the father’s heart, and roused the mother’s pride to look
upon, may not be there. Dwell not upon the past; think not that one
short year ago, the fair child now resolving into dust, sat before you,
with the bloom of health upon its cheek, and the gaiety of infancy in
its joyous eye. Reflect upon your present blessings—of which every man
has many—not on your past misfortunes, of which all men have some. Fill
your glass again, with a merry face and contented heart. Our life on
it, but your Christmas shall be merry, and your new year a happy one!

Who can be insensible to the outpourings of good feeling, and the
honest interchange of affectionate attachment, which abound at this
season of the year? A Christmas family-party! We know nothing in nature
more delightful! There seems a magic in the very name of Christmas.
Petty jealousies and discords are forgotten; social feelings are
awakened, in bosoms to which they have long been strangers; father and
son, or brother and sister, who have met and passed with averted gaze,
or a look of cold recognition, for months before, proffer and return
the cordial embrace, and bury their past animosities in their present
happiness. Kindly hearts that have yearned towards each other, but have
been withheld by false notions of pride and self-dignity, are again
reunited, and all is kindness and benevolence! Would that Christmas
lasted the whole year through (as it ought), and that the prejudices
and passions which deform our better nature, were never called into
action among those to whom they should ever be strangers!

The Christmas family-party that we mean, is not a mere assemblage of
relations, got up at a week or two’s notice, originating this year,
having no family precedent in the last, and not likely to be repeated
in the next. No. It is an annual gathering of all the accessible
members of the family, young or old, rich or poor; and all the children
look forward to it, for two months beforehand, in a fever of
anticipation. Formerly, it was held at grandpapa’s; but grandpapa
getting old, and grandmamma getting old too, and rather infirm, they
have given up house-keeping, and domesticated themselves with uncle
George; so, the party always takes place at uncle George’s house, but
grandmamma sends in most of the good things, and grandpapa always
_will_ toddle down, all the way to Newgate-market, to buy the turkey,
which he engages a porter to bring home behind him in triumph, always
insisting on the man’s being rewarded with a glass of spirits, over and
above his hire, to drink ‘a merry Christmas and a happy new year’ to
aunt George. As to grandmamma, she is very secret and mysterious for
two or three days beforehand, but not sufficiently so, to prevent
rumours getting afloat that she has purchased a beautiful new cap with
pink ribbons for each of the servants, together with sundry books, and
pen-knives, and pencil-cases, for the younger branches; to say nothing
of divers secret additions to the order originally given by aunt George
at the pastry-cook’s, such as another dozen of mince-pies for the
dinner, and a large plum-cake for the children.

On Christmas-eve, grandmamma is always in excellent spirits, and after
employing all the children, during the day, in stoning the plums, and
all that, insists, regularly every year, on uncle George coming down
into the kitchen, taking off his coat, and stirring the pudding for
half an hour or so, which uncle George good-humouredly does, to the
vociferous delight of the children and servants. The evening concludes
with a glorious game of blind-man’s-buff, in an early stage of which
grandpapa takes great care to be caught, in order that he may have an
opportunity of displaying his dexterity.

On the following morning, the old couple, with as many of the children
as the pew will hold, go to church in great state: leaving aunt George
at home dusting decanters and filling casters, and uncle George
carrying bottles into the dining-parlour, and calling for corkscrews,
and getting into everybody’s way.

When the church-party return to lunch, grandpapa produces a small sprig
of mistletoe from his pocket, and tempts the boys to kiss their little
cousins under it—a proceeding which affords both the boys and the old
gentleman unlimited satisfaction, but which rather outrages
grandmamma’s ideas of decorum, until grandpapa says, that when he was
just thirteen years and three months old, _he_ kissed grandmamma under
a mistletoe too, on which the children clap their hands, and laugh very
heartily, as do aunt George and uncle George; and grandmamma looks
pleased, and says, with a benevolent smile, that grandpapa was an
impudent young dog, on which the children laugh very heartily again,
and grandpapa more heartily than any of them.

But all these diversions are nothing to the subsequent excitement when
grandmamma in a high cap, and slate-coloured silk gown; and grandpapa
with a beautifully plaited shirt-frill, and white neckerchief; seat
themselves on one side of the drawing-room fire, with uncle George’s
children and little cousins innumerable, seated in the front, waiting
the arrival of the expected visitors. Suddenly a hackney-coach is heard
to stop, and uncle George, who has been looking out of the window,
exclaims ‘Here’s Jane!’ on which the children rush to the door, and
helter-skelter down-stairs; and uncle Robert and aunt Jane, and the
dear little baby, and the nurse, and the whole party, are ushered
up-stairs amidst tumultuous shouts of ‘Oh, my!’ from the children, and
frequently repeated warnings not to hurt baby from the nurse. And
grandpapa takes the child, and grandmamma kisses her daughter, and the
confusion of this first entry has scarcely subsided, when some other
aunts and uncles with more cousins arrive, and the grown-up cousins
flirt with each other, and so do the little cousins too, for that
matter, and nothing is to be heard but a confused din of talking,
laughing, and merriment.

A hesitating double knock at the street-door, heard during a momentary
pause in the conversation, excites a general inquiry of ‘Who’s that?’
and two or three children, who have been standing at the window,
announce in a low voice, that it’s ‘poor aunt Margaret.’ Upon which,
aunt George leaves the room to welcome the new-comer; and grandmamma
draws herself up, rather stiff and stately; for Margaret married a poor
man without her consent, and poverty not being a sufficiently weighty
punishment for her offence, has been discarded by her friends, and
debarred the society of her dearest relatives. But Christmas has come
round, and the unkind feelings that have struggled against better
dispositions during the year, have melted away before its genial
influence, like half-formed ice beneath the morning sun. It is not
difficult in a moment of angry feeling for a parent to denounce a
disobedient child; but, to banish her at a period of general good-will
and hilarity, from the hearth, round which she has sat on so many
anniversaries of the same day, expanding by slow degrees from infancy
to girlhood, and then bursting, almost imperceptibly, into a woman, is
widely different. The air of conscious rectitude, and cold forgiveness,
which the old lady has assumed, sits ill upon her; and when the poor
girl is led in by her sister, pale in looks and broken in hope—not from
poverty, for that she could bear, but from the consciousness of
undeserved neglect, and unmerited unkindness—it is easy to see how much
of it is assumed. A momentary pause succeeds; the girl breaks suddenly
from her sister and throws herself, sobbing, on her mother’s neck. The
father steps hastily forward, and takes her husband’s hand. Friends
crowd round to offer their hearty congratulations, and happiness and
harmony again prevail.

As to the dinner, it’s perfectly delightful—nothing goes wrong, and
everybody is in the very best of spirits, and disposed to please and be
pleased. Grandpapa relates a circumstantial account of the purchase of
the turkey, with a slight digression relative to the purchase of
previous turkeys, on former Christmas-days, which grandmamma
corroborates in the minutest particular. Uncle George tells stories,
and carves poultry, and takes wine, and jokes with the children at the
side-table, and winks at the cousins that are making love, or being
made love to, and exhilarates everybody with his good humour and
hospitality; and when, at last, a stout servant staggers in with a
gigantic pudding, with a sprig of holly in the top, there is such a
laughing, and shouting, and clapping of little chubby hands, and
kicking up of fat dumpy legs, as can only be equalled by the applause
with which the astonishing feat of pouring lighted brandy into
mince-pies, is received by the younger visitors. Then the dessert!—and
the wine!—and the fun! Such beautiful speeches, and _such_ songs, from
aunt Margaret’s husband, who turns out to be such a nice man, and _so_
attentive to grandmamma! Even grandpapa not only sings his annual song
with unprecedented vigour, but on being honoured with an unanimous
_encore_, according to annual custom, actually comes out with a new one
which nobody but grandmamma ever heard before; and a young scapegrace
of a cousin, who has been in some disgrace with the old people, for
certain heinous sins of omission and commission—neglecting to call, and
persisting in drinking Burton Ale—astonishes everybody into convulsions
of laughter by volunteering the most extraordinary comic songs that
ever were heard. And thus the evening passes, in a strain of rational
good-will and cheerfulness, doing more to awaken the sympathies of
every member of the party in behalf of his neighbour, and to perpetuate
their good feeling during the ensuing year, than half the homilies that
have ever been written, by half the Divines that have ever lived.




CHAPTER III—THE NEW YEAR


Next to Christmas-day, the most pleasant annual epoch in existence is
the advent of the New Year. There are a lachrymose set of people who
usher in the New Year with watching and fasting, as if they were bound
to attend as chief mourners at the obsequies of the old one. Now, we
cannot but think it a great deal more complimentary, both to the old
year that has rolled away, and to the New Year that is just beginning
to dawn upon us, to see the old fellow out, and the new one in, with
gaiety and glee.

There must have been some few occurrences in the past year to which we
can look back, with a smile of cheerful recollection, if not with a
feeling of heartfelt thankfulness. And we are bound by every rule of
justice and equity to give the New Year credit for being a good one,
until he proves himself unworthy the confidence we repose in him.

This is our view of the matter; and entertaining it, notwithstanding
our respect for the old year, one of the few remaining moments of whose
existence passes away with every word we write, here we are, seated by
our fireside on this last night of the old year, one thousand eight
hundred and thirty-six, penning this article with as jovial a face as
if nothing extraordinary had happened, or was about to happen, to
disturb our good humour.

Hackney-coaches and carriages keep rattling up the street and down the
street in rapid succession, conveying, doubtless, smartly-dressed
coachfuls to crowded parties; loud and repeated double knocks at the
house with green blinds, opposite, announce to the whole neighbourhood
that there’s one large party in the street at all events; and we saw
through the window, and through the fog too, till it grew so thick that
we rung for candles, and drew our curtains, pastry-cooks’ men with
green boxes on their heads, and rout-furniture-warehouse-carts, with
cane seats and French lamps, hurrying to the numerous houses where an
annual festival is held in honour of the occasion.

We can fancy one of these parties, we think, as well as if we were duly
dress-coated and pumped, and had just been announced at the
drawing-room door.

Take the house with the green blinds for instance. We know it is a
quadrille party, because we saw some men taking up the front
drawing-room carpet while we sat at breakfast this morning, and if
further evidence be required, and we must tell the truth, we just now
saw one of the young ladies ‘doing’ another of the young ladies’ hair,
near one of the bedroom windows, in an unusual style of splendour,
which nothing else but a quadrille party could possibly justify.

The master of the house with the green blinds is in a public office; we
know the fact by the cut of his coat, the tie of his neckcloth, and the
self-satisfaction of his gait—the very green blinds themselves have a
Somerset House air about them.

Hark!—a cab! That’s a junior clerk in the same office; a tidy sort of
young man, with a tendency to cold and corns, who comes in a pair of
boots with black cloth fronts, and brings his shoes in his coat-pocket,
which shoes he is at this very moment putting on in the hall. Now he is
announced by the man in the passage to another man in a blue coat, who
is a disguised messenger from the office.

The man on the first landing precedes him to the drawing-room door.
‘Mr. Tupple!’ shouts the messenger. ‘How _are_ you, Tupple?’ says the
master of the house, advancing from the fire, before which he has been
talking politics and airing himself. ‘My dear, this is Mr. Tupple (a
courteous salute from the lady of the house); Tupple, my eldest
daughter; Julia, my dear, Mr. Tupple; Tupple, my other daughters; my
son, sir;’ Tupple rubs his hands very hard, and smiles as if it were
all capital fun, and keeps constantly bowing and turning himself round,
till the whole family have been introduced, when he glides into a chair
at the corner of the sofa, and opens a miscellaneous conversation with
the young ladies upon the weather, and the theatres, and the old year,
and the last new murder, and the balloon, and the ladies’ sleeves, and
the festivities of the season, and a great many other topics of small
talk.

More double knocks! what an extensive party! what an incessant hum of
conversation and general sipping of coffee! We see Tupple now, in our
mind’s eye, in the height of his glory. He has just handed that stout
old lady’s cup to the servant; and now, he dives among the crowd of
young men by the door, to intercept the other servant, and secure the
muffin-plate for the old lady’s daughter, before he leaves the room;
and now, as he passes the sofa on his way back, he bestows a glance of
recognition and patronage upon the young ladies as condescending and
familiar as if he had known them from infancy.

Charming person Mr. Tupple—perfect ladies’ man—such a delightful
companion, too! Laugh!—nobody ever understood papa’s jokes half so well
as Mr. Tupple, who laughs himself into convulsions at every fresh burst
of facetiousness. Most delightful partner! talks through the whole set!
and although he does seem at first rather gay and frivolous, so
romantic and with so _much_ feeling! Quite a love. No great favourite
with the young men, certainly, who sneer at, and affect to despise him;
but everybody knows that’s only envy, and they needn’t give themselves
the trouble to depreciate his merits at any rate, for Ma says he shall
be asked to every future dinner-party, if it’s only to talk to people
between the courses, and distract their attention when there’s any
unexpected delay in the kitchen.

At supper, Mr. Tupple shows to still greater advantage than he has done
throughout the evening, and when Pa requests every one to fill their
glasses for the purpose of drinking happiness throughout the year, Mr.
Tupple is _so_ droll: insisting on all the young ladies having their
glasses filled, notwithstanding their repeated assurances that they
never can, by any possibility, think of emptying them and subsequently
begging permission to say a few words on the sentiment which has just
been uttered by Pa—when he makes one of the most brilliant and poetical
speeches that can possibly be imagined, about the old year and the new
one. After the toast has been drunk, and when the ladies have retired,
Mr. Tupple requests that every gentleman will do him the favour of
filling his glass, for he has a toast to propose: on which all the
gentlemen cry ‘Hear! hear!’ and pass the decanters accordingly: and Mr.
Tupple being informed by the master of the house that they are all
charged, and waiting for his toast, rises, and begs to remind the
gentlemen present, how much they have been delighted by the dazzling
array of elegance and beauty which the drawing-room has exhibited that
night, and how their senses have been charmed, and their hearts
captivated, by the bewitching concentration of female loveliness which
that very room has so recently displayed. (Loud cries of ‘Hear!’) Much
as he (Tupple) would be disposed to deplore the absence of the ladies,
on other grounds, he cannot but derive some consolation from the
reflection that the very circumstance of their not being present,
enables him to propose a toast, which he would have otherwise been
prevented from giving—that toast he begs to say is—‘The Ladies!’ (Great
applause.) The Ladies! among whom the fascinating daughters of their
excellent host, are alike conspicuous for their beauty, their
accomplishments, and their elegance. He begs them to drain a bumper to
‘The Ladies, and a happy new year to them!’ (Prolonged approbation;
above which the noise of the ladies dancing the Spanish dance among
themselves, overhead, is distinctly audible.)

The applause consequent on this toast, has scarcely subsided, when a
young gentleman in a pink under-waistcoat, sitting towards the bottom
of the table, is observed to grow very restless and fidgety, and to
evince strong indications of some latent desire to give vent to his
feelings in a speech, which the wary Tupple at once perceiving,
determines to forestall by speaking himself. He, therefore, rises
again, with an air of solemn importance, and trusts he may be permitted
to propose another toast (unqualified approbation, and Mr. Tupple
proceeds). He is sure they must all be deeply impressed with the
hospitality—he may say the splendour—with which they have been that
night received by their worthy host and hostess. (Unbounded applause.)
Although this is the first occasion on which he has had the pleasure
and delight of sitting at that board, he has known his friend Dobble
long and intimately; he has been connected with him in business—he
wishes everybody present knew Dobble as well as he does. (A cough from
the host.) He (Tupple) can lay his hand upon his (Tupple’s) heart, and
declare his confident belief that a better man, a better husband, a
better father, a better brother, a better son, a better relation in any
relation of life, than Dobble, never existed. (Loud cries of ‘Hear!’)
They have seen him to-night in the peaceful bosom of his family; they
should see him in the morning, in the trying duties of his office. Calm
in the perusal of the morning papers, uncompromising in the signature
of his name, dignified in his replies to the inquiries of stranger
applicants, deferential in his behaviour to his superiors, majestic in
his deportment to the messengers. (Cheers.) When he bears this merited
testimony to the excellent qualities of his friend Dobble, what can he
say in approaching such a subject as Mrs. Dobble? Is it requisite for
him to expatiate on the qualities of that amiable woman? No; he will
spare his friend Dobble’s feelings; he will spare the feelings of his
friend—if he will allow him to have the honour of calling him so—Mr.
Dobble, junior. (Here Mr. Dobble, junior, who has been previously
distending his mouth to a considerable width, by thrusting a
particularly fine orange into that feature, suspends operations, and
assumes a proper appearance of intense melancholy). He will simply
say—and he is quite certain it is a sentiment in which all who hear him
will readily concur—that his friend Dobble is as superior to any man he
ever knew, as Mrs. Dobble is far beyond any woman he ever saw (except
her daughters); and he will conclude by proposing their worthy ‘Host
and Hostess, and may they live to enjoy many more new years!’

The toast is drunk with acclamation; Dobble returns thanks, and the
whole party rejoin the ladies in the drawing-room. Young men who were
too bashful to dance before supper, find tongues and partners; the
musicians exhibit unequivocal symptoms of having drunk the new year in,
while the company were out; and dancing is kept up, until far in the
first morning of the new year.

We have scarcely written the last word of the previous sentence, when
the first stroke of twelve, peals from the neighbouring churches. There
certainly—we must confess it now—is something awful in the sound.
Strictly speaking, it may not be more impressive now, than at any other
time; for the hours steal as swiftly on, at other periods, and their
flight is little heeded. But, we measure man’s life by years, and it is
a solemn knell that warns us we have passed another of the landmarks
which stands between us and the grave. Disguise it as we may, the
reflection will force itself on our minds, that when the next bell
announces the arrival of a new year, we may be insensible alike of the
timely warning we have so often neglected, and of all the warm feelings
that glow within us now.




CHAPTER IV—MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE


Mr. Samuel Wilkins was a carpenter, a journeyman carpenter of small
dimensions, decidedly below the middle size—bordering, perhaps, upon
the dwarfish. His face was round and shining, and his hair carefully
twisted into the outer corner of each eye, till it formed a variety of
that description of semi-curls, usually known as ‘aggerawators.’ His
earnings were all-sufficient for his wants, varying from eighteen
shillings to one pound five, weekly—his manner undeniable—his sabbath
waistcoats dazzling. No wonder that, with these qualifications, Samuel
Wilkins found favour in the eyes of the other sex: many women have been
captivated by far less substantial qualifications. But, Samuel was
proof against their blandishments, until at length his eyes rested on
those of a Being for whom, from that time forth, he felt fate had
destined him. He came, and conquered—proposed, and was accepted—loved,
and was beloved. Mr. Wilkins ‘kept company’ with Jemima Evans.

Miss Evans (or Ivins, to adopt the pronunciation most in vogue with her
circle of acquaintance) had adopted in early life the useful pursuit of
shoe-binding, to which she had afterwards superadded the occupation of
a straw-bonnet maker. Herself, her maternal parent, and two sisters,
formed an harmonious quartett in the most secluded portion of
Camden-town; and here it was that Mr. Wilkins presented himself, one
Monday afternoon, in his best attire, with his face more shining and
his waistcoat more bright than either had ever appeared before. The
family were just going to tea, and were _so_ glad to see him. It was
quite a little feast; two ounces of seven-and-sixpenny green, and a
quarter of a pound of the best fresh; and Mr. Wilkins had brought a
pint of shrimps, neatly folded up in a clean belcher, to give a zest to
the meal, and propitiate Mrs. Ivins. Jemima was ‘cleaning herself’
up-stairs; so Mr. Samuel Wilkins sat down and talked domestic economy
with Mrs. Ivins, whilst the two youngest Miss Ivinses poked bits of
lighted brown paper between the bars under the kettle, to make the
water boil for tea.

‘I wos a thinking,’ said Mr. Samuel Wilkins, during a pause in the
conversation—‘I wos a thinking of taking J’mima to the Eagle
to-night.’—‘O my!’ exclaimed Mrs. Ivins. ‘Lor! how nice!’ said the
youngest Miss Ivins. ‘Well, I declare!’ added the youngest Miss Ivins
but one. ‘Tell J’mima to put on her white muslin, Tilly,’ screamed Mrs.
Ivins, with motherly anxiety; and down came J’mima herself soon
afterwards in a white muslin gown carefully hooked and eyed, a little
red shawl, plentifully pinned, a white straw bonnet trimmed with red
ribbons, a small necklace, a large pair of bracelets, Denmark satin
shoes, and open-worked stockings; white cotton gloves on her fingers,
and a cambric pocket-handkerchief, carefully folded up, in her hand—all
quite genteel and ladylike. And away went Miss J’mima Ivins and Mr.
Samuel Wilkins, and a dress-cane, with a gilt knob at the top, to the
admiration and envy of the street in general, and to the high
gratification of Mrs. Ivins, and the two youngest Miss Ivinses in
particular. They had no sooner turned into the Pancras-road, than who
should Miss J’mima Ivins stumble upon, by the most fortunate accident
in the world, but a young lady as she knew, with _her_ young man!—And
it is so strange how things do turn out sometimes—they were actually
going to the Eagle too. So Mr. Samuel Wilkins was introduced to Miss
J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, and they all walked on together,
talking, and laughing, and joking away like anything; and when they got
as far as Pentonville, Miss Ivins’s friend’s young man _would_ have the
ladies go into the Crown, to taste some shrub, which, after a great
blushing and giggling, and hiding of faces in elaborate
pocket-handkerchiefs, they consented to do. Having tasted it once, they
were easily prevailed upon to taste it again; and they sat out in the
garden tasting shrub, and looking at the Busses alternately, till it
was just the proper time to go to the Eagle; and then they resumed
their journey, and walked very fast, for fear they should lose the
beginning of the concert in the Rotunda.

‘How ev’nly!’ said Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend,
both at once, when they had passed the gate and were fairly inside the
gardens. There were the walks, beautifully gravelled and planted—and
the refreshment-boxes, painted and ornamented like so many
snuff-boxes—and the variegated lamps shedding their rich light upon the
company’s heads—and the place for dancing ready chalked for the
company’s feet—and a Moorish band playing at one end of the gardens—and
an opposition military band playing away at the other. Then, the
waiters were rushing to and fro with glasses of negus, and glasses of
brandy-and-water, and bottles of ale, and bottles of stout; and
ginger-beer was going off in one place, and practical jokes were going
on in another; and people were crowding to the door of the Rotunda; and
in short the whole scene was, as Miss J’mima Ivins, inspired by the
novelty, or the shrub, or both, observed—‘one of dazzling excitement.’
As to the concert-room, never was anything half so splendid. There was
an orchestra for the singers, all paint, gilding, and plate-glass; and
such an organ! Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man whispered it had
cost ‘four hundred pound,’ which Mr. Samuel Wilkins said was ‘not dear
neither;’ an opinion in which the ladies perfectly coincided. The
audience were seated on elevated benches round the room, and crowded
into every part of it; and everybody was eating and drinking as
comfortably as possible. Just before the concert commenced, Mr. Samuel
Wilkins ordered two glasses of rum-and-water ‘warm with—’ and two
slices of lemon, for himself and the other young man, together with ‘a
pint o’ sherry wine for the ladies, and some sweet carraway-seed
biscuits;’ and they would have been quite comfortable and happy, only a
strange gentleman with large whiskers _would_ stare at Miss J’mima
Ivins, and another gentleman in a plaid waistcoat _would_ wink at Miss
J’mima Ivins’s friend; on which Miss Jemima Ivins’s friend’s young man
exhibited symptoms of boiling over, and began to mutter about ‘people’s
imperence,’ and ‘swells out o’ luck;’ and to intimate, in oblique
terms, a vague intention of knocking somebody’s head off; which he was
only prevented from announcing more emphatically, by both Miss J’mima
Ivins and her friend threatening to faint away on the spot if he said
another word.

The concert commenced—overture on the organ. ‘How solemn!’ exclaimed
Miss J’mima Ivins, glancing, perhaps unconsciously, at the gentleman
with the whiskers. Mr. Samuel Wilkins, who had been muttering apart for
some time past, as if he were holding a confidential conversation with
the gilt knob of the dress-cane, breathed hard-breathing vengeance,
perhaps,—but said nothing. ‘The soldier tired,’ Miss Somebody in white
satin. ‘Ancore!’ cried Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend. ‘Ancore!’ shouted
the gentleman in the plaid waistcoat immediately, hammering the table
with a stout-bottle. Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man eyed the
man behind the waistcoat from head to foot, and cast a look of
interrogative contempt towards Mr. Samuel Wilkins. Comic song,
accompanied on the organ. Miss J’mima Ivins was convulsed with
laughter—so was the man with the whiskers. Everything the ladies did,
the plaid waistcoat and whiskers did, by way of expressing unity of
sentiment and congeniality of soul; and Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss
J’mima Ivins’s friend, grew lively and talkative, as Mr. Samuel
Wilkins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, grew morose and
surly in inverse proportion.

Now, if the matter had ended here, the little party might soon have
recovered their former equanimity; but Mr. Samuel Wilkins and his
friend began to throw looks of defiance upon the waistcoat and
whiskers. And the waistcoat and whiskers, by way of intimating the
slight degree in which they were affected by the looks aforesaid,
bestowed glances of increased admiration upon Miss J’mima Ivins and
friend. The concert and vaudeville concluded, they promenaded the
gardens. The waistcoat and whiskers did the same; and made divers
remarks complimentary to the ankles of Miss J’mima Ivins and friend, in
an audible tone. At length, not satisfied with these numerous
atrocities, they actually came up and asked Miss J’mima Ivins, and Miss
J’mima Ivins’s friend, to dance, without taking no more notice of Mr.
Samuel Wilkins, and Miss J’mima Ivins’s friend’s young man, than if
they was nobody!

‘What do you mean by that, scoundrel!’ exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins,
grasping the gilt-knobbed dress-cane firmly in his right hand. ‘What’s
the matter with _you_, you little humbug?’ replied the whiskers. ‘How
dare you insult me and my friend?’ inquired the friend’s young man.
‘You and your friend be hanged!’ responded the waistcoat. ‘Take that,’
exclaimed Mr. Samuel Wilkins. The ferrule of the gilt-knobbed
dress-cane was visible for an instant, and then the light of the
variegated lamps shone brightly upon it as it whirled into the air,
cane and all. ‘Give it him,’ said the waistcoat. ‘Horficer!’ screamed
the ladies. Miss J’mima Ivins’s beau, and the friend’s young man, lay
gasping on the gravel, and the waistcoat and whiskers were seen no
more.

Miss J’mima Ivins and friend being conscious that the affray was in no
slight degree attributable to themselves, of course went into hysterics
forthwith; declared themselves the most injured of women; exclaimed, in
incoherent ravings, that they had been suspected—wrongfully
suspected—oh! that they should ever have lived to see the day—and so
forth; suffered a relapse every time they opened their eyes and saw
their unfortunate little admirers; and were carried to their respective
abodes in a hackney-coach, and a state of insensibility, compounded of
shrub, sherry, and excitement.




CHAPTER V—THE PARLOUR ORATOR


We had been lounging one evening, down Oxford-street, Holborn,
Cheapside, Coleman-street, Finsbury-square, and so on, with the
intention of returning westward, by Pentonville and the New-road, when
we began to feel rather thirsty, and disposed to rest for five or ten
minutes. So, we turned back towards an old, quiet, decent public-house,
which we remembered to have passed but a moment before (it was not far
from the City-road), for the purpose of solacing ourself with a glass
of ale. The house was none of your stuccoed, French-polished,
illuminated palaces, but a modest public-house of the old school, with
a little old bar, and a little old landlord, who, with a wife and
daughter of the same pattern, was comfortably seated in the bar
aforesaid—a snug little room with a cheerful fire, protected by a large
screen: from behind which the young lady emerged on our representing
our inclination for a glass of ale.

‘Won’t you walk into the parlour, sir?’ said the young lady, in
seductive tones.

‘You had better walk into the parlour, sir,’ said the little old
landlord, throwing his chair back, and looking round one side of the
screen, to survey our appearance.

‘You had much better step into the parlour, sir,’ said the little old
lady, popping out her head, on the other side of the screen.

We cast a slight glance around, as if to express our ignorance of the
locality so much recommended. The little old landlord observed it;
bustled out of the small door of the small bar; and forthwith ushered
us into the parlour itself.

It was an ancient, dark-looking room, with oaken wainscoting, a sanded
floor, and a high mantel-piece. The walls were ornamented with three or
four old coloured prints in black frames, each print representing a
naval engagement, with a couple of men-of-war banging away at each
other most vigorously, while another vessel or two were blowing up in
the distance, and the foreground presented a miscellaneous collection
of broken masts and blue legs sticking up out of the water. Depending
from the ceiling in the centre of the room, were a gas-light and
bell-pull; on each side were three or four long narrow tables, behind
which was a thickly-planted row of those slippery, shiny-looking wooden
chairs, peculiar to hostelries of this description. The monotonous
appearance of the sanded boards was relieved by an occasional spittoon;
and a triangular pile of those useful articles adorned the two upper
corners of the apartment.

At the furthest table, nearest the fire, with his face towards the door
at the bottom of the room, sat a stoutish man of about forty, whose
short, stiff, black hair curled closely round a broad high forehead,
and a face to which something besides water and exercise had
communicated a rather inflamed appearance. He was smoking a cigar, with
his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and had that confident oracular air
which marked him as the leading politician, general authority, and
universal anecdote-relater, of the place. He had evidently just
delivered himself of something very weighty; for the remainder of the
company were puffing at their respective pipes and cigars in a kind of
solemn abstraction, as if quite overwhelmed with the magnitude of the
subject recently under discussion.

On his right hand sat an elderly gentleman with a white head, and
broad-brimmed brown hat; on his left, a sharp-nosed, light-haired man
in a brown surtout reaching nearly to his heels, who took a whiff at
his pipe, and an admiring glance at the red-faced man, alternately.

‘Very extraordinary!’ said the light-haired man after a pause of five
minutes. A murmur of assent ran through the company.

‘Not at all extraordinary—not at all,’ said the red-faced man,
awakening suddenly from his reverie, and turning upon the light-haired
man, the moment he had spoken.

‘Why should it be extraordinary?—why is it extraordinary?—prove it to
be extraordinary!’

‘Oh, if you come to that—’ said the light-haired man, meekly.

‘Come to that!’ ejaculated the man with the red face; ‘but we _must_
come to that. We stand, in these times, upon a calm elevation of
intellectual attainment, and not in the dark recess of mental
deprivation. Proof, is what I require—proof, and not assertions, in
these stirring times. Every gen’lem’n that knows me, knows what was the
nature and effect of my observations, when it was in the contemplation
of the Old-street Suburban Representative Discovery Society, to
recommend a candidate for that place in Cornwall there—I forget the
name of it. “Mr. Snobee,” said Mr. Wilson, “is a fit and proper person
to represent the borough in Parliament.” “Prove it,” says I. “He is a
friend to Reform,” says Mr. Wilson. “Prove it,” says I. “The
abolitionist of the national debt, the unflinching opponent of
pensions, the uncompromising advocate of the negro, the reducer of
sinecures and the duration of Parliaments; the extender of nothing but
the suffrages of the people,” says Mr. Wilson. “Prove it,” says I. “His
acts prove it,” says he. “Prove _them_,” says I.

‘And he could not prove them,’ said the red-faced man, looking round
triumphantly; ‘and the borough didn’t have him; and if you carried this
principle to the full extent, you’d have no debt, no pensions, no
sinecures, no negroes, no nothing. And then, standing upon an elevation
of intellectual attainment, and having reached the summit of popular
prosperity, you might bid defiance to the nations of the earth, and
erect yourselves in the proud confidence of wisdom and superiority.
This is my argument—this always has been my argument—and if I was a
Member of the House of Commons to-morrow, I’d make ’em shake in their
shoes with it. And the red-faced man, having struck the table very hard
with his clenched fist, to add weight to the declaration, smoked away
like a brewery.

‘Well!’ said the sharp-nosed man, in a very slow and soft voice,
addressing the company in general, ‘I always do say, that of all the
gentlemen I have the pleasure of meeting in this room, there is not one
whose conversation I like to hear so much as Mr. Rogers’s, or who is
such improving company.’

‘Improving company!’ said Mr. Rogers, for that, it seemed, was the name
of the red-faced man. ‘You may say I am improving company, for I’ve
improved you all to some purpose; though as to my conversation being as
my friend Mr. Ellis here describes it, that is not for me to say
anything about. You, gentlemen, are the best judges on that point; but
this I will say, when I came into this parish, and first used this
room, ten years ago, I don’t believe there was one man in it, who knew
he was a slave—and now you all know it, and writhe under it. Inscribe
that upon my tomb, and I am satisfied.’

‘Why, as to inscribing it on your tomb,’ said a little greengrocer with
a chubby face, ‘of course you can have anything chalked up, as you
likes to pay for, so far as it relates to yourself and your affairs;
but, when you come to talk about slaves, and that there abuse, you’d
better keep it in the family, ’cos I for one don’t like to be called
them names, night after night.’

‘You _are_ a slave,’ said the red-faced man, ‘and the most pitiable of
all slaves.’

‘Werry hard if I am,’ interrupted the greengrocer, ‘for I got no good
out of the twenty million that was paid for ’mancipation, anyhow.’

‘A willing slave,’ ejaculated the red-faced man, getting more red with
eloquence, and contradiction—‘resigning the dearest birthright of your
children—neglecting the sacred call of Liberty—who, standing
imploringly before you, appeals to the warmest feelings of your heart,
and points to your helpless infants, but in vain.’

‘Prove it,’ said the greengrocer.

‘Prove it!’ sneered the man with the red face. ‘What! bending beneath
the yoke of an insolent and factious oligarchy; bowed down by the
domination of cruel laws; groaning beneath tyranny and oppression on
every hand, at every side, and in every corner. Prove it!—’ The
red-faced man abruptly broke off, sneered melo-dramatically, and buried
his countenance and his indignation together, in a quart pot.

‘Ah, to be sure, Mr. Rogers,’ said a stout broker in a large waistcoat,
who had kept his eyes fixed on this luminary all the time he was
speaking. ‘Ah, to be sure,’ said the broker with a sigh, ‘that’s the
point.’

‘Of course, of course,’ said divers members of the company, who
understood almost as much about the matter as the broker himself.

‘You had better let him alone, Tommy,’ said the broker, by way of
advice to the little greengrocer; ‘he can tell what’s o’clock by an
eight-day, without looking at the minute hand, he can. Try it on, on
some other suit; it won’t do with him, Tommy.’

‘What is a man?’ continued the red-faced specimen of the species,
jerking his hat indignantly from its peg on the wall. ‘What is an
Englishman? Is he to be trampled upon by every oppressor? Is he to be
knocked down at everybody’s bidding? What’s freedom? Not a standing
army. What’s a standing army? Not freedom. What’s general happiness?
Not universal misery. Liberty ain’t the window-tax, is it? The Lords
ain’t the Commons, are they?’ And the red-faced man, gradually bursting
into a radiating sentence, in which such adjectives as ‘dastardly,’
‘oppressive,’ ‘violent,’ and ‘sanguinary,’ formed the most conspicuous
words, knocked his hat indignantly over his eyes, left the room, and
slammed the door after him.

‘Wonderful man!’ said he of the sharp nose.

‘Splendid speaker!’ added the broker.

‘Great power!’ said everybody but the greengrocer. And as they said it,
the whole party shook their heads mysteriously, and one by one retired,
leaving us alone in the old parlour.

If we had followed the established precedent in all such instances, we
should have fallen into a fit of musing, without delay. The ancient
appearance of the room—the old panelling of the wall—the chimney
blackened with smoke and age—would have carried us back a hundred years
at least, and we should have gone dreaming on, until the pewter-pot on
the table, or the little beer-chiller on the fire, had started into
life, and addressed to us a long story of days gone by. But, by some
means or other, we were not in a romantic humour; and although we tried
very hard to invest the furniture with vitality, it remained perfectly
unmoved, obstinate, and sullen. Being thus reduced to the unpleasant
necessity of musing about ordinary matters, our thoughts reverted to
the red-faced man, and his oratorical display.

A numerous race are these red-faced men; there is not a parlour, or
club-room, or benefit society, or humble party of any kind, without its
red-faced man. Weak-pated dolts they are, and a great deal of mischief
they do to their cause, however good. So, just to hold a pattern one
up, to know the others by, we took his likeness at once, and put him in
here. And that is the reason why we have written this paper.




CHAPTER VI—THE HOSPITAL PATIENT


In our rambles through the streets of London after evening has set in,
we often pause beneath the windows of some public hospital, and picture
to ourself the gloomy and mournful scenes that are passing within. The
sudden moving of a taper as its feeble ray shoots from window to
window, until its light gradually disappears, as if it were carried
farther back into the room to the bedside of some suffering patient, is
enough to awaken a whole crowd of reflections; the mere glimmering of
the low-burning lamps, which, when all other habitations are wrapped in
darkness and slumber, denote the chamber where so many forms are
writhing with pain, or wasting with disease, is sufficient to check the
most boisterous merriment.

Who can tell the anguish of those weary hours, when the only sound the
sick man hears, is the disjointed wanderings of some feverish slumberer
near him, the low moan of pain, or perhaps the muttered, long-forgotten
prayer of a dying man? Who, but they who have felt it, can imagine the
sense of loneliness and desolation which must be the portion of those
who in the hour of dangerous illness are left to be tended by
strangers; for what hands, be they ever so gentle, can wipe the clammy
brow, or smooth the restless bed, like those of mother, wife, or child?

Impressed with these thoughts, we have turned away, through the
nearly-deserted streets; and the sight of the few miserable creatures
still hovering about them, has not tended to lessen the pain which such
meditations awaken. The hospital is a refuge and resting-place for
hundreds, who but for such institutions must die in the streets and
doorways; but what can be the feelings of some outcasts when they are
stretched on the bed of sickness with scarcely a hope of recovery? The
wretched woman who lingers about the pavement, hours after midnight,
and the miserable shadow of a man—the ghastly remnant that want and
drunkenness have left—which crouches beneath a window-ledge, to sleep
where there is some shelter from the rain, have little to bind them to
life, but what have they to look back upon, in death? What are the
unwonted comforts of a roof and a bed, to them, when the recollections
of a whole life of debasement stalk before them; when repentance seems
a mockery, and sorrow comes too late?

About a twelvemonth ago, as we were strolling through Covent-garden (we
had been thinking about these things over-night), we were attracted by
the very prepossessing appearance of a pickpocket, who having declined
to take the trouble of walking to the Police-office, on the ground that
he hadn’t the slightest wish to go there at all, was being conveyed
thither in a wheelbarrow, to the huge delight of a crowd.

Somehow, we never can resist joining a crowd, so we turned back with
the mob, and entered the office, in company with our friend the
pickpocket, a couple of policemen, and as many dirty-faced spectators
as could squeeze their way in.

There was a powerful, ill-looking young fellow at the bar, who was
undergoing an examination, on the very common charge of having, on the
previous night, ill-treated a woman, with whom he lived in some court
hard by. Several witnesses bore testimony to acts of the grossest
brutality; and a certificate was read from the house-surgeon of a
neighbouring hospital, describing the nature of the injuries the woman
had received, and intimating that her recovery was extremely doubtful.

Some question appeared to have been raised about the identity of the
prisoner; for when it was agreed that the two magistrates should visit
the hospital at eight o’clock that evening, to take her deposition, it
was settled that the man should be taken there also. He turned pale at
this, and we saw him clench the bar very hard when the order was given.
He was removed directly afterwards, and he spoke not a word.

We felt an irrepressible curiosity to witness this interview, although
it is hard to tell why, at this instant, for we knew it must be a
painful one. It was no very difficult matter for us to gain permission,
and we obtained it.

The prisoner, and the officer who had him in custody, were already at
the hospital when we reached it, and waiting the arrival of the
magistrates in a small room below stairs. The man was handcuffed, and
his hat was pulled forward over his eyes. It was easy to see, though,
by the whiteness of his countenance, and the constant twitching of the
muscles of his face, that he dreaded what was to come. After a short
interval, the magistrates and clerk were bowed in by the house-surgeon
and a couple of young men who smelt very strong of tobacco-smoke—they
were introduced as ‘dressers’—and after one magistrate had complained
bitterly of the cold, and the other of the absence of any news in the
evening paper, it was announced that the patient was prepared; and we
were conducted to the ‘casualty ward’ in which she was lying.

The dim light which burnt in the spacious room, increased rather than
diminished the ghastly appearance of the hapless creatures in the beds,
which were ranged in two long rows on either side. In one bed, lay a
child enveloped in bandages, with its body half-consumed by fire; in
another, a female, rendered hideous by some dreadful accident, was
wildly beating her clenched fists on the coverlet, in pain; on a third,
there lay stretched a young girl, apparently in the heavy stupor often
the immediate precursor of death: her face was stained with blood, and
her breast and arms were bound up in folds of linen. Two or three of
the beds were empty, and their recent occupants were sitting beside
them, but with faces so wan, and eyes so bright and glassy, that it was
fearful to meet their gaze. On every face was stamped the expression of
anguish and suffering.

The object of the visit was lying at the upper end of the room. She was
a fine young woman of about two or three and twenty. Her long black
hair, which had been hastily cut from near the wounds on her head,
streamed over the pillow in jagged and matted locks. Her face bore deep
marks of the ill-usage she had received: her hand was pressed upon her
side, as if her chief pain were there; her breathing was short and
heavy; and it was plain to see that she was dying fast. She murmured a
few words in reply to the magistrate’s inquiry whether she was in great
pain; and, having been raised on the pillow by the nurse, looked
vacantly upon the strange countenances that surrounded her bed. The
magistrate nodded to the officer, to bring the man forward. He did so,
and stationed him at the bedside. The girl looked on with a wild and
troubled expression of face; but her sight was dim, and she did not
know him.

‘Take off his hat,’ said the magistrate. The officer did as he was
desired, and the man’s features were disclosed.

The girl started up, with an energy quite preternatural; the fire
gleamed in her heavy eyes, and the blood rushed to her pale and sunken
cheeks. It was a convulsive effort. She fell back upon her pillow, and
covering her scarred and bruised face with her hands, burst into tears.
The man cast an anxious look towards her, but otherwise appeared wholly
unmoved. After a brief pause the nature of the errand was explained,
and the oath tendered.

‘Oh, no, gentlemen,’ said the girl, raising herself once more, and
folding her hands together; ‘no, gentlemen, for God’s sake! I did it
myself—it was nobody’s fault—it was an accident. He didn’t hurt me; he
wouldn’t for all the world. Jack, dear Jack, you know you wouldn’t!’

Her sight was fast failing her, and her hand groped over the bedclothes
in search of his. Brute as the man was, he was not prepared for this.
He turned his face from the bed, and sobbed. The girl’s colour changed,
and her breathing grew more difficult. She was evidently dying.

‘We respect the feelings which prompt you to this,’ said the gentleman
who had spoken first, ‘but let me warn you, not to persist in what you
know to be untrue, until it is too late. It cannot save him.’

‘Jack,’ murmured the girl, laying her hand upon his arm, ‘they shall
not persuade me to swear your life away. He didn’t do it, gentlemen. He
never hurt me.’ She grasped his arm tightly, and added, in a broken
whisper, ‘I hope God Almighty will forgive me all the wrong I have
done, and the life I have led. God bless you, Jack. Some kind gentleman
take my love to my poor old father. Five years ago, he said he wished I
had died a child. Oh, I wish I had! I wish I had!’

The nurse bent over the girl for a few seconds, and then drew the sheet
over her face. It covered a corpse.




CHAPTER VII—THE MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE


If we had to make a classification of society, there is a particular
kind of men whom we should immediately set down under the head of ‘Old
Boys;’ and a column of most extensive dimensions the old boys would
require. To what precise causes the rapid advance of old-boy population
is to be traced, we are unable to determine. It would be an interesting
and curious speculation, but, as we have not sufficient space to devote
to it here, we simply state the fact that the numbers of the old boys
have been gradually augmenting within the last few years, and that they
are at this moment alarmingly on the increase.

Upon a general review of the subject, and without considering it
minutely in detail, we should be disposed to subdivide the old boys
into two distinct classes—the gay old boys, and the steady old boys.
The gay old boys, are paunchy old men in the disguise of young ones,
who frequent the Quadrant and Regent-street in the day-time: the
theatres (especially theatres under lady management) at night; and who
assume all the foppishness and levity of boys, without the excuse of
youth or inexperience. The steady old boys are certain stout old
gentlemen of clean appearance, who are always to be seen in the same
taverns, at the same hours every evening, smoking and drinking in the
same company.

There was once a fine collection of old boys to be seen round the
circular table at Offley’s every night, between the hours of half-past
eight and half-past eleven. We have lost sight of them for some time.
There were, and may be still, for aught we know, two splendid specimens
in full blossom at the Rainbow Tavern in Fleet-street, who always used
to sit in the box nearest the fireplace, and smoked long cherry-stick
pipes which went under the table, with the bowls resting on the floor.
Grand old boys they were—fat, red-faced, white-headed old
fellows—always there—one on one side the table, and the other
opposite—puffing and drinking away in great state. Everybody knew them,
and it was supposed by some people that they were both immortal.

Mr. John Dounce was an old boy of the latter class (we don’t mean
immortal, but steady), a retired glove and braces maker, a widower,
resident with three daughters—all grown up, and all unmarried—in
Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane. He was a short, round, large-faced,
tubbish sort of man, with a broad-brimmed hat, and a square coat; and
had that grave, but confident, kind of roll, peculiar to old boys in
general. Regular as clockwork—breakfast at nine—dress and tittivate a
little—down to the Sir Somebody’s Head—a glass of ale and the
paper—come back again, and take daughters out for a walk—dinner at
three—glass of grog and pipe—nap—tea—little walk—Sir Somebody’s Head
again—capital house—delightful evenings. There were Mr. Harris, the
law-stationer, and Mr. Jennings, the robe-maker (two jolly young
fellows like himself), and Jones, the barrister’s clerk—rum fellow that
Jones—capital company—full of anecdote!—and there they sat every night
till just ten minutes before twelve, drinking their brandy-and-water,
and smoking their pipes, and telling stories, and enjoying themselves
with a kind of solemn joviality particularly edifying.

Sometimes Jones would propose a half-price visit to Drury Lane or
Covent Garden, to see two acts of a five-act play, and a new farce,
perhaps, or a ballet, on which occasions the whole four of them went
together: none of your hurrying and nonsense, but having their
brandy-and-water first, comfortably, and ordering a steak and some
oysters for their supper against they came back, and then walking
coolly into the pit, when the ‘rush’ had gone in, as all sensible
people do, and did when Mr. Dounce was a young man, except when the
celebrated Master Betty was at the height of his popularity, and then,
sir,—then—Mr. Dounce perfectly well remembered getting a holiday from
business; and going to the pit doors at eleven o’clock in the forenoon,
and waiting there, till six in the afternoon, with some sandwiches in a
pocket-handkerchief and some wine in a phial; and fainting after all,
with the heat and fatigue, before the play began; in which situation he
was lifted out of the pit, into one of the dress boxes, sir, by five of
the finest women of that day, sir, who compassionated his situation and
administered restoratives, and sent a black servant, six foot high, in
blue and silver livery, next morning with their compliments, and to
know how he found himself, sir—by G-! Between the acts Mr. Dounce and
Mr. Harris, and Mr. Jennings, used to stand up, and look round the
house, and Jones—knowing fellow that Jones—knew everybody—pointed out
the fashionable and celebrated Lady So-and-So in the boxes, at the
mention of whose name Mr. Dounce, after brushing up his hair, and
adjusting his neckerchief, would inspect the aforesaid Lady So-and-So
through an immense glass, and remark, either, that she was a ‘fine
woman—very fine woman, indeed,’ or that ‘there might be a little more
of her, eh, Jones?’ Just as the case might happen to be. When the
dancing began, John Dounce and the other old boys were particularly
anxious to see what was going forward on the stage, and Jones—wicked
dog that Jones—whispered little critical remarks into the ears of John
Dounce, which John Dounce retailed to Mr. Harris and Mr. Harris to Mr.
Jennings; and then they all four laughed, until the tears ran down out
of their eyes.

When the curtain fell, they walked back together, two and two, to the
steaks and oysters; and when they came to the second glass of
brandy-and-water, Jones—hoaxing scamp, that Jones—used to recount how
he had observed a lady in white feathers, in one of the pit boxes,
gazing intently on Mr. Dounce all the evening, and how he had caught
Mr. Dounce, whenever he thought no one was looking at him, bestowing
ardent looks of intense devotion on the lady in return; on which Mr.
Harris and Mr. Jennings used to laugh very heartily, and John Dounce
more heartily than either of them, acknowledging, however, that the
time _had_ been when he _might_ have done such things; upon which Mr.
Jones used to poke him in the ribs, and tell him he had been a sad dog
in his time, which John Dounce with chuckles confessed. And after Mr.
Harris and Mr. Jennings had preferred their claims to the character of
having been sad dogs too, they separated harmoniously, and trotted
home.

The decrees of Fate, and the means by which they are brought about, are
mysterious and inscrutable. John Dounce had led this life for twenty
years and upwards, without wish for change, or care for variety, when
his whole social system was suddenly upset and turned completely
topsy-turvy—not by an earthquake, or some other dreadful convulsion of
nature, as the reader would be inclined to suppose, but by the simple
agency of an oyster; and thus it happened.

Mr. John Dounce was returning one night from the Sir Somebody’s Head,
to his residence in Cursitor-street—not tipsy, but rather excited, for
it was Mr. Jennings’s birthday, and they had had a brace of partridges
for supper, and a brace of extra glasses afterwards, and Jones had been
more than ordinarily amusing—when his eyes rested on a newly-opened
oyster-shop, on a magnificent scale, with natives laid, one deep, in
circular marble basins in the windows, together with little round
barrels of oysters directed to Lords and Baronets, and Colonels and
Captains, in every part of the habitable globe.

Behind the natives were the barrels, and behind the barrels was a young
lady of about five-and-twenty, all in blue, and all alone—splendid
creature, charming face and lovely figure! It is difficult to say
whether Mr. John Dounce’s red countenance, illuminated as it was by the
flickering gas-light in the window before which he paused, excited the
lady’s risibility, or whether a natural exuberance of animal spirits
proved too much for that staidness of demeanour which the forms of
society rather dictatorially prescribe. But certain it is, that the
lady smiled; then put her finger upon her lip, with a striking
recollection of what was due to herself; and finally retired, in
oyster-like bashfulness, to the very back of the counter. The sad-dog
sort of feeling came strongly upon John Dounce: he lingered—the lady in
blue made no sign. He coughed—still she came not. He entered the shop.

‘Can you open me an oyster, my dear?’ said Mr. John Dounce.

‘Dare say I can, sir,’ replied the lady in blue, with playfulness. And
Mr. John Dounce eat one oyster, and then looked at the young lady, and
then eat another, and then squeezed the young lady’s hand as she was
opening the third, and so forth, until he had devoured a dozen of those
at eightpence in less than no time.

‘Can you open me half-a-dozen more, my dear?’ inquired Mr. John Dounce.

‘I’ll see what I can do for you, sir,’ replied the young lady in blue,
even more bewitchingly than before; and Mr. John Dounce eat
half-a-dozen more of those at eightpence.

‘You couldn’t manage to get me a glass of brandy-and-water, my dear, I
suppose?’ said Mr. John Dounce, when he had finished the oysters: in a
tone which clearly implied his supposition that she could.

‘I’ll see, sir,’ said the young lady: and away she ran out of the shop,
and down the street, her long auburn ringlets shaking in the wind in
the most enchanting manner; and back she came again, tripping over the
coal-cellar lids like a whipping-top, with a tumbler of
brandy-and-water, which Mr. John Dounce insisted on her taking a share
of, as it was regular ladies’ grog—hot, strong, sweet, and plenty of
it.

So, the young lady sat down with Mr. John Dounce, in a little red box
with a green curtain, and took a small sip of the brandy-and-water, and
a small look at Mr. John Dounce, and then turned her head away, and
went through various other serio-pantomimic fascinations, which
forcibly reminded Mr. John Dounce of the first time he courted his
first wife, and which made him feel more affectionate than ever; in
pursuance of which affection, and actuated by which feeling, Mr. John
Dounce sounded the young lady on her matrimonial engagements, when the
young lady denied having formed any such engagements at all—she
couldn’t abear the men, they were such deceivers; thereupon Mr. John
Dounce inquired whether this sweeping condemnation was meant to include
other than very young men; on which the young lady blushed deeply—at
least she turned away her head, and said Mr. John Dounce had made her
blush, so of course she _did_ blush—and Mr. John Dounce was a long time
drinking the brandy-and-water; and, at last, John Dounce went home to
bed, and dreamed of his first wife, and his second wife, and the young
lady, and partridges, and oysters, and brandy-and-water, and
disinterested attachments.

The next morning, John Dounce was rather feverish with the extra
brandy-and-water of the previous night; and, partly in the hope of
cooling himself with an oyster, and partly with the view of
ascertaining whether he owed the young lady anything, or not, went back
to the oyster-shop. If the young lady had appeared beautiful by night,
she was perfectly irresistible by day; and, from this time forward, a
change came over the spirit of John Dounce’s dream. He bought
shirt-pins; wore a ring on his third finger; read poetry; bribed a
cheap miniature-painter to perpetrate a faint resemblance to a youthful
face, with a curtain over his head, six large books in the background,
and an open country in the distance (this he called his portrait);
‘went on’ altogether in such an uproarious manner, that the three Miss
Dounces went off on small pensions, he having made the tenement in
Cursitor-street too warm to contain them; and in short, comported and
demeaned himself in every respect like an unmitigated old Saracen, as
he was.

As to his ancient friends, the other old boys, at the Sir Somebody’s
Head, he dropped off from them by gradual degrees; for, even when he
did go there, Jones—vulgar fellow that Jones—persisted in asking ‘when
it was to be?’ and ‘whether he was to have any gloves?’ together with
other inquiries of an equally offensive nature: at which not only
Harris laughed, but Jennings also; so, he cut the two, altogether, and
attached himself solely to the blue young lady at the smart
oyster-shop.

Now comes the moral of the story—for it has a moral after all. The
last-mentioned young lady, having derived sufficient profit and
emolument from John Dounce’s attachment, not only refused, when matters
came to a crisis, to take him for better for worse, but expressly
declared, to use her own forcible words, that she ‘wouldn’t have him at
no price;’ and John Dounce, having lost his old friends, alienated his
relations, and rendered himself ridiculous to everybody, made offers
successively to a schoolmistress, a landlady, a feminine tobacconist,
and a housekeeper; and, being directly rejected by each and every of
them, was accepted by his cook, with whom he now lives, a henpecked
husband, a melancholy monument of antiquated misery, and a living
warning to all uxorious old boys.




CHAPTER VIII—THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. A TALE OF AMBITION


Miss Amelia Martin was pale, tallish, thin, and two-and-thirty—what
ill-natured people would call plain, and police reports interesting.
She was a milliner and dressmaker, living on her business and not above
it. If you had been a young lady in service, and had wanted Miss
Martin, as a great many young ladies in service did, you would just
have stepped up, in the evening, to number forty-seven,
Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square, and after casting your
eye on a brass door-plate, one foot ten by one and a half, ornamented
with a great brass knob at each of the four corners, and bearing the
inscription ‘Miss Martin; millinery and dressmaking, in all its
branches;’ you’d just have knocked two loud knocks at the street-door;
and down would have come Miss Martin herself, in a merino gown of the
newest fashion, black velvet bracelets on the genteelest principle, and
other little elegancies of the most approved description.

If Miss Martin knew the young lady who called, or if the young lady who
called had been recommended by any other young lady whom Miss Martin
knew, Miss Martin would forthwith show her up-stairs into the two-pair
front, and chat she would—_so_ kind, and _so_ comfortable—it really
wasn’t like a matter of business, she was so friendly; and, then Miss
Martin, after contemplating the figure and general appearance of the
young lady in service with great apparent admiration, would say how
well she would look, to be sure, in a low dress with short sleeves;
made very full in the skirts, with four tucks in the bottom; to which
the young lady in service would reply in terms expressive of her entire
concurrence in the notion, and of the virtuous indignation with which
she reflected on the tyranny of ‘Missis,’ who wouldn’t allow a young
girl to wear a short sleeve of an arternoon—no, nor nothing smart, not
even a pair of ear-rings; let alone hiding people’s heads of hair under
them frightful caps. At the termination of this complaint, Miss Amelia
Martin would distantly suggest certain dark suspicions that some people
were jealous on account of their own daughters, and were obliged to
keep their servants’ charms under, for fear they should get married
first, which was no uncommon circumstance—leastways she had known two
or three young ladies in service, who had married a great deal better
than their missises, and _they_ were not very good-looking either; and
then the young lady would inform Miss Martin, in confidence, that how
one of their young ladies was engaged to a young man and was a-going to
be married, and Missis was so proud about it there was no bearing of
her; but how she needn’t hold her head quite so high neither, for,
after all, he was only a clerk. And, after expressing due contempt for
clerks in general, and the engaged clerk in particular, and the highest
opinion possible of themselves and each other, Miss Martin and the
young lady in service would bid each other good night, in a friendly
but perfectly genteel manner: and the one went back to her ‘place,’ and
the other, to her room on the second-floor front.

There is no saying how long Miss Amelia Martin might have continued
this course of life; how extensive a connection she might have
established among young ladies in service; or what amount her demands
upon their quarterly receipts might have ultimately attained, had not
an unforeseen train of circumstances directed her thoughts to a sphere
of action very different from dressmaking or millinery.

A friend of Miss Martin’s who had long been keeping company with an
ornamental painter and decorator’s journeyman, at last consented (on
being at last asked to do so) to name the day which would make the
aforesaid journeyman a happy husband. It was a Monday that was
appointed for the celebration of the nuptials, and Miss Amelia Martin
was invited, among others, to honour the wedding-dinner with her
presence. It was a charming party; Somers-town the locality, and a
front parlour the apartment. The ornamental painter and decorator’s
journeyman had taken a house—no lodgings nor vulgarity of that kind,
but a house—four beautiful rooms, and a delightful little washhouse at
the end of the passage—which was the most convenient thing in the
world, for the bridesmaids could sit in the front parlour and receive
the company, and then run into the little washhouse and see how the
pudding and boiled pork were getting on in the copper, and then pop
back into the parlour again, as snug and comfortable as possible. And
such a parlour as it was! Beautiful Kidderminster carpet—six bran-new
cane-bottomed stained chairs—three wine-glasses and a tumbler on each
sideboard—farmer’s girl and farmer’s boy on the mantelpiece: girl
tumbling over a stile, and boy spitting himself, on the handle of a
pitchfork—long white dimity curtains in the window—and, in short,
everything on the most genteel scale imaginable.

Then, the dinner. There was baked leg of mutton at the top, boiled leg
of mutton at the bottom, pair of fowls and leg of pork in the middle;
porter-pots at the corners; pepper, mustard, and vinegar in the centre;
vegetables on the floor; and plum-pudding and apple-pie and tartlets
without number: to say nothing of cheese, and celery, and
water-cresses, and all that sort of thing. As to the Company! Miss
Amelia Martin herself declared, on a subsequent occasion, that, much as
she had heard of the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s connexion, she
never could have supposed it was half so genteel. There was his father,
such a funny old gentleman—and his mother, such a dear old lady—and his
sister, such a charming girl—and his brother, such a manly-looking
young man—with such a eye! But even all these were as nothing when
compared with his musical friends, Mr. and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, from
White Conduit, with whom the ornamental painter’s journeyman had been
fortunate enough to contract an intimacy while engaged in decorating
the concert-room of that noble institution. To hear them sing
separately, was divine, but when they went through the tragic duet of
‘Red Ruffian, retire!’ it was, as Miss Martin afterwards remarked,
‘thrilling.’ And why (as Mr. Jennings Rodolph observed) why were they
not engaged at one of the patent theatres? If he was to be told that
their voices were not powerful enough to fill the House, his only reply
was, that he would back himself for any amount to fill Russell-square—a
statement in which the company, after hearing the duet, expressed their
full belief; so they all said it was shameful treatment; and both Mr.
and Mrs. Jennings Rodolph said it was shameful too; and Mr. Jennings
Rodolph looked very serious, and said he knew who his malignant
opponents were, but they had better take care how far they went, for if
they irritated him too much he had not quite made up his mind whether
he wouldn’t bring the subject before Parliament; and they all agreed
that it ‘’ud serve ’em quite right, and it was very proper that such
people should be made an example of.’ So Mr. Jennings Rodolph said he’d
think of it.

When the conversation resumed its former tone, Mr. Jennings Rodolph
claimed his right to call upon a lady, and the right being conceded,
trusted Miss Martin would favour the company—a proposal which met with
unanimous approbation, whereupon Miss Martin, after sundry hesitatings
and coughings, with a preparatory choke or two, and an introductory
declaration that she was frightened to death to attempt it before such
great judges of the art, commenced a species of treble chirruping
containing frequent allusions to some young gentleman of the name of
Hen-e-ry, with an occasional reference to madness and broken hearts.
Mr. Jennings Rodolph frequently interrupted the progress of the song,
by ejaculating ‘Beautiful!’—‘Charming!’—‘Brilliant!’—‘Oh! splendid,’
&c.; and at its close the admiration of himself, and his lady, knew no
bounds.

‘Did you ever hear so sweet a voice, my dear?’ inquired Mr. Jennings
Rodolph of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

‘Never; indeed I never did, love,’ replied Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

‘Don’t you think Miss Martin, with a little cultivation, would be very
like Signora Marra Boni, my dear?’ asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph.

‘Just exactly the very thing that struck me, my love,’ answered Mrs.
Jennings Rodolph.

And thus the time passed away; Mr. Jennings Rodolph played tunes on a
walking-stick, and then went behind the parlour-door and gave his
celebrated imitations of actors, edge-tools, and animals; Miss Martin
sang several other songs with increased admiration every time; and even
the funny old gentleman began singing. His song had properly seven
verses, but as he couldn’t recollect more than the first one, he sang
that over seven times, apparently very much to his own personal
gratification. And then all the company sang the national anthem with
national independence—each for himself, without reference to the
other—and finally separated: all declaring that they never had spent so
pleasant an evening: and Miss Martin inwardly resolving to adopt the
advice of Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and to ‘come out’ without delay.

Now, ‘coming out,’ either in acting, or singing, or society, or
facetiousness, or anything else, is all very well, and remarkably
pleasant to the individual principally concerned, if he or she can but
manage to come out with a burst, and being out, to keep out, and not go
in again; but, it does unfortunately happen that both consummations are
extremely difficult to accomplish, and that the difficulties, of
getting out at all in the first instance, and if you surmount them, of
keeping out in the second, are pretty much on a par, and no slight ones
either—and so Miss Amelia Martin shortly discovered. It is a singular
fact (there being ladies in the case) that Miss Amelia Martin’s
principal foible was vanity, and the leading characteristic of Mrs.
Jennings Rodolph an attachment to dress. Dismal wailings were heard to
issue from the second-floor front of number forty-seven,
Drummond-street, George-street, Euston-square; it was Miss Martin
practising. Half-suppressed murmurs disturbed the calm dignity of the
White Conduit orchestra at the commencement of the season. It was the
appearance of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph in full dress, that occasioned
them. Miss Martin studied incessantly—the practising was the
consequence. Mrs. Jennings Rodolph taught gratuitously now and then—the
dresses were the result.

Weeks passed away; the White Conduit season had begun, and progressed,
and was more than half over. The dressmaking business had fallen off,
from neglect; and its profits had dwindled away almost imperceptibly. A
benefit-night approached; Mr. Jennings Rodolph yielded to the earnest
solicitations of Miss Amelia Martin, and introduced her personally to
the ‘comic gentleman’ whose benefit it was. The comic gentleman was all
smiles and blandness—he had composed a duet, expressly for the
occasion, and Miss Martin should sing it with him. The night arrived;
there was an immense room—ninety-seven sixpenn’orths of gin-and-water,
thirty-two small glasses of brandy-and-water, five-and-twenty bottled
ales, and forty-one neguses; and the ornamental painter’s journeyman,
with his wife and a select circle of acquaintance, were seated at one
of the side-tables near the orchestra. The concert began.
Song—sentimental—by a light-haired young gentleman in a blue coat, and
bright basket buttons—[applause]. Another song, doubtful, by another
gentleman in another blue coat and more bright basket
buttons—[increased applause]. Duet, Mr. Jennings Rodolph, and Mrs.
Jennings Rodolph, ‘Red Ruffian, retire!’—[great applause]. Solo, Miss
Julia Montague (positively on this occasion only)—‘I am a
Friar’—[enthusiasm]. Original duet, comic—Mr. H. Taplin (the comic
gentleman) and Miss Martin—‘The Time of Day.’ ‘Brayvo!—Brayvo!’ cried
the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party, as Miss Martin was
gracefully led in by the comic gentleman. ‘Go to work, Harry,’ cried
the comic gentleman’s personal friends. ‘Tap-tap-tap,’ went the
leader’s bow on the music-desk. The symphony began, and was soon
afterwards followed by a faint kind of ventriloquial chirping,
proceeding apparently from the deepest recesses of the interior of Miss
Amelia Martin. ‘Sing out’—shouted one gentleman in a white great-coat.
‘Don’t be afraid to put the steam on, old gal,’ exclaimed another,
‘S-s-s-s-s-s-s’-went the five-and-twenty bottled ales. ‘Shame, shame!’
remonstrated the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s party—‘S-s-s-s’ went
the bottled ales again, accompanied by all the gins, and a majority of
the brandies.

‘Turn them geese out,’ cried the ornamental painter’s journeyman’s
party, with great indignation.

‘Sing out,’ whispered Mr. Jennings Rodolph.

‘So I do,’ responded Miss Amelia Martin.

‘Sing louder,’ said Mrs. Jennings Rodolph.

‘I can’t,’ replied Miss Amelia Martin.

‘Off, off, off,’ cried the rest of the audience.

‘Bray-vo!’ shouted the painter’s party. It wouldn’t do—Miss Amelia
Martin left the orchestra, with much less ceremony than she had entered
it; and, as she couldn’t sing out, never came out. The general good
humour was not restored until Mr. Jennings Rodolph had become purple in
the face, by imitating divers quadrupeds for half an hour, without
being able to render himself audible; and, to this day, neither has
Miss Amelia Martin’s good humour been restored, nor the dresses made
for and presented to Mrs. Jennings Rodolph, nor the local abilities
which Mr. Jennings Rodolph once staked his professional reputation that
Miss Martin possessed.




CHAPTER IX—THE DANCING ACADEMY


Of all the dancing academies that ever were established, there never
was one more popular in its immediate vicinity than Signor
Billsmethi’s, of the ‘King’s Theatre.’ It was not in Spring-gardens, or
Newman-street, or Berners-street, or Gower-street, or Charlotte-street,
or Percy-street, or any other of the numerous streets which have been
devoted time out of mind to professional people, dispensaries, and
boarding-houses; it was not in the West-end at all—it rather
approximated to the eastern portion of London, being situated in the
populous and improving neighbourhood of Gray’s-inn-lane. It was not a
dear dancing academy—four-and-sixpence a quarter is decidedly cheap
upon the whole. It was _very_ select, the number of pupils being
strictly limited to seventy-five, and a quarter’s payment in advance
being rigidly exacted. There was public tuition and private tuition—an
assembly-room and a parlour. Signor Billsmethi’s family were always
thrown in with the parlour, and included in parlour price; that is to
say, a private pupil had Signor Billsmethi’s parlour to dance _in_, and
Signor Billsmethi’s family to dance _with_; and when he had been
sufficiently broken in in the parlour, he began to run in couples in
the assembly-room.

Such was the dancing academy of Signor Billsmethi, when Mr. Augustus
Cooper, of Fetter-lane, first saw an unstamped advertisement walking
leisurely down Holborn-hill, announcing to the world that Signor
Billsmethi, of the King’s Theatre, intended opening for the season with
a Grand Ball.

Now, Mr. Augustus Cooper was in the oil and colour line—just of age,
with a little money, a little business, and a little mother, who,
having managed her husband and _his_ business in his lifetime, took to
managing her son and _his_ business after his decease; and so, somehow
or other, he had been cooped up in the little back parlour behind the
shop on week-days, and in a little deal box without a lid (called by
courtesy a pew) at Bethel Chapel, on Sundays, and had seen no more of
the world than if he had been an infant all his days; whereas Young
White, at the gas-fitter’s over the way, three years younger than him,
had been flaring away like winkin’—going to the theatre—supping at
harmonic meetings—eating oysters by the barrel—drinking stout by the
gallon—even out all night, and coming home as cool in the morning as if
nothing had happened. So Mr. Augustus Cooper made up his mind that he
would not stand it any longer, and had that very morning expressed to
his mother a firm determination to be ‘blowed,’ in the event of his not
being instantly provided with a street-door key. And he was walking
down Holborn-hill, thinking about all these things, and wondering how
he could manage to get introduced into genteel society for the first
time, when his eyes rested on Signor Billsmethi’s announcement, which
it immediately struck him was just the very thing he wanted; for he
should not only be able to select a genteel circle of acquaintance at
once, out of the five-and-seventy pupils at four-and-sixpence a
quarter, but should qualify himself at the same time to go through a
hornpipe in private society, with perfect ease to himself and great
delight to his friends. So, he stopped the unstamped advertisement—an
animated sandwich, composed of a boy between two boards—and having
procured a very small card with the Signor’s address indented thereon,
walked straight at once to the Signor’s house—and very fast he walked
too, for fear the list should be filled up, and the five-and-seventy
completed, before he got there. The Signor was at home, and, what was
still more gratifying, he was an Englishman! Such a nice man—and so
polite! The list was not full, but it was a most extraordinary
circumstance that there was only just one vacancy, and even that one
would have been filled up, that very morning, only Signor Billsmethi
was dissatisfied with the reference, and, being very much afraid that
the lady wasn’t select, wouldn’t take her.

‘And very much delighted I am, Mr. Cooper,’ said Signor Billsmethi,
‘that I did _not_ take her. I assure you, Mr. Cooper—I don’t say it to
flatter you, for I know you’re above it—that I consider myself
extremely fortunate in having a gentleman of your manners and
appearance, sir.’

‘I am very glad of it too, sir,’ said Augustus Cooper.

‘And I hope we shall be better acquainted, sir,’ said Signor
Billsmethi.

‘And I’m sure I hope we shall too, sir,’ responded Augustus Cooper.
Just then, the door opened, and in came a young lady, with her hair
curled in a crop all over her head, and her shoes tied in sandals all
over her ankles.

‘Don’t run away, my dear,’ said Signor Billsmethi; for the young lady
didn’t know Mr. Cooper was there when she ran in, and was going to run
out again in her modesty, all in confusion-like. ‘Don’t run away, my
dear,’ said Signor Billsmethi, ‘this is Mr. Cooper—Mr. Cooper, of
Fetter-lane. Mr. Cooper, my daughter, sir—Miss Billsmethi, sir, who I
hope will have the pleasure of dancing many a quadrille, minuet,
gavotte, country-dance, fandango, double-hornpipe, and
farinagholkajingo with you, sir. She dances them all, sir; and so shall
you, sir, before you’re a quarter older, sir.’

And Signor Bellsmethi slapped Mr. Augustus Cooper on the back, as if he
had known him a dozen years,—so friendly;—and Mr. Cooper bowed to the
young lady, and the young lady curtseyed to him, and Signor Billsmethi
said they were as handsome a pair as ever he’d wish to see; upon which
the young lady exclaimed, ‘Lor, pa!’ and blushed as red as Mr. Cooper
himself—you might have thought they were both standing under a red lamp
at a chemist’s shop; and before Mr. Cooper went away it was settled
that he should join the family circle that very night—taking them just
as they were—no ceremony nor nonsense of that kind—and learn his
positions in order that he might lose no time, and be able to come out
at the forthcoming ball.

Well; Mr. Augustus Cooper went away to one of the cheap shoemakers’
shops in Holborn, where gentlemen’s dress-pumps are seven-and-sixpence,
and men’s strong walking just nothing at all, and bought a pair of the
regular seven-and-sixpenny, long-quartered, town-mades, in which he
astonished himself quite as much as his mother, and sallied forth to
Signor Billsmethi’s. There were four other private pupils in the
parlour: two ladies and two gentlemen. Such nice people! Not a bit of
pride about them. One of the ladies in particular, who was in training
for a Columbine, was remarkably affable; and she and Miss Billsmethi
took such an interest in Mr. Augustus Cooper, and joked, and smiled,
and looked so bewitching, that he got quite at home, and learnt his
steps in no time. After the practising was over, Signor Billsmethi, and
Miss Billsmethi, and Master Billsmethi, and a young lady, and the two
ladies, and the two gentlemen, danced a quadrille—none of your slipping
and sliding about, but regular warm work, flying into corners, and
diving among chairs, and shooting out at the door,—something like
dancing! Signor Billsmethi in particular, notwithstanding his having a
little fiddle to play all the time, was out on the landing every
figure, and Master Billsmethi, when everybody else was breathless,
danced a hornpipe, with a cane in his hand, and a cheese-plate on his
head, to the unqualified admiration of the whole company. Then, Signor
Billsmethi insisted, as they were so happy, that they should all stay
to supper, and proposed sending Master Billsmethi for the beer and
spirits, whereupon the two gentlemen swore, ‘strike ’em wulgar if
they’d stand that;’ and were just going to quarrel who should pay for
it, when Mr. Augustus Cooper said he would, if they’d have the kindness
to allow him—and they _had_ the kindness to allow him; and Master
Billsmethi brought the beer in a can, and the rum in a quart pot. They
had a regular night of it; and Miss Billsmethi squeezed Mr. Augustus
Cooper’s hand under the table; and Mr. Augustus Cooper returned the
squeeze, and returned home too, at something to six o’clock in the
morning, when he was put to bed by main force by the apprentice, after
repeatedly expressing an uncontrollable desire to pitch his revered
parent out of the second-floor window, and to throttle the apprentice
with his own neck-handkerchief.

Weeks had worn on, and the seven-and-sixpenny town-mades had nearly
worn out, when the night arrived for the grand dress-ball at which the
whole of the five-and-seventy pupils were to meet together, for the
first time that season, and to take out some portion of their
respective four-and-sixpences in lamp-oil and fiddlers. Mr. Augustus
Cooper had ordered a new coat for the occasion—a two-pound-tenner from
Turnstile. It was his first appearance in public; and, after a grand
Sicilian shawl-dance by fourteen young ladies in character, he was to
open the quadrille department with Miss Billsmethi herself, with whom
he had become quite intimate since his first introduction. It _was_ a
night! Everything was admirably arranged. The sandwich-boy took the
hats and bonnets at the street-door; there was a turn-up bedstead in
the back parlour, on which Miss Billsmethi made tea and coffee for such
of the gentlemen as chose to pay for it, and such of the ladies as the
gentlemen treated; red port-wine negus and lemonade were handed round
at eighteen-pence a head; and in pursuance of a previous engagement
with the public-house at the corner of the street, an extra potboy was
laid on for the occasion. In short, nothing could exceed the
arrangements, except the company. Such ladies! Such pink silk
stockings! Such artificial flowers! Such a number of cabs! No sooner
had one cab set down a couple of ladies, than another cab drove up and
set down another couple of ladies, and they all knew: not only one
another, but the majority of the gentlemen into the bargain, which made
it all as pleasant and lively as could be. Signor Billsmethi, in black
tights, with a large blue bow in his buttonhole, introduced the ladies
to such of the gentlemen as were strangers: and the ladies talked
away—and laughed they did—it was delightful to see them.

As to the shawl-dance, it was the most exciting thing that ever was
beheld; there was such a whisking, and rustling, and fanning, and
getting ladies into a tangle with artificial flowers, and then
disentangling them again! And as to Mr. Augustus Cooper’s share in the
quadrille, he got through it admirably. He was missing from his
partner, now and then, certainly, and discovered on such occasions to
be either dancing with laudable perseverance in another set, or sliding
about in perspective, without any definite object; but, generally
speaking, they managed to shove him through the figure, until he turned
up in the right place. Be this as it may, when he had finished, a great
many ladies and gentlemen came up and complimented him very much, and
said they had never seen a beginner do anything like it before; and Mr.
Augustus Cooper was perfectly satisfied with himself, and everybody
else into the bargain; and ‘stood’ considerable quantities of
spirits-and-water, negus, and compounds, for the use and behoof of two
or three dozen very particular friends, selected from the select circle
of five-and-seventy pupils.

Now, whether it was the strength of the compounds, or the beauty of the
ladies, or what not, it did so happen that Mr. Augustus Cooper
encouraged, rather than repelled, the very flattering attentions of a
young lady in brown gauze over white calico who had appeared
particularly struck with him from the first; and when the
encouragements had been prolonged for some time, Miss Billsmethi
betrayed her spite and jealousy thereat by calling the young lady in
brown gauze a ‘creeter,’ which induced the young lady in brown gauze to
retort, in certain sentences containing a taunt founded on the payment
of four-and-sixpence a quarter, which reference Mr. Augustus Cooper,
being then and there in a state of considerable bewilderment, expressed
his entire concurrence in. Miss Billsmethi, thus renounced, forthwith
began screaming in the loudest key of her voice, at the rate of
fourteen screams a minute; and being unsuccessful, in an onslaught on
the eyes and face, first of the lady in gauze and then of Mr. Augustus
Cooper, called distractedly on the other three-and-seventy pupils to
furnish her with oxalic acid for her own private drinking; and, the
call not being honoured, made another rush at Mr. Cooper, and then had
her stay-lace cut, and was carried off to bed. Mr. Augustus Cooper, not
being remarkable for quickness of apprehension, was at a loss to
understand what all this meant, until Signor Billsmethi explained it in
a most satisfactory manner, by stating to the pupils, that Mr. Augustus
Cooper had made and confirmed divers promises of marriage to his
daughter on divers occasions, and had now basely deserted her; on
which, the indignation of the pupils became universal; and as several
chivalrous gentlemen inquired rather pressingly of Mr. Augustus Cooper,
whether he required anything for his own use, or, in other words,
whether he ‘wanted anything for himself,’ he deemed it prudent to make
a precipitate retreat. And the upshot of the matter was, that a
lawyer’s letter came next day, and an action was commenced next week;
and that Mr. Augustus Cooper, after walking twice to the Serpentine for
the purpose of drowning himself, and coming twice back without doing
it, made a confidante of his mother, who compromised the matter with
twenty pounds from the till: which made twenty pounds four shillings
and sixpence paid to Signor Billsmethi, exclusive of treats and pumps.
And Mr. Augustus Cooper went back and lived with his mother, and there
he lives to this day; and as he has lost his ambition for society, and
never goes into the world, he will never see this account of himself,
and will never be any the wiser.




CHAPTER X—SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE


There are certain descriptions of people who, oddly enough, appear to
appertain exclusively to the metropolis. You meet them, every day, in
the streets of London, but no one ever encounters them elsewhere; they
seem indigenous to the soil, and to belong as exclusively to London as
its own smoke, or the dingy bricks and mortar. We could illustrate the
remark by a variety of examples, but, in our present sketch, we will
only advert to one class as a specimen—that class which is so aptly and
expressively designated as ‘shabby-genteel.’

Now, shabby people, God knows, may be found anywhere, and genteel
people are not articles of greater scarcity out of London than in it;
but this compound of the two—this shabby-gentility—is as purely local
as the statue at Charing-cross, or the pump at Aldgate. It is worthy of
remark, too, that only men are shabby-genteel; a woman is always either
dirty and slovenly in the extreme, or neat and respectable, however
poverty-stricken in appearance. A very poor man, ‘who has seen better
days,’ as the phrase goes, is a strange compound of dirty-slovenliness
and wretched attempts at faded smartness.

We will endeavour to explain our conception of the term which forms the
title of this paper. If you meet a man, lounging up Drury-Lane, or
leaning with his back against a post in Long-acre, with his hands in
the pockets of a pair of drab trousers plentifully besprinkled with
grease-spots: the trousers made very full over the boots, and
ornamented with two cords down the outside of each leg—wearing, also,
what has been a brown coat with bright buttons, and a hat very much
pinched up at the side, cocked over his right eye—don’t pity him. He is
not shabby-genteel. The ‘harmonic meetings’ at some fourth-rate
public-house, or the purlieus of a private theatre, are his chosen
haunts; he entertains a rooted antipathy to any kind of work, and is on
familiar terms with several pantomime men at the large houses. But, if
you see hurrying along a by-street, keeping as close as he can to the
area-railings, a man of about forty or fifty, clad in an old rusty suit
of threadbare black cloth which shines with constant wear as if it had
been bees-waxed—the trousers tightly strapped down, partly for the look
of the thing and partly to keep his old shoes from slipping off at the
heels,—if you observe, too, that his yellowish-white neckerchief is
carefully pinned up, to conceal the tattered garment underneath, and
that his hands are encased in the remains of an old pair of beaver
gloves, you may set him down as a shabby-genteel man. A glance at that
depressed face, and timorous air of conscious poverty, will make your
heart ache—always supposing that you are neither a philosopher nor a
political economist.

We were once haunted by a shabby-genteel man; he was bodily present to
our senses all day, and he was in our mind’s eye all night. The man of
whom Sir Walter Scott speaks in his Demonology, did not suffer half the
persecution from his imaginary gentleman-usher in black velvet, that we
sustained from our friend in quondam black cloth. He first attracted
our notice, by sitting opposite to us in the reading-room at the
British Museum; and what made the man more remarkable was, that he
always had before him a couple of shabby-genteel books—two old
dog’s-eared folios, in mouldy worm-eaten covers, which had once been
smart. He was in his chair, every morning, just as the clock struck
ten; he was always the last to leave the room in the afternoon; and
when he did, he quitted it with the air of a man who knew not where
else to go, for warmth and quiet. There he used to sit all day, as
close to the table as possible, in order to conceal the lack of buttons
on his coat: with his old hat carefully deposited at his feet, where he
evidently flattered himself it escaped observation.

About two o’clock, you would see him munching a French roll or a penny
loaf; not taking it boldly out of his pocket at once, like a man who
knew he was only making a lunch; but breaking off little bits in his
pocket, and eating them by stealth. He knew too well it was his dinner.

When we first saw this poor object, we thought it quite impossible that
his attire could ever become worse. We even went so far, as to
speculate on the possibility of his shortly appearing in a decent
second-hand suit. We knew nothing about the matter; he grew more and
more shabby-genteel every day. The buttons dropped off his waistcoat,
one by one; then, he buttoned his coat; and when one side of the coat
was reduced to the same condition as the waistcoat, he buttoned it
over—on the other side. He looked somewhat better at the beginning of
the week than at the conclusion, because the neckerchief, though
yellow, was not quite so dingy; and, in the midst of all this
wretchedness, he never appeared without gloves and straps. He remained
in this state for a week or two. At length, one of the buttons on the
back of the coat fell off, and then the man himself disappeared, and we
thought he was dead.

We were sitting at the same table about a week after his disappearance,
and as our eyes rested on his vacant chair, we insensibly fell into a
train of meditation on the subject of his retirement from public life.
We were wondering whether he had hung himself, or thrown himself off a
bridge—whether he really was dead or had only been arrested—when our
conjectures were suddenly set at rest by the entry of the man himself.
He had undergone some strange metamorphosis, and walked up the centre
of the room with an air which showed he was fully conscious of the
improvement in his appearance. It was very odd. His clothes were a
fine, deep, glossy black; and yet they looked like the same suit; nay,
there were the very darns with which old acquaintance had made us
familiar. The hat, too—nobody could mistake the shape of that hat, with
its high crown gradually increasing in circumference towards the top.
Long service had imparted to it a reddish-brown tint; but, now, it was
as black as the coat. The truth flashed suddenly upon us—they had been
‘revived.’ It is a deceitful liquid that black and blue reviver; we
have watched its effects on many a shabby-genteel man. It betrays its
victims into a temporary assumption of importance: possibly into the
purchase of a new pair of gloves, or a cheap stock, or some other
trifling article of dress. It elevates their spirits for a week, only
to depress them, if possible, below their original level. It was so in
this case; the transient dignity of the unhappy man decreased, in exact
proportion as the ‘reviver’ wore off. The knees of the unmentionables,
and the elbows of the coat, and the seams generally, soon began to get
alarmingly white. The hat was once more deposited under the table, and
its owner crept into his seat as quietly as ever.

There was a week of incessant small rain and mist. At its expiration
the ‘reviver’ had entirely vanished, and the shabby-genteel man never
afterwards attempted to effect any improvement in his outward
appearance.

It would be difficult to name any particular part of town as the
principal resort of shabby-genteel men. We have met a great many
persons of this description in the neighbourhood of the inns of court.
They may be met with, in Holborn, between eight and ten any morning;
and whoever has the curiosity to enter the Insolvent Debtors’ Court
will observe, both among spectators and practitioners, a great variety
of them. We never went on ‘Change, by any chance, without seeing some
shabby-genteel men, and we have often wondered what earthly business
they can have there. They will sit there, for hours, leaning on great,
dropsical, mildewed umbrellas, or eating Abernethy biscuits. Nobody
speaks to them, nor they to any one. On consideration, we remember to
have occasionally seen two shabby-genteel men conversing together on
‘Change, but our experience assures us that this is an uncommon
circumstance, occasioned by the offer of a pinch of snuff, or some such
civility.

It would be a task of equal difficulty, either to assign any particular
spot for the residence of these beings, or to endeavour to enumerate
their general occupations. We were never engaged in business with more
than one shabby-genteel man; and he was a drunken engraver, and lived
in a damp back-parlour in a new row of houses at Camden-town, half
street, half brick-field, somewhere near the canal. A shabby-genteel
man may have no occupation, or he may be a corn agent, or a coal agent,
or a wine merchant, or a collector of debts, or a broker’s assistant,
or a broken-down attorney. He may be a clerk of the lowest description,
or a contributor to the press of the same grade. Whether our readers
have noticed these men, in their walks, as often as we have, we know
not; this we know—that the miserably poor man (no matter whether he
owes his distresses to his own conduct, or that of others) who feels
his poverty and vainly strives to conceal it, is one of the most
pitiable objects in human nature. Such objects, with few exceptions,
are shabby-genteel people.




CHAPTER XI—MAKING A NIGHT OF IT


Damon and Pythias were undoubtedly very good fellows in their way: the
former for his extreme readiness to put in special bail for a friend:
and the latter for a certain trump-like punctuality in turning up just
in the very nick of time, scarcely less remarkable. Many points in
their character have, however, grown obsolete. Damons are rather hard
to find, in these days of imprisonment for debt (except the sham ones,
and they cost half-a-crown); and, as to the Pythiases, the few that
have existed in these degenerate times, have had an unfortunate knack
of making themselves scarce, at the very moment when their appearance
would have been strictly classical. If the actions of these heroes,
however, can find no parallel in modern times, their friendship can. We
have Damon and Pythias on the one hand. We have Potter and Smithers on
the other; and, lest the two last-mentioned names should never have
reached the ears of our unenlightened readers, we can do no better than
make them acquainted with the owners thereof.

Mr. Thomas Potter, then, was a clerk in the city, and Mr. Robert
Smithers was a ditto in the same; their incomes were limited, but their
friendship was unbounded. They lived in the same street, walked into
town every morning at the same hour, dined at the same slap-bang every
day, and revelled in each other’s company very night. They were knit
together by the closest ties of intimacy and friendship, or, as Mr.
Thomas Potter touchingly observed, they were ‘thick-and-thin pals, and
nothing but it.’ There was a spice of romance in Mr. Smithers’s
disposition, a ray of poetry, a gleam of misery, a sort of
consciousness of he didn’t exactly know what, coming across him he
didn’t precisely know why—which stood out in fine relief against the
off-hand, dashing, amateur-pickpocket-sort-of-manner, which
distinguished Mr. Potter in an eminent degree.

The peculiarity of their respective dispositions, extended itself to
their individual costume. Mr. Smithers generally appeared in public in
a surtout and shoes, with a narrow black neckerchief and a brown hat,
very much turned up at the sides—peculiarities which Mr. Potter wholly
eschewed, for it was his ambition to do something in the celebrated
‘kiddy’ or stage-coach way, and he had even gone so far as to invest
capital in the purchase of a rough blue coat with wooden buttons, made
upon the fireman’s principle, in which, with the addition of a
low-crowned, flower-pot-saucer-shaped hat, he had created no
inconsiderable sensation at the Albion in Little Russell-street, and
divers other places of public and fashionable resort.

Mr. Potter and Mr. Smithers had mutually agreed that, on the receipt of
their quarter’s salary, they would jointly and in company ‘spend the
evening’—an evident misnomer—the spending applying, as everybody knows,
not to the evening itself but to all the money the individual may
chance to be possessed of, on the occasion to which reference is made;
and they had likewise agreed that, on the evening aforesaid, they would
‘make a night of it’—an expressive term, implying the borrowing of
several hours from to-morrow morning, adding them to the night before,
and manufacturing a compound night of the whole.

The quarter-day arrived at last—we say at last, because quarter-days
are as eccentric as comets: moving wonderfully quick when you have a
good deal to pay, and marvellously slow when you have a little to
receive. Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers met by appointment
to begin the evening with a dinner; and a nice, snug, comfortable
dinner they had, consisting of a little procession of four chops and
four kidneys, following each other, supported on either side by a pot
of the real draught stout, and attended by divers cushions of bread,
and wedges of cheese.

When the cloth was removed, Mr. Thomas Potter ordered the waiter to
bring in, two goes of his best Scotch whiskey, with warm water and
sugar, and a couple of his ‘very mildest’ Havannahs, which the waiter
did. Mr. Thomas Potter mixed his grog, and lighted his cigar; Mr.
Robert Smithers did the same; and then, Mr. Thomas Potter jocularly
proposed as the first toast, ‘the abolition of all offices whatever’
(not sinecures, but counting-houses), which was immediately drunk by
Mr. Robert Smithers, with enthusiastic applause. So they went on,
talking politics, puffing cigars, and sipping whiskey-and-water, until
the ‘goes’—most appropriately so called—were both gone, which Mr.
Robert Smithers perceiving, immediately ordered in two more goes of the
best Scotch whiskey, and two more of the very mildest Havannahs; and
the goes kept coming in, and the mild Havannahs kept going out, until,
what with the drinking, and lighting, and puffing, and the stale ashes
on the table, and the tallow-grease on the cigars, Mr. Robert Smithers
began to doubt the mildness of the Havannahs, and to feel very much as
if he had been sitting in a hackney-coach with his back to the horses.

As to Mr. Thomas Potter, he _would_ keep laughing out loud, and
volunteering inarticulate declarations that he was ‘all right;’ in
proof of which, he feebly bespoke the evening paper after the next
gentleman, but finding it a matter of some difficulty to discover any
news in its columns, or to ascertain distinctly whether it had any
columns at all, walked slowly out to look for the moon, and, after
coming back quite pale with looking up at the sky so long, and
attempting to express mirth at Mr. Robert Smithers having fallen
asleep, by various galvanic chuckles, laid his head on his arm, and
went to sleep also. When he awoke again, Mr. Robert Smithers awoke too,
and they both very gravely agreed that it was extremely unwise to eat
so many pickled walnuts with the chops, as it was a notorious fact that
they always made people queer and sleepy; indeed, if it had not been
for the whiskey and cigars, there was no knowing what harm they
mightn’t have done ’em. So they took some coffee, and after paying the
bill,—twelve and twopence the dinner, and the odd tenpence for the
waiter—thirteen shillings in all—started out on their expedition to
manufacture a night.

It was just half-past eight, so they thought they couldn’t do better
than go at half-price to the slips at the City Theatre, which they did
accordingly. Mr. Robert Smithers, who had become extremely poetical
after the settlement of the bill, enlivening the walk by informing Mr.
Thomas Potter in confidence that he felt an inward presentiment of
approaching dissolution, and subsequently embellishing the theatre, by
falling asleep with his head and both arms gracefully drooping over the
front of the boxes.

Such was the quiet demeanour of the unassuming Smithers, and such were
the happy effects of Scotch whiskey and Havannahs on that interesting
person! But Mr. Thomas Potter, whose great aim it was to be considered
as a ‘knowing card,’ a ‘fast-goer,’ and so forth, conducted himself in
a very different manner, and commenced going very fast indeed—rather
too fast at last, for the patience of the audience to keep pace with
him. On his first entry, he contented himself by earnestly calling upon
the gentlemen in the gallery to ‘flare up,’ accompanying the demand
with another request, expressive of his wish that they would
instantaneously ‘form a union,’ both which requisitions were responded
to, in the manner most in vogue on such occasions.

‘Give that dog a bone!’ cried one gentleman in his shirt-sleeves.

‘Where have you been a having half a pint of intermediate beer?’ cried
a second. ‘Tailor!’ screamed a third. ‘Barber’s clerk!’ shouted a
fourth. ‘Throw him o—ver!’ roared a fifth; while numerous voices
concurred in desiring Mr. Thomas Potter to ‘go home to his mother!’ All
these taunts Mr. Thomas Potter received with supreme contempt, cocking
the low-crowned hat a little more on one side, whenever any reference
was made to his personal appearance, and, standing up with his arms
a-kimbo, expressing defiance melodramatically.

The overture—to which these various sounds had been an _ad libitum_
accompaniment—concluded, the second piece began, and Mr. Thomas Potter,
emboldened by impunity, proceeded to behave in a most unprecedented and
outrageous manner. First of all, he imitated the shake of the principal
female singer; then, groaned at the blue fire; then, affected to be
frightened into convulsions of terror at the appearance of the ghost;
and, lastly, not only made a running commentary, in an audible voice,
upon the dialogue on the stage, but actually awoke Mr. Robert Smithers,
who, hearing his companion making a noise, and having a very indistinct
notion where he was, or what was required of him, immediately, by way
of imitating a good example, set up the most unearthly, unremitting,
and appalling howling that ever audience heard. It was too much. ‘Turn
them out!’ was the general cry. A noise, as of shuffling of feet, and
men being knocked up with violence against wainscoting, was heard: a
hurried dialogue of ‘Come out?’—‘I won’t!’—‘You shall!’—‘I
shan’t!’—‘Give me your card, Sir?’—‘You’re a scoundrel, Sir!’ and so
forth, succeeded. A round of applause betokened the approbation of the
audience, and Mr. Robert Smithers and Mr. Thomas Potter found
themselves shot with astonishing swiftness into the road, without
having had the trouble of once putting foot to ground during the whole
progress of their rapid descent.

Mr. Robert Smithers, being constitutionally one of the slow-goers, and
having had quite enough of fast-going, in the course of his recent
expulsion, to last until the quarter-day then next ensuing at the very
least, had no sooner emerged with his companion from the precincts of
Milton-street, than he proceeded to indulge in circuitous references to
the beauties of sleep, mingled with distant allusions to the propriety
of returning to Islington, and testing the influence of their patent
Bramahs over the street-door locks to which they respectively belonged.
Mr. Thomas Potter, however, was valorous and peremptory. They had come
out to make a night of it: and a night must be made. So Mr. Robert
Smithers, who was three parts dull, and the other dismal, despairingly
assented; and they went into a wine-vaults, to get materials for
assisting them in making a night; where they found a good many young
ladies, and various old gentlemen, and a plentiful sprinkling of
hackney-coachmen and cab-drivers, all drinking and talking together;
and Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Robert Smithers drank small glasses of
brandy, and large glasses of soda, until they began to have a very
confused idea, either of things in general, or of anything in
particular; and, when they had done treating themselves they began to
treat everybody else; and the rest of the entertainment was a confused
mixture of heads and heels, black eyes and blue uniforms, mud and
gas-lights, thick doors, and stone paving.

Then, as standard novelists expressively inform us—‘all was a blank!’
and in the morning the blank was filled up with the words
‘Station-house,’ and the station-house was filled up with Mr. Thomas
Potter, Mr. Robert Smithers, and the major part of their wine-vault
companions of the preceding night, with a comparatively small portion
of clothing of any kind. And it was disclosed at the Police-office, to
the indignation of the Bench, and the astonishment of the spectators,
how one Robert Smithers, aided and abetted by one Thomas Potter, had
knocked down and beaten, in divers streets, at different times, five
men, four boys, and three women; how the said Thomas Potter had
feloniously obtained possession of five door-knockers, two
bell-handles, and a bonnet; how Robert Smithers, his friend, had sworn,
at least forty pounds’ worth of oaths, at the rate of five shillings
apiece; terrified whole streets full of Her Majesty’s subjects with
awful shrieks and alarms of fire; destroyed the uniforms of five
policemen; and committed various other atrocities, too numerous to
recapitulate. And the magistrate, after an appropriate reprimand, fined
Mr. Thomas Potter and Mr. Thomas Smithers five shillings each, for
being, what the law vulgarly terms, drunk; and thirty-four pounds for
seventeen assaults at forty shillings a-head, with liberty to speak to
the prosecutors.

The prosecutors _were_ spoken to, and Messrs. Potter and Smithers lived
on credit, for a quarter, as best they might; and, although the
prosecutors expressed their readiness to be assaulted twice a week, on
the same terms, they have never since been detected in ‘making a night
of it.’




CHAPTER XII—THE PRISONERS’ VAN


We were passing the corner of Bow-street, on our return from a lounging
excursion the other afternoon, when a crowd, assembled round the door
of the Police-office, attracted our attention. We turned up the street
accordingly. There were thirty or forty people, standing on the
pavement and half across the road; and a few stragglers were patiently
stationed on the opposite side of the way—all evidently waiting in
expectation of some arrival. We waited too, a few minutes, but nothing
occurred; so, we turned round to an unshorn, sallow-looking cobbler,
who was standing next us with his hands under the bib of his apron, and
put the usual question of ‘What’s the matter?’ The cobbler eyed us from
head to foot, with superlative contempt, and laconically replied
‘Nuffin.’

Now, we were perfectly aware that if two men stop in the street to look
at any given object, or even to gaze in the air, two hundred men will
be assembled in no time; but, as we knew very well that no crowd of
people could by possibility remain in a street for five minutes without
getting up a little amusement among themselves, unless they had some
absorbing object in view, the natural inquiry next in order was, ‘What
are all these people waiting here for?’—‘Her Majesty’s carriage,’
replied the cobbler. This was still more extraordinary. We could not
imagine what earthly business Her Majesty’s carriage could have at the
Public Office, Bow-street. We were beginning to ruminate on the
possible causes of such an uncommon appearance, when a general
exclamation from all the boys in the crowd of ‘Here’s the wan!’ caused
us to raise our heads, and look up the street.

The covered vehicle, in which prisoners are conveyed from the
police-offices to the different prisons, was coming along at full
speed. It then occurred to us, for the first time, that Her Majesty’s
carriage was merely another name for the prisoners’ van, conferred upon
it, not only by reason of the superior gentility of the term, but
because the aforesaid van is maintained at Her Majesty’s expense:
having been originally started for the exclusive accommodation of
ladies and gentlemen under the necessity of visiting the various houses
of call known by the general denomination of ‘Her Majesty’s Gaols.’

The van drew up at the office-door, and the people thronged round the
steps, just leaving a little alley for the prisoners to pass through.
Our friend the cobbler, and the other stragglers, crossed over, and we
followed their example. The driver, and another man who had been seated
by his side in front of the vehicle, dismounted, and were admitted into
the office. The office-door was closed after them, and the crowd were
on the tiptoe of expectation.

After a few minutes’ delay, the door again opened, and the two first
prisoners appeared. They were a couple of girls, of whom the
elder—could not be more than sixteen, and the younger of whom had
certainly not attained her fourteenth year. That they were sisters, was
evident, from the resemblance which still subsisted between them,
though two additional years of depravity had fixed their brand upon the
elder girl’s features, as legibly as if a red-hot iron had seared them.
They were both gaudily dressed, the younger one especially; and,
although there was a strong similarity between them in both respects,
which was rendered the more obvious by their being handcuffed together,
it is impossible to conceive a greater contrast than the demeanour of
the two presented. The younger girl was weeping bitterly—not for
display, or in the hope of producing effect, but for very shame: her
face was buried in her handkerchief: and her whole manner was but too
expressive of bitter and unavailing sorrow.

‘How long are you for, Emily?’ screamed a red-faced woman in the crowd.
‘Six weeks and labour,’ replied the elder girl with a flaunting laugh;
‘and that’s better than the stone jug anyhow; the mill’s a deal better
than the Sessions, and here’s Bella a-going too for the first time.
Hold up your head, you chicken,’ she continued, boisterously tearing
the other girl’s handkerchief away; ‘Hold up your head, and show ’em
your face. I an’t jealous, but I’m blessed if I an’t game!’—‘That’s
right, old gal,’ exclaimed a man in a paper cap, who, in common with
the greater part of the crowd, had been inexpressibly delighted with
this little incident.—‘Right!’ replied the girl; ‘ah, to be sure;
what’s the odds, eh?’—‘Come! In with you,’ interrupted the driver.
‘Don’t you be in a hurry, coachman,’ replied the girl, ‘and recollect I
want to be set down in Cold Bath Fields—large house with a high
garden-wall in front; you can’t mistake it. Hallo. Bella, where are you
going to—you’ll pull my precious arm off?’ This was addressed to the
younger girl, who, in her anxiety to hide herself in the caravan, had
ascended the steps first, and forgotten the strain upon the handcuff.
‘Come down, and let’s show you the way.’ And after jerking the
miserable girl down with a force which made her stagger on the
pavement, she got into the vehicle, and was followed by her wretched
companion.

These two girls had been thrown upon London streets, their vices and
debauchery, by a sordid and rapacious mother. What the younger girl was
then, the elder had been once; and what the elder then was, the younger
must soon become. A melancholy prospect, but how surely to be realised;
a tragic drama, but how often acted! Turn to the prisons and police
offices of London—nay, look into the very streets themselves. These
things pass before our eyes, day after day, and hour after hour—they
have become such matters of course, that they are utterly disregarded.
The progress of these girls in crime will be as rapid as the flight of
a pestilence, resembling it too in its baneful influence and
wide-spreading infection. Step by step, how many wretched females,
within the sphere of every man’s observation, have become involved in a
career of vice, frightful to contemplate; hopeless at its commencement,
loathsome and repulsive in its course; friendless, forlorn, and
unpitied, at its miserable conclusion!

There were other prisoners—boys of ten, as hardened in vice as men of
fifty—a houseless vagrant, going joyfully to prison as a place of food
and shelter, handcuffed to a man whose prospects were ruined, character
lost, and family rendered destitute, by his first offence. Our
curiosity, however, was satisfied. The first group had left an
impression on our mind we would gladly have avoided, and would
willingly have effaced.

The crowd dispersed; the vehicle rolled away with its load of guilt and
misfortune; and we saw no more of the Prisoners’ Van.




TALES




CHAPTER I—THE BOARDING-HOUSE




CHAPTER I.


Mrs. Tibbs was, beyond all dispute, the most tidy, fidgety, thrifty
little personage that ever inhaled the smoke of London; and the house
of Mrs. Tibbs was, decidedly, the neatest in all Great Coram-street.
The area and the area-steps, and the street-door and the street-door
steps, and the brass handle, and the door-plate, and the knocker, and
the fan-light, were all as clean and bright, as indefatigable
white-washing, and hearth-stoning, and scrubbing and rubbing, could
make them. The wonder was, that the brass door-plate, with the
interesting inscription ‘Mrs. Tibbs,’ had never caught fire from
constant friction, so perseveringly was it polished. There were
meat-safe-looking blinds in the parlour-windows, blue and gold curtains
in the drawing-room, and spring-roller blinds, as Mrs. Tibbs was wont
in the pride of her heart to boast, ‘all the way up.’ The bell-lamp in
the passage looked as clear as a soap-bubble; you could see yourself in
all the tables, and French-polish yourself on any one of the chairs.
The banisters were bees-waxed; and the very stair-wires made your eyes
wink, they were so glittering.

Mrs. Tibbs was somewhat short of stature, and Mr. Tibbs was by no means
a large man. He had, moreover, very short legs, but, by way of
indemnification, his face was peculiarly long. He was to his wife what
the 0 is in 90—he was of some importance _with_ her—he was nothing
without her. Mrs. Tibbs was always talking. Mr. Tibbs rarely spoke;
but, if it were at any time possible to put in a word, when he should
have said nothing at all, he had that talent. Mrs. Tibbs detested long
stories, and Mr. Tibbs had one, the conclusion of which had never been
heard by his most intimate friends. It always began, ‘I recollect when
I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six,’—but, as he
spoke very slowly and softly, and his better half very quickly and
loudly, he rarely got beyond the introductory sentence. He was a
melancholy specimen of the story-teller. He was the wandering Jew of
Joe Millerism.

Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension-list—about
43_l._ 15_s._ 10_d._ a year. His father, mother, and five interesting
scions from the same stock, drew a like sum from the revenue of a
grateful country, though for what particular service was never known.
But, as this said independence was not quite sufficient to furnish two
people with _all_ the luxuries of this life, it had occurred to the
busy little spouse of Tibbs, that the best thing she could do with a
legacy of 700_l._, would be to take and furnish a tolerable
house—somewhere in that partially-explored tract of country which lies
between the British Museum, and a remote village called Somers-town—for
the reception of boarders. Great Coram-street was the spot pitched
upon. The house had been furnished accordingly; two female servants and
a boy engaged; and an advertisement inserted in the morning papers,
informing the public that ‘Six individuals would meet with all the
comforts of a cheerful musical home in a select private family,
residing within ten minutes’ walk of’—everywhere. Answers out of number
were received, with all sorts of initials; all the letters of the
alphabet seemed to be seized with a sudden wish to go out boarding and
lodging; voluminous was the correspondence between Mrs. Tibbs and the
applicants; and most profound was the secrecy observed. ‘E.’ didn’t
like this; ‘I.’ couldn’t think of putting up with that; ‘I. O. U.’
didn’t think the terms would suit him; and ‘G. R.’ had never slept in a
French bed. The result, however, was, that three gentlemen became
inmates of Mrs. Tibbs’s house, on terms which were ‘agreeable to all
parties.’ In went the advertisement again, and a lady with her two
daughters, proposed to increase—not their families, but Mrs. Tibbs’s.

‘Charming woman, that Mrs. Maplesone!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, as she and her
spouse were sitting by the fire after breakfast; the gentlemen having
gone out on their several avocations. ‘Charming woman, indeed!’
repeated little Mrs. Tibbs, more by way of soliloquy than anything
else, for she never thought of consulting her husband. ‘And the two
daughters are delightful. We must have some fish to-day; they’ll join
us at dinner for the first time.’

Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire shovel, and
essayed to speak, but recollected he had nothing to say.

‘The young ladies,’ continued Mrs. T., ‘have kindly volunteered to
bring their own piano.’

Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not venture it.

A bright thought struck him—

‘It’s very likely—’ said he.

‘Pray don’t lean your head against the paper,’ interrupted Mrs. Tibbs;
‘and don’t put your feet on the steel fender; that’s worse.’

Tibbs took his head from the paper, and his feet from the fender, and
proceeded. ‘It’s very likely one of the young ladies may set her cap at
young Mr. Simpson, and you know a marriage—’

‘A what!’ shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly repeated his former
suggestion.

‘I beg you won’t mention such a thing,’ said Mrs. T. ‘A marriage,
indeed to rob me of my boarders—no, not for the world.’

Tibbs thought in his own mind that the event was by no means unlikely,
but, as he never argued with his wife, he put a stop to the dialogue,
by observing it was ‘time to go to business.’ He always went out at ten
o’clock in the morning, and returned at five in the afternoon, with an
exceedingly dirty face, and smelling mouldy. Nobody knew what he was,
or where he went; but Mrs. Tibbs used to say with an air of great
importance, that he was engaged in the City.

The Miss Maplesones and their accomplished parent arrived in the course
of the afternoon in a hackney-coach, and accompanied by a most
astonishing number of packages. Trunks, bonnet-boxes, muff-boxes and
parasols, guitar-cases, and parcels of all imaginable shapes, done up
in brown paper, and fastened with pins, filled the passage. Then, there
was such a running up and down with the luggage, such scampering for
warm water for the ladies to wash in, and such a bustle, and confusion,
and heating of servants, and curling-irons, as had never been known in
Great Coram-street before. Little Mrs. Tibbs was quite in her element,
bustling about, talking incessantly, and distributing towels and soap,
like a head nurse in a hospital. The house was not restored to its
usual state of quiet repose, until the ladies were safely shut up in
their respective bedrooms, engaged in the important occupation of
dressing for dinner.

‘Are these gals ’andsome?’ inquired Mr. Simpson of Mr. Septimus Hicks,
another of the boarders, as they were amusing themselves in the
drawing-room, before dinner, by lolling on sofas, and contemplating
their pumps.

‘Don’t know,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who was a tallish,
white-faced young man, with spectacles, and a black ribbon round his
neck instead of a neckerchief—a most interesting person; a poetical
walker of the hospitals, and a ‘very talented young man.’ He was fond
of ‘lugging’ into conversation all sorts of quotations from Don Juan,
without fettering himself by the propriety of their application; in
which particular he was remarkably independent. The other, Mr. Simpson,
was one of those young men, who are in society what walking gentlemen
are on the stage, only infinitely worse skilled in his vocation than
the most indifferent artist. He was as empty-headed as the great bell
of St. Paul’s; always dressed according to the caricatures published in
the monthly fashion; and spelt Character with a K.

‘I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I came home,’
simpered Mr. Simpson.

‘Materials for the toilet, no doubt,’ rejoined the Don Juan reader.

—‘Much linen, lace, and several pair
Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete;
With other articles of ladies fair,
To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat.’

‘Is that from Milton?’ inquired Mr. Simpson.

‘No—from Byron,’ returned Mr. Hicks, with a look of contempt. He was
quite sure of his author, because he had never read any other. ‘Hush!
Here come the gals,’ and they both commenced talking in a very loud
key.

‘Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones, Mr. Hicks. Mr. Hicks—Mrs.
Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, with a very red
face, for she had been superintending the cooking operations below
stairs, and looked like a wax doll on a sunny day. ‘Mr. Simpson, I beg
your pardon—Mr. Simpson—Mrs. Maplesone and the Miss Maplesones’—and
_vice versâ_. The gentlemen immediately began to slide about with much
politeness, and to look as if they wished their arms had been legs, so
little did they know what to do with them. The ladies smiled,
curtseyed, and glided into chairs, and dived for dropped
pocket-handkerchiefs: the gentlemen leant against two of the
curtain-pegs; Mrs. Tibbs went through an admirable bit of serious
pantomime with a servant who had come up to ask some question about the
fish-sauce; and then the two young ladies looked at each other; and
everybody else appeared to discover something very attractive in the
pattern of the fender.

‘Julia, my love,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to her youngest daughter, in a
tone loud enough for the remainder of the company to hear—‘Julia.’

‘Yes, Ma.’

‘Don’t stoop.’—This was said for the purpose of directing general
attention to Miss Julia’s figure, which was undeniable. Everybody
looked at her, accordingly, and there was another pause.

‘We had the most uncivil hackney-coachman to-day, you can imagine,’
said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a confidential tone.

‘Dear me!’ replied the hostess, with an air of great commiseration. She
couldn’t say more, for the servant again appeared at the door, and
commenced telegraphing most earnestly to her ‘Missis.’

‘I think hackney-coachmen generally _are_ uncivil,’ said Mr. Hicks in
his most insinuating tone.

‘Positively I think they are,’ replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if the idea
had never struck her before.

‘And cabmen, too,’ said Mr. Simpson. This remark was a failure, for no
one intimated, by word or sign, the slightest knowledge of the manners
and customs of cabmen.

‘Robinson, what _do_ you want?’ said Mrs. Tibbs to the servant, who, by
way of making her presence known to her mistress, had been giving
sundry hems and sniffs outside the door during the preceding five
minutes.

‘Please, ma’am, master wants his clean things,’ replied the servant,
taken off her guard. The two young men turned their faces to the
window, and ‘went off’ like a couple of bottles of ginger-beer; the
ladies put their handkerchiefs to their mouths; and little Mrs. Tibbs
bustled out of the room to give Tibbs his clean linen,—and the servant
warning.

Mr. Calton, the remaining boarder, shortly afterwards made his
appearance, and proved a surprising promoter of the conversation. Mr.
Calton was a superannuated beau—an old boy. He used to say of himself
that although his features were not regularly handsome, they were
striking. They certainly were. It was impossible to look at his face
without being reminded of a chubby street-door knocker, half-lion
half-monkey; and the comparison might be extended to his whole
character and conversation. He had stood still, while everything else
had been moving. He never originated a conversation, or started an
idea; but if any commonplace topic were broached, or, to pursue the
comparison, if anybody _lifted him up_, he would hammer away with
surprising rapidity. He had the tic-douloureux occasionally, and then
he might be said to be muffled, because he did not make quite as much
noise as at other times, when he would go on prosing, rat-tat-tat the
same thing over and over again. He had never been married; but he was
still on the look-out for a wife with money. He had a life interest
worth about 300_l._ a year—he was exceedingly vain, and inordinately
selfish. He had acquired the reputation of being the very pink of
politeness, and he walked round the park, and up Regent-street, every
day.

This respectable personage had made up his mind to render himself
exceedingly agreeable to Mrs. Maplesone—indeed, the desire of being as
amiable as possible extended itself to the whole party; Mrs. Tibbs
having considered it an admirable little bit of management to represent
to the gentlemen that she had _some_ reason to believe the ladies were
fortunes, and to hint to the ladies, that all the gentlemen were
‘eligible.’ A little flirtation, she thought, might keep her house
full, without leading to any other result.

Mrs. Maplesone was an enterprising widow of about fifty: shrewd,
scheming, and good-looking. She was amiably anxious on behalf of her
daughters; in proof whereof she used to remark, that she would have no
objection to marry again, if it would benefit her dear girls—she could
have no other motive. The ‘dear girls’ themselves were not at all
insensible to the merits of ‘a good establishment.’ One of them was
twenty-five; the other, three years younger. They had been at different
watering-places, for four seasons; they had gambled at libraries, read
books in balconies, sold at fancy fairs, danced at assemblies, talked
sentiment—in short, they had done all that industrious girls could
do—but, as yet, to no purpose.

‘What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is!’ whispered Matilda
Maplesone to her sister Julia.

‘Splendid!’ returned the youngest. The magnificent individual alluded
to wore a maroon-coloured dress-coat, with a velvet collar and cuffs of
the same tint—very like that which usually invests the form of the
distinguished unknown who condescends to play the ‘swell’ in the
pantomime at ‘Richardson’s Show.’

‘What whiskers!’ said Miss Julia.

‘Charming!’ responded her sister; ‘and what hair!’ His hair was like a
wig, and distinguished by that insinuating wave which graces the
shining locks of those _chef-d’oeuvres_ of art surmounting the waxen
images in Bartellot’s window in Regent-street; his whiskers meeting
beneath his chin, seemed strings wherewith to tie it on, ere science
had rendered them unnecessary by her patent invisible springs.

‘Dinner’s on the table, ma’am, if you please,’ said the boy, who now
appeared for the first time, in a revived black coat of his master’s.

‘Oh! Mr. Calton, will you lead Mrs. Maplesone?—Thank you.’ Mr. Simpson
offered his arm to Miss Julia; Mr. Septimus Hicks escorted the lovely
Matilda; and the procession proceeded to the dining-room. Mr. Tibbs was
introduced, and Mr. Tibbs bobbed up and down to the three ladies like a
figure in a Dutch clock, with a powerful spring in the middle of his
body, and then dived rapidly into his seat at the bottom of the table,
delighted to screen himself behind a soup-tureen, which he could just
see over, and that was all. The boarders were seated, a lady and
gentleman alternately, like the layers of bread and meat in a plate of
sandwiches; and then Mrs. Tibbs directed James to take off the covers.
Salmon, lobster-sauce, giblet-soup, and the usual accompaniments were
discovered: potatoes like petrifactions, and bits of toasted bread, the
shape and size of blank dice.

‘Soup for Mrs. Maplesone, my dear,’ said the bustling Mrs. Tibbs. She
always called her husband ‘my dear’ before company. Tibbs, who had been
eating his bread, and calculating how long it would be before he should
get any fish, helped the soup in a hurry, made a small island on the
table-cloth, and put his glass upon it, to hide it from his wife.

‘Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish?’

‘If you please—very little—oh! plenty, thank you’ (a bit about the size
of a walnut put upon the plate).

‘Julia is a _very_ little eater,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. Calton.

The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating the fish with his
eyes: so he only ejaculated, ‘Ah!’

‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every one else had been
helped, ‘what do _you_ take?’ The inquiry was accompanied with a look
intimating that he mustn’t say fish, because there was not much left.
Tibbs thought the frown referred to the island on the table-cloth; he
therefore coolly replied, ‘Why—I’ll take a little—fish, I think.’

‘Did you say fish, my dear?’ (another frown).

‘Yes, dear,’ replied the villain, with an expression of acute hunger
depicted in his countenance. The tears almost started to Mrs. Tibbs’s
eyes, as she helped her ‘wretch of a husband,’ as she inwardly called
him, to the last eatable bit of salmon on the dish.

‘James, take this to your master, and take away your master’s knife.’
This was deliberate revenge, as Tibbs never could eat fish without one.
He was, however, constrained to chase small particles of salmon round
and round his plate with a piece of bread and a fork, the number of
successful attempts being about one in seventeen.

‘Take away, James,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth
mouthful—and away went the plates like lightning.

‘I’ll take a bit of bread, James,’ said the poor ‘master of the house,’
more hungry than ever.

‘Never mind your master now, James,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘see about the
meat.’ This was conveyed in the tone in which ladies usually give
admonitions to servants in company, that is to say, a low one; but
which, like a stage whisper, from its peculiar emphasis, is most
distinctly heard by everybody present.

A pause ensued, before the table was replenished—a sort of parenthesis
in which Mr. Simpson, Mr. Calton, and Mr. Hicks, produced respectively
a bottle of sauterne, bucellas, and sherry, and took wine with
everybody—except Tibbs. No one ever thought of him.

Between the fish and an intimated sirloin, there was a prolonged
interval.

Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist the
singularly appropriate quotation—

‘But beef is rare within these oxless isles;
Goats’ flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton,
And when a holiday upon them smiles,
A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.’

‘Very ungentlemanly behaviour,’ thought little Mrs. Tibbs, ‘to talk in
that way.’

‘Ah,’ said Mr. Calton, filling his glass. ‘Tom Moore is my poet.’

‘And mine,’ said Mrs. Maplesone.

‘And mine,’ said Miss Julia.

‘And mine,’ added Mr. Simpson.

‘Look at his compositions,’ resumed the knocker.

‘To be sure,’ said Simpson, with confidence.

‘Look at Don Juan,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks.

‘Julia’s letter,’ suggested Miss Matilda.

‘Can anything be grander than the Fire Worshippers?’ inquired Miss
Julia.

‘To be sure,’ said Simpson.

‘Or Paradise and the Peri,’ said the old beau.

‘Yes; or Paradise and the Peer,’ repeated Simpson, who thought he was
getting through it capitally.

‘It’s all very well,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks, who, as we have
before hinted, never had read anything but Don Juan. ‘Where will you
find anything finer than the description of the siege, at the
commencement of the seventh canto?’

‘Talking of a siege,’ said Tibbs, with a mouthful of bread—‘when I was
in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and six, our commanding
officer was Sir Charles Rampart; and one day, when we were exercising
on the ground on which the London University now stands, he says, says
he, Tibbs (calling me from the ranks), Tibbs—’

‘Tell your master, James,’ interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in an awfully
distinct tone, ‘tell your master if he _won’t_ carve those fowls, to
send them to me.’ The discomfited volunteer instantly set to work, and
carved the fowls almost as expeditiously as his wife operated on the
haunch of mutton. Whether he ever finished the story is not known but,
if he did, nobody heard it.

As the ice was now broken, and the new inmates more at home, every
member of the company felt more at ease. Tibbs himself most certainly
did, because he went to sleep immediately after dinner. Mr. Hicks and
the ladies discoursed most eloquently about poetry, and the theatres,
and Lord Chesterfield’s Letters; and Mr. Calton followed up what
everybody said, with continuous double knocks. Mrs. Tibbs highly
approved of every observation that fell from Mrs. Maplesone; and as Mr.
Simpson sat with a smile upon his face and said ‘Yes,’ or ‘Certainly,’
at intervals of about four minutes each, he received full credit for
understanding what was going forward. The gentlemen rejoined the ladies
in the drawing-room very shortly after they had left the
dining-parlour. Mrs. Maplesone and Mr. Calton played cribbage, and the
‘young people’ amused themselves with music and conversation. The Miss
Maplesones sang the most fascinating duets, and accompanied themselves
on guitars, ornamented with bits of ethereal blue ribbon. Mr. Simpson
put on a pink waistcoat, and said he was in raptures; and Mr. Hicks
felt in the seventh heaven of poetry or the seventh canto of Don
Juan—it was the same thing to him. Mrs. Tibbs was quite charmed with
the newcomers; and Mr. Tibbs spent the evening in his usual way—he went
to sleep, and woke up, and went to sleep again, and woke at
supper-time.

* * * * *


We are not about to adopt the licence of novel-writers, and to let
‘years roll on;’ but we will take the liberty of requesting the reader
to suppose that six months have elapsed, since the dinner we have
described, and that Mrs. Tibbs’s boarders have, during that period,
sang, and danced, and gone to theatres and exhibitions, together, as
ladies and gentlemen, wherever they board, often do. And we will beg
them, the period we have mentioned having elapsed, to imagine farther,
that Mr. Septimus Hicks received, in his own bedroom (a front attic),
at an early hour one morning, a note from Mr. Calton, requesting the
favour of seeing him, as soon as convenient to himself, in his
(Calton’s) dressing-room on the second-floor back.

‘Tell Mr. Calton I’ll come down directly,’ said Mr. Septimus to the
boy. ‘Stop—is Mr. Calton unwell?’ inquired this excited walker of
hospitals, as he put on a bed-furniture-looking dressing-gown.

‘Not as I knows on, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘ Please, sir, he looked
rather rum, as it might be.’

‘Ah, that’s no proof of his being ill,’ returned Hicks, unconsciously.
‘Very well: I’ll be down directly.’ Downstairs ran the boy with the
message, and down went the excited Hicks himself, almost as soon as the
message was delivered. ‘Tap, tap.’ ‘Come in.’—Door opens, and discovers
Mr. Calton sitting in an easy chair. Mutual shakes of the hand
exchanged, and Mr. Septimus Hicks motioned to a seat. A short pause.
Mr. Hicks coughed, and Mr. Calton took a pinch of snuff. It was one of
those interviews where neither party knows what to say. Mr. Septimus
Hicks broke silence.

‘I received a note—’ he said, very tremulously, in a voice like a Punch
with a cold.

‘Yes,’ returned the other, ‘you did.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Yes.’

Now, although this dialogue must have been satisfactory, both gentlemen
felt there was something more important to be said; therefore they did
as most men in such a situation would have done—they looked at the
table with a determined aspect. The conversation had been opened,
however, and Mr. Calton had made up his mind to continue it with a
regular double knock. He always spoke very pompously.

‘Hicks,’ said he, ‘I have sent for you, in consequence of certain
arrangements which are pending in this house, connected with a
marriage.’

‘With a marriage!’ gasped Hicks, compared with whose expression of
countenance, Hamlet’s, when he sees his father’s ghost, is pleasing and
composed.

‘With a marriage,’ returned the knocker. ‘I have sent for you to prove
the great confidence I can repose in you.’

‘And will you betray me?’ eagerly inquired Hicks, who in his alarm had
even forgotten to quote.

‘_I_ betray _you_! Won’t _you_ betray_ me_?’

‘Never: no one shall know, to my dying day, that you had a hand in the
business,’ responded the agitated Hicks, with an inflamed countenance,
and his hair standing on end as if he were on the stool of an
electrifying machine in full operation.

‘People must know that, some time or other—within a year, I imagine,’
said Mr. Calton, with an air of great self-complacency. ‘We _may_ have
a family.’

‘_We_!—That won’t affect you, surely?’

‘The devil it won’t!’

‘No! how can it?’ said the bewildered Hicks. Calton was too much
inwrapped in the contemplation of his happiness to see the equivoque
between Hicks and himself; and threw himself back in his chair. ‘Oh,
Matilda!’ sighed the antique beau, in a lack-a-daisical voice, and
applying his right hand a little to the left of the fourth button of
his waistcoat, counting from the bottom. ‘Oh, Matilda!’

‘What Matilda?’ inquired Hicks, starting up.

‘Matilda Maplesone,’ responded the other, doing the same.

‘I marry her to-morrow morning,’ said Hicks.

‘It’s false,’ rejoined his companion: ‘I marry her!’

‘You marry her?’

‘I marry her!’

‘You marry Matilda Maplesone?’

‘Matilda Maplesone.’

‘_Miss_ Maplesone marry _you_?’

‘Miss Maplesone! No; Mrs. Maplesone.’

‘Good Heaven!’ said Hicks, falling into his chair: ‘You marry the
mother, and I the daughter!’

‘Most extraordinary circumstance!’ replied Mr. Calton, ‘and rather
inconvenient too; for the fact is, that owing to Matilda’s wishing to
keep her intention secret from her daughters until the ceremony had
taken place, she doesn’t like applying to any of her friends to give
her away. I entertain an objection to making the affair known to my
acquaintance just now; and the consequence is, that I sent to you to
know whether you’d oblige me by acting as father.’

‘I should have been most happy, I assure you,’ said Hicks, in a tone of
condolence; ‘but, you see, I shall be acting as bridegroom. One
character is frequently a consequence of the other; but it is not usual
to act in both at the same time. There’s Simpson—I have no doubt he’ll
do it for you.’

‘I don’t like to ask him,’ replied Calton, ‘he’s such a donkey.’

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked up at the ceiling, and down at the floor; at
last an idea struck him. ‘Let the man of the house, Tibbs, be the
father,’ he suggested; and then he quoted, as peculiarly applicable to
Tibbs and the pair—


‘Oh Powers of Heaven! what dark eyes meets she there?
’Tis—’tis her father’s—fixed upon the pair.’


‘The idea has struck me already,’ said Mr. Calton: ‘but, you see,
Matilda, for what reason I know not, is very anxious that Mrs. Tibbs
should know nothing about it, till it’s all over. It’s a natural
delicacy, after all, you know.’

‘He’s the best-natured little man in existence, if you manage him
properly,’ said Mr. Septimus Hicks. ‘Tell him not to mention it to his
wife, and assure him she won’t mind it, and he’ll do it directly. My
marriage is to be a secret one, on account of the mother and _my_
father; therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy.’

A small double knock, like a presumptuous single one, was that instant
heard at the street-door. It was Tibbs; it could be no one else; for no
one else occupied five minutes in rubbing his shoes. He had been out to
pay the baker’s bill.

‘Mr. Tibbs,’ called Mr. Calton in a very bland tone, looking over the
banisters.

‘Sir!’ replied he of the dirty face.

‘Will you have the kindness to step up-stairs for a moment?’

‘Certainly, sir,’ said Tibbs, delighted to be taken notice of. The
bedroom-door was carefully closed, and Tibbs, having put his hat on the
floor (as most timid men do), and been accommodated with a seat, looked
as astounded as if he were suddenly summoned before the familiars of
the Inquisition.

‘A rather unpleasant occurrence, Mr. Tibbs,’ said Calton, in a very
portentous manner, ‘obliges me to consult you, and to beg you will not
communicate what I am about to say, to your wife.’

Tibbs acquiesced, wondering in his own mind what the deuce the other
could have done, and imagining that at least he must have broken the
best decanters.

Mr. Calton resumed; ‘I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in rather an unpleasant
situation.’

Tibbs looked at Mr. Septimus Hicks, as if he thought Mr. H.’s being in
the immediate vicinity of his fellow-boarder might constitute the
unpleasantness of his situation; but as he did not exactly know what to
say, he merely ejaculated the monosyllable ‘Lor!’

‘Now,’ continued the knocker, ‘let me beg you will exhibit no
manifestations of surprise, which may be overheard by the domestics,
when I tell you—command your feelings of astonishment—that two inmates
of this house intend to be married to-morrow morning.’ And he drew back
his chair, several feet, to perceive the effect of the unlooked-for
announcement.

If Tibbs had rushed from the room, staggered down-stairs, and fainted
in the passage—if he had instantaneously jumped out of the window into
the mews behind the house, in an agony of surprise—his behaviour would
have been much less inexplicable to Mr. Calton than it was, when he put
his hands into his inexpressible-pockets, and said with a half-chuckle,
‘Just so.’

‘You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs?’ inquired Mr. Calton.

‘Bless you, no, sir,’ returned Tibbs; ‘after all, its very natural.
When two young people get together, you know—’

‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Calton, with an indescribable air of
self-satisfaction.

‘You don’t think it’s at all an out-of-the-way affair then?’ asked Mr.
Septimus Hicks, who had watched the countenance of Tibbs in mute
astonishment.

‘No, sir,’ replied Tibbs; ‘I was just the same at his age.’ He actually
smiled when he said this.

‘How devilish well I must carry my years!’ thought the delighted old
beau, knowing he was at least ten years older than Tibbs at that
moment.

‘Well, then, to come to the point at once,’ he continued, ‘I have to
ask you whether you will object to act as father on the occasion?’

‘Certainly not,’ replied Tibbs; still without evincing an atom of
surprise.

‘You will not?’

‘Decidedly not,’ reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a pot of porter
with the head off.

Mr. Calton seized the hand of the petticoat-governed little man, and
vowed eternal friendship from that hour. Hicks, who was all admiration
and surprise, did the same.

‘Now, confess,’ asked Mr. Calton of Tibbs, as he picked up his hat,
‘were you not a little surprised?’

‘I b’lieve you!’ replied that illustrious person, holding up one hand;
‘I b’lieve you! When I first heard of it.’

‘So sudden,’ said Septimus Hicks.

‘So strange to ask _me_, you know,’ said Tibbs.

‘So odd altogether!’ said the superannuated love-maker; and then all
three laughed.

‘I say,’ said Tibbs, shutting the door which he had previously opened,
and giving full vent to a hitherto corked-up giggle, ‘what bothers me
is, what _will_ his father say?’

Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Calton.

‘Yes; but the best of it is,’ said the latter, giggling in his turn, ‘I
haven’t got a father—he! he! he!’

‘You haven’t got a father. No; but _he_ has,’ said Tibbs.

‘_Who_ has?’ inquired Septimus Hicks.

‘Why, _him_.’

‘Him, who? Do you know my secret? Do you mean me?’

‘You! No; you know who I mean,’ returned Tibbs with a knowing wink.

‘For Heaven’s sake, whom do you mean?’ inquired Mr. Calton, who, like
Septimus Hicks, was all but out of his senses at the strange confusion.

‘Why Mr. Simpson, of course,’ replied Tibbs; ‘who else could I mean?’

‘I see it all,’ said the Byron-quoter; ‘Simpson marries Julia Maplesone
to-morrow morning!’

‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Tibbs, thoroughly satisfied, ‘of course he
does.’

It would require the pencil of Hogarth to illustrate—our feeble pen is
inadequate to describe—the expression which the countenances of Mr.
Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks respectively assumed, at this unexpected
announcement. Equally impossible is it to describe, although perhaps it
is easier for our lady readers to imagine, what arts the three ladies
could have used, so completely to entangle their separate partners.
Whatever they were, however, they were successful. The mother was
perfectly aware of the intended marriage of both daughters; and the
young ladies were equally acquainted with the intention of their
estimable parent. They agreed, however, that it would have a much
better appearance if each feigned ignorance of the other’s engagement;
and it was equally desirable that all the marriages should take place
on the same day, to prevent the discovery of one clandestine alliance,
operating prejudicially on the others. Hence, the mystification of Mr.
Calton and Mr. Septimus Hicks, and the pre-engagement of the unwary
Tibbs.

On the following morning, Mr. Septimus Hicks was united to Miss Matilda
Maplesone. Mr. Simpson also entered into a ‘holy alliance’ with Miss
Julia; Tibbs acting as father, ‘his first appearance in that
character.’ Mr. Calton, not being quite so eager as the two young men,
was rather struck by the double discovery; and as he had found some
difficulty in getting any one to give the lady away, it occurred to him
that the best mode of obviating the inconvenience would be not to take
her at all. The lady, however, ‘appealed,’ as her counsel said on the
trial of the cause, _Maplesone_ v. _Calton_, for a breach of promise,
‘with a broken heart, to the outraged laws of her country.’ She
recovered damages to the amount of 1,000_l._ which the unfortunate
knocker was compelled to pay. Mr. Septimus Hicks having walked the
hospitals, took it into his head to walk off altogether. His injured
wife is at present residing with her mother at Boulogne. Mr. Simpson,
having the misfortune to lose his wife six weeks after marriage (by her
eloping with an officer during his temporary sojourn in the Fleet
Prison, in consequence of his inability to discharge her little
mantua-maker’s bill), and being disinherited by his father, who died
soon afterwards, was fortunate enough to obtain a permanent engagement
at a fashionable haircutter’s; hairdressing being a science to which he
had frequently directed his attention. In this situation he had
necessarily many opportunities of making himself acquainted with the
habits, and style of thinking, of the exclusive portion of the nobility
of this kingdom. To this fortunate circumstance are we indebted for the
production of those brilliant efforts of genius, his fashionable
novels, which so long as good taste, unsullied by exaggeration, cant,
and quackery, continues to exist, cannot fail to instruct and amuse the
thinking portion of the community.

It only remains to add, that this complication of disorders completely
deprived poor Mrs. Tibbs of all her inmates, except the one whom she
could have best spared—her husband. That wretched little man returned
home, on the day of the wedding, in a state of partial intoxication;
and, under the influence of wine, excitement, and despair, actually
dared to brave the anger of his wife. Since that ill-fated hour he has
constantly taken his meals in the kitchen, to which apartment, it is
understood, his witticisms will be in future confined: a turn-up
bedstead having been conveyed there by Mrs. Tibbs’s order for his
exclusive accommodation. It is possible that he will be enabled to
finish, in that seclusion, his story of the volunteers.

The advertisement has again appeared in the morning papers. Results
must be reserved for another chapter.




CHAPTER THE SECOND.


‘Well!’ said little Mrs. Tibbs to herself, as she sat in the front
parlour of the Coram-street mansion one morning, mending a piece of
stair-carpet off the first Landings;—‘Things have not turned out so
badly, either, and if I only get a favourable answer to the
advertisement, we shall be full again.’

Mrs. Tibbs resumed her occupation of making worsted lattice-work in the
carpet, anxiously listening to the twopenny postman, who was hammering
his way down the street, at the rate of a penny a knock. The house was
as quiet as possible. There was only one low sound to be heard—it was
the unhappy Tibbs cleaning the gentlemen’s boots in the back kitchen,
and accompanying himself with a buzzing noise, in wretched mockery of
humming a tune.

The postman drew near the house. He paused—so did Mrs. Tibbs. A knock—a
bustle—a letter—post-paid.


‘T. I. presents compt. to I. T. and T. I. begs To say that i see the
advertisement And she will Do Herself the pleasure of calling On you at
12 o’clock to-morrow morning.

‘T. I. as To apologise to I. T. for the shortness Of the notice But i
hope it will not unconvenience you.

‘I remain yours Truly
‘Wednesday evening.’


Little Mrs. Tibbs perused the document, over and over again; and the
more she read it, the more was she confused by the mixture of the first
and third person; the substitution of the ‘i’ for the ‘T. I.;’ and the
transition from the ‘I. T.’ to the ‘You.’ The writing looked like a
skein of thread in a tangle, and the note was ingeniously folded into a
perfect square, with the direction squeezed up into the right-hand
corner, as if it were ashamed of itself. The back of the epistle was
pleasingly ornamented with a large red wafer, which, with the addition
of divers ink-stains, bore a marvellous resemblance to a black beetle
trodden upon. One thing, however, was perfectly clear to the perplexed
Mrs. Tibbs. Somebody was to call at twelve. The drawing-room was
forthwith dusted for the third time that morning; three or four chairs
were pulled out of their places, and a corresponding number of books
carefully upset, in order that there might be a due absence of
formality. Down went the piece of stair-carpet before noticed, and up
ran Mrs. Tibbs ‘to make herself tidy.’

The clock of New Saint Pancras Church struck twelve, and the Foundling,
with laudable politeness, did the same ten minutes afterwards, Saint
something else struck the quarter, and then there arrived a single lady
with a double knock, in a pelisse the colour of the interior of a
damson pie; a bonnet of the same, with a regular conservatory of
artificial flowers; a white veil, and a green parasol, with a cobweb
border.

The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was shown into the
drawing-room; Mrs. Tibbs presented herself, and the negotiation
commenced.

‘I called in consequence of an advertisement,’ said the stranger, in a
voice as if she had been playing a set of Pan’s pipes for a fortnight
without leaving off.

‘Yes!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, rubbing her hands very slowly, and looking the
applicant full in the face—two things she always did on such occasions.

‘Money isn’t no object whatever to me,’ said the lady, ‘so much as
living in a state of retirement and obtrusion.’

Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly
natural desire.

‘I am constantly attended by a medical man,’ resumed the pelisse
wearer; ‘I have been a shocking unitarian for some time—I, indeed, have
had very little peace since the death of Mr. Bloss.’

Mrs. Tibbs looked at the relict of the departed Bloss, and thought he
must have had very little peace in his time. Of course she could not
say so; so she looked very sympathising.

‘I shall be a good deal of trouble to you,’ said Mrs. Bloss; ‘but, for
that trouble I am willing to pay. I am going through a course of
treatment which renders attention necessary. I have one mutton-chop in
bed at half-past eight, and another at ten, every morning.’

Mrs. Tibbs, as in duty bound, expressed the pity she felt for anybody
placed in such a distressing situation; and the carnivorous Mrs. Bloss
proceeded to arrange the various preliminaries with wonderful despatch.
‘Now mind,’ said that lady, after terms were arranged; ‘I am to have
the second-floor front, for my bed-room?’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘And you’ll find room for my little servant Agnes?’

‘Oh! certainly.’

‘And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my bottled porter.’

‘With the greatest pleasure;—James shall get it ready for you by
Saturday.’

‘And I’ll join the company at the breakfast-table on Sunday morning,’
said Mrs. Bloss. ‘I shall get up on purpose.’

‘Very well,’ returned Mrs. Tibbs, in her most amiable tone; for
satisfactory references had ‘been given and required,’ and it was quite
certain that the new-comer had plenty of money. ‘It’s rather singular,’
continued Mrs. Tibbs, with what was meant for a most bewitching smile,
‘that we have a gentleman now with us, who is in a very delicate state
of health—a Mr. Gobler.—His apartment is the back drawing-room.’

‘The next room?’ inquired Mrs. Bloss.

‘The next room,’ repeated the hostess.

‘How very promiscuous!’ ejaculated the widow.

‘He hardly ever gets up,’ said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper.

‘Lor!’ cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone.

‘And when he is up,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘we never can persuade him to go
to bed again.’

‘Dear me!’ said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair nearer
Mrs. Tibbs. ‘What is his complaint?’

‘Why, the fact is,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most communicative air,
‘he has no stomach whatever.’

‘No what?’ inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the most indescribable
alarm.

‘No stomach,’ repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of the head.

‘Lord bless us! what an extraordinary case!’ gasped Mrs. Bloss, as if
she understood the communication in its literal sense, and was
astonished at a gentleman without a stomach finding it necessary to
board anywhere.

‘When I say he has no stomach,’ explained the chatty little Mrs. Tibbs,
‘I mean that his digestion is so much impaired, and his interior so
deranged, that his stomach is not of the least use to him;—in fact,
it’s an inconvenience.’

‘Never heard such a case in my life!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. ‘Why, he’s
worse than I am.’

‘Oh, yes!’ replied Mrs. Tibbs;—‘certainly.’ She said this with great
confidence, for the damson pelisse suggested that Mrs. Bloss, at all
events, was not suffering under Mr. Gobler’s complaint.

‘You have quite incited my curiosity,’ said Mrs. Bloss, as she rose to
depart. ‘How I long to see him!’

‘He generally comes down, once a week,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs; ‘I dare say
you’ll see him on Sunday.’ With this consolatory promise Mrs. Bloss was
obliged to be contented. She accordingly walked slowly down the stairs,
detailing her complaints all the way; and Mrs. Tibbs followed her,
uttering an exclamation of compassion at every step. James (who looked
very gritty, for he was cleaning the knives) fell up the
kitchen-stairs, and opened the street-door; and, after mutual
farewells, Mrs. Bloss slowly departed, down the shady side of the
street.

It is almost superfluous to say, that the lady whom we have just shown
out at the street-door (and whom the two female servants are now
inspecting from the second-floor windows) was exceedingly vulgar,
ignorant, and selfish. Her deceased better-half had been an eminent
cork-cutter, in which capacity he had amassed a decent fortune. He had
no relative but his nephew, and no friend but his cook. The former had
the insolence one morning to ask for the loan of fifteen pounds; and,
by way of retaliation, he married the latter next day; he made a will
immediately afterwards, containing a burst of honest indignation
against his nephew (who supported himself and two sisters on 100_l._ a
year), and a bequest of his whole property to his wife. He felt ill
after breakfast, and died after dinner. There is a mantelpiece-looking
tablet in a civic parish church, setting forth his virtues, and
deploring his loss. He never dishonoured a bill, or gave away a
halfpenny.

The relict and sole executrix of this noble-minded man was an odd
mixture of shrewdness and simplicity, liberality and meanness. Bred up
as she had been, she knew no mode of living so agreeable as a
boarding-house: and having nothing to do, and nothing to wish for, she
naturally imagined she must be ill—an impression which was most
assiduously promoted by her medical attendant, Dr. Wosky, and her
handmaid Agnes: both of whom, doubtless for good reasons, encouraged
all her extravagant notions.

Since the catastrophe recorded in the last chapter, Mrs. Tibbs had been
very shy of young-lady boarders. Her present inmates were all lords of
the creation, and she availed herself of the opportunity of their
assemblage at the dinner-table, to announce the expected arrival of
Mrs. Bloss. The gentlemen received the communication with stoical
indifference, and Mrs. Tibbs devoted all her energies to prepare for
the reception of the valetudinarian. The second-floor front was
scrubbed, and washed, and flannelled, till the wet went through to the
drawing-room ceiling. Clean white counterpanes, and curtains, and
napkins, water-bottles as clear as crystal, blue jugs, and mahogany
furniture, added to the splendour, and increased the comfort, of the
apartment. The warming-pan was in constant requisition, and a fire
lighted in the room every day. The chattels of Mrs. Bloss were
forwarded by instalments. First, there came a large hamper of
Guinness’s stout, and an umbrella; then, a train of trunks; then, a
pair of clogs and a bandbox; then, an easy chair with an air-cushion;
then, a variety of suspicious-looking packages; and—‘though last not
least’—Mrs. Bloss and Agnes: the latter in a cherry-coloured merino
dress, open-work stockings, and shoes with sandals: like a disguised
Columbine.

The installation of the Duke of Wellington, as Chancellor of the
University of Oxford, was nothing, in point of bustle and turmoil, to
the installation of Mrs. Bloss in her new quarters. True, there was no
bright doctor of civil law to deliver a classical address on the
occasion; but there were several other old women present, who spoke
quite as much to the purpose, and understood themselves equally well.
The chop-eater was so fatigued with the process of removal that she
declined leaving her room until the following morning; so a
mutton-chop, pickle, a pill, a pint bottle of stout, and other
medicines, were carried up-stairs for her consumption.

‘Why, what _do_ you think, ma’am?’ inquired the inquisitive Agnes of
her mistress, after they had been in the house some three hours; ‘what
_do_ you think, ma’am? the lady of the house is married.’

‘Married!’ said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draught of
Guinness—‘married! Unpossible!’

‘She is indeed, ma’am,’ returned the Columbine; ‘and her husband,
ma’am, lives—he—he—he—lives in the kitchen, ma’am.’

‘In the kitchen!’

‘Yes, ma’am: and he—he—he—the housemaid says, he never goes into the
parlour except on Sundays; and that Ms. Tibbs makes him clean the
gentlemen’s boots; and that he cleans the windows, too, sometimes; and
that one morning early, when he was in the front balcony cleaning the
drawing-room windows, he called out to a gentleman on the opposite side
of the way, who used to live here—“Ah! Mr. Calton, sir, how are you?”’
Here the attendant laughed till Mrs. Bloss was in serious apprehension
of her chuckling herself into a fit.

‘Well, I never!’ said Mrs. Bloss.

‘Yes. And please, ma’am, the servants gives him gin-and-water
sometimes; and then he cries, and says he hates his wife and the
boarders, and wants to tickle them.’

‘Tickle the boarders!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, seriously alarmed.

‘No, ma’am, not the boarders, the servants.’

‘Oh, is that all!’ said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied.

‘He wanted to kiss me as I came up the kitchen-stairs, just now,’ said
Agnes, indignantly; ‘but I gave it him—a little wretch!’

This intelligence was but too true. A long course of snubbing and
neglect; his days spent in the kitchen, and his nights in the turn-up
bedstead, had completely broken the little spirit that the unfortunate
volunteer had ever possessed. He had no one to whom he could detail his
injuries but the servants, and they were almost of necessity his chosen
confidants. It is no less strange than true, however, that the little
weaknesses which he had incurred, most probably during his military
career, seemed to increase as his comforts diminished. He was actually
a sort of journeyman Giovanni of the basement story.

The next morning, being Sunday, breakfast was laid in the front parlour
at ten o’clock. Nine was the usual time, but the family always
breakfasted an hour later on sabbath. Tibbs enrobed himself in his
Sunday costume—a black coat, and exceedingly short, thin trousers; with
a very large white waistcoat, white stockings and cravat, and Blucher
boots—and mounted to the parlour aforesaid. Nobody had come down, and
he amused himself by drinking the contents of the milkpot with a
teaspoon.

A pair of slippers were heard descending the stairs. Tibbs flew to a
chair; and a stern-looking man, of about fifty, with very little hair
on his head, and a Sunday paper in his hand, entered the room.

‘Good morning, Mr. Evenson,’ said Tibbs, very humbly, with something
between a nod and a bow.

‘How do you do, Mr. Tibbs?’ replied he of the slippers, as he sat
himself down, and began to read his paper without saying another word.

‘Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day, do you know, sir?’ inquired Tibbs,
just for the sake of saying something.

‘I should think he was,’ replied the stern gentleman. ‘He was whistling
“The Light Guitar,” in the next room to mine, at five o’clock this
morning.’

‘He’s very fond of whistling,’ said Tibbs, with a slight smirk.

‘Yes—I ain’t,’ was the laconic reply.

Mr. John Evenson was in the receipt of an independent income, arising
chiefly from various houses he owned in the different suburbs. He was
very morose and discontented. He was a thorough radical, and used to
attend a great variety of public meetings, for the express purpose of
finding fault with everything that was proposed. Mr. Wisbottle, on the
other hand, was a high Tory. He was a clerk in the Woods and Forests
Office, which he considered rather an aristocratic employment; he knew
the peerage by heart, and, could tell you, off-hand, where any
illustrious personage lived. He had a good set of teeth, and a capital
tailor. Mr. Evenson looked on all these qualifications with profound
contempt; and the consequence was that the two were always disputing,
much to the edification of the rest of the house. It should be added,
that, in addition to his partiality for whistling, Mr. Wisbottle had a
great idea of his singing powers. There were two other boarders,
besides the gentleman in the back drawing-room—Mr. Alfred Tomkins and
Mr. Frederick O’Bleary. Mr. Tomkins was a clerk in a wine-house; he was
a connoisseur in paintings, and had a wonderful eye for the
picturesque. Mr. O’Bleary was an Irishman, recently imported; he was in
a perfectly wild state; and had come over to England to be an
apothecary, a clerk in a government office, an actor, a reporter, or
anything else that turned up—he was not particular. He was on familiar
terms with two small Irish members, and got franks for everybody in the
house. He felt convinced that his intrinsic merits must procure him a
high destiny. He wore shepherd’s-plaid inexpressibles, and used to look
under all the ladies’ bonnets as he walked along the streets. His
manners and appearance reminded one of Orson.

‘Here comes Mr. Wisbottle,’ said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith
appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling ‘_Di
piacer_.’

‘Good morning, sir,’ said Tibbs again. It was almost the only thing he
ever said to anybody.

‘How are you, Tibbs?’ condescendingly replied the amateur; and he
walked to the window, and whistled louder than ever.

‘Pretty air, that!’ said Evenson, with a snarl, and without taking his
eyes off the paper.

‘Glad you like it,’ replied Wisbottle, highly gratified.

‘Don’t you think it would sound better, if you whistled it a little
louder?’ inquired the mastiff.

‘No; I don’t think it would,’ rejoined the unconscious Wisbottle.

‘I’ll tell you what, Wisbottle,’ said Evenson, who had been bottling up
his anger for some hours—‘the next time you feel disposed to whistle
“The Light Guitar” at five o’clock in the morning, I’ll trouble you to
whistle it with your head out o’ window. If you don’t, I’ll learn the
triangle—I will, by—’

The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little basket)
interrupted the threat, and prevented its conclusion.

Mrs. Tibbs apologised for being down rather late; the bell was rung;
James brought up the urn, and received an unlimited order for dry toast
and bacon. Tibbs sat down at the bottom of the table, and began eating
water-cresses like a Nebuchadnezzar. Mr. O’Bleary appeared, and Mr.
Alfred Tomkins. The compliments of the morning were exchanged, and the
tea was made.

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out at the
window. ‘Here—Wisbottle—pray come here—make haste.’

Mr. Wisbottle started from the table, and every one looked up.

‘Do you see,’ said the connoisseur, placing Wisbottle in the right
position—‘a little more this way: there—do you see how splendidly the
light falls upon the left side of that broken chimney-pot at No. 48?’

‘Dear me! I see,’ replied Wisbottle, in a tone of admiration.

‘I never saw an object stand out so beautifully against the clear sky
in my life,’ ejaculated Alfred. Everybody (except John Evenson) echoed
the sentiment; for Mr. Tomkins had a great character for finding out
beauties which no one else could discover—he certainly deserved it.

‘I have frequently observed a chimney-pot in College-green, Dublin,
which has a much better effect,’ said the patriotic O’Bleary, who never
allowed Ireland to be outdone on any point.

The assertion was received with obvious incredulity, for Mr. Tomkins
declared that no other chimney-pot in the United Kingdom, broken or
unbroken, could be so beautiful as the one at No. 48.

The room-door was suddenly thrown open, and Agnes appeared, leading in
Mrs. Bloss, who was dressed in a geranium-coloured muslin gown, and
displayed a gold watch of huge dimensions; a chain to match; and a
splendid assortment of rings, with enormous stones. A general rush was
made for a chair, and a regular introduction took place. Mr. John
Evenson made a slight inclination of the head; Mr. Frederick O’Bleary,
Mr. Alfred Tomkins, and Mr. Wisbottle, bowed like the mandarins in a
grocer’s shop; Tibbs rubbed hands, and went round in circles. He was
observed to close one eye, and to assume a clock-work sort of
expression with the other; this has been considered as a wink, and it
has been reported that Agnes was its object. We repel the calumny, and
challenge contradiction.

Mrs. Tibbs inquired after Mrs. Bloss’s health in a low tone. Mrs.
Bloss, with a supreme contempt for the memory of Lindley Murray,
answered the various questions in a most satisfactory manner; and a
pause ensued, during which the eatables disappeared with awful
rapidity.

‘You must have been very much pleased with the appearance of the ladies
going to the Drawing-room the other day, Mr. O’Bleary?’ said Mrs.
Tibbs, hoping to start a topic.

‘Yes,’ replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast.

‘Never saw anything like it before, I suppose?’ suggested Wisbottle.

‘No—except the Lord Lieutenant’s levees,’ replied O’Bleary.

‘Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms?’

‘Oh, infinitely superior!’

‘Gad! I don’t know,’ said the aristocratic Wisbottle, ‘the Dowager
Marchioness of Publiccash was most magnificently dressed, and so was
the Baron Slappenbachenhausen.’

‘What was he presented on?’ inquired Evenson.

‘On his arrival in England.’

‘I thought so,’ growled the radical; ‘you never hear of these fellows
being presented on their going away again. They know better than that.’

‘Unless somebody pervades them with an apintment,’ said Mrs. Bloss,
joining in the conversation in a faint voice.

‘Well,’ said Wisbottle, evading the point, ‘it’s a splendid sight.’

‘And did it never occur to you,’ inquired the radical, who never would
be quiet; ‘did it never occur to you, that you pay for these precious
ornaments of society?’

‘It certainly _has_ occurred to me,’ said Wisbottle, who thought this
answer was a poser; ‘it _has_ occurred to me, and I am willing to pay
for them.’

‘Well, and it has occurred to me too,’ replied John Evenson, ‘and I
ain’t willing to pay for ’em. Then why should I?—I say, why should I?’
continued the politician, laying down the paper, and knocking his
knuckles on the table. ‘There are two great principles—demand—’

‘A cup of tea if you please, dear,’ interrupted Tibbs.

‘And supply—’

‘May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs?’ said Mrs. Tibbs,
interrupting the argument, and unconsciously illustrating it.

The thread of the orator’s discourse was broken. He drank his tea and
resumed the paper.

‘If it’s very fine,’ said Mr. Alfred Tomkins, addressing the company in
general, ‘I shall ride down to Richmond to-day, and come back by the
steamer. There are some splendid effects of light and shade on the
Thames; the contrast between the blueness of the sky and the yellow
water is frequently exceedingly beautiful.’ Mr. Wisbottle hummed, ‘Flow
on, thou shining river.’

‘We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland,’ said O’Bleary.

‘Certainly,’ said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached in
which she could take part.

‘The accommodations are extraordinary,’ said O’Bleary.

‘Extraordinary indeed,’ returned Mrs. Bloss. ‘When Mr. Bloss was alive,
he was promiscuously obligated to go to Ireland on business. I went
with him, and raly the manner in which the ladies and gentlemen were
accommodated with berths, is not creditable.’

Tibbs, who had been listening to the dialogue, looked aghast, and
evinced a strong inclination to ask a question, but was checked by a
look from his wife. Mr. Wisbottle laughed, and said Tomkins had made a
pun; and Tomkins laughed too, and said he had not.

The remainder of the meal passed off as breakfasts usually do.
Conversation flagged, and people played with their teaspoons. The
gentlemen looked out at the window; walked about the room; and, when
they got near the door, dropped off one by one. Tibbs retired to the
back parlour by his wife’s orders, to check the green-grocer’s weekly
account; and ultimately Mrs. Tibbs and Mrs. Bloss were left alone
together.

‘Oh dear!’ said the latter, ‘I feel alarmingly faint; it’s very
singular.’ (It certainly was, for she had eaten four pounds of solids
that morning.) ‘By-the-bye,’ said Mrs. Bloss, ‘I have not seen Mr.
What’s-his-name yet.’

‘Mr. Gobler?’ suggested Mrs. Tibbs.

‘Yes.’

‘Oh!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘he is a most mysterious person. He has his
meals regularly sent up-stairs, and sometimes don’t leave his room for
weeks together.’

‘I haven’t seen or heard nothing of him,’ repeated Mrs. Bloss.

‘I dare say you’ll hear him to-night,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs; ‘he
generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings.’

‘I never felt such an interest in any one in my life,’ ejaculated Mrs.
Bloss. A little double-knock interrupted the conversation; Dr. Wosky
was announced, and duly shown in. He was a little man with a red
face—dressed of course in black, with a stiff white neckerchief. He had
a very good practice, and plenty of money, which he had amassed by
invariably humouring the worst fancies of all the females of all the
families he had ever been introduced into. Mrs. Tibbs offered to
retire, but was entreated to stay.

‘Well, my dear ma’am, and how are we?’ inquired Wosky, in a soothing
tone.

‘Very ill, doctor—very ill,’ said Mrs. Bloss, in a whisper

‘Ah! we must take care of ourselves;—we must, indeed,’ said the
obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient.

‘How is our appetite?’

Mrs. Bloss shook her head.

‘Our friend requires great care,’ said Wosky, appealing to Mrs. Tibbs,
who of course assented. ‘I hope, however, with the blessing of
Providence, that we shall be enabled to make her quite stout again.’
Mrs. Tibbs wondered in her own mind what the patient would be when she
was made quite stout.

‘We must take stimulants,’ said the cunning Wosky—‘plenty of
nourishment, and, above all, we must keep our nerves quiet; we
positively must not give way to our sensibilities. We must take all we
can get,’ concluded the doctor, as he pocketed his fee, ‘and we must
keep quiet.’

‘Dear man!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the doctor stepped into the
carriage.

‘Charming creature indeed—quite a lady’s man!’ said Mrs. Tibbs, and Dr.
Wosky rattled away to make fresh gulls of delicate females, and pocket
fresh fees.

As we had occasion, in a former paper, to describe a dinner at Mrs.
Tibbs’s; and as one meal went off very like another on all ordinary
occasions; we will not fatigue our readers by entering into any other
detailed account of the domestic economy of the establishment. We will
therefore proceed to events, merely premising that the mysterious
tenant of the back drawing-room was a lazy, selfish hypochondriac;
always complaining and never ill. As his character in many respects
closely assimilated to that of Mrs. Bloss, a very warm friendship soon
sprung up between them. He was tall, thin, and pale; he always fancied
he had a severe pain somewhere or other, and his face invariably wore a
pinched, screwed-up expression; he looked, indeed, like a man who had
got his feet in a tub of exceedingly hot water, against his will.

For two or three months after Mrs. Bloss’s first appearance in
Coram-street, John Evenson was observed to become, every day, more
sarcastic and more ill-natured; and there was a degree of additional
importance in his manner, which clearly showed that he fancied he had
discovered something, which he only wanted a proper opportunity of
divulging. He found it at last.

One evening, the different inmates of the house were assembled in the
drawing-room engaged in their ordinary occupations. Mr. Gobler and Mrs.
Bloss were sitting at a small card-table near the centre window,
playing cribbage; Mr. Wisbottle was describing semicircles on the
music-stool, turning over the leaves of a book on the piano, and
humming most melodiously; Alfred Tomkins was sitting at the round
table, with his elbows duly squared, making a pencil sketch of a head
considerably larger than his own; O’Bleary was reading Horace, and
trying to look as if he understood it; and John Evenson had drawn his
chair close to Mrs. Tibbs’s work-table, and was talking to her very
earnestly in a low tone.

‘I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs,’ said the radical, laying his forefinger
on the muslin she was at work on; ‘I can assure you, Mrs. Tibbs, that
nothing but the interest I take in your welfare would induce me to make
this communication. I repeat, I fear Wisbottle is endeavouring to gain
the affections of that young woman, Agnes, and that he is in the habit
of meeting her in the store-room on the first floor, over the leads.
From my bedroom I distinctly heard voices there, last night. I opened
my door immediately, and crept very softly on to the landing; there I
saw Mr. Tibbs, who, it seems, had been disturbed also.—Bless me, Mrs.
Tibbs, you change colour!’

‘No, no—it’s nothing,’ returned Mrs. T. in a hurried manner; ‘it’s only
the heat of the room.’

‘A flush!’ ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table; ‘that’s good for
four.’

‘If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, after a pause,
‘he should leave this house instantly.’

‘Go!’ said Mrs. Bloss again.

‘And if I thought,’ continued the hostess with a most threatening air,
‘if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs—’

‘One for his nob!’ said Gobler.

‘Oh,’ said Evenson, in a most soothing tone—he liked to make
mischief—‘I should hope Mr. Tibbs was not in any way implicated. He
always appeared to me very harmless.’

‘I have generally found him so,’ sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs; crying
like a watering-pot.

‘Hush! hush! pray—Mrs. Tibbs—consider—we shall be observed—pray,
don’t!’ said John Evenson, fearing his whole plan would be interrupted.
‘We will set the matter at rest with the utmost care, and I shall be
most happy to assist you in doing so.’ Mrs. Tibbs murmured her thanks.

‘When you think every one has retired to rest to-night,’ said Evenson
very pompously, ‘if you’ll meet me without a light, just outside my
bedroom door, by the staircase window, I think we can ascertain who the
parties really are, and you will afterwards be enabled to proceed as
you think proper.’

Mrs. Tibbs was easily persuaded; her curiosity was excited, her
jealousy was roused, and the arrangement was forthwith made. She
resumed her work, and John Evenson walked up and down the room with his
hands in his pockets, looking as if nothing had happened. The game of
cribbage was over, and conversation began again.

‘Well, Mr. O’Bleary,’ said the humming-top, turning round on his pivot,
and facing the company, ‘what did you think of Vauxhall the other
night?’

‘Oh, it’s very fair,’ replied Orson, who had been enthusiastically
delighted with the whole exhibition.

‘Never saw anything like that Captain Ross’s set-out—eh?’

‘No,’ returned the patriot, with his usual reservation—‘except in
Dublin.’

‘I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens,’
said Wisbottle; ‘they appeared much delighted.’

‘Then it _must_ be beautiful,’ snarled Evenson.

‘I think the white bears is partickerlerly well done,’ suggested Mrs.
Bloss. ‘In their shaggy white coats, they look just like Polar
bears—don’t you think they do, Mr. Evenson?’

‘I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads on all fours,’
replied the discontented one.

‘Upon the whole, I should have liked our evening very well,’ gasped
Gobler; ‘only I caught a desperate cold which increased my pain
dreadfully! I was obliged to have several shower-baths, before I could
leave my room.’

‘Capital things those shower-baths!’ ejaculated Wisbottle.

‘Excellent!’ said Tomkins.

‘Delightful!’ chimed in O’Bleary. (He had once seen one, outside a
tinman’s.)

‘Disgusting machines!’ rejoined Evenson, who extended his dislike to
almost every created object, masculine, feminine, or neuter.

‘Disgusting, Mr. Evenson!’ said Gobler, in a tone of strong
indignation.—‘Disgusting! Look at their utility—consider how many lives
they have saved by promoting perspiration.’

‘Promoting perspiration, indeed,’ growled John Evenson, stopping short
in his walk across the large squares in the pattern of the carpet—‘I
was ass enough to be persuaded some time ago to have one in my bedroom.
‘Gad, I was in it once, and it effectually cured _me_, for the mere
sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration for six months
afterwards.’

A titter followed this announcement, and before it had subsided James
brought up ‘the tray,’ containing the remains of a leg of lamb which
had made its _début_ at dinner; bread; cheese; an atom of butter in a
forest of parsley; one pickled walnut and the third of another; and so
forth. The boy disappeared, and returned again with another tray,
containing glasses and jugs of hot and cold water. The gentlemen
brought in their spirit-bottles; the housemaid placed divers plated
bedroom candlesticks under the card-table; and the servants retired for
the night.

Chairs were drawn round the table, and the conversation proceeded in
the customary manner. John Evenson, who never ate supper, lolled on the
sofa, and amused himself by contradicting everybody. O’Bleary ate as
much as he could conveniently carry, and Mrs. Tibbs felt a due degree
of indignation thereat; Mr. Gobler and Mrs. Bloss conversed most
affectionately on the subject of pill-taking, and other innocent
amusements; and Tomkins and Wisbottle ‘got into an argument;’ that is
to say, they both talked very loudly and vehemently, each flattering
himself that he had got some advantage about something, and neither of
them having more than a very indistinct idea of what they were talking
about. An hour or two passed away; and the boarders and the plated
candlesticks retired in pairs to their respective bedrooms. John
Evenson pulled off his boots, locked his door, and determined to sit up
until Mr. Gobler had retired. He always sat in the drawing-room an hour
after everybody else had left it, taking medicine, and groaning.

Great Coram-street was hushed into a state of profound repose: it was
nearly two o’clock. A hackney-coach now and then rumbled slowly by; and
occasionally some stray lawyer’s clerk, on his way home to Somers-town,
struck his iron heel on the top of the coal-cellar with a noise
resembling the click of a smoke-Jack. A low, monotonous, gushing sound
was heard, which added considerably to the romantic dreariness of the
scene. It was the water ‘coming in’ at number eleven.

‘He must be asleep by this time,’ said John Evenson to himself, after
waiting with exemplary patience for nearly an hour after Mr. Gobler had
left the drawing-room. He listened for a few moments; the house was
perfectly quiet; he extinguished his rushlight, and opened his bedroom
door. The staircase was so dark that it was impossible to see anything.

‘S-s-s!’ whispered the mischief-maker, making a noise like the first
indication a catherine-wheel gives of the probability of its going off.

‘Hush!’ whispered somebody else.

‘Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Where?’

‘Here;’ and the misty outline of Mrs. Tibbs appeared at the staircase
window, like the ghost of Queen Anne in the tent scene in Richard.

‘This way, Mrs. Tibbs,’ whispered the delighted busybody: ‘give me your
hand—there! Whoever these people are, they are in the store-room now,
for I have been looking down from my window, and I could see that they
accidentally upset their candlestick, and are now in darkness. You have
no shoes on, have you?’

‘No,’ said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling.

‘Well; I have taken my boots off, so we can go down, close to the
store-room door, and listen over the banisters;’ and down-stairs they
both crept accordingly, every board creaking like a patent mangle on a
Saturday afternoon.

‘It’s Wisbottle and somebody, I’ll swear,’ exclaimed the radical in an
energetic whisper, when they had listened for a few moments.

‘Hush—pray let’s hear what they say!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, the
gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other
consideration.

‘Ah! if I could but believe you,’ said a female voice coquettishly,
‘I’d be bound to settle my missis for life.’

‘What does she say?’ inquired Mr. Evenson, who was not quite so well
situated as his companion.

‘She says she’ll settle her missis’s life,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs. ‘The
wretch! they’re plotting murder.’

‘I know you want money,’ continued the voice, which belonged to Agnes;
‘and if you’d secure me the five hundred pound, I warrant she should
take fire soon enough.’

‘What’s that?’ inquired Evenson again. He could just hear enough to
want to hear more.

‘I think she says she’ll set the house on fire,’ replied the affrighted
Mrs. Tibbs. ‘But thank God I’m insured in the Phoenix!’

‘The moment I have secured your mistress, my dear,’ said a man’s voice
in a strong Irish brogue, ‘you may depend on having the money.’

‘Bless my soul, it’s Mr. O’Bleary!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs, in a
parenthesis.

‘The villain!’ said the indignant Mr. Evenson.

‘The first thing to be done,’ continued the Hibernian, ‘is to poison
Mr. Gobler’s mind.’

‘Oh, certainly,’ returned Agnes.

‘What’s that?’ inquired Evenson again, in an agony of curiosity and a
whisper.

‘He says she’s to mind and poison Mr. Gobler,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs,
aghast at this sacrifice of human life.

‘And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs,’ continued O’Bleary.—Mrs. Tibbs
shuddered.

‘Hush!’ exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the greatest alarm, just as Mrs.
Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting fit. ‘Hush!’

‘Hush!’ exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs.

‘There’s somebody coming _up_-stairs,’ said Agnes to O’Bleary.

‘There’s somebody coming _down_-stairs,’ whispered Evenson to Mrs.
Tibbs.

‘Go into the parlour, sir,’ said Agnes to her companion. ‘You will get
there, before whoever it is, gets to the top of the kitchen stairs.’

‘The drawing-room, Mrs. Tibbs!’ whispered the astonished Evenson to his
equally astonished companion; and for the drawing-room they both made,
plainly hearing the rustling of two persons, one coming down-stairs,
and one coming up.

‘What can it be?’ exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. ‘It’s like a dream. I wouldn’t
be found in this situation for the world!’

‘Nor I,’ returned Evenson, who could never bear a joke at his own
expense. ‘Hush! here they are at the door.’

‘What fun!’ whispered one of the new-comers.—It was Wisbottle.

‘Glorious!’ replied his companion, in an equally low tone.—This was
Alfred Tomkins. ‘Who would have thought it?’

‘I told you so,’ said Wisbottle, in a most knowing whisper. ‘Lord bless
you, he has paid her most extraordinary attention for the last two
months. I saw ’em when I was sitting at the piano to-night.’

‘Well, do you know I didn’t notice it?’ interrupted Tomkins.

‘Not notice it!’ continued Wisbottle. ‘Bless you; I saw him whispering
to her, and she crying; and then I’ll swear I heard him say something
about to-night when we were all in bed.’

‘They’re talking of _us_!’ exclaimed the agonised Mrs. Tibbs, as the
painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon her
mind.

‘I know it—I know it,’ replied Evenson, with a melancholy consciousness
that there was no mode of escape.

‘What’s to be done? we cannot both stop here!’ ejaculated Mrs. Tibbs,
in a state of partial derangement.

‘I’ll get up the chimney,’ replied Evenson, who really meant what he
said.

‘You can’t,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. ‘You can’t—it’s a register
stove.’

‘Hush!’ repeated John Evenson.

‘Hush—hush!’ cried somebody down-stairs.

‘What a d-d hushing!’ said Alfred Tomkins, who began to get rather
bewildered.

‘There they are!’ exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling noise
was heard in the store-room.

‘Hark!’ whispered both the young men.

‘Hark!’ repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson.

‘Let me alone, sir,’ said a female voice in the store-room.

‘Oh, Hagnes!’ cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, for
nobody else ever owned one like it, ‘Oh, Hagnes—lovely creature!’

‘Be quiet, sir!’ (A bounce.)

‘Hag—’

‘Be quiet, sir—I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs. Be
quiet, sir!’

‘My wife!’ exclaimed the valorous Tibbs, who was clearly under the
influence of gin-and-water, and a misplaced attachment; ‘I ate her! Oh,
Hagnes! when I was in the volunteer corps, in eighteen hundred and—’

‘I declare I’ll scream. Be quiet, sir, will you?’ (Another bounce and a
scuffle.)

‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Tibbs, with a start.

‘What’s what?’ said Agnes, stopping short.

‘Why that!’

‘Ah! you have done it nicely now, sir,’ sobbed the frightened Agnes, as
a tapping was heard at Mrs. Tibbs’s bedroom door, which would have
beaten any dozen woodpeckers hollow.

‘Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!’ called out Mrs. Bloss. ‘Mrs. Tibbs, pray get
up.’ (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with tenfold
violence.)

‘Oh, dear—dear!’ exclaimed the wretched partner of the depraved Tibbs.
‘She’s knocking at my door. We must be discovered! What will they
think?’

‘Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!’ screamed the woodpecker again.

‘What’s the matter!’ shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back
drawing-room, like the dragon at Astley’s.

‘Oh, Mr. Gobler!’ cried Mrs. Bloss, with a proper approximation to
hysterics; ‘I think the house is on fire, or else there’s thieves in
it. I have heard the most dreadful noises!’

‘The devil you have!’ shouted Gobler again, bouncing back into his den,
in happy imitation of the aforesaid dragon, and returning immediately
with a lighted candle. ‘Why, what’s this? Wisbottle! Tomkins! O’Bleary!
Agnes! What the deuce! all up and dressed?’

‘Astonishing!’ said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down-stairs, and taken Mr.
Gobler’s arm.

‘Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody,’ said Gobler, turning into the
front drawing-room.—‘What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!’

‘Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!’ repeated everybody, as that unhappy pair
were discovered: Mrs. Tibbs seated in an arm-chair by the fireplace,
and Mr. Evenson standing by her side.

We must leave the scene that ensued to the reader’s imagination. We
could tell, how Mrs. Tibbs forthwith fainted away, and how it required
the united strength of Mr. Wisbottle and Mr. Alfred Tomkins to hold her
in her chair; how Mr. Evenson explained, and how his explanation was
evidently disbelieved; how Agnes repelled the accusations of Mrs. Tibbs
by proving that she was negotiating with Mr. O’Bleary to influence her
mistress’s affections in his behalf; and how Mr. Gobler threw a damp
counterpane on the hopes of Mr. O’Bleary by avowing that he (Gobler)
had already proposed to, and been accepted by, Mrs. Bloss; how Agnes
was discharged from that lady’s service; how Mr. O’Bleary discharged
himself from Mrs. Tibbs’s house, without going through the form of
previously discharging his bill; and how that disappointed young
gentleman rails against England and the English, and vows there is no
virtue or fine feeling extant, ‘except in Ireland.’ We repeat that we
_could_ tell all this, but we love to exercise our self-denial, and we
therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined.

The lady whom we have hitherto described as Mrs. Bloss, is no more.
Mrs. Gobler exists: Mrs. Bloss has left us for ever. In a secluded
retreat in Newington Butts, far, far removed from the noisy strife of
that great boarding-house, the world, the enviable Gobler and his
pleasing wife revel in retirement: happy in their complaints, their
table, and their medicine, wafted through life by the grateful prayers
of all the purveyors of animal food within three miles round.

We would willingly stop here, but we have a painful duty imposed upon
us, which we must discharge. Mr. and Mrs. Tibbs have separated by
mutual consent, Mrs. Tibbs receiving one moiety of 43_l._ 15_s._
10_d._, which we before stated to be the amount of her husband’s annual
income, and Mr. Tibbs the other. He is spending the evening of his days
in retirement; and he is spending also, annually, that small but
honourable independence. He resides among the original settlers at
Walworth; and it has been stated, on unquestionable authority, that the
conclusion of the volunteer story has been heard in a small tavern in
that respectable neighbourhood.

The unfortunate Mrs. Tibbs has determined to dispose of the whole of
her furniture by public auction, and to retire from a residence in
which she has suffered so much. Mr. Robins has been applied to, to
conduct the sale, and the transcendent abilities of the literary
gentlemen connected with his establishment are now devoted to the task
of drawing up the preliminary advertisement. It is to contain, among a
variety of brilliant matter, seventy-eight words in large capitals, and
six original quotations in inverted commas.




CHAPTER II—MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN


Mr. Augustus Minns was a bachelor, of about forty as he said—of about
eight-and-forty as his friends said. He was always exceedingly clean,
precise, and tidy; perhaps somewhat priggish, and the most retiring man
in the world. He usually wore a brown frock-coat without a wrinkle,
light inexplicables without a spot, a neat neckerchief with a
remarkably neat tie, and boots without a fault; moreover, he always
carried a brown silk umbrella with an ivory handle. He was a clerk in
Somerset-house, or, as he said himself, he held ‘a responsible
situation under Government.’ He had a good and increasing salary, in
addition to some 10,000_l._ of his own (invested in the funds), and he
occupied a first floor in Tavistock-street, Covent-garden, where he had
resided for twenty years, having been in the habit of quarrelling with
his landlord the whole time: regularly giving notice of his intention
to quit on the first day of every quarter, and as regularly
countermanding it on the second. There were two classes of created
objects which he held in the deepest and most unmingled horror; these
were dogs, and children. He was not unamiable, but he could, at any
time, have viewed the execution of a dog, or the assassination of an
infant, with the liveliest satisfaction. Their habits were at variance
with his love of order; and his love of order was as powerful as his
love of life. Mr. Augustus Minns had no relations, in or near London,
with the exception of his cousin, Mr. Octavius Budden, to whose son,
whom he had never seen (for he disliked the father), he had consented
to become godfather by proxy. Mr. Budden having realised a moderate
fortune by exercising the trade or calling of a corn-chandler, and
having a great predilection for the country, had purchased a cottage in
the vicinity of Stamford-hill, whither he retired with the wife of his
bosom, and his only son, Master Alexander Augustus Budden. One evening,
as Mr. and Mrs. B. were admiring their son, discussing his various
merits, talking over his education, and disputing whether the classics
should be made an essential part thereof, the lady pressed so strongly
upon her husband the propriety of cultivating the friendship of Mr.
Minns in behalf of their son, that Mr. Budden at last made up his mind,
that it should not be his fault if he and his cousin were not in future
more intimate.

‘I’ll break the ice, my love,’ said Mr. Budden, stirring up the sugar
at the bottom of his glass of brandy-and-water, and casting a sidelong
look at his spouse to see the effect of the announcement of his
determination, ‘by asking Minns down to dine with us, on Sunday.’

‘Then pray, Budden, write to your cousin at once,’ replied Mrs. Budden.
‘Who knows, if we could only get him down here, but he might take a
fancy to our Alexander, and leave him his property?—Alick, my dear,
take your legs off the rail of the chair!’

‘Very true,’ said Mr. Budden, musing, ‘very true indeed, my love!’ On
the following morning, as Mr. Minns was sitting at his breakfast-table,
alternately biting his dry toast and casting a look upon the columns of
his morning paper, which he always read from the title to the printer’s
name, he heard a loud knock at the street-door; which was shortly
afterwards followed by the entrance of his servant, who put into his
hands a particularly small card, on which was engraven in immense
letters, ‘Mr. Octavius Budden, Amelia Cottage (Mrs. B.’s name was
Amelia), Poplar-walk, Stamford-hill.’

‘Budden!’ ejaculated Minns, ‘what can bring that vulgar man here!—say
I’m asleep—say I’m out, and shall never be home again—anything to keep
him down-stairs.’

‘But please, sir, the gentleman’s coming up,’ replied the servant, and
the fact was made evident, by an appalling creaking of boots on the
staircase accompanied by a pattering noise; the cause of which, Minns
could not, for the life of him, divine.

‘Hem—show the gentleman in,’ said the unfortunate bachelor. Exit
servant, and enter Octavius preceded by a large white dog, dressed in a
suit of fleecy hosiery, with pink eyes, large ears, and no perceptible
tail.

The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr.
Augustus Minns staggered beneath the shock of the dog’s appearance.

‘My dear fellow, how are you?’ said Budden, as he entered.

He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing
half-a-dozen times.

‘How are you, my hearty?’

‘How do you do, Mr. Budden?—pray take a chair!’ politely stammered the
discomfited Minns.

‘Thank you—thank you—well—how are you, eh?’

‘Uncommonly well, thank you,’ said Minns, casting a diabolical look at
the dog, who, with his hind legs on the floor, and his fore paws
resting on the table, was dragging a bit of bread and butter out of a
plate, preparatory to devouring it, with the buttered side next the
carpet.

‘Ah, you rogue!’ said Budden to his dog; ‘you see, Minns, he’s like me,
always at home, eh, my boy!—Egad, I’m precious hot and hungry! I’ve
walked all the way from Stamford-hill this morning.’

‘Have you breakfasted?’ inquired Minns.

‘Oh, no!—came to breakfast with you; so ring the bell, my dear fellow,
will you? and let’s have another cup and saucer, and the cold ham.—Make
myself at home, you see!’ continued Budden, dusting his boots with a
table-napkin. ‘Ha!—ha!—ha!—’pon my life, I’m hungry.’

Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile.

‘I decidedly never was so hot in my life,’ continued Octavius, wiping
his forehead; ‘well, but how are you, Minns? ‘Pon my soul, you wear
capitally!’

‘D’ye think so?’ said Minns; and he tried another smile.

‘’Pon my life, I do!’

‘Mrs. B. and—what’s his name—quite well?’

‘Alick—my son, you mean; never better—never better. But at such a place
as we’ve got at Poplar-walk, you know, he couldn’t be ill if he tried.
When I first saw it, by Jove! it looked so knowing, with the front
garden, and the green railings and the brass knocker, and all that—I
really thought it was a cut above me.’

‘Don’t you think you’d like the ham better,’ interrupted Minns, ‘if you
cut it the other way?’ He saw, with feelings which it is impossible to
describe, that his visitor was cutting or rather maiming the ham, in
utter violation of all established rules.

‘No, thank ye,’ returned Budden, with the most barbarous indifference
to crime, ‘I prefer it this way, it eats short. But I say, Minns, when
will you come down and see us? You will be delighted with the place; I
know you will. Amelia and I were talking about you the other night, and
Amelia said—another lump of sugar, please; thank ye—she said, don’t you
think you could contrive, my dear, to say to Mr. Minns, in a friendly
way—come down, sir—damn the dog! he’s spoiling your curtains,
Minns—ha!—ha!—ha!’ Minns leaped from his seat as though he had received
the discharge from a galvanic battery.

‘Come out, sir!—go out, hoo!’ cried poor Augustus, keeping,
nevertheless, at a very respectful distance from the dog; having read
of a case of hydrophobia in the paper of that morning. By dint of great
exertion, much shouting, and a marvellous deal of poking under the
tables with a stick and umbrella, the dog was at last dislodged, and
placed on the landing outside the door, where he immediately commenced
a most appalling howling; at the same time vehemently scratching the
paint off the two nicely-varnished bottom panels, until they resembled
the interior of a backgammon-board.

‘A good dog for the country that!’ coolly observed Budden to the
distracted Minns, ‘but he’s not much used to confinement. But now,
Minns, when will you come down? I’ll take no denial, positively. Let’s
see, to-day’s Thursday.—Will you come on Sunday? We dine at five, don’t
say no—do.’

After a great deal of pressing, Mr. Augustus Minns, driven to despair,
accepted the invitation, and promised to be at Poplar-walk on the
ensuing Sunday, at a quarter before five to the minute.

‘Now mind the direction,’ said Budden: ‘the coach goes from the
Flower-pot, in Bishopsgate-street, every half hour. When the coach
stops at the Swan, you’ll see, immediately opposite you, a white
house.’

‘Which is your house—I understand,’ said Minns, wishing to cut short
the visit, and the story, at the same time.

‘No, no, that’s not mine; that’s Grogus’s, the great ironmonger’s. I
was going to say—you turn down by the side of the white house till you
can’t go another step further—mind that!—and then you turn to your
right, by some stables—well; close to you, you’ll see a wall with
“Beware of the Dog” written on it in large letters—(Minns shuddered)—go
along by the side of that wall for about a quarter of a mile—and
anybody will show you which is my place.’

‘Very well—thank ye—good-bye.’

‘Be punctual.’

‘Certainly: good morning.’

‘I say, Minns, you’ve got a card.’

‘Yes, I have; thank ye.’ And Mr. Octavius Budden departed, leaving his
cousin looking forward to his visit on the following Sunday, with the
feelings of a penniless poet to the weekly visit of his Scotch
landlady.

Sunday arrived; the sky was bright and clear; crowds of people were
hurrying along the streets, intent on their different schemes of
pleasure for the day; everything and everybody looked cheerful and
happy except Mr. Augustus Minns.

The day was fine, but the heat was considerable; when Mr. Minns had
fagged up the shady side of Fleet-street, Cheapside, and
Threadneedle-street, he had become pretty warm, tolerably dusty, and it
was getting late into the bargain. By the most extraordinary good
fortune, however, a coach was waiting at the Flower-pot, into which Mr.
Augustus Minns got, on the solemn assurance of the cad that the vehicle
would start in three minutes—that being the very utmost extremity of
time it was allowed to wait by Act of Parliament. A quarter of an hour
elapsed, and there were no signs of moving. Minns looked at his watch
for the sixth time.

‘Coachman, are you going or not?’ bawled Mr. Minns, with his head and
half his body out of the coach window.

‘Di-rectly, sir,’ said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets,
looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible.

‘Bill, take them cloths off.’ Five minutes more elapsed: at the end of
which time the coachman mounted the box, from whence he looked down the
street, and up the street, and hailed all the pedestrians for another
five minutes.

‘Coachman! if you don’t go this moment, I shall get out,’ said Mr.
Minns, rendered desperate by the lateness of the hour, and the
impossibility of being in Poplar-walk at the appointed time.

‘Going this minute, sir,’ was the reply;—and, accordingly, the machine
trundled on for a couple of hundred yards, and then stopped again.
Minns doubled himself up in a corner of the coach, and abandoned
himself to his fate, as a child, a mother, a bandbox and a parasol,
became his fellow-passengers.

The child was an affectionate and an amiable infant; the little dear
mistook Minns for his other parent, and screamed to embrace him.

‘Be quiet, dear,’ said the mamma, restraining the impetuosity of the
darling, whose little fat legs were kicking, and stamping, and twining
themselves into the most complicated forms, in an ecstasy of
impatience. ‘Be quiet, dear, that’s not your papa.’

‘Thank Heaven I am not!’ thought Minns, as the first gleam of pleasure
he had experienced that morning shone like a meteor through his
wretchedness.

Playfulness was agreeably mingled with affection in the disposition of
the boy. When satisfied that Mr. Minns was not his parent, he
endeavoured to attract his notice by scraping his drab trousers with
his dirty shoes, poking his chest with his mamma’s parasol, and other
nameless endearments peculiar to infancy, with which he beguiled the
tediousness of the ride, apparently very much to his own satisfaction.

When the unfortunate gentleman arrived at the Swan, he found to his
great dismay, that it was a quarter past five. The white house, the
stables, the ‘Beware of the Dog,’—every landmark was passed, with a
rapidity not unusual to a gentleman of a certain age when too late for
dinner. After the lapse of a few minutes, Mr. Minns found himself
opposite a yellow brick house with a green door, brass knocker, and
door-plate, green window-frames and ditto railings, with ‘a garden’ in
front, that is to say, a small loose bit of gravelled ground, with one
round and two scalene triangular beds, containing a fir-tree, twenty or
thirty bulbs, and an unlimited number of marigolds. The taste of Mr.
and Mrs. Budden was further displayed by the appearance of a Cupid on
each side of the door, perched upon a heap of large chalk flints,
variegated with pink conch-shells. His knock at the door was answered
by a stumpy boy, in drab livery, cotton stockings and high-lows, who,
after hanging his hat on one of the dozen brass pegs which ornamented
the passage, denominated by courtesy ‘The Hall,’ ushered him into a
front drawing-room commanding a very extensive view of the backs of the
neighbouring houses. The usual ceremony of introduction, and so forth,
over, Mr. Minns took his seat: not a little agitated at finding that he
was the last comer, and, somehow or other, the Lion of about a dozen
people, sitting together in a small drawing-room, getting rid of that
most tedious of all time, the time preceding dinner.

‘Well, Brogson,’ said Budden, addressing an elderly gentleman in a
black coat, drab knee-breeches, and long gaiters, who, under pretence
of inspecting the prints in an Annual, had been engaged in satisfying
himself on the subject of Mr. Minns’s general appearance, by looking at
him over the tops of the leaves—‘Well, Brogson, what do ministers mean
to do? Will they go out, or what?’

‘Oh—why—really, you know, I’m the last person in the world to ask for
news. Your cousin, from his situation, is the most likely person to
answer the question.’

Mr. Minns assured the last speaker, that although he was in
Somerset-house, he possessed no official communication relative to the
projects of his Majesty’s Ministers. But his remark was evidently
received incredulously; and no further conjectures being hazarded on
the subject, a long pause ensued, during which the company occupied
themselves in coughing and blowing their noses, until the entrance of
Mrs. Budden caused a general rise.

The ceremony of introduction being over, dinner was announced, and
down-stairs the party proceeded accordingly—Mr. Minns escorting Mrs.
Budden as far as the drawing-room door, but being prevented, by the
narrowness of the staircase, from extending his gallantry any farther.
The dinner passed off as such dinners usually do. Ever and anon, amidst
the clatter of knives and forks, and the hum of conversation, Mr. B.’s
voice might be heard, asking a friend to take wine, and assuring him he
was glad to see him; and a great deal of by-play took place between
Mrs. B. and the servants, respecting the removal of the dishes, during
which her countenance assumed all the variations of a weather-glass,
from ‘stormy’ to ‘set fair.’

Upon the dessert and wine being placed on the table, the servant, in
compliance with a significant look from Mrs. B., brought down ‘Master
Alexander,’ habited in a sky-blue suit with silver buttons; and
possessing hair of nearly the same colour as the metal. After sundry
praises from his mother, and various admonitions as to his behaviour
from his father, he was introduced to his godfather.

‘Well, my little fellow—you are a fine boy, ain’t you?’ said Mr. Minns,
as happy as a tomtit on birdlime.

‘Yes.’

‘How old are you?’

‘Eight, next We’nsday. How old are _you_?’

‘Alexander,’ interrupted his mother, ‘how dare you ask Mr. Minns how
old he is!’

‘He asked me how old _I_ was,’ said the precocious child, to whom Minns
had from that moment internally resolved that he never would bequeath
one shilling. As soon as the titter occasioned by the observation had
subsided, a little smirking man with red whiskers, sitting at the
bottom of the table, who during the whole of dinner had been
endeavouring to obtain a listener to some stories about Sheridan,
called, out, with a very patronising air, ‘Alick, what part of speech
is _be_.’

‘A verb.’

‘That’s a good boy,’ said Mrs. Budden, with all a mother’s pride.

‘Now, you know what a verb is?’

‘A verb is a word which signifies to be, to do, or to suffer; as, I
am—I rule—I am ruled. Give me an apple, Ma.’

‘I’ll give you an apple,’ replied the man with the red whiskers, who
was an established friend of the family, or in other words was always
invited by Mrs. Budden, whether Mr. Budden liked it or not, ‘if you’ll
tell me what is the meaning of _be_.’

‘Be?’ said the prodigy, after a little hesitation—‘an insect that
gathers honey.’

‘No, dear,’ frowned Mrs. Budden; ‘B double E is the substantive.’

‘I don’t think he knows much yet about _common_ substantives,’ said the
smirking gentleman, who thought this an admirable opportunity for
letting off a joke. ‘It’s clear he’s not very well acquainted with
_proper names_. He! he! he!’

‘Gentlemen,’ called out Mr. Budden, from the end of the table, in a
stentorian voice, and with a very important air, ‘will you have the
goodness to charge your glasses? I have a toast to propose.’

‘Hear! hear!’ cried the gentlemen, passing the decanters. After they
had made the round of the table, Mr. Budden proceeded—‘Gentlemen; there
is an individual present—’

‘Hear! hear!’ said the little man with red whiskers.

‘_Pray_ be quiet, Jones,’ remonstrated Budden.

‘I say, gentlemen, there is an individual present,’ resumed the host,
‘in whose society, I am sure we must take great delight—and—and—the
conversation of that individual must have afforded to every one
present, the utmost pleasure.’ [‘Thank Heaven, he does not mean me!’
thought Minns, conscious that his diffidence and exclusiveness had
prevented his saying above a dozen words since he entered the house.]
‘Gentlemen, I am but a humble individual myself, and I perhaps ought to
apologise for allowing any individual feeling of friendship and
affection for the person I allude to, to induce me to venture to rise,
to propose the health of that person—a person that, I am sure—that is
to say, a person whose virtues must endear him to those who know
him—and those who have not the pleasure of knowing him, cannot dislike
him.’

‘Hear! hear!’ said the company, in a tone of encouragement and
approval.

‘Gentlemen,’ continued Budden, ‘my cousin is a man who—who is a
relation of my own.’ (Hear! hear!) Minns groaned audibly. ‘Who I am
most happy to see here, and who, if he were not here, would certainly
have deprived us of the great pleasure we all feel in seeing him. (Loud
cries of hear!) Gentlemen, I feel that I have already trespassed on
your attention for too long a time. With every feeling—of—with every
sentiment of—of—’

‘Gratification’—suggested the friend of the family.

‘—Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. Minns.’

‘Standing, gentlemen!’ shouted the indefatigable little man with the
whiskers—‘and with the honours. Take your time from me, if you please.
Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip! hip! hip!—Za!—Hip hip!—Za-a-a!’

All eyes were now fixed on the subject of the toast, who by gulping
down port wine at the imminent hazard of suffocation, endeavoured to
conceal his confusion. After as long a pause as decency would admit, he
rose, but, as the newspapers sometimes say in their reports, ‘we regret
that we are quite unable to give even the substance of the honourable
gentleman’s observations.’ The words ‘present company—honour—present
occasion,’ and ‘great happiness’—heard occasionally, and repeated at
intervals, with a countenance expressive of the utmost confusion and
misery, convinced the company that he was making an excellent speech;
and, accordingly, on his resuming his seat, they cried ‘Bravo!’ and
manifested tumultuous applause. Jones, who had been long watching his
opportunity, then darted up.

‘Budden,’ said he, ‘will you allow _me_ to propose a toast?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Budden, adding in an under-tone to Minns right
across the table, ‘Devilish sharp fellow that: you’ll be very much
pleased with his speech. He talks equally well on any subject.’ Minns
bowed, and Mr. Jones proceeded:

‘It has on several occasions, in various instances, under many
circumstances, and in different companies, fallen to my lot to propose
a toast to those by whom, at the time, I have had the honour to be
surrounded, I have sometimes, I will cheerfully own—for why should I
deny it?—felt the overwhelming nature of the task I have undertaken,
and my own utter incapability to do justice to the subject. If such
have been my feelings, however, on former occasions, what must they be
now—now—under the extraordinary circumstances in which I am placed.
(Hear! hear!) To describe my feelings accurately, would be impossible;
but I cannot give you a better idea of them, gentlemen, than by
referring to a circumstance which happens, oddly enough, to occur to my
mind at the moment. On one occasion, when that truly great and
illustrious man, Sheridan, was—’

Now, there is no knowing what new villainy in the form of a joke would
have been heaped on the grave of that very ill-used man, Mr. Sheridan,
if the boy in drab had not at that moment entered the room in a
breathless state, to report that, as it was a very wet night, the nine
o’clock stage had come round, to know whether there was anybody going
to town, as, in that case, he (the nine o’clock) had room for one
inside.

Mr. Minns started up; and, despite countless exclamations of surprise,
and entreaties to stay, persisted in his determination to accept the
vacant place. But, the brown silk umbrella was nowhere to be found; and
as the coachman couldn’t wait, he drove back to the Swan, leaving word
for Mr. Minns to ‘run round’ and catch him. However, as it did not
occur to Mr. Minns for some ten minutes or so, that he had left the
brown silk umbrella with the ivory handle in the other coach, coming
down; and, moreover, as he was by no means remarkable for speed, it is
no matter of surprise that when he accomplished the feat of ‘running
round’ to the Swan, the coach—the last coach—had gone without him.

It was somewhere about three o’clock in the morning, when Mr. Augustus
Minns knocked feebly at the street-door of his lodgings in
Tavistock-street, cold, wet, cross, and miserable. He made his will
next morning, and his professional man informs us, in that strict
confidence in which we inform the public, that neither the name of Mr.
Octavius Budden, nor of Mrs. Amelia Budden, nor of Master Alexander
Augustus Budden, appears therein.




CHAPTER III—SENTIMENT


The Miss Crumptons, or to quote the authority of the inscription on the
garden-gate of Minerva House, Hammersmith, ‘The Misses Crumpton,’ were
two unusually tall, particularly thin, and exceedingly skinny
personages: very upright, and very yellow. Miss Amelia Crumpton owned
to thirty-eight, and Miss Maria Crumpton admitted she was forty; an
admission which was rendered perfectly unnecessary by the self-evident
fact of her being at least fifty. They dressed in the most interesting
manner—like twins! and looked as happy and comfortable as a couple of
marigolds run to seed. They were very precise, had the strictest
possible ideas of propriety, wore false hair, and always smelt very
strongly of lavender.

Minerva House, conducted under the auspices of the two sisters, was a
‘finishing establishment for young ladies,’ where some twenty girls of
the ages of from thirteen to nineteen inclusive, acquired a smattering
of everything, and a knowledge of nothing; instruction in French and
Italian, dancing lessons twice a-week; and other necessaries of life.
The house was a white one, a little removed from the roadside, with
close palings in front. The bedroom windows were always left partly
open, to afford a bird’s-eye view of numerous little bedsteads with
very white dimity furniture, and thereby impress the passer-by with a
due sense of the luxuries of the establishment; and there was a front
parlour hung round with highly varnished maps which nobody ever looked
at, and filled with books which no one ever read, appropriated
exclusively to the reception of parents, who, whenever they called,
could not fail to be struck with the very deep appearance of the place.

‘Amelia, my dear,’ said Miss Maria Crumpton, entering the school-room
one morning, with her false hair in papers: as she occasionally did, in
order to impress the young ladies with a conviction of its reality.
‘Amelia, my dear, here is a most gratifying note I have just received.
You needn’t mind reading it aloud.’

Miss Amelia, thus advised, proceeded to read the following note with an
air of great triumph:


‘Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., presents his compliments to Miss
Crumpton, and will feel much obliged by Miss Crumpton’s calling on him,
if she conveniently can, to-morrow morning at one o’clock, as Cornelius
Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., is anxious to see Miss Crumpton on the
subject of placing Miss Brook Dingwall under her charge.

‘Adelphi.

‘Monday morning.’


‘A Member of Parliament’s daughter!’ ejaculated Amelia, in an ecstatic
tone.

‘A Member of Parliament’s daughter!’ repeated Miss Maria, with a smile
of delight, which, of course, elicited a concurrent titter of pleasure
from all the young ladies.

‘It’s exceedingly delightful!’ said Miss Amelia; whereupon all the
young ladies murmured their admiration again. Courtiers are but
school-boys, and court-ladies school-girl’s.

So important an announcement at once superseded the business of the
day. A holiday was declared, in commemoration of the great event; the
Miss Crumptons retired to their private apartment to talk it over; the
smaller girls discussed the probable manners and customs of the
daughter of a Member of Parliament; and the young ladies verging on
eighteen wondered whether she was engaged, whether she was pretty,
whether she wore much bustle, and many other _whethers_ of equal
importance.

The two Miss Crumptons proceeded to the Adelphi at the appointed time
next day, dressed, of course, in their best style, and looking as
amiable as they possibly could—which, by-the-bye, is not saying much
for them. Having sent in their cards, through the medium of a red-hot
looking footman in bright livery, they were ushered into the august
presence of the profound Dingwall.

Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was very haughty, solemn, and
portentous. He had, naturally, a somewhat spasmodic expression of
countenance, which was not rendered the less remarkable by his wearing
an extremely stiff cravat. He was wonderfully proud of the M.P.
attached to his name, and never lost an opportunity of reminding people
of his dignity. He had a great idea of his own abilities, which must
have been a great comfort to him, as no one else had; and in diplomacy,
on a small scale, in his own family arrangements, he considered himself
unrivalled. He was a county magistrate, and discharged the duties of
his station with all due justice and impartiality; frequently
committing poachers, and occasionally committing himself. Miss Brook
Dingwall was one of that numerous class of young ladies, who, like
adverbs, may be known by their answering to a commonplace question, and
doing nothing else.

On the present occasion, this talented individual was seated in a small
library at a table covered with papers, doing nothing, but trying to
look busy, playing at shop. Acts of Parliament, and letters directed to
‘Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P.,’ were ostentatiously scattered
over the table; at a little distance from which, Mrs. Brook Dingwall
was seated at work. One of those public nuisances, a spoiled child, was
playing about the room, dressed after the most approved fashion—in a
blue tunic with a black belt—a quarter of a yard wide, fastened with an
immense buckle—looking like a robber in a melodrama, seen through a
diminishing glass.

After a little pleasantry from the sweet child, who amused himself by
running away with Miss Maria Crumpton’s chair as fast as it was placed
for her, the visitors were seated, and Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq.,
opened the conversation.

He had sent for Miss Crumpton, he said, in consequence of the high
character he had received of her establishment from his friend, Sir
Alfred Muggs.

Miss Crumpton murmured her acknowledgments to him (Muggs), and
Cornelius proceeded.

‘One of my principal reasons, Miss Crumpton, for parting with my
daughter, is, that she has lately acquired some sentimental ideas,
which it is most desirable to eradicate from her young mind.’ (Here the
little innocent before noticed, fell out of an arm-chair with an awful
crash.)

‘Naughty boy!’ said his mamma, who appeared more surprised at his
taking the liberty of falling down, than at anything else; ‘I’ll ring
the bell for James to take him away.’

‘Pray don’t check him, my love,’ said the diplomatist, as soon as he
could make himself heard amidst the unearthly howling consequent upon
the threat and the tumble. ‘It all arises from his great flow of
spirits.’ This last explanation was addressed to Miss Crumpton.

‘Certainly, sir,’ replied the antique Maria: not exactly seeing,
however, the connexion between a flow of animal spirits, and a fall
from an arm-chair.

Silence was restored, and the M.P. resumed: ‘Now, I know nothing so
likely to effect this object, Miss Crumpton, as her mixing constantly
in the society of girls of her own age; and, as I know that in your
establishment she will meet such as are not likely to contaminate her
young mind, I propose to send her to you.’

The youngest Miss Crumpton expressed the acknowledgments of the
establishment generally. Maria was rendered speechless by bodily pain.
The dear little fellow, having recovered his animal spirits, was
standing upon her most tender foot, by way of getting his face (which
looked like a capital O in a red-lettered play-bill) on a level with
the writing-table.

‘Of course, Lavinia will be a parlour boarder,’ continued the enviable
father; ‘and on one point I wish my directions to be strictly observed.
The fact is, that some ridiculous love affair, with a person much her
inferior in life, has been the cause of her present state of mind.
Knowing that of course, under your care, she can have no opportunity of
meeting this person, I do not object to—indeed, I should rather
prefer—her mixing with such society as you see yourself.’

This important statement was again interrupted by the high-spirited
little creature, in the excess of his joyousness breaking a pane of
glass, and nearly precipitating himself into an adjacent area. James
was rung for; considerable confusion and screaming succeeded; two
little blue legs were seen to kick violently in the air as the man left
the room, and the child was gone.

‘Mr. Brook Dingwall would like Miss Brook Dingwall to learn
everything,’ said Mrs. Brook Dingwall, who hardly ever said anything at
all.

‘Certainly,’ said both the Miss Crumptons together.

‘And as I trust the plan I have devised will be effectual in weaning my
daughter from this absurd idea, Miss Crumpton,’ continued the
legislator, ‘I hope you will have the goodness to comply, in all
respects, with any request I may forward to you.’

The promise was of course made; and after a lengthened discussion,
conducted on behalf of the Dingwalls with the most becoming diplomatic
gravity, and on that of the Crumptons with profound respect, it was
finally arranged that Miss Lavinia should be forwarded to Hammersmith
on the next day but one, on which occasion the half-yearly ball given
at the establishment was to take place. It might divert the dear girl’s
mind. This, by the way, was another bit of diplomacy.

Miss Lavinia was introduced to her future governess, and both the Miss
Crumptons pronounced her ‘a most charming girl;’ an opinion which, by a
singular coincidence, they always entertained of any new pupil.

Courtesies were exchanged, acknowledgments expressed, condescension
exhibited, and the interview terminated.

Preparations, to make use of theatrical phraseology, ‘on a scale of
magnitude never before attempted,’ were incessantly made at Minerva
House to give every effect to the forthcoming ball. The largest room in
the house was pleasingly ornamented with blue calico roses, plaid
tulips, and other equally natural-looking artificial flowers, the work
of the young ladies themselves. The carpet was taken up, the
folding-doors were taken down, the furniture was taken out, and
rout-seats were taken in. The linen-drapers of Hammersmith were
astounded at the sudden demand for blue sarsenet ribbon, and long white
gloves. Dozens of geraniums were purchased for bouquets, and a harp and
two violins were bespoke from town, in addition to the grand piano
already on the premises. The young ladies who were selected to show off
on the occasion, and do credit to the establishment, practised
incessantly, much to their own satisfaction, and greatly to the
annoyance of the lame old gentleman over the way; and a constant
correspondence was kept up, between the Misses Crumpton and the
Hammersmith pastrycook.

The evening came; and then there was such a lacing of stays, and tying
of sandals, and dressing of hair, as never can take place with a proper
degree of bustle out of a boarding-school. The smaller girls managed to
be in everybody’s way, and were pushed about accordingly; and the elder
ones dressed, and tied, and flattered, and envied, one another, as
earnestly and sincerely as if they had actually _come out_.

‘How do I look, dear?’ inquired Miss Emily Smithers, the belle of the
house, of Miss Caroline Wilson, who was her bosom friend, because she
was the ugliest girl in Hammersmith, or out of it.

‘Oh! charming, dear. How do I?’

‘Delightful! you never looked so handsome,’ returned the belle,
adjusting her own dress, and not bestowing a glance on her poor
companion.

‘I hope young Hilton will come early,’ said another young lady to Miss
somebody else, in a fever of expectation.

‘I’m sure he’d be highly flattered if he knew it,’ returned the other,
who was practising _l’été_.

‘Oh! he’s so handsome,’ said the first.

‘Such a charming person!’ added a second.

‘Such a _distingué_ air!’ said a third.

‘Oh, what _do_ you think?’ said another girl, running into the room;
‘Miss Crumpton says her cousin’s coming.’

‘What! Theodosius Butler?’ said everybody in raptures.

‘Is _he_ handsome?’ inquired a novice.

‘No, not particularly handsome,’ was the general reply; ‘but, oh, so
clever!’

Mr. Theodosius Butler was one of those immortal geniuses who are to be
met with in almost every circle. They have, usually, very deep,
monotonous voices. They always persuade themselves that they are
wonderful persons, and that they ought to be very miserable, though
they don’t precisely know why. They are very conceited, and usually
possess half an idea; but, with enthusiastic young ladies, and silly
young gentlemen, they are very wonderful persons. The individual in
question, Mr. Theodosius, had written a pamphlet containing some very
weighty considerations on the expediency of doing something or other;
and as every sentence contained a good many words of four syllables,
his admirers took it for granted that he meant a good deal.

‘Perhaps that’s he,’ exclaimed several young ladies, as the first pull
of the evening threatened destruction to the bell of the gate.

An awful pause ensued. Some boxes arrived and a young lady—Miss Brook
Dingwall, in full ball costume, with an immense gold chain round her
neck, and her dress looped up with a single rose; an ivory fan in her
hand, and a most interesting expression of despair in her face.

The Miss Crumptons inquired after the family, with the most
excruciating anxiety, and Miss Brook Dingwall was formally introduced
to her future companions. The Miss Crumptons conversed with the young
ladies in the most mellifluous tones, in order that Miss Brook Dingwall
might be properly impressed with their amiable treatment.

Another pull at the bell. Mr. Dadson the writing-master, and his wife.
The wife in green silk, with shoes and cap-trimmings to correspond: the
writing-master in a white waistcoat, black knee-shorts, and ditto silk
stockings, displaying a leg large enough for two writing-masters. The
young ladies whispered one another, and the writing-master and his wife
flattered the Miss Crumptons, who were dressed in amber, with long
sashes, like dolls.

Repeated pulls at the bell, and arrivals too numerous to particularise:
papas and mammas, and aunts and uncles, the owners and guardians of the
different pupils; the singing-master, Signor Lobskini, in a black wig;
the piano-forte player and the violins; the harp, in a state of
intoxication; and some twenty young men, who stood near the door, and
talked to one another, occasionally bursting into a giggle. A general
hum of conversation. Coffee handed round, and plentifully partaken of
by fat mammas, who looked like the stout people who come on in
pantomimes for the sole purpose of being knocked down.

The popular Mr. Hilton was the next arrival; and he having, at the
request of the Miss Crumptons, undertaken the office of Master of the
Ceremonies, the quadrilles commenced with considerable spirit. The
young men by the door gradually advanced into the middle of the room,
and in time became sufficiently at ease to consent to be introduced to
partners. The writing-master danced every set, springing about with the
most fearful agility, and his wife played a rubber in the
back-parlour—a little room with five book-shelves, dignified by the
name of the study. Setting her down to whist was a half-yearly piece of
generalship on the part of the Miss Crumptons; it was necessary to hide
her somewhere, on account of her being a fright.

The interesting Lavinia Brook Dingwall was the only girl present, who
appeared to take no interest in the proceedings of the evening. In vain
was she solicited to dance; in vain was the universal homage paid to
her as the daughter of a member of parliament. She was equally unmoved
by the splendid tenor of the inimitable Lobskini, and the brilliant
execution of Miss Laetitia Parsons, whose performance of ‘The
Recollections of Ireland’ was universally declared to be almost equal
to that of Moscheles himself. Not even the announcement of the arrival
of Mr. Theodosius Butler could induce her to leave the corner of the
back drawing-room in which she was seated.

‘Now, Theodosius,’ said Miss Maria Crumpton, after that enlightened
pamphleteer had nearly run the gauntlet of the whole company, ‘I must
introduce you to our new pupil.’

Theodosius looked as if he cared for nothing earthly.

‘She’s the daughter of a member of parliament,’ said Maria.—Theodosius
started.

‘And her name is—?’ he inquired.

‘Miss Brook Dingwall.’

‘Great Heaven!’ poetically exclaimed Theodosius, in a low tone.

Miss Crumpton commenced the introduction in due form. Miss Brook
Dingwall languidly raised her head.

‘Edward!’ she exclaimed, with a half-shriek, on seeing the well-known
nankeen legs.

Fortunately, as Miss Maria Crumpton possessed no remarkable share of
penetration, and as it was one of the diplomatic arrangements that no
attention was to be paid to Miss Lavinia’s incoherent exclamations, she
was perfectly unconscious of the mutual agitation of the parties; and
therefore, seeing that the offer of his hand for the next quadrille was
accepted, she left him by the side of Miss Brook Dingwall.

‘Oh, Edward!’ exclaimed that most romantic of all romantic young
ladies, as the light of science seated himself beside her, ‘Oh, Edward,
is it you?’

Mr. Theodosius assured the dear creature, in the most impassioned
manner, that he was not conscious of being anybody but himself.

‘Then why—why—this disguise? Oh! Edward M’Neville Walter, what have I
not suffered on your account?’

‘Lavinia, hear me,’ replied the hero, in his most poetic strain. ‘Do
not condemn me unheard. If anything that emanates from the soul of such
a wretch as I, can occupy a place in your recollection—if any being, so
vile, deserve your notice—you may remember that I once published a
pamphlet (and paid for its publication) entitled “Considerations on the
Policy of Removing the Duty on Bees’-wax.”’

‘I do—I do!’ sobbed Lavinia.

‘That,’ continued the lover, ‘was a subject to which your father was
devoted heart and soul.’

‘He was—he was!’ reiterated the sentimentalist.

‘I knew it,’ continued Theodosius, tragically; ‘I knew it—I forwarded
him a copy. He wished to know me. Could I disclose my real name? Never!
No, I assumed that name which you have so often pronounced in tones of
endearment. As M’Neville Walter, I devoted myself to the stirring
cause; as M’Neville Walter I gained your heart; in the same character I
was ejected from your house by your father’s domestics; and in no
character at all have I since been enabled to see you. We now meet
again, and I proudly own that I am—Theodosius Butler.’

The young lady appeared perfectly satisfied with this argumentative
address, and bestowed a look of the most ardent affection on the
immortal advocate of bees’-wax.

‘May I hope,’ said he, ‘that the promise your father’s violent
behaviour interrupted, may be renewed?’

‘Let us join this set,’ replied Lavinia, coquettishly—for girls of
nineteen _can_ coquette.

‘No,’ ejaculated he of the nankeens. ‘I stir not from this spot,
writhing under this torture of suspense. May I—may I—hope?’

‘You may.’

‘The promise is renewed?’

‘It is.’

‘I have your permission?’

‘You have.’

‘To the fullest extent?’

‘You know it,’ returned the blushing Lavinia. The contortions of the
interesting Butler’s visage expressed his raptures.

We could dilate upon the occurrences that ensued. How Mr. Theodosius
and Miss Lavinia danced, and talked, and sighed for the remainder of
the evening—how the Miss Crumptons were delighted thereat. How the
writing-master continued to frisk about with one-horse power, and how
his wife, from some unaccountable freak, left the whist-table in the
little back-parlour, and persisted in displaying her green head-dress
in the most conspicuous part of the drawing-room. How the supper
consisted of small triangular sandwiches in trays, and a tart here and
there by way of variety; and how the visitors consumed warm water
disguised with lemon, and dotted with nutmeg, under the denomination of
negus. These, and other matters of as much interest, however, we pass
over, for the purpose of describing a scene of even more importance.

A fortnight after the date of the ball, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq.,
M.P., was seated at the same library-table, and in the same room, as we
have before described. He was alone, and his face bore an expression of
deep thought and solemn gravity—he was drawing up ‘A Bill for the
better observance of Easter Monday.’

The footman tapped at the door—the legislator started from his reverie,
and ‘Miss Crumpton’ was announced. Permission was given for Miss
Crumpton to enter the _sanctum_; Maria came sliding in, and having
taken her seat with a due portion of affectation, the footman retired,
and the governess was left alone with the M.P. Oh! how she longed for
the presence of a third party! Even the facetious young gentleman would
have been a relief.

Miss Crumpton began the duet. She hoped Mrs. Brook Dingwall and the
handsome little boy were in good health.

They were. Mrs. Brook Dingwall and little Frederick were at Brighton.

‘Much obliged to you, Miss Crumpton,’ said Cornelius, in his most
dignified manner, ‘for your attention in calling this morning. I should
have driven down to Hammersmith, to see Lavinia, but your account was
so very satisfactory, and my duties in the House occupy me so much,
that I determined to postpone it for a week. How has she gone on?’

‘Very well indeed, sir,’ returned Maria, dreading to inform the father
that she had gone off.

‘Ah, I thought the plan on which I proceeded would be a match for her.’

Here was a favourable opportunity to say that somebody else had been a
match for her. But the unfortunate governess was unequal to the task.

‘You have persevered strictly in the line of conduct I prescribed, Miss
Crumpton?’

‘Strictly, sir.’

‘You tell me in your note that her spirits gradually improved.’

‘Very much indeed, sir.’

‘To be sure. I was convinced they would.’

‘But I fear, sir,’ said Miss Crumpton, with visible emotion, ‘I fear
the plan has not succeeded, quite so well as we could have wished.’

No!’ exclaimed the prophet. ‘Bless me! Miss Crumpton, you look alarmed.
What has happened?’

‘Miss Brook Dingwall, sir—’

‘Yes, ma’am?’

‘Has gone, sir’—said Maria, exhibiting a strong inclination to faint.

‘Gone!’

‘Eloped, sir.’

‘Eloped!—Who with—when—where—how?’ almost shrieked the agitated
diplomatist.

The natural yellow of the unfortunate Maria’s face changed to all the
hues of the rainbow, as she laid a small packet on the member’s table.

He hurriedly opened it. A letter from his daughter, and another from
Theodosius. He glanced over their contents—‘Ere this reaches you, far
distant—appeal to feelings—love to distraction—bees’-wax—slavery,’ &c.,
&c. He dashed his hand to his forehead, and paced the room with
fearfully long strides, to the great alarm of the precise Maria.

‘Now mind; from this time forward,’ said Mr. Brook Dingwall, suddenly
stopping at the table, and beating time upon it with his hand; ‘from
this time forward, I never will, under any circumstances whatever,
permit a man who writes pamphlets to enter any other room of this house
but the kitchen.—I’ll allow my daughter and her husband one hundred and
fifty pounds a-year, and never see their faces again: and, damme!
ma’am, I’ll bring in a bill for the abolition of finishing-schools.’

Some time has elapsed since this passionate declaration. Mr. and Mrs.
Butler are at present rusticating in a small cottage at Ball’s-pond,
pleasantly situated in the immediate vicinity of a brick-field. They
have no family. Mr. Theodosius looks very important, and writes
incessantly; but, in consequence of a gross combination on the part of
publishers, none of his productions appear in print. His young wife
begins to think that ideal misery is preferable to real unhappiness;
and that a marriage, contracted in haste, and repented at leisure, is
the cause of more substantial wretchedness than she ever anticipated.

On cool reflection, Cornelius Brook Dingwall, Esq., M.P., was
reluctantly compelled to admit that the untoward result of his
admirable arrangements was attributable, not to the Miss Crumptons, but
his own diplomacy. He, however, consoles himself, like some other small
diplomatists, by satisfactorily proving that if his plans did not
succeed, they ought to have done so. Minerva House is _in status quo_,
and ‘The Misses Crumpton’ remain in the peaceable and undisturbed
enjoyment of all the advantages resulting from their Finishing-School.




CHAPTER IV—THE TUGGSES AT RAMSGATE


Once upon a time there dwelt, in a narrow street on the Surrey side of
the water, within three minutes’ walk of old London Bridge, Mr. Joseph
Tuggs—a little dark-faced man, with shiny hair, twinkling eyes, short
legs, and a body of very considerable thickness, measuring from the
centre button of his waistcoat in front, to the ornamental buttons of
his coat behind. The figure of the amiable Mrs. Tuggs, if not perfectly
symmetrical, was decidedly comfortable; and the form of her only
daughter, the accomplished Miss Charlotte Tuggs, was fast ripening into
that state of luxuriant plumpness which had enchanted the eyes, and
captivated the heart, of Mr. Joseph Tuggs in his earlier days. Mr.
Simon Tuggs, his only son, and Miss Charlotte Tuggs’s only brother, was
as differently formed in body, as he was differently constituted in
mind, from the remainder of his family. There was that elongation in
his thoughtful face, and that tendency to weakness in his interesting
legs, which tell so forcibly of a great mind and romantic disposition.
The slightest traits of character in such a being, possess no mean
interest to speculative minds. He usually appeared in public, in
capacious shoes with black cotton stockings; and was observed to be
particularly attached to a black glazed stock, without tie or ornament
of any description.

There is perhaps no profession, however useful; no pursuit, however
meritorious; which can escape the petty attacks of vulgar minds. Mr.
Joseph Tuggs was a grocer. It might be supposed that a grocer was
beyond the breath of calumny; but no—the neighbours stigmatised him as
a chandler; and the poisonous voice of envy distinctly asserted that he
dispensed tea and coffee by the quartern, retailed sugar by the ounce,
cheese by the slice, tobacco by the screw, and butter by the pat. These
taunts, however, were lost upon the Tuggses. Mr. Tuggs attended to the
grocery department; Mrs. Tuggs to the cheesemongery; and Miss Tuggs to
her education. Mr. Simon Tuggs kept his father’s books, and his own
counsel.

One fine spring afternoon, the latter gentleman was seated on a tub of
weekly Dorset, behind the little red desk with a wooden rail, which
ornamented a corner of the counter; when a stranger dismounted from a
cab, and hastily entered the shop. He was habited in black cloth, and
bore with him, a green umbrella, and a blue bag.

‘Mr. Tuggs?’ said the stranger, inquiringly.

‘_My_ name is Tuggs,’ replied Mr. Simon.

‘It’s the other Mr. Tuggs,’ said the stranger, looking towards the
glass door which led into the parlour behind the shop, and on the
inside of which, the round face of Mr. Tuggs, senior, was distinctly
visible, peeping over the curtain.

Mr. Simon gracefully waved his pen, as if in intimation of his wish
that his father would advance. Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with considerable
celerity, removed his face from the curtain and placed it before the
stranger.

‘I come from the Temple,’ said the man with the bag.

‘From the Temple!’ said Mrs. Tuggs, flinging open the door of the
little parlour and disclosing Miss Tuggs in perspective.

‘From the Temple!’ said Miss Tuggs and Mr. Simon Tuggs at the same
moment.

‘From the Temple!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, turning as pale as a Dutch
cheese.

‘From the Temple,’ repeated the man with the bag; ‘from Mr. Cower’s,
the solicitor’s. Mr. Tuggs, I congratulate you, sir. Ladies, I wish you
joy of your prosperity! We have been successful.’ And the man with the
bag leisurely divested himself of his umbrella and glove, as a
preliminary to shaking hands with Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Now the words ‘we have been successful,’ had no sooner issued from the
mouth of the man with the bag, than Mr. Simon Tuggs rose from the tub
of weekly Dorset, opened his eyes very wide, gasped for breath, made
figures of eight in the air with his pen, and finally fell into the
arms of his anxious mother, and fainted away without the slightest
ostensible cause or pretence.

‘Water!’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Look up, my son,’ exclaimed Mr. Tuggs.

‘Simon! dear Simon!’ shrieked Miss Tuggs.

‘I’m better now,’ said Mr. Simon Tuggs. ‘What! successful!’ And then,
as corroborative evidence of his being better, he fainted away again,
and was borne into the little parlour by the united efforts of the
remainder of the family, and the man with the bag.

To a casual spectator, or to any one unacquainted with the position of
the family, this fainting would have been unaccountable. To those who
understood the mission of the man with the bag, and were moreover
acquainted with the excitability of the nerves of Mr. Simon Tuggs, it
was quite comprehensible. A long-pending lawsuit respecting the
validity of a will, had been unexpectedly decided; and Mr. Joseph Tuggs
was the possessor of twenty thousand pounds.

A prolonged consultation took place, that night, in the little
parlour—a consultation that was to settle the future destinies of the
Tuggses. The shop was shut up, at an unusually early hour; and many
were the unavailing kicks bestowed upon the closed door by applicants
for quarterns of sugar, or half-quarterns of bread, or penn’orths of
pepper, which were to have been ‘left till Saturday,’ but which fortune
had decreed were to be left alone altogether.

‘We must certainly give up business,’ said Miss Tuggs.

‘Oh, decidedly,’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Simon shall go to the bar,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

‘And I shall always sign myself “Cymon” in future,’ said his son.

‘And I shall call myself Charlotta,’ said Miss Tuggs.

‘And you must always call _me_ “Ma,” and father “Pa,”’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Yes, and Pa must leave off all his vulgar habits,’ interposed Miss
Tuggs.

‘I’ll take care of all that,’ responded Mr. Joseph Tuggs, complacently.
He was, at that very moment, eating pickled salmon with a pocket-knife.

‘We must leave town immediately,’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

Everybody concurred that this was an indispensable preliminary to being
genteel. The question then arose, Where should they go?

‘Gravesend?’ mildly suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. The idea was
unanimously scouted. Gravesend was _low_.

‘Margate?’ insinuated Mrs. Tuggs. Worse and worse—nobody there, but
tradespeople.

‘Brighton?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs opposed an insurmountable objection. All
the coaches had been upset, in turn, within the last three weeks; each
coach had averaged two passengers killed, and six wounded; and, in
every case, the newspapers had distinctly understood that ‘no blame
whatever was attributable to the coachman.’

‘Ramsgate?’ ejaculated Mr. Cymon, thoughtfully. To be sure; how stupid
they must have been, not to have thought of that before! Ramsgate was
just the place of all others.

Two months after this conversation, the City of London Ramsgate steamer
was running gaily down the river. Her flag was flying, her band was
playing, her passengers were conversing; everything about her seemed
gay and lively.—No wonder—the Tuggses were on board.

‘Charming, ain’t it?’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, in a bottle-green
great-coat, with a velvet collar of the same, and a blue travelling-cap
with a gold band.

‘Soul-inspiring,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—he was entered at the bar.
‘Soul-inspiring!’

‘Delightful morning, sir!’ said a stoutish, military-looking gentleman
in a blue surtout buttoned up to his chin, and white trousers chained
down to the soles of his boots.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs took upon himself the responsibility of answering the
observation. ‘Heavenly!’ he replied.

‘You are an enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of Nature, sir?’ said
the military gentleman.

‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘Travelled much, sir?’ inquired the military gentleman.

‘Not much,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘You’ve been on the continent, of course?’ inquired the military
gentleman.

‘Not exactly,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—in a qualified tone, as if he
wished it to be implied that he had gone half-way and come back again.

‘You of course intend your son to make the grand tour, sir?’ said the
military gentleman, addressing Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

As Mr. Joseph Tuggs did not precisely understand what the grand tour
was, or how such an article was manufactured, he replied, ‘Of course.’
Just as he said the word, there came tripping up, from her seat at the
stern of the vessel, a young lady in a puce-coloured silk cloak, and
boots of the same; with long black ringlets, large black eyes, brief
petticoats, and unexceptionable ankles.

‘Walter, my dear,’ said the young lady to the military gentleman.

‘Yes, Belinda, my love,’ responded the military gentleman to the
black-eyed young lady.

‘What have you left me alone so long for?’ said the young lady. ‘I have
been stared out of countenance by those rude young men.’

‘What! stared at?’ exclaimed the military gentleman, with an emphasis
which made Mr. Cymon Tuggs withdraw his eyes from the young lady’s face
with inconceivable rapidity. ‘Which young men—where?’ and the military
gentleman clenched his fist, and glared fearfully on the cigar-smokers
around.

‘Be calm, Walter, I entreat,’ said the young lady.

‘I won’t,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Do, sir,’ interposed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘They ain’t worth your notice.’

‘No—no—they are not, indeed,’ urged the young lady.

‘I _will_ be calm,’ said the military gentleman. ‘You speak truly, sir.
I thank you for a timely remonstrance, which may have spared me the
guilt of manslaughter.’ Calming his wrath, the military gentleman wrung
Mr. Cymon Tuggs by the hand.

‘My sister, sir!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs; seeing that the military
gentleman was casting an admiring look towards Miss Charlotta.

‘My wife, ma’am—Mrs. Captain Waters,’ said the military gentleman,
presenting the black-eyed young lady.

‘My mother, ma’am—Mrs. Tuggs,’ said Mr. Cymon. The military gentleman
and his wife murmured enchanting courtesies; and the Tuggses looked as
unembarrassed as they could.

‘Walter, my dear,’ said the black-eyed young lady, after they had sat
chatting with the Tuggses some half-hour.

‘Yes, my love,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Don’t you think this gentleman (with an inclination of the head
towards Mr. Cymon Tuggs) is very much like the Marquis Carriwini?’

‘Lord bless me, very!’ said the military gentleman.

‘It struck me, the moment I saw him,’ said the young lady, gazing
intently, and with a melancholy air, on the scarlet countenance of Mr.
Cymon Tuggs. Mr. Cymon Tuggs looked at everybody; and finding that
everybody was looking at him, appeared to feel some temporary
difficulty in disposing of his eyesight.

‘So exactly the air of the marquis,’ said the military gentleman.

‘Quite extraordinary!’ sighed the military gentleman’s lady.

‘You don’t know the marquis, sir?’ inquired the military gentleman.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a negative.

‘If you did,’ continued Captain Walter Waters, ‘you would feel how much
reason you have to be proud of the resemblance—a most elegant man, with
a most prepossessing appearance.’

‘He is—he is indeed!’ exclaimed Belinda Waters energetically. As her
eye caught that of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, she withdrew it from his features
in bashful confusion.

All this was highly gratifying to the feelings of the Tuggses; and
when, in the course of farther conversation, it was discovered that
Miss Charlotta Tuggs was the _fac simile_ of a titled relative of Mrs.
Belinda Waters, and that Mrs. Tuggs herself was the very picture of the
Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton, their delight in the acquisition of so
genteel and friendly an acquaintance, knew no bounds. Even the dignity
of Captain Walter Waters relaxed, to that degree, that he suffered
himself to be prevailed upon by Mr. Joseph Tuggs, to partake of cold
pigeon-pie and sherry, on deck; and a most delightful conversation,
aided by these agreeable stimulants, was prolonged, until they ran
alongside Ramsgate Pier.

‘Good-bye, dear!’ said Mrs. Captain Waters to Miss Charlotta Tuggs,
just before the bustle of landing commenced; ‘we shall see you on the
sands in the morning; and, as we are sure to have found lodgings before
then, I hope we shall be inseparables for many weeks to come.’

‘Oh! I hope so,’ said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, emphatically.

‘Tickets, ladies and gen’lm’n,’ said the man on the paddle-box.

‘Want a porter, sir?’ inquired a dozen men in smock-frocks.

‘Now, my dear!’ said Captain Waters.

‘Good-bye!’ said Mrs. Captain Waters—‘good-bye, Mr. Cymon!’ and with a
pressure of the hand which threw the amiable young man’s nerves into a
state of considerable derangement, Mrs. Captain Waters disappeared
among the crowd. A pair of puce-coloured boots were seen ascending the
steps, a white handkerchief fluttered, a black eye gleamed. The
Waterses were gone, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs was alone in a heartless world.

Silently and abstractedly, did that too sensitive youth follow his
revered parents, and a train of smock-frocks and wheelbarrows, along
the pier, until the bustle of the scene around, recalled him to
himself. The sun was shining brightly; the sea, dancing to its own
music, rolled merrily in; crowds of people promenaded to and fro; young
ladies tittered; old ladies talked; nursemaids displayed their charms
to the greatest possible advantage; and their little charges ran up and
down, and to and fro, and in and out, under the feet, and between the
legs, of the assembled concourse, in the most playful and exhilarating
manner. There were old gentlemen, trying to make out objects through
long telescopes; and young ones, making objects of themselves in open
shirt-collars; ladies, carrying about portable chairs, and portable
chairs carrying about invalids; parties, waiting on the pier for
parties who had come by the steam-boat; and nothing was to be heard but
talking, laughing, welcoming, and merriment.

‘Fly, sir?’ exclaimed a chorus of fourteen men and six boys, the moment
Mr. Joseph Tuggs, at the head of his little party, set foot in the
street.

‘Here’s the gen’lm’n at last!’ said one, touching his hat with mock
politeness. ‘Werry glad to see you, sir,—been a-waitin’ for you these
six weeks. Jump in, if you please, sir!’

‘Nice light fly and a fast trotter, sir,’ said another: ‘fourteen mile
a hour, and surroundin’ objects rendered inwisible by ex-treme
welocity!’

‘Large fly for your luggage, sir,’ cried a third. ‘Werry large fly
here, sir—reg’lar bluebottle!’

‘Here’s _your_ fly, sir!’ shouted another aspiring charioteer, mounting
the box, and inducing an old grey horse to indulge in some imperfect
reminiscences of a canter. ‘Look at him, sir!—temper of a lamb and
haction of a steam-ingein!’

Resisting even the temptation of securing the services of so valuable a
quadruped as the last named, Mr. Joseph Tuggs beckoned to the
proprietor of a dingy conveyance of a greenish hue, lined with faded
striped calico; and, the luggage and the family having been deposited
therein, the animal in the shafts, after describing circles in the road
for a quarter of an hour, at last consented to depart in quest of
lodgings.

‘How many beds have you got?’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs out of the fly, to
the woman who opened the door of the first house which displayed a bill
intimating that apartments were to be let within.

‘How many did you want, ma’am?’ was, of course, the reply.

‘Three.’

‘Will you step in, ma’am?’ Down got Mrs. Tuggs. The family were
delighted. Splendid view of the sea from the front windows—charming! A
short pause. Back came Mrs. Tuggs again.—One parlour and a mattress.

‘Why the devil didn’t they say so at first?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs,
rather pettishly.

‘Don’t know,’ said Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Wretches!’ exclaimed the nervous Cymon. Another bill—another stoppage.
Same question—same answer—similar result.

‘What do they mean by this?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, thoroughly out
of temper.

‘Don’t know,’ said the placid Mrs. Tuggs.

‘Orvis the vay here, sir,’ said the driver, by way of accounting for
the circumstance in a satisfactory manner; and off they went again, to
make fresh inquiries, and encounter fresh disappointments.

It had grown dusk when the ‘fly’—the rate of whose progress greatly
belied its name—after climbing up four or five perpendicular hills,
stopped before the door of a dusty house, with a bay window, from which
you could obtain a beautiful glimpse of the sea—if you thrust half of
your body out of it, at the imminent peril of falling into the area.
Mrs. Tuggs alighted. One ground-floor sitting-room, and three cells
with beds in them up-stairs. A double-house. Family on the opposite
side. Five children milk-and-watering in the parlour, and one little
boy, expelled for bad behaviour, screaming on his back in the passage.

‘What’s the terms?’ said Mrs. Tuggs. The mistress of the house was
considering the expediency of putting on an extra guinea; so, she
coughed slightly, and affected not to hear the question.

‘What’s the terms?’ said Mrs. Tuggs, in a louder key.

‘Five guineas a week, ma’am, _with_ attendance,’ replied the
lodging-house keeper. (Attendance means the privilege of ringing the
bell as often as you like, for your own amusement.)

‘Rather dear,’ said Mrs. Tuggs. ‘Oh dear, no, ma’am!’ replied the
mistress of the house, with a benign smile of pity at the ignorance of
manners and customs, which the observation betrayed. ‘Very cheap!’

Such an authority was indisputable. Mrs. Tuggs paid a week’s rent in
advance, and took the lodgings for a month. In an hour’s time, the
family were seated at tea in their new abode.

‘Capital srimps!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Mr. Cymon eyed his father with a rebellious scowl, as he emphatically
said ‘_Shrimps_.’

‘Well, then, shrimps,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘Srimps or shrimps, don’t
much matter.’

There was pity, blended with malignity, in Mr. Cymon’s eye, as he
replied, ‘Don’t matter, father! What would Captain Waters say, if he
heard such vulgarity?’

‘Or what would dear Mrs. Captain Waters say,’ added Charlotta, ‘if she
saw mother—ma, I mean—eating them whole, heads and all!’

‘It won’t bear thinking of!’ ejaculated Mr. Cymon, with a shudder. ‘How
different,’ he thought, ‘from the Dowager Duchess of Dobbleton!’

‘Very pretty woman, Mrs. Captain Waters, is she not, Cymon?’ inquired
Miss Charlotta.

A glow of nervous excitement passed over the countenance of Mr. Cymon
Tuggs, as he replied, ‘An angel of beauty!’

‘Hallo!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘Hallo, Cymon, my boy, take care.
Married lady, you know;’ and he winked one of his twinkling eyes
knowingly.

‘Why,’ exclaimed Cymon, starting up with an ebullition of fury, as
unexpected as alarming, ‘why am I to be reminded of that blight of my
happiness, and ruin of my hopes? Why am I to be taunted with the
miseries which are heaped upon my head? Is it not enough to—to—to—’ and
the orator paused; but whether for want of words, or lack of breath,
was never distinctly ascertained.

There was an impressive solemnity in the tone of this address, and in
the air with which the romantic Cymon, at its conclusion, rang the
bell, and demanded a flat candlestick, which effectually forbade a
reply. He stalked dramatically to bed, and the Tuggses went to bed too,
half an hour afterwards, in a state of considerable mystification and
perplexity.

If the pier had presented a scene of life and bustle to the Tuggses on
their first landing at Ramsgate, it was far surpassed by the appearance
of the sands on the morning after their arrival. It was a fine, bright,
clear day, with a light breeze from the sea. There were the same ladies
and gentlemen, the same children, the same nursemaids, the same
telescopes, the same portable chairs. The ladies were employed in
needlework, or watch-guard making, or knitting, or reading novels; the
gentlemen were reading newspapers and magazines; the children were
digging holes in the sand with wooden spades, and collecting water
therein; the nursemaids, with their youngest charges in their arms,
were running in after the waves, and then running back with the waves
after them; and, now and then, a little sailing-boat either departed
with a gay and talkative cargo of passengers, or returned with a very
silent and particularly uncomfortable-looking one.

‘Well, I never!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, as she and Mr. Joseph Tuggs, and
Miss Charlotta Tuggs, and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, with their eight feet in a
corresponding number of yellow shoes, seated themselves on four
rush-bottomed chairs, which, being placed in a soft part of the sand,
forthwith sunk down some two feet and a half—‘Well, I never!’

Mr. Cymon, by an exertion of great personal strength, uprooted the
chairs, and removed them further back.

‘Why, I’m blessed if there ain’t some ladies a-going in!’ exclaimed Mr.
Joseph Tuggs, with intense astonishment.

‘Lor, pa!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotta.

‘There _is_, my dear,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. And, sure enough, four
young ladies, each furnished with a towel, tripped up the steps of a
bathing-machine. In went the horse, floundering about in the water;
round turned the machine; down sat the driver; and presently out burst
the young ladies aforesaid, with four distinct splashes.

‘Well, that’s sing’ler, too!’ ejaculated Mr. Joseph Tuggs, after an
awkward pause. Mr. Cymon coughed slightly.

‘Why, here’s some gentlemen a-going in on this side!’ exclaimed Mrs.
Tuggs, in a tone of horror.

Three machines—three horses—three flounderings—three turnings
round—three splashes—three gentlemen, disporting themselves in the
water like so many dolphins.

‘Well, _that’s_ sing’ler!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs again. Miss Charlotta
coughed this time, and another pause ensued. It was agreeably broken.

‘How d’ye do, dear? We have been looking for you, all the morning,’
said a voice to Miss Charlotta Tuggs. Mrs. Captain Waters was the owner
of it.

‘How d’ye do?’ said Captain Walter Waters, all suavity; and a most
cordial interchange of greetings ensued.

‘Belinda, my love,’ said Captain Walter Waters, applying his glass to
his eye, and looking in the direction of the sea.

‘Yes, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Captain Waters.

‘There’s Harry Thompson!’

‘Where?’ said Belinda, applying her glass to her eye.

‘Bathing.’

‘Lor, so it is! He don’t see us, does he?’

‘No, I don’t think he does’ replied the captain. ‘Bless my soul, how
very singular!’

‘What?’ inquired Belinda.

‘There’s Mary Golding, too.’

‘Lor!—where?’ (Up went the glass again.)

‘There!’ said the captain, pointing to one of the young ladies before
noticed, who, in her bathing costume, looked as if she was enveloped in
a patent Mackintosh, of scanty dimensions.

‘So it is, I declare!’ exclaimed Mrs. Captain Waters. ‘How very curious
we should see them both!’

‘Very,’ said the captain, with perfect coolness.

‘It’s the reg’lar thing here, you see,’ whispered Mr. Cymon Tuggs to
his father.

‘I see it is,’ whispered Mr. Joseph Tuggs in reply. ‘Queer,
though—ain’t it?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs nodded assent.

‘What do you think of doing with yourself this morning?’ inquired the
captain. ‘Shall we lunch at Pegwell?’

‘I should like that very much indeed,’ interposed Mrs. Tuggs. She had
never heard of Pegwell; but the word ‘lunch’ had reached her ears, and
it sounded very agreeably.

‘How shall we go?’ inquired the captain; ‘it’s too warm to walk.’

‘A shay?’ suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

‘Chaise,’ whispered Mr. Cymon.

‘I should think one would be enough,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs aloud,
quite unconscious of the meaning of the correction. ‘However, two shays
if you like.’

‘I should like a donkey _so_ much,’ said Belinda.

‘Oh, so should I!’ echoed Charlotta Tuggs.

‘Well, we can have a fly,’ suggested the captain, ‘and you can have a
couple of donkeys.’

A fresh difficulty arose. Mrs. Captain Waters declared it would be
decidedly improper for two ladies to ride alone. The remedy was
obvious. Perhaps young Mr. Tuggs would be gallant enough to accompany
them.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs blushed, smiled, looked vacant, and faintly protested
that he was no horseman. The objection was at once overruled. A fly was
speedily found; and three donkeys—which the proprietor declared on his
solemn asseveration to be ‘three parts blood, and the other corn’—were
engaged in the service.

‘Kim up!’ shouted one of the two boys who followed behind, to propel
the donkeys, when Belinda Waters and Charlotta Tuggs had been hoisted,
and pushed, and pulled, into their respective saddles.

‘Hi—hi—hi!’ groaned the other boy behind Mr. Cymon Tuggs. Away went the
donkey, with the stirrups jingling against the heels of Cymon’s boots,
and Cymon’s boots nearly scraping the ground.

‘Way—way! Wo—o—o—!’ cried Mr. Cymon Tuggs as well as he could, in the
midst of the jolting.

‘Don’t make it gallop!’ screamed Mrs. Captain Waters, behind.

‘My donkey _will_ go into the public-house!’ shrieked Miss Tuggs in the
rear.

‘Hi—hi—hi!’ groaned both the boys together; and on went the donkeys as
if nothing would ever stop them.

Everything has an end, however; even the galloping of donkeys will
cease in time. The animal which Mr. Cymon Tuggs bestrode, feeling
sundry uncomfortable tugs at the bit, the intent of which he could by
no means divine, abruptly sidled against a brick wall, and expressed
his uneasiness by grinding Mr. Cymon Tuggs’s leg on the rough surface.
Mrs. Captain Waters’s donkey, apparently under the influence of some
playfulness of spirit, rushed suddenly, head first, into a hedge, and
declined to come out again: and the quadruped on which Miss Tuggs was
mounted, expressed his delight at this humorous proceeding by firmly
planting his fore-feet against the ground, and kicking up his hind-legs
in a very agile, but somewhat alarming manner.

This abrupt termination to the rapidity of the ride, naturally
occasioned some confusion. Both the ladies indulged in vehement
screaming for several minutes; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs, besides sustaining
intense bodily pain, had the additional mental anguish of witnessing
their distressing situation, without having the power to rescue them,
by reason of his leg being firmly screwed in between the animal and the
wall. The efforts of the boys, however, assisted by the ingenious
expedient of twisting the tail of the most rebellious donkey, restored
order in a much shorter time than could have reasonably been expected,
and the little party jogged slowly on together.

‘Now let ’em walk,’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘It’s cruel to overdrive
’em.’

‘Werry well, sir,’ replied the boy, with a grin at his companion, as if
he understood Mr. Cymon to mean that the cruelty applied less to the
animals than to their riders.

‘What a lovely day, dear!’ said Charlotta.

‘Charming; enchanting, dear!’ responded Mrs. Captain Waters.

‘What a beautiful prospect, Mr. Tuggs!’

Cymon looked full in Belinda’s face, as he responded—‘Beautiful,
indeed!’ The lady cast down her eyes, and suffered the animal she was
riding to fall a little back. Cymon Tuggs instinctively did the same.

There was a brief silence, broken only by a sigh from Mr. Cymon Tuggs.

‘Mr. Cymon,’ said the lady suddenly, in a low tone, ‘Mr. Cymon—I am
another’s.’

Mr. Cymon expressed his perfect concurrence in a statement which it was
impossible to controvert.

‘If I had not been—’ resumed Belinda; and there she stopped.

‘What—what?’ said Mr. Cymon earnestly. ‘Do not torture me. What would
you say?’

‘If I had not been’—continued Mrs. Captain Waters—‘if, in earlier life,
it had been my fate to have known, and been beloved by, a noble youth—a
kindred soul—a congenial spirit—one capable of feeling and appreciating
the sentiments which—’

‘Heavens! what do I hear?’ exclaimed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘Is it possible!
can I believe my—Come up!’ (This last unsentimental parenthesis was
addressed to the donkey, who, with his head between his fore-legs,
appeared to be examining the state of his shoes with great anxiety.)

‘Hi—hi—hi,’ said the boys behind. ‘Come up,’ expostulated Cymon Tuggs
again. ‘Hi—hi—hi,’ repeated the boys. And whether it was that the
animal felt indignant at the tone of Mr. Tuggs’s command, or felt
alarmed by the noise of the deputy proprietor’s boots running behind
him; or whether he burned with a noble emulation to outstrip the other
donkeys; certain it is that he no sooner heard the second series of
‘hi—hi’s,’ than he started away, with a celerity of pace which jerked
Mr. Cymon’s hat off, instantaneously, and carried him to the Pegwell
Bay hotel in no time, where he deposited his rider without giving him
the trouble of dismounting, by sagaciously pitching him over his head,
into the very doorway of the tavern.

Great was the confusion of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, when he was put right end
uppermost, by two waiters; considerable was the alarm of Mrs. Tuggs in
behalf of her son; agonizing were the apprehensions of Mrs. Captain
Waters on his account. It was speedily discovered, however, that he had
not sustained much more injury than the donkey—he was grazed, and the
animal was grazing—and then it _was_ a delightful party to be sure! Mr.
and Mrs. Tuggs, and the captain, had ordered lunch in the little garden
behind:—small saucers of large shrimps, dabs of butter, crusty loaves,
and bottled ale. The sky was without a cloud; there were flower-pots
and turf before them; the sea, from the foot of the cliff, stretching
away as far as the eye could discern anything at all; vessels in the
distance with sails as white, and as small, as nicely-got-up cambric
handkerchiefs. The shrimps were delightful, the ale better, and the
captain even more pleasant than either. Mrs. Captain Waters was in
_such_ spirits after lunch!—chasing, first the captain across the turf,
and among the flower-pots; and then Mr. Cymon Tuggs; and then Miss
Tuggs; and laughing, too, quite boisterously. But as the captain said,
it didn’t matter; who knew what they were, there? For all the people of
the house knew, they might be common people. To which Mr. Joseph Tuggs
responded, ‘To be sure.’ And then they went down the steep wooden steps
a little further on, which led to the bottom of the cliff; and looked
at the crabs, and the seaweed, and the eels, till it was more than
fully time to go back to Ramsgate again. Finally, Mr. Cymon Tuggs
ascended the steps last, and Mrs. Captain Waters last but one; and Mr.
Cymon Tuggs discovered that the foot and ankle of Mrs. Captain Waters,
were even more unexceptionable than he had at first supposed.

Taking a donkey towards his ordinary place of residence, is a very
different thing, and a feat much more easily to be accomplished, than
taking him from it. It requires a great deal of foresight and presence
of mind in the one case, to anticipate the numerous flights of his
discursive imagination; whereas, in the other, all you have to do, is,
to hold on, and place a blind confidence in the animal. Mr. Cymon Tuggs
adopted the latter expedient on his return; and his nerves were so
little discomposed by the journey, that he distinctly understood they
were all to meet again at the library in the evening.

The library was crowded. There were the same ladies, and the same
gentlemen, who had been on the sands in the morning, and on the pier
the day before. There were young ladies, in maroon-coloured gowns and
black velvet bracelets, dispensing fancy articles in the shop, and
presiding over games of chance in the concert-room. There were
marriageable daughters, and marriage-making mammas, gaming and
promenading, and turning over music, and flirting. There were some male
beaux doing the sentimental in whispers, and others doing the ferocious
in moustache. There were Mrs. Tuggs in amber, Miss Tuggs in sky-blue,
Mrs. Captain Waters in pink. There was Captain Waters in a braided
surtout; there was Mr. Cymon Tuggs in pumps and a gilt waistcoat; there
was Mr. Joseph Tuggs in a blue coat and a shirt-frill.

‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ cried one of the young ladies in
the maroon-coloured gowns.

‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ echoed another young lady in the
same uniform.

‘Number three’s gone,’ said the first young lady. ‘Numbers eight and
eleven!’

‘Numbers eight and eleven!’ echoed the second young lady.

‘Number eight’s gone, Mary Ann,’ said the first young lady.

‘Number eleven!’ screamed the second.

‘The numbers are all taken now, ladies, if you please,’ said the first.
The representatives of numbers three, eight, and eleven, and the rest
of the numbers, crowded round the table.

‘Will you throw, ma’am?’ said the presiding goddess, handing the
dice-box to the eldest daughter of a stout lady, with four girls.

There was a profound silence among the lookers-on.

‘Throw, Jane, my dear,’ said the stout lady. An interesting display of
bashfulness—a little blushing in a cambric handkerchief—a whispering to
a younger sister.

‘Amelia, my dear, throw for your sister,’ said the stout lady; and then
she turned to a walking advertisement of Rowlands’ Macassar Oil, who
stood next her, and said, ‘Jane is so _very_ modest and retiring; but I
can’t be angry with her for it. An artless and unsophisticated girl is
_so_ truly amiable, that I often wish Amelia was more like her sister!’

The gentleman with the whiskers whispered his admiring approval.

‘Now, my dear!’ said the stout lady. Miss Amelia threw—eight for her
sister, ten for herself.

‘Nice figure, Amelia,’ whispered the stout lady to a thin youth beside
her.

‘Beautiful!’

‘And _such_ a spirit! I am like you in that respect. I can _not_ help
admiring that life and vivacity. Ah! (a sigh) I wish I could make poor
Jane a little more like my dear Amelia!’

The young gentleman cordially acquiesced in the sentiment; both he, and
the individual first addressed, were perfectly contented.

‘Who’s this?’ inquired Mr. Cymon Tuggs of Mrs. Captain Waters, as a
short female, in a blue velvet hat and feathers, was led into the
orchestra, by a fat man in black tights and cloudy Berlins.

‘Mrs. Tippin, of the London theatres,’ replied Belinda, referring to
the programme of the concert.

The talented Tippin having condescendingly acknowledged the clapping of
hands, and shouts of ‘bravo!’ which greeted her appearance, proceeded
to sing the popular cavatina of ‘Bid me discourse,’ accompanied on the
piano by Mr. Tippin; after which, Mr. Tippin sang a comic song,
accompanied on the piano by Mrs. Tippin: the applause consequent upon
which, was only to be exceeded by the enthusiastic approbation bestowed
upon an air with variations on the guitar, by Miss Tippin, accompanied
on the chin by Master Tippin.

Thus passed the evening; thus passed the days and evenings of the
Tuggses, and the Waterses, for six weeks. Sands in the morning—donkeys
at noon—pier in the afternoon—library at night—and the same people
everywhere.

On that very night six weeks, the moon was shining brightly over the
calm sea, which dashed against the feet of the tall gaunt cliffs, with
just enough noise to lull the old fish to sleep, without disturbing the
young ones, when two figures were discernible—or would have been, if
anybody had looked for them—seated on one of the wooden benches which
are stationed near the verge of the western cliff. The moon had climbed
higher into the heavens, by two hours’ journeying, since those figures
first sat down—and yet they had moved not. The crowd of loungers had
thinned and dispersed; the noise of itinerant musicians had died away;
light after light had appeared in the windows of the different houses
in the distance; blockade-man after blockade-man had passed the spot,
wending his way towards his solitary post; and yet those figures had
remained stationary. Some portions of the two forms were in deep
shadow, but the light of the moon fell strongly on a puce-coloured boot
and a glazed stock. Mr. Cymon Tuggs and Mrs. Captain Waters were seated
on that bench. They spoke not, but were silently gazing on the sea.

‘Walter will return to-morrow,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters, mournfully
breaking silence.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a gust of wind through a forest of
gooseberry bushes, as he replied, ‘Alas! he will.’

‘Oh, Cymon!’ resumed Belinda, ‘the chaste delight, the calm happiness,
of this one week of Platonic love, is too much for me!’ Cymon was about
to suggest that it was too little for him, but he stopped himself, and
murmured unintelligibly.

‘And to think that even this gleam of happiness, innocent as it is,’
exclaimed Belinda, ‘is now to be lost for ever!’

‘Oh, do not say for ever, Belinda,’ exclaimed the excitable Cymon, as
two strongly-defined tears chased each other down his pale face—it was
so long that there was plenty of room for a chase. ‘Do not say for
ever!’

‘I must,’ replied Belinda.

‘Why?’ urged Cymon, ‘oh why? Such Platonic acquaintance as ours is so
harmless, that even your husband can never object to it.’

‘My husband!’ exclaimed Belinda. ‘You little know him. Jealous and
revengeful; ferocious in his revenge—a maniac in his jealousy! Would
you be assassinated before my eyes?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in a voice broken
by emotion, expressed his disinclination to undergo the process of
assassination before the eyes of anybody.

‘Then leave me,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters. ‘Leave me, this night, for
ever. It is late: let us return.’

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sadly offered the lady his arm, and escorted her to her
lodgings. He paused at the door—he felt a Platonic pressure of his
hand. ‘Good night,’ he said, hesitating.

‘Good night,’ sobbed the lady. Mr. Cymon Tuggs paused again.

‘Won’t you walk in, sir?’ said the servant. Mr. Tuggs hesitated. Oh,
that hesitation! He _did_ walk in.

‘Good night!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs again, when he reached the
drawing-room.

‘Good night!’ replied Belinda; ‘and, if at any period of my life,
I—Hush!’ The lady paused and stared with a steady gaze of horror, on
the ashy countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs. There was a double knock at
the street-door.

‘It is my husband!’ said Belinda, as the captain’s voice was heard
below.

‘And my family!’ added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices of his relatives
floated up the staircase.

‘The curtain! The curtain!’ gasped Mrs. Captain Waters, pointing to the
window, before which some chintz hangings were closely drawn.

‘But I have done nothing wrong,’ said the hesitating Cymon.

‘The curtain!’ reiterated the frantic lady: ‘you will be murdered.’
This last appeal to his feelings was irresistible. The dismayed Cymon
concealed himself behind the curtain with pantomimic suddenness.

Enter the captain, Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and Charlotta.

‘My dear,’ said the captain, ‘Lieutenant, Slaughter.’ Two iron-shod
boots and one gruff voice were heard by Mr. Cymon to advance, and
acknowledge the honour of the introduction. The sabre of the lieutenant
rattled heavily upon the floor, as he seated himself at the table. Mr.
Cymon’s fears almost overcame his reason.

‘The brandy, my dear!’ said the captain. Here was a situation! They
were going to make a night of it! And Mr. Cymon Tuggs was pent up
behind the curtain and afraid to breathe!

‘Slaughter,’ said the captain, ‘a cigar?’

Now, Mr. Cymon Tuggs never could smoke without feeling it indispensably
necessary to retire, immediately, and never could smell smoke without a
strong disposition to cough. The cigars were introduced; the captain
was a professed smoker; so was the lieutenant; so was Joseph Tuggs. The
apartment was small, the door was closed, the smoke powerful: it hung
in heavy wreaths over the room, and at length found its way behind the
curtain. Cymon Tuggs held his nose, his mouth, his breath. It was all
of no use—out came the cough.

‘Bless my soul!’ said the captain, ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Tuggs. You
dislike smoking?’

‘Oh, no; I don’t indeed,’ said Charlotta.

‘It makes you cough.’

‘Oh dear no.’

‘You coughed just now.’

‘Me, Captain Waters! Lor! how can you say so?’

‘Somebody coughed,’ said the captain.

‘I certainly thought so,’ said Slaughter. No; everybody denied it.

‘Fancy,’ said the captain.

‘Must be,’ echoed Slaughter.

Cigars resumed—more smoke—another cough—smothered, but violent.

‘Damned odd!’ said the captain, staring about him.

‘Sing’ler!’ ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Lieutenant Slaughter looked first at one person mysteriously, then at
another: then, laid down his cigar, then approached the window on
tiptoe, and pointed with his right thumb over his shoulder, in the
direction of the curtain.

‘Slaughter!’ ejaculated the captain, rising from table, ‘what do you
mean?’

The lieutenant, in reply, drew back the curtain and discovered Mr.
Cymon Tuggs behind it: pallid with apprehension, and blue with wanting
to cough.

‘Aha!’ exclaimed the captain, furiously. ‘What do I see? Slaughter,
your sabre!’

‘Cymon!’ screamed the Tuggses.

‘Mercy!’ said Belinda.

‘Platonic!’ gasped Cymon.

‘Your sabre!’ roared the captain: ‘Slaughter—unhand me—the villain’s
life!’

‘Murder!’ screamed the Tuggses.

‘Hold him fast, sir!’ faintly articulated Cymon.

‘Water!’ exclaimed Joseph Tuggs—and Mr. Cymon Tuggs and all the ladies
forthwith fainted away, and formed a tableau.

Most willingly would we conceal the disastrous termination of the six
weeks’ acquaintance. A troublesome form, and an arbitrary custom,
however, prescribe that a story should have a conclusion, in addition
to a commencement; we have therefore no alternative. Lieutenant
Slaughter brought a message—the captain brought an action. Mr. Joseph
Tuggs interposed—the lieutenant negotiated. When Mr. Cymon Tuggs
recovered from the nervous disorder into which misplaced affection, and
exciting circumstances, had plunged him, he found that his family had
lost their pleasant acquaintance; that his father was minus fifteen
hundred pounds; and the captain plus the precise sum. The money was
paid to hush the matter up, but it got abroad notwithstanding; and
there are not wanting some who affirm that three designing impostors
never found more easy dupes, than did Captain Waters, Mrs. Waters, and
Lieutenant Slaughter, in the Tuggses at Ramsgate.




CHAPTER V—HORATIO SPARKINS


‘Indeed, my love, he paid Teresa very great attention on the last
assembly night,’ said Mrs. Malderton, addressing her spouse, who, after
the fatigues of the day in the City, was sitting with a silk
handkerchief over his head, and his feet on the fender, drinking his
port;—‘very great attention; and I say again, every possible
encouragement ought to be given him. He positively must be asked down
here to dine.’

‘Who must?’ inquired Mr. Malderton.

‘Why, you know whom I mean, my dear—the young man with the black
whiskers and the white cravat, who has just come out at our assembly,
and whom all the girls are talking about. Young—dear me! what’s his
name?—Marianne, what _is_ his name?’ continued Mrs. Malderton,
addressing her youngest daughter, who was engaged in netting a purse,
and looking sentimental.

‘Mr. Horatio Sparkins, ma,’ replied Miss Marianne, with a sigh.

‘Oh! yes, to be sure—Horatio Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton. ‘Decidedly
the most gentleman-like young man I ever saw. I am sure in the
beautifully-made coat he wore the other night, he looked like—like—’

‘Like Prince Leopold, ma—so noble, so full of sentiment!’ suggested
Marianne, in a tone of enthusiastic admiration.

‘You should recollect, my dear,’ resumed Mrs. Malderton, ‘that Teresa
is now eight-and-twenty; and that it really is very important that
something should be done.’

Miss Teresa Malderton was a very little girl, rather fat, with
vermilion cheeks, but good-humoured, and still disengaged, although, to
do her justice, the misfortune arose from no lack of perseverance on
her part. In vain had she flirted for ten years; in vain had Mr. and
Mrs. Malderton assiduously kept up an extensive acquaintance among the
young eligible bachelors of Camberwell, and even of Wandsworth and
Brixton; to say nothing of those who ‘dropped in’ from town. Miss
Malderton was as well known as the lion on the top of Northumberland
House, and had an equal chance of ‘going off.’

‘I am quite sure you’d like him,’ continued Mrs. Malderton, ‘he is so
gentlemanly!’

‘So clever!’ said Miss Marianne.

‘And has such a flow of language!’ added Miss Teresa.

‘He has a great respect for you, my dear,’ said Mrs. Malderton to her
husband. Mr. Malderton coughed, and looked at the fire.

‘Yes I’m sure he’s very much attached to pa’s society,’ said Miss
Marianne.

‘No doubt of it,’ echoed Miss Teresa.

‘Indeed, he said as much to me in confidence,’ observed Mrs. Malderton.

‘Well, well,’ returned Mr. Malderton, somewhat flattered; ‘if I see him
at the assembly to-morrow, perhaps I’ll ask him down. I hope he knows
we live at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, my dear?’

‘Of course—and that you keep a one-horse carriage.’

‘I’ll see about it,’ said Mr. Malderton, composing himself for a nap;
‘I’ll see about it.’

Mr. Malderton was a man whose whole scope of ideas was limited to
Lloyd’s, the Exchange, the India House, and the Bank. A few successful
speculations had raised him from a situation of obscurity and
comparative poverty, to a state of affluence. As frequently happens in
such cases, the ideas of himself and his family became elevated to an
extraordinary pitch as their means increased; they affected fashion,
taste, and many other fooleries, in imitation of their betters, and had
a very decided and becoming horror of anything which could, by
possibility, be considered low. He was hospitable from ostentation,
illiberal from ignorance, and prejudiced from conceit. Egotism and the
love of display induced him to keep an excellent table: convenience,
and a love of good things of this life, ensured him plenty of guests.
He liked to have clever men, or what he considered such, at his table,
because it was a great thing to talk about; but he never could endure
what he called ‘sharp fellows.’ Probably, he cherished this feeling out
of compliment to his two sons, who gave their respected parent no
uneasiness in that particular. The family were ambitious of forming
acquaintances and connexions in some sphere of society superior to that
in which they themselves moved; and one of the necessary consequences
of this desire, added to their utter ignorance of the world beyond
their own small circle, was, that any one who could lay claim to an
acquaintance with people of rank and title, had a sure passport to the
table at Oak Lodge, Camberwell.

The appearance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins at the assembly, had excited no
small degree of surprise and curiosity among its regular frequenters.
Who could he be? He was evidently reserved, and apparently melancholy.
Was he a clergyman?—He danced too well. A barrister?—He said he was not
called. He used very fine words, and talked a great deal. Could he be a
distinguished foreigner, come to England for the purpose of describing
the country, its manners and customs; and frequenting public balls and
public dinners, with the view of becoming acquainted with high life,
polished etiquette, and English refinement?—No, he had not a foreign
accent. Was he a surgeon, a contributor to the magazines, a writer of
fashionable novels, or an artist?—No; to each and all of these
surmises, there existed some valid objection.—‘Then,’ said everybody,
‘he must be _somebody_.’—‘I should think he must be,’ reasoned Mr.
Malderton, within himself, ‘because he perceives our superiority, and
pays us so much attention.’

The night succeeding the conversation we have just recorded, was
‘assembly night.’ The double-fly was ordered to be at the door of Oak
Lodge at nine o’clock precisely. The Miss Maldertons were dressed in
sky-blue satin trimmed with artificial flowers; and Mrs. M. (who was a
little fat woman), in ditto ditto, looked like her eldest daughter
multiplied by two. Mr. Frederick Malderton, the eldest son, in
full-dress costume, was the very _beau idéal_ of a smart waiter; and
Mr. Thomas Malderton, the youngest, with his white dress-stock, blue
coat, bright buttons, and red watch-ribbon, strongly resembled the
portrait of that interesting, but rash young gentleman, George
Barnwell. Every member of the party had made up his or her mind to
cultivate the acquaintance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins. Miss Teresa, of
course, was to be as amiable and interesting as ladies of
eight-and-twenty on the look-out for a husband, usually are. Mrs.
Malderton would be all smiles and graces. Miss Marianne would request
the favour of some verses for her album. Mr. Malderton would patronise
the great unknown by asking him to dinner. Tom intended to ascertain
the extent of his information on the interesting topics of snuff and
cigars. Even Mr. Frederick Malderton himself, the family authority on
all points of taste, dress, and fashionable arrangement; who had
lodgings of his own in town; who had a free admission to Covent-garden
theatre; who always dressed according to the fashions of the months;
who went up the water twice a-week in the season; and who actually had
an intimate friend who once knew a gentleman who formerly lived in the
Albany,—even he had determined that Mr. Horatio Sparkins must be a
devilish good fellow, and that he would do him the honour of
challenging him to a game at billiards.

The first object that met the anxious eyes of the expectant family on
their entrance into the ball-room, was the interesting Horatio, with
his hair brushed off his forehead, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling,
reclining in a contemplative attitude on one of the seats.

‘There he is, my dear,’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to Mr. Malderton.

‘How like Lord Byron!’ murmured Miss Teresa.

‘Or Montgomery!’ whispered Miss Marianne.

‘Or the portraits of Captain Cook!’ suggested Tom.

‘Tom—don’t be an ass!’ said his father, who checked him on all
occasions, probably with a view to prevent his becoming ‘sharp’—which
was very unnecessary.

The elegant Sparkins attitudinised with admirable effect, until the
family had crossed the room. He then started up, with the most natural
appearance of surprise and delight; accosted Mrs. Malderton with the
utmost cordiality; saluted the young ladies in the most enchanting
manner; bowed to, and shook hands with Mr. Malderton, with a degree of
respect amounting almost to veneration; and returned the greetings of
the two young men in a half-gratified, half-patronising manner, which
fully convinced them that he must be an important, and, at the same
time, condescending personage.

‘Miss Malderton,’ said Horatio, after the ordinary salutations, and
bowing very low, ‘may I be permitted to presume to hope that you will
allow me to have the pleasure—’

‘I don’t _think_ I am engaged,’ said Miss Teresa, with a dreadful
affectation of indifference—‘but, really—so many—’

Horatio looked handsomely miserable.

‘I shall be most happy,’ simpered the interesting Teresa, at last.
Horatio’s countenance brightened up, like an old hat in a shower of
rain.

‘A very genteel young man, certainly!’ said the gratified Mr.
Malderton, as the obsequious Sparkins and his partner joined the
quadrille which was just forming.

‘He has a remarkably good address,’ said Mr. Frederick.

‘Yes, he is a prime fellow,’ interposed Tom, who always managed to put
his foot in it—‘he talks just like an auctioneer.’

‘Tom!’ said his father solemnly, ‘I think I desired you, before, not to
be a fool.’ Tom looked as happy as a cock on a drizzly morning.

‘How delightful!’ said the interesting Horatio to his partner, as they
promenaded the room at the conclusion of the set—‘how delightful, how
refreshing it is, to retire from the cloudy storms, the vicissitudes,
and the troubles, of life, even if it be but for a few short fleeting
moments: and to spend those moments, fading and evanescent though they
be, in the delightful, the blessed society of one individual—whose
frowns would be death, whose coldness would be madness, whose falsehood
would be ruin, whose constancy would be bliss; the possession of whose
affection would be the brightest and best reward that Heaven could
bestow on man?’

‘What feeling! what sentiment!’ thought Miss Teresa, as she leaned more
heavily on her companion’s arm.

‘But enough—enough!’ resumed the elegant Sparkins, with a theatrical
air. ‘What have I said? what have I—I—to do with sentiments like these!
Miss Malderton’—here he stopped short—‘may I hope to be permitted to
offer the humble tribute of—’

‘Really, Mr. Sparkins,’ returned the enraptured Teresa, blushing in the
sweetest confusion, ‘I must refer you to papa. I never can, without his
consent, venture to—’

‘Surely he cannot object—’

‘Oh, yes. Indeed, indeed, you know him not!’ interrupted Miss Teresa,
well knowing there was nothing to fear, but wishing to make the
interview resemble a scene in some romantic novel.

‘He cannot object to my offering you a glass of negus,’ returned the
adorable Sparkins, with some surprise.

‘Is that all?’ thought the disappointed Teresa. ‘What a fuss about
nothing!’

‘It will give me the greatest pleasure, sir, to see you to dinner at
Oak Lodge, Camberwell, on Sunday next at five o’clock, if you have no
better engagement,’ said Mr. Malderton, at the conclusion of the
evening, as he and his sons were standing in conversation with Mr.
Horatio Sparkins.

Horatio bowed his acknowledgments, and accepted the flattering
invitation.

‘I must confess,’ continued the father, offering his snuff-box to his
new acquaintance, ‘that I don’t enjoy these assemblies half so much as
the comfort—I had almost said the luxury—of Oak Lodge. They have no
great charms for an elderly man.’

‘And after all, sir, what is man?’ said the metaphysical Sparkins. ‘I
say, what is man?’

‘Ah! very true,’ said Mr. Malderton; ‘very true.’

‘We know that we live and breathe,’ continued Horatio; ‘that we have
wants and wishes, desires and appetites—’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking profound.

‘I say, we know that we exist,’ repeated Horatio, raising his voice,
‘but there we stop; there, is an end to our knowledge; there, is the
summit of our attainments; there, is the termination of our ends. What
more do we know?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Frederick—than whom no one was more capable of
answering for himself in that particular. Tom was about to hazard
something, but, fortunately for his reputation, he caught his father’s
angry eye, and slunk off like a puppy convicted of petty larceny.

‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Malderton the elder, as they were returning
home in the fly, ‘that Mr. Sparkins is a wonderful young man. Such
surprising knowledge! such extraordinary information! and such a
splendid mode of expressing himself!’

‘I think he must be somebody in disguise,’ said Miss Marianne. ‘How
charmingly romantic!’

‘He talks very loud and nicely,’ timidly observed Tom, ‘but I don’t
exactly understand what he means.’

‘I almost begin to despair of your understanding anything, Tom,’ said
his father, who, of course, had been much enlightened by Mr. Horatio
Sparkins’s conversation.

‘It strikes me, Tom,’ said Miss Teresa, ‘that you have made yourself
very ridiculous this evening.’

‘No doubt of it,’ cried everybody—and the unfortunate Tom reduced
himself into the least possible space. That night, Mr. and Mrs.
Malderton had a long conversation respecting their daughter’s prospects
and future arrangements. Miss Teresa went to bed, considering whether,
in the event of her marrying a title, she could conscientiously
encourage the visits of her present associates; and dreamed, all night,
of disguised noblemen, large routs, ostrich plumes, bridal favours, and
Horatio Sparkins.

Various surmises were hazarded on the Sunday morning, as to the mode of
conveyance which the anxiously-expected Horatio would adopt. Did he
keep a gig?—was it possible he could come on horseback?—or would he
patronize the stage? These, and other various conjectures of equal
importance, engrossed the attention of Mrs. Malderton and her daughters
during the whole morning after church.

‘Upon my word, my dear, it’s a most annoying thing that that vulgar
brother of yours should have invited himself to dine here to-day,’ said
Mr. Malderton to his wife. ‘On account of Mr. Sparkins’s coming down, I
purposely abstained from asking any one but Flamwell. And then to think
of your brother—a tradesman—it’s insufferable! I declare I wouldn’t
have him mention his shop, before our new guest—no, not for a thousand
pounds! I wouldn’t care if he had the good sense to conceal the
disgrace he is to the family; but he’s so fond of his horrible
business, that he _will_ let people know what he is.’

Mr. Jacob Barton, the individual alluded to, was a large grocer; so
vulgar, and so lost to all sense of feeling, that he actually never
scrupled to avow that he wasn’t above his business: ‘he’d made his
money by it, and he didn’t care who know’d it.’

‘Ah! Flamwell, my dear fellow, how d’ye do?’ said Mr. Malderton, as a
little spoffish man, with green spectacles, entered the room. ‘You got
my note?’

‘Yes, I did; and here I am in consequence.’

‘You don’t happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by name? You know
everybody?’

Mr. Flamwell was one of those gentlemen of remarkably extensive
information whom one occasionally meets in society, who pretend to know
everybody, but in reality know nobody. At Malderton’s, where any
stories about great people were received with a greedy ear, he was an
especial favourite; and, knowing the kind of people he had to deal
with, he carried his passion of claiming acquaintance with everybody,
to the most immoderate length. He had rather a singular way of telling
his greatest lies in a parenthesis, and with an air of self-denial, as
if he feared being thought egotistical.

‘Why, no, I don’t know him by that name,’ returned Flamwell, in a low
tone, and with an air of immense importance. ‘I have no doubt I know
him, though. Is he tall?’

‘Middle-sized,’ said Miss Teresa.

‘With black hair?’ inquired Flamwell, hazarding a bold guess.

‘Yes,’ returned Miss Teresa, eagerly.

‘Rather a snub nose?’

‘No,’ said the disappointed Teresa, ‘he has a Roman nose.’

‘I said a Roman nose, didn’t I?’ inquired Flamwell. ‘He’s an elegant
young man?’

‘Oh, certainly.’

‘With remarkably prepossessing manners?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said all the family together. ‘You must know him.’

‘Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anybody,’ triumphantly
exclaimed Mr. Malderton. ‘Who d’ye think he is?’

‘Why, from your description,’ said Flamwell, ruminating, and sinking
his voice, almost to a whisper, ‘he bears a strong resemblance to the
Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne. He’s a very
talented young man, and rather eccentric. It’s extremely probable he
may have changed his name for some temporary purpose.’

Teresa’s heart beat high. Could he be the Honourable Augustus
Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne! What a name to be elegantly
engraved upon two glazed cards, tied together with a piece of white
satin ribbon! ‘The Honourable Mrs. Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John
Fitz-Osborne!’ The thought was transport.

‘It’s five minutes to five,’ said Mr. Malderton, looking at his watch:
‘I hope he’s not going to disappoint us.’

‘There he is!’ exclaimed Miss Teresa, as a loud double-knock was heard
at the door. Everybody endeavoured to look—as people when they
particularly expect a visitor always do—as if they were perfectly
unsuspicious of the approach of anybody.

The room-door opened—‘Mr. Barton!’ said the servant.

‘Confound the man!’ murmured Malderton. ‘Ah! my dear sir, how d’ye do!
Any news?’

‘Why no,’ returned the grocer, in his usual bluff manner. ‘No, none
partickler. None that I am much aware of. How d’ye do, gals and boys?
Mr. Flamwell, sir—glad to see you.’

‘Here’s Mr. Sparkins!’ said Tom, who had been looking out at the
window, ‘on _such_ a black horse!’ There was Horatio, sure enough, on a
large black horse, curvetting and prancing along, like an Astley’s
supernumerary. After a great deal of reining in, and pulling up, with
the accompaniments of snorting, rearing, and kicking, the animal
consented to stop at about a hundred yards from the gate, where Mr.
Sparkins dismounted, and confided him to the care of Mr. Malderton’s
groom. The ceremony of introduction was gone through, in all due form.
Mr. Flamwell looked from behind his green spectacles at Horatio with an
air of mysterious importance; and the gallant Horatio looked
unutterable things at Teresa.

‘Is he the Honourable Mr. Augustus What’s-his-name?’ whispered Mrs.
Malderton to Flamwell, as he was escorting her to the dining-room.

‘Why, no—at least not exactly,’ returned that great authority—‘not
exactly.’

‘Who _is_ he then?’

‘Hush!’ said Flamwell, nodding his head with a grave air, importing
that he knew very well; but was prevented, by some grave reasons of
state, from disclosing the important secret. It might be one of the
ministers making himself acquainted with the views of the people.

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the delighted Mrs. Malderton, ‘pray divide the
ladies. John, put a chair for the gentleman between Miss Teresa and
Miss Marianne.’ This was addressed to a man who, on ordinary occasions,
acted as half-groom, half-gardener; but who, as it was important to
make an impression on Mr. Sparkins, had been forced into a white
neckerchief and shoes, and touched up, and brushed, to look like a
second footman.

The dinner was excellent; Horatio was most attentive to Miss Teresa,
and every one felt in high spirits, except Mr. Malderton, who, knowing
the propensity of his brother-in-law, Mr. Barton, endured that sort of
agony which the newspapers inform us is experienced by the surrounding
neighbourhood when a pot-boy hangs himself in a hay-loft, and which is
‘much easier to be imagined than described.’

‘Have you seen your friend, Sir Thomas Noland, lately, Flamwell?’
inquired Mr. Malderton, casting a sidelong look at Horatio, to see what
effect the mention of so great a man had upon him.

‘Why, no—not very lately. I saw Lord Gubbleton the day before
yesterday.’

‘All! I hope his lordship is very well?’ said Malderton, in a tone of
the greatest interest. It is scarcely necessary to say that, until that
moment, he had been quite innocent of the existence of such a person.

‘Why, yes; he was very well—very well indeed. He’s a devilish good
fellow. I met him in the City, and had a long chat with him. Indeed,
I’m rather intimate with him. I couldn’t stop to talk to him as long as
I could wish, though, because I was on my way to a banker’s, a very
rich man, and a member of Parliament, with whom I am also rather,
indeed I may say very, intimate.’

‘I know whom you mean,’ returned the host, consequentially—in reality
knowing as much about the matter as Flamwell himself.—‘He has a capital
business.’

This was touching on a dangerous topic.

‘Talking of business,’ interposed Mr. Barton, from the centre of the
table. ‘A gentleman whom you knew very well, Malderton, before you made
that first lucky spec of yours, called at our shop the other day, and—’

‘Barton, may I trouble you for a potato?’ interrupted the wretched
master of the house, hoping to nip the story in the bud.

‘Certainly,’ returned the grocer, quite insensible of his
brother-in-law’s object—‘and he said in a very plain manner—’

‘_Floury_, if you please,’ interrupted Malderton again; dreading the
termination of the anecdote, and fearing a repetition of the word
‘shop.’

‘He said, says he,’ continued the culprit, after despatching the
potato; ‘says he, how goes on your business? So I said, jokingly—you
know my way—says I, I’m never above my business, and I hope my business
will never be above me. Ha, ha!’

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the host, vainly endeavouring to conceal his
dismay, ‘a glass of wine?’

‘With the utmost pleasure, sir.’

‘Happy to see you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We were talking the other evening,’ resumed the host, addressing
Horatio, partly with the view of displaying the conversational powers
of his new acquaintance, and partly in the hope of drowning the
grocer’s stories—‘we were talking the other night about the nature of
man. Your argument struck me very forcibly.’

‘And me,’ said Mr. Frederick. Horatio made a graceful inclination of
the head.

‘Pray, what is your opinion of woman, Mr. Sparkins?’ inquired Mrs.
Malderton. The young ladies simpered.

‘Man,’ replied Horatio, ‘man, whether he ranged the bright, gay,
flowery plains of a second Eden, or the more sterile, barren, and I may
say, commonplace regions, to which we are compelled to accustom
ourselves, in times such as these; man, under any circumstances, or in
any place—whether he were bending beneath the withering blasts of the
frigid zone, or scorching under the rays of a vertical sun—man, without
woman, would be—alone.’

‘I am very happy to find you entertain such honourable opinions, Mr.
Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton.

‘And I,’ added Miss Teresa. Horatio looked his delight, and the young
lady blushed.

‘Now, it’s my opinion—’ said Mr. Barton.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ interposed Malderton, determined not
to give his relation another opportunity, ‘and I don’t agree with you.’

‘What!’ inquired the astonished grocer.

‘I am sorry to differ from you, Barton,’ said the host, in as positive
a manner as if he really were contradicting a position which the other
had laid down, ‘but I cannot give my assent to what I consider a very
monstrous proposition.’

‘But I meant to say—’

‘You never can convince me,’ said Malderton, with an air of obstinate
determination. ‘Never.’

‘And I,’ said Mr. Frederick, following up his father’s attack, ‘cannot
entirely agree in Mr. Sparkins’s argument.’

‘What!’ said Horatio, who became more metaphysical, and more
argumentative, as he saw the female part of the family listening in
wondering delight—‘what! Is effect the consequence of cause? Is cause
the precursor of effect?’

‘That’s the point,’ said Flamwell.

‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Malderton.

‘Because, if effect is the consequence of cause, and if cause does
precede effect, I apprehend you are wrong,’ added Horatio.

‘Decidedly,’ said the toad-eating Flamwell.

‘At least, I apprehend that to be the just and logical deduction?’ said
Sparkins, in a tone of interrogation.

‘No doubt of it,’ chimed in Flamwell again. ‘It settles the point.’

‘Well, perhaps it does,’ said Mr. Frederick; ‘I didn’t see it before.’

‘I don’t exactly see it now,’ thought the grocer; ‘but I suppose it’s
all right.’

‘How wonderfully clever he is!’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to her
daughters, as they retired to the drawing-room.

‘Oh, he’s quite a love!’ said both the young ladies together; ‘he talks
like an oracle. He must have seen a great deal of life.’

The gentlemen being left to themselves, a pause ensued, during which
everybody looked very grave, as if they were quite overcome by the
profound nature of the previous discussion. Flamwell, who had made up
his mind to find out who and what Mr. Horatio Sparkins really was,
first broke silence.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said that distinguished personage, ‘I presume you
have studied for the bar? I thought of entering once, myself—indeed,
I’m rather intimate with some of the highest ornaments of that
distinguished profession.’

‘N-no!’ said Horatio, with a little hesitation; ‘not exactly.’

‘But you have been much among the silk gowns, or I mistake?’ inquired
Flamwell, deferentially.

‘Nearly all my life,’ returned Sparkins.

The question was thus pretty well settled in the mind of Mr. Flamwell.
He was a young gentleman ‘about to be called.’

‘I shouldn’t like to be a barrister,’ said Tom, speaking for the first
time, and looking round the table to find somebody who would notice the
remark.

No one made any reply.

‘I shouldn’t like to wear a wig,’ said Tom, hazarding another
observation.

‘Tom, I beg you will not make yourself ridiculous,’ said his father.
‘Pray listen, and improve yourself by the conversation you hear, and
don’t be constantly making these absurd remarks.’

‘Very well, father,’ replied the unfortunate Tom, who had not spoken a
word since he had asked for another slice of beef at a quarter-past
five o’clock, p.m., and it was then eight.

‘Well, Tom,’ observed his good-natured uncle, ‘never mind! _I_ think
with you. I shouldn’t like to wear a wig. I’d rather wear an apron.’

Mr. Malderton coughed violently. Mr. Barton resumed—‘For if a man’s
above his business—’

The cough returned with tenfold violence, and did not cease until the
unfortunate cause of it, in his alarm, had quite forgotten what he
intended to say.

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said Flamwell, returning to the charge, ‘do you happen
to know Mr. Delafontaine, of Bedford-square?’

‘I have exchanged cards with him; since which, indeed, I have had an
opportunity of serving him considerably,’ replied Horatio, slightly
colouring; no doubt, at having been betrayed into making the
acknowledgment.

‘You are very lucky, if you have had an opportunity of obliging that
great man,’ observed Flamwell, with an air of profound respect.

‘I don’t know who he is,’ he whispered to Mr. Malderton,
confidentially, as they followed Horatio up to the drawing-room. ‘It’s
quite clear, however, that he belongs to the law, and that he is
somebody of great importance, and very highly connected.’

‘No doubt, no doubt,’ returned his companion.

The remainder of the evening passed away most delightfully. Mr.
Malderton, relieved from his apprehensions by the circumstance of Mr.
Barton’s falling into a profound sleep, was as affable and gracious as
possible. Miss Teresa played the ‘Fall of Paris,’ as Mr. Sparkins
declared, in a most masterly manner, and both of them, assisted by Mr.
Frederick, tried over glees and trios without number; they having made
the pleasing discovery that their voices harmonised beautifully. To be
sure, they all sang the first part; and Horatio, in addition to the
slight drawback of having no ear, was perfectly innocent of knowing a
note of music; still, they passed the time very agreeably, and it was
past twelve o’clock before Mr. Sparkins ordered the
mourning-coach-looking steed to be brought out—an order which was only
complied with, on the distinct understanding that he was to repeat his
visit on the following Sunday.

‘But, perhaps, Mr. Sparkins will form one of our party to-morrow
evening?’ suggested Mrs. M. ‘Mr. Malderton intends taking the girls to
see the pantomime.’ Mr. Sparkins bowed, and promised to join the party
in box 48, in the course of the evening.

‘We will not tax you for the morning,’ said Miss Teresa, bewitchingly;
‘for ma is going to take us to all sorts of places, shopping. I know
that gentlemen have a great horror of that employment.’ Mr. Sparkins
bowed again, and declared that he should be delighted, but business of
importance occupied him in the morning. Flamwell looked at Malderton
significantly.—‘It’s term time!’ he whispered.

At twelve o’clock on the following morning, the ‘fly’ was at the door
of Oak Lodge, to convey Mrs. Malderton and her daughters on their
expedition for the day. They were to dine and dress for the play at a
friend’s house. First, driving thither with their band-boxes, they
departed on their first errand to make some purchases at Messrs. Jones,
Spruggins, and Smith’s, of Tottenham-court-road; after which, they were
to go to Redmayne’s in Bond-street; thence, to innumerable places that
no one ever heard of. The young ladies beguiled the tediousness of the
ride by eulogising Mr. Horatio Sparkins, scolding their mamma for
taking them so far to save a shilling, and wondering whether they
should ever reach their destination. At length, the vehicle stopped
before a dirty-looking ticketed linen-draper’s shop, with goods of all
kinds, and labels of all sorts and sizes, in the window. There were
dropsical figures of seven with a little three-farthings in the corner;
‘perfectly invisible to the naked eye;’ three hundred and fifty
thousand ladies’ boas, _from_ one shilling and a penny halfpenny; real
French kid shoes, at two and ninepence per pair; green parasols, at an
equally cheap rate; and ‘every description of goods,’ as the
proprietors said—and they must know best—‘fifty per cent. under cost
price.’

‘Lor! ma, what a place you have brought us to!’ said Miss Teresa; ‘what
_would_ Mr. Sparkins say if he could see us!’

‘Ah! what, indeed!’ said Miss Marianne, horrified at the idea.

‘Pray be seated, ladies. What is the first article?’ inquired the
obsequious master of the ceremonies of the establishment, who, in his
large white neckcloth and formal tie, looked like a bad ‘portrait of a
gentleman’ in the Somerset-house exhibition.

‘I want to see some silks,’ answered Mrs. Malderton.

‘Directly, ma’am.—Mr. Smith! Where _is_ Mr. Smith?’

‘Here, sir,’ cried a voice at the back of the shop.

‘Pray make haste, Mr. Smith,’ said the M.C. ‘You never are to be found
when you’re wanted, sir.’

Mr. Smith, thus enjoined to use all possible despatch, leaped over the
counter with great agility, and placed himself before the newly-arrived
customers. Mrs. Malderton uttered a faint scream; Miss Teresa, who had
been stooping down to talk to her sister, raised her head, and
beheld—Horatio Sparkins!

‘We will draw a veil,’ as novel-writers say, over the scene that
ensued. The mysterious, philosophical, romantic, metaphysical
Sparkins—he who, to the interesting Teresa, seemed like the embodied
idea of the young dukes and poetical exquisites in blue silk
dressing-gowns, and ditto ditto slippers, of whom she had read and
dreamed, but had never expected to behold, was suddenly converted into
Mr. Samuel Smith, the assistant at a ‘cheap shop;’ the junior partner
in a slippery firm of some three weeks’ existence. The dignified
evanishment of the hero of Oak Lodge, on this unexpected recognition,
could only be equalled by that of a furtive dog with a considerable
kettle at his tail. All the hopes of the Maldertons were destined at
once to melt away, like the lemon ices at a Company’s dinner; Almack’s
was still to them as distant as the North Pole; and Miss Teresa had as
much chance of a husband as Captain Ross had of the north-west passage.

Years have elapsed since the occurrence of this dreadful morning. The
daisies have thrice bloomed on Camberwell-green; the sparrows have
thrice repeated their vernal chirps in Camberwell-grove; but the Miss
Maldertons are still unmated. Miss Teresa’s case is more desperate than
ever; but Flamwell is yet in the zenith of his reputation; and the
family have the same predilection for aristocratic personages, with an
increased aversion to anything _low_.




CHAPTER VI—THE BLACK VEIL


One winter’s evening, towards the close of the year 1800, or within a
year or two of that time, a young medical practitioner, recently
established in business, was seated by a cheerful fire in his little
parlour, listening to the wind which was beating the rain in pattering
drops against the window, or rumbling dismally in the chimney. The
night was wet and cold; he had been walking through mud and water the
whole day, and was now comfortably reposing in his dressing-gown and
slippers, more than half asleep and less than half awake, revolving a
thousand matters in his wandering imagination. First, he thought how
hard the wind was blowing, and how the cold, sharp rain would be at
that moment beating in his face, if he were not comfortably housed at
home. Then, his mind reverted to his annual Christmas visit to his
native place and dearest friends; he thought how glad they would all be
to see him, and how happy it would make Rose if he could only tell her
that he had found a patient at last, and hoped to have more, and to
come down again, in a few months’ time, and marry her, and take her
home to gladden his lonely fireside, and stimulate him to fresh
exertions. Then, he began to wonder when his first patient would
appear, or whether he was destined, by a special dispensation of
Providence, never to have any patients at all; and then, he thought
about Rose again, and dropped to sleep and dreamed about her, till the
tones of her sweet merry voice sounded in his ears, and her soft tiny
hand rested on his shoulder.

There _was_ a hand upon his shoulder, but it was neither soft nor tiny;
its owner being a corpulent round-headed boy, who, in consideration of
the sum of one shilling per week and his food, was let out by the
parish to carry medicine and messages. As there was no demand for the
medicine, however, and no necessity for the messages, he usually
occupied his unemployed hours—averaging fourteen a day—in abstracting
peppermint drops, taking animal nourishment, and going to sleep.

‘A lady, sir—a lady!’ whispered the boy, rousing his master with a
shake.

‘What lady?’ cried our friend, starting up, not quite certain that his
dream was an illusion, and half expecting that it might be Rose
herself.—‘What lady? Where?’

‘_There_, sir!’ replied the boy, pointing to the glass door leading
into the surgery, with an expression of alarm which the very unusual
apparition of a customer might have tended to excite.

The surgeon looked towards the door, and started himself, for an
instant, on beholding the appearance of his unlooked-for visitor.

It was a singularly tall woman, dressed in deep mourning, and standing
so close to the door that her face almost touched the glass. The upper
part of her figure was carefully muffled in a black shawl, as if for
the purpose of concealment; and her face was shrouded by a thick black
veil. She stood perfectly erect, her figure was drawn up to its full
height, and though the surgeon felt that the eyes beneath the veil were
fixed on him, she stood perfectly motionless, and evinced, by no
gesture whatever, the slightest consciousness of his having turned
towards her.

‘Do you wish to consult me?’ he inquired, with some hesitation, holding
open the door. It opened inwards, and therefore the action did not
alter the position of the figure, which still remained motionless on
the same spot.

She slightly inclined her head, in token of acquiescence.

‘Pray walk in,’ said the surgeon.

The figure moved a step forward; and then, turning its head in the
direction of the boy—to his infinite horror—appeared to hesitate.

‘Leave the room, Tom,’ said the young man, addressing the boy, whose
large round eyes had been extended to their utmost width during this
brief interview. ‘Draw the curtain, and shut the door.’

The boy drew a green curtain across the glass part of the door, retired
into the surgery, closed the door after him, and immediately applied
one of his large eyes to the keyhole on the other side.

The surgeon drew a chair to the fire, and motioned the visitor to a
seat. The mysterious figure slowly moved towards it. As the blaze shone
upon the black dress, the surgeon observed that the bottom of it was
saturated with mud and rain.

‘You are very wet,’ be said.

‘I am,’ said the stranger, in a low deep voice.

‘And you are ill?’ added the surgeon, compassionately, for the tone was
that of a person in pain.

‘I am,’ was the reply—‘very ill; not bodily, but mentally. It is not
for myself, or on my own behalf,’ continued the stranger, ‘that I come
to you. If I laboured under bodily disease, I should not be out, alone,
at such an hour, or on such a night as this; and if I were afflicted
with it, twenty-four hours hence, God knows how gladly I would lie down
and pray to die. It is for another that I beseech your aid, sir. I may
be mad to ask it for him—I think I am; but, night after night, through
the long dreary hours of watching and weeping, the thought has been
ever present to my mind; and though even _I_ see the hopelessness of
human assistance availing him, the bare thought of laying him in his
grave without it makes my blood run cold!’ And a shudder, such as the
surgeon well knew art could not produce, trembled through the speaker’s
frame.

There was a desperate earnestness in this woman’s manner, that went to
the young man’s heart. He was young in his profession, and had not yet
witnessed enough of the miseries which are daily presented before the
eyes of its members, to have grown comparatively callous to human
suffering.

‘If,’ he said, rising hastily, ‘the person of whom you speak, be in so
hopeless a condition as you describe, not a moment is to be lost. I
will go with you instantly. Why did you not obtain medical advice
before?’

‘Because it would have been useless before—because it is useless even
now,’ replied the woman, clasping her hands passionately.

The surgeon gazed, for a moment, on the black veil, as if to ascertain
the expression of the features beneath it: its thickness, however,
rendered such a result impossible.

‘You _are_ ill,’ he said, gently, ‘although you do not know it. The
fever which has enabled you to bear, without feeling it, the fatigue
you have evidently undergone, is burning within you now. Put that to
your lips,’ he continued, pouring out a glass of water—‘compose
yourself for a few moments, and then tell me, as calmly as you can,
what the disease of the patient is, and how long he has been ill. When
I know what it is necessary I should know, to render my visit
serviceable to him, I am ready to accompany you.’

The stranger lifted the glass of water to her mouth, without raising
the veil; put it down again untasted; and burst into tears.

‘I know,’ she said, sobbing aloud, ‘that what I say to you now, seems
like the ravings of fever. I have been told so before, less kindly than
by you. I am not a young woman; and they do say, that as life steals on
towards its final close, the last short remnant, worthless as it may
seem to all beside, is dearer to its possessor than all the years that
have gone before, connected though they be with the recollection of old
friends long since dead, and young ones—children perhaps—who have
fallen off from, and forgotten one as completely as if they had died
too. My natural term of life cannot be many years longer, and should be
dear on that account; but I would lay it down without a sigh—with
cheerfulness—with joy—if what I tell you now, were only false, or
imaginary. To-morrow morning he of whom I speak will be, I _know_,
though I would fain think otherwise, beyond the reach of human aid; and
yet, to-night, though he is in deadly peril, you must not see, and
could not serve, him.’

‘I am unwilling to increase your distress,’ said the surgeon, after a
short pause, ‘by making any comment on what you have just said, or
appearing desirous to investigate a subject you are so anxious to
conceal; but there is an inconsistency in your statement which I cannot
reconcile with probability. This person is dying to-night, and I cannot
see him when my assistance might possibly avail; you apprehend it will
be useless to-morrow, and yet you would have me see him then! If he be,
indeed, as dear to you, as your words and manner would imply, why not
try to save his life before delay and the progress of his disease
render it impracticable?’

‘God help me!’ exclaimed the woman, weeping bitterly, ‘how can I hope
strangers will believe what appears incredible, even to myself? You
will _not_ see him then, sir?’ she added, rising suddenly.

‘I did not say that I declined to see him,’ replied the surgeon; ‘but I
warn you, that if you persist in this extraordinary procrastination,
and the individual dies, a fearful responsibility rests with you.’

‘The responsibility will rest heavily somewhere,’ replied the stranger
bitterly. ‘Whatever responsibility rests with me, I am content to bear,
and ready to answer.’

‘As I incur none,’ continued the surgeon, ‘by acceding to your request,
I will see him in the morning, if you leave me the address. At what
hour can he be seen?’

‘_Nine_,’ replied the stranger.

‘You must excuse my pressing these inquiries,’ said the surgeon. ‘But
is he in your charge now?’

‘He is not,’ was the rejoinder.

‘Then, if I gave you instructions for his treatment through the night,
you could not assist him?’

The woman wept bitterly, as she replied, ‘I could not.’

Finding that there was but little prospect of obtaining more
information by prolonging the interview; and anxious to spare the
woman’s feelings, which, subdued at first by a violent effort, were now
irrepressible and most painful to witness; the surgeon repeated his
promise of calling in the morning at the appointed hour. His visitor,
after giving him a direction to an obscure part of Walworth, left the
house in the same mysterious manner in which she had entered it.

It will be readily believed that so extraordinary a visit produced a
considerable impression on the mind of the young surgeon; and that he
speculated a great deal and to very little purpose on the possible
circumstances of the case. In common with the generality of people, he
had often heard and read of singular instances, in which a presentiment
of death, at a particular day, or even minute, had been entertained and
realised. At one moment he was inclined to think that the present might
be such a case; but, then, it occurred to him that all the anecdotes of
the kind he had ever heard, were of persons who had been troubled with
a foreboding of their own death. This woman, however, spoke of another
person—a man; and it was impossible to suppose that a mere dream or
delusion of fancy would induce her to speak of his approaching
dissolution with such terrible certainty as she had spoken. It could
not be that the man was to be murdered in the morning, and that the
woman, originally a consenting party, and bound to secrecy by an oath,
had relented, and, though unable to prevent the commission of some
outrage on the victim, had determined to prevent his death if possible,
by the timely interposition of medical aid? The idea of such things
happening within two miles of the metropolis appeared too wild and
preposterous to be entertained beyond the instant. Then, his original
impression that the woman’s intellects were disordered, recurred; and,
as it was the only mode of solving the difficulty with any degree of
satisfaction, he obstinately made up his mind to believe that she was
mad. Certain misgivings upon this point, however, stole upon his
thoughts at the time, and presented themselves again and again through
the long dull course of a sleepless night; during which, in spite of
all his efforts to the contrary, he was unable to banish the black veil
from his disturbed imagination.

The back part of Walworth, at its greatest distance from town, is a
straggling miserable place enough, even in these days; but,
five-and-thirty years ago, the greater portion of it was little better
than a dreary waste, inhabited by a few scattered people of
questionable character, whose poverty prevented their living in any
better neighbourhood, or whose pursuits and mode of life rendered its
solitude desirable. Very many of the houses which have since sprung up
on all sides, were not built until some years afterwards; and the great
majority even of those which were sprinkled about, at irregular
intervals, were of the rudest and most miserable description.

The appearance of the place through which he walked in the morning, was
not calculated to raise the spirits of the young surgeon, or to dispel
any feeling of anxiety or depression which the singular kind of visit
he was about to make, had awakened. Striking off from the high road,
his way lay across a marshy common, through irregular lanes, with here
and there a ruinous and dismantled cottage fast falling to pieces with
decay and neglect. A stunted tree, or pool of stagnant water, roused
into a sluggish action by the heavy rain of the preceding night,
skirted the path occasionally; and, now and then, a miserable patch of
garden-ground, with a few old boards knocked together for a
summer-house, and old palings imperfectly mended with stakes pilfered
from the neighbouring hedges, bore testimony, at once to the poverty of
the inhabitants, and the little scruple they entertained in
appropriating the property of other people to their own use.
Occasionally, a filthy-looking woman would make her appearance from the
door of a dirty house, to empty the contents of some cooking utensil
into the gutter in front, or to scream after a little slip-shod girl,
who had contrived to stagger a few yards from the door under the weight
of a sallow infant almost as big as herself; but, scarcely anything was
stirring around: and so much of the prospect as could be faintly traced
through the cold damp mist which hung heavily over it, presented a
lonely and dreary appearance perfectly in keeping with the objects we
have described.

After plodding wearily through the mud and mire; making many inquiries
for the place to which he had been directed; and receiving as many
contradictory and unsatisfactory replies in return; the young man at
length arrived before the house which had been pointed out to him as
the object of his destination. It was a small low building, one story
above the ground, with even a more desolate and unpromising exterior
than any he had yet passed. An old yellow curtain was closely drawn
across the window up-stairs, and the parlour shutters were closed, but
not fastened. The house was detached from any other, and, as it stood
at an angle of a narrow lane, there was no other habitation in sight.

When we say that the surgeon hesitated, and walked a few paces beyond
the house, before he could prevail upon himself to lift the knocker, we
say nothing that need raise a smile upon the face of the boldest
reader. The police of London were a very different body in that day;
the isolated position of the suburbs, when the rage for building and
the progress of improvement had not yet begun to connect them with the
main body of the city and its environs, rendered many of them (and this
in particular) a place of resort for the worst and most depraved
characters. Even the streets in the gayest parts of London were
imperfectly lighted, at that time; and such places as these, were left
entirely to the mercy of the moon and stars. The chances of detecting
desperate characters, or of tracing them to their haunts, were thus
rendered very few, and their offences naturally increased in boldness,
as the consciousness of comparative security became the more impressed
upon them by daily experience. Added to these considerations, it must
be remembered that the young man had spent some time in the public
hospitals of the metropolis; and, although neither Burke nor Bishop had
then gained a horrible notoriety, his own observation might have
suggested to him how easily the atrocities to which the former has
since given his name, might be committed. Be this as it may, whatever
reflection made him hesitate, he _did_ hesitate: but, being a young man
of strong mind and great personal courage, it was only for an
instant;—he stepped briskly back and knocked gently at the door.

A low whispering was audible, immediately afterwards, as if some person
at the end of the passage were conversing stealthily with another on
the landing above. It was succeeded by the noise of a pair of heavy
boots upon the bare floor. The door-chain was softly unfastened; the
door opened; and a tall, ill-favoured man, with black hair, and a face,
as the surgeon often declared afterwards, as pale and haggard, as the
countenance of any dead man he ever saw, presented himself.

‘Walk in, sir,’ he said in a low tone.

The surgeon did so, and the man having secured the door again, by the
chain, led the way to a small back parlour at the extremity of the
passage.

‘Am I in time?’

‘Too soon!’ replied the man. The surgeon turned hastily round, with a
gesture of astonishment not unmixed with alarm, which he found it
impossible to repress.

‘If you’ll step in here, sir,’ said the man, who had evidently noticed
the action—‘if you’ll step in here, sir, you won’t be detained five
minutes, I assure you.’

The surgeon at once walked into the room. The man closed the door, and
left him alone.

It was a little cold room, with no other furniture than two deal
chairs, and a table of the same material. A handful of fire, unguarded
by any fender, was burning in the grate, which brought out the damp if
it served no more comfortable purpose, for the unwholesome moisture was
stealing down the walls, in long slug-like tracks. The window, which
was broken and patched in many places, looked into a small enclosed
piece of ground, almost covered with water. Not a sound was to be
heard, either within the house, or without. The young surgeon sat down
by the fireplace, to await the result of his first professional visit.

He had not remained in this position many minutes, when the noise of
some approaching vehicle struck his ear. It stopped; the street-door
was opened; a low talking succeeded, accompanied with a shuffling noise
of footsteps, along the passage and on the stairs, as if two or three
men were engaged in carrying some heavy body to the room above. The
creaking of the stairs, a few seconds afterwards, announced that the
new-comers having completed their task, whatever it was, were leaving
the house. The door was again closed, and the former silence was
restored.

Another five minutes had elapsed, and the surgeon had resolved to
explore the house, in search of some one to whom he might make his
errand known, when the room-door opened, and his last night’s visitor,
dressed in exactly the same manner, with the veil lowered as before,
motioned him to advance. The singular height of her form, coupled with
the circumstance of her not speaking, caused the idea to pass across
his brain for an instant, that it might be a man disguised in woman’s
attire. The hysteric sobs which issued from beneath the veil, and the
convulsive attitude of grief of the whole figure, however, at once
exposed the absurdity of the suspicion; and he hastily followed.

The woman led the way up-stairs to the front room, and paused at the
door, to let him enter first. It was scantily furnished with an old
deal box, a few chairs, and a tent bedstead, without hangings or
cross-rails, which was covered with a patchwork counterpane. The dim
light admitted through the curtain which he had noticed from the
outside, rendered the objects in the room so indistinct, and
communicated to all of them so uniform a hue, that he did not, at
first, perceive the object on which his eye at once rested when the
woman rushed frantically past him, and flung herself on her knees by
the bedside.

Stretched upon the bed, closely enveloped in a linen wrapper, and
covered with blankets, lay a human form, stiff and motionless. The head
and face, which were those of a man, were uncovered, save by a bandage
which passed over the head and under the chin. The eyes were closed.
The left arm lay heavily across the bed, and the woman held the passive
hand.

The surgeon gently pushed the woman aside, and took the hand in his.

‘My God!’ he exclaimed, letting it fall involuntarily—‘the man is
dead!’

The woman started to her feet and beat her hands together.

‘Oh! don’t say so, sir,’ she exclaimed, with a burst of passion,
amounting almost to frenzy. ‘Oh! don’t say so, sir! I can’t bear it!
Men have been brought to life, before, when unskilful people have given
them up for lost; and men have died, who might have been restored, if
proper means had been resorted to. Don’t let him lie here, sir, without
one effort to save him! This very moment life may be passing away. Do
try, sir,—do, for Heaven’s sake!’—And while speaking, she hurriedly
chafed, first the forehead, and then the breast, of the senseless form
before her; and then, wildly beat the cold hands, which, when she
ceased to hold them, fell listlessly and heavily back on the coverlet.

‘It is of no use, my good woman,’ said the surgeon, soothingly, as he
withdrew his hand from the man’s breast. ‘Stay—undraw that curtain!’

‘Why?’ said the woman, starting up.

‘Undraw that curtain!’ repeated the surgeon in an agitated tone.

‘I darkened the room on purpose,’ said the woman, throwing herself
before him as he rose to undraw it.—‘Oh! sir, have pity on me! If it
can be of no use, and he is really dead, do not expose that form to
other eyes than mine!’

‘This man died no natural or easy death,’ said the surgeon. ‘I _must_
see the body!’ With a motion so sudden, that the woman hardly knew that
he had slipped from beside her, he tore open the curtain, admitted the
full light of day, and returned to the bedside.

‘There has been violence here,’ he said, pointing towards the body, and
gazing intently on the face, from which the black veil was now, for the
first time, removed. In the excitement of a minute before, the female
had thrown off the bonnet and veil, and now stood with her eyes fixed
upon him. Her features were those of a woman about fifty, who had once
been handsome. Sorrow and weeping had left traces upon them which not
time itself would ever have produced without their aid; her face was
deadly pale; and there was a nervous contortion of the lip, and an
unnatural fire in her eye, which showed too plainly that her bodily and
mental powers had nearly sunk, beneath an accumulation of misery.

‘There has been violence here,’ said the surgeon, preserving his
searching glance.

‘There has!’ replied the woman.

‘This man has been murdered.’

‘That I call God to witness he has,’ said the woman, passionately;
‘pitilessly, inhumanly murdered!’

‘By whom?’ said the surgeon, seizing the woman by the arm.

‘Look at the butchers’ marks, and then ask me!’ she replied.

The surgeon turned his face towards the bed, and bent over the body
which now lay full in the light of the window. The throat was swollen,
and a livid mark encircled it. The truth flashed suddenly upon him.

‘This is one of the men who were hanged this morning!’ he exclaimed,
turning away with a shudder.

‘It is,’ replied the woman, with a cold, unmeaning stare.

‘Who was he?’ inquired the surgeon.

‘_My son_,’ rejoined the woman; and fell senseless at his feet.

It was true. A companion, equally guilty with himself, had been
acquitted for want of evidence; and this man had been left for death,
and executed. To recount the circumstances of the case, at this distant
period, must be unnecessary, and might give pain to some persons still
alive. The history was an every-day one. The mother was a widow without
friends or money, and had denied herself necessaries to bestow them on
her orphan boy. That boy, unmindful of her prayers, and forgetful of
the sufferings she had endured for him—incessant anxiety of mind, and
voluntary starvation of body—had plunged into a career of dissipation
and crime. And this was the result; his own death by the hangman’s
hands, and his mother’s shame, and incurable insanity.

For many years after this occurrence, and when profitable and arduous
avocations would have led many men to forget that such a miserable
being existed, the young surgeon was a daily visitor at the side of the
harmless mad woman; not only soothing her by his presence and kindness,
but alleviating the rigour of her condition by pecuniary donations for
her comfort and support, bestowed with no sparing hand. In the
transient gleam of recollection and consciousness which preceded her
death, a prayer for his welfare and protection, as fervent as mortal
ever breathed, rose from the lips of this poor friendless creature.
That prayer flew to Heaven, and was heard. The blessings he was
instrumental in conferring, have been repaid to him a thousand-fold;
but, amid all the honours of rank and station which have since been
heaped upon him, and which he has so well earned, he can have no
reminiscence more gratifying to his heart than that connected with The
Black Veil.




CHAPTER VII—THE STEAM EXCURSION


Mr. Percy Noakes was a law student, inhabiting a set of chambers on the
fourth floor, in one of those houses in Gray’s-inn-square which command
an extensive view of the gardens, and their usual adjuncts—flaunting
nursery-maids, and town-made children, with parenthetical legs. Mr.
Percy Noakes was what is generally termed—‘a devilish good fellow.’ He
had a large circle of acquaintance, and seldom dined at his own
expense. He used to talk politics to papas, flatter the vanity of
mammas, do the amiable to their daughters, make pleasure engagements
with their sons, and romp with the younger branches. Like those
paragons of perfection, advertising footmen out of place, he was always
‘willing to make himself generally useful.’ If any old lady, whose son
was in India, gave a ball, Mr. Percy Noakes was master of the
ceremonies; if any young lady made a stolen match, Mr. Percy Noakes
gave her away; if a juvenile wife presented her husband with a blooming
cherub, Mr. Percy Noakes was either godfather, or deputy-godfather; and
if any member of a friend’s family died, Mr. Percy Noakes was
invariably to be seen in the second mourning coach, with a white
handkerchief to his eyes, sobbing—to use his own appropriate and
expressive description—‘like winkin’!’

It may readily be imagined that these numerous avocations were rather
calculated to interfere with Mr. Percy Noakes’s professional studies.
Mr. Percy Noakes was perfectly aware of the fact, and had, therefore,
after mature reflection, made up his mind not to study at all—a
laudable determination, to which he adhered in the most praiseworthy
manner. His sitting-room presented a strange chaos of dress-gloves,
boxing-gloves, caricatures, albums, invitation-cards, foils,
cricket-bats, cardboard drawings, paste, gum, and fifty other
miscellaneous articles, heaped together in the strangest confusion. He
was always making something for somebody, or planning some party of
pleasure, which was his great _forte_. He invariably spoke with
astonishing rapidity; was smart, spoffish, and eight-and-twenty.

‘Splendid idea, ’pon my life!’ soliloquised Mr. Percy Noakes, over his
morning coffee, as his mind reverted to a suggestion which had been
thrown out on the previous night, by a lady at whose house he had spent
the evening. ‘Glorious idea!—Mrs. Stubbs.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied a dirty old woman with an inflamed countenance,
emerging from the bedroom, with a barrel of dirt and cinders.—This was
the laundress. ‘Did you call, sir?’

‘Oh! Mrs. Stubbs, I’m going out. If that tailor should call again,
you’d better say—you’d better say I’m out of town, and shan’t be back
for a fortnight; and if that bootmaker should come, tell him I’ve lost
his address, or I’d have sent him that little amount. Mind he writes it
down; and if Mr. Hardy should call—you know Mr. Hardy?’

‘The funny gentleman, sir?’

‘Ah! the funny gentleman. If Mr. Hardy should call, say I’ve gone to
Mrs. Taunton’s about that water-party.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if any fellow calls, and says he’s come about a steamer, tell him
to be here at five o’clock this afternoon, Mrs. Stubbs.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Mr. Percy Noakes brushed his hat, whisked the crumbs off his
inexpressibles with a silk handkerchief, gave the ends of his hair a
persuasive roll round his forefinger, and sallied forth for Mrs.
Taunton’s domicile in Great Marlborough-street, where she and her
daughters occupied the upper part of a house. She was a good-looking
widow of fifty, with the form of a giantess and the mind of a child.
The pursuit of pleasure, and some means of killing time, were the sole
end of her existence. She doted on her daughters, who were as frivolous
as herself.

A general exclamation of satisfaction hailed the arrival of Mr. Percy
Noakes, who went through the ordinary salutations, and threw himself
into an easy chair near the ladies’ work-table, with the ease of a
regularly established friend of the family. Mrs. Taunton was busily
engaged in planting immense bright bows on every part of a smart cap on
which it was possible to stick one; Miss Emily Taunton was making a
watch-guard; Miss Sophia was at the piano, practising a new song—poetry
by the young officer, or the police-officer, or the custom-house
officer, or some other interesting amateur.

‘You good creature!’ said Mrs. Taunton, addressing the gallant Percy.
‘You really are a good soul! You’ve come about the water-party, I
know.’

‘I should rather suspect I had,’ replied Mr. Noakes, triumphantly.
‘Now, come here, girls, and I’ll tell you all about it.’ Miss Emily and
Miss Sophia advanced to the table.

‘Now,’ continued Mr. Percy Noakes, ‘it seems to me that the best way
will be, to have a committee of ten, to make all the arrangements, and
manage the whole set-out. Then, I propose that the expenses shall be
paid by these ten fellows jointly.’

‘Excellent, indeed!’ said Mrs. Taunton, who highly approved of this
part of the arrangements.

‘Then, my plan is, that each of these ten fellows shall have the power
of asking five people. There must be a meeting of the committee, at my
chambers, to make all the arrangements, and these people shall be then
named; every member of the committee shall have the power of
black-balling any one who is proposed; and one black ball shall exclude
that person. This will ensure our having a pleasant party, you know.’

‘What a manager you are!’ interrupted Mrs. Taunton again.

‘Charming!’ said the lovely Emily.

‘I never did!’ ejaculated Sophia.

‘Yes, I think it’ll do,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who was now quite in
his element. ‘I think it’ll do. Then you know we shall go down to the
Nore, and back, and have a regular capital cold dinner laid out in the
cabin before we start, so that everything may be ready without any
confusion; and we shall have the lunch laid out, on deck, in those
little tea-garden-looking concerns by the paddle-boxes—I don’t know
what you call ’em. Then, we shall hire a steamer expressly for our
party, and a band, and have the deck chalked, and we shall be able to
dance quadrilles all day; and then, whoever we know that’s musical, you
know, why they’ll make themselves useful and agreeable; and—and—upon
the whole, I really hope we shall have a glorious day, you know!’

The announcement of these arrangements was received with the utmost
enthusiasm. Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and Sophia, were loud in their
praises.

‘Well, but tell me, Percy,’ said Mrs. Taunton, ‘who are the ten
gentlemen to be?’

‘Oh! I know plenty of fellows who’ll be delighted with the scheme,’
replied Mr. Percy Noakes; ‘of course we shall have—’

‘Mr. Hardy!’ interrupted the servant, announcing a visitor. Miss Sophia
and Miss Emily hastily assumed the most interesting attitudes that
could be adopted on so short a notice.

‘How are you?’ said a stout gentleman of about forty, pausing at the
door in the attitude of an awkward harlequin. This was Mr. Hardy, whom
we have before described, on the authority of Mrs. Stubbs, as ‘the
funny gentleman.’ He was an Astley-Cooperish Joe Miller—a practical
joker, immensely popular with married ladies, and a general favourite
with young men. He was always engaged in some pleasure excursion or
other, and delighted in getting somebody into a scrape on such
occasions. He could sing comic songs, imitate hackney-coachmen and
fowls, play airs on his chin, and execute concertos on the Jews’-harp.
He always eat and drank most immoderately, and was the bosom friend of
Mr. Percy Noakes. He had a red face, a somewhat husky voice, and a
tremendous laugh.

‘How _are_ you?’ said this worthy, laughing, as if it were the finest
joke in the world to make a morning call, and shaking hands with the
ladies with as much vehemence as if their arms had been so many
pump-handles.

‘You’re just the very man I wanted,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, who
proceeded to explain the cause of his being in requisition.

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ shouted Hardy, after hearing the statement, and receiving
a detailed account of the proposed excursion. ‘Oh, capital! glorious!
What a day it will be! what fun!—But, I say, when are you going to
begin making the arrangements?’

‘No time like the present—at once, if you please.’

‘Oh, charming!’ cried the ladies. ‘Pray, do!’

Writing materials were laid before Mr. Percy Noakes, and the names of
the different members of the committee were agreed on, after as much
discussion between him and Mr. Hardy as if the fate of nations had
depended on their appointment. It was then agreed that a meeting should
take place at Mr. Percy Noakes’s chambers on the ensuing Wednesday
evening at eight o’clock, and the visitors departed.

Wednesday evening arrived; eight o’clock came, and eight members of the
committee were punctual in their attendance. Mr. Loggins, the
solicitor, of Boswell-court, sent an excuse, and Mr. Samuel Briggs, the
ditto of Furnival’s Inn, sent his brother: much to his (the brother’s)
satisfaction, and greatly to the discomfiture of Mr. Percy Noakes.
Between the Briggses and the Tauntons there existed a degree of
implacable hatred, quite unprecedented. The animosity between the
Montagues and Capulets, was nothing to that which prevailed between
these two illustrious houses. Mrs. Briggs was a widow, with three
daughters and two sons; Mr. Samuel, the eldest, was an attorney, and
Mr. Alexander, the youngest, was under articles to his brother. They
resided in Portland-street, Oxford-street, and moved in the same orbit
as the Tauntons—hence their mutual dislike. If the Miss Briggses
appeared in smart bonnets, the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with
smarter. If Mrs. Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the
rainbow, Mrs. Briggs forthwith mounted a toque, with all the patterns
of the kaleidoscope. If Miss Sophia Taunton learnt a new song, two of
the Miss Briggses came out with a new duet. The Tauntons had once
gained a temporary triumph with the assistance of a harp, but the
Briggses brought three guitars into the field, and effectually routed
the enemy. There was no end to the rivalry between them.

Now, as Mr. Samuel Briggs was a mere machine, a sort of self-acting
legal walking-stick; and as the party was known to have originated,
however remotely, with Mrs. Taunton, the female branches of the Briggs
family had arranged that Mr. Alexander should attend, instead of his
brother; and as the said Mr. Alexander was deservedly celebrated for
possessing all the pertinacity of a bankruptcy-court attorney, combined
with the obstinacy of that useful animal which browses on the thistle,
he required but little tuition. He was especially enjoined to make
himself as disagreeable as possible; and, above all, to black-ball the
Tauntons at every hazard.

The proceedings of the evening were opened by Mr. Percy Noakes. After
successfully urging on the gentlemen present the propriety of their
mixing some brandy-and-water, he briefly stated the object of the
meeting, and concluded by observing that the first step must be the
selection of a chairman, necessarily possessing some arbitrary—he
trusted not unconstitutional—powers, to whom the personal direction of
the whole of the arrangements (subject to the approval of the
committee) should be confided. A pale young gentleman, in a green stock
and spectacles of the same, a member of the honourable society of the
Inner Temple, immediately rose for the purpose of proposing Mr. Percy
Noakes. He had known him long, and this he would say, that a more
honourable, a more excellent, or a better-hearted fellow, never
existed.—(Hear, hear!) The young gentleman, who was a member of a
debating society, took this opportunity of entering into an examination
of the state of the English law, from the days of William the Conqueror
down to the present period; he briefly adverted to the code established
by the ancient Druids; slightly glanced at the principles laid down by
the Athenian law-givers; and concluded with a most glowing eulogium on
pic-nics and constitutional rights.

Mr. Alexander Briggs opposed the motion. He had the highest esteem for
Mr. Percy Noakes as an individual, but he did consider that he ought
not to be intrusted with these immense powers—(oh, oh!)—He believed
that in the proposed capacity Mr. Percy Noakes would not act fairly,
impartially, or honourably; but he begged it to be distinctly
understood, that he said this, without the slightest personal
disrespect. Mr. Hardy defended his honourable friend, in a voice
rendered partially unintelligible by emotion and brandy-and-water. The
proposition was put to the vote, and there appearing to be only one
dissentient voice, Mr. Percy Noakes was declared duly elected, and took
the chair accordingly.

The business of the meeting now proceeded with rapidity. The chairman
delivered in his estimate of the probable expense of the excursion, and
every one present subscribed his portion thereof. The question was put
that ‘The Endeavour’ be hired for the occasion; Mr. Alexander Briggs
moved as an amendment, that the word ‘Fly’ be substituted for the word
‘Endeavour’; but after some debate consented to withdraw his
opposition. The important ceremony of balloting then commenced. A
tea-caddy was placed on a table in a dark corner of the apartment, and
every one was provided with two backgammon men, one black and one
white.

The chairman with great solemnity then read the following list of the
guests whom he proposed to introduce:—Mrs. Taunton and two daughters,
Mr. Wizzle, Mr. Simson. The names were respectively balloted for, and
Mrs. Taunton and her daughters were declared to be black-balled. Mr.
Percy Noakes and Mr. Hardy exchanged glances.

‘Is your list prepared, Mr. Briggs?’ inquired the chairman.

‘It is,’ replied Alexander, delivering in the following:—‘Mrs. Briggs
and three daughters, Mr. Samuel Briggs.’ The previous ceremony was
repeated, and Mrs. Briggs and three daughters were declared to be
black-balled. Mr. Alexander Briggs looked rather foolish, and the
remainder of the company appeared somewhat overawed by the mysterious
nature of the proceedings.

The balloting proceeded; but, one little circumstance which Mr. Percy
Noakes had not originally foreseen, prevented the system from working
quite as well as he had anticipated. Everybody was black-balled. Mr.
Alexander Briggs, by way of retaliation, exercised his power of
exclusion in every instance, and the result was, that after three hours
had been consumed in hard balloting, the names of only three gentlemen
were found to have been agreed to. In this dilemma what was to be done?
either the whole plan must fall to the ground, or a compromise must be
effected. The latter alternative was preferable; and Mr. Percy Noakes
therefore proposed that the form of balloting should be dispensed with,
and that every gentleman should merely be required to state whom he
intended to bring. The proposal was acceded to; the Tauntons and the
Briggses were reinstated; and the party was formed.

The next Wednesday was fixed for the eventful day, and it was
unanimously resolved that every member of the committee should wear a
piece of blue sarsenet ribbon round his left arm. It appeared from the
statement of Mr. Percy Noakes, that the boat belonged to the General
Steam Navigation Company, and was then lying off the Custom-house; and,
as he proposed that the dinner and wines should be provided by an
eminent city purveyor, it was arranged that Mr. Percy Noakes should be
on board by seven o’clock to superintend the arrangements, and that the
remaining members of the committee, together with the company
generally, should be expected to join her by nine o’clock. More
brandy-and-water was despatched; several speeches were made by the
different law students present; thanks were voted to the chairman; and
the meeting separated.

The weather had been beautiful up to this period, and beautiful it
continued to be. Sunday passed over, and Mr. Percy Noakes became
unusually fidgety—rushing, constantly, to and from the Steam Packet
Wharf, to the astonishment of the clerks, and the great emolument of
the Holborn cabmen. Tuesday arrived, and the anxiety of Mr. Percy
Noakes knew no bounds. He was every instant running to the window, to
look out for clouds; and Mr. Hardy astonished the whole square by
practising a new comic song for the occasion, in the chairman’s
chambers.

Uneasy were the slumbers of Mr. Percy Noakes that night; he tossed and
tumbled about, and had confused dreams of steamers starting off, and
gigantic clocks with the hands pointing to a quarter-past nine, and the
ugly face of Mr. Alexander Briggs looking over the boat’s side, and
grinning, as if in derision of his fruitless attempts to move. He made
a violent effort to get on board, and awoke. The bright sun was shining
cheerfully into the bedroom, and Mr. Percy Noakes started up for his
watch, in the dreadful expectation of finding his worst dreams
realised.

It was just five o’clock. He calculated the time—he should be a good
half-hour dressing himself; and as it was a lovely morning, and the
tide would be then running down, he would walk leisurely to
Strand-lane, and have a boat to the Custom-house.

He dressed himself, took a hasty apology for a breakfast, and sallied
forth. The streets looked as lonely and deserted as if they had been
crowded, overnight, for the last time. Here and there, an early
apprentice, with quenched-looking sleepy eyes, was taking down the
shutters of a shop; and a policeman or milkwoman might occasionally be
seen pacing slowly along; but the servants had not yet begun to clean
the doors, or light the kitchen fires, and London looked the picture of
desolation. At the corner of a by-street, near Temple-bar, was
stationed a ‘street-breakfast.’ The coffee was boiling over a charcoal
fire, and large slices of bread and butter were piled one upon the
other, like deals in a timber-yard. The company were seated on a form,
which, with a view both to security and comfort, was placed against a
neighbouring wall. Two young men, whose uproarious mirth and disordered
dress bespoke the conviviality of the preceding evening, were treating
three ‘ladies’ and an Irish labourer. A little sweep was standing at a
short distance, casting a longing eye at the tempting delicacies; and a
policeman was watching the group from the opposite side of the street.
The wan looks and gaudy finery of the thinly-clad women contrasted as
strangely with the gay sunlight, as did their forced merriment with the
boisterous hilarity of the two young men, who, now and then, varied
their amusements by ‘bonneting’ the proprietor of this itinerant
coffee-house.

Mr. Percy Noakes walked briskly by, and when he turned down
Strand-lane, and caught a glimpse of the glistening water, he thought
he had never felt so important or so happy in his life.

‘Boat, sir?’ cried one of the three watermen who were mopping out their
boats, and all whistling. ‘Boat, sir?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply; for the inquiry was not
made in a manner at all suitable to his dignity.

‘Would you prefer a wessel, sir?’ inquired another, to the infinite
delight of the ‘Jack-in-the-water.’

Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of supreme contempt.

‘Did you want to be put on board a steamer, sir?’ inquired an old
fireman-waterman, very confidentially. He was dressed in a faded red
suit, just the colour of the cover of a very old Court-guide.

‘Yes, make haste—the Endeavour—off the Custom-house.’

‘Endeavour!’ cried the man who had convulsed the ‘Jack’ before. ‘Vy, I
see the Endeavour go up half an hour ago.’

‘So did I,’ said another; ‘and I should think she’d gone down by this
time, for she’s a precious sight too full of ladies and gen’lemen.’

Mr. Percy Noakes affected to disregard these representations, and
stepped into the boat, which the old man, by dint of scrambling, and
shoving, and grating, had brought up to the causeway. ‘Shove her off!’
cried Mr. Percy Noakes, and away the boat glided down the river; Mr.
Percy Noakes seated on the recently mopped seat, and the watermen at
the stairs offering to bet him any reasonable sum that he’d never reach
the ‘Custum-us.’

‘Here she is, by Jove!’ said the delighted Percy, as they ran alongside
the Endeavour.

‘Hold hard!’ cried the steward over the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes
jumped on board.

‘Hope you will find everything as you wished, sir. She looks uncommon
well this morning.’

‘She does, indeed,’ replied the manager, in a state of ecstasy which it
is impossible to describe. The deck was scrubbed, and the seats were
scrubbed, and there was a bench for the band, and a place for dancing,
and a pile of camp-stools, and an awning; and then Mr. Percy Noakes
bustled down below, and there were the pastrycook’s men, and the
steward’s wife, laying out the dinner on two tables the whole length of
the cabin; and then Mr. Percy Noakes took off his coat and rushed
backwards and forwards, doing nothing, but quite convinced he was
assisting everybody; and the steward’s wife laughed till she cried, and
Mr. Percy Noakes panted with the violence of his exertions. And then
the bell at London-bridge wharf rang; and a Margate boat was just
starting; and a Gravesend boat was just starting, and people shouted,
and porters ran down the steps with luggage that would crush any men
but porters; and sloping boards, with bits of wood nailed on them, were
placed between the outside boat and the inside boat; and the passengers
ran along them, and looked like so many fowls coming out of an area;
and then, the bell ceased, and the boards were taken away, and the
boats started, and the whole scene was one of the most delightful
bustle and confusion.

The time wore on; half-past eight o’clock arrived; the pastry-cook’s
men went ashore; the dinner was completely laid out; and Mr. Percy
Noakes locked the principal cabin, and put the key in his pocket, in
order that it might be suddenly disclosed, in all its magnificence, to
the eyes of the astonished company. The band came on board, and so did
the wine.

Ten minutes to nine, and the committee embarked in a body. There was
Mr. Hardy, in a blue jacket and waistcoat, white trousers, silk
stockings, and pumps—in full aquatic costume, with a straw hat on his
head, and an immense telescope under his arm; and there was the young
gentleman with the green spectacles, in nankeen inexplicables, with a
ditto waistcoat and bright buttons, like the pictures of Paul—not the
saint, but he of Virginia notoriety. The remainder of the committee,
dressed in white hats, light jackets, waistcoats, and trousers, looked
something between waiters and West India planters.

Nine o’clock struck, and the company arrived in shoals. Mr. Samuel
Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the Misses Briggs, made their appearance in a
smart private wherry. The three guitars, in their respective dark green
cases, were carefully stowed away in the bottom of the boat,
accompanied by two immense portfolios of music, which it would take at
least a week’s incessant playing to get through. The Tauntons arrived
at the same moment with more music, and a lion—a gentleman with a bass
voice and an incipient red moustache. The colours of the Taunton party
were pink; those of the Briggses a light blue. The Tauntons had
artificial flowers in their bonnets; here the Briggses gained a decided
advantage—they wore feathers.

‘How d’ye do, dear?’ said the Misses Briggs to the Misses Taunton. (The
word ‘dear’ among girls is frequently synonymous with ‘wretch.’)

‘Quite well, thank you, dear,’ replied the Misses Taunton to the Misses
Briggs; and then, there was such a kissing, and congratulating, and
shaking of hands, as might have induced one to suppose that the two
families were the best friends in the world, instead of each wishing
the other overboard, as they most sincerely did.

Mr. Percy Noakes received the visitors, and bowed to the strange
gentleman, as if he should like to know who he was. This was just what
Mrs. Taunton wanted. Here was an opportunity to astonish the Briggses.

‘Oh! I beg your pardon,’ said the general of the Taunton party, with a
careless air.—‘Captain Helves—Mr. Percy Noakes—Mrs. Briggs—Captain
Helves.’

Mr. Percy Noakes bowed very low; the gallant captain did the same with
all due ferocity, and the Briggses were clearly overcome.

‘Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, being unfortunately prevented from coming,’
resumed Mrs. Taunton, ‘I did myself the pleasure of bringing the
captain, whose musical talents I knew would be a great acquisition.’

‘In the name of the committee I have to thank you for doing so, and to
offer you welcome, sir,’ replied Percy. (Here the scraping was
renewed.) ‘But pray be seated—won’t you walk aft? Captain, will you
conduct Miss Taunton?—Miss Briggs, will you allow me?’

‘Where could they have picked up that military man?’ inquired Mrs.
Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs, as they followed the little party.

‘I can’t imagine,’ replied Miss Kate, bursting with vexation; for the
very fierce air with which the gallant captain regarded the company,
had impressed her with a high sense of his importance.

Boat after boat came alongside, and guest after guest arrived. The
invites had been excellently arranged: Mr. Percy Noakes having
considered it as important that the number of young men should exactly
tally with that of the young ladies, as that the quantity of knives on
board should be in precise proportion to the forks.

‘Now, is every one on board?’ inquired Mr. Percy Noakes. The committee
(who, with their bits of blue ribbon, looked as if they were all going
to be bled) bustled about to ascertain the fact, and reported that they
might safely start.

‘Go on!’ cried the master of the boat from the top of one of the
paddle-boxes.

‘Go on!’ echoed the boy, who was stationed over the hatchway to pass
the directions down to the engineer; and away went the vessel with that
agreeable noise which is peculiar to steamers, and which is composed of
a mixture of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snorting.

‘Hoi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!’ shouted half-a-dozen voices from a boat,
a quarter of a mile astern.

‘Ease her!’ cried the captain: ‘do these people belong to us, sir?’

‘Noakes,’ exclaimed Hardy, who had been looking at every object far and
near, through the large telescope, ‘it’s the Fleetwoods and the
Wakefields—and two children with them, by Jove!’

‘What a shame to bring children!’ said everybody; ‘how very
inconsiderate!’

‘I say, it would be a good joke to pretend not to see ’em, wouldn’t
it?’ suggested Hardy, to the immense delight of the company generally.
A council of war was hastily held, and it was resolved that the
newcomers should be taken on board, on Mr. Hardy solemnly pledging
himself to tease the children during the whole of the day.

‘Stop her!’ cried the captain.

‘Stop her!’ repeated the boy; whizz went the steam, and all the young
ladies, as in duty bound, screamed in concert. They were only appeased
by the assurance of the martial Helves, that the escape of steam
consequent on stopping a vessel was seldom attended with any great loss
of human life.

Two men ran to the side; and after some shouting, and swearing, and
angling for the wherry with a boat-hook, Mr. Fleetwood, and Mrs.
Fleetwood, and Master Fleetwood, and Mr. Wakefield, and Mrs. Wakefield,
and Miss Wakefield, were safely deposited on the deck. The girl was
about six years old, the boy about four; the former was dressed in a
white frock with a pink sash and dog’s-eared-looking little spencer: a
straw bonnet and green veil, six inches by three and a half; the
latter, was attired for the occasion in a nankeen frock, between the
bottom of which, and the top of his plaid socks, a considerable portion
of two small mottled legs was discernible. He had a light blue cap with
a gold band and tassel on his head, and a damp piece of gingerbread in
his hand, with which he had slightly embossed his countenance.

The boat once more started off; the band played ‘Off she goes:’ the
major part of the company conversed cheerfully in groups; and the old
gentlemen walked up and down the deck in pairs, as perseveringly and
gravely as if they were doing a match against time for an immense
stake. They ran briskly down the Pool; the gentlemen pointed out the
Docks, the Thames Police-office, and other elegant public edifices; and
the young ladies exhibited a proper display of horror at the appearance
of the coal-whippers and ballast-heavers. Mr. Hardy told stories to the
married ladies, at which they laughed very much in their
pocket-handkerchiefs, and hit him on the knuckles with their fans,
declaring him to be ‘a naughty man—a shocking creature’—and so forth;
and Captain Helves gave slight descriptions of battles and duels, with
a most bloodthirsty air, which made him the admiration of the women,
and the envy of the men. Quadrilling commenced; Captain Helves danced
one set with Miss Emily Taunton, and another set with Miss Sophia
Taunton. Mrs. Taunton was in ecstasies. The victory appeared to be
complete; but alas! the inconstancy of man! Having performed this
necessary duty, he attached himself solely to Miss Julia Briggs, with
whom he danced no less than three sets consecutively, and from whose
side he evinced no intention of stirring for the remainder of the day.

Mr. Hardy, having played one or two very brilliant fantasias on the
Jews’-harp, and having frequently repeated the exquisitely amusing joke
of slily chalking a large cross on the back of some member of the
committee, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some of their
musical friends would oblige the company by a display of their
abilities.

‘Perhaps,’ he said in a very insinuating manner, ‘Captain Helves will
oblige us?’ Mrs. Taunton’s countenance lighted up, for the captain only
sang duets, and couldn’t sing them with anybody but one of her
daughters.

‘Really,’ said that warlike individual, ‘I should be very happy, ‘but—’

‘Oh! pray do,’ cried all the young ladies.

‘Miss Emily, have you any objection to join in a duet?’

‘Oh! not the slightest,’ returned the young lady, in a tone which
clearly showed she had the greatest possible objection.

‘Shall I accompany you, dear?’ inquired one of the Miss Briggses, with
the bland intention of spoiling the effect.

‘Very much obliged to you, Miss Briggs,’ sharply retorted Mrs. Taunton,
who saw through the manoeuvre; ‘my daughters always sing without
accompaniments.’

‘And without voices,’ tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low tone.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs. Taunton, reddening, for she guessed the tenor of
the observation, though she had not heard it clearly—‘Perhaps it would
be as well for some people, if their voices were not quite so audible
as they are to other people.’

‘And, perhaps, if gentlemen who are kidnapped to pay attention to some
persons’ daughters, had not sufficient discernment to pay attention to
other persons’ daughters,’ returned Mrs. Briggs, ‘some persons would
not be so ready to display that ill-temper which, thank God,
distinguishes them from other persons.’

‘Persons!’ ejaculated Mrs. Taunton.

‘Persons,’ replied Mrs. Briggs.

‘Insolence!’

‘Creature!’

‘Hush! hush!’ interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, who was one of the very few
by whom this dialogue had been overheard. ‘Hush!—pray, silence for the
duet.’

After a great deal of preparatory crowing and humming, the captain
began the following duet from the opera of ‘Paul and Virginia,’ in that
grunting tone in which a man gets down, Heaven knows where, without the
remotest chance of ever getting up again. This, in private circles, is
frequently designated ‘a bass voice.’


‘See (sung the captain) from o—ce—an ri—sing
Bright flames the or—b of d—ay.
From yon gro—ove, the varied so—ongs—’


Here, the singer was interrupted by varied cries of the most dreadful
description, proceeding from some grove in the immediate vicinity of
the starboard paddle-box.

‘My child!’ screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. ‘My child! it is his voice—I know
it.’

Mr. Fleetwood, accompanied by several gentlemen, here rushed to the
quarter from whence the noise proceeded, and an exclamation of horror
burst from the company; the general impression being, that the little
innocent had either got his head in the water, or his legs in the
machinery.

‘What is the matter?’ shouted the agonised father, as he returned with
the child in his arms.

‘Oh! oh! oh!’ screamed the small sufferer again.

‘What is the matter, dear?’ inquired the father once more—hastily
stripping off the nankeen frock, for the purpose of ascertaining
whether the child had one bone which was not smashed to pieces.

‘Oh! oh!—I’m so frightened!’

‘What at, dear?—what at?’ said the mother, soothing the sweet infant.

‘Oh! he’s been making such dreadful faces at me,’ cried the boy,
relapsing into convulsions at the bare recollection.

‘He!—who?’ cried everybody, crowding round him.

‘Oh!—him!’ replied the child, pointing at Hardy, who affected to be the
most concerned of the whole group.

The real state of the case at once flashed upon the minds of all
present, with the exception of the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields. The
facetious Hardy, in fulfilment of his promise, had watched the child to
a remote part of the vessel, and, suddenly appearing before him with
the most awful contortions of visage, had produced his paroxysm of
terror. Of course, he now observed that it was hardly necessary for him
to deny the accusation; and the unfortunate little victim was
accordingly led below, after receiving sundry thumps on the head from
both his parents, for having the wickedness to tell a story.

This little interruption having been adjusted, the captain resumed, and
Miss Emily chimed in, in due course. The duet was loudly applauded,
and, certainly, the perfect independence of the parties deserved great
commendation. Miss Emily sung her part, without the slightest reference
to the captain; and the captain sang so loud, that he had not the
slightest idea what was being done by his partner. After having gone
through the last few eighteen or nineteen bars by himself, therefore,
he acknowledged the plaudits of the circle with that air of self-denial
which men usually assume when they think they have done something to
astonish the company.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, who had just ascended from the
fore-cabin, where he had been busily engaged in decanting the wine, ‘if
the Misses Briggs will oblige us with something before dinner, I am
sure we shall be very much delighted.’

One of those hums of admiration followed the suggestion, which one
frequently hears in society, when nobody has the most distant notion
what he is expressing his approval of. The three Misses Briggs looked
modestly at their mamma, and the mamma looked approvingly at her
daughters, and Mrs. Taunton looked scornfully at all of them. The
Misses Briggs asked for their guitars, and several gentlemen seriously
damaged the cases in their anxiety to present them. Then, there was a
very interesting production of three little keys for the aforesaid
cases, and a melodramatic expression of horror at finding a string
broken; and a vast deal of screwing and tightening, and winding, and
tuning, during which Mrs. Briggs expatiated to those near her on the
immense difficulty of playing a guitar, and hinted at the wondrous
proficiency of her daughters in that mystic art. Mrs. Taunton whispered
to a neighbour that it was ‘quite sickening!’ and the Misses Taunton
looked as if they knew how to play, but disdained to do it.

At length, the Misses Briggs began in real earnest. It was a new
Spanish composition, for three voices and three guitars. The effect was
electrical. All eyes were turned upon the captain, who was reported to
have once passed through Spain with his regiment, and who must be well
acquainted with the national music. He was in raptures. This was
sufficient; the trio was encored; the applause was universal; and never
had the Tauntons suffered such a complete defeat.

‘Bravo! bravo!’ ejaculated the captain;—‘bravo!’

‘Pretty! isn’t it, sir?’ inquired Mr. Samuel Briggs, with the air of a
self-satisfied showman. By-the-bye, these were the first words he had
been heard to utter since he left Boswell-court the evening before.

‘De-lightful!’ returned the captain, with a flourish, and a military
cough;—‘de-lightful!’

‘Sweet instrument!’ said an old gentleman with a bald head, who had
been trying all the morning to look through a telescope, inside the
glass of which Mr. Hardy had fixed a large black wafer.

‘Did you ever hear a Portuguese tambourine?’ inquired that jocular
individual.

‘Did _you_ ever hear a tom-tom, sir?’ sternly inquired the captain, who
lost no opportunity of showing off his travels, real or pretended.

‘A what?’ asked Hardy, rather taken aback.

‘A tom-tom.’

‘Never!’

‘Nor a gum-gum?’

‘Never!’

‘What _is_ a gum-gum?’ eagerly inquired several young ladies.

‘When I was in the East Indies,’ replied the captain—(here was a
discovery—he had been in the East Indies!)—‘when I was in the East
Indies, I was once stopping a few thousand miles up the country, on a
visit at the house of a very particular friend of mine, Ram Chowdar
Doss Azuph Al Bowlar—a devilish pleasant fellow. As we were enjoying
our hookahs, one evening, in the cool verandah in front of his villa,
we were rather surprised by the sudden appearance of thirty-four of his
Kit-ma-gars (for he had rather a large establishment there),
accompanied by an equal number of Con-su-mars, approaching the house
with a threatening aspect, and beating a tom-tom. The Ram started up—’

‘Who?’ inquired the bald gentleman, intensely interested.

‘The Ram—Ram Chowdar—’

‘Oh!’ said the old gentleman, ‘beg your pardon; pray go on.’

‘—Started up and drew a pistol. “Helves,” said he, “my boy,”—he always
called me, my boy—“Helves,” said he, “do you hear that tom-tom?” “I
do,” said I. His countenance, which before was pale, assumed a most
frightful appearance; his whole visage was distorted, and his frame
shaken by violent emotions. “Do you see that gum-gum?” said he. “No,”
said I, staring about me. “You don’t?” said he. “No, I’ll be damned if
I do,” said I; “and what’s more, I don’t know what a gum-gum is,” said
I. I really thought the Ram would have dropped. He drew me aside, and
with an expression of agony I shall never forget, said in a low
whisper—’

‘Dinner’s on the table, ladies,’ interrupted the steward’s wife.

‘Will you allow me?’ said the captain, immediately suiting the action
to the word, and escorting Miss Julia Briggs to the cabin, with as much
ease as if he had finished the story.

‘What an extraordinary circumstance!’ ejaculated the same old
gentleman, preserving his listening attitude.

‘What a traveller!’ said the young ladies.

‘What a singular name!’ exclaimed the gentlemen, rather confused by the
coolness of the whole affair.

‘I wish he had finished the story,’ said an old lady. ‘I wonder what a
gum-gum really is?’

‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Hardy, who until now had been lost in utter
amazement, ‘I don’t know what it may be in India, but in England I
think a gum-gum has very much the same meaning as a hum-bug.’

‘How illiberal! how envious!’ cried everybody, as they made for the
cabin, fully impressed with a belief in the captain’s amazing
adventures. Helves was the sole lion for the remainder of the
day—impudence and the marvellous are pretty sure passports to any
society.

The party had by this time reached their destination, and put about on
their return home. The wind, which had been with them the whole day,
was now directly in their teeth; the weather had become gradually more
and more overcast; and the sky, water, and shore, were all of that
dull, heavy, uniform lead-colour, which house-painters daub in the
first instance over a street-door which is gradually approaching a
state of convalescence. It had been ‘spitting’ with rain for the last
half-hour, and now began to pour in good earnest. The wind was
freshening very fast, and the waterman at the wheel had unequivocally
expressed his opinion that there would shortly be a squall. A slight
emotion on the part of the vessel, now and then, seemed to suggest the
possibility of its pitching to a very uncomfortable extent in the event
of its blowing harder; and every timber began to creak, as if the boat
were an overladen clothes-basket. Sea-sickness, however, is like a
belief in ghosts—every one entertains some misgivings on the subject,
but few will acknowledge any. The majority of the company, therefore,
endeavoured to look peculiarly happy, feeling all the while especially
miserable.

‘Don’t it rain?’ inquired the old gentleman before noticed, when, by
dint of squeezing and jamming, they were all seated at table.

‘I think it does—a little,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who could hardly
hear himself speak, in consequence of the pattering on the deck.

‘Don’t it blow?’ inquired some one else.

‘No, I don’t think it does,’ responded Hardy, sincerely wishing that he
could persuade himself that it did not; for he sat near the door, and
was almost blown off his seat.

‘It’ll soon clear up,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, in a cheerful tone.

‘Oh, certainly!’ ejaculated the committee generally.

‘No doubt of it!’ said the remainder of the company, whose attention
was now pretty well engrossed by the serious business of eating,
carving, taking wine, and so forth.

The throbbing motion of the engine was but too perceptible. There was a
large, substantial, cold boiled leg of mutton, at the bottom of the
table, shaking like blancmange; a previously hearty sirloin of beef
looked as if it had been suddenly seized with the palsy; and some
tongues, which were placed on dishes rather too large for them, went
through the most surprising evolutions; darting from side to side, and
from end to end, like a fly in an inverted wine-glass. Then, the sweets
shook and trembled, till it was quite impossible to help them, and
people gave up the attempt in despair; and the pigeon-pies looked as if
the birds, whose legs were stuck outside, were trying to get them in.
The table vibrated and started like a feverish pulse, and the very legs
were convulsed—everything was shaking and jarring. The beams in the
roof of the cabin seemed as if they were put there for the sole purpose
of giving people head-aches, and several elderly gentlemen became
ill-tempered in consequence. As fast as the steward put the fire-irons
up, they _would_ fall down again; and the more the ladies and gentlemen
tried to sit comfortably on their seats, the more the seats seemed to
slide away from the ladies and gentlemen. Several ominous demands were
made for small glasses of brandy; the countenances of the company
gradually underwent most extraordinary changes; one gentleman was
observed suddenly to rush from table without the slightest ostensible
reason, and dart up the steps with incredible swiftness: thereby
greatly damaging both himself and the steward, who happened to be
coming down at the same moment.

The cloth was removed; the dessert was laid on the table; and the
glasses were filled. The motion of the boat increased; several members
of the party began to feel rather vague and misty, and looked as if
they had only just got up. The young gentleman with the spectacles, who
had been in a fluctuating state for some time—at one moment bright, and
at another dismal, like a revolving light on the sea-coast—rashly
announced his wish to propose a toast. After several ineffectual
attempts to preserve his perpendicular, the young gentleman, having
managed to hook himself to the centre leg of the table with his left
hand, proceeded as follows:

‘Ladies and gentlemen. A gentleman is among us—I may say a
stranger—(here some painful thought seemed to strike the orator; he
paused, and looked extremely odd)—whose talents, whose travels, whose
cheerfulness—’

‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ hastily interrupted Mr. Percy
Noakes,—‘Hardy, what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ replied the ‘funny gentleman,’ who had just life enough left
to utter two consecutive syllables.

‘Will you have some brandy?’

‘No!’ replied Hardy in a tone of great indignation, and looking as
comfortable as Temple-bar in a Scotch mist; ‘what should I want brandy
for?’

‘Will you go on deck?’

‘No, I will _not_.’ This was said with a most determined air, and in a
voice which might have been taken for an imitation of anything; it was
quite as much like a guinea-pig as a bassoon.

‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ said the courteous Percy; ‘I thought our
friend was ill. Pray go on.’

A pause.

‘Pray go on.’

‘Mr. Edkins _is_ gone,’ cried somebody.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the steward, running up to Mr. Percy
Noakes, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but the gentleman as just went on
deck—him with the green spectacles—is uncommon bad, to be sure; and the
young man as played the wiolin says, that unless he has some brandy he
can’t answer for the consequences. He says he has a wife and two
children, whose werry subsistence depends on his breaking a wessel, and
he expects to do so every moment. The flageolet’s been werry ill, but
he’s better, only he’s in a dreadful prusperation.’

All disguise was now useless; the company staggered on deck; the
gentlemen tried to see nothing but the clouds; and the ladies, muffled
up in such shawls and cloaks as they had brought with them, lay about
on the seats, and under the seats, in the most wretched condition.
Never was such a blowing, and raining, and pitching, and tossing,
endured by any pleasure party before. Several remonstrances were sent
down below, on the subject of Master Fleetwood, but they were totally
unheeded in consequence of the indisposition of his natural protectors.
That interesting child screamed at the top of his voice, until he had
no voice left to scream with; and then, Miss Wakefield began, and
screamed for the remainder of the passage.

Mr. Hardy was observed, some hours afterwards, in an attitude which
induced his friends to suppose that he was busily engaged in
contemplating the beauties of the deep; they only regretted that his
taste for the picturesque should lead him to remain so long in a
position, very injurious at all times, but especially so, to an
individual labouring under a tendency of blood to the head.

The party arrived off the Custom-house at about two o’clock on the
Thursday morning dispirited and worn out. The Tauntons were too ill to
quarrel with the Briggses, and the Briggses were too wretched to annoy
the Tauntons. One of the guitar-cases was lost on its passage to a
hackney-coach, and Mrs. Briggs has not scrupled to state that the
Tauntons bribed a porter to throw it down an area. Mr. Alexander Briggs
opposes vote by ballot—he says from personal experience of its
inefficacy; and Mr. Samuel Briggs, whenever he is asked to express his
sentiments on the point, says he has no opinion on that or any other
subject.

Mr. Edkins—the young gentleman in the green spectacles—makes a speech
on every occasion on which a speech can possibly be made: the eloquence
of which can only be equalled by its length. In the event of his not
being previously appointed to a judgeship, it is probable that he will
practise as a barrister in the New Central Criminal Court.

Captain Helves continued his attention to Miss Julia Briggs, whom he
might possibly have espoused, if it had not unfortunately happened that
Mr. Samuel arrested him, in the way of business, pursuant to
instructions received from Messrs. Scroggins and Payne, whose
town-debts the gallant captain had condescended to collect, but whose
accounts, with the indiscretion sometimes peculiar to military minds,
he had omitted to keep with that dull accuracy which custom has
rendered necessary. Mrs. Taunton complains that she has been much
deceived in him. He introduced himself to the family on board a
Gravesend steam-packet, and certainly, therefore, ought to have proved
respectable.

Mr. Percy Noakes is as light-hearted and careless as ever.




CHAPTER VIII—THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL


The little town of Great Winglebury is exactly forty-two miles and
three-quarters from Hyde Park corner. It has a long, straggling, quiet
High-street, with a great black and white clock at a small red
Town-hall, half-way up—a market-place—a cage—an assembly-room—a
church—a bridge—a chapel—a theatre—a library—an inn—a pump—and a
Post-office. Tradition tells of a ‘Little Winglebury,’ down some
cross-road about two miles off; and, as a square mass of dirty paper,
supposed to have been originally intended for a letter, with certain
tremulous characters inscribed thereon, in which a lively imagination
might trace a remote resemblance to the word ‘Little,’ was once stuck
up to be owned in the sunny window of the Great Winglebury Post-office,
from which it only disappeared when it fell to pieces with dust and
extreme old age, there would appear to be some foundation for the
legend. Common belief is inclined to bestow the name upon a little hole
at the end of a muddy lane about a couple of miles long, colonised by
one wheelwright, four paupers, and a beer-shop; but, even this
authority, slight as it is, must be regarded with extreme suspicion,
inasmuch as the inhabitants of the hole aforesaid, concur in opining
that it never had any name at all, from the earliest ages down to the
present day.

The Winglebury Arms, in the centre of the High-street, opposite the
small building with the big clock, is the principal inn of Great
Winglebury—the commercial-inn, posting-house, and excise-office; the
‘Blue’ house at every election, and the judges’ house at every assizes.
It is the head-quarters of the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury
Blues (so called in opposition to the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of
Winglebury Buffs, held at the other house, a little further down): and
whenever a juggler, or wax-work man, or concert-giver, takes Great
Winglebury in his circuit, it is immediately placarded all over the
town that Mr. So-and-so, ‘trusting to that liberal support which the
inhabitants of Great Winglebury have long been so liberal in bestowing,
has at a great expense engaged the elegant and commodious
assembly-rooms, attached to the Winglebury Arms.’ The house is a large
one, with a red brick and stone front; a pretty spacious hall,
ornamented with evergreen plants, terminates in a perspective view of
the bar, and a glass case, in which are displayed a choice variety of
delicacies ready for dressing, to catch the eye of a new-comer the
moment he enters, and excite his appetite to the highest possible
pitch. Opposite doors lead to the ‘coffee’ and ‘commercial’ rooms; and
a great wide, rambling staircase,—three stairs and a landing—four
stairs and another landing—one step and another landing—half-a-dozen
stairs and another landing—and so on—conducts to galleries of bedrooms,
and labyrinths of sitting-rooms, denominated ‘private,’ where you may
enjoy yourself, as privately as you can in any place where some
bewildered being walks into your room every five minutes, by mistake,
and then walks out again, to open all the doors along the gallery until
he finds his own.

Such is the Winglebury Arms, at this day, and such was the Winglebury
Arms some time since—no matter when—two or three minutes before the
arrival of the London stage. Four horses with cloths on—change for a
coach—were standing quietly at the corner of the yard surrounded by a
listless group of post-boys in shiny hats and smock-frocks, engaged in
discussing the merits of the cattle; half a dozen ragged boys were
standing a little apart, listening with evident interest to the
conversation of these worthies; and a few loungers were collected round
the horse-trough, awaiting the arrival of the coach.

The day was hot and sunny, the town in the zenith of its dulness, and
with the exception of these few idlers, not a living creature was to be
seen. Suddenly, the loud notes of a key-bugle broke the monotonous
stillness of the street; in came the coach, rattling over the uneven
paving with a noise startling enough to stop even the large-faced clock
itself. Down got the outsides, up went the windows in all directions,
out came the waiters, up started the ostlers, and the loungers, and the
post-boys, and the ragged boys, as if they were
electrified—unstrapping, and unchaining, and unbuckling, and dragging
willing horses out, and forcing reluctant horses in, and making a most
exhilarating bustle. ‘Lady inside, here!’ said the guard. ‘Please to
alight, ma’am,’ said the waiter. ‘Private sitting-room?’ interrogated
the lady. ‘Certainly, ma’am,’ responded the chamber-maid. ‘Nothing but
these ’ere trunks, ma’am?’ inquired the guard. ‘Nothing more,’ replied
the lady. Up got the outsides again, and the guard, and the coachman;
off came the cloths, with a jerk; ‘All right,’ was the cry; and away
they went. The loungers lingered a minute or two in the road, watching
the coach until it turned the corner, and then loitered away one by
one. The street was clear again, and the town, by contrast, quieter
than ever.

‘Lady in number twenty-five,’ screamed the landlady.—‘Thomas!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Letter just been left for the gentleman in number nineteen. Boots at
the Lion left it. No answer.’

‘Letter for you, sir,’ said Thomas, depositing the letter on number
nineteen’s table.

‘For me?’ said number nineteen, turning from the window, out of which
he had been surveying the scene just described.

‘Yes, sir,’—(waiters always speak in hints, and never utter complete
sentences,)—‘yes, sir,—Boots at the Lion, sir,—Bar, sir,—Missis said
number nineteen, sir—Alexander Trott, Esq., sir?—Your card at the bar,
sir, I think, sir?’

‘My name _is_ Trott,’ replied number nineteen, breaking the seal. ‘You
may go, waiter.’ The waiter pulled down the window-blind, and then
pulled it up again—for a regular waiter must do something before he
leaves the room—adjusted the glasses on the side-board, brushed a place
that was _not_ dusty, rubbed his hands very hard, walked stealthily to
the door, and evaporated.

There was, evidently, something in the contents of the letter, of a
nature, if not wholly unexpected, certainly extremely disagreeable. Mr.
Alexander Trott laid it down, and took it up again, and walked about
the room on particular squares of the carpet, and even attempted,
though unsuccessfully, to whistle an air. It wouldn’t do. He threw
himself into a chair, and read the following epistle aloud:—


‘Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer,
‘Great Winglebury.
‘_Wednesday Morning_.


‘Sir. Immediately on discovering your intentions, I left our
counting-house, and followed you. I know the purport of your
journey;—that journey shall never be completed.

‘I have no friend here, just now, on whose secrecy I can rely. This
shall be no obstacle to my revenge. Neither shall Emily Brown be
exposed to the mercenary solicitations of a scoundrel, odious in her
eyes, and contemptible in everybody else’s: nor will I tamely submit to
the clandestine attacks of a base umbrella-maker.

‘Sir. From Great Winglebury church, a footpath leads through four
meadows to a retired spot known to the townspeople as Stiffun’s Acre.’
[Mr. Trott shuddered.] ‘I shall be waiting there alone, at twenty
minutes before six o’clock to-morrow morning. Should I be disappointed
in seeing you there, I will do myself the pleasure of calling with a
horsewhip.

‘Horace Hunter.


‘PS. There is a gunsmiths in the High-street; and they won’t sell
gunpowder after dark—you understand me.

‘PPS. You had better not order your breakfast in the morning until you
have met me. It may be an unnecessary expense.’


‘Desperate-minded villain! I knew how it would be!’ ejaculated the
terrified Trott. ‘I always told father, that once start me on this
expedition, and Hunter would pursue me like the Wandering Jew. It’s bad
enough as it is, to marry with the old people’s commands, and without
the girl’s consent; but what will Emily think of me, if I go down there
breathless with running away from this infernal salamander? What
_shall_ I do? What _can_ I do? If I go back to the city, I’m disgraced
for ever—lose the girl—and, what’s more, lose the money too. Even if I
did go on to the Browns’ by the coach, Hunter would be after me in a
post-chaise; and if I go to this place, this Stiffun’s Acre (another
shudder), I’m as good as dead. I’ve seen him hit the man at the
Pall-mall shooting-gallery, in the second button-hole of the waistcoat,
five times out of every six, and when he didn’t hit him there, he hit
him in the head.’ With this consolatory reminiscence Mr. Alexander
Trott again ejaculated, ‘What shall I do?’

Long and weary were his reflections, as, burying his face in his hand,
he sat, ruminating on the best course to be pursued. His mental
direction-post pointed to London. He thought of the ‘governor’s’ anger,
and the loss of the fortune which the paternal Brown had promised the
paternal Trott his daughter should contribute to the coffers of his
son. Then the words ‘To Brown’s’ were legibly inscribed on the said
direction-post, but Horace Hunter’s denunciation rung in his ears;—last
of all it bore, in red letters, the words, ‘To Stiffun’s Acre;’ and
then Mr. Alexander Trott decided on adopting a plan which he presently
matured.

First and foremost, he despatched the under-boots to the Blue Lion and
Stomach-warmer, with a gentlemanly note to Mr. Horace Hunter,
intimating that he thirsted for his destruction and would do himself
the pleasure of slaughtering him next morning, without fail. He then
wrote another letter, and requested the attendance of the other
boots—for they kept a pair. A modest knock at the room door was heard.
‘Come in,’ said Mr. Trott. A man thrust in a red head with one eye in
it, and being again desired to ‘come in,’ brought in the body and the
legs to which the head belonged, and a fur cap which belonged to the
head.

‘You are the upper-boots, I think?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Yes, I am the upper-boots,’ replied a voice from inside a velveteen
case, with mother-of-pearl buttons—‘that is, I’m the boots as b’longs
to the house; the other man’s my man, as goes errands and does odd
jobs. Top-boots and half-boots, I calls us.’

‘You’re from London?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Driv a cab once,’ was the laconic reply.

‘Why don’t you drive it now?’ asked Mr. Trott.

‘Over-driv the cab, and driv over a ’ooman,’ replied the top-boots,
with brevity.

‘Do you know the mayor’s house?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Rather,’ replied the boots, significantly, as if he had some good
reason to remember it.

‘Do you think you could manage to leave a letter there?’ interrogated
Trott.

‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ responded boots.

‘But this letter,’ said Trott, holding a deformed note with a paralytic
direction in one hand, and five shillings in the other—‘this letter is
anonymous.’

‘A—what?’ interrupted the boots.

‘Anonymous—he’s not to know who it comes from.’

‘Oh! I see,’ responded the reg’lar, with a knowing wink, but without
evincing the slightest disinclination to undertake the charge—‘I
see—bit o’ Sving, eh?’ and his one eye wandered round the room, as if
in quest of a dark lantern and phosphorus-box. ‘But, I say!’ he
continued, recalling the eye from its search, and bringing it to bear
on Mr. Trott. ‘I say, he’s a lawyer, our mayor, and insured in the
County. If you’ve a spite agen him, you’d better not burn his house
down—blessed if I don’t think it would be the greatest favour you could
do him.’ And he chuckled inwardly.

If Mr. Alexander Trott had been in any other situation, his first act
would have been to kick the man down-stairs by deputy; or, in other
words, to ring the bell, and desire the landlord to take his boots off.
He contented himself, however, with doubling the fee and explaining
that the letter merely related to a breach of the peace. The top-boots
retired, solemnly pledged to secrecy; and Mr. Alexander Trott sat down
to a fried sole, maintenon cutlet, Madeira, and sundries, with greater
composure than he had experienced since the receipt of Horace Hunter’s
letter of defiance.

The lady who alighted from the London coach had no sooner been
installed in number twenty-five, and made some alteration in her
travelling-dress, than she indited a note to Joseph Overton, esquire,
solicitor, and mayor of Great Winglebury, requesting his immediate
attendance on private business of paramount importance—a summons which
that worthy functionary lost no time in obeying; for after sundry
openings of his eyes, divers ejaculations of ‘Bless me!’ and other
manifestations of surprise, he took his broad-brimmed hat from its
accustomed peg in his little front office, and walked briskly down the
High-street to the Winglebury Arms; through the hall and up the
staircase of which establishment he was ushered by the landlady, and a
crowd of officious waiters, to the door of number twenty-five.

‘Show the gentleman in,’ said the stranger lady, in reply to the
foremost waiter’s announcement. The gentleman was shown in accordingly.

The lady rose from the sofa; the mayor advanced a step from the door;
and there they both paused, for a minute or two, looking at one another
as if by mutual consent. The mayor saw before him a buxom,
richly-dressed female of about forty; the lady looked upon a sleek man,
about ten years older, in drab shorts and continuations, black coat,
neckcloth, and gloves.

‘Miss Julia Manners!’ exclaimed the mayor at length, ‘you astonish me.’

‘That’s very unfair of you, Overton,’ replied Miss Julia, ‘for I have
known you, long enough, not to be surprised at anything you do, and you
might extend equal courtesy to me.’

‘But to run away—actually run away—with a young man!’ remonstrated the
mayor.

‘You wouldn’t have me actually run away with an old one, I presume?’
was the cool rejoinder.

‘And then to ask me—me—of all people in the world—a man of my age and
appearance—mayor of the town—to promote such a scheme!’ pettishly
ejaculated Joseph Overton; throwing himself into an arm-chair, and
producing Miss Julia’s letter from his pocket, as if to corroborate the
assertion that he _had_ been asked.

‘Now, Overton,’ replied the lady, ‘I want your assistance in this
matter, and I must have it. In the lifetime of that poor old dear, Mr.
Cornberry, who—who—’

‘Who was to have married you, and didn’t, because he died first; and
who left you his property unencumbered with the addition of himself,’
suggested the mayor.

‘Well,’ replied Miss Julia, reddening slightly, ‘in the lifetime of the
poor old dear, the property had the incumbrance of your management; and
all I will say of that, is, that I only wonder it didn’t die of
consumption instead of its master. You helped yourself then:—help me
now.’

Mr. Joseph Overton was a man of the world, and an attorney; and as
certain indistinct recollections of an odd thousand pounds or two,
appropriated by mistake, passed across his mind he hemmed
deprecatingly, smiled blandly, remained silent for a few seconds; and
finally inquired, ‘What do you wish me to do?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ replied Miss Julia—‘I’ll tell you in three words. Dear
Lord Peter—’

‘That’s the young man, I suppose—’ interrupted the mayor.

‘That’s the young Nobleman,’ replied the lady, with a great stress on
the last word. ‘Dear Lord Peter is considerably afraid of the
resentment of his family; and we have therefore thought it better to
make the match a stolen one. He left town, to avoid suspicion, on a
visit to his friend, the Honourable Augustus Flair, whose seat, as you
know, is about thirty miles from this, accompanied only by his
favourite tiger. We arranged that I should come here alone in the
London coach; and that he, leaving his tiger and cab behind him, should
come on, and arrive here as soon as possible this afternoon.’

‘Very well,’ observed Joseph Overton, ‘and then he can order the
chaise, and you can go on to Gretna Green together, without requiring
the presence or interference of a third party, can’t you?’

‘No,’ replied Miss Julia. ‘We have every reason to believe—dear Lord
Peter not being considered very prudent or sagacious by his friends,
and they having discovered his attachment to me—that, immediately on
his absence being observed, pursuit will be made in this direction:—to
elude which, and to prevent our being traced, I wish it to be
understood in this house, that dear Lord Peter is slightly deranged,
though perfectly harmless; and that I am, unknown to him, awaiting his
arrival to convey him in a post-chaise to a private asylum—at Berwick,
say. If I don’t show myself much, I dare say I can manage to pass for
his mother.’

The thought occurred to the mayor’s mind that the lady might show
herself a good deal without fear of detection; seeing that she was
about double the age of her intended husband. He said nothing, however,
and the lady proceeded.

‘With the whole of this arrangement dear Lord Peter is acquainted; and
all I want you to do, is, to make the delusion more complete by giving
it the sanction of your influence in this place, and assigning this as
a reason to the people of the house for my taking the young gentleman
away. As it would not be consistent with the story that I should see
him until after he has entered the chaise, I also wish you to
communicate with him, and inform him that it is all going on well.’

‘Has he arrived?’ inquired Overton.

‘I don’t know,’ replied the lady.

‘Then how am I to know!’ inquired the mayor. ‘Of course he will not
give his own name at the bar.’

‘I begged him, immediately on his arrival, to write you a note,’
replied Miss Manners; ‘and to prevent the possibility of our project
being discovered through its means, I desired him to write anonymously,
and in mysterious terms, to acquaint you with the number of his room.’

‘Bless me!’ exclaimed the mayor, rising from his seat, and searching
his pockets—‘most extraordinary circumstance—he has arrived—mysterious
note left at my house in a most mysterious manner, just before
yours—didn’t know what to make of it before, and certainly shouldn’t
have attended to it.—Oh! here it is.’ And Joseph Overton pulled out of
an inner coat-pocket the identical letter penned by Alexander Trott.
‘Is this his lordship’s hand?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Julia; ‘good, punctual creature! I have not seen it
more than once or twice, but I know he writes very badly and very
large. These dear, wild young noblemen, you know, Overton—’

‘Ay, ay, I see,’ replied the mayor.—‘Horses and dogs, play and
wine—grooms, actresses, and cigars—the stable, the green-room, the
saloon, and the tavern; and the legislative assembly at last.’

‘Here’s what he says,’ pursued the mayor; ‘“Sir,—A young gentleman in
number nineteen at the Winglebury Arms, is bent on committing a rash
act to-morrow morning at an early hour.” (That’s good—he means
marrying.) “If you have any regard for the peace of this town, or the
preservation of one—it may be two—human lives”—What the deuce does he
mean by that?’

‘That he’s so anxious for the ceremony, he will expire if it’s put off,
and that I may possibly do the same,’ replied the lady with great
complacency.

‘Oh! I see—not much fear of that;—well—“two human lives, you will cause
him to be removed to-night.” (He wants to start at once.) “Fear not to
do this on your responsibility: for to-morrow the absolute necessity of
the proceeding will be but too apparent. Remember: number nineteen. The
name is Trott. No delay; for life and death depend upon your
promptitude.” Passionate language, certainly. Shall I see him?’

‘Do,’ replied Miss Julia; ‘and entreat him to act his part well. I am
half afraid of him. Tell him to be cautious.’

‘I will,’ said the mayor.

‘Settle all the arrangements.’

‘I will,’ said the mayor again.

‘And say I think the chaise had better be ordered for one o’clock.’

‘Very well,’ said the mayor once more; and, ruminating on the absurdity
of the situation in which fate and old acquaintance had placed him, he
desired a waiter to herald his approach to the temporary representative
of number nineteen.

The announcement, ‘Gentleman to speak with you, sir,’ induced Mr. Trott
to pause half-way in the glass of port, the contents of which he was in
the act of imbibing at the moment; to rise from his chair; and retreat
a few paces towards the window, as if to secure a retreat, in the event
of the visitor assuming the form and appearance of Horace Hunter. One
glance at Joseph Overton, however, quieted his apprehensions. He
courteously motioned the stranger to a seat. The waiter, after a little
jingling with the decanter and glasses, consented to leave the room;
and Joseph Overton, placing the broad-brimmed hat on the chair next
him, and bending his body gently forward, opened the business by saying
in a very low and cautious tone,

‘My lord—’

‘Eh?’ said Mr. Alexander Trott, in a loud key, with the vacant and
mystified stare of a chilly somnambulist.

‘Hush—hush!’ said the cautious attorney: ‘to be sure—quite right—no
titles here—my name is Overton, sir.’

‘Overton?’

‘Yes: the mayor of this place—you sent me a letter with anonymous
information, this afternoon.’

‘I, sir?’ exclaimed Trott with ill-dissembled surprise; for, coward as
he was, he would willingly have repudiated the authorship of the letter
in question. ‘I, sir?’

‘Yes, you, sir; did you not?’ responded Overton, annoyed with what he
supposed to be an extreme degree of unnecessary suspicion. ‘Either this
letter is yours, or it is not. If it be, we can converse securely upon
the subject at once. If it be not, of course I have no more to say.’

‘Stay, stay,’ said Trott, ‘it _is_ mine; I _did_ write it. What could I
do, sir? I had no friend here.’

‘To be sure, to be sure,’ said the mayor, encouragingly, ‘you could not
have managed it better. Well, sir; it will be necessary for you to
leave here to-night in a post-chaise and four. And the harder the boys
drive, the better. You are not safe from pursuit.’

‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Trott, in an agony of apprehension, ‘can such
things happen in a country like this? Such unrelenting and cold-blooded
hostility!’ He wiped off the concentrated essence of cowardice that was
oozing fast down his forehead, and looked aghast at Joseph Overton.

‘It certainly is a very hard case,’ replied the mayor with a smile,
‘that, in a free country, people can’t marry whom they like, without
being hunted down as if they were criminals. However, in the present
instance the lady is willing, you know, and that’s the main point,
after all.’

‘Lady willing,’ repeated Trott, mechanically. ‘How do you know the
lady’s willing?’

‘Come, that’s a good one,’ said the mayor, benevolently tapping Mr.
Trott on the arm with his broad-brimmed hat; ‘I have known her, well,
for a long time; and if anybody could entertain the remotest doubt on
the subject, I assure you I have none, nor need you have.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Trott, ruminating. ‘This is _very_ extraordinary!’

‘Well, Lord Peter,’ said the mayor, rising.

‘Lord Peter?’ repeated Mr. Trott.

‘Oh—ah, I forgot. Mr. Trott, then—Trott—very good, ha! ha!—Well, sir,
the chaise shall be ready at half-past twelve.’

‘And what is to become of me until then?’ inquired Mr. Trott,
anxiously. ‘Wouldn’t it save appearances, if I were placed under some
restraint?’

‘Ah!’ replied Overton, ‘very good thought—capital idea indeed. I’ll
send somebody up directly. And if you make a little resistance when we
put you in the chaise it wouldn’t be amiss—look as if you didn’t want
to be taken away, you know.’

‘To be sure,’ said Trott—‘to be sure.’

‘Well, my lord,’ said Overton, in a low tone, ‘until then, I wish your
lordship a good evening.’

‘Lord—lordship?’ ejaculated Trott again, falling back a step or two,
and gazing, in unutterable wonder, on the countenance of the mayor.

‘Ha-ha! I see, my lord—practising the madman?—very good indeed—very
vacant look—capital, my lord, capital—good evening, Mr.—Trott—ha! ha!
ha!’

‘That mayor’s decidedly drunk,’ soliloquised Mr. Trott, throwing
himself back in his chair, in an attitude of reflection.

‘He is a much cleverer fellow than I thought him, that young
nobleman—he carries it off uncommonly well,’ thought Overton, as he
went his way to the bar, there to complete his arrangements. This was
soon done. Every word of the story was implicitly believed, and the
one-eyed boots was immediately instructed to repair to number nineteen,
to act as custodian of the person of the supposed lunatic until
half-past twelve o’clock. In pursuance of this direction, that somewhat
eccentric gentleman armed himself with a walking-stick of gigantic
dimensions, and repaired, with his usual equanimity of manner, to Mr.
Trott’s apartment, which he entered without any ceremony, and mounted
guard in, by quietly depositing himself on a chair near the door, where
he proceeded to beguile the time by whistling a popular air with great
apparent satisfaction.

‘What do you want here, you scoundrel?’ exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott,
with a proper appearance of indignation at his detention.

The boots beat time with his head, as he looked gently round at Mr.
Trott with a smile of pity, and whistled an _adagio_ movement.

‘Do you attend in this room by Mr. Overton’s desire?’ inquired Trott,
rather astonished at the man’s demeanour.

‘Keep yourself to yourself, young feller,’ calmly responded the boots,
‘and don’t say nothing to nobody.’ And he whistled again.

‘Now mind!’ ejaculated Mr. Trott, anxious to keep up the farce of
wishing with great earnestness to fight a duel if they’d let him. ‘I
protest against being kept here. I deny that I have any intention of
fighting with anybody. But as it’s useless contending with superior
numbers, I shall sit quietly down.’

‘You’d better,’ observed the placid boots, shaking the large stick
expressively.

‘Under protest, however,’ added Alexander Trott, seating himself with
indignation in his face, but great content in his heart. ‘Under
protest.’

‘Oh, certainly!’ responded the boots; ‘anything you please. If you’re
happy, I’m transported; only don’t talk too much—it’ll make you worse.’

‘Make me worse?’ exclaimed Trott, in unfeigned astonishment: ‘the man’s
drunk!’

‘You’d better be quiet, young feller,’ remarked the boots, going
through a threatening piece of pantomime with the stick.

‘Or mad!’ said Mr. Trott, rather alarmed. ‘Leave the room, sir, and
tell them to send somebody else.’

‘Won’t do!’ replied the boots.

‘Leave the room!’ shouted Trott, ringing the bell violently: for he
began to be alarmed on a new score.

‘Leave that ’ere bell alone, you wretched loo-nattic!’ said the boots,
suddenly forcing the unfortunate Trott back into his chair, and
brandishing the stick aloft. ‘Be quiet, you miserable object, and don’t
let everybody know there’s a madman in the house.’

‘He _is_ a madman! He _is_ a madman!’ exclaimed the terrified Mr.
Trott, gazing on the one eye of the red-headed boots with a look of
abject horror.

‘Madman!’ replied the boots, ‘dam’me, I think he _is_ a madman with a
vengeance! Listen to me, you unfortunate. Ah! would you?’ [a slight tap
on the head with the large stick, as Mr. Trott made another move
towards the bell-handle] ‘I caught you there! did I?’

‘Spare my life!’ exclaimed Trott, raising his hands imploringly.

‘I don’t want your life,’ replied the boots, disdainfully, ‘though I
think it ’ud be a charity if somebody took it.’

‘No, no, it wouldn’t,’ interrupted poor Mr. Trott, hurriedly, ‘no, no,
it wouldn’t! I—I-’d rather keep it!’

‘O werry well,’ said the boots: ‘that’s a mere matter of taste—ev’ry
one to his liking. Hows’ever, all I’ve got to say is this here: You sit
quietly down in that chair, and I’ll sit hoppersite you here, and if
you keep quiet and don’t stir, I won’t damage you; but, if you move
hand or foot till half-past twelve o’clock, I shall alter the
expression of your countenance so completely, that the next time you
look in the glass you’ll ask vether you’re gone out of town, and ven
you’re likely to come back again. So sit down.’

‘I will—I will,’ responded the victim of mistakes; and down sat Mr.
Trott and down sat the boots too, exactly opposite him, with the stick
ready for immediate action in case of emergency.

Long and dreary were the hours that followed. The bell of Great
Winglebury church had just struck ten, and two hours and a half would
probably elapse before succour arrived.

For half an hour, the noise occasioned by shutting up the shops in the
street beneath, betokened something like life in the town, and rendered
Mr. Trott’s situation a little less insupportable; but, when even these
ceased, and nothing was heard beyond the occasional rattling of a
post-chaise as it drove up the yard to change horses, and then drove
away again, or the clattering of horses’ hoofs in the stables behind,
it became almost unbearable. The boots occasionally moved an inch or
two, to knock superfluous bits of wax off the candles, which were
burning low, but instantaneously resumed his former position; and as he
remembered to have heard, somewhere or other, that the human eye had an
unfailing effect in controlling mad people, he kept his solitary organ
of vision constantly fixed on Mr. Alexander Trott. That unfortunate
individual stared at his companion in his turn, until his features grew
more and more indistinct—his hair gradually less red—and the room more
misty and obscure. Mr. Alexander Trott fell into a sound sleep, from
which he was awakened by a rumbling in the street, and a cry of
‘Chaise-and-four for number twenty-five!’ A bustle on the stairs
succeeded; the room door was hastily thrown open; and Mr. Joseph
Overton entered, followed by four stout waiters, and Mrs. Williamson,
the stout landlady of the Winglebury Arms.

‘Mr. Overton!’ exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott, jumping up in a frenzy.
‘Look at this man, sir; consider the situation in which I have been
placed for three hours past—the person you sent to guard me, sir, was a
madman—a madman—a raging, ravaging, furious madman.’

‘Bravo!’ whispered Mr. Overton.

‘Poor dear!’ said the compassionate Mrs. Williamson, ‘mad people always
thinks other people’s mad.’

‘Poor dear!’ ejaculated Mr. Alexander Trott. ‘What the devil do you
mean by poor dear! Are you the landlady of this house?’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied the stout old lady, ‘don’t exert yourself, there’s
a dear! Consider your health, now; do.’

‘Exert myself!’ shouted Mr. Alexander Trott; ‘it’s a mercy, ma’am, that
I have any breath to exert myself with! I might have been assassinated
three hours ago by that one-eyed monster with the oakum head. How dare
you have a madman, ma’am—how dare you have a madman, to assault and
terrify the visitors to your house?’

‘I’ll never have another,’ said Mrs. Williamson, casting a look of
reproach at the mayor.

‘Capital, capital,’ whispered Overton again, as he enveloped Mr.
Alexander Trott in a thick travelling-cloak.

‘Capital, sir!’ exclaimed Trott, aloud; ‘it’s horrible. The very
recollection makes me shudder. I’d rather fight four duels in three
hours, if I survived the first three, than I’d sit for that time face
to face with a madman.’

‘Keep it up, my lord, as you go down-stairs,’ whispered Overton, ‘your
bill is paid, and your portmanteau in the chaise.’ And then he added
aloud, ‘Now, waiters, the gentleman’s ready.’

At this signal, the waiters crowded round Mr. Alexander Trott. One took
one arm; another, the other; a third, walked before with a candle; the
fourth, behind with another candle; the boots and Mrs. Williamson
brought up the rear; and down-stairs they went: Mr. Alexander Trott
expressing alternately at the very top of his voice either his feigned
reluctance to go, or his unfeigned indignation at being shut up with a
madman.

Mr. Overton was waiting at the chaise-door, the boys were ready
mounted, and a few ostlers and stable nondescripts were standing round
to witness the departure of ‘the mad gentleman.’ Mr. Alexander Trott’s
foot was on the step, when he observed (which the dim light had
prevented his doing before) a figure seated in the chaise, closely
muffled up in a cloak like his own.

‘Who’s that?’ he inquired of Overton, in a whisper.

‘Hush, hush,’ replied the mayor: ‘the other party of course.’

‘The other party!’ exclaimed Trott, with an effort to retreat.

‘Yes, yes; you’ll soon find that out, before you go far, I should
think—but make a noise, you’ll excite suspicion if you whisper to me so
much.’

‘I won’t go in this chaise!’ shouted Mr. Alexander Trott, all his
original fears recurring with tenfold violence. ‘I shall be
assassinated—I shall be—’

‘Bravo, bravo,’ whispered Overton. ‘I’ll push you in.’

‘But I won’t go,’ exclaimed Mr. Trott. ‘Help here, help! They’re
carrying me away against my will. This is a plot to murder me.’

‘Poor dear!’ said Mrs. Williamson again.

‘Now, boys, put ’em along,’ cried the mayor, pushing Trott in and
slamming the door. ‘Off with you, as quick as you can, and stop for
nothing till you come to the next stage—all right!’

‘Horses are paid, Tom,’ screamed Mrs. Williamson; and away went the
chaise, at the rate of fourteen miles an hour, with Mr. Alexander Trott
and Miss Julia Manners carefully shut up in the inside.

Mr. Alexander Trott remained coiled up in one corner of the chaise, and
his mysterious companion in the other, for the first two or three
miles; Mr. Trott edging more and more into his corner, as he felt his
companion gradually edging more and more from hers; and vainly
endeavouring in the darkness to catch a glimpse of the furious face of
the supposed Horace Hunter.

‘We may speak now,’ said his fellow-traveller, at length; ‘the
post-boys can neither see nor hear us.’

‘That’s not Hunter’s voice!’—thought Alexander, astonished.

‘Dear Lord Peter!’ said Miss Julia, most winningly: putting her arm on
Mr. Trott’s shoulder. ‘Dear Lord Peter. Not a word?’

‘Why, it’s a woman!’ exclaimed Mr. Trott, in a low tone of excessive
wonder.

‘Ah! Whose voice is that?’ said Julia; ‘’tis not Lord Peter’s.’

‘No,—it’s mine,’ replied Mr. Trott.

‘Yours!’ ejaculated Miss Julia Manners; ‘a strange man! Gracious
heaven! How came you here!’

‘Whoever you are, you might have known that I came against my will,
ma’am,’ replied Alexander, ‘for I made noise enough when I got in.’

‘Do you come from Lord Peter?’ inquired Miss Manners.

‘Confound Lord Peter,’ replied Trott pettishly. ‘I don’t know any Lord
Peter. I never heard of him before to-night, when I’ve been Lord
Peter’d by one and Lord Peter’d by another, till I verily believe I’m
mad, or dreaming—’

‘Whither are we going?’ inquired the lady tragically.

‘How should _I_ know, ma’am?’ replied Trott with singular coolness; for
the events of the evening had completely hardened him.

‘Stop stop!’ cried the lady, letting down the front glasses of the
chaise.

‘Stay, my dear ma’am!’ said Mr. Trott, pulling the glasses up again
with one hand, and gently squeezing Miss Julia’s waist with the other.
‘There is some mistake here; give me till the end of this stage to
explain my share of it. We must go so far; you cannot be set down here
alone, at this hour of the night.’

The lady consented; the mistake was mutually explained. Mr. Trott was a
young man, had highly promising whiskers, an undeniable tailor, and an
insinuating address—he wanted nothing but valour, and who wants that
with three thousand a-year? The lady had this, and more; she wanted a
young husband, and the only course open to Mr. Trott to retrieve his
disgrace was a rich wife. So, they came to the conclusion that it would
be a pity to have all this trouble and expense for nothing; and that as
they were so far on the road already, they had better go to Gretna
Green, and marry each other; and they did so. And the very next
preceding entry in the Blacksmith’s book, was an entry of the marriage
of Emily Brown with Horace Hunter. Mr. Hunter took his wife home, and
begged pardon, and _was_ pardoned; and Mr. Trott took _his_ wife home,
begged pardon too, and was pardoned also. And Lord Peter, who had been
detained beyond his time by drinking champagne and riding a
steeple-chase, went back to the Honourable Augustus Flair’s, and drank
more champagne, and rode another steeple-chase, and was thrown and
killed. And Horace Hunter took great credit to himself for practising
on the cowardice of Alexander Trott; and all these circumstances were
discovered in time, and carefully noted down; and if you ever stop a
week at the Winglebury Arms, they will give you just this account of
The Great Winglebury Duel.




CHAPTER IX—MRS. JOSEPH PORTER


Most extensive were the preparations at Rose Villa, Clapham Rise, in
the occupation of Mr. Gattleton (a stock-broker in especially
comfortable circumstances), and great was the anxiety of Mr.
Gattleton’s interesting family, as the day fixed for the representation
of the Private Play which had been ‘many months in preparation,’
approached. The whole family was infected with the mania for Private
Theatricals; the house, usually so clean and tidy, was, to use Mr.
Gattleton’s expressive description, ‘regularly turned out o’ windows;’
the large dining-room, dismantled of its furniture, and ornaments,
presented a strange jumble of flats, flies, wings, lamps, bridges,
clouds, thunder and lightning, festoons and flowers, daggers and foil,
and various other messes in theatrical slang included under the
comprehensive name of ‘properties.’ The bedrooms were crowded with
scenery, the kitchen was occupied by carpenters. Rehearsals took place
every other night in the drawing-room, and every sofa in the house was
more or less damaged by the perseverance and spirit with which Mr.
Sempronius Gattleton, and Miss Lucina, rehearsed the smothering scene
in ‘Othello’—it having been determined that that tragedy should form
the first portion of the evening’s entertainments.

‘When we’re a _leetle_ more perfect, I think it will go admirably,’
said Mr. Sempronius, addressing his _corps dramatique_, at the
conclusion of the hundred and fiftieth rehearsal. In consideration of
his sustaining the trifling inconvenience of bearing all the expenses
of the play, Mr. Sempronius had been, in the most handsome manner,
unanimously elected stage-manager. ‘Evans,’ continued Mr. Gattleton,
the younger, addressing a tall, thin, pale young gentleman, with
extensive whiskers—‘Evans, you play _Roderigo_ beautifully.’

‘Beautifully,’ echoed the three Miss Gattletons; for Mr. Evans was
pronounced by all his lady friends to be ‘quite a dear.’ He looked so
interesting, and had such lovely whiskers: to say nothing of his talent
for writing verses in albums and playing the flute! _Roderigo_ simpered
and bowed.

‘But I think,’ added the manager, ‘you are hardly perfect in
the—fall—in the fencing-scene, where you are—you understand?’

‘It’s very difficult,’ said Mr. Evans, thoughtfully; ‘I’ve fallen
about, a good deal, in our counting-house lately, for practice, only I
find it hurts one so. Being obliged to fall backward you see, it
bruises one’s head a good deal.’

‘But you must take care you don’t knock a wing down,’ said Mr.
Gattleton, the elder, who had been appointed prompter, and who took as
much interest in the play as the youngest of the company. ‘The stage is
very narrow, you know.’

‘Oh! don’t be afraid,’ said Mr. Evans, with a very self-satisfied air;
‘I shall fall with my head “off,” and then I can’t do any harm.’

‘But, egad,’ said the manager, rubbing his hands, ‘we shall make a
decided hit in “Masaniello.” Harleigh sings that music admirably.’

Everybody echoed the sentiment. Mr. Harleigh smiled, and looked
foolish—not an unusual thing with him—hummed’ Behold how brightly
breaks the morning,’ and blushed as red as the fisherman’s nightcap he
was trying on.

‘Let’s see,’ resumed the manager, telling the number on his fingers,
‘we shall have three dancing female peasants, besides _Fenella_, and
four fishermen. Then, there’s our man Tom; he can have a pair of ducks
of mine, and a check shirt of Bob’s, and a red nightcap, and he’ll do
for another—that’s five. In the choruses, of course, we can sing at the
sides; and in the market-scene we can walk about in cloaks and things.
When the revolt takes place, Tom must keep rushing in on one side and
out on the other, with a pickaxe, as fast as he can. The effect will be
electrical; it will look exactly as if there were an immense number of
’em. And in the eruption-scene we must burn the red fire, and upset the
tea-trays, and make all sorts of noises—and it’s sure to do.’

‘Sure! sure!’ cried all the performers _unâ voce_—and away hurried Mr.
Sempronius Gattleton to wash the burnt cork off his face, and
superintend the ‘setting up’ of some of the amateur-painted, but
never-sufficiently-to-be-admired, scenery.

Mrs. Gattleton was a kind, good-tempered, vulgar soul, exceedingly fond
of her husband and children, and entertaining only three dislikes. In
the first place, she had a natural antipathy to anybody else’s
unmarried daughters; in the second, she was in bodily fear of anything
in the shape of ridicule; lastly—almost a necessary consequence of this
feeling—she regarded, with feelings of the utmost horror, one Mrs.
Joseph Porter over the way. However, the good folks of Clapham and its
vicinity stood very much in awe of scandal and sarcasm; and thus Mrs.
Joseph Porter was courted, and flattered, and caressed, and invited,
for much the same reason that induces a poor author, without a farthing
in his pocket, to behave with extraordinary civility to a twopenny
postman.

‘Never mind, ma,’ said Miss Emma Porter, in colloquy with her respected
relative, and trying to look unconcerned; ‘if they had invited me, you
know that neither you nor pa would have allowed me to take part in such
an exhibition.’

‘Just what I should have thought from your high sense of propriety,’
returned the mother. ‘I am glad to see, Emma, you know how to designate
the proceeding.’ Miss P., by-the-bye, had only the week before made ‘an
exhibition’ of herself for four days, behind a counter at a fancy fair,
to all and every of her Majesty’s liege subjects who were disposed to
pay a shilling each for the privilege of seeing some four dozen girls
flirting with strangers, and playing at shop.

‘There!’ said Mrs. Porter, looking out of window; ‘there are two rounds
of beef and a ham going in—clearly for sandwiches; and Thomas, the
pastry-cook, says, there have been twelve dozen tarts ordered, besides
blancmange and jellies. Upon my word! think of the Miss Gattletons in
fancy dresses, too!’

‘Oh, it’s too ridiculous!’ said Miss Porter, hysterically.

‘I’ll manage to put them a little out of conceit with the business,
however,’ said Mrs. Porter; and out she went on her charitable errand.

‘Well, my dear Mrs. Gattleton,’ said Mrs. Joseph Porter, after they had
been closeted for some time, and when, by dint of indefatigable
pumping, she had managed to extract all the news about the play, ‘well,
my dear, people may say what they please; indeed we know they will, for
some folks are _so_ ill-natured. Ah, my dear Miss Lucina, how d’ye do?
I was just telling your mamma that I have heard it said, that—’

‘What?’

‘Mrs. Porter is alluding to the play, my dear,’ said Mrs. Gattleton;
‘she was, I am sorry to say, just informing me that—’

‘Oh, now pray don’t mention it,’ interrupted Mrs. Porter; ‘it’s most
absurd—quite as absurd as young What’s-his-name saying he wondered how
Miss Caroline, with such a foot and ankle, could have the vanity to
play _Fenella_.’

‘Highly impertinent, whoever said it,’ said Mrs. Gattleton, bridling
up.

‘Certainly, my dear,’ chimed in the delighted Mrs. Porter; ‘most
undoubtedly! Because, as I said, if Miss Caroline _does_ play
_Fenella_, it doesn’t follow, as a matter of course, that she should
think she has a pretty foot;—and then—such puppies as these young men
are—he had the impudence to say, that—’

How far the amiable Mrs. Porter might have succeeded in her pleasant
purpose, it is impossible to say, had not the entrance of Mr. Thomas
Balderstone, Mrs. Gattleton’s brother, familiarly called in the family
‘Uncle Tom,’ changed the course of conversation, and suggested to her
mind an excellent plan of operation on the evening of the play.

Uncle Tom was very rich, and exceedingly fond of his nephews and
nieces: as a matter of course, therefore, he was an object of great
importance in his own family. He was one of the best-hearted men in
existence: always in a good temper, and always talking. It was his
boast that he wore top-boots on all occasions, and had never worn a
black silk neckerchief; and it was his pride that he remembered all the
principal plays of Shakspeare from beginning to end—and so he did. The
result of this parrot-like accomplishment was, that he was not only
perpetually quoting himself, but that he could never sit by, and hear a
misquotation from the ‘Swan of Avon’ without setting the unfortunate
delinquent right. He was also something of a wag; never missed an
opportunity of saying what he considered a good thing, and invariably
laughed until he cried at anything that appeared to him mirth-moving or
ridiculous.

‘Well, girls!’ said Uncle Tom, after the preparatory ceremony of
kissing and how-d’ye-do-ing had been gone through—‘how d’ye get on?
Know your parts, eh?—Lucina, my dear, act II., scene I—place,
left-cue—“Unknown fate,”—What’s next, eh?—Go on—“The Heavens—”’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Lucina, ‘I recollect—


“The heavens forbid
But that our loves and comforts should increase
Even as our days do grow!”’


‘Make a pause here and there,’ said the old gentleman, who was a great
critic. ‘“But that our loves and comforts should increase”—emphasis on
the last syllable, “crease,”—loud “even,”—one, two, three, four; then
loud again, “as our days do grow;” emphasis on _days_. That’s the way,
my dear; trust to your uncle for emphasis. Ah! Sem, my boy, how are
you?’

‘Very well, thankee, uncle,’ returned Mr. Sempronius, who had just
appeared, looking something like a ringdove, with a small circle round
each eye: the result of his constant corking. ‘Of course we see you on
Thursday.’

‘Of course, of course, my dear boy.’

‘What a pity it is your nephew didn’t think of making you prompter, Mr.
Balderstone!’ whispered Mrs. Joseph Porter; ‘you would have been
invaluable.’

‘Well, I flatter myself, I _should_ have been tolerably up to the
thing,’ responded Uncle Tom.

‘I must bespeak sitting next you on the night,’ resumed Mrs. Porter;
‘and then, if our dear young friends here, should be at all wrong, you
will be able to enlighten me. I shall be so interested.’

‘I am sure I shall be most happy to give you any assistance in my
power’

‘Mind, it’s a bargain.’

‘Certainly.’

‘I don’t know how it is,’ said Mrs. Gattleton to her daughters, as they
were sitting round the fire in the evening, looking over their parts,
‘but I really very much wish Mrs. Joseph Porter wasn’t coming on
Thursday. I am sure she’s scheming something.’

‘She can’t make us ridiculous, however,’ observed Mr. Sempronius
Gattleton, haughtily.

The long-looked-for Thursday arrived in due course, and brought with
it, as Mr. Gattleton, senior, philosophically observed, ‘no
disappointments, to speak of.’ True, it was yet a matter of doubt
whether _Cassio_ would be enabled to get into the dress which had been
sent for him from the masquerade warehouse. It was equally uncertain
whether the principal female singer would be sufficiently recovered
from the influenza to make her appearance; Mr. Harleigh, the
_Masaniello_ of the night, was hoarse, and rather unwell, in
consequence of the great quantity of lemon and sugar-candy he had eaten
to improve his voice; and two flutes and a violoncello had pleaded
severe colds. What of that? the audience were all coming. Everybody
knew his part: the dresses were covered with tinsel and spangles; the
white plumes looked beautiful; Mr. Evans had practised falling until he
was bruised from head to foot and quite perfect; _Iago_ was sure that,
in the stabbing-scene, he should make ‘a decided hit.’ A self-taught
deaf gentleman, who had kindly offered to bring his flute, would be a
most valuable addition to the orchestra; Miss Jenkins’s talent for the
piano was too well known to be doubted for an instant; Mr. Cape had
practised the violin accompaniment with her frequently; and Mr. Brown,
who had kindly undertaken, at a few hours’ notice, to bring his
violoncello, would, no doubt, manage extremely well.

Seven o’clock came, and so did the audience; all the rank and fashion
of Clapham and its vicinity was fast filling the theatre. There were
the Smiths, the Gubbinses, the Nixons, the Dixons, the Hicksons, people
with all sorts of names, two aldermen, a sheriff in perspective, Sir
Thomas Glumper (who had been knighted in the last reign for carrying up
an address on somebody’s escaping from nothing); and last, not least,
there were Mrs. Joseph Porter and Uncle Tom, seated in the centre of
the third row from the stage; Mrs. P. amusing Uncle Tom with all sorts
of stories, and Uncle Tom amusing every one else by laughing most
immoderately.

Ting, ting, ting! went the prompter’s bell at eight o’clock precisely,
and dash went the orchestra into the overture to ‘The Men of
Prometheus.’ The pianoforte player hammered away with laudable
perseverance; and the violoncello, which struck in at intervals,
‘sounded very well, considering.’ The unfortunate individual, however,
who had undertaken to play the flute accompaniment ‘at sight,’ found,
from fatal experience, the perfect truth of the old adage, ‘ought of
sight, out of mind;’ for being very near-sighted, and being placed at a
considerable distance from his music-book, all he had an opportunity of
doing was to play a bar now and then in the wrong place, and put the
other performers out. It is, however, but justice to Mr. Brown to say
that he did this to admiration. The overture, in fact, was not unlike a
race between the different instruments; the piano came in first by
several bars, and the violoncello next, quite distancing the poor
flute; for the deaf gentleman _too-too’d_ away, quite unconscious that
he was at all wrong, until apprised, by the applause of the audience,
that the overture was concluded. A considerable bustle and shuffling of
feet was then heard upon the stage, accompanied by whispers of ‘Here’s
a pretty go!—what’s to be done?’ &c. The audience applauded again, by
way of raising the spirits of the performers; and then Mr. Sempronius
desired the prompter, in a very audible voice, to ‘clear the stage, and
ring up.’

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. Everybody sat down; the curtain
shook; rose sufficiently high to display several pair of yellow boots
paddling about; and there remained.

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again. The curtain was violently
convulsed, but rose no higher; the audience tittered; Mrs. Porter
looked at Uncle Tom; Uncle Tom looked at everybody, rubbing his hands,
and laughing with perfect rapture. After as much ringing with the
little bell as a muffin-boy would make in going down a tolerably long
street, and a vast deal of whispering, hammering, and calling for nails
and cord, the curtain at length rose, and discovered Mr. Sempronius
Gattleton _solus_, and decked for _Othello_. After three distinct
rounds of applause, during which Mr. Sempronius applied his right hand
to his left breast, and bowed in the most approved manner, the manager
advanced and said:

‘Ladies and Gentlemen—I assure you it is with sincere regret, that I
regret to be compelled to inform you, that _Iago_ who was to have
played Mr. Wilson—I beg your pardon, Ladies and Gentlemen, but I am
naturally somewhat agitated (applause)—I mean, Mr. Wilson, who was to
have played _Iago_, is—that is, has been—or, in other words, Ladies and
Gentlemen, the fact is, that I have just received a note, in which I am
informed that _Iago_ is unavoidably detained at the Post-office this
evening. Under these circumstances, I trust—a—a—amateur
performance—a—another gentleman undertaken to read the part—request
indulgence for a short time—courtesy and kindness of a British
audience.’ Overwhelming applause. Exit Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and
curtain falls.

The audience were, of course, exceedingly good-humoured; the whole
business was a joke; and accordingly they waited for an hour with the
utmost patience, being enlivened by an interlude of rout-cakes and
lemonade. It appeared by Mr. Sempronius’s subsequent explanation, that
the delay would not have been so great, had it not so happened that
when the substitute _Iago_ had finished dressing, and just as the play
was on the point of commencing, the original _Iago_ unexpectedly
arrived. The former was therefore compelled to undress, and the latter
to dress for his part; which, as he found some difficulty in getting
into his clothes, occupied no inconsiderable time. At last, the tragedy
began in real earnest. It went off well enough, until the third scene
of the first act, in which _Othello_ addresses the Senate: the only
remarkable circumstance being, that as _Iago_ could not get on any of
the stage boots, in consequence of his feet being violently swelled
with the heat and excitement, he was under the necessity of playing the
part in a pair of Wellingtons, which contrasted rather oddly with his
richly embroidered pantaloons. When _Othello_ started with his address
to the Senate (whose dignity was represented by, the _Duke_, _a_
carpenter, two men engaged on the recommendation of the gardener, and a
boy), Mrs. Porter found the opportunity she so anxiously sought.

Mr. Sempronius proceeded:


‘“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
My very noble and approv’d good masters,
That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,
It is most true;—rude am I in my speech—”’


‘Is that right?’ whispered Mrs. Porter to Uncle Tom.

‘No.’

‘Tell him so, then.’

‘I will. Sem!’ called out Uncle Tom, ‘that’s wrong, my boy.’

‘What’s wrong, uncle?’ demanded _Othello_, quite forgetting the dignity
of his situation.

‘You’ve left out something. “True I have married—”’

‘Oh, ah!’ said Mr. Sempronius, endeavouring to hide his confusion as
much and as ineffectually as the audience attempted to conceal their
half-suppressed tittering, by coughing with extraordinary violence—


—‘“true I have married her;—
The very head and front of my offending
Hath this extent; no more.”


(_Aside_) Why don’t you prompt, father?’

‘Because I’ve mislaid my spectacles,’ said poor Mr. Gattleton, almost
dead with the heat and bustle.

‘There, now it’s “rude am I,”’ said Uncle Tom.

‘Yes, I know it is,’ returned the unfortunate manager, proceeding with
his part.

It would be useless and tiresome to quote the number of instances in
which Uncle Tom, now completely in his element, and instigated by the
mischievous Mrs. Porter, corrected the mistakes of the performers;
suffice it to say, that having mounted his hobby, nothing could induce
him to dismount; so, during the whole remainder of the play, he
performed a kind of running accompaniment, by muttering everybody’s
part as it was being delivered, in an under-tone. The audience were
highly amused, Mrs. Porter delighted, the performers embarrassed; Uncle
Tom never was better pleased in all his life; and Uncle Tom’s nephews
and nieces had never, although the declared heirs to his large
property, so heartily wished him gathered to his fathers as on that
memorable occasion.

Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the ardour of the
_dramatis personae_. None of the performers could walk in their tights,
or move their arms in their jackets; the pantaloons were too small, the
boots too large, and the swords of all shapes and sizes. Mr. Evans,
naturally too tall for the scenery, wore a black velvet hat with
immense white plumes, the glory of which was lost in ‘the flies;’ and
the only other inconvenience of which was, that when it was off his
head he could not put it on, and when it was on he could not take it
off. Notwithstanding all his practice, too, he fell with his head and
shoulders as neatly through one of the side scenes, as a harlequin
would jump through a panel in a Christmas pantomime. The pianoforte
player, overpowered by the extreme heat of the room, fainted away at
the commencement of the entertainments, leaving the music of
‘Masaniello’ to the flute and violoncello. The orchestra complained
that Mr. Harleigh put them out, and Mr. Harleigh declared that the
orchestra prevented his singing a note. The fishermen, who were hired
for the occasion, revolted to the very life, positively refusing to
play without an increased allowance of spirits; and, their demand being
complied with, getting drunk in the eruption-scene as naturally as
possible. The red fire, which was burnt at the conclusion of the second
act, not only nearly suffocated the audience, but nearly set the house
on fire into the bargain; and, as it was, the remainder of the piece
was acted in a thick fog.

In short, the whole affair was, as Mrs. Joseph Porter triumphantly told
everybody, ‘a complete failure.’ The audience went home at four o’clock
in the morning, exhausted with laughter, suffering from severe
headaches, and smelling terribly of brimstone and gunpowder. The
Messrs. Gattleton, senior and junior, retired to rest, with the vague
idea of emigrating to Swan River early in the ensuing week.

Rose Villa has once again resumed its wonted appearance; the
dining-room furniture has been replaced; the tables are as nicely
polished as formerly; the horsehair chairs are ranged against the wall,
as regularly as ever; Venetian blinds have been fitted to every window
in the house to intercept the prying gaze of Mrs. Joseph Porter. The
subject of theatricals is never mentioned in the Gattleton family,
unless, indeed, by Uncle Tom, who cannot refrain from sometimes
expressing his surprise and regret at finding that his nephews and
nieces appear to have lost the relish they once possessed for the
beauties of Shakspeare, and quotations from the works of that immortal
bard.




CHAPTER X—A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. WATKINS TOTTLE




CHAPTER THE FIRST


Matrimony is proverbially a serious undertaking. Like an over-weening
predilection for brandy-and-water, it is a misfortune into which a man
easily falls, and from which he finds it remarkably difficult to
extricate himself. It is of no use telling a man who is timorous on
these points, that it is but one plunge, and all is over. They say the
same thing at the Old Bailey, and the unfortunate victims derive as
much comfort from the assurance in the one case as in the other.

Mr. Watkins Tottle was a rather uncommon compound of strong uxorious
inclinations, and an unparalleled degree of anti-connubial timidity. He
was about fifty years of age; stood four feet six inches and
three-quarters in his socks—for he never stood in stockings at
all—plump, clean, and rosy. He looked something like a vignette to one
of Richardson’s novels, and had a clean-cravatish formality of manner,
and kitchen-pokerness of carriage, which Sir Charles Grandison himself
might have envied. He lived on an annuity, which was well adapted to
the individual who received it, in one respect—it was rather small. He
received it in periodical payments on every alternate Monday; but he
ran himself out, about a day after the expiration of the first week, as
regularly as an eight-day clock; and then, to make the comparison
complete, his landlady wound him up, and he went on with a regular
tick.

Mr. Watkins Tottle had long lived in a state of single blessedness, as
bachelors say, or single cursedness, as spinsters think; but the idea
of matrimony had never ceased to haunt him. Wrapt in profound reveries
on this never-failing theme, fancy transformed his small parlour in
Cecil-street, Strand, into a neat house in the suburbs; the
half-hundredweight of coals under the kitchen-stairs suddenly sprang up
into three tons of the best Walls-end; his small French bedstead was
converted into a regular matrimonial four-poster; and in the empty
chair on the opposite side of the fireplace, imagination seated a
beautiful young lady, with a very little independence or will of her
own, and a very large independence under a will of her father’s.

‘Who’s there?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle, as a gentle tap at his
room-door disturbed these meditations one evening.

‘Tottle, my dear fellow, how _do_ you do?’ said a short elderly
gentleman with a gruffish voice, bursting into the room, and replying
to the question by asking another.

‘Told you I should drop in some evening,’ said the short gentleman, as
he delivered his hat into Tottle’s hand, after a little struggling and
dodging.

‘Delighted to see you, I’m sure,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, wishing
internally that his visitor had ‘dropped in’ to the Thames at the
bottom of the street, instead of dropping into his parlour. The
fortnight was nearly up, and Watkins was hard up.

‘How is Mrs. Gabriel Parsons?’ inquired Tottle.

‘Quite well, thank you,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, for that was the
name the short gentleman revelled in. Here there was a pause; the short
gentleman looked at the left hob of the fireplace; Mr. Watkins Tottle
stared vacancy out of countenance.

‘Quite well,’ repeated the short gentleman, when five minutes had
expired. ‘I may say remarkably well.’ And he rubbed the palms of his
hands as hard as if he were going to strike a light by friction.

‘What will you take?’ inquired Tottle, with the desperate suddenness of
a man who knew that unless the visitor took his leave, he stood very
little chance of taking anything else.

‘Oh, I don’t know—have you any whiskey?’

‘Why,’ replied Tottle, very slowly, for all this was gaining time, ‘I
_had_ some capital, and remarkably strong whiskey last week; but it’s
all gone—and therefore its strength—’

‘Is much beyond proof; or, in other words, impossible to be proved,’
said the short gentleman; and he laughed very heartily, and seemed
quite glad the whiskey had been drunk. Mr. Tottle smiled—but it was the
smile of despair. When Mr. Gabriel Parsons had done laughing, he
delicately insinuated that, in the absence of whiskey, he would not be
averse to brandy. And Mr. Watkins Tottle, lighting a flat candle very
ostentatiously; and displaying an immense key, which belonged to the
street-door, but which, for the sake of appearances, occasionally did
duty in an imaginary wine-cellar; left the room to entreat his landlady
to charge their glasses, and charge them in the bill. The application
was successful; the spirits were speedily called—not from the vasty
deep, but the adjacent wine-vaults. The two short gentlemen mixed their
grog; and then sat cosily down before the fire—a pair of shorts, airing
themselves.

‘Tottle,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘you know my way—off-hand, open,
say what I mean, mean what I say, hate reserve, and can’t bear
affectation. One, is a bad domino which only hides what good people
have about ’em, without making the bad look better; and the other is
much about the same thing as pinking a white cotton stocking to make it
look like a silk one. Now listen to what I’m going to say.’

Here, the little gentleman paused, and took a long pull at his
brandy-and-water. Mr. Watkins Tottle took a sip of his, stirred the
fire, and assumed an air of profound attention.

‘It’s of no use humming and ha’ing about the matter,’ resumed the short
gentleman.—‘You want to get married.’

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle evasively; for he trembled violently,
and felt a sudden tingling throughout his whole frame; ‘why—I should
certainly—at least, I _think_ I should like—’

‘Won’t do,’ said the short gentleman.—‘Plain and free—or there’s an end
of the matter. Do you want money?’

‘You know I do.’

‘You admire the sex?’

‘I do.’

‘And you’d like to be married?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then you shall be. There’s an end of that.’ Thus saying, Mr. Gabriel
Parsons took a pinch of snuff, and mixed another glass.

‘Let me entreat you to be more explanatory,’ said Tottle. ‘Really, as
the party principally interested, I cannot consent to be disposed of,
in this way.’

‘I’ll tell you,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, warming with the subject,
and the brandy-and-water—‘I know a lady—she’s stopping with my wife
now—who is just the thing for you. Well educated; talks French; plays
the piano; knows a good deal about flowers, and shells, and all that
sort of thing; and has five hundred a year, with an uncontrolled power
of disposing of it, by her last will and testament.’

‘I’ll pay my addresses to her,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle. ‘She isn’t
_very_ young—is she?’

‘Not very; just the thing for you. I’ve said that already.’

‘What coloured hair has the lady?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Egad, I hardly recollect,’ replied Gabriel, with coolness. ‘Perhaps I
ought to have observed, at first, she wears a front.’

‘A what?’ ejaculated Tottle.

‘One of those things with curls, along here,’ said Parsons, drawing a
straight line across his forehead, just over his eyes, in illustration
of his meaning. ‘I know the front’s black; I can’t speak quite
positively about her own hair; because, unless one walks behind her,
and catches a glimpse of it under her bonnet, one seldom sees it; but I
should say that it was _rather_ lighter than the front—a shade of a
greyish tinge, perhaps.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle looked as if he had certain misgivings of mind. Mr.
Gabriel Parsons perceived it, and thought it would be safe to begin the
next attack without delay.

‘Now, were you ever in love, Tottle?’ he inquired.

Mr. Watkins Tottle blushed up to the eyes, and down to the chin, and
exhibited a most extensive combination of colours as he confessed the
soft impeachment.

‘I suppose you popped the question, more than once, when you were a
young—I beg your pardon—a younger—man,’ said Parsons.

‘Never in my life!’ replied his friend, apparently indignant at being
suspected of such an act. ‘Never! The fact is, that I entertain, as you
know, peculiar opinions on these subjects. I am not afraid of ladies,
young or old—far from it; but, I think, that in compliance with the
custom of the present day, they allow too much freedom of speech and
manner to marriageable men. Now, the fact is, that anything like this
easy freedom I never could acquire; and as I am always afraid of going
too far, I am generally, I dare say, considered formal and cold.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder if you were,’ replied Parsons, gravely; ‘I
shouldn’t wonder. However, you’ll be all right in this case; for the
strictness and delicacy of this lady’s ideas greatly exceed your own.
Lord bless you, why, when she came to our house, there was an old
portrait of some man or other, with two large, black, staring eyes,
hanging up in her bedroom; she positively refused to go to bed there,
till it was taken down, considering it decidedly wrong.’

‘I think so, too,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle; ‘certainly.’

‘And then, the other night—I never laughed so much in my life’—resumed
Mr. Gabriel Parsons; ‘I had driven home in an easterly wind, and caught
a devil of a face-ache. Well; as Fanny—that’s Mrs. Parsons, you
know—and this friend of hers, and I, and Frank Ross, were playing a
rubber, I said, jokingly, that when I went to bed I should wrap my head
in Fanny’s flannel petticoat. She instantly threw up her cards, and
left the room.’

‘Quite right!’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle; ‘she could not possibly have
behaved in a more dignified manner. What did you do?’

‘Do?—Frank took dummy; and I won sixpence.’

‘But, didn’t you apologise for hurting her feelings?’

‘Devil a bit. Next morning at breakfast, we talked it over. She
contended that any reference to a flannel petticoat was improper;—men
ought not to be supposed to know that such things were. I pleaded my
coverture; being a married man.’

‘And what did the lady say to that?’ inquired Tottle, deeply
interested.

‘Changed her ground, and said that Frank being a single man, its
impropriety was obvious.’

‘Noble-minded creature!’ exclaimed the enraptured Tottle.

‘Oh! both Fanny and I said, at once, that she was regularly cut out for
you.’

A gleam of placid satisfaction shone on the circular face of Mr.
Watkins Tottle, as he heard the prophecy.

‘There’s one thing I can’t understand,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he
rose to depart; ‘I cannot, for the life and soul of me, imagine how the
deuce you’ll ever contrive to come together. The lady would certainly
go into convulsions if the subject were mentioned.’ Mr. Gabriel Parsons
sat down again, and laughed until he was weak. Tottle owed him money,
so he had a perfect right to laugh at Tottle’s expense.

Mr. Watkins Tottle feared, in his own mind, that this was another
characteristic which he had in common with this modern Lucretia. He,
however, accepted the invitation to dine with the Parsonses on the next
day but one, with great firmness: and looked forward to the
introduction, when again left alone, with tolerable composure.

The sun that rose on the next day but one, had never beheld a sprucer
personage on the outside of the Norwood stage, than Mr. Watkins Tottle;
and when the coach drew up before a cardboard-looking house with
disguised chimneys, and a lawn like a large sheet of green
letter-paper, he certainly had never lighted to his place of
destination a gentleman who felt more uncomfortable.

The coach stopped, and Mr. Watkins Tottle jumped—we beg his
pardon—alighted, with great dignity. ‘All right!’ said he, and away
went the coach up the hill with that beautiful equanimity of pace for
which ‘short’ stages are generally remarkable.

Mr. Watkins Tottle gave a faltering jerk to the handle of the
garden-gate bell. He essayed a more energetic tug, and his previous
nervousness was not at all diminished by hearing the bell ringing like
a fire alarum.

‘Is Mr. Parsons at home?’ inquired Tottle of the man who opened the
gate. He could hardly hear himself speak, for the bell had not yet done
tolling.

‘Here I am,’ shouted a voice on the lawn,—and there was Mr. Gabriel
Parsons in a flannel jacket, running backwards and forwards, from a
wicket to two hats piled on each other, and from the two hats to the
wicket, in the most violent manner, while another gentleman with his
coat off was getting down the area of the house, after a ball. When the
gentleman without the coat had found it—which he did in less than ten
minutes—he ran back to the hats, and Gabriel Parsons pulled up. Then,
the gentleman without the coat called out ‘play,’ very loudly, and
bowled. Then Mr. Gabriel Parsons knocked the ball several yards, and
took another run. Then, the other gentleman aimed at the wicket, and
didn’t hit it; and Mr. Gabriel Parsons, having finished running on his
own account, laid down the bat and ran after the ball, which went into
a neighbouring field. They called this cricket.

‘Tottle, will you “go in?”’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he
approached him, wiping the perspiration off his face.

Mr. Watkins Tottle declined the offer, the bare idea of accepting which
made him even warmer than his friend.

‘Then we’ll go into the house, as it’s past four, and I shall have to
wash my hands before dinner,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘Here, I hate
ceremony, you know! Timson, that’s Tottle—Tottle, that’s Timson; bred
for the church, which I fear will never be bread for him;’ and he
chuckled at the old joke. Mr. Timson bowed carelessly. Mr. Watkins
Tottle bowed stiffly. Mr. Gabriel Parsons led the way to the house. He
was a rich sugar-baker, who mistook rudeness for honesty, and abrupt
bluntness for an open and candid manner; many besides Gabriel mistake
bluntness for sincerity.

Mrs. Gabriel Parsons received the visitors most graciously on the
steps, and preceded them to the drawing-room. On the sofa, was seated a
lady of very prim appearance, and remarkably inanimate. She was one of
those persons at whose age it is impossible to make any reasonable
guess; her features might have been remarkably pretty when she was
younger, and they might always have presented the same appearance. Her
complexion—with a slight trace of powder here and there—was as clear as
that of a well-made wax doll, and her face as expressive. She was
handsomely dressed, and was winding up a gold watch.

‘Miss Lillerton, my dear, this is our friend Mr. Watkins Tottle; a very
old acquaintance I assure you,’ said Mrs. Parsons, presenting the
Strephon of Cecil-street, Strand. The lady rose, and made a deep
courtesy; Mr. Watkins Tottle made a bow.

‘Splendid, majestic creature!’ thought Tottle.

Mr. Timson advanced, and Mr. Watkins Tottle began to hate him. Men
generally discover a rival, instinctively, and Mr. Watkins Tottle felt
that his hate was deserved.

‘May I beg,’ said the reverend gentleman,—‘May I beg to call upon you,
Miss Lillerton, for some trifling donation to my soup, coals, and
blanket distribution society?’

‘Put my name down, for two sovereigns, if you please,’ responded Miss
Lillerton.

‘You are truly charitable, madam,’ said the Reverend Mr. Timson, ‘and
we know that charity will cover a multitude of sins. Let me beg you to
understand that I do not say this from the supposition that you have
many sins which require palliation; believe me when I say that I never
yet met any one who had fewer to atone for, than Miss Lillerton.’

Something like a bad imitation of animation lighted up the lady’s face,
as she acknowledged the compliment. Watkins Tottle incurred the sin of
wishing that the ashes of the Reverend Charles Timson were quietly
deposited in the churchyard of his curacy, wherever it might be.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ interrupted Parsons, who had just appeared with
clean hands, and a black coat, ‘it’s my private opinion, Timson, that
your “distribution society” is rather a humbug.’

‘You are so severe,’ replied Timson, with a Christian smile: he
disliked Parsons, but liked his dinners.

‘So positively unjust!’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Certainly,’ observed Tottle. The lady looked up; her eyes met those of
Mr. Watkins Tottle. She withdrew them in a sweet confusion, and Watkins
Tottle did the same—the confusion was mutual.

‘Why,’ urged Mr. Parsons, pursuing his objections, ‘what on earth is
the use of giving a man coals who has nothing to cook, or giving him
blankets when he hasn’t a bed, or giving him soup when he requires
substantial food?—“like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.” Why
not give ’em a trifle of money, as I do, when I think they deserve it,
and let them purchase what they think best? Why?—because your
subscribers wouldn’t see their names flourishing in print on the
church-door—that’s the reason.’

‘Really, Mr. Parsons, I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that I wish to
see _my_ name in print, on the church-door,’ interrupted Miss
Lillerton.

‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, putting in another word, and
getting another glance.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Parsons. ‘I dare say you wouldn’t mind seeing
it in writing, though, in the church register—eh?’

‘Register! What register?’ inquired the lady gravely.

‘Why, the register of marriages, to be sure,’ replied Parsons,
chuckling at the sally, and glancing at Tottle. Mr. Watkins Tottle
thought he should have fainted for shame, and it is quite impossible to
imagine what effect the joke would have had upon the lady, if dinner
had not been, at that moment, announced. Mr. Watkins Tottle, with an
unprecedented effort of gallantry, offered the tip of his little
finger; Miss Lillerton accepted it gracefully, with maiden modesty; and
they proceeded in due state to the dinner-table, where they were soon
deposited side by side. The room was very snug, the dinner very good,
and the little party in spirits. The conversation became pretty
general, and when Mr. Watkins Tottle had extracted one or two cold
observations from his neighbour, and had taken wine with her, he began
to acquire confidence rapidly. The cloth was removed; Mrs. Gabriel
Parsons drank four glasses of port on the plea of being a nurse just
then; and Miss Lillerton took about the same number of sips, on the
plea of not wanting any at all. At length, the ladies retired, to the
great gratification of Mr. Gabriel Parsons, who had been coughing and
frowning at his wife, for half-an-hour previously—signals which Mrs.
Parsons never happened to observe, until she had been pressed to take
her ordinary quantum, which, to avoid giving trouble, she generally did
at once.

‘What do you think of her?’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons of Mr. Watkins
Tottle, in an under-tone.

‘I dote on her with enthusiasm already!’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Gentlemen, pray let us drink “the ladies,”’ said the Reverend Mr.
Timson.

‘The ladies!’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, emptying his glass. In the
fulness of his confidence, he felt as if he could make love to a dozen
ladies, off-hand.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘I remember when I was a young man—fill
your glass, Timson.’

‘I have this moment emptied it.’

‘Then fill again.’

‘I will,’ said Timson, suiting the action to the word.

‘I remember,’ resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘when I was a younger man,
with what a strange compound of feelings I used to drink that toast,
and how I used to think every woman was an angel.’

‘Was that before you were married?’ mildly inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Oh! certainly,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons. ‘I have never thought so
since; and a precious milksop I must have been, ever to have thought so
at all. But, you know, I married Fanny under the oddest, and most
ridiculous circumstances possible.’

‘What were they, if one may inquire?’ asked Timson, who had heard the
story, on an average, twice a week for the last six months. Mr. Watkins
Tottle listened attentively, in the hope of picking up some suggestion
that might be useful to him in his new undertaking.

‘I spent my wedding-night in a back-kitchen chimney,’ said Parsons, by
way of a beginning.

‘In a back-kitchen chimney!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle. ‘How dreadful!’

‘Yes, it wasn’t very pleasant,’ replied the small host. ‘The fact is,
Fanny’s father and mother liked me well enough as an individual, but
had a decided objection to my becoming a husband. You see, I hadn’t any
money in those days, and they had; and so they wanted Fanny to pick up
somebody else. However, we managed to discover the state of each
other’s affections somehow. I used to meet her, at some mutual friends’
parties; at first we danced together, and talked, and flirted, and all
that sort of thing; then, I used to like nothing so well as sitting by
her side—we didn’t talk so much then, but I remember I used to have a
great notion of looking at her out of the extreme corner of my left
eye—and then I got very miserable and sentimental, and began to write
verses, and use Macassar oil. At last I couldn’t bear it any longer,
and after I had walked up and down the sunny side of Oxford-street in
tight boots for a week—and a devilish hot summer it was too—in the hope
of meeting her, I sat down and wrote a letter, and begged her to manage
to see me clandestinely, for I wanted to hear her decision from her own
mouth. I said I had discovered, to my perfect satisfaction, that I
couldn’t live without her, and that if she didn’t have me, I had made
up my mind to take prussic acid, or take to drinking, or emigrate, so
as to take myself off in some way or other. Well, I borrowed a pound,
and bribed the housemaid to give her the note, which she did.’

‘And what was the reply?’ inquired Timson, who had found, before, that
to encourage the repetition of old stories is to get a general
invitation.

‘Oh, the usual one! Fanny expressed herself very miserable; hinted at
the possibility of an early grave; said that nothing should induce her
to swerve from the duty she owed her parents; implored me to forget
her, and find out somebody more deserving, and all that sort of thing.
She said she could, on no account, think of meeting me unknown to her
pa and ma; and entreated me, as she should be in a particular part of
Kensington Gardens at eleven o’clock next morning, not to attempt to
meet her there.’

‘You didn’t go, of course?’ said Watkins Tottle.

‘Didn’t I?—Of course I did. There she was, with the identical housemaid
in perspective, in order that there might be no interruption. We walked
about, for a couple of hours; made ourselves delightfully miserable;
and were regularly engaged. Then, we began to “correspond”—that is to
say, we used to exchange about four letters a day; what we used to say
in ’em I can’t imagine. And I used to have an interview, in the
kitchen, or the cellar, or some such place, every evening. Well, things
went on in this way for some time; and we got fonder of each other
every day. At last, as our love was raised to such a pitch, and as my
salary had been raised too, shortly before, we determined on a secret
marriage. Fanny arranged to sleep at a friend’s, on the previous night;
we were to be married early in the morning; and then we were to return
to her home and be pathetic. She was to fall at the old gentleman’s
feet, and bathe his boots with her tears; and I was to hug the old lady
and call her “mother,” and use my pocket-handkerchief as much as
possible. Married we were, the next morning; two girls-friends of
Fanny’s—acting as bridesmaids; and a man, who was hired for five
shillings and a pint of porter, officiating as father. Now, the old
lady unfortunately put off her return from Ramsgate, where she had been
paying a visit, until the next morning; and as we placed great reliance
on her, we agreed to postpone our confession for four-and-twenty hours.
My newly-made wife returned home, and I spent my wedding-day in
strolling about Hampstead-heath, and execrating my father-in-law. Of
course, I went to comfort my dear little wife at night, as much as I
could, with the assurance that our troubles would soon be over. I
opened the garden-gate, of which I had a key, and was shown by the
servant to our old place of meeting—a back kitchen, with a stone-floor
and a dresser: upon which, in the absence of chairs, we used to sit and
make love.’

‘Make love upon a kitchen-dresser!’ interrupted Mr. Watkins Tottle,
whose ideas of decorum were greatly outraged.

‘Ah! On a kitchen-dresser!’ replied Parsons. ‘And let me tell you, old
fellow, that, if you were really over head-and-ears in love, and had no
other place to make love in, you’d be devilish glad to avail yourself
of such an opportunity. However, let me see;—where was I?’

‘On the dresser,’ suggested Timson.

‘Oh—ah! Well, here I found poor Fanny, quite disconsolate and
uncomfortable. The old boy had been very cross all day, which made her
feel still more lonely; and she was quite out of spirits. So, I put a
good face on the matter, and laughed it off, and said we should enjoy
the pleasures of a matrimonial life more by contrast; and, at length,
poor Fanny brightened up a little. I stopped there, till about eleven
o’clock, and, just as I was taking my leave for the fourteenth time,
the girl came running down the stairs, without her shoes, in a great
fright, to tell us that the old villain—Heaven forgive me for calling
him so, for he is dead and gone now!—prompted I suppose by the prince
of darkness, was coming down, to draw his own beer for supper—a thing
he had not done before, for six months, to my certain knowledge; for
the cask stood in that very back kitchen. If he discovered me there,
explanation would have been out of the question; for he was so
outrageously violent, when at all excited, that he never would have
listened to me. There was only one thing to be done. The chimney was a
very wide one; it had been originally built for an oven; went up
perpendicularly for a few feet, and then shot backward and formed a
sort of small cavern. My hopes and fortune—the means of our joint
existence almost—were at stake. I scrambled in like a squirrel; coiled
myself up in this recess; and, as Fanny and the girl replaced the deal
chimney-board, I could see the light of the candle which my unconscious
father-in-law carried in his hand. I heard him draw the beer; and I
never heard beer run so slowly. He was just leaving the kitchen, and I
was preparing to descend, when down came the infernal chimney-board
with a tremendous crash. He stopped and put down the candle and the jug
of beer on the dresser; he was a nervous old fellow, and any unexpected
noise annoyed him. He coolly observed that the fire-place was never
used, and sending the frightened servant into the next kitchen for a
hammer and nails, actually nailed up the board, and locked the door on
the outside. So, there was I, on my wedding-night, in the light
kerseymere trousers, fancy waistcoat, and blue coat, that I had been
married in in the morning, in a back-kitchen chimney, the bottom of
which was nailed up, and the top of which had been formerly raised some
fifteen feet, to prevent the smoke from annoying the neighbours. And
there,’ added Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he passed the bottle, ‘there I
remained till half-past seven the next morning, when the housemaid’s
sweetheart, who was a carpenter, unshelled me. The old dog had nailed
me up so securely, that, to this very hour, I firmly believe that no
one but a carpenter could ever have got me out.’

‘And what did Mrs. Parsons’s father say, when he found you were
married?’ inquired Watkins Tottle, who, although he never saw a joke,
was not satisfied until he heard a story to the very end.

‘Why, the affair of the chimney so tickled his fancy, that he pardoned
us off-hand, and allowed us something to live on till he went the way
of all flesh. I spent the next night in his second-floor front, much
more comfortably than I had spent the preceding one; for, as you will
probably guess—’

‘Please, sir, missis has made tea,’ said a middle-aged female servant,
bobbing into the room.

‘That’s the very housemaid that figures in my story,’ said Mr. Gabriel
Parsons. ‘She went into Fanny’s service when we were first married, and
has been with us ever since; but I don’t think she has felt one atom of
respect for me since the morning she saw me released, when she went
into violent hysterics, to which she has been subject ever since. Now,
shall we join the ladies?’

‘If you please,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘By all means,’ added the obsequious Mr. Timson; and the trio made for
the drawing-room accordingly.

Tea being concluded, and the toast and cups having been duly handed,
and occasionally upset, by Mr. Watkins Tottle, a rubber was proposed.
They cut for partners—Mr. and Mrs. Parsons; and Mr. Watkins Tottle and
Miss Lillerton. Mr. Timson having conscientious scruples on the subject
of card-playing, drank brandy-and-water, and kept up a running spar
with Mr. Watkins Tottle. The evening went off well; Mr. Watkins Tottle
was in high spirits, having some reason to be gratified with his
reception by Miss Lillerton; and before he left, a small party was made
up to visit the Beulah Spa on the following Saturday.

‘It’s all right, I think,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons to Mr. Watkins
Tottle as he opened the garden gate for him.

‘I hope so,’ he replied, squeezing his friend’s hand.

‘You’ll be down by the first coach on Saturday,’ said Mr. Gabriel
Parsons.

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle. ‘Undoubtedly.’

But fortune had decreed that Mr. Watkins Tottle should not be down by
the first coach on Saturday. His adventures on that day, however, and
the success of his wooing, are subjects for another chapter.




CHAPTER THE SECOND


‘The first coach has not come in yet, has it, Tom?’ inquired Mr.
Gabriel Parsons, as he very complacently paced up and down the fourteen
feet of gravel which bordered the ‘lawn,’ on the Saturday morning which
had been fixed upon for the Beulah Spa jaunt.

‘No, sir; I haven’t seen it,’ replied a gardener in a blue apron, who
let himself out to do the ornamental for half-a-crown a day and his
‘keep.’

‘Time Tottle was down,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ruminating—‘Oh, here
he is, no doubt,’ added Gabriel, as a cab drove rapidly up the hill;
and he buttoned his dressing-gown, and opened the gate to receive the
expected visitor. The cab stopped, and out jumped a man in a coarse
Petersham great-coat, whity-brown neckerchief, faded black suit,
gamboge-coloured top-boots, and one of those large-crowned hats,
formerly seldom met with, but now very generally patronised by
gentlemen and costermongers.

‘Mr. Parsons?’ said the man, looking at the superscription of a note he
held in his hand, and addressing Gabriel with an inquiring air.

‘_My_ name is Parsons,’ responded the sugar-baker.

‘I’ve brought this here note,’ replied the individual in the painted
tops, in a hoarse whisper: ‘I’ve brought this here note from a gen’lm’n
as come to our house this mornin’.’

‘I expected the gentleman at my house,’ said Parsons, as he broke the
seal, which bore the impression of her Majesty’s profile as it is seen
on a sixpence.

‘I’ve no doubt the gen’lm’n would ha’ been here, replied the stranger,
‘if he hadn’t happened to call at our house first; but we never trusts
no gen’lm’n furder nor we can see him—no mistake about that
there’—added the unknown, with a facetious grin; ‘beg your pardon, sir,
no offence meant, only—once in, and I wish you may—catch the idea,
sir?’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons was not remarkable for catching anything suddenly,
but a cold. He therefore only bestowed a glance of profound
astonishment on his mysterious companion, and proceeded to unfold the
note of which he had been the bearer. Once opened and the idea was
caught with very little difficulty. Mr. Watkins Tottle had been
suddenly arrested for 33_l._ 10_s._ 4_d._, and dated his communication
from a lock-up house in the vicinity of Chancery-lane.

‘Unfortunate affair this!’ said Parsons, refolding the note.

‘Oh! nothin’ ven you’re used to it,’ coolly observed the man in the
Petersham.

‘Tom!’ exclaimed Parsons, after a few minutes’ consideration, ‘just put
the horse in, will you?—Tell the gentleman that I shall be there almost
as soon as you are,’ he continued, addressing the sheriff-officer’s
Mercury.

‘Werry well,’ replied that important functionary; adding, in a
confidential manner, ‘I’d adwise the gen’lm’n’s friends to settle. You
see it’s a mere trifle; and, unless the gen’lm’n means to go up afore
the court, it’s hardly worth while waiting for detainers, you know. Our
governor’s wide awake, he is. I’ll never say nothin’ agin him, nor no
man; but he knows what’s o’clock, he does, uncommon.’ Having delivered
this eloquent, and, to Parsons, particularly intelligible harangue, the
meaning of which was eked out by divers nods and winks, the gentleman
in the boots reseated himself in the cab, which went rapidly off, and
was soon out of sight. Mr. Gabriel Parsons continued to pace up and
down the pathway for some minutes, apparently absorbed in deep
meditation. The result of his cogitations seemed to be perfectly
satisfactory to himself, for he ran briskly into the house; said that
business had suddenly summoned him to town; that he had desired the
messenger to inform Mr. Watkins Tottle of the fact; and that they would
return together to dinner. He then hastily equipped himself for a
drive, and mounting his gig, was soon on his way to the establishment
of Mr. Solomon Jacobs, situate (as Mr. Watkins Tottle had informed him)
in Cursitor-street, Chancery-lane.

When a man is in a violent hurry to get on, and has a specific object
in view, the attainment of which depends on the completion of his
journey, the difficulties which interpose themselves in his way appear
not only to be innumerable, but to have been called into existence
especially for the occasion. The remark is by no means a new one, and
Mr. Gabriel Parsons had practical and painful experience of its justice
in the course of his drive. There are three classes of animated objects
which prevent your driving with any degree of comfort or celerity
through streets which are but little frequented—they are pigs,
children, and old women. On the occasion we are describing, the pigs
were luxuriating on cabbage-stalks, and the shuttlecocks fluttered from
the little deal battledores, and the children played in the road; and
women, with a basket in one hand, and the street-door key in the other,
_would_ cross just before the horse’s head, until Mr. Gabriel Parsons
was perfectly savage with vexation, and quite hoarse with hoi-ing and
imprecating. Then, when he got into Fleet-street, there was ‘a
stoppage,’ in which people in vehicles have the satisfaction of
remaining stationary for half an hour, and envying the slowest
pedestrians; and where policemen rush about, and seize hold of horses’
bridles, and back them into shop-windows, by way of clearing the road
and preventing confusion. At length Mr. Gabriel Parsons turned into
Chancery-lane, and having inquired for, and been directed to
Cursitor-street (for it was a locality of which he was quite ignorant),
he soon found himself opposite the house of Mr. Solomon Jacobs.
Confiding his horse and gig to the care of one of the fourteen boys who
had followed him from the other side of Blackfriars-bridge on the
chance of his requiring their services, Mr. Gabriel Parsons crossed the
road and knocked at an inner door, the upper part of which was of
glass, grated like the windows of this inviting mansion with iron
bars—painted white to look comfortable.

The knock was answered by a sallow-faced, red-haired, sulky boy, who,
after surveying Mr. Gabriel Parsons through the glass, applied a large
key to an immense wooden excrescence, which was in reality a lock, but
which, taken in conjunction with the iron nails with which the panels
were studded, gave the door the appearance of being subject to warts.

‘I want to see Mr. Watkins Tottle,’ said Parsons.

‘It’s the gentleman that come in this morning, Jem,’ screamed a voice
from the top of the kitchen-stairs, which belonged to a dirty woman who
had just brought her chin to a level with the passage-floor. ‘The
gentleman’s in the coffee-room.’

‘Up-stairs, sir,’ said the boy, just opening the door wide enough to
let Parsons in without squeezing him, and double-locking it the moment
he had made his way through the aperture—‘First floor—door on the
left.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons thus instructed, ascended the uncarpeted and
ill-lighted staircase, and after giving several subdued taps at the
before-mentioned ‘door on the left,’ which were rendered inaudible by
the hum of voices within the room, and the hissing noise attendant on
some frying operations which were carrying on below stairs, turned the
handle, and entered the apartment. Being informed that the unfortunate
object of his visit had just gone up-stairs to write a letter, he had
leisure to sit down and observe the scene before him.

The room—which was a small, confined den—was partitioned off into
boxes, like the common-room of some inferior eating-house. The dirty
floor had evidently been as long a stranger to the scrubbing-brush as
to carpet or floor-cloth: and the ceiling was completely blackened by
the flare of the oil-lamp by which the room was lighted at night. The
gray ashes on the edges of the tables, and the cigar ends which were
plentifully scattered about the dusty grate, fully accounted for the
intolerable smell of tobacco which pervaded the place; and the empty
glasses and half-saturated slices of lemon on the tables, together with
the porter pots beneath them, bore testimony to the frequent libations
in which the individuals who honoured Mr. Solomon Jacobs by a temporary
residence in his house indulged. Over the mantel-shelf was a paltry
looking-glass, extending about half the width of the chimney-piece; but
by way of counterpoise, the ashes were confined by a rusty fender about
twice as long as the hearth.

From this cheerful room itself, the attention of Mr. Gabriel Parsons
was naturally directed to its inmates. In one of the boxes two men were
playing at cribbage with a very dirty pack of cards, some with blue,
some with green, and some with red backs—selections from decayed packs.
The cribbage board had been long ago formed on the table by some
ingenious visitor with the assistance of a pocket-knife and a
two-pronged fork, with which the necessary number of holes had been
made in the table at proper distances for the reception of the wooden
pegs. In another box a stout, hearty-looking man, of about forty, was
eating some dinner which his wife—an equally comfortable-looking
personage—had brought him in a basket: and in a third, a
genteel-looking young man was talking earnestly, and in a low tone, to
a young female, whose face was concealed by a thick veil, but whom Mr.
Gabriel Parsons immediately set down in his own mind as the debtor’s
wife. A young fellow of vulgar manners, dressed in the very extreme of
the prevailing fashion, was pacing up and down the room, with a lighted
cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets, ever and anon puffing
forth volumes of smoke, and occasionally applying, with much apparent
relish, to a pint pot, the contents of which were ‘chilling’ on the
hob.

‘Fourpence more, by gum!’ exclaimed one of the cribbage-players,
lighting a pipe, and addressing his adversary at the close of the game;
‘one ’ud think you’d got luck in a pepper-cruet, and shook it out when
you wanted it.’

‘Well, that a’n’t a bad un,’ replied the other, who was a horse-dealer
from Islington.

‘No; I’m blessed if it is,’ interposed the jolly-looking fellow, who,
having finished his dinner, was drinking out of the same glass as his
wife, in truly conjugal harmony, some hot gin-and-water. The faithful
partner of his cares had brought a plentiful supply of the
anti-temperance fluid in a large flat stone bottle, which looked like a
half-gallon jar that had been successfully tapped for the dropsy.
‘You’re a rum chap, you are, Mr. Walker—will you dip your beak into
this, sir?’

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ replied Mr. Walker, leaving his box, and advancing to
the other to accept the proffered glass. ‘Here’s your health, sir, and
your good ’ooman’s here. Gentlemen all—yours, and better luck still.
Well, Mr. Willis,’ continued the facetious prisoner, addressing the
young man with the cigar, ‘you seem rather down to-day—floored, as one
may say. What’s the matter, sir? Never say die, you know.’

‘Oh! I’m all right,’ replied the smoker. ‘I shall be bailed out
to-morrow.’

‘Shall you, though?’ inquired the other. ‘Damme, I wish I could say the
same. I am as regularly over head and ears as the Royal George, and
stand about as much chance of being _bailed out_. Ha! ha! ha!’

‘Why,’ said the young man, stopping short, and speaking in a very loud
key, ‘look at me. What d’ye think I’ve stopped here two days for?’

‘’Cause you couldn’t get out, I suppose,’ interrupted Mr. Walker,
winking to the company. ‘Not that you’re exactly obliged to stop here,
only you can’t help it. No compulsion, you know, only you must—eh?’

‘A’n’t he a rum un?’ inquired the delighted individual, who had offered
the gin-and-water, of his wife.

‘Oh, he just is!’ replied the lady, who was quite overcome by these
flashes of imagination.

‘Why, my case,’ frowned the victim, throwing the end of his cigar into
the fire, and illustrating his argument by knocking the bottom of the
pot on the table, at intervals,—‘my case is a very singular one. My
father’s a man of large property, and I am his son.’

‘That’s a very strange circumstance!’ interrupted the jocose Mr.
Walker, _en passant_.

‘—I am his son, and have received a liberal education. I don’t owe no
man nothing—not the value of a farthing, but I was induced, you see, to
put my name to some bills for a friend—bills to a large amount, I may
say a very large amount, for which I didn’t receive no consideration.
What’s the consequence?’

‘Why, I suppose the bills went out, and you came in. The acceptances
weren’t taken up, and you were, eh?’ inquired Walker.

‘To be sure,’ replied the liberally educated young gentleman. ‘To be
sure; and so here I am, locked up for a matter of twelve hundred
pound.’

‘Why don’t you ask your old governor to stump up?’ inquired Walker,
with a somewhat sceptical air.

‘Oh! bless you, he’d never do it,’ replied the other, in a tone of
expostulation—‘Never!’

‘Well, it is very odd to—be—sure,’ interposed the owner of the flat
bottle, mixing another glass, ‘but I’ve been in difficulties, as one
may say, now for thirty year. I went to pieces when I was in a
milk-walk, thirty year ago; arterwards, when I was a fruiterer, and
kept a spring wan; and arter that again in the coal and ’tatur line—but
all that time I never see a youngish chap come into a place of this
kind, who wasn’t going out again directly, and who hadn’t been arrested
on bills which he’d given a friend and for which he’d received nothing
whatsomever—not a fraction.’

‘Oh! it’s always the cry,’ said Walker. ‘I can’t see the use on it;
that’s what makes me so wild. Why, I should have a much better opinion
of an individual, if he’d say at once in an honourable and gentlemanly
manner as he’d done everybody he possibly could.’

‘Ay, to be sure,’ interposed the horse-dealer, with whose notions of
bargain and sale the axiom perfectly coincided, ‘so should I.’ The
young gentleman, who had given rise to these observations, was on the
point of offering a rather angry reply to these sneers, but the rising
of the young man before noticed, and of the female who had been sitting
by him, to leave the room, interrupted the conversation. She had been
weeping bitterly, and the noxious atmosphere of the room acting upon
her excited feelings and delicate frame, rendered the support of her
companion necessary as they quitted it together.

There was an air of superiority about them both, and something in their
appearance so unusual in such a place, that a respectful silence was
observed until the _whirr—r—bang_ of the spring door announced that
they were out of hearing. It was broken by the wife of the
ex-fruiterer.

‘Poor creetur!’ said she, quenching a sigh in a rivulet of
gin-and-water. ‘She’s very young.’

‘She’s a nice-looking ’ooman too,’ added the horse-dealer.

‘What’s he in for, Ikey?’ inquired Walker, of an individual who was
spreading a cloth with numerous blotches of mustard upon it, on one of
the tables, and whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons had no difficulty in
recognising as the man who had called upon him in the morning.

‘Vy,’ responded the factotum, ‘it’s one of the rummiest rigs you ever
heard on. He come in here last Vensday, which by-the-bye he’s a-going
over the water to-night—hows’ever that’s neither here nor there. You
see I’ve been a going back’ards and for’ards about his business, and
ha’ managed to pick up some of his story from the servants and them;
and so far as I can make it out, it seems to be summat to this here
effect—’

‘Cut it short, old fellow,’ interrupted Walker, who knew from former
experience that he of the top-boots was neither very concise nor
intelligible in his narratives.

‘Let me alone,’ replied Ikey, ‘and I’ll ha’ wound up, and made my lucky
in five seconds. This here young gen’lm’n’s father—so I’m told, mind
ye—and the father o’ the young voman, have always been on very bad,
out-and-out, rig’lar knock-me-down sort o’ terms; but somehow or
another, when he was a wisitin’ at some gentlefolk’s house, as he
knowed at college, he came into contract with the young lady. He seed
her several times, and then he up and said he’d keep company with her,
if so be as she vos agreeable. Vell, she vos as sweet upon him as he
vos upon her, and so I s’pose they made it all right; for they got
married ’bout six months arterwards, unbeknown, mind ye, to the two
fathers—leastways so I’m told. When they heard on it—my eyes, there was
such a combustion! Starvation vos the very least that vos to be done to
’em. The young gen’lm’n’s father cut him off vith a bob, ’cos he’d cut
himself off vith a wife; and the young lady’s father he behaved even
worser and more unnat’ral, for he not only blow’d her up dreadful, and
swore he’d never see her again, but he employed a chap as I knows—and
as you knows, Mr. Valker, a precious sight too well—to go about and buy
up the bills and them things on which the young husband, thinking his
governor ’ud come round agin, had raised the vind just to blow himself
on vith for a time; besides vich, he made all the interest he could to
set other people agin him. Consequence vos, that he paid as long as he
could; but things he never expected to have to meet till he’d had time
to turn himself round, come fast upon him, and he vos nabbed. He vos
brought here, as I said afore, last Vensday, and I think there’s
about—ah, half-a-dozen detainers agin him down-stairs now. I have
been,’ added Ikey, ‘in the purfession these fifteen year, and I never
met vith such windictiveness afore!’

‘Poor creeturs!’ exclaimed the coal-dealer’s wife once more: again
resorting to the same excellent prescription for nipping a sigh in the
bud. ‘Ah! when they’ve seen as much trouble as I and my old man here
have, they’ll be as comfortable under it as we are.’

‘The young lady’s a pretty creature,’ said Walker, ‘only she’s a little
too delicate for my taste—there ain’t enough of her. As to the young
cove, he may be very respectable and what not, but he’s too down in the
mouth for me—he ain’t game.’

‘Game!’ exclaimed Ikey, who had been altering the position of a
green-handled knife and fork at least a dozen times, in order that he
might remain in the room under the pretext of having something to do.
‘He’s game enough ven there’s anything to be fierce about; but who
could be game as you call it, Mr. Walker, with a pale young creetur
like that, hanging about him?—It’s enough to drive any man’s heart into
his boots to see ’em together—and no mistake at all about it. I never
shall forget her first comin’ here; he wrote to her on the Thursday to
come—I know he did, ’cos I took the letter. Uncommon fidgety he was all
day to be sure, and in the evening he goes down into the office, and he
says to Jacobs, says he, “Sir, can I have the loan of a private room
for a few minutes this evening, without incurring any additional
expense—just to see my wife in?” says he. Jacobs looked as much as to
say—“Strike me bountiful if you ain’t one of the modest sort!” but as
the gen’lm’n who had been in the back parlour had just gone out, and
had paid for it for that day, he says—werry grave—“Sir,” says he, “it’s
agin our rules to let private rooms to our lodgers on gratis terms,
but,” says he, “for a gentleman, I don’t mind breaking through them for
once.” So then he turns round to me, and says, “Ikey, put two mould
candles in the back parlour, and charge ’em to this gen’lm’n’s
account,” vich I did. Vell, by-and-by a hackney-coach comes up to the
door, and there, sure enough, was the young lady, wrapped up in a
hopera-cloak, as it might be, and all alone. I opened the gate that
night, so I went up when the coach come, and he vos a waitin’ at the
parlour door—and wasn’t he a trembling, neither? The poor creetur see
him, and could hardly walk to meet him. “Oh, Harry!” she says, “that it
should have come to this; and all for my sake,” says she, putting her
hand upon his shoulder. So he puts his arm round her pretty little
waist, and leading her gently a little way into the room, so that he
might be able to shut the door, he says, so kind and soft-like—“Why,
Kate,” says he—’

‘Here’s the gentleman you want,’ said Ikey, abruptly breaking off in
his story, and introducing Mr. Gabriel Parsons to the crest-fallen
Watkins Tottle, who at that moment entered the room. Watkins advanced
with a wooden expression of passive endurance, and accepted the hand
which Mr. Gabriel Parsons held out.

‘I want to speak to you,’ said Gabriel, with a look strongly expressive
of his dislike of the company.

‘This way,’ replied the imprisoned one, leading the way to the front
drawing-room, where rich debtors did the luxurious at the rate of a
couple of guineas a day.

‘Well, here I am,’ said Mr. Watkins, as he sat down on the sofa; and
placing the palms of his hands on his knees, anxiously glanced at his
friend’s countenance.

‘Yes; and here you’re likely to be,’ said Gabriel, coolly, as he
rattled the money in his unmentionable pockets, and looked out of the
window.

‘What’s the amount with the costs?’ inquired Parsons, after an awkward
pause.

‘37_l_. 3_s_ 10_d_.’

‘Have you any money?’

‘Nine and sixpence halfpenny.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons walked up and down the room for a few seconds,
before he could make up his mind to disclose the plan he had formed; he
was accustomed to drive hard bargains, but was always most anxious to
conceal his avarice. At length he stopped short, and said, ‘Tottle, you
owe me fifty pounds.’

‘I do.’

‘And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe it to me.’

‘I fear I am.’

‘Though you have every disposition to pay me if you could?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘listen: here’s my proposition. You
know my way of old. Accept it—yes or no—I will or I won’t. I’ll pay the
debt and costs, and I’ll lend you 10_l._ more (which, added to your
annuity, will enable you to carry on the war well) if you’ll give me
your note of hand to pay me one hundred and fifty pounds within six
months after you are married to Miss Lillerton.’

‘My dear—’

‘Stop a minute—on one condition; and that is, that you propose to Miss
Lillerton at once.’

‘At once! My dear Parsons, consider.’

‘It’s for you to consider, not me. She knows you well from reputation,
though she did not know you personally until lately. Notwithstanding
all her maiden modesty, I think she’d be devilish glad to get married
out of hand with as little delay as possible. My wife has sounded her
on the subject, and she has confessed.’

‘What—what?’ eagerly interrupted the enamoured Watkins.

‘Why,’ replied Parsons, ‘to say exactly what she has confessed, would
be rather difficult, because they only spoke in hints, and so forth;
but my wife, who is no bad judge in these cases, declared to me that
what she had confessed was as good as to say that she was not
insensible of your merits—in fact, that no other man should have her.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and rang the bell.

‘What’s that for?’ inquired Parsons.

‘I want to send the man for the bill stamp,’ replied Mr. Watkins
Tottle.

‘Then you’ve made up your mind?’

‘I have,’—and they shook hands most cordially. The note of hand was
given—the debt and costs were paid—Ikey was satisfied for his trouble,
and the two friends soon found themselves on that side of Mr. Solomon
Jacobs’s establishment, on which most of his visitors were very happy
when they found themselves once again—to wit, the _out_side.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together—‘you
shall have an opportunity to make the disclosure to-night, and mind you
speak out, Tottle.’

‘I will—I will!’ replied Watkins, valorously.

‘How I should like to see you together,’ ejaculated Mr. Gabriel
Parsons.—‘What fun!’ and he laughed so long and so loudly, that he
disconcerted Mr. Watkins Tottle, and frightened the horse.

‘There’s Fanny and your intended walking about on the lawn,’ said
Gabriel, as they approached the house. ‘Mind your eye, Tottle.’

‘Never fear,’ replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made his way to the
spot where the ladies were walking.

‘Here’s Mr. Tottle, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, addressing Miss
Lillerton. The lady turned quickly round, and acknowledged his
courteous salute with the same sort of confusion that Watkins had
noticed on their first interview, but with something like a slight
expression of disappointment or carelessness.

‘Did you see how glad she was to see you?’ whispered Parsons to his
friend.

‘Why, I really thought she looked as if she would rather have seen
somebody else,’ replied Tottle.

‘Pooh, nonsense!’ whispered Parsons again—‘it’s always the way with the
women, young or old. They never show how delighted they are to see
those whose presence makes their hearts beat. It’s the way with the
whole sex, and no man should have lived to your time of life without
knowing it. Fanny confessed it to me, when we were first married, over
and over again—see what it is to have a wife.’

‘Certainly,’ whispered Tottle, whose courage was vanishing fast.

‘Well, now, you’d better begin to pave the way,’ said Parsons, who,
having invested some money in the speculation, assumed the office of
director.

‘Yes, yes, I will—presently,’ replied Tottle, greatly flurried.

‘Say something to her, man,’ urged Parsons again. ‘Confound it! pay her
a compliment, can’t you?’

‘No! not till after dinner,’ replied the bashful Tottle, anxious to
postpone the evil moment.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘you are really very polite; you
stay away the whole morning, after promising to take us out, and when
you do come home, you stand whispering together and take no notice of
us.’

‘We were talking of the _business_, my dear, which detained us this
morning,’ replied Parsons, looking significantly at Tottle.

‘Dear me! how very quickly the morning has gone,’ said Miss Lillerton,
referring to the gold watch, which was wound up on state occasions,
whether it required it or not.

‘_I_ think it has passed very slowly,’ mildly suggested Tottle.

(‘That’s right—bravo!’) whispered Parsons.

‘Indeed!’ said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic surprise.

‘I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from your society,
madam,’ said Watkins, ‘and that of Mrs. Parsons.’

During this short dialogue, the ladies had been leading the way to the
house.

‘What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last compliment for?’
inquired Parsons, as they followed together; ‘it quite spoilt the
effect.’

‘Oh! it really would have been too broad without,’ replied Watkins
Tottle, ‘much too broad!’

‘He’s mad!’ Parsons whispered his wife, as they entered the
drawing-room, ‘mad from modesty.’

‘Dear me!’ ejaculated the lady, ‘I never heard of such a thing.’

‘You’ll find we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,’ said Mrs.
Parsons, when they sat down to table: ‘Miss Lillerton is one of us,
and, of course, we make no stranger of you.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle expressed a hope that the Parsons family never would
make a stranger of him; and wished internally that his bashfulness
would allow him to feel a little less like a stranger himself.

‘Take off the covers, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons, directing the
shifting of the scenery with great anxiety. The order was obeyed, and a
pair of boiled fowls, with tongue and et ceteras, were displayed at the
top, and a fillet of veal at the bottom. On one side of the table two
green sauce-tureens, with ladles of the same, were setting to each
other in a green dish; and on the other was a curried rabbit, in a
brown suit, turned up with lemon.

‘Miss Lillerton, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘shall I assist you?’

‘Thank you, no; I think I’ll trouble Mr. Tottle.’

Watkins started—trembled—helped the rabbit—and broke a tumbler. The
countenance of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles
previously, underwent an awful change.

‘Extremely sorry,’ stammered Watkins, assisting himself to currie and
parsley and butter, in the extremity of his confusion.

‘Not the least consequence,’ replied Mrs. Parsons, in a tone which
implied that it was of the greatest consequence possible,—directing
aside the researches of the boy, who was groping under the table for
the bits of broken glass.

‘I presume,’ said Miss Lillerton, ‘that Mr. Tottle is aware of the
interest which bachelors usually pay in such cases; a dozen glasses for
one is the lowest penalty.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons gave his friend an admonitory tread on the toe.
Here was a clear hint that the sooner he ceased to be a bachelor and
emancipated himself from such penalties, the better. Mr. Watkins Tottle
viewed the observation in the same light, and challenged Mrs. Parsons
to take wine, with a degree of presence of mind, which, under all the
circumstances, was really extraordinary.

‘Miss Lillerton,’ said Gabriel, ‘may I have the pleasure?’

‘I shall be most happy.’

‘Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the decanter. Thank
you.’ (The usual pantomimic ceremony of nodding and sipping gone
through)—

‘Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk?’ inquired the master of the house,
who was burning to tell one of his seven stock stories.

‘No,’ responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving clause, ‘but I’ve
been in Devonshire.’

‘Ah!’ replied Gabriel, ‘it was in Suffolk that a rather singular
circumstance happened to me many years ago. Did you ever happen to hear
me mention it?’

Mr. Watkins Tottle _had_ happened to hear his friend mention it some
four hundred times. Of course he expressed great curiosity, and evinced
the utmost impatience to hear the story again. Mr. Gabriel Parsons
forthwith attempted to proceed, in spite of the interruptions to which,
as our readers must frequently have observed, the master of the house
is often exposed in such cases. We will attempt to give them an idea of
our meaning.

‘When I was in Suffolk—’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.

‘Take off the fowls first, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons. ‘I beg your
pardon, my dear.’

‘When I was in Suffolk,’ resumed Mr. Parsons, with an impatient glance
at his wife, who pretended not to observe it, ‘which is now years ago,
business led me to the town of Bury St. Edmund’s. I had to stop at the
principal places in my way, and therefore, for the sake of convenience,
I travelled in a gig. I left Sudbury one dark night—it was winter
time—about nine o’clock; the rain poured in torrents, the wind howled
among the trees that skirted the roadside, and I was obliged to proceed
at a foot-pace, for I could hardly see my hand before me, it was so
dark—’

‘John,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow voice, ‘don’t spill
that gravy.’

‘Fanny,’ said Parsons impatiently, ‘I wish you’d defer these domestic
reproofs to some more suitable time. Really, my dear, these constant
interruptions are very annoying.’

‘My dear, I didn’t interrupt you,’ said Mrs. Parsons.

‘But, my dear, you _did_ interrupt me,’ remonstrated Mr. Parsons.

‘How very absurd you are, my love! I must give directions to the
servants; I am quite sure that if I sat here and allowed John to spill
the gravy over the new carpet, you’d be the first to find fault when
you saw the stain to-morrow morning.’

‘Well,’ continued Gabriel with a resigned air, as if he knew there was
no getting over the point about the carpet, ‘I was just saying, it was
so dark that I could hardly see my hand before me. The road was very
lonely, and I assure you, Tottle (this was a device to arrest the
wandering attention of that individual, which was distracted by a
confidential communication between Mrs. Parsons and Martha, accompanied
by the delivery of a large bunch of keys), I assure you, Tottle, I
became somehow impressed with a sense of the loneliness of my
situation—’

‘Pie to your master,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the
servant.

‘Now, pray, my dear,’ remonstrated Parsons once more, very pettishly.
Mrs. P. turned up her hands and eyebrows, and appealed in dumb show to
Miss Lillerton. ‘As I turned a corner of the road,’ resumed Gabriel,
‘the horse stopped short, and reared tremendously. I pulled up, jumped
out, ran to his head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle
of the road, with his eyes fixed on the sky. I thought he was dead; but
no, he was alive, and there appeared to be nothing the matter with him.
He jumped up, and putting his hand to his chest, and fixing upon me the
most earnest gaze you can imagine, exclaimed—’

‘Pudding here,’ said Mrs. Parsons.

‘Oh! it’s no use,’ exclaimed the host, now rendered desperate. ‘Here,
Tottle; a glass of wine. It’s useless to attempt relating anything when
Mrs. Parsons is present.’

This attack was received in the usual way. Mrs. Parsons talked _to_
Miss Lillerton and _at_ her better half; expatiated on the impatience
of men generally; hinted that her husband was peculiarly vicious in
this respect, and wound up by insinuating that she must be one of the
best tempers that ever existed, or she never could put up with it.
Really what she had to endure sometimes, was more than any one who saw
her in every-day life could by possibility suppose.—The story was now a
painful subject, and therefore Mr. Parsons declined to enter into any
details, and contented himself by stating that the man was a maniac,
who had escaped from a neighbouring mad-house.

The cloth was removed; the ladies soon afterwards retired, and Miss
Lillerton played the piano in the drawing-room overhead, very loudly,
for the edification of the visitor. Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel
Parsons sat chatting comfortably enough, until the conclusion of the
second bottle, when the latter, in proposing an adjournment to the
drawing-room, informed Watkins that he had concerted a plan with his
wife, for leaving him and Miss Lillerton alone, soon after tea.

‘I say,’ said Tottle, as they went up-stairs, ‘don’t you think it would
be better if we put it off till-till-to-morrow?’

‘Don’t _you_ think it would have been much better if I had left you in
that wretched hole I found you in this morning?’ retorted Parsons
bluntly.

‘Well—well—I only made a suggestion,’ said poor Watkins Tottle, with a
deep sigh.

Tea was soon concluded, and Miss Lillerton, drawing a small work-table
on one side of the fire, and placing a little wooden frame upon it,
something like a miniature clay-mill without the horse, was soon busily
engaged in making a watch-guard with brown silk.

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Parsons, starting up with well-feigned
surprise, ‘I’ve forgotten those confounded letters. Tottle, I know
you’ll excuse me.’

If Tottle had been a free agent, he would have allowed no one to leave
the room on any pretence, except himself. As it was, however, he was
obliged to look cheerful when Parsons quitted the apartment.

He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into the room,
with—‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted.’

Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully after her, and Mr.
Watkins Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton.

For the first five minutes there was a dead silence.—Mr. Watkins Tottle
was thinking how he should begin, and Miss Lillerton appeared to be
thinking of nothing. The fire was burning low; Mr. Watkins Tottle
stirred it, and put some coals on.

‘Hem!’ coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the fair
creature had spoken. ‘I beg your pardon,’ said he.

‘Eh?’

‘I thought you spoke.’

‘No.’

‘Oh!’

‘There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you would like to
look at them,’ said Miss Lillerton, after the lapse of another five
minutes.

‘No, thank you,’ returned Watkins; and then he added, with a courage
which was perfectly astonishing, even to himself, ‘Madam, that is Miss
Lillerton, I wish to speak to you.’

‘To me!’ said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands, and
sliding her chair back a few paces.—‘Speak—to me!’

‘To you, madam—and on the subject of the state of your affections.’ The
lady hastily rose and would have left the room; but Mr. Watkins Tottle
gently detained her by the hand, and holding it as far from him as the
joint length of their arms would permit, he thus proceeded: ‘Pray do
not misunderstand me, or suppose that I am led to address you, after so
short an acquaintance, by any feeling of my own merits—for merits I
have none which could give me a claim to your hand. I hope you will
acquit me of any presumption when I explain that I have been acquainted
through Mrs. Parsons, with the state—that is, that Mrs. Parsons has
told me—at least, not Mrs. Parsons, but—’ here Watkins began to wander,
but Miss Lillerton relieved him.

‘Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has acquainted you
with my feeling—my affection—I mean my respect, for an individual of
the opposite sex?’

‘She has.’

‘Then, what?’ inquired Miss Lillerton, averting her face, with a
girlish air, ‘what could induce _you_ to seek such an interview as
this? What can your object be? How can I promote your happiness, Mr.
Tottle?’

Here was the time for a flourish—‘By allowing me,’ replied Watkins,
falling bump on his knees, and breaking two brace-buttons and a
waistcoat-string, in the act—‘By allowing me to be your slave, your
servant—in short, by unreservedly making me the confidant of your
heart’s feelings—may I say for the promotion of your own happiness—may
I say, in order that you may become the wife of a kind and affectionate
husband?’

‘Disinterested creature!’ exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in
a white pocket-handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border.

Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew all, she might
possibly alter her opinion on this last point. He raised the tip of her
middle finger ceremoniously to his lips, and got off his knees, as
gracefully as he could. ‘My information was correct?’ he tremulously
inquired, when he was once more on his feet.

‘It was.’ Watkins elevated his hands, and looked up to the ornament in
the centre of the ceiling, which had been made for a lamp, by way of
expressing his rapture.

‘Our situation, Mr. Tottle,’ resumed the lady, glancing at him through
one of the eyelet-holes, ‘is a most peculiar and delicate one.’

‘It is,’ said Mr. Tottle.

‘Our acquaintance has been of _so_ short duration,’ said Miss
Lillerton.

‘Only a week,’ assented Watkins Tottle.

‘Oh! more than that,’ exclaimed the lady, in a tone of surprise.

‘Indeed!’ said Tottle.

‘More than a month—more than two months!’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Rather odd, this,’ thought Watkins.

‘Oh!’ he said, recollecting Parsons’s assurance that she had known him
from report, ‘I understand. But, my dear madam, pray, consider. The
longer this acquaintance has existed, the less reason is there for
delay now. Why not at once fix a period for gratifying the hopes of
your devoted admirer?’

‘It has been represented to me again and again that this is the course
I ought to pursue,’ replied Miss Lillerton, ‘but pardon my feelings of
delicacy, Mr. Tottle—pray excuse this embarrassment—I have peculiar
ideas on such subjects, and I am quite sure that I never could summon
up fortitude enough to name the day to my future husband.’

‘Then allow _me_ to name it,’ said Tottle eagerly.

‘I should like to fix it myself,’ replied Miss Lillerton, bashfully,
‘but I cannot do so without at once resorting to a third party.’

‘A third party!’ thought Watkins Tottle; ‘who the deuce is that to be,
I wonder!’

‘Mr. Tottle,’ continued Miss Lillerton, ‘you have made me a most
disinterested and kind offer—that offer I accept. Will you at once be
the bearer of a note from me to—to Mr. Timson?’

‘Mr. Timson!’ said Watkins.

‘After what has passed between us,’ responded Miss Lillerton, still
averting her head, ‘you must understand whom I mean; Mr. Timson,
the—the—clergyman.’

‘Mr. Timson, the clergyman!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, in a state of
inexpressible beatitude, and positive wonder at his own success.
‘Angel! Certainly—this moment!’

‘I’ll prepare it immediately,’ said Miss Lillerton, making for the
door; ‘the events of this day have flurried me so much, Mr. Tottle,
that I shall not leave my room again this evening; I will send you the
note by the servant.’

‘Stay,—stay,’ cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most respectful
distance from the lady; ‘when shall we meet again?’

‘Oh! Mr. Tottle,’ replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, ‘when _we_ are
married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too much;’ and
she left the room.

Mr. Watkins Tottle flung himself into an arm-chair, and indulged in the
most delicious reveries of future bliss, in which the idea of ‘Five
hundred pounds per annum, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it
by her last will and testament,’ was somehow or other the foremost. He
had gone through the interview so well, and it had terminated so
admirably, that he almost began to wish he had expressly stipulated for
the settlement of the annual five hundred on himself.

‘May I come in?’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door.

‘You may,’ replied Watkins.

‘Well, have you done it?’ anxiously inquired Gabriel.

‘Have I done it!’ said Watkins Tottle. ‘Hush—I’m going to the
clergyman.’

‘No!’ said Parsons. ‘How well you have managed it!’

‘Where does Timson live?’ inquired Watkins.

‘At his uncle’s,’ replied Gabriel, ‘just round the lane. He’s waiting
for a living, and has been assisting his uncle here for the last two or
three months. But how well you have done it—I didn’t think you could
have carried it off so!’

Mr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate that the Richardsonian
principle was the best on which love could possibly be made, when he
was interrupted by the entrance of Martha, with a little pink note
folded like a fancy cocked-hat.

‘Miss Lillerton’s compliments,’ said Martha, as she delivered it into
Tottle’s hands, and vanished.

‘Do you observe the delicacy?’ said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel
Parsons. ‘_Compliments_, not _love_, by the servant, eh?’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn’t exactly know what reply to make, so he poked
the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of
Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Come,’ said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this
practical jest, had subsided, ‘we’ll be off at once—let’s lose no
time.’

‘Capital!’ echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the
garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson.

‘Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr.
Charles Timson’s uncle’s man.

‘Mr. Charles _is_ at home,’ replied the man, stammering; ‘but he
desired me to say he couldn’t be interrupted, sir, by any of the
parishioners.’

‘_I_ am not a parishioner,’ replied Watkins.

‘Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?’ inquired Parsons, thrusting
himself forward.

‘No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he’s not exactly writing a sermon, but he is
practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders
not to be disturbed.’

‘Say I’m here,’ replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden;
‘Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.’

They were shown into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver
his message. The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps
were heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook
hands with Parsons with the utmost cordiality.

‘How do you do, sir?’ said Watkins Tottle, with great solemnity.

‘How do _you_ do, sir?’ replied Timson, with as much coldness as if it
were a matter of perfect indifference to him how he did, as it very
likely was.

‘I beg to deliver this note to you,’ said Watkins Tottle, producing the
cocked-hat.

‘From Miss Lillerton!’ said Timson, suddenly changing colour. ‘Pray sit
down.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down; and while Timson perused the note, fixed
his eyes on an oyster-sauce-coloured portrait of the Archbishop of
Canterbury, which hung over the fireplace.

Mr. Timson rose from his seat when he had concluded the note, and
looked dubiously at Parsons. ‘May I ask,’ he inquired, appealing to
Watkins Tottle, ‘whether our friend here is acquainted with the object
of your visit?’

‘Our friend is in _my_ confidence,’ replied Watkins, with considerable
importance.

‘Then, sir,’ said Timson, seizing both Tottle’s hands, ‘allow me in his
presence to thank you most unfeignedly and cordially, for the noble
part you have acted in this affair.’

‘He thinks I recommended him,’ thought Tottle. ‘Confound these fellows!
they never think of anything but their fees.’

‘I deeply regret having misunderstood your intentions, my dear sir,’
continued Timson. ‘Disinterested and manly, indeed! There are very few
men who would have acted as you have done.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle could not help thinking that this last remark was
anything but complimentary. He therefore inquired, rather hastily,
‘When is it to be?’

‘On Thursday,’ replied Timson,—‘on Thursday morning at half-past
eight.’

‘Uncommonly early,’ observed Watkins Tottle, with an air of triumphant
self-denial. ‘I shall hardly be able to get down here by that hour.’
(This was intended for a joke.)

‘Never mind, my dear fellow,’ replied Timson, all suavity, shaking
hands with Tottle again most heartily, ‘so long as we see you to
breakfast, you know—’

‘Eh!’ said Parsons, with one of the most extraordinary expressions of
countenance that ever appeared in a human face.

‘What!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, at the same moment.

‘I say that so long as we see you to breakfast,’ replied Timson, ‘we
will excuse your being absent from the ceremony, though of course your
presence at it would give us the utmost pleasure.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle staggered against the wall, and fixed his eyes on
Timson with appalling perseverance.

‘Timson,’ said Parsons, hurriedly brushing his hat with his left arm,
‘when you say “us,” whom do you mean?’

Mr. Timson looked foolish in his turn, when he replied, ‘Why—Mrs.
Timson that will be this day week: Miss Lillerton that is—’

‘Now don’t stare at that idiot in the corner,’ angrily exclaimed
Parsons, as the extraordinary convulsions of Watkins Tottle’s
countenance excited the wondering gaze of Timson,—‘but have the
goodness to tell me in three words the contents of that note?’

‘This note,’ replied Timson, ‘is from Miss Lillerton, to whom I have
been for the last five weeks regularly engaged. Her singular scruples
and strange feeling on some points have hitherto prevented my bringing
the engagement to that termination which I so anxiously desire. She
informs me here, that she sounded Mrs. Parsons with the view of making
her her confidante and go-between, that Mrs. Parsons informed this
elderly gentleman, Mr. Tottle, of the circumstance, and that he, in the
most kind and delicate terms, offered to assist us in any way, and even
undertook to convey this note, which contains the promise I have long
sought in vain—an act of kindness for which I can never be sufficiently
grateful.’

‘Good night, Timson,’ said Parsons, hurrying off, and carrying the
bewildered Tottle with him.

‘Won’t you stay—and have something?’ said Timson.

‘No, thank ye,’ replied Parsons; ‘I’ve had quite enough;’ and away he
went, followed by Watkins Tottle in a state of stupefaction.

Mr. Gabriel Parsons whistled until they had walked some quarter of a
mile past his own gate, when he suddenly stopped, and said—

‘You are a clever fellow, Tottle, ain’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the unfortunate Watkins.

‘I suppose you’ll say this is Fanny’s fault, won’t you?’ inquired
Gabriel.

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ replied the bewildered Tottle.

‘Well,’ said Parsons, turning on his heel to go home, ‘the next time
you make an offer, you had better speak plainly, and don’t throw a
chance away. And the next time you’re locked up in a spunging-house,
just wait there till I come and take you out, there’s a good fellow.’

How, or at what hour, Mr. Watkins Tottle returned to Cecil-street is
unknown. His boots were seen outside his bedroom-door next morning; but
we have the authority of his landlady for stating that he neither
emerged therefrom nor accepted sustenance for four-and-twenty hours. At
the expiration of that period, and when a council of war was being held
in the kitchen on the propriety of summoning the parochial beadle to
break his door open, he rang his bell, and demanded a cup of
milk-and-water. The next morning he went through the formalities of
eating and drinking as usual, but a week afterwards he was seized with
a relapse, while perusing the list of marriages in a morning paper,
from which he never perfectly recovered.

A few weeks after the last-named occurrence, the body of a gentleman
unknown, was found in the Regent’s canal. In the trousers-pockets were
four shillings and threepence halfpenny; a matrimonial advertisement
from a lady, which appeared to have been cut out of a Sunday paper: a
tooth-pick, and a card-case, which it is confidently believed would
have led to the identification of the unfortunate gentleman, but for
the circumstance of there being none but blank cards in it. Mr. Watkins
Tottle absented himself from his lodgings shortly before. A bill, which
has not been taken up, was presented next morning; and a bill, which
has not been taken down, was soon afterwards affixed in his
parlour-window.




CHAPTER XI—THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING


Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or, as his acquaintance called him, ‘long Dumps,’
was a bachelor, six feet high, and fifty years old: cross, cadaverous,
odd, and ill-natured. He was never happy but when he was miserable; and
always miserable when he had the best reason to be happy. The only real
comfort of his existence was to make everybody about him wretched—then
he might be truly said to enjoy life. He was afflicted with a situation
in the Bank worth five hundred a-year, and he rented a ‘first-floor
furnished,’ at Pentonville, which he originally took because it
commanded a dismal prospect of an adjacent churchyard. He was familiar
with the face of every tombstone, and the burial service seemed to
excite his strongest sympathy. His friends said he was surly—he
insisted he was nervous; they thought him a lucky dog, but he protested
that he was ‘the most unfortunate man in the world.’ Cold as he was,
and wretched as he declared himself to be, he was not wholly
unsusceptible of attachments. He revered the memory of Hoyle, as he was
himself an admirable and imperturbable whist-player, and he chuckled
with delight at a fretful and impatient adversary. He adored King Herod
for his massacre of the innocents; and if he hated one thing more than
another, it was a child. However, he could hardly be said to hate
anything in particular, because he disliked everything in general; but
perhaps his greatest antipathies were cabs, old women, doors that would
not shut, musical amateurs, and omnibus cads. He subscribed to the
‘Society for the Suppression of Vice’ for the pleasure of putting a
stop to any harmless amusements; and he contributed largely towards the
support of two itinerant methodist parsons, in the amiable hope that if
circumstances rendered any people happy in this world, they might
perchance be rendered miserable by fears for the next.

Mr. Dumps had a nephew who had been married about a year, and who was
somewhat of a favourite with his uncle, because he was an admirable
subject to exercise his misery-creating powers upon. Mr. Charles
Kitterbell was a small, sharp, spare man, with a very large head, and a
broad, good-humoured countenance. He looked like a faded giant, with
the head and face partially restored; and he had a cast in his eye
which rendered it quite impossible for any one with whom he conversed
to know where he was looking. His eyes appeared fixed on the wall, and
he was staring you out of countenance; in short, there was no catching
his eye, and perhaps it is a merciful dispensation of Providence that
such eyes are not catching. In addition to these characteristics, it
may be added that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the most credulous
and matter-of-fact little personages that ever took _to_ himself a
wife, and _for_ himself a house in Great Russell-street,
Bedford-square. (Uncle Dumps always dropped the ‘Bedford-square,’ and
inserted in lieu thereof the dreadful words ‘Tottenham-court-road.’)

‘No, but, uncle, ’pon my life you must—you must promise to be
godfather,’ said Mr. Kitterbell, as he sat in conversation with his
respected relative one morning.

‘I cannot, indeed I cannot,’ returned Dumps.

‘Well, but why not? Jemima will think it very unkind. It’s very little
trouble.’

‘As to the trouble,’ rejoined the most unhappy man in existence, ‘I
don’t mind that; but my nerves are in that state—I cannot go through
the ceremony. You know I don’t like going out.—For God’s sake, Charles,
don’t fidget with that stool so; you’ll drive me mad.’ Mr. Kitterbell,
quite regardless of his uncle’s nerves, had occupied himself for some
ten minutes in describing a circle on the floor with one leg of the
office-stool on which he was seated, keeping the other three up in the
air, and holding fast on by the desk.

‘I beg your pardon, uncle,’ said Kitterbell, quite abashed, suddenly
releasing his hold of the desk, and bringing the three wandering legs
back to the floor, with a force sufficient to drive them through it.

‘But come, don’t refuse. If it’s a boy, you know, we must have two
godfathers.’

‘_If_ it’s a boy!’ said Dumps; ‘why can’t you say at once whether it
_is_ a boy or not?’

‘I should be very happy to tell you, but it’s impossible I can
undertake to say whether it’s a girl or a boy, if the child isn’t born
yet.’

‘Not born yet!’ echoed Dumps, with a gleam of hope lighting up his
lugubrious visage. ‘Oh, well, it _may_ be a girl, and then you won’t
want me; or if it is a boy, it _may_ die before it is christened.’

‘I hope not,’ said the father that expected to be, looking very grave.

‘I hope not,’ acquiesced Dumps, evidently pleased with the subject. He
was beginning to get happy. ‘I hope not, but distressing cases
frequently occur during the first two or three days of a child’s life;
fits, I am told, are exceedingly common, and alarming convulsions are
almost matters of course.’

‘Lord, uncle!’ ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for breath.

‘Yes; my landlady was confined—let me see—last Tuesday: an uncommonly
fine boy. On the Thursday night the nurse was sitting with him upon her
knee before the fire, and he was as well as possible. Suddenly he
became black in the face, and alarmingly spasmodic. The medical man was
instantly sent for, and every remedy was tried, but—’

‘How frightful!’ interrupted the horror-stricken Kitterbell.

‘The child died, of course. However, your child _may_ not die; and if
it should be a boy, and should _live_ to be christened, why I suppose I
must be one of the sponsors.’ Dumps was evidently good-natured on the
faith of his anticipations.

‘Thank you, uncle,’ said his agitated nephew, grasping his hand as
warmly as if he had done him some essential service. ‘Perhaps I had
better not tell Mrs. K. what you have mentioned.’

‘Why, if she’s low-spirited, perhaps you had better not mention the
melancholy case to her,’ returned Dumps, who of course had invented the
whole story; ‘though perhaps it would be but doing your duty as a
husband to prepare her for the _worst_.’

A day or two afterwards, as Dumps was perusing a morning paper at the
chop-house which he regularly frequented, the following-paragraph met
his eyes:—


‘_Births_.—On Saturday, the 18th inst., in Great Russell-street, the
lady of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., of a son.’


‘It _is_ a boy!’ he exclaimed, dashing down the paper, to the
astonishment of the waiters. ‘It _is_ a boy!’ But he speedily regained
his composure as his eye rested on a paragraph quoting the number of
infant deaths from the bills of mortality.

Six weeks passed away, and as no communication had been received from
the Kitterbells, Dumps was beginning to flatter himself that the child
was dead, when the following note painfully resolved his doubts:—


‘_Great Russell-street_,
_Monday morning_.


‘Dear Uncle,—You will be delighted to hear that my dear Jemima has left
her room, and that your future godson is getting on capitally. He was
very thin at first, but he is getting much larger, and nurse says he is
filling out every day. He cries a good deal, and is a very singular
colour, which made Jemima and me rather uncomfortable; but as nurse
says it’s natural, and as of course we know nothing about these things
yet, we are quite satisfied with what nurse says. We think he will be a
sharp child; and nurse says she’s sure he will, because he never goes
to sleep. You will readily believe that we are all very happy, only
we’re a little worn out for want of rest, as he keeps us awake all
night; but this we must expect, nurse says, for the first six or eight
months. He has been vaccinated, but in consequence of the operation
being rather awkwardly performed, some small particles of glass were
introduced into the arm with the matter. Perhaps this may in some
degree account for his being rather fractious; at least, so nurse says.
We propose to have him christened at twelve o’clock on Friday, at Saint
George’s church, in Hart-street, by the name of Frederick Charles
William. Pray don’t be later than a quarter before twelve. We shall
have a very few friends in the evening, when of course we shall see
you. I am sorry to say that the dear boy appears rather restless and
uneasy to-day: the cause, I fear, is fever.

‘Believe me, dear Uncle,
‘Yours affectionately,
‘Charles Kitterbell.


‘P.S.—I open this note to say that we have just discovered the cause of
little Frederick’s restlessness. It is not fever, as I apprehended, but
a small pin, which nurse accidentally stuck in his leg yesterday
evening. We have taken it out, and he appears more composed, though he
still sobs a good deal.’


It is almost unnecessary to say that the perusal of the above
interesting statement was no great relief to the mind of the
hypochondriacal Dumps. It was impossible to recede, however, and so he
put the best face—that is to say, an uncommonly miserable one—upon the
matter; and purchased a handsome silver mug for the infant Kitterbell,
upon which he ordered the initials ‘F. C. W. K.,’ with the customary
untrained grape-vine-looking flourishes, and a large full stop, to be
engraved forthwith.

Monday was a fine day, Tuesday was delightful, Wednesday was equal to
either, and Thursday was finer than ever; four successive fine days in
London! Hackney-coachmen became revolutionary, and crossing-sweepers
began to doubt the existence of a First Cause. The _Morning Herald_
informed its readers that an old woman in Camden Town had been heard to
say that the fineness of the season was ‘unprecedented in the memory of
the oldest inhabitant;’ and Islington clerks, with large families and
small salaries, left off their black gaiters, disdained to carry their
once green cotton umbrellas, and walked to town in the conscious pride
of white stockings and cleanly brushed Bluchers. Dumps beheld all this
with an eye of supreme contempt—his triumph was at hand. He knew that
if it had been fine for four weeks instead of four days, it would rain
when he went out; he was lugubriously happy in the conviction that
Friday would be a wretched day—and so it was. ‘I knew how it would be,’
said Dumps, as he turned round opposite the Mansion-house at half-past
eleven o’clock on the Friday morning. ‘I knew how it would be. _I_ am
concerned, and that’s enough;’—and certainly the appearance of the day
was sufficient to depress the spirits of a much more buoyant-hearted
individual than himself. It had rained, without a moment’s cessation,
since eight o’clock; everybody that passed up Cheapside, and down
Cheapside, looked wet, cold, and dirty. All sorts of forgotten and
long-concealed umbrellas had been put into requisition. Cabs whisked
about, with the ‘fare’ as carefully boxed up behind two glazed calico
curtains as any mysterious picture in any one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s
castles; omnibus horses smoked like steam-engines; nobody thought of
‘standing up’ under doorways or arches; they were painfully convinced
it was a hopeless case; and so everybody went hastily along, jumbling
and jostling, and swearing and perspiring, and slipping about, like
amateur skaters behind wooden chairs on the Serpentine on a frosty
Sunday.

Dumps paused; he could not think of walking, being rather smart for the
christening. If he took a cab he was sure to be spilt, and a
hackney-coach was too expensive for his economical ideas. An omnibus
was waiting at the opposite corner—it was a desperate case—he had never
heard of an omnibus upsetting or running away, and if the cad did knock
him down, he could ‘pull him up’ in return.

‘Now, sir!’ cried the young gentleman who officiated as ‘cad’ to the
‘Lads of the Village,’ which was the name of the machine just noticed.
Dumps crossed.

‘This vay, sir!’ shouted the driver of the ‘Hark-away,’ pulling up his
vehicle immediately across the door of the opposition—‘This vay,
sir—he’s full.’ Dumps hesitated, whereupon the ‘Lads of the Village’
commenced pouring out a torrent of abuse against the ‘Hark-away;’ but
the conductor of the ‘Admiral Napier’ settled the contest in a most
satisfactory manner, for all parties, by seizing Dumps round the waist,
and thrusting him into the middle of his vehicle which had just come up
and only wanted the sixteenth inside.

‘All right,’ said the ‘Admiral,’ and off the thing thundered, like a
fire-engine at full gallop, with the kidnapped customer inside,
standing in the position of a half doubled-up bootjack, and falling
about with every jerk of the machine, first on the one side, and then
on the other, like a ‘Jack-in-the-green,’ on May-day, setting to the
lady with a brass ladle.

‘For Heaven’s sake, where am I to sit?’ inquired the miserable man of
an old gentleman, into whose stomach he had just fallen for the fourth
time.

‘Anywhere but on my _chest_, sir,’ replied the old gentleman in a surly
tone.

‘Perhaps the _box_ would suit the gentleman better,’ suggested a very
damp lawyer’s clerk, in a pink shirt, and a smirking countenance.

After a great deal of struggling and falling about, Dumps at last
managed to squeeze himself into a seat, which, in addition to the
slight disadvantage of being between a window that would not shut, and
a door that must be open, placed him in close contact with a passenger,
who had been walking about all the morning without an umbrella, and who
looked as if he had spent the day in a full water-butt—only wetter.

‘Don’t bang the door so,’ said Dumps to the conductor, as he shut it
after letting out four of the passengers; I am very nervous—it destroys
me.’

‘Did any gen’lm’n say anythink?’ replied the cad, thrusting in his
head, and trying to look as if he didn’t understand the request.

‘I told you not to bang the door so!’ repeated Dumps, with an
expression of countenance like the knave of clubs, in convulsions.

‘Oh! vy, it’s rather a sing’ler circumstance about this here door, sir,
that it von’t shut without banging,’ replied the conductor; and he
opened the door very wide, and shut it again with a terrific bang, in
proof of the assertion.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said a little prim, wheezing old gentleman,
sitting opposite Dumps, ‘I beg your pardon; but have you ever observed,
when you have been in an omnibus on a wet day, that four people out of
five always come in with large cotton umbrellas, without a handle at
the top, or the brass spike at the bottom?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Dumps, as he heard the clock strike twelve, ‘it
never struck me before; but now you mention it, I—Hollo! hollo!’
shouted the persecuted individual, as the omnibus dashed past
Drury-lane, where he had directed to be set down.—‘Where is the cad?’

‘I think he’s on the box, sir,’ said the young gentleman before noticed
in the pink shirt, which looked like a white one ruled with red ink.

‘I want to be set down!’ said Dumps in a faint voice, overcome by his
previous efforts.

‘I think these cads want to be _set down_,’ returned the attorney’s
clerk, chuckling at his sally.

‘Hollo!’ cried Dumps again.

‘Hollo!’ echoed the passengers. The omnibus passed St. Giles’s church.

‘Hold hard!’ said the conductor; ‘I’m blowed if we ha’n’t forgot the
gen’lm’n as vas to be set down at Doory-lane.—Now, sir, make haste, if
you please,’ he added, opening the door, and assisting Dumps out with
as much coolness as if it was ‘all right.’ Dumps’s indignation was for
once getting the better of his cynical equanimity. ‘Drury-lane!’ he
gasped, with the voice of a boy in a cold bath for the first time.

‘Doory-lane, sir?—yes, sir,—third turning on the right-hand side, sir.’

Dumps’s passion was paramount: he clutched his umbrella, and was
striding off with the firm determination of not paying the fare. The
cad, by a remarkable coincidence, happened to entertain a directly
contrary opinion, and Heaven knows how far the altercation would have
proceeded, if it had not been most ably and satisfactorily brought to a
close by the driver.

‘Hollo!’ said that respectable person, standing up on the box, and
leaning with one hand on the roof of the omnibus. ‘Hollo, Tom! tell the
gentleman if so be as he feels aggrieved, we will take him up to the
Edge-er (Edgeware) Road for nothing, and set him down at Doory-lane
when we comes back. He can’t reject that, anyhow.’

The argument was irresistible: Dumps paid the disputed sixpence, and in
a quarter of an hour was on the staircase of No. 14, Great
Russell-street.

Everything indicated that preparations were making for the reception of
‘a few friends’ in the evening. Two dozen extra tumblers, and four
ditto wine-glasses—looking anything but transparent, with little bits
of straw in them on the slab in the passage, just arrived. There was a
great smell of nutmeg, port wine, and almonds, on the staircase; the
covers were taken off the stair-carpet, and the figure of Venus on the
first landing looked as if she were ashamed of the composition-candle
in her right hand, which contrasted beautifully with the lamp-blacked
drapery of the goddess of love. The female servant (who looked very
warm and bustling) ushered Dumps into a front drawing-room, very
prettily furnished, with a plentiful sprinkling of little baskets,
paper table-mats, china watchmen, pink and gold albums, and
rainbow-bound little books on the different tables.

‘Ah, uncle!’ said Mr. Kitterbell, ‘how d’ye do? Allow me—Jemima, my
dear—my uncle. I think you’ve seen Jemima before, sir?’

‘Have had the _pleasure_,’ returned big Dumps, his tone and look making
it doubtful whether in his life he had ever experienced the sensation.

‘I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, with a languid smile, and a slight
cough. ‘I’m sure—hem—any friend—of Charles’s—hem—much less a relation,
is—’

‘I knew you’d say so, my love,’ said little Kitterbell, who, while he
appeared to be gazing on the opposite houses, was looking at his wife
with a most affectionate air: ‘Bless you!’ The last two words were
accompanied with a simper, and a squeeze of the hand, which stirred up
all Uncle Dumps’s bile.

‘Jane, tell nurse to bring down baby,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, addressing
the servant. Mrs. Kitterbell was a tall, thin young lady, with very
light hair, and a particularly white face—one of those young women who
almost invariably, though one hardly knows why, recall to one’s mind
the idea of a cold fillet of veal. Out went the servant, and in came
the nurse, with a remarkably small parcel in her arms, packed up in a
blue mantle trimmed with white fur.—This was the baby.

‘Now, uncle,’ said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the mantle
which covered the infant’s face, with an air of great triumph, ‘_Who_
do you think he’s like?’

‘He! he! Yes, who?’ said Mrs. K., putting her arm through her
husband’s, and looking up into Dumps’s face with an expression of as
much interest as she was capable of displaying.

‘Good God, how small he is!’ cried the amiable uncle, starting back
with well-feigned surprise; ‘_remarkably_ small indeed.’

‘Do you think so?’ inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed.
‘He’s a monster to what he was—ain’t he, nurse?’

‘He’s a dear,’ said the nurse, squeezing the child, and evading the
question—not because she scrupled to disguise the fact, but because she
couldn’t afford to throw away the chance of Dumps’s half-crown.

‘Well, but who is he like?’ inquired little Kitterbell.

Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at
the moment of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents.

‘I really don’t know _who_ he’s like,’ he answered, very well knowing
the reply expected of him.

‘Don’t you think he’s like _me_?’ inquired his nephew with a knowing
air.

‘Oh, _decidedly_ not!’ returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be
misunderstood. ‘Decidedly not like you.—Oh, certainly not.’

‘Like Jemima?’ asked Kitterbell, faintly.

‘Oh, dear no; not in the least. I’m no judge, of course, in such cases;
but I really think he’s more like one of those little carved
representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a
tombstone!’ The nurse stooped down over the child, and with great
difficulty prevented an explosion of mirth. Pa and ma looked almost as
miserable as their amiable uncle.

‘Well!’ said the disappointed little father, ‘you’ll be better able to
tell what he’s like by-and-by. You shall see him this evening with his
mantle off.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful.

‘Now, my love,’ said Kitterbell to his wife, ‘it’s time we were off.
We’re to meet the other godfather and the godmother at the church,
uncle,—Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from over the way—uncommonly nice people. My
love, are you well wrapped up?’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Are you sure you won’t have another shawl?’ inquired the anxious
husband.

‘No, sweet,’ returned the charming mother, accepting Dumps’s proffered
arm; and the little party entered the hackney-coach that was to take
them to the church; Dumps amusing Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating
largely on the danger of measles, thrush, teeth-cutting, and other
interesting diseases to which children are subject.

The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) passed off without
anything particular occurring. The clergyman had to dine some distance
from town, and had two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to
perform in something less than an hour. The godfathers and godmother,
therefore, promised to renounce the devil and all his works—‘and all
that sort of thing’—as little Kitterbell said—‘in less than no time;’
and with the exception of Dumps nearly letting the child fall into the
font when he handed it to the clergyman, the whole affair went off in
the usual business-like and matter-of-course manner, and Dumps
re-entered the Bank-gates at two o’clock with a heavy heart, and the
painful conviction that he was regularly booked for an evening party.

Evening came—and so did Dumps’s pumps, black silk stockings, and white
cravat which he had ordered to be forwarded, per boy, from Pentonville.
The depressed godfather dressed himself at a friend’s counting-house,
from whence, with his spirits fifty degrees below proof, he sallied
forth—as the weather had cleared up, and the evening was tolerably
fine—to walk to Great Russell-street. Slowly he paced up Cheapside,
Newgate-street, down Snow-hill, and up Holborn ditto, looking as grim
as the figure-head of a man-of-war, and finding out fresh causes of
misery at every step. As he was crossing the corner of Hatton-garden, a
man apparently intoxicated, rushed against him, and would have knocked
him down, had he not been providentially caught by a very genteel young
man, who happened to be close to him at the time. The shock so
disarranged Dumps’s nerves, as well as his dress, that he could hardly
stand. The gentleman took his arm, and in the kindest manner walked
with him as far as Furnival’s Inn. Dumps, for about the first time in
his life, felt grateful and polite; and he and the gentlemanly-looking
young man parted with mutual expressions of good will.

‘There are at least some well-disposed men in the world,’ ruminated the
misanthropical Dumps, as he proceeded towards his destination.

Rat—tat—ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat—knocked a hackney-coachman at Kitterbell’s
door, in imitation of a gentleman’s servant, just as Dumps reached it;
and out came an old lady in a large toque, and an old gentleman in a
blue coat, and three female copies of the old lady in pink dresses, and
shoes to match.

‘It’s a large party,’ sighed the unhappy godfather, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead, and leaning against the area-railings.
It was some time before the miserable man could muster up courage to
knock at the door, and when he did, the smart appearance of a
neighbouring greengrocer (who had been hired to wait for seven and
sixpence, and whose calves alone were worth double the money), the lamp
in the passage, and the Venus on the landing, added to the hum of many
voices, and the sound of a harp and two violins, painfully convinced
him that his surmises were but too well founded.

‘How are you?’ said little Kitterbell, in a greater bustle than ever,
bolting out of the little back parlour with a cork-screw in his hand,
and various particles of sawdust, looking like so many inverted commas,
on his inexpressibles.

‘Good God!’ said Dumps, turning into the aforesaid parlour to put his
shoes on, which he had brought in his coat-pocket, and still more
appalled by the sight of seven fresh-drawn corks, and a corresponding
number of decanters. ‘How many people are there up-stairs?’

‘Oh, not above thirty-five. We’ve had the carpet taken up in the back
drawing-room, and the piano and the card-tables are in the front.
Jemima thought we’d better have a regular sit-down supper in the front
parlour, because of the speechifying, and all that. But, Lord! uncle,
what’s the matter?’ continued the excited little man, as Dumps stood
with one shoe on, rummaging his pockets with the most frightful
distortion of visage. ‘What have you lost? Your pocket-book?’

‘No,’ returned Dumps, diving first into one pocket and then into the
other, and speaking in a voice like Desdemona with the pillow over her
mouth.

‘Your card-case? snuff-box? the key of your lodgings?’ continued
Kitterbell, pouring question on question with the rapidity of
lightning.

‘No! no!’ ejaculated Dumps, still diving eagerly into his empty
pockets.

‘Not—not—the _mug_ you spoke of this morning?’

‘Yes, the _mug_!’ replied Dumps, sinking into a chair.

‘How _could_ you have done it?’ inquired Kitterbell. ‘Are you sure you
brought it out?’

‘Yes! yes! I see it all!’ said Dumps, starting up as the idea flashed
across his mind; ‘miserable dog that I am—I was born to suffer. I see
it all: it was the gentlemanly-looking young man!’

‘Mr. Dumps!’ shouted the greengrocer in a stentorian voice, as he
ushered the somewhat recovered godfather into the drawing-room half an
hour after the above declaration. ‘Mr. Dumps!’—everybody looked at the
door, and in came Dumps, feeling about as much out of place as a salmon
might be supposed to be on a gravel-walk.

‘Happy to see you again,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, quite unconscious of
the unfortunate man’s confusion and misery; ‘you must allow me to
introduce you to a few of our friends:—my mamma, Mr. Dumps—my papa and
sisters.’ Dumps seized the hand of the mother as warmly as if she was
his own parent, bowed _to_ the young ladies, and _against_ a gentleman
behind him, and took no notice whatever of the father, who had been
bowing incessantly for three minutes and a quarter.

‘Uncle,’ said little Kitterbell, after Dumps had been introduced to a
select dozen or two, ‘you must let me lead you to the other end of the
room, to introduce you to my friend Danton. Such a splendid fellow!—I’m
sure you’ll like him—this way,’—Dumps followed as tractably as a tame
bear.

Mr. Danton was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with a
considerable stock of impudence, and a very small share of ideas: he
was a great favourite, especially with young ladies of from sixteen to
twenty-six years of age, both inclusive. He could imitate the
French-horn to admiration, sang comic songs most inimitably, and had
the most insinuating way of saying impertinent nothings to his doting
female admirers. He had acquired, somehow or other, the reputation of
being a great wit, and, accordingly, whenever he opened his mouth,
everybody who knew him laughed very heartily.

The introduction took place in due form. Mr. Danton bowed, and twirled
a lady’s handkerchief, which he held in his hand, in a most comic way.
Everybody smiled.

‘Very warm,’ said Dumps, feeling it necessary to say something.

‘Yes. It was warmer yesterday,’ returned the brilliant Mr. Danton.—A
general laugh.

‘I have great pleasure in congratulating you on your first appearance
in the character of a father, sir,’ he continued, addressing
Dumps—‘godfather, I mean.’—The young ladies were convulsed, and the
gentlemen in ecstasies.

A general hum of admiration interrupted the conversation, and announced
the entrance of nurse with the baby. An universal rush of the young
ladies immediately took place. (Girls are always _so_ fond of babies in
company.)

‘Oh, you dear!’ said one.

‘How sweet!’ cried another, in a low tone of the most enthusiastic
admiration.

‘Heavenly!’ added a third.

‘Oh! what dear little arms!’ said a fourth, holding up an arm and fist
about the size and shape of the leg of a fowl cleanly picked.

‘Did you ever!’—said a little coquette with a large bustle, who looked
like a French lithograph, appealing to a gentleman in three
waistcoats—‘Did you ever!’

‘Never, in my life,’ returned her admirer, pulling up his collar.

‘Oh! _do_ let me take it, nurse,’ cried another young lady. ‘The love!’

‘Can it open its eyes, nurse?’ inquired another, affecting the utmost
innocence.—Suffice it to say, that the single ladies unanimously voted
him an angel, and that the married ones, _nem. con._, agreed that he
was decidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld—except their own.

The quadrilles were resumed with great spirit. Mr. Danton was
universally admitted to be beyond himself; several young ladies
enchanted the company and gained admirers by singing ‘We met’—‘I saw
her at the Fancy Fair’—and other equally sentimental and interesting
ballads. ‘The young men,’ as Mrs. Kitterbell said, ‘made themselves
very agreeable;’ the girls did not lose their opportunity; and the
evening promised to go off excellently. Dumps didn’t mind it: he had
devised a plan for himself—a little bit of fun in his own way—and he
was almost happy! He played a rubber and lost every point Mr. Danton
said he could not have lost every point, because he made a point of
losing: everybody laughed tremendously. Dumps retorted with a better
joke, and nobody smiled, with the exception of the host, who seemed to
consider it his duty to laugh till he was black in the face, at
everything. There was only one drawback—the musicians did not play with
quite as much spirit as could have been wished. The cause, however, was
satisfactorily explained; for it appeared, on the testimony of a
gentleman who had come up from Gravesend in the afternoon, that they
had been engaged on board a steamer all day, and had played almost
without cessation all the way to Gravesend, and all the way back again.

The ‘sit-down supper’ was excellent; there were four barley-sugar
temples on the table, which would have looked beautiful if they had not
melted away when the supper began; and a water-mill, whose only fault
was that instead of going round, it ran over the table-cloth. Then
there were fowls, and tongue, and trifle, and sweets, and lobster
salad, and potted beef—and everything. And little Kitterbell kept
calling out for clean plates, and the clean plates did not come: and
then the gentlemen who wanted the plates said they didn’t mind, they’d
take a lady’s; and then Mrs. Kitterbell applauded their gallantry, and
the greengrocer ran about till he thought his seven and sixpence was
very hardly earned; and the young ladies didn’t eat much for fear it
shouldn’t look romantic, and the married ladies eat as much as
possible, for fear they shouldn’t have enough; and a great deal of wine
was drunk, and everybody talked and laughed considerably.

‘Hush! hush!’ said Mr. Kitterbell, rising and looking very important.
‘My love (this was addressed to his wife at the other end of the
table), take care of Mrs. Maxwell, and your mamma, and the rest of the
married ladies; the gentlemen will persuade the young ladies to fill
their glasses, I am sure.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said long Dumps, in a very sepulchral voice and
rueful accent, rising from his chair like the ghost in Don Juan, ‘will
you have the kindness to charge your glasses? I am desirous of
proposing a toast.’

A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled—everybody looked
serious.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ slowly continued the ominous Dumps, ‘I’—(here
Mr. Danton imitated two notes from the French-horn, in a very loud key,
which electrified the nervous toast-proposer, and convulsed his
audience).

‘Order! order!’ said little Kitterbell, endeavouring to suppress his
laughter.

‘Order!’ said the gentlemen.

‘Danton, be quiet,’ said a particular friend on the opposite side of
the table.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ resumed Dumps, somewhat recovered, and not much
disconcerted, for he was always a pretty good hand at a speech—‘In
accordance with what is, I believe, the established usage on these
occasions, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick Charles
William Kitterbell—(here the speaker’s voice faltered, for he
remembered the mug)—venture to rise to propose a toast. I need hardly
say that it is the health and prosperity of that young gentleman, the
particular event of whose early life we are here met to
celebrate—(applause). Ladies and gentlemen, it is impossible to suppose
that our friends here, whose sincere well-wishers we all are, can pass
through life without some trials, considerable suffering, severe
affliction, and heavy losses!’—Here the arch-traitor paused, and slowly
drew forth a long, white pocket-handkerchief—his example was followed
by several ladies. ‘That these trials may be long spared them is my
most earnest prayer, my most fervent wish (a distinct sob from the
grandmother). I hope and trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the infant
whose christening we have this evening met to celebrate, may not be
removed from the arms of his parents by premature decay (several
cambrics were in requisition): that his young and now _apparently_
healthy form, may not be wasted by lingering disease. (Here Dumps cast
a sardonic glance around, for a great sensation was manifest among the
married ladies.) You, I am sure, will concur with me in wishing that he
may live to be a comfort and a blessing to his parents. (“Hear, hear!”
and an audible sob from Mr. Kitterbell.) But should he not be what we
could wish—should he forget in after times the duty which he owes to
them—should they unhappily experience that distracting truth, “how
sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is to have a thankless child”’—Here
Mrs. Kitterbell, with her handkerchief to her eyes, and accompanied by
several ladies, rushed from the room, and went into violent hysterics
in the passage, leaving her better half in almost as bad a condition,
and a general impression in Dumps’s favour; for people like sentiment,
after all.

It need hardly be added, that this occurrence quite put a stop to the
harmony of the evening. Vinegar, hartshorn, and cold water, were now as
much in request as negus, rout-cakes, and _bon-bons_ had been a short
time before. Mrs. Kitterbell was immediately conveyed to her apartment,
the musicians were silenced, flirting ceased, and the company slowly
departed. Dumps left the house at the commencement of the bustle, and
walked home with a light step, and (for him) a cheerful heart. His
landlady, who slept in the next room, has offered to make oath that she
heard him laugh, in his peculiar manner, after he had locked his door.
The assertion, however, is so improbable, and bears on the face of it
such strong evidence of untruth, that it has never obtained credence to
this hour.

The family of Mr. Kitterbell has considerably increased since the
period to which we have referred; he has now two sons and a daughter;
and as he expects, at no distant period, to have another addition to
his blooming progeny, he is anxious to secure an eligible godfather for
the occasion. He is determined, however, to impose upon him two
conditions. He must bind himself, by a solemn obligation, not to make
any speech after supper; and it is indispensable that he should be in
no way connected with ‘the most miserable man in the world.’




CHAPTER XII—THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH


We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a man in the constant
habit of walking, day after day, through any of the crowded
thoroughfares of London, who cannot recollect among the people whom he
‘knows by sight,’ to use a familiar phrase, some being of abject and
wretched appearance whom he remembers to have seen in a very different
condition, whom he has observed sinking lower and lower, by almost
imperceptible degrees, and the shabbiness and utter destitution of
whose appearance, at last, strike forcibly and painfully upon him, as
he passes by. Is there any man who has mixed much with society, or
whose avocations have caused him to mingle, at one time or other, with
a great number of people, who cannot call to mind the time when some
shabby, miserable wretch, in rags and filth, who shuffles past him now
in all the squalor of disease and poverty, with a respectable
tradesman, or clerk, or a man following some thriving pursuit, with
good prospects, and decent means?—or cannot any of our readers call to
mind from among the list of their _quondam_ acquaintance, some fallen
and degraded man, who lingers about the pavement in hungry misery—from
whom every one turns coldly away, and who preserves himself from sheer
starvation, nobody knows how? Alas! such cases are of too frequent
occurrence to be rare items in any man’s experience; and but too often
arise from one cause—drunkenness—that fierce rage for the slow, sure
poison, that oversteps every other consideration; that casts aside
wife, children, friends, happiness, and station; and hurries its
victims madly on to degradation and death.

Some of these men have been impelled, by misfortune and misery, to the
vice that has degraded them. The ruin of worldly expectations, the
death of those they loved, the sorrow that slowly consumes, but will
not break the heart, has driven them wild; and they present the hideous
spectacle of madmen, slowly dying by their own hands. But by far the
greater part have wilfully, and with open eyes, plunged into the gulf
from which the man who once enters it never rises more, but into which
he sinks deeper and deeper down, until recovery is hopeless.

Such a man as this once stood by the bedside of his dying wife, while
his children knelt around, and mingled loud bursts of grief with their
innocent prayers. The room was scantily and meanly furnished; and it
needed but a glance at the pale form from which the light of life was
fast passing away, to know that grief, and want, and anxious care, had
been busy at the heart for many a weary year. An elderly woman, with
her face bathed in tears, was supporting the head of the dying
woman—her daughter—on her arm. But it was not towards her that the was
face turned; it was not her hand that the cold and trembling fingers
clasped; they pressed the husband’s arm; the eyes so soon to be closed
in death rested on his face, and the man shook beneath their gaze. His
dress was slovenly and disordered, his face inflamed, his eyes
bloodshot and heavy. He had been summoned from some wild debauch to the
bed of sorrow and death.

A shaded lamp by the bed-side cast a dim light on the figures around,
and left the remainder of the room in thick, deep shadow. The silence
of night prevailed without the house, and the stillness of death was in
the chamber. A watch hung over the mantel-shelf; its low ticking was
the only sound that broke the profound quiet, but it was a solemn one,
for well they knew, who heard it, that before it had recorded the
passing of another hour, it would beat the knell of a departed spirit.

It is a dreadful thing to wait and watch for the approach of death; to
know that hope is gone, and recovery impossible; and to sit and count
the dreary hours through long, long nights—such nights as only watchers
by the bed of sickness know. It chills the blood to hear the dearest
secrets of the heart—the pent-up, hidden secrets of many years—poured
forth by the unconscious, helpless being before you; and to think how
little the reserve and cunning of a whole life will avail, when fever
and delirium tear off the mask at last. Strange tales have been told in
the wanderings of dying men; tales so full of guilt and crime, that
those who stood by the sick person’s couch have fled in horror and
affright, lest they should be scared to madness by what they heard and
saw; and many a wretch has died alone, raving of deeds the very name of
which has driven the boldest man away.

But no such ravings were to be heard at the bed-side by which the
children knelt. Their half-stifled sobs and moaning alone broke the
silence of the lonely chamber. And when at last the mother’s grasp
relaxed, and, turning one look from the children to the father, she
vainly strove to speak, and fell backward on the pillow, all was so
calm and tranquil that she seemed to sink to sleep. They leant over
her; they called upon her name, softly at first, and then in the loud
and piercing tones of desperation. But there was no reply. They
listened for her breath, but no sound came. They felt for the
palpitation of the heart, but no faint throb responded to the touch.
That heart was broken, and she was dead!

The husband sunk into a chair by the bed-side, and clasped his hands
upon his burning forehead. He gazed from child to child, but when a
weeping eye met his, he quailed beneath its look. No word of comfort
was whispered in his ear, no look of kindness lighted on his face. All
shrunk from and avoided him; and when at last he staggered from the
room, no one sought to follow or console the widower.

The time had been when many a friend would have crowded round him in
his affliction, and many a heartfelt condolence would have met him in
his grief. Where were they now? One by one, friends, relations, the
commonest acquaintance even, had fallen off from and deserted the
drunkard. His wife alone had clung to him in good and evil, in sickness
and poverty, and how had he rewarded her? He had reeled from the tavern
to her bed-side in time to see her die.

He rushed from the house, and walked swiftly through the streets.
Remorse, fear, shame, all crowded on his mind. Stupefied with drink,
and bewildered with the scene he had just witnessed, he re-entered the
tavern he had quitted shortly before. Glass succeeded glass. His blood
mounted, and his brain whirled round. Death! Every one must die, and
why not _she_? She was too good for him; her relations had often told
him so. Curses on them! Had they not deserted her, and left her to
whine away the time at home? Well—she was dead, and happy perhaps. It
was better as it was. Another glass—one more! Hurrah! It was a merry
life while it lasted; and he would make the most of it.

Time went on; the three children who were left to him, grew up, and
were children no longer. The father remained the same—poorer, shabbier,
and more dissolute-looking, but the same confirmed and irreclaimable
drunkard. The boys had, long ago, run wild in the streets, and left
him; the girl alone remained, but she worked hard, and words or blows
could always procure him something for the tavern. So he went on in the
old course, and a merry life he led.

One night, as early as ten o’clock—for the girl had been sick for many
days, and there was, consequently, little to spend at the
public-house—he bent his steps homeward, bethinking himself that if he
would have her able to earn money, it would be as well to apply to the
parish surgeon, or, at all events, to take the trouble of inquiring
what ailed her, which he had not yet thought it worth while to do. It
was a wet December night; the wind blew piercing cold, and the rain
poured heavily down. He begged a few halfpence from a passer-by, and
having bought a small loaf (for it was his interest to keep the girl
alive, if he could), he shuffled onwards as fast as the wind and rain
would let him.

At the back of Fleet-street, and lying between it and the water-side,
are several mean and narrow courts, which form a portion of
Whitefriars: it was to one of these that he directed his steps.

The alley into which he turned, might, for filth and misery, have
competed with the darkest corner of this ancient sanctuary in its
dirtiest and most lawless time. The houses, varying from two stories in
height to four, were stained with every indescribable hue that long
exposure to the weather, damp, and rottenness can impart to tenements
composed originally of the roughest and coarsest materials. The windows
were patched with paper, and stuffed with the foulest rags; the doors
were falling from their hinges; poles with lines on which to dry
clothes, projected from every casement, and sounds of quarrelling or
drunkenness issued from every room.

The solitary oil lamp in the centre of the court had been blown out,
either by the violence of the wind or the act of some inhabitant who
had excellent reasons for objecting to his residence being rendered too
conspicuous; and the only light which fell upon the broken and uneven
pavement, was derived from the miserable candles that here and there
twinkled in the rooms of such of the more fortunate residents as could
afford to indulge in so expensive a luxury. A gutter ran down the
centre of the alley—all the sluggish odours of which had been called
forth by the rain; and as the wind whistled through the old houses, the
doors and shutters creaked upon their hinges, and the windows shook in
their frames, with a violence which every moment seemed to threaten the
destruction of the whole place.

The man whom we have followed into this den, walked on in the darkness,
sometimes stumbling into the main gutter, and at others into some
branch repositories of garbage which had been formed by the rain, until
he reached the last house in the court. The door, or rather what was
left of it, stood ajar, for the convenience of the numerous lodgers;
and he proceeded to grope his way up the old and broken stair, to the
attic story.

He was within a step or two of his room door, when it opened, and a
girl, whose miserable and emaciated appearance was only to be equalled
by that of the candle which she shaded with her hand, peeped anxiously
out.

‘Is that you, father?’ said the girl.

‘Who else should it be?’ replied the man gruffly. ‘What are you
trembling at? It’s little enough that I’ve had to drink to-day, for
there’s no drink without money, and no money without work. What the
devil’s the matter with the girl?’

‘I am not well, father—not at all well,’ said the girl, bursting into
tears.

‘Ah!’ replied the man, in the tone of a person who is compelled to
admit a very unpleasant fact, to which he would rather remain blind, if
he could. ‘You must get better somehow, for we must have money. You
must go to the parish doctor, and make him give you some medicine.
They’re paid for it, damn ’em. What are you standing before the door
for? Let me come in, can’t you?’

‘Father,’ whispered the girl, shutting the door behind her, and placing
herself before it, ‘William has come back.’

‘Who!’ said the man with a start.

‘Hush,’ replied the girl, ‘William; brother William.’

‘And what does he want?’ said the man, with an effort at
composure—‘money? meat? drink? He’s come to the wrong shop for that, if
he does. Give me the candle—give me the candle, fool—I ain’t going to
hurt him.’ He snatched the candle from her hand, and walked into the
room.

Sitting on an old box, with his head resting on his hand, and his eyes
fixed on a wretched cinder fire that was smouldering on the hearth, was
a young man of about two-and-twenty, miserably clad in an old coarse
jacket and trousers. He started up when his father entered.

‘Fasten the door, Mary,’ said the young man hastily—‘Fasten the door.
You look as if you didn’t know me, father. It’s long enough, since you
drove me from home; you may well forget me.’

‘And what do you want here, now?’ said the father, seating himself on a
stool, on the other side of the fireplace. ‘What do you want here,
now?’

‘Shelter,’ replied the son. ‘I’m in trouble: that’s enough. If I’m
caught I shall swing; that’s certain. Caught I shall be, unless I stop
here; that’s _as_ certain. And there’s an end of it.’

‘You mean to say, you’ve been robbing, or murdering, then?’ said the
father.

‘Yes, I do,’ replied the son. ‘Does it surprise you, father?’ He looked
steadily in the man’s face, but he withdrew his eyes, and bent them on
the ground.

‘Where’s your brothers?’ he said, after a long pause.

‘Where they’ll never trouble you,’ replied his son: ‘John’s gone to
America, and Henry’s dead.’

‘Dead!’ said the father, with a shudder, which even he could not
express.

‘Dead,’ replied the young man. ‘He died in my arms—shot like a dog, by
a gamekeeper. He staggered back, I caught him, and his blood trickled
down my hands. It poured out from his side like water. He was weak, and
it blinded him, but he threw himself down on his knees, on the grass,
and prayed to God, that if his mother was in heaven, He would hear her
prayers for pardon for her youngest son. “I was her favourite boy,
Will,” he said, “and I am glad to think, now, that when she was dying,
though I was a very young child then, and my little heart was almost
bursting, I knelt down at the foot of the bed, and thanked God for
having made me so fond of her as to have never once done anything to
bring the tears into her eyes. O Will, why was she taken away, and
father left?” There’s his dying words, father,’ said the young man;
‘make the best you can of ’em. You struck him across the face, in a
drunken fit, the morning we ran away; and here’s the end of it.’

The girl wept aloud; and the father, sinking his head upon his knees,
rocked himself to and fro.

‘If I am taken,’ said the young man, ‘I shall be carried back into the
country, and hung for that man’s murder. They cannot trace me here,
without your assistance, father. For aught I know, you may give me up
to justice; but unless you do, here I stop, until I can venture to
escape abroad.’

For two whole days, all three remained in the wretched room, without
stirring out. On the third evening, however, the girl was worse than
she had been yet, and the few scraps of food they had were gone. It was
indispensably necessary that somebody should go out; and as the girl
was too weak and ill, the father went, just at nightfall.

He got some medicine for the girl, and a trifle in the way of pecuniary
assistance. On his way back, he earned sixpence by holding a horse; and
he turned homewards with enough money to supply their most pressing
wants for two or three days to come. He had to pass the public-house.
He lingered for an instant, walked past it, turned back again, lingered
once more, and finally slunk in. Two men whom he had not observed, were
on the watch. They were on the point of giving up their search in
despair, when his loitering attracted their attention; and when he
entered the public-house, they followed him.

‘You’ll drink with me, master,’ said one of them, proffering him a
glass of liquor.

‘And me too,’ said the other, replenishing the glass as soon as it was
drained of its contents.

The man thought of his hungry children, and his son’s danger. But they
were nothing to the drunkard. He _did_ drink; and his reason left him.

‘A wet night, Warden,’ whispered one of the men in his ear, as he at
length turned to go away, after spending in liquor one-half of the
money on which, perhaps, his daughter’s life depended.

‘The right sort of night for our friends in hiding, Master Warden,’
whispered the other.

‘Sit down here,’ said the one who had spoken first, drawing him into a
corner. ‘We have been looking arter the young un. We came to tell him,
it’s all right now, but we couldn’t find him ’cause we hadn’t got the
precise direction. But that ain’t strange, for I don’t think he know’d
it himself, when he come to London, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ replied the father.

The two men exchanged glances.

‘There’s a vessel down at the docks, to sail at midnight, when it’s
high water,’ resumed the first speaker, ‘and we’ll put him on board.
His passage is taken in another name, and what’s better than that, it’s
paid for. It’s lucky we met you.’

‘Very,’ said the second.

‘Capital luck,’ said the first, with a wink to his companion.

‘Great,’ replied the second, with a slight nod of intelligence.

‘Another glass here; quick’—said the first speaker. And in five minutes
more, the father had unconsciously yielded up his own son into the
hangman’s hands.

Slowly and heavily the time dragged along, as the brother and sister,
in their miserable hiding-place, listened in anxious suspense to the
slightest sound. At length, a heavy footstep was heard upon the stair;
it approached nearer; it reached the landing; and the father staggered
into the room.

The girl saw that he was intoxicated, and advanced with the candle in
her hand to meet him; she stopped short, gave a loud scream, and fell
senseless on the ground. She had caught sight of the shadow of a man
reflected on the floor. They both rushed in, and in another instant the
young man was a prisoner, and handcuffed.

‘Very quietly done,’ said one of the men to his companion, ‘thanks to
the old man. Lift up the girl, Tom—come, come, it’s no use crying,
young woman. It’s all over now, and can’t be helped.’

The young man stooped for an instant over the girl, and then turned
fiercely round upon his father, who had reeled against the wall, and
was gazing on the group with drunken stupidity.

‘Listen to me, father,’ he said, in a tone that made the drunkard’s
flesh creep. ‘My brother’s blood, and mine, is on your head: I never
had kind look, or word, or care, from you, and alive or dead, I never
will forgive you. Die when you will, or how, I will be with you. I
speak as a dead man now, and I warn you, father, that as surely as you
must one day stand before your Maker, so surely shall your children be
there, hand in hand, to cry for judgment against you.’ He raised his
manacled hands in a threatening attitude, fixed his eyes on his
shrinking parent, and slowly left the room; and neither father nor
sister ever beheld him more, on this side of the grave.

When the dim and misty light of a winter’s morning penetrated into the
narrow court, and struggled through the begrimed window of the wretched
room, Warden awoke from his heavy sleep, and found himself alone. He
rose, and looked round him; the old flock mattress on the floor was
undisturbed; everything was just as he remembered to have seen it last:
and there were no signs of any one, save himself, having occupied the
room during the night. He inquired of the other lodgers, and of the
neighbours; but his daughter had not been seen or heard of. He rambled
through the streets, and scrutinised each wretched face among the
crowds that thronged them, with anxious eyes. But his search was
fruitless, and he returned to his garret when night came on, desolate
and weary.

For many days he occupied himself in the same manner, but no trace of
his daughter did he meet with, and no word of her reached his ears. At
length he gave up the pursuit as hopeless. He had long thought of the
probability of her leaving him, and endeavouring to gain her bread in
quiet, elsewhere. She had left him at last to starve alone. He ground
his teeth, and cursed her!

He begged his bread from door to door. Every halfpenny he could wring
from the pity or credulity of those to whom he addressed himself, was
spent in the old way. A year passed over his head; the roof of a jail
was the only one that had sheltered him for many months. He slept under
archways, and in brickfields—anywhere, where there was some warmth or
shelter from the cold and rain. But in the last stage of poverty,
disease, and houseless want, he was a drunkard still.

At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on a door-step faint and ill.
The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone.
His cheeks were hollow and livid; his eyes were sunken, and their sight
was dim. His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran
through every limb.

And now the long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life crowded thick and
fast upon him. He thought of the time when he had a home—a happy,
cheerful home—and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then,
until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave,
and stand about him—so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were that
he could touch and feel them. Looks that he had long forgotten were
fixed upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in
his ears like the music of village bells. But it was only for an
instant. The rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were
gnawing at his heart again.

He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further. The street
was silent and empty; the few passengers who passed by, at that late
hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the
violence of the storm. Again that heavy chill struck through his frame,
and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it. He coiled himself up in a
projecting doorway, and tried to sleep.

But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes. His mind wandered
strangely, but he was awake, and conscious. The well-known shout of
drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board
was covered with choice rich food—they were before him: he could see
them all, he had but to reach out his hand, and take them—and, though
the illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in
the deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the
stones; that death was coming upon him by inches—and that there were
none to care for or help him.

Suddenly he started up, in the extremity of terror. He had heard his
own voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what, or why. Hark! A
groan!—another! His senses were leaving him: half-formed and incoherent
words burst from his lips; and his hands sought to tear and lacerate
his flesh. He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice
failed him.

He raised his head, and looked up the long dismal street. He
recollected that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and
night in those dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with
their own loneliness. He remembered to have heard many years before
that a homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner,
sharpening a rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death
to that endless, weary, wandering to and fro. In an instant his resolve
was taken, his limbs received new life; he ran quickly from the spot,
and paused not for breath until he reached the river-side.

He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the
commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water’s level. He crouched
into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed. Never did
prisoner’s heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so
eagerly as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death. The
watch passed close to him, but he remained unobserved; and after
waiting till the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he
cautiously descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the
landing-place from the river.

The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet. The rain had ceased,
the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet—so
quiet, that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling
of the water against the barges that were moored there, was distinctly
audible to his ear. The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on.
Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to
approach; dark gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock
his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind, urged him onwards. He
retreated a few paces, took a short run, desperate leap, and plunged
into the river.

Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water’s surface—but
what a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts
and feelings! Life—life in any form, poverty, misery,
starvation—anything but death. He fought and struggled with the water
that closed over his head, and screamed in agonies of terror. The curse
of his own son rang in his ears. The shore—but one foot of dry
ground—he could almost touch the step. One hand’s breadth nearer, and
he was saved—but the tide bore him onward, under the dark arches of the
bridge, and he sank to the bottom.

Again he rose, and struggled for life. For one instant—for one brief
instant—the buildings on the river’s banks, the lights on the bridge
through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the
fast-flying clouds, were distinctly visible—once more he sunk, and once
again he rose. Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and
reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and
stunned him with its furious roar.

A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the
river, a swollen and disfigured mass. Unrecognised and unpitied, it was
borne to the grave; and there it has long since mouldered away!




SKETCHES OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN


TO THE YOUNG LADIES
of the
United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland;
also
THE YOUNG LADIES
of
the principality of wales,
and likewise
THE YOUNG LADIES
resident in the isles of
guernsey, jersey, alderney, and sark,
the humble dedication of their devoted admirer,


Sheweth,—

That your Dedicator has perused, with feelings of virtuous indignation,
a work purporting to be ‘Sketches of Young Ladies;’ written by Quiz,
illustrated by Phiz, and published in one volume, square twelvemo.

That after an attentive and vigilant perusal of the said work, your
Dedicator is humbly of opinion that so many libels, upon your
Honourable sex, were never contained in any previously published work,
in twelvemo or any other mo.

That in the title page and preface to the said work, your Honourable
sex are described and classified as animals; and although your
Dedicator is not at present prepared to deny that you _are_ animals,
still he humbly submits that it is not polite to call you so.

That in the aforesaid preface, your Honourable sex are also described
as Troglodites, which, being a hard word, may, for aught your
Honourable sex or your Dedicator can say to the contrary, be an
injurious and disrespectful appellation.

That the author of the said work applied himself to his task in malice
prepense and with wickedness aforethought; a fact which, your Dedicator
contends, is sufficiently demonstrated, by his assuming the name of
Quiz, which, your Dedicator submits, denotes a foregone conclusion, and
implies an intention of quizzing.

That in the execution of his evil design, the said Quiz, or author of
the said work, must have betrayed some trust or confidence reposed in
him by some members of your Honourable sex, otherwise he never could
have acquired so much information relative to the manners and customs
of your Honourable sex in general.

That actuated by these considerations, and further moved by various
slanders and insinuations respecting your Honourable sex contained in
the said work, square twelvemo, entitled ‘Sketches of Young Ladies,’
your Dedicator ventures to produce another work, square twelvemo,
entitled ‘Sketches of Young Gentlemen,’ of which he now solicits your
acceptance and approval.

That as the Young Ladies are the best companions of the Young
Gentlemen, so the Young Gentlemen should be the best companions of the
Young Ladies; and extending the comparison from animals (to quote the
disrespectful language of the said Quiz) to inanimate objects, your
Dedicator humbly suggests, that such of your Honourable sex as
purchased the bane should possess themselves of the antidote, and that
those of your Honourable sex who were not rash enough to take the
first, should lose no time in swallowing the last,—prevention being in
all cases better than cure, as we are informed upon the authority, not
only of general acknowledgment, but also of traditionary wisdom.

That with reference to the said bane and antidote, your Dedicator has
no further remarks to make, than are comprised in the printed
directions issued with Doctor Morison’s pills; namely, that whenever
your Honourable sex take twenty-five of Number, 1, you will be pleased
to take fifty of Number 2, without delay.

And your Dedicator shall ever pray, &c.




THE BASHFUL YOUNG GENTLEMAN


We found ourself seated at a small dinner party the other day, opposite
a stranger of such singular appearance and manner, that he irresistibly
attracted our attention.

This was a fresh-coloured young gentleman, with as good a promise of
light whisker as one might wish to see, and possessed of a very
velvet-like, soft-looking countenance. We do not use the latter term
invidiously, but merely to denote a pair of smooth, plump,
highly-coloured cheeks of capacious dimensions, and a mouth rather
remarkable for the fresh hue of the lips than for any marked or
striking expression it presented. His whole face was suffused with a
crimson blush, and bore that downcast, timid, retiring look, which
betokens a man ill at ease with himself.

There was nothing in these symptoms to attract more than a passing
remark, but our attention had been originally drawn to the bashful
young gentleman, on his first appearance in the drawing-room
above-stairs, into which he was no sooner introduced, than making his
way towards us who were standing in a window, and wholly neglecting
several persons who warmly accosted him, he seized our hand with
visible emotion, and pressed it with a convulsive grasp for a good
couple of minutes, after which he dived in a nervous manner across the
room, oversetting in his way a fine little girl of six years and a
quarter old—and shrouding himself behind some hangings, was seen no
more, until the eagle eye of the hostess detecting him in his
concealment, on the announcement of dinner, he was requested to pair
off with a lively single lady, of two or three and thirty.

This most flattering salutation from a perfect stranger, would have
gratified us not a little as a token of his having held us in high
respect, and for that reason been desirous of our acquaintance, if we
had not suspected from the first, that the young gentleman, in making a
desperate effort to get through the ceremony of introduction, had, in
the bewilderment of his ideas, shaken hands with us at random. This
impression was fully confirmed by the subsequent behaviour of the
bashful young gentleman in question, which we noted particularly, with
the view of ascertaining whether we were right in our conjecture.

The young gentleman seated himself at table with evident misgivings,
and turning sharp round to pay attention to some observation of his
loquacious neighbour, overset his bread. There was nothing very bad in
this, and if he had had the presence of mind to let it go, and say
nothing about it, nobody but the man who had laid the cloth would have
been a bit the wiser; but the young gentleman in various
semi-successful attempts to prevent its fall, played with it a little,
as gentlemen in the streets may be seen to do with their hats on a
windy day, and then giving the roll a smart rap in his anxiety to catch
it, knocked it with great adroitness into a tureen of white soup at
some distance, to the unspeakable terror and disturbance of a very
amiable bald gentleman, who was dispensing the contents. We thought the
bashful young gentleman would have gone off in an apoplectic fit,
consequent upon the violent rush of blood to his face at the occurrence
of this catastrophe.

From this moment we perceived, in the phraseology of the fancy, that it
was ‘all up’ with the bashful young gentleman, and so indeed it was.
Several benevolent persons endeavoured to relieve his embarrassment by
taking wine with him, but finding that it only augmented his
sufferings, and that after mingling sherry, champagne, hock, and
moselle together, he applied the greater part of the mixture
externally, instead of internally, they gradually dropped off, and left
him to the exclusive care of the talkative lady, who, not noting the
wildness of his eye, firmly believed she had secured a listener. He
broke a glass or two in the course of the meal, and disappeared shortly
afterwards; it is inferred that he went away in some confusion,
inasmuch as he left the house in another gentleman’s coat, and the
footman’s hat.

This little incident led us to reflect upon the most prominent
characteristics of bashful young gentlemen in the abstract; and as this
portable volume will be the great text-book of young ladies in all
future generations, we record them here for their guidance and behoof.

If the bashful young gentleman, in turning a street corner, chance to
stumble suddenly upon two or three young ladies of his acquaintance,
nothing can exceed his confusion and agitation. His first impulse is to
make a great variety of bows, and dart past them, which he does until,
observing that they wish to stop, but are uncertain whether to do so or
not, he makes several feints of returning, which causes them to do the
same; and at length, after a great quantity of unnecessary dodging and
falling up against the other passengers, he returns and shakes hands
most affectionately with all of them, in doing which he knocks out of
their grasp sundry little parcels, which he hastily picks up, and
returns very muddy and disordered. The chances are that the bashful
young gentleman then observes it is very fine weather, and being
reminded that it has only just left off raining for the first time
these three days, he blushes very much, and smiles as if he had said a
very good thing. The young lady who was most anxious to speak, here
inquires, with an air of great commiseration, how his dear sister
Harriet is to-day; to which the young gentleman, without the slightest
consideration, replies with many thanks, that she is remarkably well.
‘Well, Mr. Hopkins!’ cries the young lady, ‘why, we heard she was bled
yesterday evening, and have been perfectly miserable about her.’ ‘Oh,
ah,’ says the young gentleman, ‘so she was. Oh, she’s very ill, very
ill indeed.’ The young gentleman then shakes his head, and looks very
desponding (he has been smiling perpetually up to this time), and after
a short pause, gives his glove a great wrench at the wrist, and says,
with a strong emphasis on the adjective, ‘_Good_ morning, _good_
morning.’ And making a great number of bows in acknowledgment of
several little messages to his sister, walks backward a few paces, and
comes with great violence against a lamp-post, knocking his hat off in
the contact, which in his mental confusion and bodily pain he is going
to walk away without, until a great roar from a carter attracts his
attention, when he picks it up, and tries to smile cheerfully to the
young ladies, who are looking back, and who, he has the satisfaction of
seeing, are all laughing heartily.

At a quadrille party, the bashful young gentleman always remains as
near the entrance of the room as possible, from which position he
smiles at the people he knows as they come in, and sometimes steps
forward to shake hands with more intimate friends: a process which on
each repetition seems to turn him a deeper scarlet than before. He
declines dancing the first set or two, observing, in a faint voice,
that he would rather wait a little; but at length is absolutely
compelled to allow himself to be introduced to a partner, when he is
led, in a great heat and blushing furiously, across the room to a spot
where half-a-dozen unknown ladies are congregated together.

‘Miss Lambert, let me introduce Mr. Hopkins for the next quadrille.’
Miss Lambert inclines her head graciously. Mr. Hopkins bows, and his
fair conductress disappears, leaving Mr. Hopkins, as he too well knows,
to make himself agreeable. The young lady more than half expects that
the bashful young gentleman will say something, and the bashful young
gentleman feeling this, seriously thinks whether he has got anything to
say, which, upon mature reflection, he is rather disposed to conclude
he has not, since nothing occurs to him. Meanwhile, the young lady,
after several inspections of her _bouquet_, all made in the expectation
that the bashful young gentleman is going to talk, whispers her mamma,
who is sitting next her, which whisper the bashful young gentleman
immediately suspects (and possibly with very good reason) must be about
_him_. In this comfortable condition he remains until it is time to
‘stand up,’ when murmuring a ‘Will you allow me?’ he gives the young
lady his arm, and after inquiring where she will stand, and receiving a
reply that she has no choice, conducts her to the remotest corner of
the quadrille, and making one attempt at conversation, which turns out
a desperate failure, preserves a profound silence until it is all over,
when he walks her twice round the room, deposits her in her old seat,
and retires in confusion.

A married bashful gentleman—for these bashful gentlemen do get married
sometimes; how it is ever brought about, is a mystery to us—a married
bashful gentleman either causes his wife to appear bold by contrast, or
merges her proper importance in his own insignificance. Bashful young
gentlemen should be cured, or avoided. They are never hopeless, and
never will be, while female beauty and attractions retain their
influence, as any young lady will find, who may think it worth while on
this confident assurance to take a patient in hand.




THE OUT-AND-OUT YOUNG GENTLEMAN


Out-and-out young gentlemen may be divided into two classes—those who
have something to do, and those who have nothing. I shall commence with
the former, because that species come more frequently under the notice
of young ladies, whom it is our province to warn and to instruct.

The out-and-out young gentleman is usually no great dresser, his
instructions to his tailor being all comprehended in the one general
direction to ‘make that what’s-a-name a regular bang-up sort of thing.’
For some years past, the favourite costume of the out-and-out young
gentleman has been a rough pilot coat, with two gilt hooks and eyes to
the velvet collar; buttons somewhat larger than crown-pieces; a black
or fancy neckerchief, loosely tied; a wide-brimmed hat, with a low
crown; tightish inexpressibles, and iron-shod boots. Out of doors he
sometimes carries a large ash stick, but only on special occasions, for
he prefers keeping his hands in his coat pockets. He smokes at all
hours, of course, and swears considerably.

The out-and-out young gentleman is employed in a city counting-house or
solicitor’s office, in which he does as little as he possibly can: his
chief places of resort are, the streets, the taverns, and the theatres.
In the streets at evening time, out-and-out young gentlemen have a
pleasant custom of walking six or eight abreast, thus driving females
and other inoffensive persons into the road, which never fails to
afford them the highest satisfaction, especially if there be any
immediate danger of their being run over, which enhances the fun of the
thing materially. In all places of public resort, the out-and-outers
are careful to select each a seat to himself, upon which he lies at
full length, and (if the weather be very dirty, but not in any other
case) he lies with his knees up, and the soles of his boots planted
firmly on the cushion, so that if any low fellow should ask him to make
room for a lady, he takes ample revenge upon her dress, without going
at all out of his way to do it. He always sits with his hat on, and
flourishes his stick in the air while the play is proceeding, with a
dignified contempt of the performance; if it be possible for one or two
out-and-out young gentlemen to get up a little crowding in the
passages, they are quite in their element, squeezing, pushing,
whooping, and shouting in the most humorous manner possible. If they
can only succeed in irritating the gentleman who has a family of
daughters under his charge, they are like to die with laughing, and
boast of it among their companions for a week afterwards, adding, that
one or two of them were ‘devilish fine girls,’ and that they really
thought the youngest would have fainted, which was the only thing
wanted to render the joke complete.

If the out-and-out young gentleman have a mother and sisters, of course
he treats them with becoming contempt, inasmuch as they (poor things!)
having no notion of life or gaiety, are far too weak-spirited and
moping for him. Sometimes, however, on a birth-day or at
Christmas-time, he cannot very well help accompanying them to a party
at some old friend’s, with which view he comes home when they have been
dressed an hour or two, smelling very strongly of tobacco and spirits,
and after exchanging his rough coat for some more suitable attire (in
which however he loses nothing of the out-and-outer), gets into the
coach and grumbles all the way at his own good nature: his bitter
reflections aggravated by the recollection, that Tom Smith has taken
the chair at a little impromptu dinner at a fighting man’s, and that a
set-to was to take place on a dining-table, between the fighting man
and his brother-in-law, which is probably ‘coming off’ at that very
instant.

As the out-and-out young gentleman is by no means at his ease in
ladies’ society, he shrinks into a corner of the drawing-room when they
reach the friend’s, and unless one of his sisters is kind enough to
talk to him, remains there without being much troubled by the
attentions of other people, until he espies, lingering outside the
door, another gentleman, whom he at once knows, by his air and manner
(for there is a kind of free-masonry in the craft), to be a brother
out-and-outer, and towards whom he accordingly makes his way.
Conversation being soon opened by some casual remark, the second
out-and-outer confidentially informs the first, that he is one of the
rough sort and hates that kind of thing, only he couldn’t very well be
off coming; to which the other replies, that that’s just his case—‘and
I’ll tell you what,’ continues the out-and-outer in a whisper, ‘I
should like a glass of warm brandy and water just now,’—‘Or a pint of
stout and a pipe,’ suggests the other out-and-outer.

The discovery is at once made that they are sympathetic souls; each of
them says at the same moment, that he sees the other understands what’s
what: and they become fast friends at once, more especially when it
appears, that the second out-and-outer is no other than a gentleman,
long favourably known to his familiars as ‘Mr. Warmint Blake,’ who upon
divers occasions has distinguished himself in a manner that would not
have disgraced the fighting man, and who—having been a pretty long time
about town—had the honour of once shaking hands with the celebrated Mr.
Thurtell himself.

At supper, these gentlemen greatly distinguish themselves, brightening
up very much when the ladies leave the table, and proclaiming aloud
their intention of beginning to spend the evening—a process which is
generally understood to be satisfactorily performed, when a great deal
of wine is drunk and a great deal of noise made, both of which feats
the out-and-out young gentlemen execute to perfection. Having
protracted their sitting until long after the host and the other guests
have adjourned to the drawing-room, and finding that they have drained
the decanters empty, they follow them thither with complexions rather
heightened, and faces rather bloated with wine; and the agitated lady
of the house whispers her friends as they waltz together, to the great
terror of the whole room, that ‘both Mr. Blake and Mr. Dummins are very
nice sort of young men in their way, only they are eccentric persons,
and unfortunately _rather too wild_!’

The remaining class of out-and-out young gentlemen is composed of
persons, who, having no money of their own and a soul above earning
any, enjoy similar pleasures, nobody knows how. These respectable
gentlemen, without aiming quite so much at the out-and-out in external
appearance, are distinguished by all the same amiable and attractive
characteristics, in an equal or perhaps greater degree, and now and
then find their way into society, through the medium of the other class
of out-and-out young gentlemen, who will sometimes carry them home, and
who usually pay their tavern bills. As they are equally gentlemanly,
clever, witty, intelligent, wise, and well-bred, we need scarcely have
recommended them to the peculiar consideration of the young ladies, if
it were not that some of the gentle creatures whom we hold in such high
respect, are perhaps a little too apt to confound a great many heavier
terms with the light word eccentricity, which we beg them henceforth to
take in a strictly Johnsonian sense, without any liberality or latitude
of construction.




THE VERY FRIENDLY YOUNG GENTLEMAN


We know—and all people know—so many specimens of this class, that in
selecting the few heads our limits enable us to take from a great
number, we have been induced to give the very friendly young gentleman
the preference over many others, to whose claims upon a more cursory
view of the question we had felt disposed to assign the priority.

The very friendly young gentleman is very friendly to everybody, but he
attaches himself particularly to two, or at most to three families:
regulating his choice by their dinners, their circle of acquaintance,
or some other criterion in which he has an immediate interest. He is of
any age between twenty and forty, unmarried of course, must be fond of
children, and is expected to make himself generally useful if possible.
Let us illustrate our meaning by an example, which is the shortest mode
and the clearest.

We encountered one day, by chance, an old friend of whom we had lost
sight for some years, and who—expressing a strong anxiety to renew our
former intimacy—urged us to dine with him on an early day, that we
might talk over old times. We readily assented, adding, that we hoped
we should be alone. ‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ said our friend, ‘not a
soul with us but Mincin.’ ‘And who is Mincin?’ was our natural inquiry.
‘O don’t mind him,’ replied our friend, ‘he’s a most particular friend
of mine, and a very friendly fellow you will find him;’ and so he left
us.

‘We thought no more about Mincin until we duly presented ourselves at
the house next day, when, after a hearty welcome, our friend motioned
towards a gentleman who had been previously showing his teeth by the
fireplace, and gave us to understand that it was Mr. Mincin, of whom he
had spoken. It required no great penetration on our part to discover at
once that Mr. Mincin was in every respect a very friendly young
gentleman.

‘I am delighted,’ said Mincin, hastily advancing, and pressing our hand
warmly between both of his, ‘I am delighted, I am sure, to make your
acquaintance—(here he smiled)—very much delighted indeed—(here he
exhibited a little emotion)—I assure you that I have looked forward to
it anxiously for a very long time:’ here he released our hands, and
rubbing his own, observed, that the day was severe, but that he was
delighted to perceive from our appearance that it agreed with us
wonderfully; and then went on to observe, that, notwithstanding the
coldness of the weather, he had that morning seen in the paper an
exceedingly curious paragraph, to the effect, that there was now in the
garden of Mr. Wilkins of Chichester, a pumpkin, measuring four feet in
height, and eleven feet seven inches in circumference, which he looked
upon as a very extraordinary piece of intelligence. We ventured to
remark, that we had a dim recollection of having once or twice before
observed a similar paragraph in the public prints, upon which Mr.
Mincin took us confidentially by the button, and said, Exactly,
exactly, to be sure, we were very right, and he wondered what the
editors meant by putting in such things. Who the deuce, he should like
to know, did they suppose cared about them? that struck him as being
the best of it.

The lady of the house appeared shortly afterwards, and Mr. Mincin’s
friendliness, as will readily be supposed, suffered no diminution in
consequence; he exerted much strength and skill in wheeling a large
easy-chair up to the fire, and the lady being seated in it, carefully
closed the door, stirred the fire, and looked to the windows to see
that they admitted no air; having satisfied himself upon all these
points, he expressed himself quite easy in his mind, and begged to know
how she found herself to-day. Upon the lady’s replying very well, Mr.
Mincin (who it appeared was a medical gentleman) offered some general
remarks upon the nature and treatment of colds in the head, which
occupied us agreeably until dinner-time. During the meal, he devoted
himself to complimenting everybody, not forgetting himself, so that we
were an uncommonly agreeable quartette.

‘I’ll tell you what, Capper,’ said Mr. Mincin to our host, as he closed
the room door after the lady had retired, ‘you have very great reason
to be fond of your wife. Sweet woman, Mrs. Capper, sir!’ ‘Nay, Mincin—I
beg,’ interposed the host, as we were about to reply that Mrs. Capper
unquestionably was particularly sweet. ‘Pray, Mincin, don’t.’ ‘Why
not?’ exclaimed Mr. Mincin, ‘why not? Why should you feel any delicacy
before your old friend—_our_ old friend, if I may be allowed to call
you so, sir; why should you, I ask?’ We of course wished to know why he
should also, upon which our friend admitted that Mrs. Capper _was_ a
very sweet woman, at which admission Mr. Mincin cried ‘Bravo!’ and
begged to propose Mrs. Capper with heartfelt enthusiasm, whereupon our
host said, ‘Thank you, Mincin,’ with deep feeling; and gave us, in a
low voice, to understand, that Mincin had saved Mrs. Capper’s cousin’s
life no less than fourteen times in a year and a half, which he
considered no common circumstance—an opinion to which we most cordially
subscribed.

Now that we three were left to entertain ourselves with conversation,
Mr. Mincin’s extreme friendliness became every moment more apparent; he
was so amazingly friendly, indeed, that it was impossible to talk about
anything in which he had not the chief concern. We happened to allude
to some affairs in which our friend and we had been mutually engaged
nearly fourteen years before, when Mr. Mincin was all at once reminded
of a joke which our friend had made on that day four years, which he
positively must insist upon telling—and which he did tell accordingly,
with many pleasant recollections of what he said, and what Mrs. Capper
said, and how he well remembered that they had been to the play with
orders on the very night previous, and had seen Romeo and Juliet, and
the pantomime, and how Mrs. Capper being faint had been led into the
lobby, where she smiled, said it was nothing after all, and went back
again, with many other interesting and absorbing particulars: after
which the friendly young gentleman went on to assure us, that our
friend had experienced a marvellously prophetic opinion of that same
pantomime, which was of such an admirable kind, that two morning papers
took the same view next day: to this our friend replied, with a little
triumph, that in that instance he had some reason to think he had been
correct, which gave the friendly young gentleman occasion to believe
that our friend was always correct; and so we went on, until our
friend, filling a bumper, said he must drink one glass to his dear
friend Mincin, than whom he would say no man saved the lives of his
acquaintances more, or had a more friendly heart. Finally, our friend
having emptied his glass, said, ‘God bless you, Mincin,’—and Mr. Mincin
and he shook hands across the table with much affection and
earnestness.

But great as the friendly young gentleman is, in a limited scene like
this, he plays the same part on a larger scale with increased _éclat_.
Mr. Mincin is invited to an evening party with his dear friends the
Martins, where he meets his dear friends the Cappers, and his dear
friends the Watsons, and a hundred other dear friends too numerous to
mention. He is as much at home with the Martins as with the Cappers;
but how exquisitely he balances his attentions, and divides them among
his dear friends! If he flirts with one of the Miss Watsons, he has one
little Martin on the sofa pulling his hair, and the other little Martin
on the carpet riding on his foot. He carries Mrs. Watson down to supper
on one arm, and Miss Martin on the other, and takes wine so
judiciously, and in such exact order, that it is impossible for the
most punctilious old lady to consider herself neglected. If any young
lady, being prevailed upon to sing, become nervous afterwards, Mr.
Mincin leads her tenderly into the next room, and restores her with
port wine, which she must take medicinally. If any gentleman be
standing by the piano during the progress of the ballad, Mr. Mincin
seizes him by the arm at one point of the melody, and softly beating
time the while with his head, expresses in dumb show his intense
perception of the delicacy of the passage. If anybody’s self-love is to
be flattered, Mr. Mincin is at hand. If anybody’s overweening vanity is
to be pampered, Mr. Mincin will surfeit it. What wonder that people of
all stations and ages recognise Mr. Mincin’s friendliness; that he is
universally allowed to be handsome as amiable; that mothers think him
an oracle, daughters a dear, brothers a beau, and fathers a wonder! And
who would not have the reputation of the very friendly young gentleman?




THE MILITARY YOUNG GENTLEMAN


We are rather at a loss to imagine how it has come to pass that
military young gentlemen have obtained so much favour in the eyes of
the young ladies of this kingdom. We cannot think so lightly of them as
to suppose that the mere circumstance of a man’s wearing a red coat
ensures him a ready passport to their regard; and even if this were the
case, it would be no satisfactory explanation of the circumstance,
because, although the analogy may in some degree hold good in the case
of mail coachmen and guards, still general postmen wear red coats, and
_they_ are not to our knowledge better received than other men; nor are
firemen either, who wear (or used to wear) not only red coats, but very
resplendent and massive badges besides—much larger than epaulettes.
Neither do the twopenny post-office boys, if the result of our
inquiries be correct, find any peculiar favour in woman’s eyes,
although they wear very bright red jackets, and have the additional
advantage of constantly appearing in public on horseback, which last
circumstance may be naturally supposed to be greatly in their favour.

We have sometimes thought that this phenomenon may take its rise in the
conventional behaviour of captains and colonels and other gentlemen in
red coats on the stage, where they are invariably represented as fine
swaggering fellows, talking of nothing but charming girls, their king
and country, their honour, and their debts, and crowing over the
inferior classes of the community, whom they occasionally treat with a
little gentlemanly swindling, no less to the improvement and pleasure
of the audience, than to the satisfaction and approval of the choice
spirits who consort with them. But we will not devote these pages to
our speculations upon the subject, inasmuch as our business at the
present moment is not so much with the young ladies who are bewitched
by her Majesty’s livery as with the young gentlemen whose heads are
turned by it. For ‘heads’ we had written ‘brains;’ but upon
consideration, we think the former the more appropriate word of the
two.

These young gentlemen may be divided into two classes—young gentlemen
who are actually in the army, and young gentlemen who, having an
intense and enthusiastic admiration for all things appertaining to a
military life, are compelled by adverse fortune or adverse relations to
wear out their existence in some ignoble counting-house. We will take
this latter description of military young gentlemen first.

The whole heart and soul of the military young gentleman are
concentrated in his favourite topic. There is nothing that he is so
learned upon as uniforms; he will tell you, without faltering for an
instant, what the habiliments of any one regiment are turned up with,
what regiment wear stripes down the outside and inside of the leg, and
how many buttons the Tenth had on their coats; he knows to a fraction
how many yards and odd inches of gold lace it takes to make an ensign
in the Guards; is deeply read in the comparative merits of different
bands, and the apparelling of trumpeters; and is very luminous indeed
in descanting upon ‘crack regiments,’ and the ‘crack’ gentlemen who
compose them, of whose mightiness and grandeur he is never tired of
telling.

We were suggesting to a military young gentleman only the other day,
after he had related to us several dazzling instances of the profusion
of half-a-dozen honourable ensign somebodies or nobodies in the
articles of kid gloves and polished boots, that possibly ‘cracked’
regiments would be an improvement upon ‘crack,’ as being a more
expressive and appropriate designation, when he suddenly interrupted us
by pulling out his watch, and observing that he must hurry off to the
Park in a cab, or he would be too late to hear the band play. Not
wishing to interfere with so important an engagement, and being in fact
already slightly overwhelmed by the anecdotes of the honourable ensigns
afore-mentioned, we made no attempt to detain the military young
gentleman, but parted company with ready good-will.

Some three or four hours afterwards, we chanced to be walking down
Whitehall, on the Admiralty side of the way, when, as we drew near to
one of the little stone places in which a couple of horse soldiers
mount guard in the daytime, we were attracted by the motionless
appearance and eager gaze of a young gentleman, who was devouring both
man and horse with his eyes, so eagerly, that he seemed deaf and blind
to all that was passing around him. We were not much surprised at the
discovery that it was our friend, the military young gentleman, but we
_were_ a little astonished when we returned from a walk to South
Lambeth to find him still there, looking on with the same intensity as
before. As it was a very windy day, we felt bound to awaken the young
gentleman from his reverie, when he inquired of us with great
enthusiasm, whether ‘that was not a glorious spectacle,’ and proceeded
to give us a detailed account of the weight of every article of the
spectacle’s trappings, from the man’s gloves to the horse’s shoes.

We have made it a practice since, to take the Horse Guards in our daily
walk, and we find it is the custom of military young gentlemen to plant
themselves opposite the sentries, and contemplate them at leisure, in
periods varying from fifteen minutes to fifty, and averaging
twenty-five. We were much struck a day or two since, by the behaviour
of a very promising young butcher who (evincing an interest in the
service, which cannot be too strongly commanded or encouraged), after a
prolonged inspection of the sentry, proceeded to handle his boots with
great curiosity, and as much composure and indifference as if the man
were wax-work.

But the really military young gentleman is waiting all this time, and
at the very moment that an apology rises to our lips, he emerges from
the barrack gate (he is quartered in a garrison town), and takes the
way towards the high street. He wears his undress uniform, which
somewhat mars the glory of his outward man; but still how great, how
grand, he is! What a happy mixture of ease and ferocity in his gait and
carriage, and how lightly he carries that dreadful sword under his arm,
making no more ado about it than if it were a silk umbrella! The lion
is sleeping: only think if an enemy were in sight, how soon he’d whip
it out of the scabbard, and what a terrible fellow he would be!

But he walks on, thinking of nothing less than blood and slaughter; and
now he comes in sight of three other military young gentlemen,
arm-in-arm, who are bearing down towards him, clanking their iron heels
on the pavement, and clashing their swords with a noise, which should
cause all peaceful men to quail at heart. They stop to talk. See how
the flaxen-haired young gentleman with the weak legs—he who has his
pocket-handkerchief thrust into the breast of his coat-glares upon the
fainthearted civilians who linger to look upon his glory; how the next
young gentleman elevates his head in the air, and majestically places
his arms a-kimbo, while the third stands with his legs very wide apart,
and clasps his hands behind him. Well may we inquire—not in familiar
jest, but in respectful earnest—if you call that nothing. Oh! if some
encroaching foreign power—the Emperor of Russia, for instance, or any
of those deep fellows, could only see those military young gentlemen as
they move on together towards the billiard-room over the way, wouldn’t
he tremble a little!

And then, at the Theatre at night, when the performances are by command
of Colonel Fitz-Sordust and the officers of the garrison—what a
splendid sight it is! How sternly the defenders of their country look
round the house as if in mute assurance to the audience, that they may
make themselves comfortable regarding any foreign invasion, for they
(the military young gentlemen) are keeping a sharp look-out, and are
ready for anything. And what a contrast between them, and that
stage-box full of grey-headed officers with tokens of many battles
about them, who have nothing at all in common with the military young
gentlemen, and who—but for an old-fashioned kind of manly dignity in
their looks and bearing—might be common hard-working soldiers for
anything they take the pains to announce to the contrary!

Ah! here is a family just come in who recognise the flaxen-headed young
gentleman; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman recognises them too,
only he doesn’t care to show it just now. Very well done indeed! He
talks louder to the little group of military young gentlemen who are
standing by him, and coughs to induce some ladies in the next box but
one to look round, in order that their faces may undergo the same
ordeal of criticism to which they have subjected, in not a wholly
inaudible tone, the majority of the female portion of the audience. Oh!
a gentleman in the same box looks round as if he were disposed to
resent this as an impertinence; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman
sees his friends at once, and hurries away to them with the most
charming cordiality.

Three young ladies, one young man, and the mamma of the party, receive
the military young gentleman with great warmth and politeness, and in
five minutes afterwards the military young gentleman, stimulated by the
mamma, introduces the two other military young gentlemen with whom he
was walking in the morning, who take their seats behind the young
ladies and commence conversation; whereat the mamma bestows a
triumphant bow upon a rival mamma, who has not succeeded in decoying
any military young gentlemen, and prepares to consider her visitors
from that moment three of the most elegant and superior young gentlemen
in the whole world.




THE POLITICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN


Once upon a time—_not_ in the days when pigs drank wine, but in a more
recent period of our history—it was customary to banish politics when
ladies were present. If this usage still prevailed, we should have had
no chapter for political young gentlemen, for ladies would have neither
known nor cared what kind of monster a political young gentleman was.
But as this good custom in common with many others has ‘gone out,’ and
left no word when it is likely to be home again; as political young
ladies are by no means rare, and political young gentlemen the very
reverse of scarce, we are bound in the strict discharge of our most
responsible duty not to neglect this natural division of our subject.

If the political young gentleman be resident in a country town (and
there _are_ political young gentlemen in country towns sometimes), he
is wholly absorbed in his politics; as a pair of purple spectacles
communicate the same uniform tint to all objects near and remote, so
the political glasses, with which the young gentleman assists his
mental vision, give to everything the hue and tinge of party feeling.
The political young gentleman would as soon think of being struck with
the beauty of a young lady in the opposite interest, as he would dream
of marrying his sister to the opposite member.

If the political young gentleman be a Conservative, he has usually some
vague ideas about Ireland and the Pope which he cannot very clearly
explain, but which he knows are the right sort of thing, and not to be
very easily got over by the other side. He has also some choice
sentences regarding church and state, culled from the banners in use at
the last election, with which he intersperses his conversation at
intervals with surprising effect. But his great topic is the
constitution, upon which he will declaim, by the hour together, with
much heat and fury; not that he has any particular information on the
subject, but because he knows that the constitution is somehow church
and state, and church and state somehow the constitution, and that the
fellows on the other side say it isn’t, which is quite a sufficient
reason for him to say it is, and to stick to it.

Perhaps his greatest topic of all, though, is the people. If a fight
takes place in a populous town, in which many noses are broken, and a
few windows, the young gentleman throws down the newspaper with a
triumphant air, and exclaims, ‘Here’s your precious people!’ If
half-a-dozen boys run across the course at race time, when it ought to
be kept clear, the young gentleman looks indignantly round, and begs
you to observe the conduct of the people; if the gallery demand a
hornpipe between the play and the afterpiece, the same young gentleman
cries ‘No’ and ‘Shame’ till he is hoarse, and then inquires with a
sneer what you think of popular moderation _now_; in short, the people
form a never-failing theme for him; and when the attorney, on the side
of his candidate, dwells upon it with great power of eloquence at
election time, as he never fails to do, the young gentleman and his
friends, and the body they head, cheer with great violence against _the
other people_, with whom, of course, they have no possible connexion.
In much the same manner the audience at a theatre never fail to be
highly amused with any jokes at the expense of the public—always
laughing heartily at some other public, and never at themselves.

If the political young gentleman be a Radical, he is usually a very
profound person indeed, having great store of theoretical questions to
put to you, with an infinite variety of possible cases and logical
deductions therefrom. If he be of the utilitarian school, too, which is
more than probable, he is particularly pleasant company, having many
ingenious remarks to offer upon the voluntary principle and various
cheerful disquisitions connected with the population of the country,
the position of Great Britain in the scale of nations, and the balance
of power. Then he is exceedingly well versed in all doctrines of
political economy as laid down in the newspapers, and knows a great
many parliamentary speeches by heart; nay, he has a small stock of
aphorisms, none of them exceeding a couple of lines in length, which
will settle the toughest question and leave you nothing to say. He
gives all the young ladies to understand, that Miss Martineau is the
greatest woman that ever lived; and when they praise the good looks of
Mr. Hawkins the new member, says he’s very well for a representative,
all things considered, but he wants a little calling to account, and he
is more than half afraid it will be necessary to bring him down on his
knees for that vote on the miscellaneous estimates. At this, the young
ladies express much wonderment, and say surely a Member of Parliament
is not to be brought upon his knees so easily; in reply to which the
political young gentleman smiles sternly, and throws out dark hints
regarding the speedy arrival of that day, when Members of Parliament
will be paid salaries, and required to render weekly accounts of their
proceedings, at which the young ladies utter many expressions of
astonishment and incredulity, while their lady-mothers regard the
prophecy as little else than blasphemous.

It is extremely improving and interesting to hear two political young
gentlemen, of diverse opinions, discuss some great question across a
dinner-table; such as, whether, if the public were admitted to
Westminster Abbey for nothing, they would or would not convey small
chisels and hammers in their pockets, and immediately set about
chipping all the noses off the statues; or whether, if they once got
into the Tower for a shilling, they would not insist upon trying the
crown on their own heads, and loading and firing off all the small arms
in the armoury, to the great discomposure of Whitechapel and the
Minories. Upon these, and many other momentous questions which agitate
the public mind in these desperate days, they will discourse with great
vehemence and irritation for a considerable time together, both leaving
off precisely where they began, and each thoroughly persuaded that he
has got the better of the other.

In society, at assemblies, balls, and playhouses, these political young
gentlemen are perpetually on the watch for a political allusion, or
anything which can be tortured or construed into being one; when,
thrusting themselves into the very smallest openings for their
favourite discourse, they fall upon the unhappy company tooth and nail.
They have recently had many favourable opportunities of opening in
churches, but as there the clergyman has it all his own way, and must
not be contradicted, whatever politics he preaches, they are fain to
hold their tongues until they reach the outer door, though at the
imminent risk of bursting in the effort.

As such discussions can please nobody but the talkative parties
concerned, we hope they will henceforth take the hint and discontinue
them, otherwise we now give them warning, that the ladies have our
advice to discountenance such talkers altogether.




THE DOMESTIC YOUNG GENTLEMAN


Let us make a slight sketch of our amiable friend, Mr. Felix Nixon. We
are strongly disposed to think, that if we put him in this place, he
will answer our purpose without another word of comment.

Felix, then, is a young gentleman who lives at home with his mother,
just within the twopenny-post office circle of three miles from St.
Martin-le-Grand. He wears Indiarubber goloshes when the weather is at
all damp, and always has a silk handkerchief neatly folded up in the
right-hand pocket of his great-coat, to tie over his mouth when he goes
home at night; moreover, being rather near-sighted, he carries
spectacles for particular occasions, and has a weakish tremulous voice,
of which he makes great use, for he talks as much as any old lady
breathing.

The two chief subjects of Felix’s discourse, are himself and his
mother, both of whom would appear to be very wonderful and interesting
persons. As Felix and his mother are seldom apart in body, so Felix and
his mother are scarcely ever separate in spirit. If you ask Felix how
he finds himself to-day, he prefaces his reply with a long and minute
bulletin of his mother’s state of health; and the good lady in her
turn, edifies her acquaintance with a circumstantial and alarming
account, how he sneezed four times and coughed once after being out in
the rain the other night, but having his feet promptly put into hot
water, and his head into a flannel-something, which we will not
describe more particularly than by this delicate allusion, was happily
brought round by the next morning, and enabled to go to business as
usual.

Our friend is not a very adventurous or hot-headed person, but he has
passed through many dangers, as his mother can testify: there is one
great story in particular, concerning a hackney coachman who wanted to
overcharge him one night for bringing them home from the play, upon
which Felix gave the aforesaid coachman a look which his mother thought
would have crushed him to the earth, but which did not crush him quite,
for he continued to demand another sixpence, notwithstanding that Felix
took out his pocket-book, and, with the aid of a flat candle, pointed
out the fare in print, which the coachman obstinately disregarding, he
shut the street-door with a slam which his mother shudders to think of;
and then, roused to the most appalling pitch of passion by the coachman
knocking a double knock to show that he was by no means convinced, he
broke with uncontrollable force from his parent and the servant girl,
and running into the street without his hat, actually shook his fist at
the coachman, and came back again with a face as white, Mrs. Nixon
says, looking about her for a simile, as white as that ceiling. She
never will forget his fury that night, Never!

To this account Felix listens with a solemn face, occasionally looking
at you to see how it affects you, and when his mother has made an end
of it, adds that he looked at every coachman he met for three weeks
afterwards, in hopes that he might see the scoundrel; whereupon Mrs.
Nixon, with an exclamation of terror, requests to know what he would
have done to him if he _had_ seen him, at which Felix smiling darkly
and clenching his right fist, she exclaims, ‘Goodness gracious!’ with a
distracted air, and insists upon extorting a promise that he never will
on any account do anything so rash, which her dutiful son—it being
something more than three years since the offence was
committed—reluctantly concedes, and his mother, shaking her head
prophetically, fears with a sigh that his spirit will lead him into
something violent yet. The discourse then, by an easy transition, turns
upon the spirit which glows within the bosom of Felix, upon which point
Felix himself becomes eloquent, and relates a thrilling anecdote of the
time when he used to sit up till two o’clock in the morning reading
French, and how his mother used to say, ‘Felix, you will make yourself
ill, I know you will;’ and how _he_ used to say, ‘Mother, I don’t
care—I will do it;’ and how at last his mother privately procured a
doctor to come and see him, who declared, the moment he felt his pulse,
that if he had gone on reading one night more—only one night more—he
must have put a blister on each temple, and another between his
shoulders; and who, as it was, sat down upon the instant, and writing a
prescription for a blue pill, said it must be taken immediately, or he
wouldn’t answer for the consequences. The recital of these and many
other moving perils of the like nature, constantly harrows up the
feelings of Mr. Nixon’s friends.

Mrs. Nixon has a tolerably extensive circle of female acquaintance,
being a good-humoured, talkative, bustling little body, and to the
unmarried girls among them she is constantly vaunting the virtues of
her son, hinting that she will be a very happy person who wins him, but
that they must mind their P’s and Q’s, for he is very particular, and
terribly severe upon young ladies. At this last caution the young
ladies resident in the same row, who happen to be spending the evening
there, put their pocket-handkerchiefs before their mouths, and are
troubled with a short cough; just then Felix knocks at the door, and
his mother drawing the tea-table nearer the fire, calls out to him as
he takes off his boots in the back parlour that he needn’t mind coming
in in his slippers, for there are only the two Miss Greys and Miss
Thompson, and she is quite sure they will excuse _him_, and nodding to
the two Miss Greys, she adds, in a whisper, that Julia Thompson is a
great favourite with Felix, at which intelligence the short cough comes
again, and Miss Thompson in particular is greatly troubled with it,
till Felix coming in, very faint for want of his tea, changes the
subject of discourse, and enables her to laugh out boldly and tell
Amelia Grey not to be so foolish. Here they all three laugh, and Mrs.
Nixon says they are giddy girls; in which stage of the proceedings,
Felix, who has by this time refreshened himself with the grateful herb
that ‘cheers but not inebriates,’ removes his cup from his countenance
and says with a knowing smile, that all girls are; whereat his admiring
mamma pats him on the back and tells him not to be sly, which calls
forth a general laugh from the young ladies, and another smile from
Felix, who, thinking he looks very sly indeed, is perfectly satisfied.

Tea being over, the young ladies resume their work, and Felix insists
upon holding a skein of silk while Miss Thompson winds it on a card.
This process having been performed to the satisfaction of all parties,
he brings down his flute in compliance with a request from the youngest
Miss Grey, and plays divers tunes out of a very small music-book till
supper-time, when he is very facetious and talkative indeed. Finally,
after half a tumblerful of warm sherry and water, he gallantly puts on
his goloshes over his slippers, and telling Miss Thompson’s servant to
run on first and get the door open, escorts that young lady to her
house, five doors off: the Miss Greys who live in the next house but
one stopping to peep with merry faces from their own door till he comes
back again, when they call out ‘Very well, Mr. Felix,’ and trip into
the passage with a laugh more musical than any flute that was ever
played.

Felix is rather prim in his appearance, and perhaps a little priggish
about his books and flute, and so forth, which have all their peculiar
corners of peculiar shelves in his bedroom; indeed all his female
acquaintance (and they are good judges) have long ago set him down as a
thorough old bachelor. He is a favourite with them however, in a
certain way, as an honest, inoffensive, kind-hearted creature; and as
his peculiarities harm nobody, not even himself, we are induced to hope
that many who are not personally acquainted with him will take our good
word in his behalf, and be content to leave him to a long continuance
of his harmless existence.




THE CENSORIOUS YOUNG GENTLEMAN


There is an amiable kind of young gentleman going about in society,
upon whom, after much experience of him, and considerable turning over
of the subject in our mind, we feel it our duty to affix the above
appellation. Young ladies mildly call him a ‘sarcastic’ young
gentleman, or a ‘severe’ young gentleman. We, who know better, beg to
acquaint them with the fact, that he is merely a censorious young
gentleman, and nothing else.

The censorious young gentleman has the reputation among his familiars
of a remarkably clever person, which he maintains by receiving all
intelligence and expressing all opinions with a dubious sneer,
accompanied with a half smile, expressive of anything you please but
good-humour. This sets people about thinking what on earth the
censorious young gentleman means, and they speedily arrive at the
conclusion that he means something very deep indeed; for they reason in
this way—‘This young gentleman looks so very knowing that he must mean
something, and as I am by no means a dull individual, what a very deep
meaning he must have if I can’t find it out!’ It is extraordinary how
soon a censorious young gentleman may make a reputation in his own
small circle if he bear this in his mind, and regulate his proceedings
accordingly.

As young ladies are generally—not curious, but laudably desirous to
acquire information, the censorious young gentleman is much talked
about among them, and many surmises are hazarded regarding him. ‘I
wonder,’ exclaims the eldest Miss Greenwood, laying down her work to
turn up the lamp, ‘I wonder whether Mr. Fairfax will ever be married.’
‘Bless me, dear,’ cries Miss Marshall, ‘what ever made you think of
him?’ ‘Really I hardly know,’ replies Miss Greenwood; ‘he is such a
very mysterious person, that I often wonder about him.’ ‘Well, to tell
you the truth,’ replies Miss Marshall, ‘and so do I.’ Here two other
young ladies profess that they are constantly doing the like, and all
present appear in the same condition except one young lady, who, not
scrupling to state that she considers Mr. Fairfax ‘a horror,’ draws
down all the opposition of the others, which having been expressed in a
great many ejaculatory passages, such as ‘Well, did I ever!’—and ‘Lor,
Emily, dear!’ ma takes up the subject, and gravely states, that she
must say she does not think Mr. Fairfax by any means a horror, but
rather takes him to be a young man of very great ability; ‘and I am
quite sure,’ adds the worthy lady, ‘he always means a great deal more
than he says.’

The door opens at this point of the disclosure, and who of all people
alive walks into the room, but the very Mr. Fairfax, who has been the
subject of conversation! ‘Well, it really is curious,’ cries ma, ‘we
were at that very moment talking about you.’ ‘You did me great honour,’
replies Mr. Fairfax; ‘may I venture to ask what you were saying?’ ‘Why,
if you must know,’ returns the eldest girl, ‘we were remarking what a
very mysterious man you are.’ ‘Ay, ay!’ observes Mr. Fairfax, ‘Indeed!’
Now Mr. Fairfax says this ay, ay, and indeed, which are slight words
enough in themselves, with so very unfathomable an air, and accompanies
them with such a very equivocal smile, that ma and the young ladies are
more than ever convinced that he means an immensity, and so tell him he
is a very dangerous man, and seems to be always thinking ill of
somebody, which is precisely the sort of character the censorious young
gentleman is most desirous to establish; wherefore he says, ‘Oh, dear,
no,’ in a tone, obviously intended to mean, ‘You have me there,’ and
which gives them to understand that they have hit the right nail on the
very centre of its head.

When the conversation ranges from the mystery overhanging the
censorious young gentleman’s behaviour, to the general topics of the
day, he sustains his character to admiration. He considers the new
tragedy well enough for a new tragedy, but Lord bless us—well, no
matter; he could say a great deal on that point, but he would rather
not, lest he should be thought ill-natured, as he knows he would be.
‘But is not Mr. So-and-so’s performance truly charming?’ inquires a
young lady. ‘Charming!’ replies the censorious young gentleman. ‘Oh,
dear, yes, certainly; very charming—oh, very charming indeed.’ After
this, he stirs the fire, smiling contemptuously all the while: and a
modest young gentleman, who has been a silent listener, thinks what a
great thing it must be, to have such a critical judgment. Of music,
pictures, books, and poetry, the censorious young gentleman has an
equally fine conception. As to men and women, he can tell all about
them at a glance. ‘Now let us hear your opinion of young Mrs. Barker,’
says some great believer in the powers of Mr. Fairfax, ‘but don’t be
too severe.’ ‘I never am severe,’ replies the censorious young
gentleman. ‘Well, never mind that now. She is very lady-like, is she
not?’ ‘Lady-like!’ repeats the censorious young gentleman (for he
always repeats when he is at a loss for anything to say). ‘Did you
observe her manner? Bless my heart and soul, Mrs. Thompson, did you
observe her manner?—that’s all I ask.’ ‘I thought I had done so,’
rejoins the poor lady, much perplexed; ‘I did not observe it very
closely perhaps.’ ‘Oh, not very closely,’ rejoins the censorious young
gentleman, triumphantly. ‘Very good; then _I_ did. Let us talk no more
about her.’ The censorious young gentleman purses up his lips, and nods
his head sagely, as he says this; and it is forthwith whispered about,
that Mr. Fairfax (who, though he is a little prejudiced, must be
admitted to be a very excellent judge) has observed something
exceedingly odd in Mrs. Barker’s manner.




THE FUNNY YOUNG GENTLEMAN


As one funny young gentleman will serve as a sample of all funny young
Gentlemen we purpose merely to note down the conduct and behaviour of
an individual specimen of this class, whom we happened to meet at an
annual family Christmas party in the course of this very last Christmas
that ever came.

We were all seated round a blazing fire which crackled pleasantly as
the guests talked merrily and the urn steamed cheerily—for, being an
old-fashioned party, there _was_ an urn, and a teapot besides—when
there came a postman’s knock at the door, so violent and sudden, that
it startled the whole circle, and actually caused two or three very
interesting and most unaffected young ladies to scream aloud and to
exhibit many afflicting symptoms of terror and distress, until they had
been several times assured by their respective adorers, that they were
in no danger. We were about to remark that it was surely beyond
post-time, and must have been a runaway knock, when our host, who had
hitherto been paralysed with wonder, sank into a chair in a perfect
ecstasy of laughter, and offered to lay twenty pounds that it was that
droll dog Griggins. He had no sooner said this, than the majority of
the company and all the children of the house burst into a roar of
laughter too, as if some inimitable joke flashed upon them
simultaneously, and gave vent to various exclamations of—To be sure it
must be Griggins, and How like him that was, and What spirits he was
always in! with many other commendatory remarks of the like nature.

Not having the happiness to know Griggins, we became extremely desirous
to see so pleasant a fellow, the more especially as a stout gentleman
with a powdered head, who was sitting with his breeches buckles almost
touching the hob, whispered us he was a wit of the first water, when
the door opened, and Mr. Griggins being announced, presented himself,
amidst another shout of laughter and a loud clapping of hands from the
younger branches. This welcome he acknowledged by sundry contortions of
countenance, imitative of the clown in one of the new pantomimes, which
were so extremely successful, that one stout gentleman rolled upon an
ottoman in a paroxysm of delight, protesting, with many gasps, that if
somebody didn’t make that fellow Griggins leave off, he would be the
death of him, he knew. At this the company only laughed more
boisterously than before, and as we always like to accommodate our tone
and spirit if possible to the humour of any society in which we find
ourself, we laughed with the rest, and exclaimed, ‘Oh! capital,
capital!’ as loud as any of them.

When he had quite exhausted all beholders, Mr. Griggins received the
welcomes and congratulations of the circle, and went through the
needful introductions with much ease and many puns. This ceremony over,
he avowed his intention of sitting in somebody’s lap unless the young
ladies made room for him on the sofa, which being done, after a great
deal of tittering and pleasantry, he squeezed himself among them, and
likened his condition to that of love among the roses. At this novel
jest we all roared once more. ‘You should consider yourself highly
honoured, sir,’ said we. ‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Griggins, ‘you do me
proud.’ Here everybody laughed again; and the stout gentleman by the
fire whispered in our ear that Griggins was making a dead set at us.

The tea-things having been removed, we all sat down to a round game,
and here Mr. Griggins shone forth with peculiar brilliancy, abstracting
other people’s fish, and looking over their hands in the most comical
manner. He made one most excellent joke in snuffing a candle, which was
neither more nor less than setting fire to the hair of a pale young
gentleman who sat next him, and afterwards begging his pardon with
considerable humour. As the young gentleman could not see the joke
however, possibly in consequence of its being on the top of his own
head, it did not go off quite as well as it might have done; indeed,
the young gentleman was heard to murmur some general references to
‘impertinence,’ and a ‘rascal,’ and to state the number of his lodgings
in an angry tone—a turn of the conversation which might have been
productive of slaughterous consequences, if a young lady, betrothed to
the young gentleman, had not used her immediate influence to bring
about a reconciliation: emphatically declaring in an agitated whisper,
intended for his peculiar edification but audible to the whole table,
that if he went on in that way, she never would think of him otherwise
than as a friend, though as that she must always regard him. At this
terrible threat the young gentleman became calm, and the young lady,
overcome by the revulsion of feeling, instantaneously fainted.

Mr. Griggins’s spirits were slightly depressed for a short period by
this unlooked-for result of such a harmless pleasantry, but being
promptly elevated by the attentions of the host and several glasses of
wine, he soon recovered, and became even more vivacious than before,
insomuch that the stout gentleman previously referred to, assured us
that although he had known him since he was _that_ high (something
smaller than a nutmeg-grater), he had never beheld him in such
excellent cue.

When the round game and several games at blind man’s buff which
followed it were all over, and we were going down to supper, the
inexhaustible Mr. Griggins produced a small sprig of mistletoe from his
waistcoat pocket, and commenced a general kissing of the assembled
females, which occasioned great commotion and much excitement. We
observed that several young gentlemen—including the young gentleman
with the pale countenance—were greatly scandalised at this indecorous
proceeding, and talked very big among themselves in corners; and we
observed too, that several young ladies when remonstrated with by the
aforesaid young gentlemen, called each other to witness how they had
struggled, and protested vehemently that it was very rude, and that
they were surprised at Mrs. Brown’s allowing it, and that they couldn’t
bear it, and had no patience with such impertinence. But such is the
gentle and forgiving nature of woman, that although we looked very
narrowly for it, we could not detect the slightest harshness in the
subsequent treatment of Mr. Griggins. Indeed, upon the whole, it struck
us that among the ladies he seemed rather more popular than before!

To recount all the drollery of Mr. Griggins at supper, would fill such
a tiny volume as this, [429] to the very bottom of the outside cover.
How he drank out of other people’s glasses, and ate of other people’s
bread, how he frightened into screaming convulsions a little boy who
was sitting up to supper in a high chair, by sinking below the table
and suddenly reappearing with a mask on; how the hostess was really
surprised that anybody could find a pleasure in tormenting children,
and how the host frowned at the hostess, and felt convinced that Mr.
Griggins had done it with the very best intentions; how Mr. Griggins
explained, and how everybody’s good-humour was restored but the
child’s;—to tell these and a hundred other things ever so briefly,
would occupy more of our room and our readers’ patience, than either
they or we can conveniently spare. Therefore we change the subject,
merely observing that we have offered no description of the funny young
gentleman’s personal appearance, believing that almost every society
has a Griggins of its own, and leaving all readers to supply the
deficiency, according to the particular circumstances of their
particular case.




THE THEATRICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN


All gentlemen who love the drama—and there are few gentlemen who are
not attached to the most intellectual and rational of all our
amusements—do not come within this definition. As we have no mean
relish for theatrical entertainments ourself, we are disinterestedly
anxious that this should be perfectly understood.

The theatrical young gentleman has early and important information on
all theatrical topics. ‘Well,’ says he, abruptly, when you meet him in
the street, ‘here’s a pretty to-do. Flimkins has thrown up his part in
the melodrama at the Surrey.’—‘And what’s to be done?’ you inquire with
as much gravity as you can counterfeit. ‘Ah, that’s the point,’ replies
the theatrical young gentleman, looking very serious; ‘Boozle declines
it; positively declines it. From all I am told, I should say it was
decidedly in Boozle’s line, and that he would be very likely to make a
great hit in it; but he objects on the ground of Flimkins having been
put up in the part first, and says no earthly power shall induce him to
take the character. It’s a fine part, too—excellent business, I’m told.
He has to kill six people in the course of the piece, and to fight over
a bridge in red fire, which is as safe a card, you know, as can be.
Don’t mention it; but I hear that the last scene, when he is first
poisoned, and then stabbed, by Mrs. Flimkins as Vengedora, will be the
greatest thing that has been done these many years.’ With this piece of
news, and laying his finger on his lips as a caution for you not to
excite the town with it, the theatrical young gentleman hurries away.

The theatrical young gentleman, from often frequenting the different
theatrical establishments, has pet and familiar names for them all.
Thus Covent-Garden is the garden, Drury-Lane the lane, the Victoria the
vic, and the Olympic the pic. Actresses, too, are always designated by
their surnames only, as Taylor, Nisbett, Faucit, Honey; that talented
and lady-like girl Sheriff, that clever little creature Horton, and so
on. In the same manner he prefixes Christian names when he mentions
actors, as Charley Young, Jemmy Buckstone, Fred. Yates, Paul Bedford.
When he is at a loss for a Christian name, the word ‘old’ applied
indiscriminately answers quite as well: as old Charley Matthews at
Vestris’s, old Harley, and old Braham. He has a great knowledge of the
private proceedings of actresses, especially of their getting married,
and can tell you in a breath half-a-dozen who have changed their names
without avowing it. Whenever an alteration of this kind is made in the
playbills, he will remind you that he let you into the secret six
months ago.

The theatrical young gentleman has a great reverence for all that is
connected with the stage department of the different theatres. He
would, at any time, prefer going a street or two out of his way, to
omitting to pass a stage-entrance, into which he always looks with a
curious and searching eye. If he can only identify a popular actor in
the street, he is in a perfect transport of delight; and no sooner
meets him, than he hurries back, and walks a few paces in front of him,
so that he can turn round from time to time, and have a good stare at
his features. He looks upon a theatrical-fund dinner as one of the most
enchanting festivities ever known; and thinks that to be a member of
the Garrick Club, and see so many actors in their plain clothes, must
be one of the highest gratifications the world can bestow.

The theatrical young gentleman is a constant half-price visitor at one
or other of the theatres, and has an infinite relish for all pieces
which display the fullest resources of the establishment. He likes to
place implicit reliance upon the play-bills when he goes to see a
show-piece, and works himself up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, as not
only to believe (if the bills say so) that there are three hundred and
seventy-five people on the stage at one time in the last scene, but is
highly indignant with you, unless you believe it also. He considers
that if the stage be opened from the foot-lights to the back wall, in
any new play, the piece is a triumph of dramatic writing, and applauds
accordingly. He has a great notion of trap-doors too; and thinks any
character going down or coming up a trap (no matter whether he be an
angel or a demon—they both do it occasionally) one of the most
interesting feats in the whole range of scenic illusion.

Besides these acquirements, he has several veracious accounts to
communicate of the private manners and customs of different actors,
which, during the pauses of a quadrille, he usually communicates to his
partner, or imparts to his neighbour at a supper table. Thus he is
advised, that Mr. Liston always had a footman in gorgeous livery
waiting at the side-scene with a brandy bottle and tumbler, to
administer half a pint or so of spirit to him every time he came off,
without which assistance he must infallibly have fainted. He knows for
a fact, that, after an arduous part, Mr. George Bennett is put between
two feather beds, to absorb the perspiration; and is credibly informed,
that Mr. Baker has, for many years, submitted to a course of lukewarm
toast-and-water, to qualify him to sustain his favourite characters. He
looks upon Mr. Fitz Ball as the principal dramatic genius and poet of
the day; but holds that there are great writers extant besides him,—in
proof whereof he refers you to various dramas and melodramas recently
produced, of which he takes in all the sixpenny and three-penny
editions as fast as they appear.

The theatrical young gentleman is a great advocate for violence of
emotion and redundancy of action. If a father has to curse a child upon
the stage, he likes to see it done in the thorough-going style, with no
mistake about it: to which end it is essential that the child should
follow the father on her knees, and be knocked violently over on her
face by the old gentleman as he goes into a small cottage, and shuts
the door behind him. He likes to see a blessing invoked upon the young
lady, when the old gentleman repents, with equal earnestness, and
accompanied by the usual conventional forms, which consist of the old
gentleman looking anxiously up into the clouds, as if to see whether it
rains, and then spreading an imaginary tablecloth in the air over the
young lady’s head—soft music playing all the while. Upon these, and
other points of a similar kind, the theatrical young gentleman is a
great critic indeed. He is likewise very acute in judging of natural
expressions of the passions, and knows precisely the frown, wink, nod,
or leer, which stands for any one of them, or the means by which it may
be converted into any other: as jealousy, with a good stamp of the
right foot, becomes anger; or wildness, with the hands clasped before
the throat, instead of tearing the wig, is passionate love. If you
venture to express a doubt of the accuracy of any of these
portraitures, the theatrical young gentleman assures you, with a
haughty smile, that it always has been done in that way, and he
supposes they are not going to change it at this time of day to please
you; to which, of course, you meekly reply that you suppose not.

There are innumerable disquisitions of this nature, in which the
theatrical young gentleman is very profound, especially to ladies whom
he is most in the habit of entertaining with them; but as we have no
space to recapitulate them at greater length, we must rest content with
calling the attention of the young ladies in general to the theatrical
young gentlemen of their own acquaintance.




THE POETICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN


Time was, and not very long ago either, when a singular epidemic raged
among the young gentlemen, vast numbers of whom, under the influence of
the malady, tore off their neckerchiefs, turned down their shirt
collars, and exhibited themselves in the open streets with bare throats
and dejected countenances, before the eyes of an astonished public.
These were poetical young gentlemen. The custom was gradually found to
be inconvenient, as involving the necessity of too much clean linen and
too large washing bills, and these outward symptoms have consequently
passed away; but we are disposed to think, notwithstanding, that the
number of poetical young gentlemen is considerably on the increase.

We know a poetical young gentleman—a very poetical young gentleman. We
do not mean to say that he is troubled with the gift of poesy in any
remarkable degree, but his countenance is of a plaintive and melancholy
cast, his manner is abstracted and bespeaks affliction of soul: he
seldom has his hair cut, and often talks about being an outcast and
wanting a kindred spirit; from which, as well as from many general
observations in which he is wont to indulge, concerning mysterious
impulses, and yearnings of the heart, and the supremacy of intellect
gilding all earthly things with the glowing magic of immortal verse, it
is clear to all his friends that he has been stricken poetical.

The favourite attitude of the poetical young gentleman is lounging on a
sofa with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, or sitting bolt upright in a
high-backed chair, staring with very round eyes at the opposite wall.
When he is in one of these positions, his mother, who is a worthy,
affectionate old soul, will give you a nudge to bespeak your attention
without disturbing the abstracted one, and whisper with a shake of the
head, that John’s imagination is at some extraordinary work or other,
you may take her word for it. Hereupon John looks more fiercely intent
upon vacancy than before, and suddenly snatching a pencil from his
pocket, puts down three words, and a cross on the back of a card, sighs
deeply, paces once or twice across the room, inflicts a most unmerciful
slap upon his head, and walks moodily up to his dormitory.

The poetical young gentleman is apt to acquire peculiar notions of
things too, which plain ordinary people, unblessed with a poetical
obliquity of vision, would suppose to be rather distorted. For
instance, when the sickening murder and mangling of a wretched woman
was affording delicious food wherewithal to gorge the insatiable
curiosity of the public, our friend the poetical young gentleman was in
ecstasies—not of disgust, but admiration. ‘Heavens!’ cried the poetical
young gentleman, ‘how grand; how great!’ We ventured deferentially to
inquire upon whom these epithets were bestowed: our humble thoughts
oscillating between the police officer who found the criminal, and the
lock-keeper who found the head. ‘Upon whom!’ exclaimed the poetical
young gentleman in a frenzy of poetry, ‘Upon whom should they be
bestowed but upon the murderer!’—and thereupon it came out, in a fine
torrent of eloquence, that the murderer was a great spirit, a bold
creature full of daring and nerve, a man of dauntless heart and
determined courage, and withal a great casuist and able reasoner, as
was fully demonstrated in his philosophical colloquies with the great
and noble of the land. We held our peace, and meekly signified our
indisposition to controvert these opinions—firstly, because we were no
match at quotation for the poetical young gentleman; and secondly,
because we felt it would be of little use our entering into any
disputation, if we were: being perfectly convinced that the respectable
and immoral hero in question is not the first and will not be the last
hanged gentleman upon whom false sympathy or diseased curiosity will be
plentifully expended.

This was a stern mystic flight of the poetical young gentleman. In his
milder and softer moments he occasionally lays down his neckcloth, and
pens stanzas, which sometimes find their way into a Lady’s Magazine, or
the ‘Poets’ Corner’ of some country newspaper; or which, in default of
either vent for his genius, adorn the rainbow leaves of a lady’s album.
These are generally written upon some such occasions as contemplating
the Bank of England by midnight, or beholding Saint Paul’s in a
snow-storm; and when these gloomy objects fail to afford him
inspiration, he pours forth his soul in a touching address to a violet,
or a plaintive lament that he is no longer a child, but has gradually
grown up.

The poetical young gentleman is fond of quoting passages from his
favourite authors, who are all of the gloomy and desponding school. He
has a great deal to say too about the world, and is much given to
opining, especially if he has taken anything strong to drink, that
there is nothing in it worth living for. He gives you to understand,
however, that for the sake of society, he means to bear his part in the
tiresome play, manfully resisting the gratification of his own strong
desire to make a premature exit; and consoles himself with the
reflection, that immortality has some chosen nook for himself and the
other great spirits whom earth has chafed and wearied.

When the poetical young gentleman makes use of adjectives, they are all
superlatives. Everything is of the grandest, greatest, noblest,
mightiest, loftiest; or the lowest, meanest, obscurest, vilest, and
most pitiful. He knows no medium: for enthusiasm is the soul of poetry;
and who so enthusiastic as a poetical young gentleman? ‘Mr. Milkwash,’
says a young lady as she unlocks her album to receive the young
gentleman’s original impromptu contribution, ‘how very silent you are!
I think you must be in love.’ ‘Love!’ cries the poetical young
gentleman, starting from his seat by the fire and terrifying the cat
who scampers off at full speed, ‘Love! that burning, consuming passion;
that ardour of the soul, that fierce glowing of the heart. Love! The
withering, blighting influence of hope misplaced and affection
slighted. Love did you say! Ha! ha! ha!’

With this, the poetical young gentleman laughs a laugh belonging only
to poets and Mr. O. Smith of the Adelphi Theatre, and sits down, pen in
hand, to throw off a page or two of verse in the biting,
semi-atheistical demoniac style, which, like the poetical young
gentleman himself, is full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.




THE ‘THROWING-OFF’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN


There is a certain kind of impostor—a bragging, vaunting, puffing young
gentleman—against whom we are desirous to warn that fairer part of the
creation, to whom we more peculiarly devote these our labours. And we
are particularly induced to lay especial stress upon this division of
our subject, by a little dialogue we held some short time ago, with an
esteemed young lady of our acquaintance, touching a most gross specimen
of this class of men. We had been urging all the absurdities of his
conduct and conversation, and dwelling upon the impossibilities he
constantly recounted—to which indeed we had not scrupled to prefix a
certain hard little word of one syllable and three letters—when our
fair friend, unable to maintain the contest any longer, reluctantly
cried, ‘Well; he certainly has a habit of throwing-off, but then—’ What
then? Throw him off yourself, said we. And so she did, but not at our
instance, for other reasons appeared, and it might have been better if
she had done so at first.

The throwing-off young gentleman has so often a father possessed of
vast property in some remote district of Ireland, that we look with
some suspicion upon all young gentlemen who volunteer this description
of themselves. The deceased grandfather of the throwing-off young
gentleman was a man of immense possessions, and untold wealth; the
throwing-off young gentleman remembers, as well as if it were only
yesterday, the deceased baronet’s library, with its long rows of scarce
and valuable books in superbly embossed bindings, arranged in cases,
reaching from the lofty ceiling to the oaken floor; and the fine
antique chairs and tables, and the noble old castle of
Ballykillbabaloo, with its splendid prospect of hill and dale, and
wood, and rich wild scenery, and the fine hunting stables and the
spacious court-yards, ‘and—and—everything upon the same magnificent
scale,’ says the throwing-off young gentleman, ‘princely; quite
princely. Ah!’ And he sighs as if mourning over the fallen fortunes of
his noble house.

The throwing-off young gentleman is a universal genius; at walking,
running, rowing, swimming, and skating, he is unrivalled; at all games
of chance or skill, at hunting, shooting, fishing, riding, driving, or
amateur theatricals, no one can touch him—that is _could_ not, because
he gives you carefully to understand, lest there should be any
opportunity of testing his skill, that he is quite out of practice just
now, and has been for some years. If you mention any beautiful girl of
your common acquaintance in his hearing, the throwing-off young
gentleman starts, smiles, and begs you not to mind him, for it was
quite involuntary: people do say indeed that they were once engaged,
but no—although she is a very fine girl, he was so situated at that
time that he couldn’t possibly encourage the—‘but it’s of no use
talking about it!’ he adds, interrupting himself. ‘She has got over it
now, and I firmly hope and trust is happy.’ With this benevolent
aspiration he nods his head in a mysterious manner, and whistling the
first part of some popular air, thinks perhaps it will be better to
change the subject.

There is another great characteristic of the throwing-off young
gentleman, which is, that he ‘happens to be acquainted’ with a most
extraordinary variety of people in all parts of the world. Thus in all
disputed questions, when the throwing-off young gentleman has no
argument to bring forward, he invariably happens to be acquainted with
some distant person, intimately connected with the subject, whose
testimony decides the point against you, to the great—may we say it—to
the great admiration of three young ladies out of every four, who
consider the throwing-off young gentleman a very highly-connected young
man, and a most charming person.

Sometimes the throwing-off young gentleman happens to look in upon a
little family circle of young ladies who are quietly spending the
evening together, and then indeed is he at the very height and summit
of his glory; for it is to be observed that he by no means shines to
equal advantage in the presence of men as in the society of
over-credulous young ladies, which is his proper element. It is
delightful to hear the number of pretty things the throwing-off young
gentleman gives utterance to, during tea, and still more so to observe
the ease with which, from long practice and study, he delicately blends
one compliment to a lady with two for himself. ‘Did you ever see a more
lovely blue than this flower, Mr. Caveton?’ asks a young lady who,
truth to tell, is rather smitten with the throwing-off young gentleman.
‘Never,’ he replies, bending over the object of admiration, ‘never but
in your eyes.’ ‘Oh, Mr. Caveton,’ cries the young lady, blushing of
course. ‘Indeed I speak the truth,’ replies the throwing-off young
gentleman, ‘I never saw any approach to them. I used to think my
cousin’s blue eyes lovely, but they grow dim and colourless beside
yours.’ ‘Oh! a beautiful cousin, Mr. Caveton!’ replies the young lady,
with that perfect artlessness which is the distinguishing
characteristic of all young ladies; ‘an affair, of course.’ ‘No;
indeed, indeed you wrong me,’ rejoins the throwing-off young gentleman
with great energy. ‘I fervently hope that her attachment towards me may
be nothing but the natural result of our close intimacy in childhood,
and that in change of scene and among new faces she may soon overcome
it. _I_ love her! Think not so meanly of me, Miss Lowfield, I beseech,
as to suppose that title, lands, riches, and beauty, can influence _my_
choice. The heart, the heart, Miss Lowfield.’ Here the throwing-off
young gentleman sinks his voice to a still lower whisper; and the young
lady duly proclaims to all the other young ladies when they go
up-stairs, to put their bonnets on, that Mr. Caveton’s relations are
all immensely rich, and that he is hopelessly beloved by title, lands,
riches, and beauty.

We have seen a throwing-off young gentleman who, to our certain
knowledge, was innocent of a note of music, and scarcely able to
recognise a tune by ear, volunteer a Spanish air upon the guitar when
he had previously satisfied himself that there was not such an
instrument within a mile of the house.

We have heard another throwing-off young gentleman, after striking a
note or two upon the piano, and accompanying it correctly (by dint of
laborious practice) with his voice, assure a circle of wondering
listeners that so acute was his ear that he was wholly unable to sing
out of tune, let him try as he would. We have lived to witness the
unmasking of another throwing-off young gentleman, who went out a
visiting in a military cap with a gold band and tassel, and who, after
passing successfully for a captain and being lauded to the skies for
his red whiskers, his bravery, his soldierly bearing and his pride,
turned out to be the dishonest son of an honest linen-draper in a small
country town, and whom, if it were not for this fortunate exposure, we
should not yet despair of encountering as the fortunate husband of some
rich heiress. Ladies, ladies, the throwing-off young gentlemen are
often swindlers, and always fools. So pray you avoid them.




THE YOUNG LADIES’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN


This young gentleman has several titles. Some young ladies consider him
‘a nice young man,’ others ‘a fine young man,’ others ‘quite a lady’s
man,’ others ‘a handsome man,’ others ‘a remarkably good-looking young
man.’ With some young ladies he is ‘a perfect angel,’ and with others
‘quite a love.’ He is likewise a charming creature, a duck, and a dear.

The young ladies’ young gentleman has usually a fresh colour and very
white teeth, which latter articles, of course, he displays on every
possible opportunity. He has brown or black hair, and whiskers of the
same, if possible; but a slight tinge of red, or the hue which is
vulgarly known as _sandy_, is not considered an objection. If his head
and face be large, his nose prominent, and his figure square, he is an
uncommonly fine young man, and worshipped accordingly. Should his
whiskers meet beneath his chin, so much the better, though this is not
absolutely insisted on; but he must wear an under-waistcoat, and smile
constantly.

There was a great party got up by some party-loving friends of ours
last summer, to go and dine in Epping Forest. As we hold that such wild
expeditions should never be indulged in, save by people of the smallest
means, who have no dinner at home, we should indubitably have excused
ourself from attending, if we had not recollected that the projectors
of the excursion were always accompanied on such occasions by a choice
sample of the young ladies’ young gentleman, whom we were very anxious
to have an opportunity of meeting. This determined us, and we went.

We were to make for Chigwell in four glass coaches, each with a
trifling company of six or eight inside, and a little boy belonging to
the projectors on the box—and to start from the residence of the
projectors, Woburn-place, Russell-square, at half-past ten precisely.
We arrived at the place of rendezvous at the appointed time, and found
the glass coaches and the little boys quite ready, and divers young
ladies and young gentlemen looking anxiously over the breakfast-parlour
blinds, who appeared by no means so much gratified by our approach as
we might have expected, but evidently wished we had been somebody else.
Observing that our arrival in lieu of the unknown occasioned some
disappointment, we ventured to inquire who was yet to come, when we
found from the hasty reply of a dozen voices, that it was no other than
the young ladies’ young gentleman.

‘I cannot imagine,’ said the mamma, ‘what has become of Mr.
Balim—always so punctual, always so pleasant and agreeable. I am sure I
can-_not_ think.’ As these last words were uttered in that measured,
emphatic manner which painfully announces that the speaker has not
quite made up his or her mind what to say, but is determined to talk on
nevertheless, the eldest daughter took up the subject, and hoped no
accident had happened to Mr. Balim, upon which there was a general
chorus of ‘Dear Mr. Balim!’ and one young lady, more adventurous than
the rest, proposed that an express should be straightway sent to dear
Mr. Balim’s lodgings. This, however, the papa resolutely opposed,
observing, in what a short young lady behind us termed ‘quite a bearish
way,’ that if Mr. Balim didn’t choose to come, he might stop at home.
At this all the daughters raised a murmur of ‘Oh pa!’ except one
sprightly little girl of eight or ten years old, who, taking advantage
of a pause in the discourse, remarked, that perhaps Mr. Balim might
have been married that morning—for which impertinent suggestion she was
summarily ejected from the room by her eldest sister.

We were all in a state of great mortification and uneasiness, when one
of the little boys, running into the room as airily as little boys
usually run who have an unlimited allowance of animal food in the
holidays, and keep their hands constantly forced down to the bottoms of
very deep trouser-pockets when they take exercise, joyfully announced
that Mr. Balim was at that moment coming up the street in a
hackney-cab; and the intelligence was confirmed beyond all doubt a
minute afterwards by the entry of Mr. Balim himself, who was received
with repeated cries of ‘Where have you been, you naughty creature?’
whereunto the naughty creature replied, that he had been in bed, in
consequence of a late party the night before, and had only just risen.
The acknowledgment awakened a variety of agonizing fears that he had
taken no breakfast; which appearing after a slight cross-examination to
be the real state of the case, breakfast for one was immediately
ordered, notwithstanding Mr. Balim’s repeated protestations that he
couldn’t think of it. He did think of it though, and thought better of
it too, for he made a remarkably good meal when it came, and was
assiduously served by a select knot of young ladies. It was quite
delightful to see how he ate and drank, while one pair of fair hands
poured out his coffee, and another put in the sugar, and another the
milk; the rest of the company ever and anon casting angry glances at
their watches, and the glass coaches,—and the little boys looking on in
an agony of apprehension lest it should begin to rain before we set
out; it might have rained all day, after we were once too far to turn
back again, and welcome, for aught they cared.

However, the cavalcade moved at length, every coachman being
accommodated with a hamper between his legs something larger than a
wheelbarrow; and the company being packed as closely as they possibly
could in the carriages, ‘according,’ as one married lady observed, ‘to
the immemorial custom, which was half the diversion of gipsy parties.’
Thinking it very likely it might be (we have never been able to
discover the other half), we submitted to be stowed away with a
cheerful aspect, and were fortunate enough to occupy one corner of a
coach in which were one old lady, four young ladies, and the renowned
Mr. Balim the young ladies’ young gentleman.

We were no sooner fairly off, than the young ladies’ young gentleman
hummed a fragment of an air, which induced a young lady to inquire
whether he had danced to that the night before. ‘By Heaven, then, I
did,’ replied the young gentleman, ‘and with a lovely heiress; a superb
creature, with twenty thousand pounds.’ ‘You seem rather struck,’
observed another young lady. ‘’Gad she was a sweet creature,’ returned
the young gentleman, arranging his hair. ‘Of course _she_ was struck
too?’ inquired the first young lady. ‘How can you ask, love?’
interposed the second; ‘could she fail to be?’ ‘Well, honestly I think
she was,’ observed the young gentleman. At this point of the dialogue,
the young lady who had spoken first, and who sat on the young
gentleman’s right, struck him a severe blow on the arm with a rosebud,
and said he was a vain man—whereupon the young gentleman insisted on
having the rosebud, and the young lady appealing for help to the other
young ladies, a charming struggle ensued, terminating in the victory of
the young gentleman, and the capture of the rosebud. This little
skirmish over, the married lady, who was the mother of the rosebud,
smiled sweetly upon the young gentleman, and accused him of being a
flirt; the young gentleman pleading not guilty, a most interesting
discussion took place upon the important point whether the young
gentleman was a flirt or not, which being an agreeable conversation of
a light kind, lasted a considerable time. At length, a short silence
occurring, the young ladies on either side of the young gentleman fell
suddenly fast asleep; and the young gentleman, winking upon us to
preserve silence, won a pair of gloves from each, thereby causing them
to wake with equal suddenness and to scream very loud. The lively
conversation to which this pleasantry gave rise, lasted for the
remainder of the ride, and would have eked out a much longer one.

We dined rather more comfortably than people usually do under such
circumstances, nothing having been left behind but the cork-screw and
the bread. The married gentlemen were unusually thirsty, which they
attributed to the heat of the weather; the little boys ate to
inconvenience; mammas were very jovial, and their daughters very
fascinating; and the attendants being well-behaved men, got exceedingly
drunk at a respectful distance.

We had our eye on Mr. Balim at dinner-time, and perceived that he
flourished wonderfully, being still surrounded by a little group of
young ladies, who listened to him as an oracle, while he ate from their
plates and drank from their glasses in a manner truly captivating from
its excessive playfulness. His conversation, too, was exceedingly
brilliant. In fact, one elderly lady assured us, that in the course of
a little lively _badinage_ on the subject of ladies’ dresses, he had
evinced as much knowledge as if he had been born and bred a milliner.

As such of the fat people who did not happen to fall asleep after
dinner entered upon a most vigorous game at ball, we slipped away alone
into a thicker part of the wood, hoping to fall in with Mr. Balim, the
greater part of the young people having dropped off in twos and threes
and the young ladies’ young gentleman among them. Nor were we
disappointed, for we had not walked far, when, peeping through the
trees, we discovered him before us, and truly it was a pleasant thing
to contemplate his greatness.

The young ladies’ young gentleman was seated upon the ground, at the
feet of a few young ladies who were reclining on a bank; he was so
profusely decked with scarfs, ribands, flowers, and other pretty
spoils, that he looked like a lamb—or perhaps a calf would be a better
simile—adorned for the sacrifice. One young lady supported a parasol
over his interesting head, another held his hat, and a third his
neck-cloth, which in romantic fashion he had thrown off; the young
gentleman himself, with his hand upon his breast, and his face moulded
into an expression of the most honeyed sweetness, was warbling forth
some choice specimens of vocal music in praise of female loveliness, in
a style so exquisitely perfect, that we burst into an involuntary shout
of laughter, and made a hasty retreat.

What charming fellows these young ladies’ young gentlemen are! Ducks,
dears, loves, angels, are all terms inadequate to express their merit.
They are such amazingly, uncommonly, wonderfully, nice men.




CONCLUSION


As we have placed before the young ladies so many specimens of young
gentlemen, and have also in the dedication of this volume given them to
understand how much we reverence and admire their numerous virtues and
perfections; as we have given them such strong reasons to treat us with
confidence, and to banish, in our case, all that reserve and distrust
of the male sex which, as a point of general behaviour, they cannot do
better than preserve and maintain—we say, as we have done all this, we
feel that now, when we have arrived at the close of our task, they may
naturally press upon us the inquiry, what particular description of
young gentlemen we can conscientiously recommend.

Here we are at a loss. We look over our list, and can neither recommend
the bashful young gentleman, nor the out-and-out young gentleman, nor
the very friendly young gentleman, nor the military young gentleman,
nor the political young gentleman, nor the domestic young gentleman,
nor the censorious young gentleman, nor the funny young gentleman, nor
the theatrical young gentleman, nor the poetical young gentleman, nor
the throwing-off young gentleman, nor the young ladies’ young
gentleman.

As there are some good points about many of them, which still are not
sufficiently numerous to render any one among them eligible, as a
whole, our respectful advice to the young ladies is, to seek for a
young gentleman who unites in himself the best qualities of all, and
the worst weaknesses of none, and to lead him forthwith to the hymeneal
altar, whether he will or no. And to the young lady who secures him, we
beg to tender one short fragment of matrimonial advice, selected from
many sound passages of a similar tendency, to be found in a letter
written by Dean Swift to a young lady on her marriage.

‘The grand affair of your life will be, to gain and preserve the esteem
of your husband. Neither good-nature nor virtue will suffer him to
_esteem_ you against his judgment; and although he is not capable of
using you ill, yet you will in time grow a thing indifferent and
perhaps contemptible; unless you can supply the loss of youth and
beauty with more durable qualities. You have but a very few years to be
young and handsome in the eyes of the world; and as few months to be so
in the eyes of a husband who is not a fool; for I hope you do not still
dream of charms and raptures, which marriage ever did, and ever will,
put a sudden end to.’

From the anxiety we express for the proper behaviour of the fortunate
lady after marriage, it may possibly be inferred that the young
gentleman to whom we have so delicately alluded, is no other than
ourself. Without in any way committing ourself upon this point, we have
merely to observe, that we are ready to receive sealed offers
containing a full specification of age, temper, appearance, and
condition; but we beg it to be distinctly understood that we do not
pledge ourself to accept the highest bidder.

These offers may be forwarded to the Publishers, Messrs. Chapman and
Hall, London; to whom all pieces of plate and other testimonials of
approbation from the young ladies generally, are respectfully requested
to be addressed.




SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES


AN URGENT REMONSTRANCE, &c.

TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND,
(being bachelors or widowers,)
THE REMONSTRANCE OF THEIR FAITHFUL FELLOW-SUBJECT,


Sheweth,—

That Her Most Gracious Majesty, Victoria, by the Grace of God of the
United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the
Faith, did, on the 23rd day of November last past, declare and
pronounce to Her Most Honourable Privy Council, Her Majesty’s Most
Gracious intention of entering into the bonds of wedlock.

That Her Most Gracious Majesty, in so making known Her Most Gracious
intention to Her Most Honourable Privy Council as aforesaid, did use
and employ the words—‘It is my intention to ally myself in marriage
with Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg and Gotha.’

That the present is Bissextile, or Leap Year, in which it is held and
considered lawful for any lady to offer and submit proposals of
marriage to any gentleman, and to enforce and insist upon acceptance of
the same, under pain of a certain fine or penalty; to wit, one silk or
satin dress of the first quality, to be chosen by the lady and paid (or
owed) for, by the gentleman.

That these and other the horrors and dangers with which the said
Bissextile, or Leap Year, threatens the gentlemen of England on every
occasion of its periodical return, have been greatly aggravated and
augmented by the terms of Her Majesty’s said Most Gracious
communication, which have filled the heads of divers young ladies in
this Realm with certain new ideas destructive to the peace of mankind,
that never entered their imagination before.

That a case has occurred in Camberwell, in which a young lady informed
her Papa that ‘she intended to ally herself in marriage’ with Mr. Smith
of Stepney; and that another, and a very distressing case, has occurred
at Tottenham, in which a young lady not only stated her intention of
allying herself in marriage with her cousin John, but, taking violent
possession of her said cousin, actually married him.

That similar outrages are of constant occurrence, not only in the
capital and its neighbourhood, but throughout the kingdom, and that
unless the excited female populace be speedily checked and restrained
in their lawless proceedings, most deplorable results must ensue
therefrom; among which may be anticipated a most alarming increase in
the population of the country, with which no efforts of the
agricultural or manufacturing interest can possibly keep pace.

That there is strong reason to suspect the existence of a most
extensive plot, conspiracy, or design, secretly contrived by vast
numbers of single ladies in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and
Ireland, and now extending its ramifications in every quarter of the
land; the object and intent of which plainly appears to be the holding
and solemnising of an enormous and unprecedented number of marriages,
on the day on which the nuptials of Her said Most Gracious Majesty are
performed.

That such plot, conspiracy, or design, strongly savours of Popery, as
tending to the discomfiture of the Clergy of the Established Church, by
entailing upon them great mental and physical exhaustion; and that such
Popish plots are fomented and encouraged by Her Majesty’s Ministers,
which clearly appears—not only from Her Majesty’s principal Secretary
of State for Foreign Affairs traitorously getting married while holding
office under the Crown; but from Mr. O’Connell having been heard to
declare and avow that, if he had a daughter to marry, she should be
married on the same day as Her said Most Gracious Majesty.

That such arch plots, conspiracies, and designs, besides being fraught
with danger to the Established Church, and (consequently) to the State,
cannot fail to bring ruin and bankruptcy upon a large class of Her
Majesty’s subjects; as a great and sudden increase in the number of
married men occasioning the comparative desertion (for a time) of
Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, will deprive the
Proprietors of their accustomed profits and returns. And in further
proof of the depth and baseness of such designs, it may be here
observed, that all proprietors of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and
Gaming-Houses, are (especially the last) solemnly devoted to the
Protestant religion.

For all these reasons, and many others of no less gravity and import,
an urgent appeal is made to the gentlemen of England (being bachelors
or widowers) to take immediate steps for convening a Public meeting; To
consider of the best and surest means of averting the dangers with
which they are threatened by the recurrence of Bissextile, or Leap
Year, and the additional sensation created among single ladies by the
terms of Her Majesty’s Most Gracious Declaration; To take measures,
without delay, for resisting the said single Ladies, and counteracting
their evil designs; And to pray Her Majesty to dismiss her present
Ministers, and to summon to her Councils those distinguished Gentlemen
in various Honourable Professions who, by insulting on all occasions
the only Lady in England who can be insulted with safety, have given a
sufficient guarantee to Her Majesty’s Loving Subjects that they, at
least, are qualified to make war with women, and are already expert in
the use of those weapons which are common to the lowest and most
abandoned of the sex.




THE YOUNG COUPLE


There is to be a wedding this morning at the corner house in the
terrace. The pastry-cook’s people have been there half-a-dozen times
already; all day yesterday there was a great stir and bustle, and they
were up this morning as soon as it was light. Miss Emma Fielding is
going to be married to young Mr. Harvey.

Heaven alone can tell in what bright colours this marriage is painted
upon the mind of the little housemaid at number six, who has hardly
slept a wink all night with thinking of it, and now stands on the
unswept door-steps leaning upon her broom, and looking wistfully
towards the enchanted house. Nothing short of omniscience can divine
what visions of the baker, or the green-grocer, or the smart and most
insinuating butterman, are flitting across her mind—what thoughts of
how she would dress on such an occasion, if she were a lady—of how she
would dress, if she were only a bride—of how cook would dress, being
bridesmaid, conjointly with her sister ‘in place’ at Fulham, and how
the clergyman, deeming them so many ladies, would be quite humbled and
respectful. What day-dreams of hope and happiness—of life being one
perpetual holiday, with no master and no mistress to grant or withhold
it—of every Sunday being a Sunday out—of pure freedom as to curls and
ringlets, and no obligation to hide fine heads of hair in caps—what
pictures of happiness, vast and immense to her, but utterly ridiculous
to us, bewilder the brain of the little housemaid at number six, all
called into existence by the wedding at the corner!

We smile at such things, and so we should, though perhaps for a better
reason than commonly presents itself. It should be pleasant to us to
know that there are notions of happiness so moderate and limited, since
upon those who entertain them, happiness and lightness of heart are
very easily bestowed.

But the little housemaid is awakened from her reverie, for forth from
the door of the magical corner house there runs towards her, all
fluttering in smart new dress and streaming ribands, her friend Jane
Adams, who comes all out of breath to redeem a solemn promise of taking
her in, under cover of the confusion, to see the breakfast table spread
forth in state, and—sight of sights!—her young mistress ready dressed
for church.

And there, in good truth, when they have stolen up-stairs on tip-toe
and edged themselves in at the chamber-door—there is Miss Emma ‘looking
like the sweetest picter,’ in a white chip bonnet and orange flowers,
and all other elegancies becoming a bride, (with the make, shape, and
quality of every article of which the girl is perfectly familiar in one
moment, and never forgets to her dying day)—and there is Miss Emma’s
mamma in tears, and Miss Emma’s papa comforting her, and saying how
that of course she has been long looking forward to this, and how happy
she ought to be—and there too is Miss Emma’s sister with her arms round
her neck, and the other bridesmaid all smiles and tears, quieting the
children, who would cry more but that they are so finely dressed, and
yet sob for fear sister Emma should be taken away—and it is all so
affecting, that the two servant-girls cry more than anybody; and Jane
Adams, sitting down upon the stairs, when they have crept away,
declares that her legs tremble so that she don’t know what to do, and
that she will say for Miss Emma, that she never had a hasty word from
her, and that she does hope and pray she may be happy.

But Jane soon comes round again, and then surely there never was
anything like the breakfast table, glittering with plate and china, and
set out with flowers and sweets, and long-necked bottles, in the most
sumptuous and dazzling manner. In the centre, too, is the mighty charm,
the cake, glistening with frosted sugar, and garnished beautifully.
They agree that there ought to be a little Cupid under one of the
barley-sugar temples, or at least two hearts and an arrow; but, with
this exception, there is nothing to wish for, and a table could not be
handsomer. As they arrive at this conclusion, who should come in but
Mr. John! to whom Jane says that its only Anne from number six; and
John says _he_ knows, for he’s often winked his eye down the area,
which causes Anne to blush and look confused. She is going away,
indeed; when Mr. John will have it that she must drink a glass of wine,
and he says never mind it’s being early in the morning, it won’t hurt
her: so they shut the door and pour out the wine; and Anne drinking
lane’s health, and adding, ‘and here’s wishing you yours, Mr. John,’
drinks it in a great many sips,—Mr. John all the time making jokes
appropriate to the occasion. At last Mr. John, who has waxed bolder by
degrees, pleads the usage at weddings, and claims the privilege of a
kiss, which he obtains after a great scuffle; and footsteps being now
heard on the stairs, they disperse suddenly.

By this time a carriage has driven up to convey the bride to church,
and Anne of number six prolonging the process of ‘cleaning her door,’
has the satisfaction of beholding the bride and bridesmaids, and the
papa and mamma, hurry into the same and drive rapidly off. Nor is this
all, for soon other carriages begin to arrive with a posse of company
all beautifully dressed, at whom she could stand and gaze for ever; but
having something else to do, is compelled to take one last long look
and shut the street-door.

And now the company have gone down to breakfast, and tears have given
place to smiles, for all the corks are out of the long-necked bottles,
and their contents are disappearing rapidly. Miss Emma’s papa is at the
top of the table; Miss Emma’s mamma at the bottom; and beside the
latter are Miss Emma herself and her husband,—admitted on all hands to
be the handsomest and most interesting young couple ever known. All
down both sides of the table, too, are various young ladies, beautiful
to see, and various young gentlemen who seem to think so; and there, in
a post of honour, is an unmarried aunt of Miss Emma’s, reported to
possess unheard-of riches, and to have expressed vast testamentary
intentions respecting her favourite niece and new nephew. This lady has
been very liberal and generous already, as the jewels worn by the bride
abundantly testify, but that is nothing to what she means to do, or
even to what she has done, for she put herself in close communication
with the dressmaker three months ago, and prepared a wardrobe (with
some articles worked by her own hands) fit for a Princess. People may
call her an old maid, and so she may be, but she is neither cross nor
ugly for all that; on the contrary, she is very cheerful and
pleasant-looking, and very kind and tender-hearted: which is no matter
of surprise except to those who yield to popular prejudices without
thinking why, and will never grow wiser and never know better.

Of all the company though, none are more pleasant to behold or better
pleased with themselves than two young children, who, in honour of the
day, have seats among the guests. Of these, one is a little fellow of
six or eight years old, brother to the bride,—and the other a girl of
the same age, or something younger, whom he calls ‘his wife.’ The real
bride and bridegroom are not more devoted than they: he all love and
attention, and she all blushes and fondness, toying with a little
bouquet which he gave her this morning, and placing the scattered
rose-leaves in her bosom with nature’s own coquettishness. They have
dreamt of each other in their quiet dreams, these children, and their
little hearts have been nearly broken when the absent one has been
dispraised in jest. When will there come in after-life a passion so
earnest, generous, and true as theirs; what, even in its gentlest
realities, can have the grace and charm that hover round such fairy
lovers!

By this time the merriment and happiness of the feast have gained their
height; certain ominous looks begin to be exchanged between the
bridesmaids, and somehow it gets whispered about that the carriage
which is to take the young couple into the country has arrived. Such
members of the party as are most disposed to prolong its enjoyments,
affect to consider this a false alarm, but it turns out too true, being
speedily confirmed, first by the retirement of the bride and a select
file of intimates who are to prepare her for the journey, and secondly
by the withdrawal of the ladies generally. To this there ensues a
particularly awkward pause, in which everybody essays to be facetious,
and nobody succeeds; at length the bridegroom makes a mysterious
disappearance in obedience to some equally mysterious signal; and the
table is deserted.

Now, for at least six weeks last past it has been solemnly devised and
settled that the young couple should go away in secret; but they no
sooner appear without the door than the drawing-room windows are
blocked up with ladies waving their handkerchiefs and kissing their
hands, and the dining-room panes with gentlemen’s faces beaming
farewell in every queer variety of its expression. The hall and steps
are crowded with servants in white favours, mixed up with particular
friends and relations who have darted out to say good-bye; and foremost
in the group are the tiny lovers arm in arm, thinking, with fluttering
hearts, what happiness it would be to dash away together in that
gallant coach, and never part again.

The bride has barely time for one hurried glance at her old home, when
the steps rattle, the door slams, the horses clatter on the pavement,
and they have left it far away.

A knot of women servants still remain clustered in the hall, whispering
among themselves, and there of course is Anne from number six, who has
made another escape on some plea or other, and been an admiring witness
of the departure. There are two points on which Anne expatiates over
and over again, without the smallest appearance of fatigue or intending
to leave off; one is, that she ‘never see in all her life such a—oh
such a angel of a gentleman as Mr. Harvey’—and the other, that she
‘can’t tell how it is, but it don’t seem a bit like a work-a-day, or a
Sunday neither—it’s all so unsettled and unregular.’




THE FORMAL COUPLE


The formal couple are the most prim, cold, immovable, and
unsatisfactory people on the face of the earth. Their faces, voices,
dress, house, furniture, walk, and manner, are all the essence of
formality, unrelieved by one redeeming touch of frankness, heartiness,
or nature.

Everything with the formal couple resolves itself into a matter of
form. They don’t call upon you on your account, but their own; not to
see how you are, but to show how they are: it is not a ceremony to do
honour to you, but to themselves,—not due to your position, but to
theirs. If one of a friend’s children die, the formal couple are as
sure and punctual in sending to the house as the undertaker; if a
friend’s family be increased, the monthly nurse is not more attentive
than they. The formal couple, in fact, joyfully seize all occasions of
testifying their good-breeding and precise observance of the little
usages of society; and for you, who are the means to this end, they
care as much as a man does for the tailor who has enabled him to cut a
figure, or a woman for the milliner who has assisted her to a conquest.

Having an extensive connexion among that kind of people who make
acquaintances and eschew friends, the formal gentleman attends from
time to time a great many funerals, to which he is formally invited,
and to which he formally goes, as returning a call for the last time.
Here his deportment is of the most faultless description; he knows the
exact pitch of voice it is proper to assume, the sombre look he ought
to wear, the melancholy tread which should be his gait for the day. He
is perfectly acquainted with all the dreary courtesies to be observed
in a mourning-coach; knows when to sigh, and when to hide his nose in
the white handkerchief; and looks into the grave and shakes his head
when the ceremony is concluded, with the sad formality of a mute.

‘What kind of funeral was it?’ says the formal lady, when he returns
home. ‘Oh!’ replies the formal gentleman, ‘there never was such a gross
and disgusting impropriety; there were no feathers.’ ‘No feathers!’
cries the lady, as if on wings of black feathers dead people fly to
Heaven, and, lacking them, they must of necessity go elsewhere. Her
husband shakes his head; and further adds, that they had seed-cake
instead of plum-cake, and that it was all white wine. ‘All white wine!’
exclaims his wife. ‘Nothing but sherry and madeira,’ says the husband.
‘What! no port?’ ‘Not a drop.’ No port, no plums, and no feathers! ‘You
will recollect, my dear,’ says the formal lady, in a voice of stately
reproof, ‘that when we first met this poor man who is now dead and
gone, and he took that very strange course of addressing me at dinner
without being previously introduced, I ventured to express my opinion
that the family were quite ignorant of etiquette, and very imperfectly
acquainted with the decencies of life. You have now had a good
opportunity of judging for yourself, and all I have to say is, that I
trust you will never go to a funeral _there_ again.’ ‘My dear,’ replies
the formal gentleman, ‘I never will.’ So the informal deceased is cut
in his grave; and the formal couple, when they tell the story of the
funeral, shake their heads, and wonder what some people’s feelings
_are_ made of, and what their notions of propriety _can_ be!

If the formal couple have a family (which they sometimes have), they
are not children, but little, pale, sour, sharp-nosed men and women;
and so exquisitely brought up, that they might be very old dwarfs for
anything that appeareth to the contrary. Indeed, they are so acquainted
with forms and conventionalities, and conduct themselves with such
strict decorum, that to see the little girl break a looking-glass in
some wild outbreak, or the little boy kick his parents, would be to any
visitor an unspeakable relief and consolation.

The formal couple are always sticklers for what is rigidly proper, and
have a great readiness in detecting hidden impropriety of speech or
thought, which by less scrupulous people would be wholly unsuspected.
Thus, if they pay a visit to the theatre, they sit all night in a
perfect agony lest anything improper or immoral should proceed from the
stage; and if anything should happen to be said which admits of a
double construction, they never fail to take it up directly, and to
express by their looks the great outrage which their feelings have
sustained. Perhaps this is their chief reason for absenting themselves
almost entirely from places of public amusement. They go sometimes to
the Exhibition of the Royal Academy;—but that is often more shocking
than the stage itself, and the formal lady thinks that it really is
high time Mr. Etty was prosecuted and made a public example of.

We made one at a christening party not long since, where there were
amongst the guests a formal couple, who suffered the acutest torture
from certain jokes, incidental to such an occasion, cut—and very likely
dried also—by one of the godfathers; a red-faced elderly gentleman,
who, being highly popular with the rest of the company, had it all his
own way, and was in great spirits. It was at supper-time that this
gentleman came out in full force. We—being of a grave and quiet
demeanour—had been chosen to escort the formal lady down-stairs, and,
sitting beside her, had a favourable opportunity of observing her
emotions.

We have a shrewd suspicion that, in the very beginning, and in the
first blush—literally the first blush—of the matter, the formal lady
had not felt quite certain whether the being present at such a
ceremony, and encouraging, as it were, the public exhibition of a baby,
was not an act involving some degree of indelicacy and impropriety; but
certain we are that when that baby’s health was drunk, and allusions
were made, by a grey-headed gentleman proposing it, to the time when he
had dandled in his arms the young Christian’s mother,—certain we are
that then the formal lady took the alarm, and recoiled from the old
gentleman as from a hoary profligate. Still she bore it; she fanned
herself with an indignant air, but still she bore it. A comic song was
sung, involving a confession from some imaginary gentleman that he had
kissed a female, and yet the formal lady bore it. But when at last, the
health of the godfather before-mentioned being drunk, the godfather
rose to return thanks, and in the course of his observations darkly
hinted at babies yet unborn, and even contemplated the possibility of
the subject of that festival having brothers and sisters, the formal
lady could endure no more, but, bowing slightly round, and sweeping
haughtily past the offender, left the room in tears, under the
protection of the formal gentleman.




THE LOVING COUPLE


There cannot be a better practical illustration of the wise saw and
ancient instance, that there may be too much of a good thing, than is
presented by a loving couple. Undoubtedly it is meet and proper that
two persons joined together in holy matrimony should be loving, and
unquestionably it is pleasant to know and see that they are so; but
there is a time for all things, and the couple who happen to be always
in a loving state before company, are well-nigh intolerable.

And in taking up this position we would have it distinctly understood
that we do not seek alone the sympathy of bachelors, in whose objection
to loving couples we recognise interested motives and personal
considerations. We grant that to that unfortunate class of society
there may be something very irritating, tantalising, and provoking, in
being compelled to witness those gentle endearments and chaste
interchanges which to loving couples are quite the ordinary business of
life. But while we recognise the natural character of the prejudice to
which these unhappy men are subject, we can neither receive their
biassed evidence, nor address ourself to their inflamed and angered
minds. Dispassionate experience is our only guide; and in these moral
essays we seek no less to reform hymeneal offenders than to hold out a
timely warning to all rising couples, and even to those who have not
yet set forth upon their pilgrimage towards the matrimonial market.

Let all couples, present or to come, therefore profit by the example of
Mr. and Mrs. Leaver, themselves a loving couple in the first degree.

Mr. and Mrs. Leaver are pronounced by Mrs. Starling, a widow lady who
lost her husband when she was young, and lost herself about the
same-time—for by her own count she has never since grown five years
older—to be a perfect model of wedded felicity. ‘You would suppose,’
says the romantic lady, ‘that they were lovers only just now engaged.
Never was such happiness! They are so tender, so affectionate, so
attached to each other, so enamoured, that positively nothing can be
more charming!’

‘Augusta, my soul,’ says Mr. Leaver. ‘Augustus, my life,’ replies Mrs.
Leaver. ‘Sing some little ballad, darling,’ quoth Mr. Leaver. ‘I
couldn’t, indeed, dearest,’ returns Mrs. Leaver. ‘Do, my dove,’ says
Mr. Leaver. ‘I couldn’t possibly, my love,’ replies Mrs. Leaver; ‘and
it’s very naughty of you to ask me.’ ‘Naughty, darling!’ cries Mr.
Leaver. ‘Yes, very naughty, and very cruel,’ returns Mrs. Leaver, ‘for
you know I have a sore throat, and that to sing would give me great
pain. You’re a monster, and I hate you. Go away!’ Mrs. Leaver has said
‘go away,’ because Mr. Leaver has tapped her under the chin: Mr. Leaver
not doing as he is bid, but on the contrary, sitting down beside her,
Mrs. Leaver slaps Mr. Leaver; and Mr. Leaver in return slaps Mrs.
Leaver, and it being now time for all persons present to look the other
way, they look the other way, and hear a still small sound as of
kissing, at which Mrs. Starling is thoroughly enraptured, and whispers
her neighbour that if all married couples were like that, what a heaven
this earth would be!

The loving couple are at home when this occurs, and maybe only three or
four friends are present, but, unaccustomed to reserve upon this
interesting point, they are pretty much the same abroad. Indeed upon
some occasions, such as a pic-nic or a water-party, their lovingness is
even more developed, as we had an opportunity last summer of observing
in person.

There was a great water-party made up to go to Twickenham and dine, and
afterwards dance in an empty villa by the river-side, hired expressly
for the purpose. Mr. and Mrs. Leaver were of the company; and it was
our fortune to have a seat in the same boat, which was an eight-oared
galley, manned by amateurs, with a blue striped awning of the same
pattern as their Guernsey shirts, and a dingy red flag of the same
shade as the whiskers of the stroke oar. A coxswain being appointed,
and all other matters adjusted, the eight gentlemen threw themselves
into strong paroxysms, and pulled up with the tide, stimulated by the
compassionate remarks of the ladies, who one and all exclaimed, that it
seemed an immense exertion—as indeed it did. At first we raced the
other boat, which came alongside in gallant style; but this being found
an unpleasant amusement, as giving rise to a great quantity of
splashing, and rendering the cold pies and other viands very moist, it
was unanimously voted down, and we were suffered to shoot a-head, while
the second boat followed ingloriously in our wake.

It was at this time that we first recognised Mr. Leaver. There were two
firemen-watermen in the boat, lying by until somebody was exhausted;
and one of them, who had taken upon himself the direction of affairs,
was heard to cry in a gruff voice, ‘Pull away, number two—give it her,
number two—take a longer reach, number two—now, number two, sir, think
you’re winning a boat.’ The greater part of the company had no doubt
begun to wonder which of the striped Guernseys it might be that stood
in need of such encouragement, when a stifled shriek from Mrs. Leaver
confirmed the doubtful and informed the ignorant; and Mr. Leaver, still
further disguised in a straw hat and no neckcloth, was observed to be
in a fearful perspiration, and failing visibly. Nor was the general
consternation diminished at this instant by the same gentleman (in the
performance of an accidental aquatic feat, termed ‘catching a crab’)
plunging suddenly backward, and displaying nothing of himself to the
company, but two violently struggling legs. Mrs. Leaver shrieked again
several times, and cried piteously—‘Is he dead? Tell me the worst. Is
he dead?’

Now, a moment’s reflection might have convinced the loving wife, that
unless her husband were endowed with some most surprising powers of
muscular action, he never could be dead while he kicked so hard; but
still Mrs. Leaver cried, ‘Is he dead? is he dead?’ and still everybody
else cried—‘No, no, no,’ until such time as Mr. Leaver was replaced in
a sitting posture, and his oar (which had been going through all kinds
of wrong-headed performances on its own account) was once more put in
his hand, by the exertions of the two firemen-watermen. Mr. Leaver then
exclaimed, ‘Augustus, my child, come to me;’ and Mr. Leaver said,
‘Augusta, my love, compose yourself, I am not injured.’ But Mrs. Leaver
cried again more piteously than before, ‘Augustus, my child, come to
me;’ and now the company generally, who seemed to be apprehensive that
if Mr. Leaver remained where he was, he might contribute more than his
proper share towards the drowning of the party, disinterestedly took
part with Mrs. Leaver, and said he really ought to go, and that he was
not strong enough for such violent exercise, and ought never to have
undertaken it. Reluctantly, Mr. Leaver went, and laid himself down at
Mrs. Leaver’s feet, and Mrs. Leaver stooping over him, said, ‘Oh
Augustus, how could you terrify me so?’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘Augusta,
my sweet, I never meant to terrify you;’ and Mrs. Leaver said, ‘You are
faint, my dear;’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘I am rather so, my love;’ and
they were very loving indeed under Mrs. Leaver’s veil, until at length
Mr. Leaver came forth again, and pleasantly asked if he had not heard
something said about bottled stout and sandwiches.

Mrs. Starling, who was one of the party, was perfectly delighted with
this scene, and frequently murmured half-aside, ‘What a loving couple
you are!’ or ‘How delightful it is to see man and wife so happy
together!’ To us she was quite poetical, (for we are a kind of
cousins,) observing that hearts beating in unison like that made life a
paradise of sweets; and that when kindred creatures were drawn together
by sympathies so fine and delicate, what more than mortal happiness did
not our souls partake! To all this we answered ‘Certainly,’ or ‘Very
true,’ or merely sighed, as the case might be. At every new act of the
loving couple, the widow’s admiration broke out afresh; and when Mrs.
Leaver would not permit Mr. Leaver to keep his hat off, lest the sun
should strike to his head, and give him a brain fever, Mrs. Starling
actually shed tears, and said it reminded her of Adam and Eve.

The loving couple were thus loving all the way to Twickenham, but when
we arrived there (by which time the amateur crew looked very thirsty
and vicious) they were more playful than ever, for Mrs. Leaver threw
stones at Mr. Leaver, and Mr. Leaver ran after Mrs. Leaver on the
grass, in a most innocent and enchanting manner. At dinner, too, Mr.
Leaver _would_ steal Mrs. Leaver’s tongue, and Mrs. Leaver _would_
retaliate upon Mr. Leaver’s fowl; and when Mrs. Leaver was going to
take some lobster salad, Mr. Leaver wouldn’t let her have any, saying
that it made her ill, and she was always sorry for it afterwards, which
afforded Mrs. Leaver an opportunity of pretending to be cross, and
showing many other prettinesses. But this was merely the smiling
surface of their loves, not the mighty depths of the stream, down to
which the company, to say the truth, dived rather unexpectedly, from
the following accident. It chanced that Mr. Leaver took upon himself to
propose the bachelors who had first originated the notion of that
entertainment, in doing which, he affected to regret that he was no
longer of their body himself, and pretended grievously to lament his
fallen state. This Mrs. Leaver’s feelings could not brook, even in
jest, and consequently, exclaiming aloud, ‘He loves me not, he loves me
not!’ she fell in a very pitiable state into the arms of Mrs. Starling,
and, directly becoming insensible, was conveyed by that lady and her
husband into another room. Presently Mr. Leaver came running back to
know if there was a medical gentleman in company, and as there was, (in
what company is there not?) both Mr. Leaver and the medical gentleman
hurried away together.

The medical gentleman was the first who returned, and among his
intimate friends he was observed to laugh and wink, and look as
unmedical as might be; but when Mr. Leaver came back he was very
solemn, and in answer to all inquiries, shook his head, and remarked
that Augusta was far too sensitive to be trifled with—an opinion which
the widow subsequently confirmed. Finding that she was in no imminent
peril, however, the rest of the party betook themselves to dancing on
the green, and very merry and happy they were, and a vast quantity of
flirtation there was; the last circumstance being no doubt
attributable, partly to the fineness of the weather, and partly to the
locality, which is well known to be favourable to all harmless
recreations.

In the bustle of the scene, Mr. and Mrs. Leaver stole down to the boat,
and disposed themselves under the awning, Mrs. Leaver reclining her
head upon Mr. Leaver’s shoulder, and Mr. Leaver grasping her hand with
great fervour, and looking in her face from time to time with a
melancholy and sympathetic aspect. The widow sat apart, feigning to be
occupied with a book, but stealthily observing them from behind her
fan; and the two firemen-watermen, smoking their pipes on the bank hard
by, nudged each other, and grinned in enjoyment of the joke. Very few
of the party missed the loving couple; and the few who did, heartily
congratulated each other on their disappearance.




THE CONTRADICTORY COUPLE


One would suppose that two people who are to pass their whole lives
together, and must necessarily be very often alone with each other,
could find little pleasure in mutual contradiction; and yet what is
more common than a contradictory couple?

The contradictory couple agree in nothing but contradiction. They
return home from Mrs. Bluebottle’s dinner-party, each in an opposite
corner of the coach, and do not exchange a syllable until they have
been seated for at least twenty minutes by the fireside at home, when
the gentleman, raising his eyes from the stove, all at once breaks
silence:

‘What a very extraordinary thing it is,’ says he, ‘that you _will_
contradict, Charlotte!’ ‘_I_ contradict!’ cries the lady, ‘but that’s
just like you.’ ‘What’s like me?’ says the gentleman sharply. ‘Saying
that I contradict you,’ replies the lady. ‘Do you mean to say that you
do _not_ contradict me?’ retorts the gentleman; ‘do you mean to say
that you have not been contradicting me the whole of this day?’ ‘Do you
mean to tell me now, that you have not? I mean to tell you nothing of
the kind,’ replies the lady quietly; ‘when you are wrong, of course I
shall contradict you.’

During this dialogue the gentleman has been taking his brandy-and-water
on one side of the fire, and the lady, with her dressing-case on the
table, has been curling her hair on the other. She now lets down her
back hair, and proceeds to brush it; preserving at the same time an air
of conscious rectitude and suffering virtue, which is intended to
exasperate the gentleman—and does so.

‘I do believe,’ he says, taking the spoon out of his glass, and tossing
it on the table, ‘that of all the obstinate, positive, wrong-headed
creatures that were ever born, you are the most so, Charlotte.’
‘Certainly, certainly, have it your own way, pray. You see how much _I_
contradict you,’ rejoins the lady. ‘Of course, you didn’t contradict me
at dinner-time—oh no, not you!’ says the gentleman. ‘Yes, I did,’ says
the lady. ‘Oh, you did,’ cries the gentleman ‘you admit that?’ ‘If you
call that contradiction, I do,’ the lady answers; ‘and I say again,
Edward, that when I know you are wrong, I will contradict you. I am not
your slave.’ ‘Not my slave!’ repeats the gentleman bitterly; ‘and you
still mean to say that in the Blackburns’ new house there are not more
than fourteen doors, including the door of the wine-cellar!’ ‘I mean to
say,’ retorts the lady, beating time with her hair-brush on the palm of
her hand, ‘that in that house there are fourteen doors and no more.’
‘Well then—’ cries the gentleman, rising in despair, and pacing the
room with rapid strides. ‘By G-, this is enough to destroy a man’s
intellect, and drive him mad!’

By and by the gentleman comes-to a little, and passing his hand
gloomily across his forehead, reseats himself in his former chair.
There is a long silence, and this time the lady begins. ‘I appealed to
Mr. Jenkins, who sat next to me on the sofa in the drawing-room during
tea—’ ‘Morgan, you mean,’ interrupts the gentleman. ‘I do not mean
anything of the kind,’ answers the lady. ‘Now, by all that is
aggravating and impossible to bear,’ cries the gentleman, clenching his
hands and looking upwards in agony, ‘she is going to insist upon it
that Morgan is Jenkins!’ ‘Do you take me for a perfect fool?’ exclaims
the lady; ‘do you suppose I don’t know the one from the other? Do you
suppose I don’t know that the man in the blue coat was Mr. Jenkins?’
‘Jenkins in a blue coat!’ cries the gentleman with a groan; ‘Jenkins in
a blue coat! a man who would suffer death rather than wear anything but
brown!’ ‘Do you dare to charge me with telling an untruth?’ demands the
lady, bursting into tears. ‘I charge you, ma’am,’ retorts the
gentleman, starting up, ‘with being a monster of contradiction, a
monster of aggravation, a—a—a—Jenkins in a blue coat!—what have I done
that I should be doomed to hear such statements!’

Expressing himself with great scorn and anguish, the gentleman takes up
his candle and stalks off to bed, where feigning to be fast asleep when
the lady comes up-stairs drowned in tears, murmuring lamentations over
her hard fate and indistinct intentions of consulting her brothers, he
undergoes the secret torture of hearing her exclaim between whiles, ‘I
know there are only fourteen doors in the house, I know it was Mr.
Jenkins, I know he had a blue coat on, and I would say it as positively
as I do now, if they were the last words I had to speak!’

If the contradictory couple are blessed with children, they are not the
less contradictory on that account. Master James and Miss Charlotte
present themselves after dinner, and being in perfect good humour, and
finding their parents in the same amiable state, augur from these
appearances half a glass of wine a-piece and other extraordinary
indulgences. But unfortunately Master James, growing talkative upon
such prospects, asks his mamma how tall Mrs. Parsons is, and whether
she is not six feet high; to which his mamma replies, ‘Yes, she should
think she was, for Mrs. Parsons is a very tall lady indeed; quite a
giantess.’ ‘For Heaven’s sake, Charlotte,’ cries her husband, ‘do not
tell the child such preposterous nonsense. Six feet high!’ ‘Well,’
replies the lady, ‘surely I may be permitted to have an opinion; my
opinion is, that she is six feet high—at least six feet.’ ‘Now you
know, Charlotte,’ retorts the gentleman sternly, ‘that that is _not_
your opinion—that you have no such idea—and that you only say this for
the sake of contradiction.’ ‘You are exceedingly polite,’ his wife
replies; ‘to be wrong about such a paltry question as anybody’s height,
would be no great crime; but I say again, that I believe Mrs. Parsons
to be six feet—more than six feet; nay, I believe you know her to be
full six feet, and only say she is not, because I say she is.’ This
taunt disposes the gentleman to become violent, but he cheeks himself,
and is content to mutter, in a haughty tone, ‘Six feet—ha! ha! Mrs.
Parsons six feet!’ and the lady answers, ‘Yes, six feet. I am sure I am
glad you are amused, and I’ll say it again—six feet.’ Thus the subject
gradually drops off, and the contradiction begins to be forgotten, when
Master James, with some undefined notion of making himself agreeable,
and putting things to rights again, unfortunately asks his mamma what
the moon’s made of; which gives her occasion to say that he had better
not ask her, for she is always wrong and never can be right; that he
only exposes her to contradiction by asking any question of her; and
that he had better ask his papa, who is infallible, and never can be
wrong. Papa, smarting under this attack, gives a terrible pull at the
bell, and says, that if the conversation is to proceed in this way, the
children had better be removed. Removed they are, after a few tears and
many struggles; and Pa having looked at Ma sideways for a minute or
two, with a baleful eye, draws his pocket-handkerchief over his face,
and composes himself for his after-dinner nap.

The friends of the contradictory couple often deplore their frequent
disputes, though they rather make light of them at the same time:
observing, that there is no doubt they are very much attached to each
other, and that they never quarrel except about trifles. But neither
the friends of the contradictory couple, nor the contradictory couple
themselves, reflect, that as the most stupendous objects in nature are
but vast collections of minute particles, so the slightest and least
considered trifles make up the sum of human happiness or misery.




THE COUPLE WHO DOTE UPON THEIR CHILDREN


The couple who dote upon their children have usually a great many of
them: six or eight at least. The children are either the healthiest in
all the world, or the most unfortunate in existence. In either case,
they are equally the theme of their doting parents, and equally a
source of mental anguish and irritation to their doting parents’
friends.

The couple who dote upon their children recognise no dates but those
connected with their births, accidents, illnesses, or remarkable deeds.
They keep a mental almanack with a vast number of Innocents’-days, all
in red letters. They recollect the last coronation, because on that day
little Tom fell down the kitchen stairs; the anniversary of the
Gunpowder Plot, because it was on the fifth of November that Ned asked
whether wooden legs were made in heaven and cocked hats grew in
gardens. Mrs. Whiffler will never cease to recollect the last day of
the old year as long as she lives, for it was on that day that the baby
had the four red spots on its nose which they took for measles: nor
Christmas-day, for twenty-one days after Christmas-day the twins were
born; nor Good Friday, for it was on a Good Friday that she was
frightened by the donkey-cart when she was in the family way with
Georgiana. The movable feasts have no motion for Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler,
but remain pinned down tight and fast to the shoulders of some small
child, from whom they can never be separated any more. Time was made,
according to their creed, not for slaves but for girls and boys; the
restless sands in his glass are but little children at play.

As we have already intimated, the children of this couple can know no
medium. They are either prodigies of good health or prodigies of bad
health; whatever they are, they must be prodigies. Mr. Whiffler must
have to describe at his office such excruciating agonies constantly
undergone by his eldest boy, as nobody else’s eldest boy ever
underwent; or he must be able to declare that there never was a child
endowed with such amazing health, such an indomitable constitution, and
such a cast-iron frame, as his child. His children must be, in some
respect or other, above and beyond the children of all other people. To
such an extent is this feeling pushed, that we were once slightly
acquainted with a lady and gentleman who carried their heads so high
and became so proud after their youngest child fell out of a
two-pair-of-stairs window without hurting himself much, that the
greater part of their friends were obliged to forego their
acquaintance. But perhaps this may be an extreme case, and one not
justly entitled to be considered as a precedent of general application.

If a friend happen to dine in a friendly way with one of these couples
who dote upon their children, it is nearly impossible for him to divert
the conversation from their favourite topic. Everything reminds Mr.
Whiffler of Ned, or Mrs. Whiffler of Mary Anne, or of the time before
Ned was born, or the time before Mary Anne was thought of. The
slightest remark, however harmless in itself, will awaken slumbering
recollections of the twins. It is impossible to steer clear of them.
They will come uppermost, let the poor man do what he may. Ned has been
known to be lost sight of for half an hour, Dick has been forgotten,
the name of Mary Anne has not been mentioned, but the twins will out.
Nothing can keep down the twins.

‘It’s a very extraordinary thing, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler to the
visitor, ‘but—you have seen our little babies, the—the—twins?’ The
friend’s heart sinks within him as he answers, ‘Oh, yes—often.’ ‘Your
talking of the Pyramids,’ says Mr. Whiffler, quite as a matter of
course, ‘reminds me of the twins. It’s a very extraordinary thing about
those babies—what colour should you say their eyes were?’ ‘Upon my
word,’ the friend stammers, ‘I hardly know how to answer’—the fact
being, that except as the friend does not remember to have heard of any
departure from the ordinary course of nature in the instance of these
twins, they might have no eyes at all for aught he has observed to the
contrary. ‘You wouldn’t say they were red, I suppose?’ says Mr.
Whiffler. The friend hesitates, and rather thinks they are; but
inferring from the expression of Mr. Whiffler’s face that red is not
the colour, smiles with some confidence, and says, ‘No, no! very
different from that.’ ‘What should you say to blue?’ says Mr. Whiffler.
The friend glances at him, and observing a different expression in his
face, ventures to say, ‘I should say they _were_ blue—a decided blue.’
‘To be sure!’ cries Mr. Whiffler, triumphantly, ‘I knew you would! But
what should you say if I was to tell you that the boy’s eyes are blue
and the girl’s hazel, eh?’ ‘Impossible!’ exclaims the friend, not at
all knowing why it should be impossible. ‘A fact, notwithstanding,’
cries Mr. Whiffler; ‘and let me tell you, Saunders, _that’s_ not a
common thing in twins, or a circumstance that’ll happen every day.’

In this dialogue Mrs. Whiffler, as being deeply responsible for the
twins, their charms and singularities, has taken no share; but she now
relates, in broken English, a witticism of little Dick’s bearing upon
the subject just discussed, which delights Mr. Whiffler beyond measure,
and causes him to declare that he would have sworn that was Dick’s if
he had heard it anywhere. Then he requests that Mrs. Whiffler will tell
Saunders what Tom said about mad bulls; and Mrs. Whiffler relating the
anecdote, a discussion ensues upon the different character of Tom’s wit
and Dick’s wit, from which it appears that Dick’s humour is of a lively
turn, while Tom’s style is the dry and caustic. This discussion being
enlivened by various illustrations, lasts a long time, and is only
stopped by Mrs. Whiffler instructing the footman to ring the nursery
bell, as the children were promised that they should come down and
taste the pudding.

The friend turns pale when this order is given, and paler still when it
is followed up by a great pattering on the staircase, (not unlike the
sound of rain upon a skylight,) a violent bursting open of the
dining-room door, and the tumultuous appearance of six small children,
closely succeeded by a strong nursery-maid with a twin in each arm. As
the whole eight are screaming, shouting, or kicking—some influenced by
a ravenous appetite, some by a horror of the stranger, and some by a
conflict of the two feelings—a pretty long space elapses before all
their heads can be ranged round the table and anything like order
restored; in bringing about which happy state of things both the nurse
and footman are severely scratched. At length Mrs. Whiffler is heard to
say, ‘Mr. Saunders, shall I give you some pudding?’ A breathless
silence ensues, and sixteen small eyes are fixed upon the guest in
expectation of his reply. A wild shout of joy proclaims that he has
said ‘No, thank you.’ Spoons are waved in the air, legs appear above
the table-cloth in uncontrollable ecstasy, and eighty short fingers
dabble in damson syrup.

While the pudding is being disposed of, Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler look on
with beaming countenances, and Mr. Whiffler nudging his friend
Saunders, begs him to take notice of Tom’s eyes, or Dick’s chin, or
Ned’s nose, or Mary Anne’s hair, or Emily’s figure, or little Bob’s
calves, or Fanny’s mouth, or Carry’s head, as the case may be. Whatever
the attention of Mr. Saunders is called to, Mr. Saunders admires of
course; though he is rather confused about the sex of the youngest
branches and looks at the wrong children, turning to a girl when Mr.
Whiffler directs his attention to a boy, and falling into raptures with
a boy when he ought to be enchanted with a girl. Then the dessert
comes, and there is a vast deal of scrambling after fruit, and sudden
spirting forth of juice out of tight oranges into infant eyes, and much
screeching and wailing in consequence. At length it becomes time for
Mrs. Whiffler to retire, and all the children are by force of arms
compelled to kiss and love Mr. Saunders before going up-stairs, except
Tom, who, lying on his back in the hall, proclaims that Mr. Saunders
‘is a naughty beast;’ and Dick, who having drunk his father’s wine when
he was looking another way, is found to be intoxicated and is carried
out, very limp and helpless.

Mr. Whiffler and his friend are left alone together, but Mr. Whiffler’s
thoughts are still with his family, if his family are not with him.
‘Saunders,’ says he, after a short silence, ‘if you please, we’ll drink
Mrs. Whiffler and the children.’ Mr. Saunders feels this to be a
reproach against himself for not proposing the same sentiment, and
drinks it in some confusion. ‘Ah!’ Mr. Whiffler sighs, ‘these children,
Saunders, make one quite an old man.’ Mr. Saunders thinks that if they
were his, they would make him a very old man; but he says nothing. ‘And
yet,’ pursues Mr. Whiffler, ‘what can equal domestic happiness? what
can equal the engaging ways of children! Saunders, why don’t you get
married?’ Now, this is an embarrassing question, because Mr. Saunders
has been thinking that if he had at any time entertained matrimonial
designs, the revelation of that day would surely have routed them for
ever. ‘I am glad, however,’ says Mr. Whiffler, ‘that you _are_ a
bachelor,—glad on one account, Saunders; a selfish one, I admit. Will
you do Mrs. Whiffler and myself a favour?’ Mr. Saunders is
surprised—evidently surprised; but he replies, ‘with the greatest
pleasure.’ ‘Then, will you, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler, in an
impressive manner, ‘will you cement and consolidate our friendship by
coming into the family (so to speak) as a godfather?’ ‘I shall be proud
and delighted,’ replies Mr. Saunders: ‘which of the children is it?
really, I thought they were all christened; or—’ ‘Saunders,’ Mr.
Whiffler interposes, ‘they _are_ all christened; you are right. The
fact is, that Mrs. Whiffler is—in short, we expect another.’ ‘Not a
ninth!’ cries the friend, all aghast at the idea. ‘Yes, Saunders,’
rejoins Mr. Whiffler, solemnly, ‘a ninth. Did we drink Mrs. Whiffler’s
health? Let us drink it again, Saunders, and wish her well over it!’

Doctor Johnson used to tell a story of a man who had but one idea,
which was a wrong one. The couple who dote upon their children are in
the same predicament: at home or abroad, at all times, and in all
places, their thoughts are bound up in this one subject, and have no
sphere beyond. They relate the clever things their offspring say or do,
and weary every company with their prolixity and absurdity. Mr.
Whiffler takes a friend by the button at a street corner on a windy day
to tell him a _bon mot_ of his youngest boy’s; and Mrs. Whiffler,
calling to see a sick acquaintance, entertains her with a cheerful
account of all her own past sufferings and present expectations. In
such cases the sins of the fathers indeed descend upon the children;
for people soon come to regard them as predestined little bores. The
couple who dote upon their children cannot be said to be actuated by a
general love for these engaging little people (which would be a great
excuse); for they are apt to underrate and entertain a jealousy of any
children but their own. If they examined their own hearts, they would,
perhaps, find at the bottom of all this, more self-love and egotism
than they think of. Self-love and egotism are bad qualities, of which
the unrestrained exhibition, though it may be sometimes amusing, never
fails to be wearisome and unpleasant. Couples who dote upon their
children, therefore, are best avoided.




THE COOL COUPLE


There is an old-fashioned weather-glass representing a house with two
doorways, in one of which is the figure of a gentleman, in the other
the figure of a lady. When the weather is to be fine the lady comes out
and the gentleman goes in; when wet, the gentleman comes out and the
lady goes in. They never seek each other’s society, are never elevated
and depressed by the same cause, and have nothing in common. They are
the model of a cool couple, except that there is something of
politeness and consideration about the behaviour of the gentleman in
the weather-glass, in which, neither of the cool couple can be said to
participate.

The cool couple are seldom alone together, and when they are, nothing
can exceed their apathy and dulness: the gentleman being for the most
part drowsy, and the lady silent. If they enter into conversation, it
is usually of an ironical or recriminatory nature. Thus, when the
gentleman has indulged in a very long yawn and settled himself more
snugly in his easy-chair, the lady will perhaps remark, ‘Well, I am
sure, Charles! I hope you’re comfortable.’ To which the gentleman
replies, ‘Oh yes, he’s quite comfortable quite.’ ‘There are not many
married men, I hope,’ returns the lady, ‘who seek comfort in such
selfish gratifications as you do.’ ‘Nor many wives who seek comfort in
such selfish gratifications as _you_ do, I hope,’ retorts the
gentleman. ‘Whose fault is that?’ demands the lady. The gentleman
becoming more sleepy, returns no answer. ‘Whose fault is that?’ the
lady repeats. The gentleman still returning no answer, she goes on to
say that she believes there never was in all this world anybody so
attached to her home, so thoroughly domestic, so unwilling to seek a
moment’s gratification or pleasure beyond her own fireside as she. God
knows that before she was married she never thought or dreamt of such a
thing; and she remembers that her poor papa used to say again and
again, almost every day of his life, ‘Oh, my dear Louisa, if you only
marry a man who understands you, and takes the trouble to consider your
happiness and accommodate himself a very little to your disposition,
what a treasure he will find in you!’ She supposes her papa knew what
her disposition was—he had known her long enough—he ought to have been
acquainted with it, but what can she do? If her home is always dull and
lonely, and her husband is always absent and finds no pleasure in her
society, she is naturally sometimes driven (seldom enough, she is sure)
to seek a little recreation elsewhere; she is not expected to pine and
mope to death, she hopes. ‘Then come, Louisa,’ says the gentleman,
waking up as suddenly as he fell asleep, ‘stop at home this evening,
and so will I.’ ‘I should be sorry to suppose, Charles, that you took a
pleasure in aggravating me,’ replies the lady; ‘but you know as well as
I do that I am particularly engaged to Mrs. Mortimer, and that it would
be an act of the grossest rudeness and ill-breeding, after accepting a
seat in her box and preventing her from inviting anybody else, not to
go.’ ‘Ah! there it is!’ says the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I
knew that perfectly well. I knew you couldn’t devote an evening to your
own home. Now all I have to say, Louisa, is this—recollect that _I_ was
quite willing to stay at home, and that it’s no fault of _mine_ we are
not oftener together.’

With that the gentleman goes away to keep an old appointment at his
club, and the lady hurries off to dress for Mrs. Mortimer’s; and
neither thinks of the other until by some odd chance they find
themselves alone again.

But it must not be supposed that the cool couple are habitually a
quarrelsome one. Quite the contrary. These differences are only
occasions for a little self-excuse,—nothing more. In general they are
as easy and careless, and dispute as seldom, as any common
acquaintances may; for it is neither worth their while to put each
other out of the way, nor to ruffle themselves.

When they meet in society, the cool couple are the best-bred people in
existence. The lady is seated in a corner among a little knot of lady
friends, one of whom exclaims, ‘Why, I vow and declare there is your
husband, my dear!’ ‘Whose?—mine?’ she says, carelessly. ‘Ay, yours, and
coming this way too.’ ‘How very odd!’ says the lady, in a languid tone,
‘I thought he had been at Dover.’ The gentleman coming up, and speaking
to all the other ladies and nodding slightly to his wife, it turns out
that he has been at Dover, and has just now returned. ‘What a strange
creature you are!’ cries his wife; ‘and what on earth brought you here,
I wonder?’ ‘I came to look after you, _of course_,’ rejoins her
husband. This is so pleasant a jest that the lady is mightily amused,
as are all the other ladies similarly situated who are within hearing;
and while they are enjoying it to the full, the gentleman nods again,
turns upon his heel, and saunters away.

There are times, however, when his company is not so agreeable, though
equally unexpected; such as when the lady has invited one or two
particular friends to tea and scandal, and he happens to come home in
the very midst of their diversion. It is a hundred chances to one that
he remains in the house half an hour, but the lady is rather disturbed
by the intrusion, notwithstanding, and reasons within herself,—‘I am
sure I never interfere with him, and why should he interfere with me?
It can scarcely be accidental; it never happens that I have a
particular reason for not wishing him to come home, but he always
comes. It’s very provoking and tiresome; and I am sure when he leaves
me so much alone for his own pleasure, the least he could do would be
to do as much for mine.’ Observing what passes in her mind, the
gentleman, who has come home for his own accommodation, makes a merit
of it with himself; arrives at the conclusion that it is the very last
place in which he can hope to be comfortable; and determines, as he
takes up his hat and cane, never to be so virtuous again.

Thus a great many cool couples go on until they are cold couples, and
the grave has closed over their folly and indifference. Loss of name,
station, character, life itself, has ensued from causes as slight as
these, before now; and when gossips tell such tales, and aggravate
their deformities, they elevate their hands and eyebrows, and call each
other to witness what a cool couple Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so always were,
even in the best of times.




THE PLAUSIBLE COUPLE


The plausible couple have many titles. They are ‘a delightful couple,’
an ‘affectionate couple,’ ‘a most agreeable couple, ‘a good-hearted
couple,’ and ‘the best-natured couple in existence.’ The truth is, that
the plausible couple are people of the world; and either the way of
pleasing the world has grown much easier than it was in the days of the
old man and his ass, or the old man was but a bad hand at it, and knew
very little of the trade.

‘But is it really possible to please the world!’ says some doubting
reader. It is indeed. Nay, it is not only very possible, but very easy.
The ways are crooked, and sometimes foul and low. What then? A man need
but crawl upon his hands and knees, know when to close his eyes and
when his ears, when to stoop and when to stand upright; and if by the
world is meant that atom of it in which he moves himself, he shall
please it, never fear.

Now, it will be readily seen, that if a plausible man or woman have an
easy means of pleasing the world by an adaptation of self to all its
twistings and twinings, a plausible man _and_ woman, or, in other
words, a plausible couple, playing into each other’s hands, and acting
in concert, have a manifest advantage. Hence it is that plausible
couples scarcely ever fail of success on a pretty large scale; and
hence it is that if the reader, laying down this unwieldy volume at the
next full stop, will have the goodness to review his or her circle of
acquaintance, and to search particularly for some man and wife with a
large connexion and a good name, not easily referable to their
abilities or their wealth, he or she (that is, the male or female
reader) will certainly find that gentleman or lady, on a very short
reflection, to be a plausible couple.

The plausible couple are the most ecstatic people living: the most
sensitive people—to merit—on the face of the earth. Nothing clever or
virtuous escapes them. They have microscopic eyes for such endowments,
and can find them anywhere. The plausible couple never fawn—oh no! They
don’t even scruple to tell their friends of their faults. One is too
generous, another too candid; a third has a tendency to think all
people like himself, and to regard mankind as a company of angels; a
fourth is kind-hearted to a fault. ‘We never flatter, my dear Mrs.
Jackson,’ say the plausible couple; ‘we speak our minds. Neither you
nor Mr. Jackson have faults enough. It may sound strangely, but it is
true. You have not faults enough. You know our way,—we must speak out,
and always do. Quarrel with us for saying so, if you will; but we
repeat it,—you have not faults enough!’

The plausible couple are no less plausible to each other than to third
parties. They are always loving and harmonious. The plausible gentleman
calls his wife ‘darling,’ and the plausible lady addresses him as
‘dearest.’ If it be Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger, Mrs. Widger is
‘Lavinia, darling,’ and Mr. Widger is ‘Bobtail, dearest.’ Speaking of
each other, they observe the same tender form. Mrs. Widger relates what
‘Bobtail’ said, and Mr. Widger recounts what ‘darling’ thought and did.

If you sit next to the plausible lady at a dinner-table, she takes the
earliest opportunity of expressing her belief that you are acquainted
with the Clickits; she is sure she has heard the Clickits speak of
you—she must not tell you in what terms, or you will take her for a
flatterer. You admit a knowledge of the Clickits; the plausible lady
immediately launches out in their praise. She quite loves the Clickits.
Were there ever such true-hearted, hospitable, excellent people—such a
gentle, interesting little woman as Mrs. Clickit, or such a frank,
unaffected creature as Mr. Clickit? were there ever two people, in
short, so little spoiled by the world as they are? ‘As who, darling?’
cries Mr. Widger, from the opposite side of the table. ‘The Clickits,
dearest,’ replies Mrs. Widger. ‘Indeed you are right, darling,’ Mr.
Widger rejoins; ‘the Clickits are a very high-minded, worthy, estimable
couple.’ Mrs. Widger remarking that Bobtail always grows quite eloquent
upon this subject, Mr. Widger admits that he feels very strongly
whenever such people as the Clickits and some other friends of his
(here he glances at the host and hostess) are mentioned; for they are
an honour to human nature, and do one good to think of. ‘_You_ know the
Clickits, Mrs. Jackson?’ he says, addressing the lady of the house.
‘No, indeed; we have not that pleasure,’ she replies. ‘You astonish
me!’ exclaims Mr. Widger: ‘not know the Clickits! why, you are the very
people of all others who ought to be their bosom friends. You are
kindred beings; you are one and the same thing:—not know the Clickits!
Now _will_ you know the Clickits? Will you make a point of knowing
them? Will you meet them in a friendly way at our house one evening,
and be acquainted with them?’ Mrs. Jackson will be quite delighted;
nothing would give her more pleasure. ‘Then, Lavinia, my darling,’ says
Mr. Widger, ‘mind you don’t lose sight of that; now, pray take care
that Mr. and Mrs. Jackson know the Clickits without loss of time. Such
people ought not to be strangers to each other.’ Mrs. Widger books both
families as the centre of attraction for her next party; and Mr.
Widger, going on to expatiate upon the virtues of the Clickits, adds to
their other moral qualities, that they keep one of the neatest phaetons
in town, and have two thousand a year.

As the plausible couple never laud the merits of any absent person,
without dexterously contriving that their praises shall reflect upon
somebody who is present, so they never depreciate anything or anybody,
without turning their depreciation to the same account. Their friend,
Mr. Slummery, say they, is unquestionably a clever painter, and would
no doubt be very popular, and sell his pictures at a very high price,
if that cruel Mr. Fithers had not forestalled him in his department of
art, and made it thoroughly and completely his own;—Fithers, it is to
be observed, being present and within hearing, and Slummery elsewhere.
Is Mrs. Tabblewick really as beautiful as people say? Why, there indeed
you ask them a very puzzling question, because there is no doubt that
she is a very charming woman, and they have long known her intimately.
She is no doubt beautiful, very beautiful; they once thought her the
most beautiful woman ever seen; still if you press them for an honest
answer, they are bound to say that this was before they had ever seen
our lovely friend on the sofa, (the sofa is hard by, and our lovely
friend can’t help hearing the whispers in which this is said;) since
that time, perhaps, they have been hardly fair judges; Mrs. Tabblewick
is no doubt extremely handsome,—very like our friend, in fact, in the
form of the features,—but in point of expression, and soul, and figure,
and air altogether—oh dear!

But while the plausible couple depreciate, they are still careful to
preserve their character for amiability and kind feeling; indeed the
depreciation itself is often made to grow out of their excessive
sympathy and good will. The plausible lady calls on a lady who dotes
upon her children, and is sitting with a little girl upon her knee,
enraptured by her artless replies, and protesting that there is nothing
she delights in so much as conversing with these fairies; when the
other lady inquires if she has seen young Mrs. Finching lately, and
whether the baby has turned out a finer one than it promised to be. ‘Oh
dear!’ cries the plausible lady, ‘you cannot think how often Bobtail
and I have talked about poor Mrs. Finching—she is such a dear soul, and
was so anxious that the baby should be a fine child—and very naturally,
because she was very much here at one time, and there is, you know, a
natural emulation among mothers—that it is impossible to tell you how
much we have felt for her.’ ‘Is it weak or plain, or what?’ inquires
the other. ‘Weak or plain, my love,’ returns the plausible lady, ‘it’s
a fright—a perfect little fright; you never saw such a miserable
creature in all your days. Positively you must not let her see one of
these beautiful dears again, or you’ll break her heart, you will
indeed.—Heaven bless this child, see how she is looking in my face! can
you conceive anything prettier than that? If poor Mrs. Finching could
only hope—but that’s impossible—and the gifts of Providence, you
know—What _did_ I do with my pocket-handkerchief!’

What prompts the mother, who dotes upon her children, to comment to her
lord that evening on the plausible lady’s engaging qualities and
feeling heart, and what is it that procures Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger
an immediate invitation to dinner?




THE NICE LITTLE COUPLE


A custom once prevailed in old-fashioned circles, that when a lady or
gentleman was unable to sing a song, he or she should enliven the
company with a story. As we find ourself in the predicament of not
being able to describe (to our own satisfaction) nice little couples in
the abstract, we purpose telling in this place a little story about a
nice little couple of our acquaintance.

Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup are the nice little couple in question. Mr.
Chirrup has the smartness, and something of the brisk, quick manner of
a small bird. Mrs. Chirrup is the prettiest of all little women, and
has the prettiest little figure conceivable. She has the neatest little
foot, and the softest little voice, and the pleasantest little smile,
and the tidiest little curls, and the brightest little eyes, and the
quietest little manner, and is, in short, altogether one of the most
engaging of all little women, dead or alive. She is a condensation of
all the domestic virtues,—a pocket edition of the young man’s best
companion,—a little woman at a very high pressure, with an amazing
quantity of goodness and usefulness in an exceedingly small space.
Little as she is, Mrs. Chirrup might furnish forth matter for the moral
equipment of a score of housewives, six feet high in their
stockings—if, in the presence of ladies, we may be allowed the
expression—and of corresponding robustness.

Nobody knows all this better than Mr. Chirrup, though he rather takes
on that he don’t. Accordingly he is very proud of his better-half, and
evidently considers himself, as all other people consider him, rather
fortunate in having her to wife. We say evidently, because Mr. Chirrup
is a warm-hearted little fellow; and if you catch his eye when he has
been slyly glancing at Mrs. Chirrup in company, there is a certain
complacent twinkle in it, accompanied, perhaps, by a half-expressed
toss of the head, which as clearly indicates what has been passing in
his mind as if he had put it into words, and shouted it out through a
speaking-trumpet. Moreover, Mr. Chirrup has a particularly mild and
bird-like manner of calling Mrs. Chirrup ‘my dear;’ and—for he is of a
jocose turn—of cutting little witticisms upon her, and making her the
subject of various harmless pleasantries, which nobody enjoys more
thoroughly than Mrs. Chirrup herself. Mr. Chirrup, too, now and then
affects to deplore his bachelor-days, and to bemoan (with a
marvellously contented and smirking face) the loss of his freedom, and
the sorrow of his heart at having been taken captive by Mrs.
Chirrup—all of which circumstances combine to show the secret triumph
and satisfaction of Mr. Chirrup’s soul.

We have already had occasion to observe that Mrs. Chirrup is an
incomparable housewife. In all the arts of domestic arrangement and
management, in all the mysteries of confectionery-making, pickling, and
preserving, never was such a thorough adept as that nice little body.
She is, besides, a cunning worker in muslin and fine linen, and a
special hand at marketing to the very best advantage. But if there be
one branch of housekeeping in which she excels to an utterly
unparalleled and unprecedented extent, it is in the important one of
carving. A roast goose is universally allowed to be the great
stumbling-block in the way of young aspirants to perfection in this
department of science; many promising carvers, beginning with legs of
mutton, and preserving a good reputation through fillets of veal,
sirloins of beef, quarters of lamb, fowls, and even ducks, have sunk
before a roast goose, and lost caste and character for ever. To Mrs.
Chirrup the resolving a goose into its smallest component parts is a
pleasant pastime—a practical joke—a thing to be done in a minute or so,
without the smallest interruption to the conversation of the time. No
handing the dish over to an unfortunate man upon her right or left, no
wild sharpening of the knife, no hacking and sawing at an unruly joint,
no noise, no splash, no heat, no leaving off in despair; all is
confidence and cheerfulness. The dish is set upon the table, the cover
is removed; for an instant, and only an instant, you observe that Mrs.
Chirrup’s attention is distracted; she smiles, but heareth not. You
proceed with your story; meanwhile the glittering knife is slowly
upraised, both Mrs. Chirrup’s wrists are slightly but not ungracefully
agitated, she compresses her lips for an instant, then breaks into a
smile, and all is over. The legs of the bird slide gently down into a
pool of gravy, the wings seem to melt from the body, the breast
separates into a row of juicy slices, the smaller and more complicated
parts of his anatomy are perfectly developed, a cavern of stuffing is
revealed, and the goose is gone!

To dine with Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup is one of the pleasantest things in
the world. Mr. Chirrup has a bachelor friend, who lived with him in his
own days of single blessedness, and to whom he is mightily attached.
Contrary to the usual custom, this bachelor friend is no less a friend
of Mrs. Chirrup’s, and, consequently, whenever you dine with Mr. and
Mrs. Chirrup, you meet the bachelor friend. It would put any
reasonably-conditioned mortal into good-humour to observe the entire
unanimity which subsists between these three; but there is a quiet
welcome dimpling in Mrs. Chirrup’s face, a bustling hospitality oozing
as it were out of the waistcoat-pockets of Mr. Chirrup, and a
patronising enjoyment of their cordiality and satisfaction on the part
of the bachelor friend, which is quite delightful. On these occasions
Mr. Chirrup usually takes an opportunity of rallying the friend on
being single, and the friend retorts on Mr. Chirrup for being married,
at which moments some single young ladies present are like to die of
laughter; and we have more than once observed them bestow looks upon
the friend, which convinces us that his position is by no means a safe
one, as, indeed, we hold no bachelor’s to be who visits married friends
and cracks jokes on wedlock, for certain it is that such men walk among
traps and nets and pitfalls innumerable, and often find themselves down
upon their knees at the altar rails, taking M. or N. for their wedded
wives, before they know anything about the matter.

However, this is no business of Mr. Chirrup’s, who talks, and laughs,
and drinks his wine, and laughs again, and talks more, until it is time
to repair to the drawing-room, where, coffee served and over, Mrs.
Chirrup prepares for a round game, by sorting the nicest possible
little fish into the nicest possible little pools, and calling Mr.
Chirrup to assist her, which Mr. Chirrup does. As they stand side by
side, you find that Mr. Chirrup is the least possible shadow of a shade
taller than Mrs. Chirrup, and that they are the neatest and
best-matched little couple that can be, which the chances are ten to
one against your observing with such effect at any other time, unless
you see them in the street arm-in-arm, or meet them some rainy day
trotting along under a very small umbrella. The round game (at which
Mr. Chirrup is the merriest of the party) being done and over, in
course of time a nice little tray appears, on which is a nice little
supper; and when that is finished likewise, and you have said ‘Good
night,’ you find yourself repeating a dozen times, as you ride home,
that there never was such a nice little couple as Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup.

Whether it is that pleasant qualities, being packed more closely in
small bodies than in large, come more readily to hand than when they
are diffused over a wider space, and have to be gathered together for
use, we don’t know, but as a general rule,—strengthened like all other
rules by its exceptions,—we hold that little people are sprightly and
good-natured. The more sprightly and good-natured people we have, the
better; therefore, let us wish well to all nice little couples, and
hope that they may increase and multiply.




THE EGOTISTICAL COUPLE


Egotism in couples is of two kinds.—It is our purpose to show this by
two examples.

The egotistical couple may be young, old, middle-aged, well to do, or
ill to do; they may have a small family, a large family, or no family
at all. There is no outward sign by which an egotistical couple may be
known and avoided. They come upon you unawares; there is no guarding
against them. No man can of himself be forewarned or forearmed against
an egotistical couple.

The egotistical couple have undergone every calamity, and experienced
every pleasurable and painful sensation of which our nature is
susceptible. You cannot by possibility tell the egotistical couple
anything they don’t know, or describe to them anything they have not
felt. They have been everything but dead. Sometimes we are tempted to
wish they had been even that, but only in our uncharitable moments,
which are few and far between.

We happened the other day, in the course of a morning call, to
encounter an egotistical couple, nor were we suffered to remain long in
ignorance of the fact, for our very first inquiry of the lady of the
house brought them into active and vigorous operation. The inquiry was
of course touching the lady’s health, and the answer happened to be,
that she had not been very well. ‘Oh, my dear!’ said the egotistical
lady, ‘don’t talk of not being well. We have been in _such_ a state
since we saw you last!’—The lady of the house happening to remark that
her lord had not been well either, the egotistical gentleman struck in:
‘Never let Briggs complain of not being well—never let Briggs complain,
my dear Mrs. Briggs, after what I have undergone within these six
weeks. He doesn’t know what it is to be ill, he hasn’t the least idea
of it; not the faintest conception.’—‘My dear,’ interposed his wife
smiling, ‘you talk as if it were almost a crime in Mr. Briggs not to
have been as ill as we have been, instead of feeling thankful to
Providence that both he and our dear Mrs. Briggs are in such blissful
ignorance of real suffering.’—‘My love,’ returned the egotistical
gentleman, in a low and pious voice, ‘you mistake me;—I feel
grateful—very grateful. I trust our friends may never purchase their
experience as dearly as we have bought ours; I hope they never may!’

Having put down Mrs. Briggs upon this theme, and settled the question
thus, the egotistical gentleman turned to us, and, after a few
preliminary remarks, all tending towards and leading up to the point he
had in his mind, inquired if we happened to be acquainted with the
Dowager Lady Snorflerer. On our replying in the negative, he presumed
we had often met Lord Slang, or beyond all doubt, that we were on
intimate terms with Sir Chipkins Glogwog. Finding that we were equally
unable to lay claim to either of these distinctions, he expressed great
astonishment, and turning to his wife with a retrospective smile,
inquired who it was that had told that capital story about the mashed
potatoes. ‘Who, my dear?’ returned the egotistical lady, ‘why Sir
Chipkins, of course; how can you ask! Don’t you remember his applying
it to our cook, and saying that you and I were so like the Prince and
Princess, that he could almost have sworn we were they?’ ‘To be sure, I
remember that,’ said the egotistical gentleman, ‘but are you quite
certain that didn’t apply to the other anecdote about the Emperor of
Austria and the pump?’ ‘Upon my word then, I think it did,’ replied his
wife. ‘To be sure it did,’ said the egotistical gentleman, ‘it was
Slang’s story, I remember now, perfectly.’ However, it turned out, a
few seconds afterwards, that the egotistical gentleman’s memory was
rather treacherous, as he began to have a misgiving that the story had
been told by the Dowager Lady Snorflerer the very last time they dined
there; but there appearing, on further consideration, strong
circumstantial evidence tending to show that this couldn’t be, inasmuch
as the Dowager Lady Snorflerer had been, on the occasion in question,
wholly engrossed by the egotistical lady, the egotistical gentleman
recanted this opinion; and after laying the story at the doors of a
great many great people, happily left it at last with the Duke of
Scuttlewig:—observing that it was not extraordinary he had forgotten
his Grace hitherto, as it often happened that the names of those with
whom we were upon the most familiar footing were the very last to
present themselves to our thoughts.

It not only appeared that the egotistical couple knew everybody, but
that scarcely any event of importance or notoriety had occurred for
many years with which they had not been in some way or other connected.
Thus we learned that when the well-known attempt upon the life of
George the Third was made by Hatfield in Drury Lane theatre, the
egotistical gentleman’s grandfather sat upon his right hand and was the
first man who collared him; and that the egotistical lady’s aunt,
sitting within a few boxes of the royal party, was the only person in
the audience who heard his Majesty exclaim, ‘Charlotte, Charlotte,
don’t be frightened, don’t be frightened; they’re letting off squibs,
they’re letting off squibs.’ When the fire broke out, which ended in
the destruction of the two Houses of Parliament, the egotistical
couple, being at the time at a drawing-room window on Blackheath, then
and there simultaneously exclaimed, to the astonishment of a whole
party—‘It’s the House of Lords!’ Nor was this a solitary instance of
their peculiar discernment, for chancing to be (as by a comparison of
dates and circumstances they afterwards found) in the same omnibus with
Mr. Greenacre, when he carried his victim’s head about town in a blue
bag, they both remarked a singular twitching in the muscles of his
countenance; and walking down Fish Street Hill, a few weeks since, the
egotistical gentleman said to his lady—slightly casting up his eyes to
the top of the Monument—‘There’s a boy up there, my dear, reading a
Bible. It’s very strange. I don’t like it.—In five seconds afterwards,
Sir,’ says the egotistical gentleman, bringing his hands together with
one violent clap—‘the lad was over!’

Diversifying these topics by the introduction of many others of the
same kind, and entertaining us between whiles with a minute account of
what weather and diet agreed with them, and what weather and diet
disagreed with them, and at what time they usually got up, and at what
time went to bed, with many other particulars of their domestic economy
too numerous to mention; the egotistical couple at length took their
leave, and afforded us an opportunity of doing the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone are an egotistical couple of another class,
for all the lady’s egotism is about her husband, and all the
gentleman’s about his wife. For example:—Mr. Sliverstone is a clerical
gentleman, and occasionally writes sermons, as clerical gentlemen do.
If you happen to obtain admission at the street-door while he is so
engaged, Mrs. Sliverstone appears on tip-toe, and speaking in a solemn
whisper, as if there were at least three or four particular friends
up-stairs, all upon the point of death, implores you to be very silent,
for Mr. Sliverstone is composing, and she need not say how very
important it is that he should not be disturbed. Unwilling to interrupt
anything so serious, you hasten to withdraw, with many apologies; but
this Mrs. Sliverstone will by no means allow, observing, that she knows
you would like to see him, as it is very natural you should, and that
she is determined to make a trial for you, as you are a great
favourite. So you are led up-stairs—still on tip-toe—to the door of a
little back room, in which, as the lady informs you in a whisper, Mr.
Sliverstone always writes. No answer being returned to a couple of soft
taps, the lady opens the door, and there, sure enough, is Mr.
Sliverstone, with dishevelled hair, powdering away with pen, ink, and
paper, at a rate which, if he has any power of sustaining it, would
settle the longest sermon in no time. At first he is too much absorbed
to be roused by this intrusion; but presently looking up, says faintly,
‘Ah!’ and pointing to his desk with a weary and languid smile, extends
his hand, and hopes you’ll forgive him. Then Mrs. Sliverstone sits down
beside him, and taking his hand in hers, tells you how that Mr.
Sliverstone has been shut up there ever since nine o’clock in the
morning, (it is by this time twelve at noon,) and how she knows it
cannot be good for his health, and is very uneasy about it. Unto this
Mr. Sliverstone replies firmly, that ‘It must be done;’ which agonizes
Mrs. Sliverstone still more, and she goes on to tell you that such were
Mr. Sliverstone’s labours last week—what with the buryings, marryings,
churchings, christenings, and all together,—that when he was going up
the pulpit stairs on Sunday evening, he was obliged to hold on by the
rails, or he would certainly have fallen over into his own pew. Mr.
Sliverstone, who has been listening and smiling meekly, says, ‘Not
quite so bad as that, not quite so bad!’ he admits though, on
cross-examination, that he _was_ very near falling upon the verger who
was following him up to bolt the door; but adds, that it was his duty
as a Christian to fall upon him, if need were, and that he, Mr.
Sliverstone, and (possibly the verger too) ought to glory in it.

This sentiment communicates new impulse to Mrs. Sliverstone, who
launches into new praises of Mr. Sliverstone’s worth and excellence, to
which he listens in the same meek silence, save when he puts in a word
of self-denial relative to some question of fact, as—‘Not seventy-two
christenings that week, my dear. Only seventy-one, only seventy-one.’
At length his lady has quite concluded, and then he says, Why should he
repine, why should he give way, why should he suffer his heart to sink
within him? Is it he alone who toils and suffers? What has she gone
through, he should like to know? What does she go through every day for
him and for society?

With such an exordium Mr. Sliverstone launches out into glowing praises
of the conduct of Mrs. Sliverstone in the production of eight young
children, and the subsequent rearing and fostering of the same; and
thus the husband magnifies the wife, and the wife the husband.

This would be well enough if Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone kept it to
themselves, or even to themselves and a friend or two; but they do not.
The more hearers they have, the more egotistical the couple become, and
the more anxious they are to make believers in their merits. Perhaps
this is the worst kind of egotism. It has not even the poor excuse of
being spontaneous, but is the result of a deliberate system and malice
aforethought. Mere empty-headed conceit excites our pity, but
ostentatious hypocrisy awakens our disgust.




THE COUPLE WHO CODDLE THEMSELVES


Mrs. Merrywinkle’s maiden name was Chopper. She was the only child of
Mr. and Mrs. Chopper. Her father died when she was, as the play-books
express it, ‘yet an infant;’ and so old Mrs. Chopper, when her daughter
married, made the house of her son-in-law her home from that time
henceforth, and set up her staff of rest with Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle.

Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle are a couple who coddle themselves; and the
venerable Mrs. Chopper is an aider and abettor in the same.

Mr. Merrywinkle is a rather lean and long-necked gentleman, middle-aged
and middle-sized, and usually troubled with a cold in the head. Mrs.
Merrywinkle is a delicate-looking lady, with very light hair, and is
exceedingly subject to the same unpleasant disorder. The venerable Mrs.
Chopper—who is strictly entitled to the appellation, her daughter not
being very young, otherwise than by courtesy, at the time of her
marriage, which was some years ago—is a mysterious old lady who lurks
behind a pair of spectacles, and is afflicted with a chronic disease,
respecting which she has taken a vast deal of medical advice, and
referred to a vast number of medical books, without meeting any
definition of symptoms that at all suits her, or enables her to say,
‘That’s my complaint.’ Indeed, the absence of authentic information
upon the subject of this complaint would seem to be Mrs. Chopper’s
greatest ill, as in all other respects she is an uncommonly hale and
hearty gentlewoman.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Chopper wear an extraordinary quantity of flannel,
and have a habit of putting their feet in hot water to an unnatural
extent. They likewise indulge in chamomile tea and such-like compounds,
and rub themselves on the slightest provocation with camphorated
spirits and other lotions applicable to mumps, sore-throat, rheumatism,
or lumbago.

Mr. Merrywinkle’s leaving home to go to business on a damp or wet
morning is a very elaborate affair. He puts on wash-leather socks over
his stockings, and India-rubber shoes above his boots, and wears under
his waistcoat a cuirass of hare-skin. Besides these precautions, he
winds a thick shawl round his throat, and blocks up his mouth with a
large silk handkerchief. Thus accoutred, and furnished besides with a
great-coat and umbrella, he braves the dangers of the streets;
travelling in severe weather at a gentle trot, the better to preserve
the circulation, and bringing his mouth to the surface to take breath,
but very seldom, and with the utmost caution. His office-door opened,
he shoots past his clerk at the same pace, and diving into his own
private room, closes the door, examines the window-fastenings, and
gradually unrobes himself: hanging his pocket-handkerchief on the
fender to air, and determining to write to the newspapers about the
fog, which, he says, ‘has really got to that pitch that it is quite
unbearable.’

In this last opinion Mrs. Merrywinkle and her respected mother fully
concur; for though not present, their thoughts and tongues are occupied
with the same subject, which is their constant theme all day. If
anybody happens to call, Mrs. Merrywinkle opines that they must
assuredly be mad, and her first salutation is, ‘Why, what in the name
of goodness can bring you out in such weather? You know you _must_
catch your death.’ This assurance is corroborated by Mrs. Chopper, who
adds, in further confirmation, a dismal legend concerning an individual
of her acquaintance who, making a call under precisely parallel
circumstances, and being then in the best health and spirits, expired
in forty-eight hours afterwards, of a complication of inflammatory
disorders. The visitor, rendered not altogether comfortable perhaps by
this and other precedents, inquires very affectionately after Mr.
Merrywinkle, but by so doing brings about no change of the subject; for
Mr. Merrywinkle’s name is inseparably connected with his complaints,
and his complaints are inseparably connected with Mrs. Merrywinkle’s;
and when these are done with, Mrs. Chopper, who has been biding her
time, cuts in with the chronic disorder—a subject upon which the
amiable old lady never leaves off speaking until she is left alone, and
very often not then.

But Mr. Merrywinkle comes home to dinner. He is received by Mrs.
Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper, who, on his remarking that he thinks his
feet are damp, turn pale as ashes and drag him up-stairs, imploring him
to have them rubbed directly with a dry coarse towel. Rubbed they are,
one by Mrs. Merrywinkle and one by Mrs. Chopper, until the friction
causes Mr. Merrywinkle to make horrible faces, and look as if he had
been smelling very powerful onions; when they desist, and the patient,
provided for his better security with thick worsted stockings and list
slippers, is borne down-stairs to dinner. Now, the dinner is always a
good one, the appetites of the diners being delicate, and requiring a
little of what Mrs. Merrywinkle calls ‘tittivation;’ the secret of
which is understood to lie in good cookery and tasteful spices, and
which process is so successfully performed in the present instance,
that both Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle eat a remarkably good dinner, and
even the afflicted Mrs. Chopper wields her knife and fork with much of
the spirit and elasticity of youth. But Mr. Merrywinkle, in his desire
to gratify his appetite, is not unmindful of his health, for he has a
bottle of carbonate of soda with which to qualify his porter, and a
little pair of scales in which to weigh it out. Neither in his anxiety
to take care of his body is he unmindful of the welfare of his immortal
part, as he always prays that for what he is going to receive he may be
made truly thankful; and in order that he may be as thankful as
possible, eats and drinks to the utmost.

Either from eating and drinking so much, or from being the victim of
this constitutional infirmity, among others, Mr. Merrywinkle, after two
or three glasses of wine, falls fast asleep; and he has scarcely closed
his eyes, when Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper fall asleep likewise.
It is on awakening at tea-time that their most alarming symptoms
prevail; for then Mr. Merrywinkle feels as if his temples were tightly
bound round with the chain of the street-door, and Mrs. Merrywinkle as
if she had made a hearty dinner of half-hundredweights, and Mrs.
Chopper as if cold water were running down her back, and oyster-knives
with sharp points were plunging of their own accord into her ribs.
Symptoms like these are enough to make people peevish, and no wonder
that they remain so until supper-time, doing little more than doze and
complain, unless Mr. Merrywinkle calls out very loudly to a servant ‘to
keep that draught out,’ or rushes into the passage to flourish his fist
in the countenance of the twopenny-postman, for daring to give such a
knock as he had just performed at the door of a private gentleman with
nerves.

Supper, coming after dinner, should consist of some gentle provocative;
and therefore the tittivating art is again in requisition, and
again—done honour to by Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, still comforted and
abetted by Mrs. Chopper. After supper, it is ten to one but the
last-named old lady becomes worse, and is led off to bed with the
chronic complaint in full vigour. Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, having
administered to her a warm cordial, which is something of the
strongest, then repair to their own room, where Mr. Merrywinkle, with
his legs and feet in hot water, superintends the mulling of some wine
which he is to drink at the very moment he plunges into bed, while Mrs.
Merrywinkle, in garments whose nature is unknown to and unimagined by
all but married men, takes four small pills with a spasmodic look
between each, and finally comes to something hot and fragrant out of
another little saucepan, which serves as her composing-draught for the
night.

There is another kind of couple who coddle themselves, and who do so at
a cheaper rate and on more spare diet, because they are niggardly and
parsimonious; for which reason they are kind enough to coddle their
visitors too. It is unnecessary to describe them, for our readers may
rest assured of the accuracy of these general principles:—that all
couples who coddle themselves are selfish and slothful,—that they
charge upon every wind that blows, every rain that falls, and every
vapour that hangs in the air, the evils which arise from their own
imprudence or the gloom which is engendered in their own tempers,—and
that all men and women, in couples or otherwise, who fall into
exclusive habits of self-indulgence, and forget their natural sympathy
and close connexion with everybody and everything in the world around
them, not only neglect the first duty of life, but, by a happy
retributive justice, deprive themselves of its truest and best
enjoyment.




THE OLD COUPLE


They are grandfather and grandmother to a dozen grown people and have
great-grandchildren besides; their bodies are bent, their hair is grey,
their step tottering and infirm. Is this the lightsome pair whose
wedding was so merry, and have the young couple indeed grown old so
soon!

It seems but yesterday—and yet what a host of cares and griefs are
crowded into the intervening time which, reckoned by them, lengthens
out into a century! How many new associations have wreathed themselves
about their hearts since then! The old time is gone, and a new time has
come for others—not for them. They are but the rusting link that feebly
joins the two, and is silently loosening its hold and dropping asunder.

It seems but yesterday—and yet three of their children have sunk into
the grave, and the tree that shades it has grown quite old. One was an
infant—they wept for him; the next a girl, a slight young thing too
delicate for earth—her loss was hard indeed to bear. The third, a man.
That was the worst of all, but even that grief is softened now.

It seems but yesterday—and yet how the gay and laughing faces of that
bright morning have changed and vanished from above ground! Faint
likenesses of some remain about them yet, but they are very faint and
scarcely to be traced. The rest are only seen in dreams, and even they
are unlike what they were, in eyes so old and dim.

One or two dresses from the bridal wardrobe are yet preserved. They are
of a quaint and antique fashion, and seldom seen except in pictures.
White has turned yellow, and brighter hues have faded. Do you wonder,
child? The wrinkled face was once as smooth as yours, the eyes as
bright, the shrivelled skin as fair and delicate. It is the work of
hands that have been dust these many years.

Where are the fairy lovers of that happy day whose annual return comes
upon the old man and his wife, like the echo of some village bell which
has long been silent? Let yonder peevish bachelor, racked by rheumatic
pains, and quarrelling with the world, let him answer to the question.
He recollects something of a favourite playmate; her name was Lucy—so
they tell him. He is not sure whether she was married, or went abroad,
or died. It is a long while ago, and he don’t remember.

Is nothing as it used to be; does no one feel, or think, or act, as in
days of yore? Yes. There is an aged woman who once lived servant with
the old lady’s father, and is sheltered in an alms-house not far off.
She is still attached to the family, and loves them all; she nursed the
children in her lap, and tended in their sickness those who are no
more. Her old mistress has still something of youth in her eyes; the
young ladies are like what she was but not quite so handsome, nor are
the gentlemen as stately as Mr. Harvey used to be. She has seen a great
deal of trouble; her husband and her son died long ago; but she has got
over that, and is happy now—quite happy.

If ever her attachment to her old protectors were disturbed by fresher
cares and hopes, it has long since resumed its former current. It has
filled the void in the poor creature’s heart, and replaced the love of
kindred. Death has not left her alone, and this, with a roof above her
head, and a warm hearth to sit by, makes her cheerful and contented.
Does she remember the marriage of great-grandmamma? Ay, that she does,
as well—as if it was only yesterday. You wouldn’t think it to look at
her now, and perhaps she ought not to say so of herself, but she was as
smart a young girl then as you’d wish to see. She recollects she took a
friend of hers up-stairs to see Miss Emma dressed for church; her name
was—ah! she forgets the name, but she remembers that she was a very
pretty girl, and that she married not long afterwards, and lived—it has
quite passed out of her mind where she lived, but she knows she had a
bad husband who used her ill, and that she died in Lambeth work-house.
Dear, dear, in Lambeth workhouse!

And the old couple—have they no comfort or enjoyment of existence? See
them among their grandchildren and great-grandchildren; how garrulous
they are, how they compare one with another, and insist on likenesses
which no one else can see; how gently the old lady lectures the girls
on points of breeding and decorum, and points the moral by anecdotes of
herself in her young days—how the old gentleman chuckles over boyish
feats and roguish tricks, and tells long stories of a ‘barring-out’
achieved at the school he went to: which was very wrong, he tells the
boys, and never to be imitated of course, but which he cannot help
letting them know was very pleasant too—especially when he kissed the
master’s niece. This last, however, is a point on which the old lady is
very tender, for she considers it a shocking and indelicate thing to
talk about, and always says so whenever it is mentioned, never failing
to observe that he ought to be very penitent for having been so sinful.
So the old gentleman gets no further, and what the schoolmaster’s niece
said afterwards (which he is always going to tell) is lost to
posterity.

The old gentleman is eighty years old, to-day—‘Eighty years old,
Crofts, and never had a headache,’ he tells the barber who shaves him
(the barber being a young fellow, and very subject to that complaint).
‘That’s a great age, Crofts,’ says the old gentleman. ‘I don’t think
it’s sich a wery great age, Sir,’ replied the barber. ‘Crofts,’ rejoins
the old gentleman, ‘you’re talking nonsense to me. Eighty not a great
age?’ ‘It’s a wery great age, Sir, for a gentleman to be as healthy and
active as you are,’ returns the barber; ‘but my grandfather, Sir, he
was ninety-four.’ ‘You don’t mean that, Crofts?’ says the old
gentleman. ‘I do indeed, Sir,’ retorts the barber, ‘and as wiggerous as
Julius Caesar, my grandfather was.’ The old gentleman muses a little
time, and then says, ‘What did he die of, Crofts?’ ‘He died
accidentally, Sir,’ returns the barber; ‘he didn’t mean to do it. He
always would go a running about the streets—walking never satisfied
_his_ spirit—and he run against a post and died of a hurt in his
chest.’ The old gentleman says no more until the shaving is concluded,
and then he gives Crofts half-a-crown to drink his health. He is a
little doubtful of the barber’s veracity afterwards, and telling the
anecdote to the old lady, affects to make very light of it—though to be
sure (he adds) there was old Parr, and in some parts of England,
ninety-five or so is a common age, quite a common age.

This morning the old couple are cheerful but serious, recalling old
times as well as they can remember them, and dwelling upon many
passages in their past lives which the day brings to mind. The old lady
reads aloud, in a tremulous voice, out of a great Bible, and the old
gentleman with his hand to his ear, listens with profound respect. When
the book is closed, they sit silent for a short space, and afterwards
resume their conversation, with a reference perhaps to their dead
children, as a subject not unsuited to that they have just left. By
degrees they are led to consider which of those who survive are the
most like those dearly-remembered objects, and so they fall into a less
solemn strain, and become cheerful again.

How many people in all, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and one or
two intimate friends of the family, dine together to-day at the eldest
son’s to congratulate the old couple, and wish them many happy returns,
is a calculation beyond our powers; but this we know, that the old
couple no sooner present themselves, very sprucely and carefully
attired, than there is a violent shouting and rushing forward of the
younger branches with all manner of presents, such as pocket-books,
pencil-cases, pen-wipers, watch-papers, pin-cushions, sleeve-buckles,
worked-slippers, watch-guards, and even a nutmeg-grater: the latter
article being presented by a very chubby and very little boy, who
exhibits it in great triumph as an extraordinary variety. The old
couple’s emotion at these tokens of remembrance occasions quite a
pathetic scene, of which the chief ingredients are a vast quantity of
kissing and hugging, and repeated wipings of small eyes and noses with
small square pocket-handkerchiefs, which don’t come at all easily out
of small pockets. Even the peevish bachelor is moved, and he says, as
he presents the old gentleman with a queer sort of antique ring from
his own finger, that he’ll be de’ed if he doesn’t think he looks
younger than he did ten years ago.

But the great time is after dinner, when the dessert and wine are on
the table, which is pushed back to make plenty of room, and they are
all gathered in a large circle round the fire, for it is then—the
glasses being filled, and everybody ready to drink the toast—that two
great-grandchildren rush out at a given signal, and presently return,
dragging in old Jane Adams leaning upon her crutched stick, and
trembling with age and pleasure. Who so popular as poor old Jane, nurse
and story-teller in ordinary to two generations; and who so happy as
she, striving to bend her stiff limbs into a curtsey, while tears of
pleasure steal down her withered cheeks!

The old couple sit side by side, and the old time seems like yesterday
indeed. Looking back upon the path they have travelled, its dust and
ashes disappear; the flowers that withered long ago, show brightly
again upon its borders, and they grow young once more in the youth of
those about them.




CONCLUSION


We have taken for the subjects of the foregoing moral essays, twelve
samples of married couples, carefully selected from a large stock on
hand, open to the inspection of all comers. These samples are intended
for the benefit of the rising generation of both sexes, and, for their
more easy and pleasant information, have been separately ticketed and
labelled in the manner they have seen.

We have purposely excluded from consideration the couple in which the
lady reigns paramount and supreme, holding such cases to be of a very
unnatural kind, and like hideous births and other monstrous
deformities, only to be discreetly and sparingly exhibited.

And here our self-imposed task would have ended, but that to those
young ladies and gentlemen who are yet revolving singly round the
church, awaiting the advent of that time when the mysterious laws of
attraction shall draw them towards it in couples, we are desirous of
addressing a few last words.

Before marriage and afterwards, let them learn to centre all their
hopes of real and lasting happiness in their own fireside; let them
cherish the faith that in home, and all the English virtues which the
love of home engenders, lies the only true source of domestic felicity;
let them believe that round the household gods, contentment and
tranquillity cluster in their gentlest and most graceful forms; and
that many weary hunters of happiness through the noisy world, have
learnt this truth too late, and found a cheerful spirit and a quiet
mind only at home at last.

How much may depend on the education of daughters and the conduct of
mothers; how much of the brightest part of our old national character
may be perpetuated by their wisdom or frittered away by their folly—how
much of it may have been lost already, and how much more in danger of
vanishing every day—are questions too weighty for discussion here, but
well deserving a little serious consideration from all young couples
nevertheless.

To that one young couple on whose bright destiny the thoughts of
nations are fixed, may the youth of England look, and not in vain, for
an example. From that one young couple, blessed and favoured as they
are, may they learn that even the glare and glitter of a court, the
splendour of a palace, and the pomp and glory of a throne, yield in
their power of conferring happiness, to domestic worth and virtue. From
that one young couple may they learn that the crown of a great empire,
costly and jewelled though it be, gives place in the estimation of a
Queen to the plain gold ring that links her woman’s nature to that of
tens of thousands of her humble subjects, and guards in her woman’s
heart one secret store of tenderness, whose proudest boast shall be
that it knows no Royalty save Nature’s own, and no pride of birth but
being the child of heaven!

So shall the highest young couple in the land for once hear the truth,
when men throw up their caps, and cry with loving shouts—


God bless them.




THE MUDFOG AND OTHER SKETCHES


PUBLIC LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLE—ONCE MAYOR OF MUDFOG

Mudfog is a pleasant town—a remarkably pleasant town—situated in a
charming hollow by the side of a river, from which river, Mudfog
derives an agreeable scent of pitch, tar, coals, and rope-yarn, a
roving population in oilskin hats, a pretty steady influx of drunken
bargemen, and a great many other maritime advantages. There is a good
deal of water about Mudfog, and yet it is not exactly the sort of town
for a watering-place, either. Water is a perverse sort of element at
the best of times, and in Mudfog it is particularly so. In winter, it
comes oozing down the streets and tumbling over the fields,—nay, rushes
into the very cellars and kitchens of the houses, with a lavish
prodigality that might well be dispensed with; but in the hot summer
weather it _will_ dry up, and turn green: and, although green is a very
good colour in its way, especially in grass, still it certainly is not
becoming to water; and it cannot be denied that the beauty of Mudfog is
rather impaired, even by this trifling circumstance. Mudfog is a
healthy place—very healthy;—damp, perhaps, but none the worse for that.
It’s quite a mistake to suppose that damp is unwholesome: plants thrive
best in damp situations, and why shouldn’t men? The inhabitants of
Mudfog are unanimous in asserting that there exists not a finer race of
people on the face of the earth; here we have an indisputable and
veracious contradiction of the vulgar error at once. So, admitting
Mudfog to be damp, we distinctly state that it is salubrious.

The town of Mudfog is extremely picturesque. Limehouse and Ratcliff
Highway are both something like it, but they give you a very faint idea
of Mudfog. There are a great many more public-houses in Mudfog—more
than in Ratcliff Highway and Limehouse put together. The public
buildings, too, are very imposing. We consider the town-hall one of the
finest specimens of shed architecture, extant: it is a combination of
the pig-sty and tea-garden-box orders; and the simplicity of its design
is of surpassing beauty. The idea of placing a large window on one side
of the door, and a small one on the other, is particularly happy. There
is a fine old Doric beauty, too, about the padlock and scraper, which
is strictly in keeping with the general effect.

In this room do the mayor and corporation of Mudfog assemble together
in solemn council for the public weal. Seated on the massive wooden
benches, which, with the table in the centre, form the only furniture
of the whitewashed apartment, the sage men of Mudfog spend hour after
hour in grave deliberation. Here they settle at what hour of the night
the public-houses shall be closed, at what hour of the morning they
shall be permitted to open, how soon it shall be lawful for people to
eat their dinner on church-days, and other great political questions;
and sometimes, long after silence has fallen on the town, and the
distant lights from the shops and houses have ceased to twinkle, like
far-off stars, to the sight of the boatmen on the river, the
illumination in the two unequal-sized windows of the town-hall, warns
the inhabitants of Mudfog that its little body of legislators, like a
larger and better-known body of the same genus, a great deal more
noisy, and not a whit more profound, are patriotically dozing away in
company, far into the night, for their country’s good.

Among this knot of sage and learned men, no one was so eminently
distinguished, during many years, for the quiet modesty of his
appearance and demeanour, as Nicholas Tulrumble, the well-known
coal-dealer. However exciting the subject of discussion, however
animated the tone of the debate, or however warm the personalities
exchanged, (and even in Mudfog we get personal sometimes,) Nicholas
Tulrumble was always the same. To say truth, Nicholas, being an
industrious man, and always up betimes, was apt to fall asleep when a
debate began, and to remain asleep till it was over, when he would wake
up very much refreshed, and give his vote with the greatest
complacency. The fact was, that Nicholas Tulrumble, knowing that
everybody there had made up his mind beforehand, considered the talking
as just a long botheration about nothing at all; and to the present
hour it remains a question, whether, on this point at all events,
Nicholas Tulrumble was not pretty near right.

Time, which strews a man’s head with silver, sometimes fills his
pockets with gold. As he gradually performed one good office for
Nicholas Tulrumble, he was obliging enough, not to omit the other.
Nicholas began life in a wooden tenement of four feet square, with a
capital of two and ninepence, and a stock in trade of three bushels and
a-half of coals, exclusive of the large lump which hung, by way of
sign-board, outside. Then he enlarged the shed, and kept a truck; then
he left the shed, and the truck too, and started a donkey and a Mrs.
Tulrumble; then he moved again and set up a cart; the cart was soon
afterwards exchanged for a waggon; and so he went on like his great
predecessor Whittington—only without a cat for a partner—increasing in
wealth and fame, until at last he gave up business altogether, and
retired with Mrs. Tulrumble and family to Mudfog Hall, which he had
himself erected, on something which he attempted to delude himself into
the belief was a hill, about a quarter of a mile distant from the town
of Mudfog.

About this time, it began to be murmured in Mudfog that Nicholas
Tulrumble was growing vain and haughty; that prosperity and success had
corrupted the simplicity of his manners, and tainted the natural
goodness of his heart; in short, that he was setting up for a public
character, and a great gentleman, and affected to look down upon his
old companions with compassion and contempt. Whether these reports were
at the time well-founded, or not, certain it is that Mrs. Tulrumble
very shortly afterwards started a four-wheel chaise, driven by a tall
postilion in a yellow cap,—that Mr. Tulrumble junior took to smoking
cigars, and calling the footman a ‘feller,’—and that Mr. Tulrumble from
that time forth, was no more seen in his old seat in the chimney-corner
of the Lighterman’s Arms at night. This looked bad; but, more than
this, it began to be observed that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble attended the
corporation meetings more frequently than heretofore; and he no longer
went to sleep as he had done for so many years, but propped his eyelids
open with his two forefingers; that he read the newspapers by himself
at home; and that he was in the habit of indulging abroad in distant
and mysterious allusions to ‘masses of people,’ and ‘the property of
the country,’ and ‘productive power,’ and ‘the monied interest:’ all of
which denoted and proved that Nicholas Tulrumble was either mad, or
worse; and it puzzled the good people of Mudfog amazingly.

At length, about the middle of the month of October, Mr. Tulrumble and
family went up to London; the middle of October being, as Mrs.
Tulrumble informed her acquaintance in Mudfog, the very height of the
fashionable season.

Somehow or other, just about this time, despite the health-preserving
air of Mudfog, the Mayor died. It was a most extraordinary
circumstance; he had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years. The
corporation didn’t understand it at all; indeed it was with great
difficulty that one old gentleman, who was a great stickler for forms,
was dissuaded from proposing a vote of censure on such unaccountable
conduct. Strange as it was, however, die he did, without taking the
slightest notice of the corporation; and the corporation were
imperatively called upon to elect his successor. So, they met for the
purpose; and being very full of Nicholas Tulrumble just then, and
Nicholas Tulrumble being a very important man, they elected him, and
wrote off to London by the very next post to acquaint Nicholas
Tulrumble with his new elevation.

Now, it being November time, and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble being in the
capital, it fell out that he was present at the Lord Mayor’s show and
dinner, at sight of the glory and splendour whereof, he, Mr. Tulrumble,
was greatly mortified, inasmuch as the reflection would force itself on
his mind, that, had he been born in London instead of in Mudfog, he
might have been a Lord Mayor too, and have patronized the judges, and
been affable to the Lord Chancellor, and friendly with the Premier, and
coldly condescending to the Secretary to the Treasury, and have dined
with a flag behind his back, and done a great many other acts and deeds
which unto Lord Mayors of London peculiarly appertain. The more he
thought of the Lord Mayor, the more enviable a personage he seemed. To
be a King was all very well; but what was the King to the Lord Mayor!
When the King made a speech, everybody knew it was somebody else’s
writing; whereas here was the Lord Mayor, talking away for half an
hour-all out of his own head—amidst the enthusiastic applause of the
whole company, while it was notorious that the King might talk to his
parliament till he was black in the face without getting so much as a
single cheer. As all these reflections passed through the mind of Mr.
Nicholas Tulrumble, the Lord Mayor of London appeared to him the
greatest sovereign on the face of the earth, beating the Emperor of
Russia all to nothing, and leaving the Great Mogul immeasurably behind.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was pondering over these things, and inwardly
cursing the fate which had pitched his coal-shed in Mudfog, when the
letter of the corporation was put into his hand. A crimson flush
mantled over his face as he read it, for visions of brightness were
already dancing before his imagination.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, ‘they have elected me, Mayor
of Mudfog.’

‘Lor-a-mussy!’ said Mrs. Tulrumble: ‘why what’s become of old Sniggs?’

‘The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,’ said Mr. Tulrumble sharply, for
he by no means approved of the notion of unceremoniously designating a
gentleman who filled the high office of Mayor, as ‘Old Sniggs,’—‘The
late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.’

The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs. Tulrumble only
ejaculated ‘Lor-a-mussy!’ once again, as if a Mayor were a mere
ordinary Christian, at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily.

‘What a pity ’tan’t in London, ain’t it?’ said Mrs. Tulrumble, after a
short pause; ‘what a pity ’tan’t in London, where you might have had a
show.’

‘I _might_ have a show in Mudfog, if I thought proper, I apprehend,’
said Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously.

‘Lor! so you might, I declare,’ replied Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘And a good one too,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘Delightful!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘One which would rather astonish the ignorant people down there,’ said
Mr. Tulrumble.

‘It would kill them with envy,’ said Mrs. Tulrumble.

So it was agreed that his Majesty’s lieges in Mudfog should be
astonished with splendour, and slaughtered with envy, and that such a
show should take place as had never been seen in that town, or in any
other town before,—no, not even in London itself.

On the very next day after the receipt of the letter, down came the
tall postilion in a post-chaise,—not upon one of the horses, but
inside—actually inside the chaise,—and, driving up to the very door of
the town-hall, where the corporation were assembled, delivered a
letter, written by the Lord knows who, and signed by Nicholas
Tulrumble, in which Nicholas said, all through four sides of
closely-written, gilt-edged, hot-pressed, Bath post letter paper, that
he responded to the call of his fellow-townsmen with feelings of
heartfelt delight; that he accepted the arduous office which their
confidence had imposed upon him; that they would never find him
shrinking from the discharge of his duty; that he would endeavour to
execute his functions with all that dignity which their magnitude and
importance demanded; and a great deal more to the same effect. But even
this was not all. The tall postilion produced from his right-hand
top-boot, a damp copy of that afternoon’s number of the county paper;
and there, in large type, running the whole length of the very first
column, was a long address from Nicholas Tulrumble to the inhabitants
of Mudfog, in which he said that he cheerfully complied with their
requisition, and, in short, as if to prevent any mistake about the
matter, told them over again what a grand fellow he meant to be, in
very much the same terms as those in which he had already told them all
about the matter in his letter.

The corporation stared at one another very hard at all this, and then
looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the tall
postilion was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his
yellow cap, and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if
his thoughts had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves
with coughing very dubiously, and looking very grave. The tall
postilion then delivered another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble
informed the corporation, that he intended repairing to the town-hall,
in grand state and gorgeous procession, on the Monday afternoon next
ensuing. At this the corporation looked still more solemn; but, as the
epistle wound up with a formal invitation to the whole body to dine
with the Mayor on that day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they
began to see the fun of the thing directly, and sent back their
compliments, and they’d be sure to come.

Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other there does
happen to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and
perhaps in foreign dominions too—we think it very likely, but, being no
great traveller, cannot distinctly say—there happened to be, in Mudfog,
a merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond,
with an invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable
attachment to strong beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and nobody,
except his wife, took the trouble to quarrel with, who inherited from
his ancestors the appellation of Edward Twigger, and rejoiced in the
_sobriquet_ of Bottle-nosed Ned. He was drunk upon the average once a
day, and penitent upon an equally fair calculation once a month; and
when he was penitent, he was invariably in the very last stage of
maudlin intoxication. He was a ragged, roving, roaring kind of fellow,
with a burly form, a sharp wit, and a ready head, and could turn his
hand to anything when he chose to do it. He was by no means opposed to
hard labour on principle, for he would work away at a cricket-match by
the day together,—running, and catching, and batting, and bowling, and
revelling in toil which would exhaust a galley-slave. He would have
been invaluable to a fire-office; never was a man with such a natural
taste for pumping engines, running up ladders, and throwing furniture
out of two-pair-of-stairs’ windows: nor was this the only element in
which he was at home; he was a humane society in himself, a portable
drag, an animated life-preserver, and had saved more people, in his
time, from drowning, than the Plymouth life-boat, or Captain Manby’s
apparatus. With all these qualifications, notwithstanding his
dissipation, Bottle-nosed Ned was a general favourite; and the
authorities of Mudfog, remembering his numerous services to the
population, allowed him in return to get drunk in his own way, without
the fear of stocks, fine, or imprisonment. He had a general licence,
and he showed his sense of the compliment by making the most of it.

We have been thus particular in describing the character and avocations
of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact
politely, without hauling it into the reader’s presence with indecent
haste by the head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to
relate, that on the very same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble
and family returned to Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble’s new secretary, just
imported from London, with a pale face and light whiskers, thrust his
head down to the very bottom of his neckcloth-tie, in at the tap-room
door of the Lighterman’s Arms, and inquiring whether one Ned Twigger
was luxuriating within, announced himself as the bearer of a message
from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire, requiring Mr. Twigger’s immediate
attendance at the hall, on private and particular business. It being by
no means Mr. Twigger’s interest to affront the Mayor, he rose from the
fireplace with a slight sigh, and followed the light-whiskered
secretary through the dirt and wet of Mudfog streets, up to Mudfog
Hall, without further ado.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight,
which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on
a large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned
Twigger.

‘Well, Twigger!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly.

There was a time when Twigger would have replied, ‘Well, Nick!’ but
that was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the
donkey; so, he only bowed.

‘I want you to go into training, Twigger,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘What for, sir?’ inquired Ned, with a stare.

‘Hush, hush, Twigger!’ said the Mayor. ‘Shut the door, Mr. Jennings.
Look here, Twigger.’

As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a
complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions.

‘I want you to wear this next Monday, Twigger,’ said the Mayor.

‘Bless your heart and soul, sir!’ replied Ned, ‘you might as well ask
me to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron boiler.’

‘Nonsense, Twigger, nonsense!’ said the Mayor.

‘I couldn’t stand under it, sir,’ said Twigger; ‘it would make mashed
potatoes of me, if I attempted it.’

‘Pooh, pooh, Twigger!’ returned the Mayor. ‘I tell you I have seen it
done with my own eyes, in London, and the man wasn’t half such a man as
you are, either.’

‘I should as soon have thought of a man’s wearing the case of an
eight-day clock to save his linen,’ said Twigger, casting a look of
apprehension at the brass suit.

‘It’s the easiest thing in the world,’ rejoined the Mayor.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘When you’re used to it,’ added Ned.

‘You do it by degrees,’ said the Mayor. ‘You would begin with one piece
to-morrow, and two the next day, and so on, till you had got it all on.
Mr. Jennings, give Twigger a glass of rum. Just try the breast-plate,
Twigger. Stay; take another glass of rum first. Help me to lift it, Mr.
Jennings. Stand firm, Twigger! There!—it isn’t half as heavy as it
looks, is it?’

Twigger was a good strong, stout fellow; so, after a great deal of
staggering, he managed to keep himself up, under the breastplate, and
even contrived, with the aid of another glass of rum, to walk about in
it, and the gauntlets into the bargain. He made a trial of the helmet,
but was not equally successful, inasmuch as he tipped over
instantly,—an accident which Mr. Tulrumble clearly demonstrated to be
occasioned by his not having a counteracting weight of brass on his
legs.

‘Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday next,’ said
Tulrumble, ‘and I’ll make your fortune.’

‘I’ll try what I can do, sir,’ said Twigger.

‘It must be kept a profound secret,’ said Tulrumble.

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Twigger.

‘And you must be sober,’ said Tulrumble; ‘perfectly sober.’ Mr. Twigger
at once solemnly pledged himself to be as sober as a judge, and
Nicholas Tulrumble was satisfied, although, had we been Nicholas, we
should certainly have exacted some promise of a more specific nature;
inasmuch as, having attended the Mudfog assizes in the evening more
than once, we can solemnly testify to having seen judges with very
strong symptoms of dinner under their wigs. However, that’s neither
here nor there.

The next day, and the day following, and the day after that, Ned
Twigger was securely locked up in the small cavern with the sky-light,
hard at work at the armour. With every additional piece he could manage
to stand upright in, he had an additional glass of rum; and at last,
after many partial suffocations, he contrived to get on the whole suit,
and to stagger up and down the room in it, like an intoxicated effigy
from Westminster Abbey.

Never was man so delighted as Nicholas Tulrumble; never was woman so
charmed as Nicholas Tulrumble’s wife. Here was a sight for the common
people of Mudfog! A live man in brass armour! Why, they would go wild
with wonder!

The day—_the_ Monday—arrived.

If the morning had been made to order, it couldn’t have been better
adapted to the purpose. They never showed a better fog in London on
Lord Mayor’s day, than enwrapped the town of Mudfog on that eventful
occasion. It had risen slowly and surely from the green and stagnant
water with the first light of morning, until it reached a little above
the lamp-post tops; and there it had stopped, with a sleepy, sluggish
obstinacy, which bade defiance to the sun, who had got up very
blood-shot about the eyes, as if he had been at a drinking-party
over-night, and was doing his day’s work with the worst possible grace.
The thick damp mist hung over the town like a huge gauze curtain. All
was dim and dismal. The church steeples had bidden a temporary adieu to
the world below; and every object of lesser importance—houses, barns,
hedges, trees, and barges—had all taken the veil.

The church-clock struck one. A cracked trumpet from the front garden of
Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some asthmatic person had
coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out came a
gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger, intended to represent a
herald, but bearing a much stronger resemblance to a court-card on
horseback. This was one of the Circus people, who always came down to
Mudfog at that time of the year, and who had been engaged by Nicholas
Tulrumble expressly for the occasion. There was the horse, whisking his
tail about, balancing himself on his hind-legs, and flourishing away
with his fore-feet, in a manner which would have gone to the hearts and
souls of any reasonable crowd. But a Mudfog crowd never was a
reasonable one, and in all probability never will be. Instead of
scattering the very fog with their shouts, as they ought most
indubitably to have done, and were fully intended to do, by Nicholas
Tulrumble, they no sooner recognized the herald, than they began to
growl forth the most unqualified disapprobation at the bare notion of
his riding like any other man. If he had come out on his head indeed,
or jumping through a hoop, or flying through a red-hot drum, or even
standing on one leg with his other foot in his mouth, they might have
had something to say to him; but for a professional gentleman to sit
astride in the saddle, with his feet in the stirrups, was rather too
good a joke. So, the herald was a decided failure, and the crowd hooted
with great energy, as he pranced ingloriously away.

On the procession came. We are afraid to say how many supernumeraries
there were, in striped shirts and black velvet caps, to imitate the
London watermen, or how many base imitations of running-footmen, or how
many banners, which, owing to the heaviness of the atmosphere, could by
no means be prevailed on to display their inscriptions: still less do
we feel disposed to relate how the men who played the wind instruments,
looking up into the sky (we mean the fog) with musical fervour, walked
through pools of water and hillocks of mud, till they covered the
powdered heads of the running-footmen aforesaid with splashes, that
looked curious, but not ornamental; or how the barrel-organ performer
put on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band played
another; or how the horses, being used to the arena, and not to the
streets, would stand still and dance, instead of going on and
prancing;—all of which are matters which might be dilated upon to great
advantage, but which we have not the least intention of dilating upon,
notwithstanding.

Oh! it was a grand and beautiful sight to behold a corporation in glass
coaches, provided at the sole cost and charge of Nicholas Tulrumble,
coming rolling along, like a funeral out of mourning, and to watch the
attempts the corporation made to look great and solemn, when Nicholas
Tulrumble himself, in the four-wheel chaise, with the tall postilion,
rolled out after them, with Mr. Jennings on one side to look like a
chaplain, and a supernumerary on the other, with an old
life-guardsman’s sabre, to imitate the sword-bearer; and to see the
tears rolling down the faces of the mob as they screamed with
merriment. This was beautiful! and so was the appearance of Mrs.
Tulrumble and son, as they bowed with grave dignity out of their
coach-window to all the dirty faces that were laughing around them: but
it is not even with this that we have to do, but with the sudden
stopping of the procession at another blast of the trumpet, whereat,
and whereupon, a profound silence ensued, and all eyes were turned
towards Mudfog Hall, in the confident anticipation of some new wonder.

‘They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble.

‘I think not, sir,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘See how eager they look,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble. ‘Aha! the laugh
will be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?’

‘No doubt of that, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; and Nicholas Tulrumble,
in a state of pleasurable excitement, stood up in the four-wheel
chaise, and telegraphed gratification to the Mayoress behind.

While all this was going forward, Ned Twigger had descended into the
kitchen of Mudfog Hall for the purpose of indulging the servants with a
private view of the curiosity that was to burst upon the town; and,
somehow or other, the footman was so companionable, and the housemaid
so kind, and the cook so friendly, that he could not resist the offer
of the first-mentioned to sit down and take something—just to drink
success to master in.

So, down Ned Twigger sat himself in his brass livery on the top of the
kitchen-table; and in a mug of something strong, paid for by the
unconscious Nicholas Tulrumble, and provided by the companionable
footman, drank success to the Mayor and his procession; and, as Ned
laid by his helmet to imbibe the something strong, the companionable
footman put it on his own head, to the immeasurable and unrecordable
delight of the cook and housemaid. The companionable footman was very
facetious to Ned, and Ned was very gallant to the cook and housemaid by
turns. They were all very cosy and comfortable; and the something
strong went briskly round.

At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the procession people:
and, having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated manner, by
the companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly
cook, he walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude.

The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it
was most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter.

‘What!’ said Mr. Tulrumble, starting up in the four-wheel chaise.
‘Laughing? If they laugh at a man in real brass armour, they’d laugh
when their own fathers were dying. Why doesn’t he go into his place,
Mr. Jennings? What’s he rolling down towards us for? he has no business
here!’

‘I am afraid, sir—’ faltered Mr. Jennings.

‘Afraid of what, sir?’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, looking up into the
secretary’s face.

‘I am afraid he’s drunk, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings.

Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary figure that was
bearing down upon them; and then, clasping his secretary by the arm,
uttered an audible groan in anguish of spirit.

It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Twigger having full licence to demand
a single glass of rum on the putting on of every piece of the armour,
got, by some means or other, rather out of his calculation in the hurry
and confusion of preparation, and drank about four glasses to a piece
instead of one, not to mention the something strong which went on the
top of it. Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of
perspiration, and thus prevented the spirit from evaporating, we are
not scientific enough to know; but, whatever the cause was, Mr. Twigger
no sooner found himself outside the gate of Mudfog Hall, than he also
found himself in a very considerable state of intoxication; and hence
his extraordinary style of progressing. This was bad enough, but, as if
fate and fortune had conspired against Nicholas Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger,
not having been penitent for a good calendar month, took it into his
head to be most especially and particularly sentimental, just when his
repentance could have been most conveniently dispensed with. Immense
tears were rolling down his cheeks, and he was vainly endeavouring to
conceal his grief by applying to his eyes a blue cotton
pocket-handkerchief with white spots,—an article not strictly in
keeping with a suit of armour some three hundred years old, or
thereabouts.

‘Twigger, you villain!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, quite forgetting his
dignity, ‘go back.’

‘Never,’ said Ned. ‘I’m a miserable wretch. I’ll never leave you.’

The by-standers of course received this declaration with acclamations
of ‘That’s right, Ned; don’t!’

‘I don’t intend it,’ said Ned, with all the obstinacy of a very tipsy
man. ‘I’m very unhappy. I’m the wretched father of an unfortunate
family; but I am very faithful, sir. I’ll never leave you.’ Having
reiterated this obliging promise, Ned proceeded in broken words to
harangue the crowd upon the number of years he had lived in Mudfog, the
excessive respectability of his character, and other topics of the like
nature.

‘Here! will anybody lead him away?’ said Nicholas: ‘if they’ll call on
me afterwards, I’ll reward them well.’

Two or three men stepped forward, with the view of bearing Ned off,
when the secretary interposed.

‘Take care! take care!’ said Mr. Jennings. ‘I beg your pardon, sir; but
they’d better not go too near him, because, if he falls over, he’ll
certainly crush somebody.’

At this hint the crowd retired on all sides to a very respectful
distance, and left Ned, like the Duke of Devonshire, in a little circle
of his own.

‘But, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, ‘he’ll be suffocated.’

‘I’m very sorry for it, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; ‘but nobody can get
that armour off, without his own assistance. I’m quite certain of it
from the way he put it on.’

Here Ned wept dolefully, and shook his helmeted head, in a manner that
might have touched a heart of stone; but the crowd had not hearts of
stone, and they laughed heartily.

‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas, turning pale at the possibility
of Ned’s being smothered in his antique costume—‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings,
can nothing be done with him?’

‘Nothing at all,’ replied Ned, ‘nothing at all. Gentlemen, I’m an
unhappy wretch. I’m a body, gentlemen, in a brass coffin.’ At this
poetical idea of his own conjuring up, Ned cried so much that the
people began to get sympathetic, and to ask what Nicholas Tulrumble
meant by putting a man into such a machine as that; and one individual
in a hairy waistcoat like the top of a trunk, who had previously
expressed his opinion that if Ned hadn’t been a poor man, Nicholas
wouldn’t have dared do it, hinted at the propriety of breaking the
four-wheel chaise, or Nicholas’s head, or both, which last compound
proposition the crowd seemed to consider a very good notion.

It was not acted upon, however, for it had hardly been broached, when
Ned Twigger’s wife made her appearance abruptly in the little circle
before noticed, and Ned no sooner caught a glimpse of her face and
form, than from the mere force of habit he set off towards his home
just as fast as his legs could carry him; and that was not very quick
in the present instance either, for, however ready they might have been
to carry _him_, they couldn’t get on very well under the brass armour.
So, Mrs. Twigger had plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to
his face: to express her opinion that he was a decided monster; and to
intimate that, if her ill-used husband sustained any personal damage
from the brass armour, she would have the law of Nicholas Tulrumble for
manslaughter. When she had said all this with due vehemence, she posted
after Ned, who was dragging himself along as best he could, and
deploring his unhappiness in most dismal tones.

What a wailing and screaming Ned’s children raised when he got home at
last! Mrs. Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in one place, and
then in another, but she couldn’t manage it; so she tumbled Ned into
bed, helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all. Such a creaking as the
bedstead made, under Ned’s weight in his new suit! It didn’t break down
though; and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of
Biscay, till next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable:
and every time he groaned, his good lady said it served him right,
which was all the consolation Ned Twigger got.

Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on together to the
town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who had
suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr.
Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment of
which ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the
secretary, which was very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise
of the people outside prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas
Tulrumble himself. After which, the procession got back to Mudfog Hall
any how it could; and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to dinner.

But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed. They were such
dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation. Nicholas made quite as long
speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the very
same things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the deuce a
cheer the corporation gave him. There was only one man in the party who
was thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him Nick. Nick!
What would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of anybody presuming
to call the Lord Mayor of London ‘Nick!’ He should like to know what
the sword-bearer would say to that; or the recorder, or the
toast-master, or any other of the great officers of the city. They’d
nick him.

But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble’s doings. If they
had been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and have talked
till he lost his voice. He contracted a relish for statistics, and got
philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him
into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall.

At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting on the
river-side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned low-roofed,
bay-windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and a
large fireplace with a kettle to correspond, round which the working
men have congregated time out of mind on a winter’s night, refreshed by
draughts of good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle and
tambourine: the Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the Mayor
and corporation, to scrape the fiddle and thumb the tambourine from
time, whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitants goeth not to the
contrary. Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on crime,
and parliamentary reports,—or had made the secretary read them to him,
which is the same thing in effect,—and he at once perceived that this
fiddle and tambourine must have done more to demoralize Mudfog, than
any other operating causes that ingenuity could imagine. So he read up
for the subject, and determined to come out on the corporation with a
burst, the very next time the licence was applied for.

The licensing day came, and the red-faced landlord of the Jolly Boatmen
walked into the town-hall, looking as jolly as need be, having actually
put on an extra fiddle for that night, to commemorate the anniversary
of the Jolly Boatmen’s music licence. It was applied for in due form,
and was just about to be granted as a matter of course, when up rose
Nicholas Tulrumble, and drowned the astonished corporation in a torrent
of eloquence. He descanted in glowing terms upon the increasing
depravity of his native town of Mudfog, and the excesses committed by
its population. Then, he related how shocked he had been, to see
barrels of beer sliding down into the cellar of the Jolly Boatmen week
after week; and how he had sat at a window opposite the Jolly Boatmen
for two days together, to count the people who went in for beer between
the hours of twelve and one o’clock alone—which, by-the-bye, was the
time at which the great majority of the Mudfog people dined. Then, he
went on to state, how the number of people who came out with beer-jugs,
averaged twenty-one in five minutes, which, being multiplied by twelve,
gave two hundred and fifty-two people with beer-jugs in an hour, and
multiplied again by fifteen (the number of hours during which the house
was open daily) yielded three thousand seven hundred and eighty people
with beer-jugs per day, or twenty-six thousand four hundred and sixty
people with beer-jugs, per week. Then he proceeded to show that a
tambourine and moral degradation were synonymous terms, and a fiddle
and vicious propensities wholly inseparable. All these arguments he
strengthened and demonstrated by frequent references to a large book
with a blue cover, and sundry quotations from the Middlesex
magistrates; and in the end, the corporation, who were posed with the
figures, and sleepy with the speech, and sadly in want of dinner into
the bargain, yielded the palm to Nicholas Tulrumble, and refused the
music licence to the Jolly Boatmen.

But although Nicholas triumphed, his triumph was short. He carried on
the war against beer-jugs and fiddles, forgetting the time when he was
glad to drink out of the one, and to dance to the other, till the
people hated, and his old friends shunned him. He grew tired of the
lonely magnificence of Mudfog Hall, and his heart yearned towards the
Lighterman’s Arms. He wished he had never set up as a public man, and
sighed for the good old times of the coal-shop, and the chimney corner.

At length old Nicholas, being thoroughly miserable, took heart of
grace, paid the secretary a quarter’s wages in advance, and packed him
off to London by the next coach. Having taken this step, he put his hat
on his head, and his pride in his pocket, and walked down to the old
room at the Lighterman’s Arms. There were only two of the old fellows
there, and they looked coldly on Nicholas as he proffered his hand.

‘Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?’ said one.

‘Or trace the progress of crime to ‘bacca?’ growled another.

‘Neither,’ replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands with them both,
whether they would or not. ‘I’ve come down to say that I’m very sorry
for having made a fool of myself, and that I hope you’ll give me up the
old chair, again.’

The old fellows opened their eyes, and three or four more old fellows
opened the door, to whom Nicholas, with tears in his eyes, thrust out
his hand too, and told the same story. They raised a shout of joy, that
made the bells in the ancient church-tower vibrate again, and wheeling
the old chair into the warm corner, thrust old Nicholas down into it,
and ordered in the very largest-sized bowl of hot punch, with an
unlimited number of pipes, directly.

The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the licence, and the next night,
old Nicholas and Ned Twigger’s wife led off a dance to the music of the
fiddle and tambourine, the tone of which seemed mightily improved by a
little rest, for they never had played so merrily before. Ned Twigger
was in the very height of his glory, and he danced hornpipes, and
balanced chairs on his chin, and straws on his nose, till the whole
company, including the corporation, were in raptures of admiration at
the brilliancy of his acquirements.

Mr. Tulrumble, junior, couldn’t make up his mind to be anything but
magnificent, so he went up to London and drew bills on his father; and
when he had overdrawn, and got into debt, he grew penitent, and came
home again.

As to old Nicholas, he kept his word, and having had six weeks of
public life, never tried it any more. He went to sleep in the town-hall
at the very next meeting; and, in full proof of his sincerity, has
requested us to write this faithful narrative. We wish it could have
the effect of reminding the Tulrumbles of another sphere, that
puffed-up conceit is not dignity, and that snarling at the little
pleasures they were once glad to enjoy, because they would rather
forget the times when they were of lower station, renders them objects
of contempt and ridicule.

This is the first time we have published any of our gleanings from this
particular source. Perhaps, at some future period, we may venture to
open the chronicles of Mudfog.

FULL REPORT OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION
for the advancement of everything

We have made the most unparalleled and extraordinary exertions to place
before our readers a complete and accurate account of the proceedings
at the late grand meeting of the Mudfog Association, holden in the town
of Mudfog; it affords us great happiness to lay the result before them,
in the shape of various communications received from our able,
talented, and graphic correspondent, expressly sent down for the
purpose, who has immortalized us, himself, Mudfog, and the association,
all at one and the same time. We have been, indeed, for some days
unable to determine who will transmit the greatest name to posterity;
ourselves, who sent our correspondent down; our correspondent, who
wrote an account of the matter; or the association, who gave our
correspondent something to write about. We rather incline to the
opinion that we are the greatest man of the party, inasmuch as the
notion of an exclusive and authentic report originated with us; this
may be prejudice: it may arise from a prepossession on our part in our
own favour. Be it so. We have no doubt that every gentleman concerned
in this mighty assemblage is troubled with the same complaint in a
greater or less degree; and it is a consolation to us to know that we
have at least this feeling in common with the great scientific stars,
the brilliant and extraordinary luminaries, whose speculations we
record.

We give our correspondent’s letters in the order in which they reached
us. Any attempt at amalgamating them into one beautiful whole, would
only destroy that glowing tone, that dash of wildness, and rich vein of
picturesque interest, which pervade them throughout.

‘_Mudfog_, _Monday night_, _seven o’clock_.


‘We are in a state of great excitement here. Nothing is spoken of, but
the approaching meeting of the association. The inn-doors are thronged
with waiters anxiously looking for the expected arrivals; and the
numerous bills which are wafered up in the windows of private houses,
intimating that there are beds to let within, give the streets a very
animated and cheerful appearance, the wafers being of a great variety
of colours, and the monotony of printed inscriptions being relieved by
every possible size and style of hand-writing. It is confidently
rumoured that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy have engaged three
beds and a sitting-room at the Pig and Tinder-box. I give you the
rumour as it has reached me; but I cannot, as yet, vouch for its
accuracy. The moment I have been enabled to obtain any certain
information upon this interesting point, you may depend upon receiving
it.’

‘_Half-past seven_.


I have just returned from a personal interview with the landlord of the
Pig and Tinder-box. He speaks confidently of the probability of
Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy taking up their residence at his
house during the sitting of the association, but denies that the beds
have been yet engaged; in which representation he is confirmed by the
chambermaid—a girl of artless manners, and interesting appearance. The
boots denies that it is at all likely that Professors Snore, Doze, and
Wheezy will put up here; but I have reason to believe that this man has
been suborned by the proprietor of the Original Pig, which is the
opposition hotel. Amidst such conflicting testimony it is difficult to
arrive at the real truth; but you may depend upon receiving authentic
information upon this point the moment the fact is ascertained. The
excitement still continues. A boy fell through the window of the
pastrycook’s shop at the corner of the High-street about half an hour
ago, which has occasioned much confusion. The general impression is,
that it was an accident. Pray heaven it may prove so!’

‘_Tuesday_, _noon_.


‘At an early hour this morning the bells of all the churches struck
seven o’clock; the effect of which, in the present lively state of the
town, was extremely singular. While I was at breakfast, a yellow gig,
drawn by a dark grey horse, with a patch of white over his right
eyelid, proceeded at a rapid pace in the direction of the Original Pig
stables; it is currently reported that this gentleman has arrived here
for the purpose of attending the association, and, from what I have
heard, I consider it extremely probable, although nothing decisive is
yet known regarding him. You may conceive the anxiety with which we are
all looking forward to the arrival of the four o’clock coach this
afternoon.

‘Notwithstanding the excited state of the populace, no outrage has yet
been committed, owing to the admirable discipline and discretion of the
police, who are nowhere to be seen. A barrel-organ is playing opposite
my window, and groups of people, offering fish and vegetables for sale,
parade the streets. With these exceptions everything is quiet, and I
trust will continue so.’

‘_Five o’clock_.


‘It is now ascertained, beyond all doubt, that Professors Snore, Doze,
and Wheezy will _not_ repair to the Pig and Tinder-box, but have
actually engaged apartments at the Original Pig. This intelligence is
_exclusive_; and I leave you and your readers to draw their own
inferences from it. Why Professor Wheezy, of all people in the world,
should repair to the Original Pig in preference to the Pig and
Tinder-box, it is not easy to conceive. The professor is a man who
should be above all such petty feelings. Some people here openly impute
treachery, and a distinct breach of faith to Professors Snore and Doze;
while others, again, are disposed to acquit them of any culpability in
the transaction, and to insinuate that the blame rests solely with
Professor Wheezy. I own that I incline to the latter opinion; and
although it gives me great pain to speak in terms of censure or
disapprobation of a man of such transcendent genius and acquirements,
still I am bound to say that, if my suspicions be well founded, and if
all the reports which have reached my ears be true, I really do not
well know what to make of the matter.

‘Mr. Slug, so celebrated for his statistical researches, arrived this
afternoon by the four o’clock stage. His complexion is a dark purple,
and he has a habit of sighing constantly. He looked extremely well, and
appeared in high health and spirits. Mr. Woodensconce also came down in
the same conveyance. The distinguished gentleman was fast asleep on his
arrival, and I am informed by the guard that he had been so the whole
way. He was, no doubt, preparing for his approaching fatigues; but what
gigantic visions must those be that flit through the brain of such a
man when his body is in a state of torpidity!

‘The influx of visitors increases every moment. I am told (I know not
how truly) that two post-chaises have arrived at the Original Pig
within the last half-hour, and I myself observed a wheelbarrow,
containing three carpet bags and a bundle, entering the yard of the Pig
and Tinder-box no longer ago than five minutes since. The people are
still quietly pursuing their ordinary occupations; but there is a
wildness in their eyes, and an unwonted rigidity in the muscles of
their countenances, which shows to the observant spectator that their
expectations are strained to the very utmost pitch. I fear, unless some
very extraordinary arrivals take place to-night, that consequences may
arise from this popular ferment, which every man of sense and feeling
would deplore.’

‘_Twenty minutes past six_.


‘I have just heard that the boy who fell through the pastrycook’s
window last night has died of the fright. He was suddenly called upon
to pay three and sixpence for the damage done, and his constitution, it
seems, was not strong enough to bear up against the shock. The inquest,
it is said, will be held to-morrow.’

‘_Three-quarters part seven_.


‘Professors Muff and Nogo have just driven up to the hotel door; they
at once ordered dinner with great condescension. We are all very much
delighted with the urbanity of their manners, and the ease with which
they adapt themselves to the forms and ceremonies of ordinary life.
Immediately on their arrival they sent for the head waiter, and
privately requested him to purchase a live dog,—as cheap a one as he
could meet with,—and to send him up after dinner, with a pie-board, a
knife and fork, and a clean plate. It is conjectured that some
experiments will be tried upon the dog to-night; if any particulars
should transpire, I will forward them by express.’

‘_Half-past eight_.


‘The animal has been procured. He is a pug-dog, of rather intelligent
appearance, in good condition, and with very short legs. He has been
tied to a curtain-peg in a dark room, and is howling dreadfully.’

‘_Ten minutes to nine_.


‘The dog has just been rung for. With an instinct which would appear
almost the result of reason, the sagacious animal seized the waiter by
the calf of the leg when he approached to take him, and made a
desperate, though ineffectual resistance. I have not been able to
procure admission to the apartment occupied by the scientific
gentlemen; but, judging from the sounds which reached my ears when I
stood upon the landing-place outside the door, just now, I should be
disposed to say that the dog had retreated growling beneath some
article of furniture, and was keeping the professors at bay. This
conjecture is confirmed by the testimony of the ostler, who, after
peeping through the keyhole, assures me that he distinctly saw
Professor Nogo on his knees, holding forth a small bottle of prussic
acid, to which the animal, who was crouched beneath an arm-chair,
obstinately declined to smell. You cannot imagine the feverish state of
irritation we are in, lest the interests of science should be
sacrificed to the prejudices of a brute creature, who is not endowed
with sufficient sense to foresee the incalculable benefits which the
whole human race may derive from so very slight a concession on his
part.’

‘_Nine o’clock_.


‘The dog’s tail and ears have been sent down-stairs to be washed; from
which circumstance we infer that the animal is no more. His forelegs
have been delivered to the boots to be brushed, which strengthens the
supposition.’

‘_Half after ten_.


‘My feelings are so overpowered by what has taken place in the course
of the last hour and a half, that I have scarcely strength to detail
the rapid succession of events which have quite bewildered all those
who are cognizant of their occurrence. It appears that the pug-dog
mentioned in my last was surreptitiously obtained,—stolen, in fact,—by
some person attached to the stable department, from an unmarried lady
resident in this town. Frantic on discovering the loss of her
favourite, the lady rushed distractedly into the street, calling in the
most heart-rending and pathetic manner upon the passengers to restore
her, her Augustus,—for so the deceased was named, in affectionate
remembrance of a former lover of his mistress, to whom he bore a
striking personal resemblance, which renders the circumstances
additionally affecting. I am not yet in a condition to inform you what
circumstance induced the bereaved lady to direct her steps to the hotel
which had witnessed the last struggles of her _protégé_. I can only
state that she arrived there, at the very instant when his detached
members were passing through the passage on a small tray. Her shrieks
still reverberate in my ears! I grieve to say that the expressive
features of Professor Muff were much scratched and lacerated by the
injured lady; and that Professor Nogo, besides sustaining several
severe bites, has lost some handfuls of hair from the same cause. It
must be some consolation to these gentlemen to know that their ardent
attachment to scientific pursuits has alone occasioned these unpleasant
consequences; for which the sympathy of a grateful country will
sufficiently reward them. The unfortunate lady remains at the Pig and
Tinder-box, and up to this time is reported in a very precarious state.

‘I need scarcely tell you that this unlooked-for catastrophe has cast a
damp and gloom upon us in the midst of our exhilaration; natural in any
case, but greatly enhanced in this, by the amiable qualities of the
deceased animal, who appears to have been much and deservedly respected
by the whole of his acquaintance.’

‘_Twelve o’clock_.


‘I take the last opportunity before sealing my parcel to inform you
that the boy who fell through the pastrycook’s window is not dead, as
was universally believed, but alive and well. The report appears to
have had its origin in his mysterious disappearance. He was found half
an hour since on the premises of a sweet-stuff maker, where a raffle
had been announced for a second-hand seal-skin cap and a tambourine;
and where—a sufficient number of members not having been obtained at
first—he had patiently waited until the list was completed. This
fortunate discovery has in some degree restored our gaiety and
cheerfulness. It is proposed to get up a subscription for him without
delay.

‘Everybody is nervously anxious to see what to-morrow will bring forth.
If any one should arrive in the course of the night, I have left strict
directions to be called immediately. I should have sat up, indeed, but
the agitating events of this day have been too much for me.

‘No news yet of either of the Professors Snore, Doze, or Wheezy. It is
very strange!’

‘_Wednesday afternoon_.


‘All is now over; and, upon one point at least, I am at length enabled
to set the minds of your readers at rest. The three professors arrived
at ten minutes after two o’clock, and, instead of taking up their
quarters at the Original Pig, as it was universally understood in the
course of yesterday that they would assuredly have done, drove straight
to the Pig and Tinder-box, where they threw off the mask at once, and
openly announced their intention of remaining. Professor Wheezy may
reconcile this very extraordinary conduct with _his_ notions of fair
and equitable dealing, but I would recommend Professor Wheezy to be
cautious how he presumes too far upon his well-earned reputation. How
such a man as Professor Snore, or, which is still more extraordinary,
such an individual as Professor Doze, can quietly allow himself to be
mixed up with such proceedings as these, you will naturally inquire.
Upon this head, rumour is silent; I have my speculations, but forbear
to give utterance to them just now.’

‘_Four o’clock_.


‘The town is filling fast; eighteenpence has been offered for a bed and
refused. Several gentlemen were under the necessity last night of
sleeping in the brick fields, and on the steps of doors, for which they
were taken before the magistrates in a body this morning, and committed
to prison as vagrants for various terms. One of these persons I
understand to be a highly-respectable tinker, of great practical skill,
who had forwarded a paper to the President of Section D. Mechanical
Science, on the construction of pipkins with copper bottoms and
safety-values, of which report speaks highly. The incarceration of this
gentleman is greatly to be regretted, as his absence will preclude any
discussion on the subject.

‘The bills are being taken down in all directions, and lodgings are
being secured on almost any terms. I have heard of fifteen shillings a
week for two rooms, exclusive of coals and attendance, but I can
scarcely believe it. The excitement is dreadful. I was informed this
morning that the civil authorities, apprehensive of some outbreak of
popular feeling, had commanded a recruiting sergeant and two corporals
to be under arms; and that, with the view of not irritating the people
unnecessarily by their presence, they had been requested to take up
their position before daybreak in a turnpike, distant about a quarter
of a mile from the town. The vigour and promptness of these measures
cannot be too highly extolled.

‘Intelligence has just been brought me, that an elderly female, in a
state of inebriety, has declared in the open street her intention to
“do” for Mr. Slug. Some statistical returns compiled by that gentleman,
relative to the consumption of raw spirituous liquors in this place,
are supposed to be the cause of the wretch’s animosity. It is added
that this declaration was loudly cheered by a crowd of persons who had
assembled on the spot; and that one man had the boldness to designate
Mr. Slug aloud by the opprobrious epithet of “Stick-in-the-mud!” It is
earnestly to be hoped that now, when the moment has arrived for their
interference, the magistrates will not shrink from the exercise of that
power which is vested in them by the constitution of our common
country.’

‘_Half-past ten_.


‘The disturbance, I am happy to inform you, has been completely
quelled, and the ringleader taken into custody. She had a pail of cold
water thrown over her, previous to being locked up, and expresses great
contrition and uneasiness. We are all in a fever of anticipation about
to-morrow; but, now that we are within a few hours of the meeting of
the association, and at last enjoy the proud consciousness of having
its illustrious members amongst us, I trust and hope everything may go
off peaceably. I shall send you a full report of to-morrow’s
proceedings by the night coach.’

‘_Eleven o’clock_.


‘I open my letter to say that nothing whatever has occurred since I
folded it up.’

‘_Thursday_.


‘The sun rose this morning at the usual hour. I did not observe
anything particular in the aspect of the glorious planet, except that
he appeared to me (it might have been a delusion of my heightened
fancy) to shine with more than common brilliancy, and to shed a
refulgent lustre upon the town, such as I had never observed before.
This is the more extraordinary, as the sky was perfectly cloudless, and
the atmosphere peculiarly fine. At half-past nine o’clock the general
committee assembled, with the last year’s president in the chair. The
report of the council was read; and one passage, which stated that the
council had corresponded with no less than three thousand five hundred
and seventy-one persons, (all of whom paid their own postage,) on no
fewer than seven thousand two hundred and forty-three topics, was
received with a degree of enthusiasm which no efforts could suppress.
The various committees and sections having been appointed, and the more
formal business transacted, the great proceedings of the meeting
commenced at eleven o’clock precisely. I had the happiness of occupying
a most eligible position at that time, in




‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY.
GREAT ROOM, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.


_President_—Professor Snore. _Vice-Presidents_—Professors Doze and
Wheezy.

‘The scene at this moment was particularly striking. The sun streamed
through the windows of the apartments, and tinted the whole scene with
its brilliant rays, bringing out in strong relief the noble visages of
the professors and scientific gentlemen, who, some with bald heads,
some with red heads, some with brown heads, some with grey heads, some
with black heads, some with block heads, presented a _coup d’oeil_
which no eye-witness will readily forget. In front of these gentlemen
were papers and inkstands; and round the room, on elevated benches
extending as far as the forms could reach, were assembled a brilliant
concourse of those lovely and elegant women for which Mudfog is justly
acknowledged to be without a rival in the whole world. The contrast
between their fair faces and the dark coats and trousers of the
scientific gentlemen I shall never cease to remember while Memory holds
her seat.

‘Time having been allowed for a slight confusion, occasioned by the
falling down of the greater part of the platforms, to subside, the
president called on one of the secretaries to read a communication
entitled, “Some remarks on the industrious fleas, with considerations
on the importance of establishing infant-schools among that numerous
class of society; of directing their industry to useful and practical
ends; and of applying the surplus fruits thereof, towards providing for
them a comfortable and respectable maintenance in their old age.”

‘The author stated, that, having long turned his attention to the moral
and social condition of these interesting animals, he had been induced
to visit an exhibition in Regent-street, London, commonly known by the
designation of “The Industrious Fleas.” He had there seen many fleas,
occupied certainly in various pursuits and avocations, but occupied, he
was bound to add, in a manner which no man of well-regulated mind could
fail to regard with sorrow and regret. One flea, reduced to the level
of a beast of burden, was drawing about a miniature gig, containing a
particularly small effigy of His Grace the Duke of Wellington; while
another was staggering beneath the weight of a golden model of his
great adversary Napoleon Bonaparte. Some, brought up as mountebanks and
ballet-dancers, were performing a figure-dance (he regretted to
observe, that, of the fleas so employed, several were females); others
were in training, in a small card-board box, for pedestrians,—mere
sporting characters—and two were actually engaged in the cold-blooded
and barbarous occupation of duelling; a pursuit from which humanity
recoiled with horror and disgust. He suggested that measures should be
immediately taken to employ the labour of these fleas as part and
parcel of the productive power of the country, which might easily be
done by the establishment among them of infant schools and houses of
industry, in which a system of virtuous education, based upon sound
principles, should be observed, and moral precepts strictly inculcated.
He proposed that every flea who presumed to exhibit, for hire, music,
or dancing, or any species of theatrical entertainment, without a
licence, should be considered a vagabond, and treated accordingly; in
which respect he only placed him upon a level with the rest of mankind.
He would further suggest that their labour should be placed under the
control and regulation of the state, who should set apart from the
profits, a fund for the support of superannuated or disabled fleas,
their widows and orphans. With this view, he proposed that liberal
premiums should be offered for the three best designs for a general
almshouse; from which—as insect architecture was well known to be in a
very advanced and perfect state—we might possibly derive many valuable
hints for the improvement of our metropolitan universities, national
galleries, and other public edifices.

‘The President wished to be informed how the ingenious gentleman
proposed to open a communication with fleas generally, in the first
instance, so that they might be thoroughly imbued with a sense of the
advantages they must necessarily derive from changing their mode of
life, and applying themselves to honest labour. This appeared to him,
the only difficulty.

‘The Author submitted that this difficulty was easily overcome, or
rather that there was no difficulty at all in the case. Obviously the
course to be pursued, if Her Majesty’s government could be prevailed
upon to take up the plan, would be, to secure at a remunerative salary
the individual to whom he had alluded as presiding over the exhibition
in Regent-street at the period of his visit. That gentleman would at
once be able to put himself in communication with the mass of the
fleas, and to instruct them in pursuance of some general plan of
education, to be sanctioned by Parliament, until such time as the more
intelligent among them were advanced enough to officiate as teachers to
the rest.

‘The President and several members of the section highly complimented
the author of the paper last read, on his most ingenious and important
treatise. It was determined that the subject should be recommended to
the immediate consideration of the council.

‘Mr. Wigsby produced a cauliflower somewhat larger than a
chaise-umbrella, which had been raised by no other artificial means
than the simple application of highly carbonated soda-water as manure.
He explained that by scooping out the head, which would afford a new
and delicious species of nourishment for the poor, a parachute, in
principle something similar to that constructed by M. Garnerin, was at
once obtained; the stalk of course being kept downwards. He added that
he was perfectly willing to make a descent from a height of not less
than three miles and a quarter; and had in fact already proposed the
same to the proprietors of Vauxhall Gardens, who in the handsomest
manner at once consented to his wishes, and appointed an early day next
summer for the undertaking; merely stipulating that the rim of the
cauliflower should be previously broken in three or four places to
ensure the safety of the descent.

‘The President congratulated the public on the _grand gala_ in store
for them, and warmly eulogised the proprietors of the establishment
alluded to, for their love of science, and regard for the safety of
human life, both of which did them the highest honour.

‘A Member wished to know how many thousand additional lamps the royal
property would be illuminated with, on the night after the descent.

‘Mr. Wigsby replied that the point was not yet finally decided; but he
believed it was proposed, over and above the ordinary illuminations, to
exhibit in various devices eight millions and a-half of additional
lamps.

‘The Member expressed himself much gratified with this announcement.

‘Mr. Blunderum delighted the section with a most interesting and
valuable paper “on the last moments of the learned pig,” which produced
a very strong impression on the assembly, the account being compiled
from the personal recollections of his favourite attendant. The account
stated in the most emphatic terms that the animal’s name was not Toby,
but Solomon; and distinctly proved that he could have no near relatives
in the profession, as many designing persons had falsely stated,
inasmuch as his father, mother, brothers and sisters, had all fallen
victims to the butcher at different times. An uncle of his indeed, had
with very great labour been traced to a sty in Somers Town; but as he
was in a very infirm state at the time, being afflicted with measles,
and shortly afterwards disappeared, there appeared too much reason to
conjecture that he had been converted into sausages. The disorder of
the learned pig was originally a severe cold, which, being aggravated
by excessive trough indulgence, finally settled upon the lungs, and
terminated in a general decay of the constitution. A melancholy
instance of a presentiment entertained by the animal of his approaching
dissolution, was recorded. After gratifying a numerous and fashionable
company with his performances, in which no falling off whatever was
visible, he fixed his eyes on the biographer, and, turning to the watch
which lay on the floor, and on which he was accustomed to point out the
hour, deliberately passed his snout twice round the dial. In precisely
four-and-twenty hours from that time he had ceased to exist!

‘Professor Wheezy inquired whether, previous to his demise, the animal
had expressed, by signs or otherwise, any wishes regarding the disposal
of his little property.

‘Mr. Blunderum replied, that, when the biographer took up the pack of
cards at the conclusion of the performance, the animal grunted several
times in a significant manner, and nodding his head as he was
accustomed to do, when gratified. From these gestures it was understood
that he wished the attendant to keep the cards, which he had ever since
done. He had not expressed any wish relative to his watch, which had
accordingly been pawned by the same individual.

‘The President wished to know whether any Member of the section had
ever seen or conversed with the pig-faced lady, who was reported to
have worn a black velvet mask, and to have taken her meals from a
golden trough.

‘After some hesitation a Member replied that the pig-faced lady was his
mother-in-law, and that he trusted the President would not violate the
sanctity of private life.

‘The President begged pardon. He had considered the pig-faced lady a
public character. Would the honourable member object to state, with a
view to the advancement of science, whether she was in any way
connected with the learned pig?

‘The Member replied in the same low tone, that, as the question
appeared to involve a suspicion that the learned pig might be his
half-brother, he must decline answering it.




‘SECTION B.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.
COACH-HOUSE, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.


_President_—Dr. Toorell. _Vice-Presidents_—Professors Muff and Nogo.

Dr. Kutankumagen (of Moscow) read to the section a report of a case
which had occurred within his own practice, strikingly illustrative of
the power of medicine, as exemplified in his successful treatment of a
virulent disorder. He had been called in to visit the patient on the
1st of April, 1837. He was then labouring under symptoms peculiarly
alarming to any medical man. His frame was stout and muscular, his step
firm and elastic, his cheeks plump and red, his voice loud, his
appetite good, his pulse full and round. He was in the constant habit
of eating three meals _per diem_, and of drinking at least one bottle
of wine, and one glass of spirituous liquors diluted with water, in the
course of the four-and-twenty hours. He laughed constantly, and in so
hearty a manner that it was terrible to hear him. By dint of powerful
medicine, low diet, and bleeding, the symptoms in the course of three
days perceptibly decreased. A rigid perseverance in the same course of
treatment for only one week, accompanied with small doses of
water-gruel, weak broth, and barley-water, led to their entire
disappearance. In the course of a month he was sufficiently recovered
to be carried down-stairs by two nurses, and to enjoy an airing in a
close carriage, supported by soft pillows. At the present moment he was
restored so far as to walk about, with the slight assistance of a
crutch and a boy. It would perhaps be gratifying to the section to
learn that he ate little, drank little, slept little, and was never
heard to laugh by any accident whatever.

‘Dr. W. R. Fee, in complimenting the honourable member upon the
triumphant cure he had effected, begged to ask whether the patient
still bled freely?

‘Dr. Kutankumagen replied in the affirmative.

‘Dr. W. R. Fee.—And you found that he bled freely during the whole
course of the disorder?

‘Dr. Kutankumagen.—Oh dear, yes; most freely.

‘Dr. Neeshawts supposed, that if the patient had not submitted to be
bled with great readiness and perseverance, so extraordinary a cure
could never, in fact, have been accomplished. Dr. Kutankumagen
rejoined, certainly not.

‘Mr. Knight Bell (M.R.C.S.) exhibited a wax preparation of the interior
of a gentleman who in early life had inadvertently swallowed a
door-key. It was a curious fact that a medical student of dissipated
habits, being present at the _post mortem_ examination, found means to
escape unobserved from the room, with that portion of the coats of the
stomach upon which an exact model of the instrument was distinctly
impressed, with which he hastened to a locksmith of doubtful character,
who made a new key from the pattern so shown to him. With this key the
medical student entered the house of the deceased gentleman, and
committed a burglary to a large amount, for which he was subsequently
tried and executed.

‘The President wished to know what became of the original key after the
lapse of years. Mr. Knight Bell replied that the gentleman was always
much accustomed to punch, and it was supposed the acid had gradually
devoured it.

‘Dr. Neeshawts and several of the members were of opinion that the key
must have lain very cold and heavy upon the gentleman’s stomach.

‘Mr. Knight Bell believed it did at first. It was worthy of remark,
perhaps, that for some years the gentleman was troubled with a
night-mare, under the influence of which he always imagined himself a
wine-cellar door.

‘Professor Muff related a very extraordinary and convincing proof of
the wonderful efficacy of the system of infinitesimal doses, which the
section were doubtless aware was based upon the theory that the very
minutest amount of any given drug, properly dispersed through the human
frame, would be productive of precisely the same result as a very large
dose administered in the usual manner. Thus, the fortieth part of a
grain of calomel was supposed to be equal to a five-grain calomel pill,
and so on in proportion throughout the whole range of medicine. He had
tried the experiment in a curious manner upon a publican who had been
brought into the hospital with a broken head, and was cured upon the
infinitesimal system in the incredibly short space of three months.
This man was a hard drinker. He (Professor Muff) had dispersed three
drops of rum through a bucket of water, and requested the man to drink
the whole. What was the result? Before he had drunk a quart, he was in
a state of beastly intoxication; and five other men were made dead
drunk with the remainder.

‘The President wished to know whether an infinitesimal dose of
soda-water would have recovered them? Professor Muff replied that the
twenty-fifth part of a teaspoonful, properly administered to each
patient, would have sobered him immediately. The President remarked
that this was a most important discovery, and he hoped the Lord Mayor
and Court of Aldermen would patronize it immediately.

‘A Member begged to be informed whether it would be possible to
administer—say, the twentieth part of a grain of bread and cheese to
all grown-up paupers, and the fortieth part to children, with the same
satisfying effect as their present allowance.

‘Professor Muff was willing to stake his professional reputation on the
perfect adequacy of such a quantity of food to the support of human
life—in workhouses; the addition of the fifteenth part of a grain of
pudding twice a week would render it a high diet.

‘Professor Nogo called the attention of the section to a very
extraordinary case of animal magnetism. A private watchman, being
merely looked at by the operator from the opposite side of a wide
street, was at once observed to be in a very drowsy and languid state.
He was followed to his box, and being once slightly rubbed on the palms
of the hands, fell into a sound sleep, in which he continued without
intermission for ten hours.




‘SECTION C.—STATISTICS.
HAY-LOFT, ORIGINAL PIG.


_President_—Mr. Woodensconce. _Vice-Presidents_—Mr. Ledbrain and Mr.
Timbered.

‘Mr. Slug stated to the section the result of some calculations he had
made with great difficulty and labour, regarding the state of infant
education among the middle classes of London. He found that, within a
circle of three miles from the Elephant and Castle, the following were
the names and numbers of children’s books principally in circulation:—

‘Jack the Giant-killer

7,943

Ditto and Bean-stalk

8,621

Ditto and Eleven Brothers

2,845

Ditto and Jill

1,998

Total

21,407


‘He found that the proportion of Robinson Crusoes to Philip Quarlls was
as four and a half to one; and that the preponderance of Valentine and
Orsons over Goody Two Shoeses was as three and an eighth of the former
to half a one of the latter; a comparison of Seven Champions with
Simple Simons gave the same result. The ignorance that prevailed, was
lamentable. One child, on being asked whether he would rather be Saint
George of England or a respectable tallow-chandler, instantly replied,
“Taint George of Ingling.” Another, a little boy of eight years old,
was found to be firmly impressed with a belief in the existence of
dragons, and openly stated that it was his intention when he grew up,
to rush forth sword in hand for the deliverance of captive princesses,
and the promiscuous slaughter of giants. Not one child among the number
interrogated had ever heard of Mungo Park,—some inquiring whether he
was at all connected with the black man that swept the crossing; and
others whether he was in any way related to the Regent’s Park. They had
not the slightest conception of the commonest principles of
mathematics, and considered Sindbad the Sailor the most enterprising
voyager that the world had ever produced.

‘A Member strongly deprecating the use of all the other books
mentioned, suggested that Jack and Jill might perhaps be exempted from
the general censure, inasmuch as the hero and heroine, in the very
outset of the tale, were depicted as going _up_ a hill to fetch a pail
of water, which was a laborious and useful occupation,—supposing the
family linen was being washed, for instance.

‘Mr. Slug feared that the moral effect of this passage was more than
counterbalanced by another in a subsequent part of the poem, in which
very gross allusion was made to the mode in which the heroine was
personally chastised by her mother


“‘For laughing at Jack’s disaster;”


besides, the whole work had this one great fault, _it was not true_.

‘The President complimented the honourable member on the excellent
distinction he had drawn. Several other Members, too, dwelt upon the
immense and urgent necessity of storing the minds of children with
nothing but facts and figures; which process the President very
forcibly remarked, had made them (the section) the men they were.

‘Mr. Slug then stated some curious calculations respecting the
dogs’-meat barrows of London. He found that the total number of small
carts and barrows engaged in dispensing provision to the cats and dogs
of the metropolis was, one thousand seven hundred and forty-three. The
average number of skewers delivered daily with the provender, by each
dogs’-meat cart or barrow, was thirty-six. Now, multiplying the number
of skewers so delivered by the number of barrows, a total of sixty-two
thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers daily would be obtained.
Allowing that, of these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and
forty-eight skewers, the odd two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight
were accidentally devoured with the meat, by the most voracious of the
animals supplied, it followed that sixty thousand skewers per day, or
the enormous number of twenty-one millions nine hundred thousand
skewers annually, were wasted in the kennels and dustholes of London;
which, if collected and warehoused, would in ten years’ time afford a
mass of timber more than sufficient for the construction of a
first-rate vessel of war for the use of her Majesty’s navy, to be
called “The Royal Skewer,” and to become under that name the terror of
all the enemies of this island.

‘Mr. X. Ledbrain read a very ingenious communication, from which it
appeared that the total number of legs belonging to the manufacturing
population of one great town in Yorkshire was, in round numbers, forty
thousand, while the total number of chair and stool legs in their
houses was only thirty thousand, which, upon the very favourable
average of three legs to a seat, yielded only ten thousand seats in
all. From this calculation it would appear,—not taking wooden or cork
legs into the account, but allowing two legs to every person,—that ten
thousand individuals (one-half of the whole population) were either
destitute of any rest for their legs at all, or passed the whole of
their leisure time in sitting upon boxes.




‘SECTION D.—MECHANICAL SCIENCE.
COACH-HOUSE, ORIGINAL PIG.


_President_—Mr. Carter. _Vice-Presidents_—Mr. Truck and Mr. Waghorn.

‘Professor Queerspeck exhibited an elegant model of a portable railway,
neatly mounted in a green case, for the waistcoat pocket. By attaching
this beautiful instrument to his boots, any Bank or public-office clerk
could transport himself from his place of residence to his place of
business, at the easy rate of sixty-five miles an hour, which, to
gentlemen of sedentary pursuits, would be an incalculable advantage.

‘The President was desirous of knowing whether it was necessary to have
a level surface on which the gentleman was to run.

‘Professor Queerspeck explained that City gentlemen would run in
trains, being handcuffed together to prevent confusion or
unpleasantness. For instance, trains would start every morning at
eight, nine, and ten o’clock, from Camden Town, Islington, Camberwell,
Hackney, and various other places in which City gentlemen are
accustomed to reside. It would be necessary to have a level, but he had
provided for this difficulty by proposing that the best line that the
circumstances would admit of, should be taken through the sewers which
undermine the streets of the metropolis, and which, well lighted by
jets from the gas pipes which run immediately above them, would form a
pleasant and commodious arcade, especially in winter-time, when the
inconvenient custom of carrying umbrellas, now so general, could be
wholly dispensed with. In reply to another question, Professor
Queerspeck stated that no substitute for the purposes to which these
arcades were at present devoted had yet occurred to him, but that he
hoped no fanciful objection on this head would be allowed to interfere
with so great an undertaking.

‘Mr. Jobba produced a forcing-machine on a novel plan, for bringing
joint-stock railway shares prematurely to a premium. The instrument was
in the form of an elegant gilt weather-glass, of most dazzling
appearance, and was worked behind, by strings, after the manner of a
pantomime trick, the strings being always pulled by the directors of
the company to which the machine belonged. The quicksilver was so
ingeniously placed, that when the acting directors held shares in their
pockets, figures denoting very small expenses and very large returns
appeared upon the glass; but the moment the directors parted with these
pieces of paper, the estimate of needful expenditure suddenly increased
itself to an immense extent, while the statements of certain profits
became reduced in the same proportion. Mr. Jobba stated that the
machine had been in constant requisition for some months past, and he
had never once known it to fail.

‘A Member expressed his opinion that it was extremely neat and pretty.
He wished to know whether it was not liable to accidental derangement?
Mr. Jobba said that the whole machine was undoubtedly liable to be
blown up, but that was the only objection to it.

‘Professor Nogo arrived from the anatomical section to exhibit a model
of a safety fire-escape, which could be fixed at any time, in less than
half an hour, and by means of which, the youngest or most infirm
persons (successfully resisting the progress of the flames until it was
quite ready) could be preserved if they merely balanced themselves for
a few minutes on the sill of their bedroom window, and got into the
escape without falling into the street. The Professor stated that the
number of boys who had been rescued in the daytime by this machine from
houses which were not on fire, was almost incredible. Not a
conflagration had occurred in the whole of London for many months past
to which the escape had not been carried on the very next day, and put
in action before a concourse of persons.

‘The President inquired whether there was not some difficulty in
ascertaining which was the top of the machine, and which the bottom, in
cases of pressing emergency.

‘Professor Nogo explained that of course it could not be expected to
act quite as well when there was a fire, as when there was not a fire;
but in the former case he thought it would be of equal service whether
the top were up or down.’

With the last section our correspondent concludes his most able and
faithful Report, which will never cease to reflect credit upon him for
his scientific attainments, and upon us for our enterprising spirit. It
is needless to take a review of the subjects which have been discussed;
of the mode in which they have been examined; of the great truths which
they have elicited. They are now before the world, and we leave them to
read, to consider, and to profit.

The place of meeting for next year has undergone discussion, and has at
length been decided, regard being had to, and evidence being taken
upon, the goodness of its wines, the supply of its markets, the
hospitality of its inhabitants, and the quality of its hotels. We hope
at this next meeting our correspondent may again be present, and that
we may be once more the means of placing his communications before the
world. Until that period we have been prevailed upon to allow this
number of our Miscellany to be retailed to the public, or wholesaled to
the trade, without any advance upon our usual price.

We have only to add, that the committees are now broken up, and that
Mudfog is once again restored to its accustomed tranquillity,—that
Professors and Members have had balls, and _soirées_, and suppers, and
great mutual complimentations, and have at length dispersed to their
several homes,—whither all good wishes and joys attend them, until next
year!

Signed Boz.




FULL REPORT OF THE SECOND MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION
for the advancement of everything


In October last, we did ourselves the immortal credit of recording, at
an enormous expense, and by dint of exertions unnpralleled in the
history of periodical publication, the proceedings of the Mudfog
Association for the Advancement of Everything, which in that month held
its first great half-yearly meeting, to the wonder and delight of the
whole empire. We announced at the conclusion of that extraordinary and
most remarkable Report, that when the Second Meeting of the Society
should take place, we should be found again at our post, renewing our
gigantic and spirited endeavours, and once more making the world ring
with the accuracy, authenticity, immeasurable superiority, and intense
remarkability of our account of its proceedings. In redemption of this
pledge, we caused to be despatched per steam to Oldcastle (at which
place this second meeting of the Society was held on the 20th instant),
the same superhumanly-endowed gentleman who furnished the former
report, and who,—gifted by nature with transcendent abilities, and
furnished by us with a body of assistants scarcely inferior to
himself,—has forwarded a series of letters, which, for faithfulness of
description, power of language, fervour of thought, happiness of
expression, and importance of subject-matter, have no equal in the
epistolary literature of any age or country. We give this gentleman’s
correspondence entire, and in the order in which it reached our office.

‘_Saloon of Steamer_, _Thursday night_, _half-past eight_.


‘When I left New Burlington Street this evening in the hackney
cabriolet, number four thousand two hundred and eighty-five, I
experienced sensations as novel as they were oppressive. A sense of the
importance of the task I had undertaken, a consciousness that I was
leaving London, and, stranger still, going somewhere else, a feeling of
loneliness and a sensation of jolting, quite bewildered my thoughts,
and for a time rendered me even insensible to the presence of my
carpet-bag and hat-box. I shall ever feel grateful to the driver of a
Blackwall omnibus who, by thrusting the pole of his vehicle through the
small door of the cabriolet, awakened me from a tumult of imaginings
that are wholly indescribable. But of such materials is our imperfect
nature composed!

‘I am happy to say that I am the first passenger on board, and shall
thus be enabled to give you an account of all that happens in the order
of its occurrence. The chimney is smoking a good deal, and so are the
crew; and the captain, I am informed, is very drunk in a little house
upon deck, something like a black turnpike. I should infer from all I
hear that he has got the steam up.

‘You will readily guess with what feelings I have just made the
discovery that my berth is in the same closet with those engaged by
Professor Woodensconce, Mr. Slug, and Professor Grime. Professor
Woodensconce has taken the shelf above me, and Mr. Slug and Professor
Grime the two shelves opposite. Their luggage has already arrived. On
Mr. Slug’s bed is a long tin tube of about three inches in diameter,
carefully closed at both ends. What can this contain? Some powerful
instrument of a new construction, doubtless.’

‘_Ten minutes past nine_.


‘Nobody has yet arrived, nor has anything fresh come in my way except
several joints of beef and mutton, from which I conclude that a good
plain dinner has been provided for to-morrow. There is a singular smell
below, which gave me some uneasiness at first; but as the steward says
it is always there, and never goes away, I am quite comfortable again.
I learn from this man that the different sections will be distributed
at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache, and the Boot-jack and Countenance.
If this intelligence be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), your
readers will draw such conclusions as their different opinions may
suggest.

‘I write down these remarks as they occur to me, or as the facts come
to my knowledge, in order that my first impressions may lose nothing of
their original vividness. I shall despatch them in small packets as
opportunities arise.’

‘_Half past nine_.


‘Some dark object has just appeared upon the wharf. I think it is a
travelling carriage.’

‘_A quarter to ten_.


‘No, it isn’t.’

‘_Half-past ten_.


The passengers are pouring in every instant. Four omnibuses full have
just arrived upon the wharf, and all is bustle and activity. The noise
and confusion are very great. Cloths are laid in the cabins, and the
steward is placing blue plates—full of knobs of cheese at equal
distances down the centre of the tables. He drops a great many knobs;
but, being used to it, picks them up again with great dexterity, and,
after wiping them on his sleeve, throws them back into the plates. He
is a young man of exceedingly prepossessing appearance—either dirty or
a mulatto, but I think the former.

‘An interesting old gentleman, who came to the wharf in an omnibus, has
just quarrelled violently with the porters, and is staggering towards
the vessel with a large trunk in his arms. I trust and hope that he may
reach it in safety; but the board he has to cross is narrow and
slippery. Was that a splash? Gracious powers!

‘I have just returned from the deck. The trunk is standing upon the
extreme brink of the wharf, but the old gentleman is nowhere to be
seen. The watchman is not sure whether he went down or not, but
promises to drag for him the first thing to-morrow morning. May his
humane efforts prove successful!

‘Professor Nogo has this moment arrived with his nightcap on under his
hat. He has ordered a glass of cold brandy and water, with a hard
biscuit and a basin, and has gone straight to bed. What can this mean?

‘The three other scientific gentlemen to whom I have already alluded
have come on board, and have all tried their beds, with the exception
of Professor Woodensconce, who sleeps in one of the top ones, and can’t
get into it. Mr. Slug, who sleeps in the other top one, is unable to
get out of his, and is to have his supper handed up by a boy. I have
had the honour to introduce myself to these gentlemen, and we have
amicably arranged the order in which we shall retire to rest; which it
is necessary to agree upon, because, although the cabin is very
comfortable, there is not room for more than one gentleman to be out of
bed at a time, and even he must take his boots off in the passage.

‘As I anticipated, the knobs of cheese were provided for the
passengers’ supper, and are now in course of consumption. Your readers
will be surprised to hear that Professor Woodensconce has abstained
from cheese for eight years, although he takes butter in considerable
quantities. Professor Grime having lost several teeth, is unable, I
observe, to eat his crusts without previously soaking them in his
bottled porter. How interesting are these peculiarities!’

‘_Half-past eleven_.


‘Professors Woodensconce and Grime, with a degree of good humour that
delights us all, have just arranged to toss for a bottle of mulled
port. There has been some discussion whether the payment should be
decided by the first toss or the best out of three. Eventually the
latter course has been determined on. Deeply do I wish that both
gentlemen could win; but that being impossible, I own that my personal
aspirations (I speak as an individual, and do not compromise either you
or your readers by this expression of feeling) are with Professor
Woodensconce. I have backed that gentleman to the amount of
eighteenpence.’

‘_Twenty minutes to twelve_.


‘Professor Grime has inadvertently tossed his half-crown out of one of
the cabin-windows, and it has been arranged that the steward shall toss
for him. Bets are offered on any side to any amount, but there are no
takers.

‘Professor Woodensconce has just called “woman;” but the coin having
lodged in a beam, is a long time coming down again. The interest and
suspense of this one moment are beyond anything that can be imagined.’

‘_Twelve o’clock_.


‘The mulled port is smoking on the table before me, and Professor Grime
has won. Tossing is a game of chance; but on every ground, whether of
public or private character, intellectual endowments, or scientific
attainments, I cannot help expressing my opinion that Professor
Woodensconce _ought_ to have come off victorious. There is an
exultation about Professor Grime incompatible, I fear, with true
greatness.’

‘_A quarter past twelve_.


‘Professor Grime continues to exult, and to boast of his victory in no
very measured terms, observing that he always does win, and that he
knew it would be a “head” beforehand, with many other remarks of a
similar nature. Surely this gentleman is not so lost to every feeling
of decency and propriety as not to feel and know the superiority of
Professor Woodensconce? Is Professor Grime insane? or does he wish to
be reminded in plain language of his true position in society, and the
precise level of his acquirements and abilities? Professor Grime will
do well to look to this.’

‘_One o’clock_.


‘I am writing in bed. The small cabin is illuminated by the feeble
light of a flickering lamp suspended from the ceiling; Professor Grime
is lying on the opposite shelf on the broad of his back, with his mouth
wide open. The scene is indescribably solemn. The rippling of the tide,
the noise of the sailors’ feet overhead, the gruff voices on the river,
the dogs on the shore, the snoring of the passengers, and a constant
creaking of every plank in the vessel, are the only sounds that meet
the ear. With these exceptions, all is profound silence.

‘My curiosity has been within the last moment very much excited. Mr.
Slug, who lies above Professor Grime, has cautiously withdrawn the
curtains of his berth, and, after looking anxiously out, as if to
satisfy himself that his companions are asleep, has taken up the tin
tube of which I have before spoken, and is regarding it with great
interest. What rare mechanical combination can be contained in that
mysterious case? It is evidently a profound secret to all.’

‘_A quarter past one_.


‘The behaviour of Mr. Slug grows more and more mysterious. He has
unscrewed the top of the tube, and now renews his observations upon his
companions, evidently to make sure that he is wholly unobserved. He is
clearly on the eve of some great experiment. Pray heaven that it be not
a dangerous one; but the interests of science must be promoted, and I
am prepared for the worst.’

‘_Five minutes later_.


‘He has produced a large pair of scissors, and drawn a roll of some
substance, not unlike parchment in appearance, from the tin case. The
experiment is about to begin. I must strain my eyes to the utmost, in
the attempt to follow its minutest operation.’

‘_Twenty minutes before two_.


‘I have at length been enabled to ascertain that the tin tube contains
a few yards of some celebrated plaster, recommended—as I discover on
regarding the label attentively through my eye-glass—as a preservative
against sea-sickness. Mr. Slug has cut it up into small portions, and
is now sticking it over himself in every direction.’

‘_Three o’clock_.


‘Precisely a quarter of an hour ago we weighed anchor, and the
machinery was suddenly put in motion with a noise so appalling, that
Professor Woodensconce (who had ascended to his berth by means of a
platform of carpet-bags arranged by himself on geometrical principals)
darted from his shelf head foremost, and, gaining his feet with all the
rapidity of extreme terror, ran wildly into the ladies’ cabin, under
the impression that we were sinking, and uttering loud cries for aid. I
am assured that the scene which ensued baffles all description. There
were one hundred and forty-seven ladies in their respective berths at
the time.

‘Mr. Slug has remarked, as an additional instance of the extreme
ingenuity of the steam-engine as applied to purposes of navigation,
that in whatever part of the vessel a passenger’s berth may be
situated, the machinery always appears to be exactly under his pillow.
He intends stating this very beautiful, though simple discovery, to the
association.’

‘_Half-past ten_.


‘We are still in smooth water; that is to say, in as smooth water as a
steam-vessel ever can be, for, as Professor Woodensconce (who has just
woke up) learnedly remarks, another great point of ingenuity about a
steamer is, that it always carries a little storm with it. You can
scarcely conceive how exciting the jerking pulsation of the ship
becomes. It is a matter of positive difficulty to get to sleep.’

‘_Friday afternoon_, _six o’clock_.


‘I regret to inform you that Mr. Slug’s plaster has proved of no avail.
He is in great agony, but has applied several large, additional pieces
notwithstanding. How affecting is this extreme devotion to science and
pursuit of knowledge under the most trying circumstances!

‘We were extremely happy this morning, and the breakfast was one of the
most animated description. Nothing unpleasant occurred until noon, with
the exception of Doctor Foxey’s brown silk umbrella and white hat
becoming entangled in the machinery while he was explaining to a knot
of ladies the construction of the steam-engine. I fear the gravy soup
for lunch was injudicious. We lost a great many passengers almost
immediately afterwards.’

‘_Half-past six_.


‘I am again in bed. Anything so heart-rending as Mr. Slug’s sufferings
it has never yet been my lot to witness.’

‘_Seven o’clock_.


‘A messenger has just come down for a clean pocket-handkerchief from
Professor Woodensconce’s bag, that unfortunate gentleman being quite
unable to leave the deck, and imploring constantly to be thrown
overboard. From this man I understand that Professor Nogo, though in a
state of utter exhaustion, clings feebly to the hard biscuit and cold
brandy and water, under the impression that they will yet restore him.
Such is the triumph of mind over matter.

‘Professor Grime is in bed, to all appearance quite well; but he _will_
eat, and it is disagreeable to see him. Has this gentleman no sympathy
with the sufferings of his fellow-creatures? If he has, on what
principle can he call for mutton-chops—and smile?’

‘_Black Boy and Stomach-ache_,
_Oldcastle_, _Saturday noon_.


‘You will be happy to learn that I have at length arrived here in
safety. The town is excessively crowded, and all the private lodgings
and hotels are filled with _savans_ of both sexes. The tremendous
assemblage of intellect that one encounters in every street is in the
last degree overwhelming.

‘Notwithstanding the throng of people here, I have been fortunate
enough to meet with very comfortable accommodation on very reasonable
terms, having secured a sofa in the first-floor passage at one guinea
per night, which includes permission to take my meals in the bar, on
condition that I walk about the streets at all other times, to make
room for other gentlemen similarly situated. I have been over the
outhouses intended to be devoted to the reception of the various
sections, both here and at the Boot-jack and Countenance, and am much
delighted with the arrangements. Nothing can exceed the fresh
appearance of the saw-dust with which the floors are sprinkled. The
forms are of unplaned deal, and the general effect, as you can well
imagine, is extremely beautiful.’

‘_Half-past nine_.


‘The number and rapidity of the arrivals are quite bewildering. Within
the last ten minutes a stage-coach has driven up to the door, filled
inside and out with distinguished characters, comprising Mr.
Muddlebranes, Mr. Drawley, Professor Muff, Mr. X. Misty, Mr. X. X.
Misty, Mr. Purblind, Professor Rummun, The Honourable and Reverend Mr.
Long Eers, Professor John Ketch, Sir William Joltered, Doctor Buffer,
Mr. Smith (of London), Mr. Brown (of Edinburgh), Sir Hookham Snivey,
and Professor Pumpkinskull. The ten last-named gentlemen were wet
through, and looked extremely intelligent.’

‘_Sunday_, _two o’clock_, _p.m._


‘The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, accompanied by Sir William
Joltered, walked and drove this morning. They accomplished the former
feat in boots, and the latter in a hired fly. This has naturally given
rise to much discussion.

‘I have just learnt that an interview has taken place at the Boot-jack
and Countenance between Sowster, the active and intelligent beadle of
this place, and Professor Pumpkinskull, who, as your readers are
doubtless aware, is an influential member of the council. I forbear to
communicate any of the rumours to which this very extraordinary
proceeding has given rise until I have seen Sowster, and endeavoured to
ascertain the truth from him.’

‘_Half-past six_.


‘I engaged a donkey-chaise shortly after writing the above, and
proceeded at a brisk trot in the direction of Sowster’s residence,
passing through a beautiful expanse of country, with red brick
buildings on either side, and stopping in the marketplace to observe
the spot where Mr. Kwakley’s hat was blown off yesterday. It is an
uneven piece of paving, but has certainly no appearance which would
lead one to suppose that any such event had recently occurred there.
From this point I proceeded—passing the gas-works and
tallow-melter’s—to a lane which had been pointed out to me as the
beadle’s place of residence; and before I had driven a dozen yards
further, I had the good fortune to meet Sowster himself advancing
towards me.

‘Sowster is a fat man, with a more enlarged development of that
peculiar conformation of countenance which is vulgarly termed a double
chin than I remember to have ever seen before. He has also a very red
nose, which he attributes to a habit of early rising—so red, indeed,
that but for this explanation I should have supposed it to proceed from
occasional inebriety. He informed me that he did not feel himself at
liberty to relate what had passed between himself and Professor
Pumpkinskull, but had no objection to state that it was connected with
a matter of police regulation, and added with peculiar significance
“Never wos sitch times!”

‘You will easily believe that this intelligence gave me considerable
surprise, not wholly unmixed with anxiety, and that I lost no time in
waiting on Professor Pumpkinskull, and stating the object of my visit.
After a few moments’ reflection, the Professor, who, I am bound to say,
behaved with the utmost politeness, openly avowed (I mark the passage
in italics) _that he had requested Sowster to attend on the Monday
morning at the Boot-jack and Countenance_, _to keep off the boys_; _and
that he had further desired that the under-beadle might be stationed_,
_with the same object_, _at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache_!

‘Now I leave this unconstitutional proceeding to your comments and the
consideration of your readers. I have yet to learn that a beadle,
without the precincts of a church, churchyard, or work-house, and
acting otherwise than under the express orders of churchwardens and
overseers in council assembled, to enforce the law against people who
come upon the parish, and other offenders, has any lawful authority
whatever over the rising youth of this country. I have yet to learn
that a beadle can be called out by any civilian to exercise a
domination and despotism over the boys of Britain. I have yet to learn
that a beadle will be permitted by the commissioners of poor law
regulation to wear out the soles and heels of his boots in illegal
interference with the liberties of people not proved poor or otherwise
criminal. I have yet to learn that a beadle has power to stop up the
Queen’s highway at his will and pleasure, or that the whole width of
the street is not free and open to any man, boy, or woman in existence,
up to the very walls of the houses—ay, be they Black Boys and
Stomach-aches, or Boot-jacks and Countenances, I care not.’

‘_Nine o’clock_.


‘I have procured a local artist to make a faithful sketch of the tyrant
Sowster, which, as he has acquired this infamous celebrity, you will no
doubt wish to have engraved for the purpose of presenting a copy with
every copy of your next number. I enclose it.

[Picture which cannot be reproduced]

The under-beadle has consented to write his life, but it is to be
strictly anonymous.

‘The accompanying likeness is of course from the life, and complete in
every respect. Even if I had been totally ignorant of the man’s real
character, and it had been placed before me without remark, I should
have shuddered involuntarily. There is an intense malignity of
expression in the features, and a baleful ferocity of purpose in the
ruffian’s eye, which appals and sickens. His whole air is rampant with
cruelty, nor is the stomach less characteristic of his demoniac
propensities.’

‘_Monday_.


‘The great day has at length arrived. I have neither eyes, nor ears,
nor pens, nor ink, nor paper, for anything but the wonderful
proceedings that have astounded my senses. Let me collect my energies
and proceed to the account.




‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY.
FRONT PARLOUR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.


_President_—Sir William Joltered. _Vice-Presidents_—Mr. Muddlebranes
and Mr. Drawley.

‘Mr. X. X. Misty communicated some remarks on the disappearance of
dancing-bears from the streets of London, with observations on the
exhibition of monkeys as connected with barrel-organs. The writer had
observed, with feelings of the utmost pain and regret, that some years
ago a sudden and unaccountable change in the public taste took place
with reference to itinerant bears, who, being discountenanced by the
populace, gradually fell off one by one from the streets of the
metropolis, until not one remained to create a taste for natural
history in the breasts of the poor and uninstructed. One bear,
indeed,—a brown and ragged animal,—had lingered about the haunts of his
former triumphs, with a worn and dejected visage and feeble limbs, and
had essayed to wield his quarter-staff for the amusement of the
multitude; but hunger, and an utter want of any due recompense for his
abilities, had at length driven him from the field, and it was only too
probable that he had fallen a sacrifice to the rising taste for grease.
He regretted to add that a similar, and no less lamentable, change had
taken place with reference to monkeys. These delightful animals had
formerly been almost as plentiful as the organs on the tops of which
they were accustomed to sit; the proportion in the year 1829 (it
appeared by the parliamentary return) being as one monkey to three
organs. Owing, however, to an altered taste in musical instruments, and
the substitution, in a great measure, of narrow boxes of music for
organs, which left the monkeys nothing to sit upon, this source of
public amusement was wholly dried up. Considering it a matter of the
deepest importance, in connection with national education, that the
people should not lose such opportunities of making themselves
acquainted with the manners and customs of two most interesting species
of animals, the author submitted that some measures should be
immediately taken for the restoration of these pleasing and truly
intellectual amusements.

‘The President inquired by what means the honourable member proposed to
attain this most desirable end?

‘The Author submitted that it could be most fully and satisfactorily
accomplished, if Her Majesty’s Government would cause to be brought
over to England, and maintained at the public expense, and for the
public amusement, such a number of bears as would enable every quarter
of the town to be visited—say at least by three bears a week. No
difficulty whatever need be experienced in providing a fitting place
for the reception of these animals, as a commodious bear-garden could
be erected in the immediate neighbourhood of both Houses of Parliament;
obviously the most proper and eligible spot for such an establishment.

‘Professor Mull doubted very much whether any correct ideas of natural
history were propagated by the means to which the honourable member had
so ably adverted. On the contrary, he believed that they had been the
means of diffusing very incorrect and imperfect notions on the subject.
He spoke from personal observation and personal experience, when he
said that many children of great abilities had been induced to believe,
from what they had observed in the streets, at and before the period to
which the honourable gentleman had referred, that all monkeys were born
in red coats and spangles, and that their hats and feathers also came
by nature. He wished to know distinctly whether the honourable
gentleman attributed the want of encouragement the bears had met with
to the decline of public taste in that respect, or to a want of ability
on the part of the bears themselves?

‘Mr. X. X. Misty replied, that he could not bring himself to believe
but that there must be a great deal of floating talent among the bears
and monkeys generally; which, in the absence of any proper
encouragement, was dispersed in other directions.

‘Professor Pumpkinskull wished to take that opportunity of calling the
attention of the section to a most important and serious point. The
author of the treatise just read had alluded to the prevalent taste for
bears’-grease as a means of promoting the growth of hair, which
undoubtedly was diffused to a very great and (as it appeared to him)
very alarming extent. No gentleman attending that section could fail to
be aware of the fact that the youth of the present age evinced, by
their behaviour in the streets, and at all places of public resort, a
considerable lack of that gallantry and gentlemanly feeling which, in
more ignorant times, had been thought becoming. He wished to know
whether it were possible that a constant outward application of
bears’-grease by the young gentlemen about town had imperceptibly
infused into those unhappy persons something of the nature and quality
of the bear. He shuddered as he threw out the remark; but if this
theory, on inquiry, should prove to be well founded, it would at once
explain a great deal of unpleasant eccentricity of behaviour, which,
without some such discovery, was wholly unaccountable.

‘The President highly complimented the learned gentleman on his most
valuable suggestion, which produced the greatest effect upon the
assembly; and remarked that only a week previous he had seen some young
gentlemen at a theatre eyeing a box of ladies with a fierce intensity,
which nothing but the influence of some brutish appetite could possibly
explain. It was dreadful to reflect that our youth were so rapidly
verging into a generation of bears.

‘After a scene of scientific enthusiasm it was resolved that this
important question should be immediately submitted to the consideration
of the council.

‘The President wished to know whether any gentleman could inform the
section what had become of the dancing-dogs?

‘A Member replied, after some hesitation, that on the day after three
glee-singers had been committed to prison as criminals by a late most
zealous police-magistrate of the metropolis, the dogs had abandoned
their professional duties, and dispersed themselves in different
quarters of the town to gain a livelihood by less dangerous means. He
was given to understand that since that period they had supported
themselves by lying in wait for and robbing blind men’s poodles.

‘Mr. Flummery exhibited a twig, claiming to be a veritable branch of
that noble tree known to naturalists as the Shakspeare, which has taken
root in every land and climate, and gathered under the shade of its
broad green boughs the great family of mankind. The learned gentleman
remarked that the twig had been undoubtedly called by other names in
its time; but that it had been pointed out to him by an old lady in
Warwickshire, where the great tree had grown, as a shoot of the genuine
Shakspeare, by which name he begged to introduce it to his countrymen.

‘The President wished to know what botanical definition the honourable
gentleman could afford of the curiosity.

‘Mr. Flummery expressed his opinion that it was a decided plant.




‘SECTION B.—DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL SCIENCE.
LARGE ROOM, BOOT-JACK AND COUNTENANCE.


_President_—Mr. Mallett. _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Leaver and Scroo.

‘Mr. Crinkles exhibited a most beautiful and delicate machine, of
little larger size than an ordinary snuff-box, manufactured entirely by
himself, and composed exclusively of steel, by the aid of which more
pockets could be picked in one hour than by the present slow and
tedious process in four-and-twenty. The inventor remarked that it had
been put into active operation in Fleet Street, the Strand, and other
thoroughfares, and had never been once known to fail.

‘After some slight delay, occasioned by the various members of the
section buttoning their pockets,

‘The President narrowly inspected the invention, and declared that he
had never seen a machine of more beautiful or exquisite construction.
Would the inventor be good enough to inform the section whether he had
taken any and what means for bringing it into general operation?

‘Mr. Crinkles stated that, after encountering some preliminary
difficulties, he had succeeded in putting himself in communication with
Mr. Fogle Hunter, and other gentlemen connected with the swell mob, who
had awarded the invention the very highest and most unqualified
approbation. He regretted to say, however, that these distinguished
practitioners, in common with a gentleman of the name of Gimlet-eyed
Tommy, and other members of a secondary grade of the profession whom he
was understood to represent, entertained an insuperable objection to
its being brought into general use, on the ground that it would have
the inevitable effect of almost entirely superseding manual labour, and
throwing a great number of highly-deserving persons out of employment.

‘The President hoped that no such fanciful objections would be allowed
to stand in the way of such a great public improvement.

‘Mr. Crinkles hoped so too; but he feared that if the gentlemen of the
swell mob persevered in their objection, nothing could be done.

‘Professor Grime suggested, that surely, in that case, Her Majesty’s
Government might be prevailed upon to take it up.

‘Mr. Crinkles said, that if the objection were found to be insuperable
he should apply to Parliament, which he thought could not fail to
recognise the utility of the invention.

‘The President observed that, up to this time Parliament had certainly
got on very well without it; but, as they did their business on a very
large scale, he had no doubt they would gladly adopt the improvement.
His only fear was that the machine might be worn out by constant
working.

‘Mr. Coppernose called the attention of the section to a proposition of
great magnitude and interest, illustrated by a vast number of models,
and stated with much clearness and perspicuity in a treatise entitled
“Practical Suggestions on the necessity of providing some harmless and
wholesome relaxation for the young noblemen of England.” His
proposition was, that a space of ground of not less than ten miles in
length and four in breadth should be purchased by a new company, to be
incorporated by Act of Parliament, and inclosed by a brick wall of not
less than twelve feet in height. He proposed that it should be laid out
with highway roads, turnpikes, bridges, miniature villages, and every
object that could conduce to the comfort and glory of Four-in-hand
Clubs, so that they might be fairly presumed to require no drive beyond
it. This delightful retreat would be fitted up with most commodious and
extensive stables, for the convenience of such of the nobility and
gentry as had a taste for ostlering, and with houses of entertainment
furnished in the most expensive and handsome style. It would be further
provided with whole streets of door-knockers and bell-handles of extra
size, so constructed that they could be easily wrenched off at night,
and regularly screwed on again, by attendants provided for the purpose,
every day. There would also be gas lamps of real glass, which could be
broken at a comparatively small expense per dozen, and a broad and
handsome foot pavement for gentlemen to drive their cabriolets upon
when they were humorously disposed—for the full enjoyment of which feat
live pedestrians would be procured from the workhouse at a very small
charge per head. The place being inclosed, and carefully screened from
the intrusion of the public, there would be no objection to gentlemen
laying aside any article of their costume that was considered to
interfere with a pleasant frolic, or, indeed, to their walking about
without any costume at all, if they liked that better. In short, every
facility of enjoyment would be afforded that the most gentlemanly
person could possibly desire. But as even these advantages would be
incomplete unless there were some means provided of enabling the
nobility and gentry to display their prowess when they sallied forth
after dinner, and as some inconvenience might be experienced in the
event of their being reduced to the necessity of pummelling each other,
the inventor had turned his attention to the construction of an
entirely new police force, composed exclusively of automaton figures,
which, with the assistance of the ingenious Signor Gagliardi, of
Windmill-street, in the Haymarket, he had succeeded in making with such
nicety, that a policeman, cab-driver, or old woman, made upon the
principle of the models exhibited, would walk about until knocked down
like any real man; nay, more, if set upon and beaten by six or eight
noblemen or gentlemen, after it was down, the figure would utter divers
groans, mingled with entreaties for mercy, thus rendering the illusion
complete, and the enjoyment perfect. But the invention did not stop
even here; for station-houses would be built, containing good beds for
noblemen and gentlemen during the night, and in the morning they would
repair to a commodious police office, where a pantomimic investigation
would take place before the automaton magistrates,—quite equal to
life,—who would fine them in so many counters, with which they would be
previously provided for the purpose. This office would be furnished
with an inclined plane, for the convenience of any nobleman or
gentleman who might wish to bring in his horse as a witness; and the
prisoners would be at perfect liberty, as they were now, to interrupt
the complainants as much as they pleased, and to make any remarks that
they thought proper. The charge for these amusements would amount to
very little more than they already cost, and the inventor submitted
that the public would be much benefited and comforted by the proposed
arrangement.

‘Professor Nogo wished to be informed what amount of automaton police
force it was proposed to raise in the first instance.

‘Mr. Coppernose replied, that it was proposed to begin with seven
divisions of police of a score each, lettered from A to G inclusive. It
was proposed that not more than half this number should be placed on
active duty, and that the remainder should be kept on shelves in the
police office ready to be called out at a moment’s notice.

‘The President, awarding the utmost merit to the ingenious gentleman
who had originated the idea, doubted whether the automaton police would
quite answer the purpose. He feared that noblemen and gentlemen would
perhaps require the excitement of thrashing living subjects.

‘Mr. Coppernose submitted, that as the usual odds in such cases were
ten noblemen or gentlemen to one policeman or cab-driver, it could make
very little difference in point of excitement whether the policeman or
cab-driver were a man or a block. The great advantage would be, that a
policeman’s limbs might be all knocked off, and yet he would be in a
condition to do duty next day. He might even give his evidence next
morning with his head in his hand, and give it equally well.

‘Professor Muff.—Will you allow me to ask you, sir, of what materials
it is intended that the magistrates’ heads shall be composed?

‘Mr. Coppernose.—The magistrates will have wooden heads of course, and
they will be made of the toughest and thickest materials that can
possibly be obtained.

‘Professor Muff.—I am quite satisfied. This is a great invention.

‘Professor Nogo.—I see but one objection to it. It appears to me that
the magistrates ought to talk.

‘Mr. Coppernose no sooner heard this suggestion than he touched a small
spring in each of the two models of magistrates which were placed upon
the table; one of the figures immediately began to exclaim with great
volubility that he was sorry to see gentlemen in such a situation, and
the other to express a fear that the policeman was intoxicated.

‘The section, as with one accord, declared with a shout of applause
that the invention was complete; and the President, much excited,
retired with Mr. Coppernose to lay it before the council. On his
return,

‘Mr. Tickle displayed his newly-invented spectacles, which enabled the
wearer to discern, in very bright colours, objects at a great distance,
and rendered him wholly blind to those immediately before him. It was,
he said, a most valuable and useful invention, based strictly upon the
principle of the human eye.

‘The President required some information upon this point. He had yet to
learn that the human eye was remarkable for the peculiarities of which
the honourable gentleman had spoken.

‘Mr. Tickle was rather astonished to hear this, when the President
could not fail to be aware that a large number of most excellent
persons and great statesmen could see, with the naked eye, most
marvellous horrors on West India plantations, while they could discern
nothing whatever in the interior of Manchester cotton mills. He must
know, too, with what quickness of perception most people could discover
their neighbour’s faults, and how very blind they were to their own. If
the President differed from the great majority of men in this respect,
his eye was a defective one, and it was to assist his vision that these
glasses were made.

‘Mr. Blank exhibited a model of a fashionable annual, composed of
copper-plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and worked entirely by milk
and water.

‘Mr. Prosee, after examining the machine, declared it to be so
ingeniously composed, that he was wholly unable to discover how it went
on at all.

‘Mr. Blank.—Nobody can, and that is the beauty of it.




‘SECTION C.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.
BAR ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.


_President_—Dr. Soemup. _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Pessell and Mortair.

‘Dr. Grummidge stated to the section a most interesting case of
monomania, and described the course of treatment he had pursued with
perfect success. The patient was a married lady in the middle rank of
life, who, having seen another lady at an evening party in a full suit
of pearls, was suddenly seized with a desire to possess a similar
equipment, although her husband’s finances were by no means equal to
the necessary outlay. Finding her wish ungratified, she fell sick, and
the symptoms soon became so alarming, that he (Dr. Grummidge) was
called in. At this period the prominent tokens of the disorder were
sullenness, a total indisposition to perform domestic duties, great
peevishness, and extreme languor, except when pearls were mentioned, at
which times the pulse quickened, the eyes grew brighter, the pupils
dilated, and the patient, after various incoherent exclamations, burst
into a passion of tears, and exclaimed that nobody cared for her, and
that she wished herself dead. Finding that the patient’s appetite was
affected in the presence of company, he began by ordering a total
abstinence from all stimulants, and forbidding any sustenance but weak
gruel; he then took twenty ounces of blood, applied a blister under
each ear, one upon the chest, and another on the back; having done
which, and administered five grains of calomel, he left the patient to
her repose. The next day she was somewhat low, but decidedly better,
and all appearances of irritation were removed. The next day she
improved still further, and on the next again. On the fourth there was
some appearance of a return of the old symptoms, which no sooner
developed themselves, than he administered another dose of calomel, and
left strict orders that, unless a decidedly favourable change occurred
within two hours, the patient’s head should be immediately shaved to
the very last curl. From that moment she began to mend, and, in less
than four-and-twenty hours was perfectly restored. She did not now
betray the least emotion at the sight or mention of pearls or any other
ornaments. She was cheerful and good-humoured, and a most beneficial
change had been effected in her whole temperament and condition.

‘Mr. Pipkin (M.R.C.S.) read a short but most interesting communication
in which he sought to prove the complete belief of Sir William
Courtenay, otherwise Thorn, recently shot at Canterbury, in the
Homoeopathic system. The section would bear in mind that one of the
Homoeopathic doctrines was, that infinitesimal doses of any medicine
which would occasion the disease under which the patient laboured,
supposing him to be in a healthy state, would cure it. Now, it was a
remarkable circumstance—proved in the evidence—that the deceased Thorn
employed a woman to follow him about all day with a pail of water,
assuring her that one drop (a purely homoeopathic remedy, the section
would observe), placed upon his tongue, after death, would restore him.
What was the obvious inference? That Thorn, who was marching and
countermarching in osier beds, and other swampy places, was impressed
with a presentiment that he should be drowned; in which case, had his
instructions been complied with, he could not fail to have been brought
to life again instantly by his own prescription. As it was, if this
woman, or any other person, had administered an infinitesimal dose of
lead and gunpowder immediately after he fell, he would have recovered
forthwith. But unhappily the woman concerned did not possess the power
of reasoning by analogy, or carrying out a principle, and thus the
unfortunate gentleman had been sacrificed to the ignorance of the
peasantry.




‘SECTION D.—STATISTICS.
OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.


_President_—Mr. Slug. _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Noakes and Styles.

‘Mr. Kwakley stated the result of some most ingenious statistical
inquiries relative to the difference between the value of the
qualification of several members of Parliament as published to the
world, and its real nature and amount. After reminding the section that
every member of Parliament for a town or borough was supposed to
possess a clear freehold estate of three hundred pounds per annum, the
honourable gentleman excited great amusement and laughter by stating
the exact amount of freehold property possessed by a column of
legislators, in which he had included himself. It appeared from this
table, that the amount of such income possessed by each was 0 pounds, 0
shillings, and 0 pence, yielding an average of the same. (Great
laughter.) It was pretty well known that there were accommodating
gentlemen in the habit of furnishing new members with temporary
qualifications, to the ownership of which they swore solemnly—of course
as a mere matter of form. He argued from these _data_ that it was
wholly unnecessary for members of Parliament to possess any property at
all, especially as when they had none the public could get them so much
cheaper.




‘SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION, E.—UMBUGOLOGY AND DITCHWATERISICS.


_President_—Mr. Grub. _Vice Presidents_—Messrs. Dull and Dummy.

‘A paper was read by the secretary descriptive of a bay pony with one
eye, which had been seen by the author standing in a butcher’s cart at
the corner of Newgate Market. The communication described the author of
the paper as having, in the prosecution of a mercantile pursuit,
betaken himself one Saturday morning last summer from Somers Town to
Cheapside; in the course of which expedition he had beheld the
extraordinary appearance above described. The pony had one distinct
eye, and it had been pointed out to him by his friend Captain
Blunderbore, of the Horse Marines, who assisted the author in his
search, that whenever he winked this eye he whisked his tail (possibly
to drive the flies off), but that he always winked and whisked at the
same time. The animal was lean, spavined, and tottering; and the author
proposed to constitute it of the family of _Fitfordogsmeataurious_. It
certainly did occur to him that there was no case on record of a pony
with one clearly-defined and distinct organ of vision, winking and
whisking at the same moment.

‘Mr. Q. J. Snuffletoffle had heard of a pony winking his eye, and
likewise of a pony whisking his tail, but whether they were two ponies
or the same pony he could not undertake positively to say. At all
events, he was acquainted with no authenticated instance of a
simultaneous winking and whisking, and he really could not but doubt
the existence of such a marvellous pony in opposition to all those
natural laws by which ponies were governed. Referring, however, to the
mere question of his one organ of vision, might he suggest the
possibility of this pony having been literally half asleep at the time
he was seen, and having closed only one eye.

‘The President observed that, whether the pony was half asleep or fast
asleep, there could be no doubt that the association was wide awake,
and therefore that they had better get the business over, and go to
dinner. He had certainly never seen anything analogous to this pony,
but he was not prepared to doubt its existence; for he had seen many
queerer ponies in his time, though he did not pretend to have seen any
more remarkable donkeys than the other gentlemen around him.

‘Professor John Ketch was then called upon to exhibit the skull of the
late Mr. Greenacre, which he produced from a blue bag, remarking, on
being invited to make any observations that occurred to him, “that he’d
pound it as that ’ere ’spectable section had never seed a more gamerer
cove nor he vos.”

‘A most animated discussion upon this interesting relic ensued; and,
some difference of opinion arising respecting the real character of the
deceased gentleman, Mr. Blubb delivered a lecture upon the cranium
before him, clearly showing that Mr. Greenacre possessed the organ of
destructiveness to a most unusual extent, with a most remarkable
development of the organ of carveativeness. Sir Hookham Snivey was
proceeding to combat this opinion, when Professor Ketch suddenly
interrupted the proceedings by exclaiming, with great excitement of
manner, “Walker!”

‘The President begged to call the learned gentleman to order.

‘Professor Ketch.—“Order be blowed! you’ve got the wrong un, I tell
you. It ain’t no ’ed at all; it’s a coker-nut as my brother-in-law has
been a-carvin’, to hornament his new baked tatur-stall wots a-comin’
down ’ere vile the ’sociation’s in the town. Hand over, vill you?”

‘With these words, Professor Ketch hastily repossessed himself of the
cocoa-nut, and drew forth the skull, in mistake for which he had
exhibited it. A most interesting conversation ensued; but as there
appeared some doubt ultimately whether the skull was Mr. Greenacre’s,
or a hospital patient’s, or a pauper’s, or a man’s, or a woman’s, or a
monkey’s, no particular result was obtained.’

‘I cannot,’ says our talented correspondent in conclusion, ‘I cannot
close my account of these gigantic researches and sublime and noble
triumphs without repeating a _bon mot_ of Professor Woodensconce’s,
which shows how the greatest minds may occasionally unbend when truth
can be presented to listening ears, clothed in an attractive and
playful form. I was standing by, when, after a week of feasting and
feeding, that learned gentleman, accompanied by the whole body of
wonderful men, entered the hall yesterday, where a sumptuous dinner was
prepared; where the richest wines sparkled on the board, and fat
bucks—propitiatory sacrifices to learning—sent forth their savoury
odours. “Ah!” said Professor Woodensconce, rubbing his hands, “this is
what we meet for; this is what inspires us; this is what keeps us
together, and beckons us onward; this is the _spread_ of science, and a
glorious spread it is.”’




THE PANTOMIME OF LIFE


Before we plunge headlong into this paper, let us at once confess to a
fondness for pantomimes—to a gentle sympathy with clowns and
pantaloons—to an unqualified admiration of harlequins and columbines—to
a chaste delight in every action of their brief existence, varied and
many-coloured as those actions are, and inconsistent though they
occasionally be with those rigid and formal rules of propriety which
regulate the proceedings of meaner and less comprehensive minds. We
revel in pantomimes—not because they dazzle one’s eyes with tinsel and
gold leaf; not because they present to us, once again, the well-beloved
chalked faces, and goggle eyes of our childhood; not even because, like
Christmas-day, and Twelfth-night, and Shrove-Tuesday, and one’s own
birthday, they come to us but once a year;—our attachment is founded on
a graver and a very different reason. A pantomime is to us, a mirror of
life; nay, more, we maintain that it is so to audiences generally,
although they are not aware of it, and that this very circumstance is
the secret cause of their amusement and delight.

Let us take a slight example. The scene is a street: an elderly
gentleman, with a large face and strongly marked features, appears. His
countenance beams with a sunny smile, and a perpetual dimple is on his
broad, red cheek. He is evidently an opulent elderly gentleman,
comfortable in circumstances, and well-to-do in the world. He is not
unmindful of the adornment of his person, for he is richly, not to say
gaudily, dressed; and that he indulges to a reasonable extent in the
pleasures of the table may be inferred from the joyous and oily manner
in which he rubs his stomach, by way of informing the audience that he
is going home to dinner. In the fulness of his heart, in the fancied
security of wealth, in the possession and enjoyment of all the good
things of life, the elderly gentleman suddenly loses his footing, and
stumbles. How the audience roar! He is set upon by a noisy and
officious crowd, who buffet and cuff him unmercifully. They scream with
delight! Every time the elderly gentleman struggles to get up, his
relentless persecutors knock him down again. The spectators are
convulsed with merriment! And when at last the elderly gentleman does
get up, and staggers away, despoiled of hat, wig, and clothing, himself
battered to pieces, and his watch and money gone, they are exhausted
with laughter, and express their merriment and admiration in rounds of
applause.

Is this like life? Change the scene to any real street;—to the Stock
Exchange, or the City banker’s; the merchant’s counting-house, or even
the tradesman’s shop. See any one of these men fall,—the more suddenly,
and the nearer the zenith of his pride and riches, the better. What a
wild hallo is raised over his prostrate carcase by the shouting mob;
how they whoop and yell as he lies humbled beneath them! Mark how
eagerly they set upon him when he is down; and how they mock and deride
him as he slinks away. Why, it is the pantomime to the very letter.

Of all the pantomimic _dramatis personae_, we consider the pantaloon
the most worthless and debauched. Independent of the dislike one
naturally feels at seeing a gentleman of his years engaged in pursuits
highly unbecoming his gravity and time of life, we cannot conceal from
ourselves the fact that he is a treacherous, worldly-minded old
villain, constantly enticing his younger companion, the clown, into
acts of fraud or petty larceny, and generally standing aside to watch
the result of the enterprise. If it be successful, he never forgets to
return for his share of the spoil; but if it turn out a failure, he
generally retires with remarkable caution and expedition, and keeps
carefully aloof until the affair has blown over. His amorous
propensities, too, are eminently disagreeable; and his mode of
addressing ladies in the open street at noon-day is down-right
improper, being usually neither more nor less than a perceptible
tickling of the aforesaid ladies in the waist, after committing which,
he starts back, manifestly ashamed (as well he may be) of his own
indecorum and temerity; continuing, nevertheless, to ogle and beckon to
them from a distance in a very unpleasant and immoral manner.

Is there any man who cannot count a dozen pantaloons in his own social
circle? Is there any man who has not seen them swarming at the west end
of the town on a sunshiny day or a summer’s evening, going through the
last-named pantomimic feats with as much liquorish energy, and as total
an absence of reserve, as if they were on the very stage itself? We can
tell upon our fingers a dozen pantaloons of our acquaintance at this
moment—capital pantaloons, who have been performing all kinds of
strange freaks, to the great amusement of their friends and
acquaintance, for years past; and who to this day are making such
comical and ineffectual attempts to be young and dissolute, that all
beholders are like to die with laughter.

Take that old gentleman who has just emerged from the _Café de
l’Europe_ in the Haymarket, where he has been dining at the expense of
the young man upon town with whom he shakes hands as they part at the
door of the tavern. The affected warmth of that shake of the hand, the
courteous nod, the obvious recollection of the dinner, the savoury
flavour of which still hangs upon his lips, are all characteristics of
his great prototype. He hobbles away humming an opera tune, and
twirling his cane to and fro, with affected carelessness. Suddenly he
stops—’tis at the milliner’s window. He peeps through one of the large
panes of glass; and, his view of the ladies within being obstructed by
the India shawls, directs his attentions to the young girl with the
band-box in her hand, who is gazing in at the window also. See! he
draws beside her. He coughs; she turns away from him. He draws near her
again; she disregards him. He gleefully chucks her under the chin, and,
retreating a few steps, nods and beckons with fantastic grimaces, while
the girl bestows a contemptuous and supercilious look upon his wrinkled
visage. She turns away with a flounce, and the old gentleman trots
after her with a toothless chuckle. The pantaloon to the life!

But the close resemblance which the clowns of the stage bear to those
of every-day life is perfectly extraordinary. Some people talk with a
sigh of the decline of pantomime, and murmur in low and dismal tones
the name of Grimaldi. We mean no disparagement to the worthy and
excellent old man when we say that this is downright nonsense. Clowns
that beat Grimaldi all to nothing turn up every day, and nobody
patronizes them—more’s the pity!

‘I know who you mean,’ says some dirty-faced patron of Mr.
Osbaldistone’s, laying down the Miscellany when he has got thus far,
and bestowing upon vacancy a most knowing glance; ‘you mean C. J. Smith
as did Guy Fawkes, and George Barnwell at the Garden.’ The dirty-faced
gentleman has hardly uttered the words, when he is interrupted by a
young gentleman in no shirt-collar and a Petersham coat. ‘No, no,’ says
the young gentleman; ‘he means Brown, King, and Gibson, at the
‘Delphi.’ Now, with great deference both to the first-named gentleman
with the dirty face, and the last-named gentleman in the non-existing
shirt-collar, we do _not_ mean either the performer who so grotesquely
burlesqued the Popish conspirator, or the three unchangeables who have
been dancing the same dance under different imposing titles, and doing
the same thing under various high-sounding names for some five or six
years last past. We have no sooner made this avowal, than the public,
who have hitherto been silent witnesses of the dispute, inquire what on
earth it is we _do_ mean; and, with becoming respect, we proceed to
tell them.

It is very well known to all playgoers and pantomime-seers, that the
scenes in which a theatrical clown is at the very height of his glory
are those which are described in the play-bills as ‘Cheesemonger’s shop
and Crockery warehouse,’ or ‘Tailor’s shop, and Mrs. Queertable’s
boarding-house,’ or places bearing some such title, where the great fun
of the thing consists in the hero’s taking lodgings which he has not
the slightest intention of paying for, or obtaining goods under false
pretences, or abstracting the stock-in-trade of the respectable
shopkeeper next door, or robbing warehouse porters as they pass under
his window, or, to shorten the catalogue, in his swindling everybody he
possibly can, it only remaining to be observed that, the more extensive
the swindling is, and the more barefaced the impudence of the swindler,
the greater the rapture and ecstasy of the audience. Now it is a most
remarkable fact that precisely this sort of thing occurs in real life
day after day, and nobody sees the humour of it. Let us illustrate our
position by detailing the plot of this portion of the pantomime—not of
the theatre, but of life.

The Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, attended by his livery
servant Do’em—a most respectable servant to look at, who has grown grey
in the service of the captain’s family—views, treats for, and
ultimately obtains possession of, the unfurnished house, such a number,
such a street. All the tradesmen in the neighbourhood are in agonies of
competition for the captain’s custom; the captain is a good-natured,
kind-hearted, easy man, and, to avoid being the cause of disappointment
to any, he most handsomely gives orders to all. Hampers of wine,
baskets of provisions, cart-loads of furniture, boxes of jewellery,
supplies of luxuries of the costliest description, flock to the house
of the Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, where they are received
with the utmost readiness by the highly respectable Do’em; while the
captain himself struts and swaggers about with that compound air of
conscious superiority and general blood-thirstiness which a military
captain should always, and does most times, wear, to the admiration and
terror of plebeian men. But the tradesmen’s backs are no sooner turned,
than the captain, with all the eccentricity of a mighty mind, and
assisted by the faithful Do’em, whose devoted fidelity is not the least
touching part of his character, disposes of everything to great
advantage; for, although the articles fetch small sums, still they are
sold considerably above cost price, the cost to the captain having been
nothing at all. After various manoeuvres, the imposture is discovered,
Fitz-Fiercy and Do’em are recognized as confederates, and the police
office to which they are both taken is thronged with their dupes.

Who can fail to recognize in this, the exact counterpart of the best
portion of a theatrical pantomime—Fitz-Whisker Fiercy by the clown;
Do’em by the pantaloon; and supernumeraries by the tradesmen? The best
of the joke, too, is, that the very coal-merchant who is loudest in his
complaints against the person who defrauded him, is the identical man
who sat in the centre of the very front row of the pit last night and
laughed the most boisterously at this very same thing,—and not so well
done either. Talk of Grimaldi, we say again! Did Grimaldi, in his best
days, ever do anything in this way equal to Da Costa?

The mention of this latter justly celebrated clown reminds us of his
last piece of humour, the fraudulently obtaining certain stamped
acceptances from a young gentleman in the army. We had scarcely laid
down our pen to contemplate for a few moments this admirable actor’s
performance of that exquisite practical joke, than a new branch of our
subject flashed suddenly upon us. So we take it up again at once.

All people who have been behind the scenes, and most people who have
been before them, know, that in the representation of a pantomime, a
good many men are sent upon the stage for the express purpose of being
cheated, or knocked down, or both. Now, down to a moment ago, we had
never been able to understand for what possible purpose a great number
of odd, lazy, large-headed men, whom one is in the habit of meeting
here, and there, and everywhere, could ever have been created. We see
it all, now. They are the supernumeraries in the pantomime of life; the
men who have been thrust into it, with no other view than to be
constantly tumbling over each other, and running their heads against
all sorts of strange things. We sat opposite to one of these men at a
supper-table, only last week. Now we think of it, he was exactly like
the gentlemen with the pasteboard heads and faces, who do the
corresponding business in the theatrical pantomimes; there was the same
broad stolid simper—the same dull leaden eye—the same unmeaning, vacant
stare; and whatever was said, or whatever was done, he always came in
at precisely the wrong place, or jostled against something that he had
not the slightest business with. We looked at the man across the table
again and again; and could not satisfy ourselves what race of beings to
class him with. How very odd that this never occurred to us before!

We will frankly own that we have been much troubled with the harlequin.
We see harlequins of so many kinds in the real living pantomime, that
we hardly know which to select as the proper fellow of him of the
theatres. At one time we were disposed to think that the harlequin was
neither more nor less than a young man of family and independent
property, who had run away with an opera-dancer, and was fooling his
life and his means away in light and trivial amusements. On reflection,
however, we remembered that harlequins are occasionally guilty of
witty, and even clever acts, and we are rather disposed to acquit our
young men of family and independent property, generally speaking, of
any such misdemeanours. On a more mature consideration of the subject,
we have arrived at the conclusion that the harlequins of life are just
ordinary men, to be found in no particular walk or degree, on whom a
certain station, or particular conjunction of circumstances, confers
the magic wand. And this brings us to a few words on the pantomime of
public and political life, which we shall say at once, and then
conclude—merely premising in this place that we decline any reference
whatever to the columbine, being in no wise satisfied of the nature of
her connection with her parti-coloured lover, and not feeling by any
means clear that we should be justified in introducing her to the
virtuous and respectable ladies who peruse our lucubrations.

We take it that the commencement of a Session of Parliament is neither
more nor less than the drawing up of the curtain for a grand comic
pantomime, and that his Majesty’s most gracious speech on the opening
thereof may be not inaptly compared to the clown’s opening speech of
‘Here we are!’ ‘My lords and gentlemen, here we are!’ appears, to our
mind at least, to be a very good abstract of the point and meaning of
the propitiatory address of the ministry. When we remember how
frequently this speech is made, immediately after _the change_ too, the
parallel is quite perfect, and still more singular.

Perhaps the cast of our political pantomime never was richer than at
this day. We are particularly strong in clowns. At no former time, we
should say, have we had such astonishing tumblers, or performers so
ready to go through the whole of their feats for the amusement of an
admiring throng. Their extreme readiness to exhibit, indeed, has given
rise to some ill-natured reflections; it having been objected that by
exhibiting gratuitously through the country when the theatre is closed,
they reduce themselves to the level of mountebanks, and thereby tend to
degrade the respectability of the profession. Certainly Grimaldi never
did this sort of thing; and though Brown, King, and Gibson have gone to
the Surrey in vacation time, and Mr. C. J. Smith has ruralised at
Sadler’s Wells, we find no theatrical precedent for a general tumbling
through the country, except in the gentleman, name unknown, who threw
summersets on behalf of the late Mr. Richardson, and who is no
authority either, because he had never been on the regular boards.

But, laying aside this question, which after all is a mere matter of
taste, we may reflect with pride and gratification of heart on the
proficiency of our clowns as exhibited in the season. Night after night
will they twist and tumble about, till two, three, and four o’clock in
the morning; playing the strangest antics, and giving each other the
funniest slaps on the face that can possibly be imagined, without
evincing the smallest tokens of fatigue. The strange noises, the
confusion, the shouting and roaring, amid which all this is done, too,
would put to shame the most turbulent sixpenny gallery that ever yelled
through a boxing-night.

It is especially curious to behold one of these clowns compelled to go
through the most surprising contortions by the irresistible influence
of the wand of office, which his leader or harlequin holds above his
head. Acted upon by this wonderful charm he will become perfectly
motionless, moving neither hand, foot, nor finger, and will even lose
the faculty of speech at an instant’s notice; or on the other hand, he
will become all life and animation if required, pouring forth a torrent
of words without sense or meaning, throwing himself into the wildest
and most fantastic contortions, and even grovelling on the earth and
licking up the dust. These exhibitions are more curious than pleasing;
indeed, they are rather disgusting than otherwise, except to the
admirers of such things, with whom we confess we have no
fellow-feeling.

Strange tricks—very strange tricks—are also performed by the harlequin
who holds for the time being the magic wand which we have just
mentioned. The mere waving it before a man’s eyes will dispossess his
brains of all the notions previously stored there, and fill it with an
entirely new set of ideas; one gentle tap on the back will alter the
colour of a man’s coat completely; and there are some expert
performers, who, having this wand held first on one side and then on
the other, will change from side to side, turning their coats at every
evolution, with so much rapidity and dexterity, that the quickest eye
can scarcely detect their motions. Occasionally, the genius who confers
the wand, wrests it from the hand of the temporary possessor, and
consigns it to some new performer; on which occasions all the
characters change sides, and then the race and the hard knocks begin
anew.

We might have extended this chapter to a much greater length—we might
have carried the comparison into the liberal professions—we might have
shown, as was in fact our original purpose, that each is in itself a
little pantomime with scenes and characters of its own, complete; but,
as we fear we have been quite lengthy enough already, we shall leave
this chapter just where it is. A gentleman, not altogether unknown as a
dramatic poet, wrote thus a year or two ago—


‘All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:’


and we, tracking out his footsteps at the scarcely-worth-mentioning
little distance of a few millions of leagues behind, venture to add, by
way of new reading, that he meant a Pantomime, and that we are all
actors in The Pantomime of Life.




SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION


We have a great respect for lions in the abstract. In common with most
other people, we have heard and read of many instances of their bravery
and generosity. We have duly admired that heroic self-denial and
charming philanthropy which prompts them never to eat people except
when they are hungry, and we have been deeply impressed with a becoming
sense of the politeness they are said to display towards unmarried
ladies of a certain state. All natural histories teem with anecdotes
illustrative of their excellent qualities; and one old spelling-book in
particular recounts a touching instance of an old lion, of high moral
dignity and stern principle, who felt it his imperative duty to devour
a young man who had contracted a habit of swearing, as a striking
example to the rising generation.

All this is extremely pleasant to reflect upon, and, indeed, says a
very great deal in favour of lions as a mass. We are bound to state,
however, that such individual lions as we have happened to fall in with
have not put forth any very striking characteristics, and have not
acted up to the chivalrous character assigned them by their
chroniclers. We never saw a lion in what is called his natural state,
certainly; that is to say, we have never met a lion out walking in a
forest, or crouching in his lair under a tropical sun, waiting till his
dinner should happen to come by, hot from the baker’s. But we have seen
some under the influence of captivity, and the pressure of misfortune;
and we must say that they appeared to us very apathetic, heavy-headed
fellows.

The lion at the Zoological Gardens, for instance. He is all very well;
he has an undeniable mane, and looks very fierce; but, Lord bless us!
what of that? The lions of the fashionable world look just as
ferocious, and are the most harmless creatures breathing. A box-lobby
lion or a Regent-street animal will put on a most terrible aspect, and
roar, fearfully, if you affront him; but he will never bite, and, if
you offer to attack him manfully, will fairly turn tail and sneak off.
Doubtless these creatures roam about sometimes in herds, and, if they
meet any especially meek-looking and peaceably-disposed fellow, will
endeavour to frighten him; but the faintest show of a vigorous
resistance is sufficient to scare them even then. These are pleasant
characteristics, whereas we make it matter of distinct charge against
the Zoological lion and his brethren at the fairs, that they are
sleepy, dreamy, sluggish quadrupeds.

We do not remember to have ever seen one of them perfectly awake,
except at feeding-time. In every respect we uphold the biped lions
against their four-footed namesakes, and we boldly challenge
controversy upon the subject.

With these opinions it may be easily imagined that our curiosity and
interest were very much excited the other day, when a lady of our
acquaintance called on us and resolutely declined to accept our refusal
of her invitation to an evening party; ‘for,’ said she, ‘I have got a
lion coming.’ We at once retracted our plea of a prior engagement, and
became as anxious to go, as we had previously been to stay away.

We went early, and posted ourselves in an eligible part of the
drawing-room, from whence we could hope to obtain a full view of the
interesting animal. Two or three hours passed, the quadrilles began,
the room filled; but no lion appeared. The lady of the house became
inconsolable,—for it is one of the peculiar privileges of these lions
to make solemn appointments and never keep them,—when all of a sudden
there came a tremendous double rap at the street-door, and the master
of the house, after gliding out (unobserved as he flattered himself) to
peep over the banisters, came into the room, rubbing his hands together
with great glee, and cried out in a very important voice, ‘My dear,
Mr.—(naming the lion) has this moment arrived.’

Upon this, all eyes were turned towards the door, and we observed
several young ladies, who had been laughing and conversing previously
with great gaiety and good humour, grow extremely quiet and
sentimental; while some young gentlemen, who had been cutting great
figures in the facetious and small-talk way, suddenly sank very
obviously in the estimation of the company, and were looked upon with
great coldness and indifference. Even the young man who had been
ordered from the music shop to play the pianoforte was visibly
affected, and struck several false notes in the excess of his
excitement.

All this time there was a great talking outside, more than once
accompanied by a loud laugh, and a cry of ‘Oh! capital! excellent!’
from which we inferred that the lion was jocose, and that these
exclamations were occasioned by the transports of his keeper and our
host. Nor were we deceived; for when the lion at last appeared, we
overheard his keeper, who was a little prim man, whisper to several
gentlemen of his acquaintance, with uplifted hands, and every
expression of half-suppressed admiration, that—(naming the lion again)
was in _such_ cue to-night!

The lion was a literary one. Of course, there were a vast number of
people present who had admired his roarings, and were anxious to be
introduced to him; and very pleasant it was to see them brought up for
the purpose, and to observe the patient dignity with which he received
all their patting and caressing. This brought forcibly to our mind what
we had so often witnessed at country fairs, where the other lions are
compelled to go through as many forms of courtesy as they chance to be
acquainted with, just as often as admiring parties happen to drop in
upon them.

While the lion was exhibiting in this way, his keeper was not idle, for
he mingled among the crowd, and spread his praises most industriously.
To one gentleman he whispered some very choice thing that the noble
animal had said in the very act of coming up-stairs, which, of course,
rendered the mental effort still more astonishing; to another he
murmured a hasty account of a grand dinner that had taken place the day
before, where twenty-seven gentlemen had got up all at once to demand
an extra cheer for the lion; and to the ladies he made sundry promises
of interceding to procure the majestic brute’s sign-manual for their
albums. Then, there were little private consultations in different
corners, relative to the personal appearance and stature of the lion;
whether he was shorter than they had expected to see him, or taller, or
thinner, or fatter, or younger, or older; whether he was like his
portrait, or unlike it; and whether the particular shade of his eyes
was black, or blue, or hazel, or green, or yellow, or mixture. At all
these consultations the keeper assisted; and, in short, the lion was
the sole and single subject of discussion till they sat him down to
whist, and then the people relapsed into their old topics of
conversation—themselves and each other.

We must confess that we looked forward with no slight impatience to the
announcement of supper; for if you wish to see a tame lion under
particularly favourable circumstances, feeding-time is the period of
all others to pitch upon. We were therefore very much delighted to
observe a sensation among the guests, which we well knew how to
interpret, and immediately afterwards to behold the lion escorting the
lady of the house down-stairs. We offered our arm to an elderly female
of our acquaintance, who—dear old soul!—is the very best person that
ever lived, to lead down to any meal; for, be the room ever so small,
or the party ever so large, she is sure, by some intuitive perception
of the eligible, to push and pull herself and conductor close to the
best dishes on the table;—we say we offered our arm to this elderly
female, and, descending the stairs shortly after the lion, were
fortunate enough to obtain a seat nearly opposite him.

Of course the keeper was there already. He had planted himself at
precisely that distance from his charge which afforded him a decent
pretext for raising his voice, when he addressed him, to so loud a key,
as could not fail to attract the attention of the whole company, and
immediately began to apply himself seriously to the task of bringing
the lion out, and putting him through the whole of his manoeuvres. Such
flashes of wit as he elicited from the lion! First of all, they began
to make puns upon a salt-cellar, and then upon the breast of a fowl,
and then upon the trifle; but the best jokes of all were decidedly on
the lobster salad, upon which latter subject the lion came out most
vigorously, and, in the opinion of the most competent authorities,
quite outshone himself. This is a very excellent mode of shining in
society, and is founded, we humbly conceive, upon the classic model of
the dialogues between Mr. Punch and his friend the proprietor, wherein
the latter takes all the up-hill work, and is content to pioneer to the
jokes and repartees of Mr. P. himself, who never fails to gain great
credit and excite much laughter thereby. Whatever it be founded on,
however, we recommend it to all lions, present and to come; for in this
instance it succeeded to admiration, and perfectly dazzled the whole
body of hearers.

When the salt-cellar, and the fowl’s breast, and the trifle, and the
lobster salad were all exhausted, and could not afford standing-room
for another solitary witticism, the keeper performed that very
dangerous feat which is still done with some of the caravan lions,
although in one instance it terminated fatally, of putting his head in
the animal’s mouth, and placing himself entirely at its mercy. Boswell
frequently presents a melancholy instance of the lamentable results of
this achievement, and other keepers and jackals have been terribly
lacerated for their daring. It is due to our lion to state, that he
condescended to be trifled with, in the most gentle manner, and finally
went home with the showman in a hack cab: perfectly peaceable, but
slightly fuddled.

Being in a contemplative mood, we were led to make some reflections
upon the character and conduct of this genus of lions as we walked
homewards, and we were not long in arriving at the conclusion that our
former impression in their favour was very much strengthened and
confirmed by what we had recently seen. While the other lions receive
company and compliments in a sullen, moody, not to say snarling manner,
these appear flattered by the attentions that are paid them; while
those conceal themselves to the utmost of their power from the vulgar
gaze, these court the popular eye, and, unlike their brethren, whom
nothing short of compulsion will move to exertion, are ever ready to
display their acquirements to the wondering throng. We have known bears
of undoubted ability who, when the expectations of a large audience
have been wound up to the utmost pitch, have peremptorily refused to
dance; well-taught monkeys, who have unaccountably objected to exhibit
on the slack wire; and elephants of unquestioned genius, who have
suddenly declined to turn the barrel-organ; but we never once knew or
heard of a biped lion, literary or otherwise,—and we state it as a fact
which is highly creditable to the whole species,—who, occasion
offering, did not seize with avidity on any opportunity which was
afforded him, of performing to his heart’s content on the first violin.




MR. ROBERT BOLTON: THE ‘GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS’


In the parlour of the Green Dragon, a public-house in the immediate
neighbourhood of Westminster Bridge, everybody talks politics, every
evening, the great political authority being Mr. Robert Bolton, an
individual who defines himself as ‘a gentleman connected with the
press,’ which is a definition of peculiar indefiniteness. Mr. Robert
Bolton’s regular circle of admirers and listeners are an undertaker, a
greengrocer, a hairdresser, a baker, a large stomach surmounted by a
man’s head, and placed on the top of two particularly short legs, and a
thin man in black, name, profession, and pursuit unknown, who always
sits in the same position, always displays the same long, vacant face,
and never opens his lips, surrounded as he is by most enthusiastic
conversation, except to puff forth a volume of tobacco smoke, or give
vent to a very snappy, loud, and shrill _hem_! The conversation
sometimes turns upon literature, Mr. Bolton being a literary character,
and always upon such news of the day as is exclusively possessed by
that talented individual. I found myself (of course, accidentally) in
the Green Dragon the other evening, and, being somewhat amused by the
following conversation, preserved it.

‘Can you lend me a ten-pound note till Christmas?’ inquired the
hairdresser of the stomach.

‘Where’s your security, Mr. Clip?’

‘My stock in trade,—there’s enough of it, I’m thinking, Mr. Thicknesse.
Some fifty wigs, two poles, half-a-dozen head blocks, and a dead
Bruin.’

‘No, I won’t, then,’ growled out Thicknesse. ‘I lends nothing on the
security of the whigs or the Poles either. As for whigs, they’re
cheats; as for the Poles, they’ve got no cash. I never have nothing to
do with blockheads, unless I can’t awoid it (ironically), and a dead
bear’s about as much use to me as I could be to a dead bear.’

‘Well, then,’ urged the other, ‘there’s a book as belonged to Pope,
Byron’s Poems, valued at forty pounds, because it’s got Pope’s
identical scratch on the back; what do you think of that for security?’

‘Well, to be sure!’ cried the baker. ‘But how d’ye mean, Mr. Clip?’

‘Mean! why, that it’s got the _hottergruff_ of Pope.


“Steal not this book, for fear of hangman’s rope;
For it belongs to Alexander Pope.”


All that’s written on the inside of the binding of the book; so, as my
son says, we’re _bound_ to believe it.’

‘Well, sir,’ observed the undertaker, deferentially, and in a
half-whisper, leaning over the table, and knocking over the
hairdresser’s grog as he spoke, ‘that argument’s very easy upset.’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Clip, a little flurried, ‘you’ll pay for the first
upset afore you thinks of another.’

‘Now,’ said the undertaker, bowing amicably to the hairdresser, ‘I
_think_, I says I _think_—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Clip, I _think_, you
see, that won’t go down with the present company—unfortunately, my
master had the honour of making the coffin of that ere Lord’s
housemaid, not no more nor twenty year ago. Don’t think I’m proud on
it, gentlemen; others might be; but I hate rank of any sort. I’ve no
more respect for a Lord’s footman than I have for any respectable
tradesman in this room. I may say no more nor I have for Mr. Clip!
(bowing). Therefore, that ere Lord must have been born long after Pope
died. And it’s a logical interference to defer, that they neither of
them lived at the same time. So what I mean is this here, that Pope
never had no book, never seed, felt, never smelt no book (triumphantly)
as belonged to that ere Lord. And, gentlemen, when I consider how
patiently you have ’eared the ideas what I have expressed, I feel
bound, as the best way to reward you for the kindness you have
exhibited, to sit down without saying anything more—partickler as I
perceive a worthier visitor nor myself is just entered. I am not in the
habit of paying compliments, gentlemen; when I do, therefore, I hope I
strikes with double force.’

‘Ah, Mr. Murgatroyd! what’s all this about striking with double force?’
said the object of the above remark, as he entered. ‘I never excuse a
man’s getting into a rage during winter, even when he’s seated so close
to the fire as you are. It is very injudicious to put yourself into
such a perspiration. What is the cause of this extreme physical and
mental excitement, sir?’

Such was the very philosophical address of Mr. Robert Bolton, a
shorthand-writer, as he termed himself—a bit of equivoque passing
current among his fraternity, which must give the uninitiated a vast
idea of the establishment of the ministerial organ, while to the
initiated it signifies that no one paper can lay claim to the enjoyment
of their services. Mr. Bolton was a young man, with a somewhat sickly
and very dissipated expression of countenance. His habiliments were
composed of an exquisite union of gentility, slovenliness, assumption,
simplicity, _newness_, and old age. Half of him was dressed for the
winter, the other half for the summer. His hat was of the newest cut,
the D’Orsay; his trousers had been white, but the inroads of mud and
ink, etc., had given them a pie-bald appearance; round his throat he
wore a very high black cravat, of the most tyrannical stiffness; while
his _tout ensemble_ was hidden beneath the enormous folds of an old
brown poodle-collared great-coat, which was closely buttoned up to the
aforesaid cravat. His fingers peeped through the ends of his black kid
gloves, and two of the toes of each foot took a similar view of society
through the extremities of his high-lows. Sacred to the bare walls of
his garret be the mysteries of his interior dress! He was a short,
spare man, of a somewhat inferior deportment. Everybody seemed
influenced by his entry into the room, and his salutation of each
member partook of the patronizing. The hairdresser made way for him
between himself and the stomach. A minute afterwards he had taken
possession of his pint and pipe. A pause in the conversation took
place. Everybody was waiting, anxious for his first observation.

‘Horrid murder in Westminster this morning,’ observed Mr. Bolton.

Everybody changed their positions. All eyes were fixed upon the man of
paragraphs.

‘A baker murdered his son by boiling him in a copper,’ said Mr. Bolton.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed everybody, in simultaneous horror.

‘Boiled him, gentlemen!’ added Mr. Bolton, with the most effective
emphasis; ‘_boiled_ him!’

‘And the particulars, Mr. B.,’ inquired the hairdresser, ‘the
particulars?’

Mr. Bolton took a very long draught of porter, and some two or three
dozen whiffs of tobacco, doubtless to instil into the commercial
capacities of the company the superiority of a gentlemen connected with
the press, and then said—

‘The man was a baker, gentlemen.’ (Every one looked at the baker
present, who stared at Bolton.) ‘His victim, being his son, also was
necessarily the son of a baker. The wretched murderer had a wife, whom
he was frequently in the habit, while in an intoxicated state, of
kicking, pummelling, flinging mugs at, knocking down, and half-killing
while in bed, by inserting in her mouth a considerable portion of a
sheet or blanket.’

The speaker took another draught, everybody looked at everybody else,
and exclaimed, ‘Horrid!’

‘It appears in evidence, gentlemen,’ continued Mr. Bolton, ‘that, on
the evening of yesterday, Sawyer the baker came home in a reprehensible
state of beer. Mrs. S., connubially considerate, carried him in that
condition up-stairs into his chamber, and consigned him to their mutual
couch. In a minute or two she lay sleeping beside the man whom the
morrow’s dawn beheld a murderer!’ (Entire silence informed the reporter
that his picture had attained the awful effect he desired.) ‘The son
came home about an hour afterwards, opened the door, and went up to
bed. Scarcely (gentlemen, conceive his feelings of alarm), scarcely had
he taken off his indescribables, when shrieks (to his experienced ear
_maternal_ shrieks) scared the silence of surrounding night. He put his
indescribables on again, and ran down-stairs. He opened the door of the
parental bed-chamber. His father was dancing upon his mother. What must
have been his feelings! In the agony of the minute he rushed at his
male parent as he was about to plunge a knife into the side of his
female. The mother shrieked. The father caught the son (who had wrested
the knife from the paternal grasp) up in his arms, carried him
down-stairs, shoved him into a copper of boiling water among some
linen, closed the lid, and jumped upon the top of it, in which position
he was found with a ferocious countenance by the mother, who arrived in
the melancholy wash-house just as he had so settled himself.

‘“Where’s my boy?” shrieked the mother.

‘“In that copper, boiling,” coolly replied the benign father.

‘Struck by the awful intelligence, the mother rushed from the house,
and alarmed the neighbourhood. The police entered a minute afterwards.
The father, having bolted the wash-house door, had bolted himself. They
dragged the lifeless body of the boiled baker from the cauldron, and,
with a promptitude commendable in men of their station, they
immediately carried it to the station-house. Subsequently, the baker
was apprehended while seated on the top of a lamp-post in Parliament
Street, lighting his pipe.’

The whole horrible ideality of the Mysteries of Udolpho, condensed into
the pithy effect of a ten-line paragraph, could not possibly have so
affected the narrator’s auditory. Silence, the purest and most noble of
all kinds of applause, bore ample testimony to the barbarity of the
baker, as well as to Bolton’s knack of narration; and it was only
broken after some minutes had elapsed by interjectional expressions of
the intense indignation of every man present. The baker wondered how a
British baker could so disgrace himself and the highly honourable
calling to which he belonged; and the others indulged in a variety of
wonderments connected with the subject; among which not the least
wonderment was that which was awakened by the genius and information of
Mr. Robert Bolton, who, after a glowing eulogium on himself, and his
unspeakable influence with the daily press, was proceeding, with a most
solemn countenance, to hear the pros and cons of the Pope autograph
question, when I took up my hat, and left.




FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD
aged two years and two months


My Child,

To recount with what trouble I have brought you up—with what an anxious
eye I have regarded your progress,—how late and how often I have sat up
at night working for you,—and how many thousand letters I have received
from, and written to your various relations and friends, many of whom
have been of a querulous and irritable turn,—to dwell on the anxiety
and tenderness with which I have (as far as I possessed the power)
inspected and chosen your food; rejecting the indigestible and heavy
matter which some injudicious but well-meaning old ladies would have
had you swallow, and retaining only those light and pleasant articles
which I deemed calculated to keep you free from all gross humours, and
to render you an agreeable child, and one who might be popular with
society in general,—to dilate on the steadiness with which I have
prevented your annoying any company by talking politics—always assuring
you that you would thank me for it yourself some day when you grew
older,—to expatiate, in short, upon my own assiduity as a parent, is
beside my present purpose, though I cannot but contemplate your fair
appearance—your robust health, and unimpeded circulation (which I take
to be the great secret of your good looks) without the liveliest
satisfaction and delight.

It is a trite observation, and one which, young as you are, I have no
doubt you have often heard repeated, that we have fallen upon strange
times, and live in days of constant shiftings and changes. I had a
melancholy instance of this only a week or two since. I was returning
from Manchester to London by the Mail Train, when I suddenly fell into
another train—a mixed train—of reflection, occasioned by the dejected
and disconsolate demeanour of the Post-Office Guard. We were stopping
at some station where they take in water, when he dismounted slowly
from the little box in which he sits in ghastly mockery of his old
condition with pistol and blunderbuss beside him, ready to shoot the
first highwayman (or railwayman) who shall attempt to stop the horses,
which now travel (when they travel at all) _inside_ and in a portable
stable invented for the purpose,—he dismounted, I say, slowly and
sadly, from his post, and looking mournfully about him as if in dismal
recollection of the old roadside public-house the blazing fire—the
glass of foaming ale—the buxom handmaid and admiring hangers-on of
tap-room and stable, all honoured by his notice; and, retiring a little
apart, stood leaning against a signal-post, surveying the engine with a
look of combined affliction and disgust which no words can describe.
His scarlet coat and golden lace were tarnished with ignoble smoke;
flakes of soot had fallen on his bright green shawl—his pride in days
of yore—the steam condensed in the tunnel from which we had just
emerged, shone upon his hat like rain. His eye betokened that he was
thinking of the coachman; and as it wandered to his own seat and his
own fast-fading garb, it was plain to see that he felt his office and
himself had alike no business there, and were nothing but an elaborate
practical joke.

As we whirled away, I was led insensibly into an anticipation of those
days to come, when mail-coach guards shall no longer be judges of
horse-flesh—when a mail-coach guard shall never even have seen a
horse—when stations shall have superseded stables, and corn shall have
given place to coke. ‘In those dawning times,’ thought I,
‘exhibition-rooms shall teem with portraits of Her Majesty’s favourite
engine, with boilers after Nature by future Landseers. Some Amburgh,
yet unborn, shall break wild horses by his magic power; and in the
dress of a mail-coach guard exhibit his trained animals in a mock
mail-coach. Then, shall wondering crowds observe how that, with the
exception of his whip, it is all his eye; and crowned heads shall see
them fed on oats, and stand alone unmoved and undismayed, while
counters flee affrighted when the coursers neigh!’

Such, my child, were the reflections from which I was only awakened
then, as I am now, by the necessity of attending to matters of present
though minor importance. I offer no apology to you for the digression,
for it brings me very naturally to the subject of change, which is the
very subject of which I desire to treat.

In fact, my child, you have changed hands. Henceforth I resign you to
the guardianship and protection of one of my most intimate and valued
friends, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom, and with you, my best wishes and
warmest feelings will ever remain. I reap no gain or profit by parting
from you, nor will any conveyance of your property be required, for, in
this respect, you have always been literally ‘Bentley’s’ Miscellany,
and never mine.

Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I regard this altered
state of things with feelings of unmingled pleasure and satisfaction.

Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, _your_ guard is at home in
his new place, and has roystering highwaymen and gallant desperadoes
ever within call. And if I might compare you, my child, to an engine;
(not a Tory engine, nor a Whig engine, but a brisk and rapid
locomotive;) your friends and patrons to passengers; and he who now
stands towards you _in loco parentis_ as the skilful engineer and
supervisor of the whole, I would humbly crave leave to postpone the
departure of the train on its new and auspicious course for one brief
instant, while, with hat in hand, I approach side by side with the
friend who travelled with me on the old road, and presume to solicit
favour and kindness in behalf of him and his new charge, both for their
sakes and that of the old coachman,

Boz.




Footnotes:


[122] This paper was written before the practice of exhibiting Members
of Parliament, like other curiosities, for the small charge of
half-a-crown, was abolished.

[161] The regulations of the prison relative to the confinement of
prisoners during the day, their sleeping at night, their taking their
meals, and other matters of gaol economy, have been all altered-greatly
for the better—since this sketch was first published. Even the
construction of the prison itself has been changed.

[165] These two men were executed shortly afterwards. The other was
respited during his Majesty’s pleasure.

[429] [In its original form.]