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| committer | Roger Frank <rfrank@pglaf.org> | 2025-10-15 05:16:00 -0700 |
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diff --git a/882-h/882-h.htm b/882-h/882-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b7c2d80 --- /dev/null +++ b/882-h/882-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,32508 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" +"http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=utf-8" /> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> +<title>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sketches by Boz, by Charles Dickens</title> + +<style type="text/css"> + +body { margin-left: 20%; + margin-right: 20%; + text-align: justify; } + +h1, h2, h3, h4, h5 {text-align: center; font-style: normal; font-weight: +normal; line-height: 1.5; margin-top: .5em; margin-bottom: .5em;} + +h1 {font-size: 300%; + margin-top: 0.6em; + margin-bottom: 0.6em; + letter-spacing: 0.12em; + word-spacing: 0.2em; + text-indent: 0em;} +h2 {font-size: 150%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 1em;} +h3 {font-size: 130%; margin-top: 1em;} +h4 {font-size: 120%;} +h5 {font-size: 110%;} + +.no-break {page-break-before: avoid;} /* for epubs */ + +hr {width: 80%; margin-top: 2em; margin-bottom: 2em;} + +p {text-indent: 1em; + margin-top: 0.25em; + margin-bottom: 0.25em; } + +p.center {text-align: center; + text-indent: 0em; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + +p.right {text-align: right; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + +p.footnote {font-size: 90%; + text-indent: 0%; + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; } + + p.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + + p.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + +a:link {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:visited {color:blue; text-decoration:none} +a:hover {color:red} + +</style> + +</head> + +<body> + +<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold;'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Sketches by Boz, by Charles Dickens</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and +most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions +whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms +of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online +at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you +are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the +country where you are located before using this eBook. +</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Sketches by Boz<br /> +illustrative of everyday life and every-day people</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Charles Dickens</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 10, 1997 [eBook #882]<br /> +[Most recently updated: April 20, 2021]</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> +<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: David Price</div> +<div style='margin-top:2em;margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SKETCHES BY BOZ ***</div> + +<h1>Sketches by Boz</h1> + +<p class="center"> +Illustrative of Every-Day Life<br/> +and Every-Day People +</p> + +<h2 class="no-break">by Charles Dickens</h2> + +<p class="center"> +<i>With Illustrations by George Cruickshank and Phiz</i> +</p> + +<p class="center"> +LONDON: CHAPMAN & HALL, <span class="smcap">ld.</span><br/> +NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS<br/> +1903 +</p> + +<h2>PREFACE</h2> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h2>OUR PARISH</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I—THE BEADLE. THE PARISH ENGINE. THE SCHOOLMASTER</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The parish beadle is one of the most, perhaps <i>the</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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<i>l.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II—THE CURATE. THE OLD LADY. THE HALF-PAY CAPTAIN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>so</i> odd-looking, then because his face was +<i>so</i> expressive, then because he preached <i>so</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>will</i> 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 <i>would</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III—THE FOUR SISTERS</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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,—‘<i>We</i> are going to marry Mr. Robinson.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>quite</i> old enough to judge for themselves, and to be sure +people ought to know their own business best, and so forth. +</p> + +<p> +At last, one fine morning, at a quarter before eight o’clock, <span +class="smcap">a.m.</span>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Miss</i> +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 +<i>un</i>certain age, at No. 16, joining in the conversation. But who shall +portray the astonishment of Gordon-place, when Mr. Robinson handed in +<i>all</i> 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 <i>all</i> 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—<i>all</i> the Miss Willises went into hysterics at the +conclusion of the ceremony, until the sacred edifice resounded with their +united wailings! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>will</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>in propriâ personâ</i> say, with great dignity, in +answer to the next inquiry, ‘<i>My</i> 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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV—THE ELECTION FOR BEADLE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>verbatim</i> reports of vestry meetings. He would not +appear egotistical for the world, but at the same time he must say, that there +are <i>speeches</i>—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>quondam</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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). +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>data</i>, +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V—THE BROKER’S MAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +MR BUNG’S NARRATIVE +</p> + +<p> +‘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! +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>is</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. “<i>Is</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 “<i>Mini</i>” I had just written, and left the +miniature on the table. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>could</i> 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 <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI—THE LADIES’ SOCIETIES</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII—OUR NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOUR</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>don’t</i> come, and never say +<i>do</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>did</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘William, William!’ murmured the mother, after a long interval, +‘don’t look at me so—speak to me, dear!’ +</p> + +<p> +The boy smiled languidly, but an instant afterwards his features resolved into +the same cold, solemn gaze. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The boy was dead. +</p> + +<h2>SCENES</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I—THE STREETS—MORNING</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>he</i> run back’ards.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <span class="smcap">Noon</span>. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II—THE STREETS—NIGHT</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>such</i> a voice! +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III—SHOPS AND THEIR TENANTS</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>charitable</i> ladies to hear +named. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV—SCOTLAND-YARD</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V—SEVEN DIALS</h3> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>can</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Vy don’t you pitch into her, Sarah?’ exclaims one +half-dressed matron, by way of encouragement. ‘Vy don’t you? if +<i>my</i> ’usband had treated her with a drain last night, unbeknown to +me, I’d tear her precious eyes out—a wixen!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter, ma’am?’ inquires another old woman, +who has just bustled up to the spot. +</p> + +<p> +‘Matter!’ replies the first speaker, talking <i>at</i> 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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Niver mind,’ replies the opposition expressively, ‘niver +mind; <i>you</i> go home, and, ven you’re quite sober, mend your +stockings.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>dénouement</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>his</i> family in the back kitchen, and a jobbing man—carpet-beater +and so forth—with <i>his</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI—MEDITATIONS IN MONMOUTH-STREET</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>had</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>corps de ballet</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII—HACKNEY-COACH STANDS</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>their</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>with</i> the +pole, as others have of their expeditions <i>to</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>a stand</i>! +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VIII—DOCTORS’ COMMONS</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>pro</i> and <i>con</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IX—LONDON RECREATIONS</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +This is no ideal sketch. There <i>used</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER X—THE RIVER</h3> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>protégés</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pass on, if you please, sir,’ replies the +attendant—‘other boat, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XI—ASTLEY’S</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>beau idéal</i> of a group of Astley’s +visitors. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XII—GREENWICH FAIR</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 (<i>wilks</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>leetle</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>not</i> get home. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XIII—PRIVATE THEATRES</h3> + +<blockquote> +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Richard the Third</span>.—<span +class="smcap">Duke of Glo’ster</span> 2<i>l.</i>; <span +class="smcap">Earl of Richmond</span>, 1<i>l</i>; <span class="smcap">Duke of +Buckingham</span>, 15<i>s.</i>; <span class="smcap">Catesby</span>, +12<i>s.</i>; <span class="smcap">Tressel</span>, 10<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i>; <span +class="smcap">Lord Stanley</span>, 5<i>s.</i>; <span class="smcap">Lord Mayor +of London</span>, 2<i>s.</i> 6<i>d.</i>’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>The Unknown Bandit +of the Invisible Cavern</i>, is in rehearsal; how Mister Palmer is to play +<i>The Unknown Bandit</i>; 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 +<i>Richards</i>, <i>Shylocks</i>, <i>Beverleys</i>, and +<i>Othellos</i>—the <i>Young Dorntons</i>, <i>Rovers</i>, <i>Captain +Absolutes</i>, and <i>Charles Surfaces</i>—a private theatre. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>corps dramatique</i>), 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>does</i> 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 <i>Macbeth</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>the</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Banquo</i>: +and the young lady with the liberal display of legs, who is kindly painting his +face with a hare’s foot, is dressed for <i>Fleance</i>. The large woman, +who is consulting the stage directions in Cumberland’s edition of +<i>Macbeth</i>, is the <i>Lady Macbeth</i> of the night; she is always selected +to play the part, because she is tall and stout, and <i>looks</i> 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 <i>Malcolm</i> to-night, just to +accustom himself to an audience. He will get on better by degrees; he will play +<i>Othello</i> 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 +<i>her</i> first appearance, too—in that character. The boy of fourteen +who is having his eyebrows smeared with soap and whitening, is <i>Duncan</i>, +King of Scotland; and the two dirty men with the corked countenances, in very +old green tunics, and dirty drab boots, are the ‘army.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XIV—VAUXHALL-GARDENS BY DAY</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>not</i> go until the second or third +announcement of a race between two balloons tempted us, and we went. +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>That</i> 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! <i>That</i> 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! <i>That</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +It was for the concert in the orchestra. A small party of dismal men in cocked +hats were ‘executing’ the overture to <i>Tancredi</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>do</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 +<i>his</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Here there was a considerable talking among the females in the spencers. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the ladies a laughing at, sir?’ inquired the little +man, condescendingly. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Would he, though?’ inquired the other man. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>his</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XV—EARLY COACHES</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>à la</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>can</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +‘<i>Times</i>, gen’lm’n, <i>Times</i>,’ +‘Here’s <i>Chron—Chron—Chron</i>,’ +‘<i>Herald</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XVI—OMNIBUSES</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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: +</p> + +<p> +‘What are you stopping for?’ +</p> + +<p> +Here the cad whistles, and affects not to hear the question. +</p> + +<p> +‘I say [a poke], what are you stopping for?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘For passengers, sir. Ba—nk.—Ty.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I know you’re stopping for passengers; but you’ve no +business to do so. <i>Why</i> are you stopping?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Vy, sir, that’s a difficult question. I think it is because we +perfer stopping here to going on.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XVII—THE LAST CAB-DRIVER, AND THE FIRST OMNIBUS CAD</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, just mark this, young man,’ said the little gentleman, +‘I’ll pull you up to-morrow morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No! will you though?’ said our friend, with a sneer. +</p> + +<p> +‘I will,’ replied the little gentleman, ‘mark my words, +that’s all. If I live till to-morrow morning, you shall repent +this.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ll pull me up, will you?’ said our friend. +</p> + +<p> +‘I will,’ rejoined the little gentleman, with even greater +vehemence an before. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +We started.—‘What voice is that?’ said we. The Governor shook +his head. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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, ‘<i>that’s</i> worth +twopence.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>do</i> know, perhaps we shall never have a better opportunity than the +present. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>sobriquet</i>, +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>ought</i> 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 <i>ought</i> to have been Mr. Barker, +because the action was not a common one, and could have emanated from no +ordinary mind. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XVIII—A PARLIAMENTARY SKETCH</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘How <i>can</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Go back, sir—you must <i>not</i> come here,’ shouts the +hoarse one, with tremendous emphasis of voice and gesture, the moment the +offender catches his eye. +</p> + +<p> +The stranger pauses. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you hear, sir—will you go back?’ continues the official +dignitary, gently pushing the intruder some half-dozen yards. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come, don’t push me,’ replies the stranger, turning angrily +round. +</p> + +<p> +‘I will, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You won’t, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Go out, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Take your hands off me, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Go out of the passage, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’re a Jack-in-office, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A what?’ ejaculates he of the boots. +</p> + +<p> +‘A Jack-in-office, sir, and a very insolent fellow,’ reiterates the +stranger, now completely in a passion. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘D-n the Speaker, sir!’ shouts the intruder. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +That smart-looking fellow in the black coat with velvet facings and cuffs, who +wears his <i>D’Orsay</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>quite</i> 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. <a +name="citation122"></a><a href="#footnote122" class="citation">[122]</a> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>does</i> address the House, the effect is absolutely irresistible. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>gourmand</i>; 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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XIX—PUBLIC DINNERS</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray, silence, gentlemen, if you please, for <i>Non nobis</i>!’ +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 +<i>Non nobis</i>!’ 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 <i>too-too</i>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 +<i>Non nobis</i> 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 ‘<i>Encore</i>!’ most vociferously. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>air</i>—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<i>l.</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. <i>Exeunt</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>he</i> knows no more excellent individual +than the chairman—except the senior officer of the charity, whose health +<i>he</i> begs to propose. The senior officer, in returning thanks, observes +that <i>he</i> knows no more worthy man than the secretary—except Mr. +Walker, the auditor, whose health <i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XX—THE FIRST OF MAY</h3> + +<blockquote> +<p> +‘Now ladies, up in the sky-parlour: only once a year, if you +please!’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap">Young Lady with Brass Ladle</span>. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sweep—sweep—sw-e-ep!’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap">Illegal Watchword</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>poussette</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>did</i> 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 <i>choose</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>élite</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>not</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bouquet</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +How has May-day decayed! +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXI—BROKERS’ AND MARINE-STORE SHOPS</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +The goods here are adapted to the taste, or rather to the means, of cheap +purchasers. There are some of the most beautiful <i>looking</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXII—GIN-SHOPS</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>liqueurs</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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>I</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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXIII—THE PAWNBROKER’S SHOP</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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; ‘<i>do</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXIV—CRIMINAL COURTS</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>bonâ fide</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>can</i> look, with an immense <i>bouquet</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +<i>Court</i>: Have you any witnesses to speak to your character, boy? +</p> + +<p> +<i>Boy</i>: 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. +</p> + +<p> +<i>Court</i>. Inquire for these witnesses. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XXV—A VISIT TO NEWGATE</h3> + +<p> +‘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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>said</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>her</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>them</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. <a +name="citation161"></a><a href="#footnote161" class="citation">[161]</a> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>the condemned pew</i>; 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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>chevaux de frise</i>; and the whole is +under the constant inspection of vigilant and experienced turnkeys. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>know</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. <a name="citation165"></a><a href="#footnote165" +class="citation">[165]</a> +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>not</i> 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 <i>him</i>! Verdict, +‘Guilty.’ No matter; he will escape. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h2>CHARACTERS</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I—THOUGHTS ABOUT PEOPLE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II—A CHRISTMAS DINNER</h3> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>will</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>such</i> songs, from aunt Margaret’s husband, who turns +out to be such a nice man, and <i>so</i> attentive to grandmamma! Even +grandpapa not only sings his annual song with unprecedented vigour, but on +being honoured with an unanimous <i>encore</i>, 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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III—THE NEW YEAR</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The man on the first landing precedes him to the drawing-room door. ‘Mr. +Tupple!’ shouts the messenger. ‘How <i>are</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>much</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>so</i> 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.) +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV—MISS EVANS AND THE EAGLE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>so</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>her</i> +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 <i>would</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>would</i> stare at Miss J’mima Ivins, and another +gentleman in a plaid waistcoat <i>would</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>you</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V—THE PARLOUR ORATOR</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Won’t you walk into the parlour, sir?’ said the young lady, +in seductive tones. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Very extraordinary!’ said the light-haired man after a pause of +five minutes. A murmur of assent ran through the company. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why should it be extraordinary?—why is it +extraordinary?—prove it to be extraordinary!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, if you come to that—’ said the light-haired man, meekly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Come to that!’ ejaculated the man with the red face; ‘but we +<i>must</i> 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 <i>them</i>,” says I. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You <i>are</i> a slave,’ said the red-faced man, ‘and the +most pitiable of all slaves.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Werry hard if I am,’ interrupted the greengrocer, ‘for I got +no good out of the twenty million that was paid for ’mancipation, +anyhow.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Prove it,’ said the greengrocer. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course, of course,’ said divers members of the company, who +understood almost as much about the matter as the broker himself. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Wonderful man!’ said he of the sharp nose. +</p> + +<p> +‘Splendid speaker!’ added the broker. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI—THE HOSPITAL PATIENT</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Take off his hat,’ said the magistrate. The officer did as he was +desired, and the man’s features were disclosed. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +The nurse bent over the girl for a few seconds, and then drew the sheet over +her face. It covered a corpse. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII—THE MISPLACED ATTACHMENT OF MR. JOHN DOUNCE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>had</i> been when he <i>might</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you open me an oyster, my dear?’ said Mr. John Dounce. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you open me half-a-dozen more, my dear?’ inquired Mr. John +Dounce. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>did</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VIII—THE MISTAKEN MILLINER. A TALE OF AMBITION</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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—<i>so</i> kind, and <i>so</i> 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 +<i>they</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you ever hear so sweet a voice, my dear?’ inquired Mr. +Jennings Rodolph of Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. +</p> + +<p> +‘Never; indeed I never did, love,’ replied Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t you think Miss Martin, with a little cultivation, would be +very like Signora Marra Boni, my dear?’ asked Mr. Jennings Rodolph. +</p> + +<p> +‘Just exactly the very thing that struck me, my love,’ answered +Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Turn them geese out,’ cried the ornamental painter’s +journeyman’s party, with great indignation. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sing out,’ whispered Mr. Jennings Rodolph. +</p> + +<p> +‘So I do,’ responded Miss Amelia Martin. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sing louder,’ said Mrs. Jennings Rodolph. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can’t,’ replied Miss Amelia Martin. +</p> + +<p> +‘Off, off, off,’ cried the rest of the audience. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IX—THE DANCING ACADEMY</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>very</i> 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 <i>in</i>, and Signor +Billsmethi’s family to dance <i>with</i>; and when he had been +sufficiently broken in in the parlour, he began to run in couples in the +assembly-room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>his</i> business in his lifetime, took to managing her son and +<i>his</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘And very much delighted I am, Mr. Cooper,’ said Signor Billsmethi, +‘that I did <i>not</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am very glad of it too, sir,’ said Augustus Cooper. +</p> + +<p> +‘And I hope we shall be better acquainted, sir,’ said Signor +Billsmethi. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>had</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER X—SHABBY-GENTEEL PEOPLE</h3> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XI—MAKING A NIGHT OF IT</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +As to Mr. Thomas Potter, he <i>would</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Give that dog a bone!’ cried one gentleman in his shirt-sleeves. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <span +class="smcap">o—ver</span>!’ 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. +</p> + +<p> +The overture—to which these various sounds had been an <i>ad libitum</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Then, as standard novelists expressively inform us—‘all was a +blank!’ and in the morning the blank was filled up with the words +‘<span class="smcap">Station-house</span>,’ 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. +</p> + +<p> +The prosecutors <i>were</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XII—THE PRISONERS’ VAN</h3> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd dispersed; the vehicle rolled away with its load of guilt and +misfortune; and we saw no more of the Prisoners’ Van. +</p> + +<h2>TALES</h2> + +<h3>CHAPTER I—THE BOARDING-HOUSE</h3> + +<h4>CHAPTER I.</h4> + +<p> +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 ‘<span class="smcap">Mrs. +Tibbs</span>,’ 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>with</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tibbs enjoyed a small independence from the pension-list—about +43<i>l.</i> 15<i>s.</i> 10<i>d.</i> 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 +<i>all</i> 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<i>l.</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Tibbs placed the poker at right angles with the fire shovel, and essayed to +speak, but recollected he had nothing to say. +</p> + +<p> +‘The young ladies,’ continued Mrs. T., ‘have kindly +volunteered to bring their own piano.’ +</p> + +<p> +Tibbs thought of the volunteer story, but did not venture it. +</p> + +<p> +A bright thought struck him— +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s very likely—’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A what!’ shrieked Mrs. Tibbs. Tibbs modestly repeated his former +suggestion. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I saw a devilish number of parcels in the passage when I came +home,’ simpered Mr. Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +‘Materials for the toilet, no doubt,’ rejoined the Don Juan reader. +</p> + +<p class="poetry">—‘Much linen, lace, and several pair<br/> +Of stockings, slippers, brushes, combs, complete;<br/> +With other articles of ladies fair,<br/> +To keep them beautiful, or leave them neat.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that from Milton?’ inquired Mr. Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>vice versâ</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Julia, my love,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to her youngest daughter, in +a tone loud enough for the remainder of the company to +hear—‘Julia.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, Ma.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘We had the most uncivil hackney-coachman to-day, you can imagine,’ +said Mrs. Maplesone to Mrs. Tibbs, in a confidential tone. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think hackney-coachmen generally <i>are</i> uncivil,’ said Mr. +Hicks in his most insinuating tone. +</p> + +<p> +‘Positively I think they are,’ replied Mrs. Maplesone, as if the +idea had never struck her before. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Robinson, what <i>do</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>lifted him up</i>, 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<i>l.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>some</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What a magnificent dresser Mr. Simpson is!’ whispered Matilda +Maplesone to her sister Julia. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What whiskers!’ said Miss Julia. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>chef-d’oeuvres</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Julia, shall I assist you to some fish?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If you please—very little—oh! plenty, thank you’ (a +bit about the size of a walnut put upon the plate). +</p> + +<p> +‘Julia is a <i>very</i> little eater,’ said Mrs. Maplesone to Mr. +Calton. +</p> + +<p> +The knocker gave a single rap. He was busy eating the fish with his eyes: so he +only ejaculated, ‘Ah!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Tibbs to her spouse after every one else had +been helped, ‘what do <i>you</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you say fish, my dear?’ (another frown). +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Take away, James,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, as Tibbs swallowed the fourth +mouthful—and away went the plates like lightning. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll take a bit of bread, James,’ said the poor +‘master of the house,’ more hungry than ever. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Between the fish and an intimated sirloin, there was a prolonged interval. +</p> + +<p> +Here was an opportunity for Mr. Hicks. He could not resist the singularly +appropriate quotation— +</p> + +<p class="poetry">‘But beef is rare within these oxless isles;<br/> +Goats’ flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton,<br/> +And when a holiday upon them smiles,<br/> +A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very ungentlemanly behaviour,’ thought little Mrs. Tibbs, +‘to talk in that way.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah,’ said Mr. Calton, filling his glass. ‘Tom Moore is my +poet.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And mine,’ said Mrs. Maplesone. +</p> + +<p> +‘And mine,’ said Miss Julia. +</p> + +<p> +‘And mine,’ added Mr. Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +‘Look at his compositions,’ resumed the knocker. +</p> + +<p> +‘To be sure,’ said Simpson, with confidence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Look at Don Juan,’ replied Mr. Septimus Hicks. +</p> + +<p> +‘Julia’s letter,’ suggested Miss Matilda. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can anything be grander than the Fire Worshippers?’ inquired Miss +Julia. +</p> + +<p> +‘To be sure,’ said Simpson. +</p> + +<p> +‘Or Paradise and the Peri,’ said the old beau. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; or Paradise and the Peer,’ repeated Simpson, who thought he +was getting through it capitally. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Tell your master, James,’ interrupted Mrs. Tibbs, in an awfully +distinct tone, ‘tell your master if he <i>won’t</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="center"> +* * * * * +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not as I knows on, sir,’ replied the boy. ‘ Please, sir, he +looked rather rum, as it might be.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I received a note—’ he said, very tremulously, in a voice +like a Punch with a cold. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ returned the other, ‘you did.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Exactly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hicks,’ said he, ‘I have sent for you, in consequence of +certain arrangements which are pending in this house, connected with a +marriage.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘With a marriage!’ gasped Hicks, compared with whose expression of +countenance, Hamlet’s, when he sees his father’s ghost, is pleasing +and composed. +</p> + +<p> +‘With a marriage,’ returned the knocker. ‘I have sent for you +to prove the great confidence I can repose in you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And will you betray me?’ eagerly inquired Hicks, who in his alarm +had even forgotten to quote. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>I</i> betray <i>you</i>! Won’t <i>you</i> betray<i> +me</i>?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘People must know that, some time or other—within a year, I +imagine,’ said Mr. Calton, with an air of great self-complacency. +‘We <i>may</i> have a family.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>We</i>!—That won’t affect you, surely?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The devil it won’t!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What Matilda?’ inquired Hicks, starting up. +</p> + +<p> +‘Matilda Maplesone,’ responded the other, doing the same. +</p> + +<p> +‘I marry her to-morrow morning,’ said Hicks. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s false,’ rejoined his companion: ‘I marry +her!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You marry her?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I marry her!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You marry Matilda Maplesone?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Matilda Maplesone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>Miss</i> Maplesone marry <i>you</i>?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Maplesone! No; Mrs. Maplesone.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good Heaven!’ said Hicks, falling into his chair: ‘You marry +the mother, and I the daughter!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t like to ask him,’ replied Calton, ‘he’s +such a donkey.’ +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +‘Oh Powers of Heaven! what dark eyes meets she there?<br/> +’Tis—’tis her father’s—fixed upon the +pair.’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 +<i>my</i> father; therefore he must be enjoined to secrecy.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Tibbs,’ called Mr. Calton in a very bland tone, looking over +the banisters. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sir!’ replied he of the dirty face. +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you have the kindness to step up-stairs for a moment?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Calton resumed; ‘I am placed, Mr. Tibbs, in rather an unpleasant +situation.’ +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are not surprised, Mr. Tibbs?’ inquired Mr. Calton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Bless you, no, sir,’ returned Tibbs; ‘after all, its very +natural. When two young people get together, you know—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly, certainly,’ said Calton, with an indescribable air of +self-satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, sir,’ replied Tibbs; ‘I was just the same at his +age.’ He actually smiled when he said this. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly not,’ replied Tibbs; still without evincing an atom of +surprise. +</p> + +<p> +‘You will not?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Decidedly not,’ reiterated Tibbs, still as calm as a pot of porter +with the head off. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, confess,’ asked Mr. Calton of Tibbs, as he picked up his hat, +‘were you not a little surprised?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I b’lieve you!’ replied that illustrious person, holding up +one hand; ‘I b’lieve you! When I first heard of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So sudden,’ said Septimus Hicks. +</p> + +<p> +‘So strange to ask <i>me</i>, you know,’ said Tibbs. +</p> + +<p> +‘So odd altogether!’ said the superannuated love-maker; and then +all three laughed. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>will</i> his father say?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Septimus Hicks looked at Mr. Calton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes; but the best of it is,’ said the latter, giggling in his +turn, ‘I haven’t got a father—he! he! he!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You haven’t got a father. No; but <i>he</i> has,’ said +Tibbs. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>Who</i> has?’ inquired Septimus Hicks. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, <i>him</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Him, who? Do you know my secret? Do you mean me?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You! No; you know who I mean,’ returned Tibbs with a knowing wink. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why Mr. Simpson, of course,’ replied Tibbs; ‘who else could +I mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I see it all,’ said the Byron-quoter; ‘Simpson marries Julia +Maplesone to-morrow morning!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Undoubtedly,’ replied Tibbs, thoroughly satisfied, ‘of +course he does.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +<i>Maplesone</i> v. <i>Calton</i>, 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<i>l.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The advertisement has again appeared in the morning papers. Results must be +reserved for another chapter. +</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER THE SECOND.</h4> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The postman drew near the house. He paused—so did Mrs. Tibbs. A +knock—a bustle—a letter—post-paid. +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘T. I. as To apologise to I. T. for the shortness Of the notice But i +hope it will not unconvenience you. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘I remain yours Truly<br/> +‘Wednesday evening.’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The visitor (who was very fat and red-faced) was shown into the drawing-room; +Mrs. Tibbs presented herself, and the negotiation commenced. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Money isn’t no object whatever to me,’ said the lady, +‘so much as living in a state of retirement and obtrusion.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Tibbs, as a matter of course, acquiesced in such an exceedingly natural +desire. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, ma’am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you’ll find room for my little servant Agnes?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! certainly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And I can have one of the cellars in the area for my bottled +porter.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘With the greatest pleasure;—James shall get it ready for you by +Saturday.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And I’ll join the company at the breakfast-table on Sunday +morning,’ said Mrs. Bloss. ‘I shall get up on purpose.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The next room?’ inquired Mrs. Bloss. +</p> + +<p> +‘The next room,’ repeated the hostess. +</p> + +<p> +‘How very promiscuous!’ ejaculated the widow. +</p> + +<p> +‘He hardly ever gets up,’ said Mrs. Tibbs in a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lor!’ cried Mrs. Bloss, in an equally low tone. +</p> + +<p> +‘And when he is up,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, ‘we never can persuade +him to go to bed again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Dear me!’ said the astonished Mrs. Bloss, drawing her chair nearer +Mrs. Tibbs. ‘What is his complaint?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, the fact is,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs, with a most communicative +air, ‘he has no stomach whatever.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No what?’ inquired Mrs. Bloss, with a look of the most +indescribable alarm. +</p> + +<p> +‘No stomach,’ repeated Mrs. Tibbs, with a shake of the head. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never heard such a case in my life!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss. +‘Why, he’s worse than I am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You have quite incited my curiosity,’ said Mrs. Bloss, as she rose +to depart. ‘How I long to see him!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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<i>l.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, what <i>do</i> you think, ma’am?’ inquired the +inquisitive Agnes of her mistress, after they had been in the house some three +hours; ‘what <i>do</i> you think, ma’am? the lady of the house is +married.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Married!’ said Mrs. Bloss, taking the pill and a draught of +Guinness—‘married! Unpossible!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She is indeed, ma’am,’ returned the Columbine; ‘and +her husband, ma’am, lives—he—he—he—lives in the +kitchen, ma’am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘In the kitchen!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I never!’ said Mrs. Bloss. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Tickle the boarders!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, seriously alarmed. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, ma’am, not the boarders, the servants.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, is that all!’ said Mrs. Bloss, quite satisfied. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good morning, Mr. Evenson,’ said Tibbs, very humbly, with +something between a nod and a bow. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is Mr. Wisbottle in town to-day, do you know, sir?’ inquired +Tibbs, just for the sake of saying something. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s very fond of whistling,’ said Tibbs, with a slight +smirk. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes—I ain’t,’ was the laconic reply. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Here comes Mr. Wisbottle,’ said Tibbs; and Mr. Wisbottle forthwith +appeared in blue slippers, and a shawl dressing-gown, whistling ‘<i>Di +piacer</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good morning, sir,’ said Tibbs again. It was almost the only thing +he ever said to anybody. +</p> + +<p> +‘How are you, Tibbs?’ condescendingly replied the amateur; and he +walked to the window, and whistled louder than ever. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pretty air, that!’ said Evenson, with a snarl, and without taking +his eyes off the paper. +</p> + +<p> +‘Glad you like it,’ replied Wisbottle, highly gratified. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t you think it would sound better, if you whistled it a little +louder?’ inquired the mastiff. +</p> + +<p> +‘No; I don’t think it would,’ rejoined the unconscious +Wisbottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +The entrance of Mrs. Tibbs (with the keys in a little basket) interrupted the +threat, and prevented its conclusion. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Tomkins, who had been looking out at the +window. ‘Here—Wisbottle—pray come here—make +haste.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Wisbottle started from the table, and every one looked up. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Dear me! I see,’ replied Wisbottle, in a tone of admiration. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ replied Orson, with a mouthful of toast. +</p> + +<p> +‘Never saw anything like it before, I suppose?’ suggested +Wisbottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘No—except the Lord Lieutenant’s levees,’ replied +O’Bleary. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are they at all equal to our drawing-rooms?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, infinitely superior!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Gad! I don’t know,’ said the aristocratic Wisbottle, +‘the Dowager Marchioness of Publiccash was most magnificently dressed, +and so was the Baron Slappenbachenhausen.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What was he presented on?’ inquired Evenson. +</p> + +<p> +‘On his arrival in England.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought so,’ growled the radical; ‘you never hear of these +fellows being presented on their going away again. They know better than +that.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Unless somebody pervades them with an apintment,’ said Mrs. Bloss, +joining in the conversation in a faint voice. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well,’ said Wisbottle, evading the point, ‘it’s a +splendid sight.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It certainly <i>has</i> occurred to me,’ said Wisbottle, who +thought this answer was a poser; ‘it <i>has</i> occurred to me, and I am +willing to pay for them.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A cup of tea if you please, dear,’ interrupted Tibbs. +</p> + +<p> +‘And supply—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘May I trouble you to hand this tea to Mr. Tibbs?’ said Mrs. Tibbs, +interrupting the argument, and unconsciously illustrating it. +</p> + +<p> +The thread of the orator’s discourse was broken. He drank his tea and +resumed the paper. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We have some splendid steam-vessels in Ireland,’ said +O’Bleary. +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly,’ said Mrs. Bloss, delighted to find a subject broached +in which she could take part. +</p> + +<p> +‘The accommodations are extraordinary,’ said O’Bleary. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Gobler?’ suggested Mrs. Tibbs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I haven’t seen or heard nothing of him,’ repeated Mrs. +Bloss. +</p> + +<p> +‘I dare say you’ll hear him to-night,’ replied Mrs. Tibbs; +‘he generally groans a good deal on Sunday evenings.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, my dear ma’am, and how are we?’ inquired Wosky, in a +soothing tone. +</p> + +<p> +‘Very ill, doctor—very ill,’ said Mrs. Bloss, in a whisper +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! we must take care of ourselves;—we must, indeed,’ said +the obsequious Wosky, as he felt the pulse of his interesting patient. +</p> + +<p> +‘How is our appetite?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Bloss shook her head. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Dear man!’ exclaimed Mrs. Bloss, as the doctor stepped into the +carriage. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no—it’s nothing,’ returned Mrs. T. in a hurried +manner; ‘it’s only the heat of the room.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A flush!’ ejaculated Mrs. Bloss from the card-table; +‘that’s good for four.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If I thought it was Mr. Wisbottle,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, after a +pause, ‘he should leave this house instantly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Go!’ said Mrs. Bloss again. +</p> + +<p> +‘And if I thought,’ continued the hostess with a most threatening +air, ‘if I thought he was assisted by Mr. Tibbs—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘One for his nob!’ said Gobler. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have generally found him so,’ sobbed poor little Mrs. Tibbs; +crying like a watering-pot. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, it’s very fair,’ replied Orson, who had been +enthusiastically delighted with the whole exhibition. +</p> + +<p> +‘Never saw anything like that Captain Ross’s +set-out—eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ returned the patriot, with his usual +reservation—‘except in Dublin.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I saw the Count de Canky and Captain Fitzthompson in the Gardens,’ +said Wisbottle; ‘they appeared much delighted.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then it <i>must</i> be beautiful,’ snarled Evenson. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think they look a great deal more like omnibus cads on all +fours,’ replied the discontented one. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Capital things those shower-baths!’ ejaculated Wisbottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘Excellent!’ said Tomkins. +</p> + +<p> +‘Delightful!’ chimed in O’Bleary. (He had once seen one, +outside a tinman’s.) +</p> + +<p> +‘Disgusting machines!’ rejoined Evenson, who extended his dislike +to almost every created object, masculine, feminine, or neuter. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 +<i>me</i>, for the mere sight of it threw me into a profuse perspiration for +six months afterwards.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>début</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush!’ whispered somebody else. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that you, Mrs. Tibbs?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ said little Mrs. Tibbs, who could hardly speak for trembling. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s Wisbottle and somebody, I’ll swear,’ exclaimed +the radical in an energetic whisper, when they had listened for a few moments. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush—pray let’s hear what they say!’ exclaimed Mrs. +Tibbs, the gratification of whose curiosity was now paramount to every other +consideration. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! if I could but believe you,’ said a female voice coquettishly, +‘I’d be bound to settle my missis for life.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What does she say?’ inquired Mr. Evenson, who was not quite so +well situated as his companion. +</p> + +<p> +‘She says she’ll settle her missis’s life,’ replied +Mrs. Tibbs. ‘The wretch! they’re plotting murder.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s that?’ inquired Evenson again. He could just hear +enough to want to hear more. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Bless my soul, it’s Mr. O’Bleary!’ exclaimed Mrs. +Tibbs, in a parenthesis. +</p> + +<p> +‘The villain!’ said the indignant Mr. Evenson. +</p> + +<p> +‘The first thing to be done,’ continued the Hibernian, ‘is to +poison Mr. Gobler’s mind.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, certainly,’ returned Agnes. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s that?’ inquired Evenson again, in an agony of +curiosity and a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +‘He says she’s to mind and poison Mr. Gobler,’ replied Mrs. +Tibbs, aghast at this sacrifice of human life. +</p> + +<p> +‘And in regard of Mrs. Tibbs,’ continued O’Bleary.—Mrs. +Tibbs shuddered. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush!’ exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the greatest alarm, just as +Mrs. Tibbs was on the extreme verge of a fainting fit. ‘Hush!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush!’ exclaimed Evenson, at the same moment to Mrs. Tibbs. +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s somebody coming <i>up</i>-stairs,’ said Agnes to +O’Bleary. +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s somebody coming <i>down</i>-stairs,’ whispered +Evenson to Mrs. Tibbs. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What can it be?’ exclaimed Mrs. Tibbs. ‘It’s like a +dream. I wouldn’t be found in this situation for the world!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nor I,’ returned Evenson, who could never bear a joke at his own +expense. ‘Hush! here they are at the door.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What fun!’ whispered one of the new-comers.—It was +Wisbottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘Glorious!’ replied his companion, in an equally low +tone.—This was Alfred Tomkins. ‘Who would have thought it?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, do you know I didn’t notice it?’ interrupted Tomkins. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘They’re talking of <i>us</i>!’ exclaimed the agonised Mrs. +Tibbs, as the painful suspicion, and a sense of their situation, flashed upon +her mind. +</p> + +<p> +‘I know it—I know it,’ replied Evenson, with a melancholy +consciousness that there was no mode of escape. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s to be done? we cannot both stop here!’ ejaculated +Mrs. Tibbs, in a state of partial derangement. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll get up the chimney,’ replied Evenson, who really meant +what he said. +</p> + +<p> +‘You can’t,’ said Mrs. Tibbs, in despair. ‘You +can’t—it’s a register stove.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush!’ repeated John Evenson. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush—hush!’ cried somebody down-stairs. +</p> + +<p> +‘What a d-d hushing!’ said Alfred Tomkins, who began to get rather +bewildered. +</p> + +<p> +‘There they are!’ exclaimed the sapient Wisbottle, as a rustling +noise was heard in the store-room. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hark!’ whispered both the young men. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hark!’ repeated Mrs. Tibbs and Evenson. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let me alone, sir,’ said a female voice in the store-room. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, Hagnes!’ cried another voice, which clearly belonged to Tibbs, +for nobody else ever owned one like it, ‘Oh, Hagnes—lovely +creature!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Be quiet, sir!’ (A bounce.) +</p> + +<p> +‘Hag—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Be quiet, sir—I am ashamed of you. Think of your wife, Mr. Tibbs. +Be quiet, sir!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I declare I’ll scream. Be quiet, sir, will you?’ (Another +bounce and a scuffle.) +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s that?’ exclaimed Tibbs, with a start. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s what?’ said Agnes, stopping short. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why that!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!’ called out Mrs. Bloss. ‘Mrs. Tibbs, +pray get up.’ (Here the imitation of a woodpecker was resumed with +tenfold violence.) +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs. Tibbs! Mrs. Tibbs!’ screamed the woodpecker again. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the matter!’ shouted Gobler, bursting out of the back +drawing-room, like the dragon at Astley’s. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Astonishing!’ said Mrs. Bloss, who had run down-stairs, and taken +Mr. Gobler’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘Call Mrs. Tibbs directly, somebody,’ said Gobler, turning into the +front drawing-room.—‘What! Mrs. Tibbs and Mr. Evenson!!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>could</i> tell all this, but we love to +exercise our self-denial, and we therefore prefer leaving it to be imagined. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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<i>l.</i> 15<i>s.</i> 10<i>d.</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER II—MR. MINNS AND HIS COUSIN</h3> + +<p> +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<i>l.</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +The cause of the pattering on the stairs was but too plain. Mr. Augustus Minns +staggered beneath the shock of the dog’s appearance. +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear fellow, how are you?’ said Budden, as he entered. +</p> + +<p> +He always spoke at the top of his voice, and always said the same thing +half-a-dozen times. +</p> + +<p> +‘How are you, my hearty?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How do you do, Mr. Budden?—pray take a chair!’ politely +stammered the discomfited Minns. +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you—thank you—well—how are you, eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you breakfasted?’ inquired Minns. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Minns rang the bell, and tried to smile. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘D’ye think so?’ said Minns; and he tried another smile. +</p> + +<p> +‘’Pon my life, I do!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs. B. and—what’s his name—quite well?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Which is your house—I understand,’ said Minns, wishing to +cut short the visit, and the story, at the same time. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well—thank ye—good-bye.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Be punctual.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly: good morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I say, Minns, you’ve got a card.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Coachman, are you going or not?’ bawled Mr. Minns, with his head +and half his body out of the coach window. +</p> + +<p> +‘Di-rectly, sir,’ said the coachman, with his hands in his pockets, +looking as much unlike a man in a hurry as possible. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +The child was an affectionate and an amiable infant; the little dear mistook +Minns for his other parent, and screamed to embrace him. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, my little fellow—you are a fine boy, ain’t you?’ +said Mr. Minns, as happy as a tomtit on birdlime. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How old are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Eight, next We’nsday. How old are <i>you</i>?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Alexander,’ interrupted his mother, ‘how dare you ask Mr. +Minns how old he is!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He asked me how old <i>I</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 <i>be</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A verb.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s a good boy,’ said Mrs. Budden, with all a +mother’s pride. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, you know what a verb is?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>be</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Be?’ said the prodigy, after a little hesitation—‘an +insect that gathers honey.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, dear,’ frowned Mrs. Budden; ‘B double E is the +substantive.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t think he knows much yet about <i>common</i> +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 <i>proper names</i>. He! he! he!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hear! hear!’ said the little man with red whiskers. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>Pray</i> be quiet, Jones,’ remonstrated Budden. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hear! hear!’ said the company, in a tone of encouragement and +approval. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Gratification’—suggested the friend of the family. +</p> + +<p> +‘—Of gratification, I beg to propose the health of Mr. +Minns.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Budden,’ said he, ‘will you allow <i>me</i> to propose a +toast?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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: +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER III—SENTIMENT</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Miss Amelia, thus advised, proceeded to read the following note with an air of +great triumph: +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Adelphi. +</p> + +<p> +‘Monday morning.’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +‘A Member of Parliament’s daughter!’ ejaculated Amelia, in an +ecstatic tone. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>whethers</i> of +equal importance. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Crumpton murmured her acknowledgments to him (Muggs), and Cornelius +proceeded. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.) +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Brook Dingwall would like Miss Brook Dingwall to learn +everything,’ said Mrs. Brook Dingwall, who hardly ever said anything at +all. +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly,’ said both the Miss Crumptons together. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Courtesies were exchanged, acknowledgments expressed, condescension exhibited, +and the interview terminated. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>come out</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! charming, dear. How do I?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Delightful! you never looked so handsome,’ returned the belle, +adjusting her own dress, and not bestowing a glance on her poor companion. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope young Hilton will come early,’ said another young lady to +Miss somebody else, in a fever of expectation. +</p> + +<p> +‘I’m sure he’d be highly flattered if he knew it,’ +returned the other, who was practising <i>l’été</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! he’s so handsome,’ said the first. +</p> + +<p> +‘Such a charming person!’ added a second. +</p> + +<p> +‘Such a <i>distingué</i> air!’ said a third. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, what <i>do</i> you think?’ said another girl, running into the +room; ‘Miss Crumpton says her cousin’s coming.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What! Theodosius Butler?’ said everybody in raptures. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is <i>he</i> handsome?’ inquired a novice. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, not particularly handsome,’ was the general reply; ‘but, +oh, so clever!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps that’s he,’ exclaimed several young ladies, as the +first pull of the evening threatened destruction to the bell of the gate. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Theodosius looked as if he cared for nothing earthly. +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s the daughter of a member of parliament,’ said +Maria.—Theodosius started. +</p> + +<p> +‘And her name is—?’ he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Brook Dingwall.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Great Heaven!’ poetically exclaimed Theodosius, in a low tone. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Crumpton commenced the introduction in due form. Miss Brook Dingwall +languidly raised her head. +</p> + +<p> +‘Edward!’ she exclaimed, with a half-shriek, on seeing the +well-known nankeen legs. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Theodosius assured the dear creature, in the most impassioned manner, that +he was not conscious of being anybody but himself. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then why—why—this disguise? Oh! Edward M’Neville +Walter, what have I not suffered on your account?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.”’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do—I do!’ sobbed Lavinia. +</p> + +<p> +‘That,’ continued the lover, ‘was a subject to which your +father was devoted heart and soul.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He was—he was!’ reiterated the sentimentalist. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘May I hope,’ said he, ‘that the promise your father’s +violent behaviour interrupted, may be renewed?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Let us join this set,’ replied Lavinia, coquettishly—for +girls of nineteen <i>can</i> coquette. +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ ejaculated he of the nankeens. ‘I stir not from this +spot, writhing under this torture of suspense. May I—may +I—hope?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You may.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The promise is renewed?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have your permission?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You have.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To the fullest extent?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You know it,’ returned the blushing Lavinia. The contortions of +the interesting Butler’s visage expressed his raptures. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>sanctum</i>; 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. +</p> + +<p> +Miss Crumpton began the duet. She hoped Mrs. Brook Dingwall and the handsome +little boy were in good health. +</p> + +<p> +They were. Mrs. Brook Dingwall and little Frederick were at Brighton. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well indeed, sir,’ returned Maria, dreading to inform the +father that she had gone off. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, I thought the plan on which I proceeded would be a match for +her.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You have persevered strictly in the line of conduct I prescribed, Miss +Crumpton?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Strictly, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You tell me in your note that her spirits gradually improved.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very much indeed, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To be sure. I was convinced they would.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +No!’ exclaimed the prophet. ‘Bless me! Miss Crumpton, you look +alarmed. What has happened?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Brook Dingwall, sir—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, ma’am?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Has gone, sir’—said Maria, exhibiting a strong inclination +to faint. +</p> + +<p> +‘Gone!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Eloped, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Eloped!—Who with—when—where—how?’ almost +shrieked the agitated diplomatist. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>in status quo</i>, and ‘The Misses Crumpton’ remain in the +peaceable and undisturbed enjoyment of all the advantages resulting from their +Finishing-School. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IV—THE TUGGSES AT RAMSGATE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Tuggs?’ said the stranger, inquiringly. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>My</i> name is Tuggs,’ replied Mr. Simon. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I come from the Temple,’ said the man with the bag. +</p> + +<p> +‘From the Temple!’ said Mrs. Tuggs, flinging open the door of the +little parlour and disclosing Miss Tuggs in perspective. +</p> + +<p> +‘From the Temple!’ said Miss Tuggs and Mr. Simon Tuggs at the same +moment. +</p> + +<p> +‘From the Temple!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs, turning as pale as a +Dutch cheese. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Water!’ screamed Mrs. Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Look up, my son,’ exclaimed Mr. Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Simon! dear Simon!’ shrieked Miss Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘We must certainly give up business,’ said Miss Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, decidedly,’ said Mrs. Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Simon shall go to the bar,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘And I shall always sign myself “Cymon” in future,’ +said his son. +</p> + +<p> +‘And I shall call myself Charlotta,’ said Miss Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘And you must always call <i>me</i> “Ma,” and father +“Pa,”’ said Mrs. Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, and Pa must leave off all his vulgar habits,’ interposed Miss +Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘We must leave town immediately,’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +Everybody concurred that this was an indispensable preliminary to being +genteel. The question then arose, Where should they go? +</p> + +<p> +‘Gravesend?’ mildly suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. The idea was +unanimously scouted. Gravesend was <i>low</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘Margate?’ insinuated Mrs. Tuggs. Worse and worse—nobody +there, but tradespeople. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Soul-inspiring,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs—he was entered at +the bar. ‘Soul-inspiring!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cymon Tuggs took upon himself the responsibility of answering the +observation. ‘Heavenly!’ he replied. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are an enthusiastic admirer of the beauties of Nature, sir?’ +said the military gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am, sir,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Travelled much, sir?’ inquired the military gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not much,’ replied Mr. Cymon Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ve been on the continent, of course?’ inquired the +military gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You of course intend your son to make the grand tour, sir?’ said +the military gentleman, addressing Mr. Joseph Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Walter, my dear,’ said the young lady to the military gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, Belinda, my love,’ responded the military gentleman to the +black-eyed young lady. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Be calm, Walter, I entreat,’ said the young lady. +</p> + +<p> +‘I won’t,’ said the military gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do, sir,’ interposed Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘They ain’t +worth your notice.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No—no—they are not, indeed,’ urged the young lady. +</p> + +<p> +‘I <i>will</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘My sister, sir!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs; seeing that the military +gentleman was casting an admiring look towards Miss Charlotta. +</p> + +<p> +‘My wife, ma’am—Mrs. Captain Waters,’ said the military +gentleman, presenting the black-eyed young lady. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Walter, my dear,’ said the black-eyed young lady, after they had +sat chatting with the Tuggses some half-hour. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, my love,’ said the military gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t you think this gentleman (with an inclination of the head +towards Mr. Cymon Tuggs) is very much like the Marquis Carriwini?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Lord bless me, very!’ said the military gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘So exactly the air of the marquis,’ said the military gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +‘Quite extraordinary!’ sighed the military gentleman’s lady. +</p> + +<p> +‘You don’t know the marquis, sir?’ inquired the military +gentleman. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cymon Tuggs stammered a negative. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>fac simile</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! I hope so,’ said Miss Charlotta Tuggs, emphatically. +</p> + +<p> +‘Tickets, ladies and gen’lm’n,’ said the man on the +paddle-box. +</p> + +<p> +‘Want a porter, sir?’ inquired a dozen men in smock-frocks. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, my dear!’ said Captain Waters. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nice light fly and a fast trotter, sir,’ said another: +‘fourteen mile a hour, and surroundin’ objects rendered inwisible +by ex-treme welocity!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Large fly for your luggage, sir,’ cried a third. ‘Werry +large fly here, sir—reg’lar bluebottle!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Here’s <i>your</i> 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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘How many did you want, ma’am?’ was, of course, the reply. +</p> + +<p> +‘Three.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why the devil didn’t they say so at first?’ inquired Mr. +Joseph Tuggs, rather pettishly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t know,’ said Mrs. Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Wretches!’ exclaimed the nervous Cymon. Another bill—another +stoppage. Same question—same answer—similar result. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do they mean by this?’ inquired Mr. Joseph Tuggs, thoroughly +out of temper. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t know,’ said the placid Mrs. Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the terms?’ said Mrs. Tuggs, in a louder key. +</p> + +<p> +‘Five guineas a week, ma’am, <i>with</i> attendance,’ replied +the lodging-house keeper. (Attendance means the privilege of ringing the bell +as often as you like, for your own amusement.) +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Capital srimps!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cymon eyed his father with a rebellious scowl, as he emphatically said +‘<i>Shrimps</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, then, shrimps,’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘Srimps or +shrimps, don’t much matter.’ +</p> + +<p> +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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Or what would dear Mrs. Captain Waters say,’ added Charlotta, +‘if she saw mother—ma, I mean—eating them whole, heads and +all!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It won’t bear thinking of!’ ejaculated Mr. Cymon, with a +shudder. ‘How different,’ he thought, ‘from the Dowager +Duchess of Dobbleton!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very pretty woman, Mrs. Captain Waters, is she not, Cymon?’ +inquired Miss Charlotta. +</p> + +<p> +A glow of nervous excitement passed over the countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs, as +he replied, ‘An angel of beauty!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Hallo!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs. ‘Hallo, Cymon, my boy, take +care. Married lady, you know;’ and he winked one of his twinkling eyes +knowingly. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cymon, by an exertion of great personal strength, uprooted the chairs, and +removed them further back. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, I’m blessed if there ain’t some ladies a-going +in!’ exclaimed Mr. Joseph Tuggs, with intense astonishment. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lor, pa!’ exclaimed Miss Charlotta. +</p> + +<p> +‘There <i>is</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, that’s sing’ler, too!’ ejaculated Mr. Joseph +Tuggs, after an awkward pause. Mr. Cymon coughed slightly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, here’s some gentlemen a-going in on this side!’ +exclaimed Mrs. Tuggs, in a tone of horror. +</p> + +<p> +Three machines—three horses—three flounderings—three turnings +round—three splashes—three gentlemen, disporting themselves in the +water like so many dolphins. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, <i>that’s</i> sing’ler!’ said Mr. Joseph Tuggs +again. Miss Charlotta coughed this time, and another pause ensued. It was +agreeably broken. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘How d’ye do?’ said Captain Walter Waters, all suavity; and a +most cordial interchange of greetings ensued. +</p> + +<p> +‘Belinda, my love,’ said Captain Walter Waters, applying his glass +to his eye, and looking in the direction of the sea. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, my dear,’ replied Mrs. Captain Waters. +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s Harry Thompson!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where?’ said Belinda, applying her glass to her eye. +</p> + +<p> +‘Bathing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Lor, so it is! He don’t see us, does he?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, I don’t think he does’ replied the captain. ‘Bless +my soul, how very singular!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What?’ inquired Belinda. +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s Mary Golding, too.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Lor!—where?’ (Up went the glass again.) +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘So it is, I declare!’ exclaimed Mrs. Captain Waters. ‘How +very curious we should see them both!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very,’ said the captain, with perfect coolness. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s the reg’lar thing here, you see,’ whispered Mr. +Cymon Tuggs to his father. +</p> + +<p> +‘I see it is,’ whispered Mr. Joseph Tuggs in reply. ‘Queer, +though—ain’t it?’ Mr. Cymon Tuggs nodded assent. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you think of doing with yourself this morning?’ inquired +the captain. ‘Shall we lunch at Pegwell?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘How shall we go?’ inquired the captain; ‘it’s too warm +to walk.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A shay?’ suggested Mr. Joseph Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Chaise,’ whispered Mr. Cymon. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I should like a donkey <i>so</i> much,’ said Belinda. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, so should I!’ echoed Charlotta Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, we can have a fly,’ suggested the captain, ‘and you +can have a couple of donkeys.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Way—way! Wo—o—o—!’ cried Mr. Cymon Tuggs +as well as he could, in the midst of the jolting. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t make it gallop!’ screamed Mrs. Captain Waters, behind. +</p> + +<p> +‘My donkey <i>will</i> go into the public-house!’ shrieked Miss +Tuggs in the rear. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hi—hi—hi!’ groaned both the boys together; and on went +the donkeys as if nothing would ever stop them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now let ’em walk,’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs. ‘It’s +cruel to overdrive ’em.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What a lovely day, dear!’ said Charlotta. +</p> + +<p> +‘Charming; enchanting, dear!’ responded Mrs. Captain Waters. +</p> + +<p> +‘What a beautiful prospect, Mr. Tuggs!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There was a brief silence, broken only by a sigh from Mr. Cymon Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Cymon,’ said the lady suddenly, in a low tone, ‘Mr. +Cymon—I am another’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cymon expressed his perfect concurrence in a statement which it was +impossible to controvert. +</p> + +<p> +‘If I had not been—’ resumed Belinda; and there she stopped. +</p> + +<p> +‘What—what?’ said Mr. Cymon earnestly. ‘Do not torture +me. What would you say?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.) +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> 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 <i>such</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ cried one of the young ladies +in the maroon-coloured gowns. +</p> + +<p> +‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ echoed another young lady in +the same uniform. +</p> + +<p> +‘Number three’s gone,’ said the first young lady. +‘Numbers eight and eleven!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Numbers eight and eleven!’ echoed the second young lady. +</p> + +<p> +‘Number eight’s gone, Mary Ann,’ said the first young lady. +</p> + +<p> +‘Number eleven!’ screamed the second. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you throw, ma’am?’ said the presiding goddess, handing +the dice-box to the eldest daughter of a stout lady, with four girls. +</p> + +<p> +There was a profound silence among the lookers-on. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>very</i> modest and retiring; +but I can’t be angry with her for it. An artless and unsophisticated girl +is <i>so</i> truly amiable, that I often wish Amelia was more like her +sister!’ +</p> + +<p> +The gentleman with the whiskers whispered his admiring approval. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, my dear!’ said the stout lady. Miss Amelia threw—eight +for her sister, ten for herself. +</p> + +<p> +‘Nice figure, Amelia,’ whispered the stout lady to a thin youth +beside her. +</p> + +<p> +‘Beautiful!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And <i>such</i> a spirit! I am like you in that respect. I can +<i>not</i> help admiring that life and vivacity. Ah! (a sigh) I wish I could +make poor Jane a little more like my dear Amelia!’ +</p> + +<p> +The young gentleman cordially acquiesced in the sentiment; both he, and the +individual first addressed, were perfectly contented. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs. Tippin, of the London theatres,’ replied Belinda, referring +to the programme of the concert. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Walter will return to-morrow,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters, +mournfully breaking silence. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a gust of wind through a forest of gooseberry +bushes, as he replied, ‘Alas! he will.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘And to think that even this gleam of happiness, innocent as it +is,’ exclaimed Belinda, ‘is now to be lost for ever!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I must,’ replied Belinda. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why?’ urged Cymon, ‘oh why? Such Platonic acquaintance as +ours is so harmless, that even your husband can never object to it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then leave me,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters. ‘Leave me, this +night, for ever. It is late: let us return.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good night,’ sobbed the lady. Mr. Cymon Tuggs paused again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Won’t you walk in, sir?’ said the servant. Mr. Tuggs +hesitated. Oh, that hesitation! He <i>did</i> walk in. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good night!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs again, when he reached the +drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is my husband!’ said Belinda, as the captain’s voice was +heard below. +</p> + +<p> +‘And my family!’ added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices of his relatives +floated up the staircase. +</p> + +<p> +‘The curtain! The curtain!’ gasped Mrs. Captain Waters, pointing to +the window, before which some chintz hangings were closely drawn. +</p> + +<p> +‘But I have done nothing wrong,’ said the hesitating Cymon. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +Enter the captain, Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and Charlotta. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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! +</p> + +<p> +‘Slaughter,’ said the captain, ‘a cigar?’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Bless my soul!’ said the captain, ‘I beg your pardon, Miss +Tuggs. You dislike smoking?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, no; I don’t indeed,’ said Charlotta. +</p> + +<p> +‘It makes you cough.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh dear no.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You coughed just now.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Me, Captain Waters! Lor! how can you say so?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Somebody coughed,’ said the captain. +</p> + +<p> +‘I certainly thought so,’ said Slaughter. No; everybody denied it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Fancy,’ said the captain. +</p> + +<p> +‘Must be,’ echoed Slaughter. +</p> + +<p> +Cigars resumed—more smoke—another cough—smothered, but +violent. +</p> + +<p> +‘Damned odd!’ said the captain, staring about him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Sing’ler!’ ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph Tuggs. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Slaughter!’ ejaculated the captain, rising from table, ‘what +do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +The lieutenant, in reply, drew back the curtain and discovered Mr. Cymon Tuggs +behind it: pallid with apprehension, and blue with wanting to cough. +</p> + +<p> +‘Aha!’ exclaimed the captain, furiously. ‘What do I see? +Slaughter, your sabre!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Cymon!’ screamed the Tuggses. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mercy!’ said Belinda. +</p> + +<p> +‘Platonic!’ gasped Cymon. +</p> + +<p> +‘Your sabre!’ roared the captain: ‘Slaughter—unhand +me—the villain’s life!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Murder!’ screamed the Tuggses. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hold him fast, sir!’ faintly articulated Cymon. +</p> + +<p> +‘Water!’ exclaimed Joseph Tuggs—and Mr. Cymon Tuggs and all +the ladies forthwith fainted away, and formed a tableau. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER V—HORATIO SPARKINS</h3> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who must?’ inquired Mr. Malderton. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>is</i> his name?’ continued Mrs. Malderton, +addressing her youngest daughter, who was engaged in netting a purse, and +looking sentimental. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Horatio Sparkins, ma,’ replied Miss Marianne, with a sigh. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Like Prince Leopold, ma—so noble, so full of sentiment!’ +suggested Marianne, in a tone of enthusiastic admiration. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am quite sure you’d like him,’ continued Mrs. Malderton, +‘he is so gentlemanly!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘So clever!’ said Miss Marianne. +</p> + +<p> +‘And has such a flow of language!’ added Miss Teresa. +</p> + +<p> +‘He has a great respect for you, my dear,’ said Mrs. Malderton to +her husband. Mr. Malderton coughed, and looked at the fire. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes I’m sure he’s very much attached to pa’s +society,’ said Miss Marianne. +</p> + +<p> +‘No doubt of it,’ echoed Miss Teresa. +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed, he said as much to me in confidence,’ observed Mrs. +Malderton. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course—and that you keep a one-horse carriage.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll see about it,’ said Mr. Malderton, composing himself +for a nap; ‘I’ll see about it.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>somebody</i>.’—‘I should think he must be,’ reasoned +Mr. Malderton, within himself, ‘because he perceives our superiority, and +pays us so much attention.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>beau idéal</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘There he is, my dear,’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to Mr. Malderton. +</p> + +<p> +‘How like Lord Byron!’ murmured Miss Teresa. +</p> + +<p> +‘Or Montgomery!’ whispered Miss Marianne. +</p> + +<p> +‘Or the portraits of Captain Cook!’ suggested Tom. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t <i>think</i> I am engaged,’ said Miss Teresa, with a +dreadful affectation of indifference—‘but, really—so +many—’ +</p> + +<p> +Horatio looked handsomely miserable. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘He has a remarkably good address,’ said Mr. Frederick. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, he is a prime fellow,’ interposed Tom, who always managed to +put his foot in it—‘he talks just like an auctioneer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What feeling! what sentiment!’ thought Miss Teresa, as she leaned +more heavily on her companion’s arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Surely he cannot object—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘He cannot object to my offering you a glass of negus,’ returned +the adorable Sparkins, with some surprise. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that all?’ thought the disappointed Teresa. ‘What a fuss +about nothing!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +Horatio bowed his acknowledgments, and accepted the flattering invitation. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And after all, sir, what is man?’ said the metaphysical Sparkins. +‘I say, what is man?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! very true,’ said Mr. Malderton; ‘very true.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We know that we live and breathe,’ continued Horatio; ‘that +we have wants and wishes, desires and appetites—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking profound. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think he must be somebody in disguise,’ said Miss Marianne. +‘How charmingly romantic!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He talks very loud and nicely,’ timidly observed Tom, ‘but I +don’t exactly understand what he means.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘It strikes me, Tom,’ said Miss Teresa, ‘that you have made +yourself very ridiculous this evening.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>will</i> let people know what he is.’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I did; and here I am in consequence.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You don’t happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by name? You know +everybody?’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Middle-sized,’ said Miss Teresa. +</p> + +<p> +‘With black hair?’ inquired Flamwell, hazarding a bold guess. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes,’ returned Miss Teresa, eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +‘Rather a snub nose?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ said the disappointed Teresa, ‘he has a Roman +nose.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I said a Roman nose, didn’t I?’ inquired Flamwell. +‘He’s an elegant young man?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, certainly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘With remarkably prepossessing manners?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, yes!’ said all the family together. ‘You must know +him.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anybody,’ triumphantly +exclaimed Mr. Malderton. ‘Who d’ye think he is?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s five minutes to five,’ said Mr. Malderton, looking at +his watch: ‘I hope he’s not going to disappoint us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +The room-door opened—‘Mr. Barton!’ said the servant. +</p> + +<p> +‘Confound the man!’ murmured Malderton. ‘Ah! my dear sir, how +d’ye do! Any news?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Here’s Mr. Sparkins!’ said Tom, who had been looking out at +the window, ‘on <i>such</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is he the Honourable Mr. Augustus What’s-his-name?’ +whispered Mrs. Malderton to Flamwell, as he was escorting her to the +dining-room. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, no—at least not exactly,’ returned that great +authority—‘not exactly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who <i>is</i> he then?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, no—not very lately. I saw Lord Gubbleton the day before +yesterday.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +This was touching on a dangerous topic. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Barton, may I trouble you for a potato?’ interrupted the wretched +master of the house, hoping to nip the story in the bud. +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly,’ returned the grocer, quite insensible of his +brother-in-law’s object—‘and he said in a very plain +manner—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>Floury</i>, if you please,’ interrupted Malderton again; +dreading the termination of the anecdote, and fearing a repetition of the word +‘shop.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the host, vainly endeavouring to conceal his +dismay, ‘a glass of wine?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘With the utmost pleasure, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Happy to see you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And me,’ said Mr. Frederick. Horatio made a graceful inclination +of the head. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray, what is your opinion of woman, Mr. Sparkins?’ inquired Mrs. +Malderton. The young ladies simpered. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am very happy to find you entertain such honourable opinions, Mr. +Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton. +</p> + +<p> +‘And I,’ added Miss Teresa. Horatio looked his delight, and the +young lady blushed. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, it’s my opinion—’ said Mr. Barton. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What!’ inquired the astonished grocer. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But I meant to say—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You never can convince me,’ said Malderton, with an air of +obstinate determination. ‘Never.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And I,’ said Mr. Frederick, following up his father’s +attack, ‘cannot entirely agree in Mr. Sparkins’s argument.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s the point,’ said Flamwell. +</p> + +<p> +‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Malderton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Because, if effect is the consequence of cause, and if cause does +precede effect, I apprehend you are wrong,’ added Horatio. +</p> + +<p> +‘Decidedly,’ said the toad-eating Flamwell. +</p> + +<p> +‘At least, I apprehend that to be the just and logical deduction?’ +said Sparkins, in a tone of interrogation. +</p> + +<p> +‘No doubt of it,’ chimed in Flamwell again. ‘It settles the +point.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, perhaps it does,’ said Mr. Frederick; ‘I didn’t +see it before.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t exactly see it now,’ thought the grocer; ‘but +I suppose it’s all right.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How wonderfully clever he is!’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to her +daughters, as they retired to the drawing-room. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘N-no!’ said Horatio, with a little hesitation; ‘not +exactly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But you have been much among the silk gowns, or I mistake?’ +inquired Flamwell, deferentially. +</p> + +<p> +‘Nearly all my life,’ returned Sparkins. +</p> + +<p> +The question was thus pretty well settled in the mind of Mr. Flamwell. He was a +young gentleman ‘about to be called.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +No one made any reply. +</p> + +<p> +‘I shouldn’t like to wear a wig,’ said Tom, hazarding another +observation. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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, <span class="smcap">p.m.</span>, and it was then eight. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Tom,’ observed his good-natured uncle, ‘never mind! +<i>I</i> think with you. I shouldn’t like to wear a wig. I’d rather +wear an apron.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Malderton coughed violently. Mr. Barton resumed—‘For if a +man’s above his business—’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said Flamwell, returning to the charge, ‘do +you happen to know Mr. Delafontaine, of Bedford-square?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are very lucky, if you have had an opportunity of obliging that +great man,’ observed Flamwell, with an air of profound respect. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No doubt, no doubt,’ returned his companion. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>from</i> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Lor! ma, what a place you have brought us to!’ said Miss Teresa; +‘what <i>would</i> Mr. Sparkins say if he could see us!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! what, indeed!’ said Miss Marianne, horrified at the idea. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to see some silks,’ answered Mrs. Malderton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Directly, ma’am.—Mr. Smith! Where <i>is</i> Mr. +Smith?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Here, sir,’ cried a voice at the back of the shop. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray make haste, Mr. Smith,’ said the M.C. ‘You never are to +be found when you’re wanted, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>low</i>. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VI—THE BLACK VEIL</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +There <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘A lady, sir—a lady!’ whispered the boy, rousing his master +with a shake. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>There</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +The surgeon looked towards the door, and started himself, for an instant, on +beholding the appearance of his unlooked-for visitor. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +She slightly inclined her head, in token of acquiescence. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray walk in,’ said the surgeon. +</p> + +<p> +The figure moved a step forward; and then, turning its head in the direction of +the boy—to his infinite horror—appeared to hesitate. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are very wet,’ be said. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am,’ said the stranger, in a low deep voice. +</p> + +<p> +‘And you are ill?’ added the surgeon, compassionately, for the tone +was that of a person in pain. +</p> + +<p> +‘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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because it would have been useless before—because it is useless +even now,’ replied the woman, clasping her hands passionately. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You <i>are</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +The stranger lifted the glass of water to her mouth, without raising the veil; +put it down again untasted; and burst into tears. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>know</i>, 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘God help me!’ exclaimed the woman, weeping bitterly, ‘how +can I hope strangers will believe what appears incredible, even to myself? You +will <i>not</i> see him then, sir?’ she added, rising suddenly. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The responsibility will rest heavily somewhere,’ replied the +stranger bitterly. ‘Whatever responsibility rests with me, I am content +to bear, and ready to answer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>Nine</i>,’ replied the stranger. +</p> + +<p> +‘You must excuse my pressing these inquiries,’ said the surgeon. +‘But is he in your charge now?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He is not,’ was the rejoinder. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then, if I gave you instructions for his treatment through the night, +you could not assist him?’ +</p> + +<p> +The woman wept bitterly, as she replied, ‘I could not.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>did</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Walk in, sir,’ he said in a low tone. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Am I in time?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +The surgeon at once walked into the room. The man closed the door, and left him +alone. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The surgeon gently pushed the woman aside, and took the hand in his. +</p> + +<p> +‘My God!’ he exclaimed, letting it fall +involuntarily—‘the man is dead!’ +</p> + +<p> +The woman started to her feet and beat her hands together. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why?’ said the woman, starting up. +</p> + +<p> +‘Undraw that curtain!’ repeated the surgeon in an agitated tone. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘This man died no natural or easy death,’ said the surgeon. +‘I <i>must</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘There has been violence here,’ said the surgeon, preserving his +searching glance. +</p> + +<p> +‘There has!’ replied the woman. +</p> + +<p> +‘This man has been murdered.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That I call God to witness he has,’ said the woman, passionately; +‘pitilessly, inhumanly murdered!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘By whom?’ said the surgeon, seizing the woman by the arm. +</p> + +<p> +‘Look at the butchers’ marks, and then ask me!’ she replied. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘This is one of the men who were hanged this morning!’ he +exclaimed, turning away with a shudder. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is,’ replied the woman, with a cold, unmeaning stare. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who was he?’ inquired the surgeon. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>My son</i>,’ rejoined the woman; and fell senseless at his +feet. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VII—THE STEAM EXCURSION</h3> + +<p> +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’!’ +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>forte</i>. He invariably spoke +with astonishing rapidity; was smart, spoffish, and eight-and-twenty. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The funny gentleman, sir?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! the funny gentleman. If Mr. Hardy should call, say I’ve gone +to Mrs. Taunton’s about that water-party.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very well, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Excellent, indeed!’ said Mrs. Taunton, who highly approved of this +part of the arrangements. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What a manager you are!’ interrupted Mrs. Taunton again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Charming!’ said the lovely Emily. +</p> + +<p> +‘I never did!’ ejaculated Sophia. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +The announcement of these arrangements was received with the utmost enthusiasm. +Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and Sophia, were loud in their praises. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, but tell me, Percy,’ said Mrs. Taunton, ‘who are the +ten gentlemen to be?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! I know plenty of fellows who’ll be delighted with the +scheme,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes; ‘of course we shall +have—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘How <i>are</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You’re just the very man I wanted,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, +who proceeded to explain the cause of his being in requisition. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No time like the present—at once, if you please.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, charming!’ cried the ladies. ‘Pray, do!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is your list prepared, Mr. Briggs?’ inquired the chairman. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Boat, sir?’ cried one of the three watermen who were mopping out +their boats, and all whistling. ‘Boat, sir?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply; for the inquiry was +not made in a manner at all suitable to his dignity. +</p> + +<p> +‘Would you prefer a wessel, sir?’ inquired another, to the infinite +delight of the ‘Jack-in-the-water.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of supreme contempt. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, make haste—the Endeavour—off the Custom-house.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Endeavour!’ cried the man who had convulsed the ‘Jack’ +before. ‘Vy, I see the Endeavour go up half an hour ago.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Here she is, by Jove!’ said the delighted Percy, as they ran +alongside the Endeavour. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hold hard!’ cried the steward over the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes +jumped on board. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hope you will find everything as you wished, sir. She looks uncommon +well this morning.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘How d’ye do, dear?’ said the Misses Briggs to the Misses +Taunton. (The word ‘dear’ among girls is frequently synonymous with +‘wretch.’) +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Percy Noakes bowed very low; the gallant captain did the same with all due +ferocity, and the Briggses were clearly overcome. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where could they have picked up that military man?’ inquired Mrs. +Briggs of Miss Kate Briggs, as they followed the little party. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Go on!’ cried the master of the boat from the top of one of the +paddle-boxes. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hoi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!’ shouted half-a-dozen voices from a +boat, a quarter of a mile astern. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ease her!’ cried the captain: ‘do these people belong to us, +sir?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What a shame to bring children!’ said everybody; ‘how very +inconsiderate!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Stop her!’ cried the captain. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Really,’ said that warlike individual, ‘I should be very +happy, ‘but—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! pray do,’ cried all the young ladies. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Emily, have you any objection to join in a duet?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! not the slightest,’ returned the young lady, in a tone which +clearly showed she had the greatest possible objection. +</p> + +<p> +‘Shall I accompany you, dear?’ inquired one of the Miss Briggses, +with the bland intention of spoiling the effect. +</p> + +<p> +‘Very much obliged to you, Miss Briggs,’ sharply retorted Mrs. +Taunton, who saw through the manoeuvre; ‘my daughters always sing without +accompaniments.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And without voices,’ tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low tone. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Persons!’ ejaculated Mrs. Taunton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Persons,’ replied Mrs. Briggs. +</p> + +<p> +‘Insolence!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Creature!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +‘See (sung the captain) from o—ce—an ri—sing<br/> +Bright flames the or—b of d—ay.<br/> +From yon gro—ove, the varied so—ongs—’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘My child!’ screamed Mrs. Fleetwood. ‘My child! it is his +voice—I know it.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What is the matter?’ shouted the agonised father, as he returned +with the child in his arms. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! oh! oh!’ screamed the small sufferer again. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! oh!—I’m so frightened!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What at, dear?—what at?’ said the mother, soothing the sweet +infant. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! he’s been making such dreadful faces at me,’ cried the +boy, relapsing into convulsions at the bare recollection. +</p> + +<p> +‘He!—who?’ cried everybody, crowding round him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh!—him!’ replied the child, pointing at Hardy, who affected +to be the most concerned of the whole group. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Bravo! bravo!’ ejaculated the captain;—‘bravo!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘De-lightful!’ returned the captain, with a flourish, and a +military cough;—‘de-lightful!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you ever hear a Portuguese tambourine?’ inquired that jocular +individual. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did <i>you</i> ever hear a tom-tom, sir?’ sternly inquired the +captain, who lost no opportunity of showing off his travels, real or pretended. +</p> + +<p> +‘A what?’ asked Hardy, rather taken aback. +</p> + +<p> +‘A tom-tom.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nor a gum-gum?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What <i>is</i> a gum-gum?’ eagerly inquired several young ladies. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who?’ inquired the bald gentleman, intensely interested. +</p> + +<p> +‘The Ram—Ram Chowdar—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh!’ said the old gentleman, ‘beg your pardon; pray go +on.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘—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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Dinner’s on the table, ladies,’ interrupted the +steward’s wife. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What an extraordinary circumstance!’ ejaculated the same old +gentleman, preserving his listening attitude. +</p> + +<p> +‘What a traveller!’ said the young ladies. +</p> + +<p> +‘What a singular name!’ exclaimed the gentlemen, rather confused by +the coolness of the whole affair. +</p> + +<p> +‘I wish he had finished the story,’ said an old lady. ‘I +wonder what a gum-gum really is?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t it rain?’ inquired the old gentleman before noticed, +when, by dint of squeezing and jamming, they were all seated at table. +</p> + +<p> +‘I think it does—a little,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who +could hardly hear himself speak, in consequence of the pattering on the deck. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t it blow?’ inquired some one else. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’ll soon clear up,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, in a cheerful +tone. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, certainly!’ ejaculated the committee generally. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>would</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ hastily interrupted Mr. Percy +Noakes,—‘Hardy, what’s the matter?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nothing,’ replied the ‘funny gentleman,’ who had just +life enough left to utter two consecutive syllables. +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you have some brandy?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Will you go on deck?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, I will <i>not</i>.’ 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ said the courteous Percy; ‘I +thought our friend was ill. Pray go on.’ +</p> + +<p> +A pause. +</p> + +<p> +‘Pray go on.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Edkins <i>is</i> gone,’ cried somebody. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Percy Noakes is as light-hearted and careless as ever. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER VIII—THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lady in number twenty-five,’ screamed the +landlady.—‘Thomas!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, ma’am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Letter just been left for the gentleman in number nineteen. Boots at the +Lion left it. No answer.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Letter for you, sir,’ said Thomas, depositing the letter on number +nineteen’s table. +</p> + +<p> +‘For me?’ said number nineteen, turning from the window, out of +which he had been surveying the scene just described. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My name <i>is</i> 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 <i>not</i> dusty, rubbed his hands very +hard, walked stealthily to the door, and evaporated. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="right"> +‘Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer,<br/> +‘Great Winglebury.<br/> +‘<i>Wednesday Morning</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<span class="smcap">Horace Hunter</span>. +</p> + +<p> +‘PS. There is a gunsmiths in the High-street; and they won’t sell +gunpowder after dark—you understand me. +</p> + +<p> +‘PPS. You had better not order your breakfast in the morning until you +have met me. It may be an unnecessary expense.’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +‘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 <i>shall</i> I +do? What <i>can</i> 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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You are the upper-boots, I think?’ inquired Mr. Trott. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’re from London?’ inquired Mr. Trott. +</p> + +<p> +‘Driv a cab once,’ was the laconic reply. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why don’t you drive it now?’ asked Mr. Trott. +</p> + +<p> +‘Over-driv the cab, and driv over a ’ooman,’ replied the +top-boots, with brevity. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you know the mayor’s house?’ inquired Mr. Trott. +</p> + +<p> +‘Rather,’ replied the boots, significantly, as if he had some good +reason to remember it. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you think you could manage to leave a letter there?’ +interrogated Trott. +</p> + +<p> +‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ responded boots. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A—what?’ interrupted the boots. +</p> + +<p> +‘Anonymous—he’s not to know who it comes from.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Show the gentleman in,’ said the stranger lady, in reply to the +foremost waiter’s announcement. The gentleman was shown in accordingly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Julia Manners!’ exclaimed the mayor at length, ‘you +astonish me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But to run away—actually run away—with a young man!’ +remonstrated the mayor. +</p> + +<p> +‘You wouldn’t have me actually run away with an old one, I +presume?’ was the cool rejoinder. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>had</i> been asked. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll tell you,’ replied Miss Julia—‘I’ll +tell you in three words. Dear Lord Peter—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s the young man, I suppose—’ interrupted the +mayor. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Has he arrived?’ inquired Overton. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know,’ replied the lady. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then how am I to know!’ inquired the mayor. ‘Of course he +will not give his own name at the bar.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do,’ replied Miss Julia; ‘and entreat him to act his part +well. I am half afraid of him. Tell him to be cautious.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will,’ said the mayor. +</p> + +<p> +‘Settle all the arrangements.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will,’ said the mayor again. +</p> + +<p> +‘And say I think the chaise had better be ordered for one +o’clock.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +</p> + +<p> +‘My lord—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh?’ said Mr. Alexander Trott, in a loud key, with the vacant and +mystified stare of a chilly somnambulist. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush—hush!’ said the cautious attorney: ‘to be +sure—quite right—no titles here—my name is Overton, +sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Overton?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes: the mayor of this place—you sent me a letter with anonymous +information, this afternoon.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Stay, stay,’ said Trott, ‘it <i>is</i> mine; I <i>did</i> +write it. What could I do, sir? I had no friend here.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Lady willing,’ repeated Trott, mechanically. ‘How do you +know the lady’s willing?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Trott, ruminating. ‘This is <i>very</i> +extraordinary!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Lord Peter,’ said the mayor, rising. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lord Peter?’ repeated Mr. Trott. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh—ah, I forgot. Mr. Trott, then—Trott—very good, ha! +ha!—Well, sir, the chaise shall be ready at half-past twelve.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To be sure,’ said Trott—‘to be sure.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, my lord,’ said Overton, in a low tone, ‘until then, I +wish your lordship a good evening.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Lord—lordship?’ ejaculated Trott again, falling back a step +or two, and gazing, in unutterable wonder, on the countenance of the mayor. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That mayor’s decidedly drunk,’ soliloquised Mr. Trott, +throwing himself back in his chair, in an attitude of reflection. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you want here, you scoundrel?’ exclaimed Mr. Alexander +Trott, with a proper appearance of indignation at his detention. +</p> + +<p> +The boots beat time with his head, as he looked gently round at Mr. Trott with +a smile of pity, and whistled an <i>adagio</i> movement. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you attend in this room by Mr. Overton’s desire?’ +inquired Trott, rather astonished at the man’s demeanour. +</p> + +<p> +‘Keep yourself to yourself, young feller,’ calmly responded the +boots, ‘and don’t say nothing to nobody.’ And he whistled +again. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’d better,’ observed the placid boots, shaking the large +stick expressively. +</p> + +<p> +‘Under protest, however,’ added Alexander Trott, seating himself +with indignation in his face, but great content in his heart. ‘Under +protest.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Make me worse?’ exclaimed Trott, in unfeigned astonishment: +‘the man’s drunk!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You’d better be quiet, young feller,’ remarked the boots, +going through a threatening piece of pantomime with the stick. +</p> + +<p> +‘Or mad!’ said Mr. Trott, rather alarmed. ‘Leave the room, +sir, and tell them to send somebody else.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Won’t do!’ replied the boots. +</p> + +<p> +‘Leave the room!’ shouted Trott, ringing the bell violently: for he +began to be alarmed on a new score. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He <i>is</i> a madman! He <i>is</i> a madman!’ exclaimed the +terrified Mr. Trott, gazing on the one eye of the red-headed boots with a look +of abject horror. +</p> + +<p> +‘Madman!’ replied the boots, ‘dam’me, I think he +<i>is</i> 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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Spare my life!’ exclaimed Trott, raising his hands imploringly. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t want your life,’ replied the boots, disdainfully, +‘though I think it ’ud be a charity if somebody took it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, no, it wouldn’t,’ interrupted poor Mr. Trott, hurriedly, +‘no, no, it wouldn’t! I—I-’d rather keep it!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Bravo!’ whispered Mr. Overton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Poor dear!’ said the compassionate Mrs. Williamson, ‘mad +people always thinks other people’s mad.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Poor dear!’ ejaculated Mr. Alexander Trott. ‘What the devil +do you mean by poor dear! Are you the landlady of this house?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes,’ replied the stout old lady, ‘don’t exert +yourself, there’s a dear! Consider your health, now; do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll never have another,’ said Mrs. Williamson, casting a +look of reproach at the mayor. +</p> + +<p> +‘Capital, capital,’ whispered Overton again, as he enveloped Mr. +Alexander Trott in a thick travelling-cloak. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who’s that?’ he inquired of Overton, in a whisper. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush, hush,’ replied the mayor: ‘the other party of +course.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘The other party!’ exclaimed Trott, with an effort to retreat. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Bravo, bravo,’ whispered Overton. ‘I’ll push you +in.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Poor dear!’ said Mrs. Williamson again. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘We may speak now,’ said his fellow-traveller, at length; +‘the post-boys can neither see nor hear us.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s not Hunter’s voice!’—thought Alexander, +astonished. +</p> + +<p> +‘Dear Lord Peter!’ said Miss Julia, most winningly: putting her arm +on Mr. Trott’s shoulder. ‘Dear Lord Peter. Not a word?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, it’s a woman!’ exclaimed Mr. Trott, in a low tone of +excessive wonder. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah! Whose voice is that?’ said Julia; ‘’tis not Lord +Peter’s.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No,—it’s mine,’ replied Mr. Trott. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yours!’ ejaculated Miss Julia Manners; ‘a strange man! +Gracious heaven! How came you here!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you come from Lord Peter?’ inquired Miss Manners. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Whither are we going?’ inquired the lady tragically. +</p> + +<p> +‘How should <i>I</i> know, ma’am?’ replied Trott with +singular coolness; for the events of the evening had completely hardened him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Stop stop!’ cried the lady, letting down the front glasses of the +chaise. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> pardoned; and Mr. Trott took <i>his</i> 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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER IX—MRS. JOSEPH PORTER</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘When we’re a <i>leetle</i> more perfect, I think it will go +admirably,’ said Mr. Sempronius, addressing his <i>corps dramatique</i>, +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 <i>Roderigo</i> beautifully.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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! <i>Roderigo</i> simpered and +bowed. +</p> + +<p> +‘But I think,’ added the manager, ‘you are hardly perfect in +the—fall—in the fencing-scene, where you are—you +understand?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But, egad,’ said the manager, rubbing his hands, ‘we shall +make a decided hit in “Masaniello.” Harleigh sings that music +admirably.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Let’s see,’ resumed the manager, telling the number on his +fingers, ‘we shall have three dancing female peasants, besides +<i>Fenella</i>, 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Sure! sure!’ cried all the performers <i>unâ +voce</i>—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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, it’s too ridiculous!’ said Miss Porter, hysterically. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 +<i>so</i> ill-natured. Ah, my dear Miss Lucina, how d’ye do? I was just +telling your mamma that I have heard it said, that—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mrs. Porter is alluding to the play, my dear,’ said Mrs. +Gattleton; ‘she was, I am sorry to say, just informing me +that—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>Fenella</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Highly impertinent, whoever said it,’ said Mrs. Gattleton, +bridling up. +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly, my dear,’ chimed in the delighted Mrs. Porter; +‘most undoubtedly! Because, as I said, if Miss Caroline <i>does</i> play +<i>Fenella</i>, 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—’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—”’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Lucina, ‘I recollect— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +“The heavens forbid<br/> +But that our loves and comforts should increase<br/> +Even as our days do grow!”’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +‘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 +<i>days</i>. That’s the way, my dear; trust to your uncle for emphasis. +Ah! Sem, my boy, how are you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course, of course, my dear boy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, I flatter myself, I <i>should</i> have been tolerably up to the +thing,’ responded Uncle Tom. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am sure I shall be most happy to give you any assistance in my +power’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mind, it’s a bargain.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She can’t make us ridiculous, however,’ observed Mr. +Sempronius Gattleton, haughtily. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Cassio</i> 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 <i>Masaniello</i> 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; <i>Iago</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>too-too’d</i> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>solus</i>, and decked for <i>Othello</i>. 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: +</p> + +<p> +‘Ladies and Gentlemen—I assure you it is with sincere regret, that +I regret to be compelled to inform you, that <i>Iago</i> 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 +<i>Iago</i>, 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 <i>Iago</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Iago</i> had +finished dressing, and just as the play was on the point of commencing, the +original <i>Iago</i> 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 <i>Othello</i> addresses the Senate: the +only remarkable circumstance being, that as <i>Iago</i> 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 <i>Othello</i> started with his address to the Senate (whose +dignity was represented by, the <i>Duke</i>, <i>a</i> carpenter, two men +engaged on the recommendation of the gardener, and a boy), Mrs. Porter found +the opportunity she so anxiously sought. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Sempronius proceeded: +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +‘“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,<br/> +My very noble and approv’d good masters,<br/> +That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,<br/> +It is most true;—rude am I in my speech—”’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +‘Is that right?’ whispered Mrs. Porter to Uncle Tom. +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Tell him so, then.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will. Sem!’ called out Uncle Tom, ‘that’s wrong, my +boy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s wrong, uncle?’ demanded <i>Othello</i>, quite +forgetting the dignity of his situation. +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ve left out something. “True I have +married—”’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +—‘“true I have married her;—<br/> +The very head and front of my offending<br/> +Hath this extent; no more.” +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +(<i>Aside</i>) Why don’t you prompt, father?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Because I’ve mislaid my spectacles,’ said poor Mr. +Gattleton, almost dead with the heat and bustle. +</p> + +<p> +‘There, now it’s “rude am I,”’ said Uncle Tom. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, I know it is,’ returned the unfortunate manager, proceeding +with his part. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the ardour of the <i>dramatis +personae</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER X—A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. WATKINS TOTTLE</h3> + +<h4>CHAPTER THE FIRST</h4> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Who’s there?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle, as a gentle tap +at his room-door disturbed these meditations one evening. +</p> + +<p> +‘Tottle, my dear fellow, how <i>do</i> you do?’ said a short +elderly gentleman with a gruffish voice, bursting into the room, and replying +to the question by asking another. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘How is Mrs. Gabriel Parsons?’ inquired Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, I don’t know—have you any whiskey?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why,’ replied Tottle, very slowly, for all this was gaining time, +‘I <i>had</i> some capital, and remarkably strong whiskey last week; but +it’s all gone—and therefore its strength—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s of no use humming and ha’ing about the matter,’ +resumed the short gentleman.—‘You want to get married.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>think</i> I should +like—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Won’t do,’ said the short gentleman.—‘Plain and +free—or there’s an end of the matter. Do you want money?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You know I do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You admire the sex?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And you’d like to be married?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you shall be. There’s an end of that.’ Thus saying, Mr. +Gabriel Parsons took a pinch of snuff, and mixed another glass. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll pay my addresses to her,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle. +‘She isn’t <i>very</i> young—is she?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not very; just the thing for you. I’ve said that already.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What coloured hair has the lady?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘Egad, I hardly recollect,’ replied Gabriel, with coolness. +‘Perhaps I ought to have observed, at first, she wears a front.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A what?’ ejaculated Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>rather</i> lighter than the front—a shade of a greyish +tinge, perhaps.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, were you ever in love, Tottle?’ he inquired. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose you popped the question, more than once, when you were a +young—I beg your pardon—a younger—man,’ said Parsons. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I think so, too,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle; +‘certainly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Quite right!’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle; ‘she could not +possibly have behaved in a more dignified manner. What did you do?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do?—Frank took dummy; and I won sixpence.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘But, didn’t you apologise for hurting her feelings?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And what did the lady say to that?’ inquired Tottle, deeply +interested. +</p> + +<p> +‘Changed her ground, and said that Frank being a single man, its +impropriety was obvious.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Noble-minded creature!’ exclaimed the enraptured Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! both Fanny and I said, at once, that she was regularly cut out for +you.’ +</p> + +<p> +A gleam of placid satisfaction shone on the circular face of Mr. Watkins +Tottle, as he heard the prophecy. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Tottle, will you “go in?”’ inquired Mr. Gabriel +Parsons, as he approached him, wiping the perspiration off his face. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Watkins Tottle declined the offer, the bare idea of accepting which made +him even warmer than his friend. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Splendid, majestic creature!’ thought Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Put my name down, for two sovereigns, if you please,’ responded +Miss Lillerton. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You are so severe,’ replied Timson, with a Christian smile: he +disliked Parsons, but liked his dinners. +</p> + +<p> +‘So positively unjust!’ said Miss Lillerton. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Really, Mr. Parsons, I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that I +wish to see <i>my</i> name in print, on the church-door,’ interrupted +Miss Lillerton. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, putting in another word, and +getting another glance. +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly not,’ replied Parsons. ‘I dare say you +wouldn’t mind seeing it in writing, though, in the church +register—eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Register! What register?’ inquired the lady gravely. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What do you think of her?’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons of Mr. +Watkins Tottle, in an under-tone. +</p> + +<p> +‘I dote on her with enthusiasm already!’ replied Mr. Watkins +Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘Gentlemen, pray let us drink “the ladies,”’ said the +Reverend Mr. Timson. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah!’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘I remember when I was a +young man—fill your glass, Timson.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I have this moment emptied it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then fill again.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will,’ said Timson, suiting the action to the word. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Was that before you were married?’ mildly inquired Mr. Watkins +Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I spent my wedding-night in a back-kitchen chimney,’ said Parsons, +by way of a beginning. +</p> + +<p> +‘In a back-kitchen chimney!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle. ‘How +dreadful!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You didn’t go, of course?’ said Watkins Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Make love upon a kitchen-dresser!’ interrupted Mr. Watkins Tottle, +whose ideas of decorum were greatly outraged. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘On the dresser,’ suggested Timson. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Please, sir, missis has made tea,’ said a middle-aged female +servant, bobbing into the room. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘If you please,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘By all means,’ added the obsequious Mr. Timson; and the trio made +for the drawing-room accordingly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s all right, I think,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons to Mr. +Watkins Tottle as he opened the garden gate for him. +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope so,’ he replied, squeezing his friend’s hand. +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ll be down by the first coach on Saturday,’ said Mr. +Gabriel Parsons. +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle. ‘Undoubtedly.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h4>CHAPTER THE SECOND</h4> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Parsons?’ said the man, looking at the superscription of a +note he held in his hand, and addressing Gabriel with an inquiring air. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>My</i> name is Parsons,’ responded the sugar-baker. +</p> + +<p> +‘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’.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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<i>l.</i> 10<i>s.</i> +4<i>d.</i>, and dated his communication from a lock-up house in the vicinity of +Chancery-lane. +</p> + +<p> +‘Unfortunate affair this!’ said Parsons, refolding the note. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! nothin’ ven you’re used to it,’ coolly observed +the man in the Petersham. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>would</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to see Mr. Watkins Tottle,’ said Parsons. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, that a’n’t a bad un,’ replied the other, who was +a horse-dealer from Islington. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! I’m all right,’ replied the smoker. ‘I shall be +bailed out to-morrow.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>bailed out</i>. Ha! ha! ha!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘’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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A’n’t he a rum un?’ inquired the delighted individual, +who had offered the gin-and-water, of his wife. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, he just is!’ replied the lady, who was quite overcome by these +flashes of imagination. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘That’s a very strange circumstance!’ interrupted the jocose +Mr. Walker, <i>en passant</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘—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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, I suppose the bills went out, and you came in. The acceptances +weren’t taken up, and you were, eh?’ inquired Walker. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Why don’t you ask your old governor to stump up?’ inquired +Walker, with a somewhat sceptical air. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! bless you, he’d never do it,’ replied the other, in a +tone of expostulation—‘Never!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>whirr—r—bang</i> of the spring door announced that +they were out of hearing. It was broken by the wife of the ex-fruiterer. +</p> + +<p> +‘Poor creetur!’ said she, quenching a sigh in a rivulet of +gin-and-water. ‘She’s very young.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She’s a nice-looking ’ooman too,’ added the +horse-dealer. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to speak to you,’ said Gabriel, with a look strongly +expressive of his dislike of the company. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s the amount with the costs?’ inquired Parsons, after +an awkward pause. +</p> + +<p> +‘37<i>l</i>. 3<i>s</i> 10<i>d</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Have you any money?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nine and sixpence halfpenny.’ +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I do.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe it to me.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I fear I am.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Though you have every disposition to pay me if you could?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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<i>l.</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Stop a minute—on one condition; and that is, that you propose to +Miss Lillerton at once.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘At once! My dear Parsons, consider.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘What—what?’ eagerly interrupted the enamoured Watkins. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and rang the bell. +</p> + +<p> +‘What’s that for?’ inquired Parsons. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to send the man for the bill stamp,’ replied Mr. Watkins +Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘Then you’ve made up your mind?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>out</i>side. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I will—I will!’ replied Watkins, valorously. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘There’s Fanny and your intended walking about on the lawn,’ +said Gabriel, as they approached the house. ‘Mind your eye, +Tottle.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never fear,’ replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made his way to +the spot where the ladies were walking. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Did you see how glad she was to see you?’ whispered Parsons to his +friend. +</p> + +<p> +‘Why, I really thought she looked as if she would rather have seen +somebody else,’ replied Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Certainly,’ whispered Tottle, whose courage was vanishing fast. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, yes, I will—presently,’ replied Tottle, greatly +flurried. +</p> + +<p> +‘Say something to her, man,’ urged Parsons again. ‘Confound +it! pay her a compliment, can’t you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No! not till after dinner,’ replied the bashful Tottle, anxious to +postpone the evil moment. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘We were talking of the <i>business</i>, my dear, which detained us this +morning,’ replied Parsons, looking significantly at Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>I</i> think it has passed very slowly,’ mildly suggested +Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +(‘That’s right—bravo!’) whispered Parsons. +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed!’ said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic surprise. +</p> + +<p> +‘I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from your society, +madam,’ said Watkins, ‘and that of Mrs. Parsons.’ +</p> + +<p> +During this short dialogue, the ladies had been leading the way to the house. +</p> + +<p> +‘What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last compliment for?’ +inquired Parsons, as they followed together; ‘it quite spoilt the +effect.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! it really would have been too broad without,’ replied Watkins +Tottle, ‘much too broad!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He’s mad!’ Parsons whispered his wife, as they entered the +drawing-room, ‘mad from modesty.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Dear me!’ ejaculated the lady, ‘I never heard of such a +thing.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Lillerton, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘shall I assist +you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you, no; I think I’ll trouble Mr. Tottle.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Extremely sorry,’ stammered Watkins, assisting himself to currie +and parsley and butter, in the extremity of his confusion. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Lillerton,’ said Gabriel, ‘may I have the +pleasure?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I shall be most happy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the decanter. Thank +you.’ (The usual pantomimic ceremony of nodding and sipping gone +through)— +</p> + +<p> +‘Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk?’ inquired the master of the +house, who was burning to tell one of his seven stock stories. +</p> + +<p> +‘No,’ responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving clause, +‘but I’ve been in Devonshire.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Watkins Tottle <i>had</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘When I was in Suffolk—’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons. +</p> + +<p> +‘Take off the fowls first, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons. ‘I beg +your pardon, my dear.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘John,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow voice, +‘don’t spill that gravy.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear, I didn’t interrupt you,’ said Mrs. Parsons. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, my dear, you <i>did</i> interrupt me,’ remonstrated Mr. +Parsons. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pie to your master,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the +servant. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Pudding here,’ said Mrs. Parsons. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +This attack was received in the usual way. Mrs. Parsons talked <i>to</i> Miss +Lillerton and <i>at</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t <i>you</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well—well—I only made a suggestion,’ said poor Watkins +Tottle, with a deep sigh. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Parsons, starting up with well-feigned +surprise, ‘I’ve forgotten those confounded letters. Tottle, I know +you’ll excuse me.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into the room, +with—‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully after her, and Mr. Watkins +Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hem!’ coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the fair +creature had spoken. ‘I beg your pardon,’ said he. +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I thought you spoke.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘To me!’ said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands, +and sliding her chair back a few paces.—‘Speak—to me!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘She has.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then, what?’ inquired Miss Lillerton, averting her face, with a +girlish air, ‘what could induce <i>you</i> to seek such an interview as +this? What can your object be? How can I promote your happiness, Mr. +Tottle?’ +</p> + +<p> +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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Disinterested creature!’ exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face +in a white pocket-handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Our situation, Mr. Tottle,’ resumed the lady, glancing at him +through one of the eyelet-holes, ‘is a most peculiar and delicate +one.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘It is,’ said Mr. Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘Our acquaintance has been of <i>so</i> short duration,’ said Miss +Lillerton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Only a week,’ assented Watkins Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! more than that,’ exclaimed the lady, in a tone of surprise. +</p> + +<p> +‘Indeed!’ said Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘More than a month—more than two months!’ said Miss +Lillerton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Rather odd, this,’ thought Watkins. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Then allow <i>me</i> to name it,’ said Tottle eagerly. +</p> + +<p> +‘I should like to fix it myself,’ replied Miss Lillerton, +bashfully, ‘but I cannot do so without at once resorting to a third +party.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘A third party!’ thought Watkins Tottle; ‘who the deuce is +that to be, I wonder!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Timson!’ said Watkins. +</p> + +<p> +‘After what has passed between us,’ responded Miss Lillerton, still +averting her head, ‘you must understand whom I mean; Mr. Timson, +the—the—clergyman.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Timson, the clergyman!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, in a state +of inexpressible beatitude, and positive wonder at his own success. +‘Angel! Certainly—this moment!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Stay,—stay,’ cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most +respectful distance from the lady; ‘when shall we meet again?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! Mr. Tottle,’ replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, ‘when +<i>we</i> are married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too +much;’ and she left the room. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘May I come in?’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door. +</p> + +<p> +‘You may,’ replied Watkins. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, have you done it?’ anxiously inquired Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +‘Have I done it!’ said Watkins Tottle. ‘Hush—I’m +going to the clergyman.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No!’ said Parsons. ‘How well you have managed it!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Where does Timson live?’ inquired Watkins. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Miss Lillerton’s compliments,’ said Martha, as she delivered +it into Tottle’s hands, and vanished. +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you observe the delicacy?’ said Tottle, appealing to Mr. +Gabriel Parsons. ‘<i>Compliments</i>, not <i>love</i>, by the servant, +eh?’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Capital!’ echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at +the garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr. +Charles Timson’s uncle’s man. +</p> + +<p> +‘Mr. Charles <i>is</i> at home,’ replied the man, stammering; +‘but he desired me to say he couldn’t be interrupted, sir, by any +of the parishioners.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>I</i> am not a parishioner,’ replied Watkins. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?’ inquired Parsons, thrusting +himself forward. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Say I’m here,’ replied Gabriel, leading the way across the +garden; ‘Mr. Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular +business.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘How do you do, sir?’ said Watkins Tottle, with great solemnity. +</p> + +<p> +‘How do <i>you</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I beg to deliver this note to you,’ said Watkins Tottle, producing +the cocked-hat. +</p> + +<p> +‘From Miss Lillerton!’ said Timson, suddenly changing colour. +‘Pray sit down.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Our friend is in <i>my</i> confidence,’ replied Watkins, with +considerable importance. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘He thinks I recommended him,’ thought Tottle. ‘Confound +these fellows! they never think of anything but their fees.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘On Thursday,’ replied Timson,—‘on Thursday morning at +half-past eight.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.) +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Eh!’ said Parsons, with one of the most extraordinary expressions +of countenance that ever appeared in a human face. +</p> + +<p> +‘What!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, at the same moment. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Watkins Tottle staggered against the wall, and fixed his eyes on Timson +with appalling perseverance. +</p> + +<p> +‘Timson,’ said Parsons, hurriedly brushing his hat with his left +arm, ‘when you say “us,” whom do you mean?’ +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Timson looked foolish in his turn, when he replied, ‘Why—Mrs. +Timson that will be this day week: Miss Lillerton that is—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Good night, Timson,’ said Parsons, hurrying off, and carrying the +bewildered Tottle with him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Won’t you stay—and have something?’ said Timson. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, thank ye,’ replied Parsons; ‘I’ve had quite +enough;’ and away he went, followed by Watkins Tottle in a state of +stupefaction. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. Gabriel Parsons whistled until they had walked some quarter of a mile past +his own gate, when he suddenly stopped, and said— +</p> + +<p> +‘You are a clever fellow, Tottle, ain’t you?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know,’ said the unfortunate Watkins. +</p> + +<p> +‘I suppose you’ll say this is Fanny’s fault, won’t +you?’ inquired Gabriel. +</p> + +<p> +‘I don’t know anything about it,’ replied the bewildered +Tottle. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XI—THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>to</i> himself a wife, and <i>for</i> 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.’) +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I cannot, indeed I cannot,’ returned Dumps. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, but why not? Jemima will think it very unkind. It’s very +little trouble.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘But come, don’t refuse. If it’s a boy, you know, we must +have two godfathers.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘<i>If</i> it’s a boy!’ said Dumps; ‘why can’t +you say at once whether it <i>is</i> a boy or not?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Not born yet!’ echoed Dumps, with a gleam of hope lighting up his +lugubrious visage. ‘Oh, well, it <i>may</i> be a girl, and then you +won’t want me; or if it is a boy, it <i>may</i> die before it is +christened.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I hope not,’ said the father that expected to be, looking very +grave. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Lord, uncle!’ ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for breath. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘How frightful!’ interrupted the horror-stricken Kitterbell. +</p> + +<p> +‘The child died, of course. However, your child <i>may</i> not die; and +if it should be a boy, and should <i>live</i> to be christened, why I suppose I +must be one of the sponsors.’ Dumps was evidently good-natured on the +faith of his anticipations. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>worst</i>.’ +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +‘<i>Births</i>.—On Saturday, the 18th inst., in Great +Russell-street, the lady of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., of a son.’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +‘It <i>is</i> a boy!’ he exclaimed, dashing down the paper, to the +astonishment of the waiters. ‘It <i>is</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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:— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Great Russell-street</i>,<br/> +<i>Monday morning</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Dear Uncle</span>,—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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘Believe me, dear Uncle,<br/> +‘Yours affectionately,<br/> +‘<span class="smcap">Charles Kitterbell</span>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>Morning Herald</i> 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>I</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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Anywhere but on my <i>chest</i>, sir,’ replied the old gentleman +in a surly tone. +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps the <i>box</i> would suit the gentleman better,’ suggested +a very damp lawyer’s clerk, in a pink shirt, and a smirking countenance. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I told you not to bang the door so!’ repeated Dumps, with an +expression of countenance like the knave of clubs, in convulsions. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want to be set down!’ said Dumps in a faint voice, overcome by +his previous efforts. +</p> + +<p> +‘I think these cads want to be <i>set down</i>,’ returned the +attorney’s clerk, chuckling at his sally. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hollo!’ cried Dumps again. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hollo!’ echoed the passengers. The omnibus passed St. +Giles’s church. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Doory-lane, sir?—yes, sir,—third turning on the right-hand +side, sir.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Ah, uncle!’ said Mr. Kitterbell, ‘how d’ye do? Allow +me—Jemima, my dear—my uncle. I think you’ve seen Jemima +before, sir?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Have had the <i>pleasure</i>,’ returned big Dumps, his tone and +look making it doubtful whether in his life he had ever experienced the +sensation. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, uncle,’ said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the +mantle which covered the infant’s face, with an air of great triumph, +‘<i>Who</i> do you think he’s like?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good God, how small he is!’ cried the amiable uncle, starting back +with well-feigned surprise; ‘<i>remarkably</i> small indeed.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Do you think so?’ inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed. +‘He’s a monster to what he was—ain’t he, nurse?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, but who is he like?’ inquired little Kitterbell. +</p> + +<p> +Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at the moment +of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents. +</p> + +<p> +‘I really don’t know <i>who</i> he’s like,’ he +answered, very well knowing the reply expected of him. +</p> + +<p> +‘Don’t you think he’s like <i>me</i>?’ inquired his +nephew with a knowing air. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, <i>decidedly</i> not!’ returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to +be misunderstood. ‘Decidedly not like you.—Oh, certainly +not.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Like Jemima?’ asked Kitterbell, faintly. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Thank you,’ said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, dear.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you sure you won’t have another shawl?’ inquired the +anxious husband. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘There are at least some well-disposed men in the world,’ ruminated +the misanthropical Dumps, as he proceeded towards his destination. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Your card-case? snuff-box? the key of your lodgings?’ continued +Kitterbell, pouring question on question with the rapidity of lightning. +</p> + +<p> +‘No! no!’ ejaculated Dumps, still diving eagerly into his empty +pockets. +</p> + +<p> +‘Not—not—the <i>mug</i> you spoke of this morning?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes, the <i>mug</i>!’ replied Dumps, sinking into a chair. +</p> + +<p> +‘How <i>could</i> you have done it?’ inquired Kitterbell. +‘Are you sure you brought it out?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>to</i> the young ladies, and <i>against</i> a +gentleman behind him, and took no notice whatever of the father, who had been +bowing incessantly for three minutes and a quarter. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Very warm,’ said Dumps, feeling it necessary to say something. +</p> + +<p> +‘Yes. It was warmer yesterday,’ returned the brilliant Mr. +Danton.—A general laugh. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>so</i> fond of babies in company.) +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh, you dear!’ said one. +</p> + +<p> +‘How sweet!’ cried another, in a low tone of the most enthusiastic +admiration. +</p> + +<p> +‘Heavenly!’ added a third. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never, in my life,’ returned her admirer, pulling up his collar. +</p> + +<p> +‘Oh! <i>do</i> let me take it, nurse,’ cried another young lady. +‘The love!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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, <i>nem. con.</i>, agreed that he +was decidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld—except their own. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled—everybody looked +serious. +</p> + +<p> +‘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). +</p> + +<p> +‘Order! order!’ said little Kitterbell, endeavouring to suppress +his laughter. +</p> + +<p> +‘Order!’ said the gentlemen. +</p> + +<p> +‘Danton, be quiet,’ said a particular friend on the opposite side +of the table. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 +<i>apparently</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bon-bons</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<h3>CHAPTER XII—THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>quondam</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i>? 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Is that you, father?’ said the girl. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am not well, father—not at all well,’ said the girl, +bursting into tears. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Father,’ whispered the girl, shutting the door behind her, and +placing herself before it, ‘William has come back.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Who!’ said the man with a start. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush,’ replied the girl, ‘William; brother William.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>as</i> certain. And +there’s an end of it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘You mean to say, you’ve been robbing, or murdering, then?’ +said the father. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where’s your brothers?’ he said, after a long pause. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where they’ll never trouble you,’ replied his son: +‘John’s gone to America, and Henry’s dead.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Dead!’ said the father, with a shudder, which even he could not +express. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +The girl wept aloud; and the father, sinking his head upon his knees, rocked +himself to and fro. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘You’ll drink with me, master,’ said one of them, proffering +him a glass of liquor. +</p> + +<p> +‘And me too,’ said the other, replenishing the glass as soon as it +was drained of its contents. +</p> + +<p> +The man thought of his hungry children, and his son’s danger. But they +were nothing to the drunkard. He <i>did</i> drink; and his reason left him. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘The right sort of night for our friends in hiding, Master Warden,’ +whispered the other. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘No, he didn’t,’ replied the father. +</p> + +<p> +The two men exchanged glances. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Very,’ said the second. +</p> + +<p> +‘Capital luck,’ said the first, with a wink to his companion. +</p> + +<p> +‘Great,’ replied the second, with a slight nod of intelligence. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<h2>SKETCHES OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN</h2> + +<p class="center"> +TO THE YOUNG LADIES<br/> +<span class="smcap">of the</span><br/> +United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland;<br/> +<span class="smcap">also</span><br/> +THE YOUNG LADIES<br/> +<span class="smcap">of</span><br/> +<span class="smcap">the principality of wales</span>,<br/> +<span class="smcap">and likewise</span><br/> +THE YOUNG LADIES<br/> +<span class="smcap">resident in the isles of</span><br/> +<span class="smcap">guernsey</span>, <span class="smcap">jersey</span>, <span +class="smcap">alderney</span>, <span class="smcap">and sark</span>,<br/> +<span class="smcap">the humble dedication of their devoted admirer</span>, +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Sheweth</span>,— +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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 <i>are</i> animals, still +he humbly submits that it is not polite to call you so. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +And your Dedicator shall ever pray, &c. +</p> + +<h3>THE BASHFUL YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, ‘<i>Good</i> morning, +<i>good</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 +<i>bouquet</i>, 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 <i>him</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE OUT-AND-OUT YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>rather too wild</i>!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE VERY FRIENDLY YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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—<i>our</i> 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 <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>éclat</i>. 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? +</p> + +<h3>THE MILITARY YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>they</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>were</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE POLITICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +Once upon a time—<i>not</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +If the political young gentleman be resident in a country town (and there +<i>are</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>now</i>; 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 <i>the +other people</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE DOMESTIC YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>had</i> 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 <i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>him</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE CENSORIOUS YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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>I</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. +</p> + +<h3>THE FUNNY YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>that</i> high (something smaller than a nutmeg-grater), he had never beheld +him in such excellent cue. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +To recount all the drollery of Mr. Griggins at supper, would fill such a tiny +volume as this, <a name="citation429"></a><a href="#footnote429" +class="citation">[429]</a> 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. +</p> + +<h3>THE THEATRICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE POETICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE ‘THROWING-OFF’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>could</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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>I</i> love her! Think not so meanly of me, Miss Lowfield, +I beseech, as to suppose that title, lands, riches, and beauty, can influence +<i>my</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE YOUNG LADIES’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>sandy</i>, +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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-<i>not</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>she</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>badinage</i> on the subject of +ladies’ dresses, he had evinced as much knowledge as if he had been born +and bred a milliner. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CONCLUSION</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 +<i>esteem</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h2>SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES</h2> + +<h3>AN URGENT REMONSTRANCE, &c.</h3> + +<p class="center"> +TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND,<br/> +(<span class="smcap">being bachelors or widowers</span>,)<br/> +THE REMONSTRANCE OF THEIR FAITHFUL FELLOW-SUBJECT, +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Sheweth</span>,— +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">That</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">For</span> 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. +</p> + +<h3>THE YOUNG COUPLE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>he</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<h3>THE FORMAL COUPLE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>there</i> 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 <i>are</i> made of, and what their notions of +propriety <i>can</i> be! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE LOVING COUPLE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>would</i> steal Mrs. +Leaver’s tongue, and Mrs. Leaver <i>would</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE CONTRADICTORY COUPLE</h3> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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: +</p> + +<p> +‘What a very extraordinary thing it is,’ says he, ‘that you +<i>will</i> contradict, Charlotte!’ ‘<i>I</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 <i>not</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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>I</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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>not</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE COUPLE WHO DOTE UPON THEIR CHILDREN</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>were</i> 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, <i>that’s</i> not a common thing in +twins, or a circumstance that’ll happen every day.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 +<i>are</i> 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 <i>are</i> 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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>bon mot</i> 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. +</p> + +<h3>THE COOL COUPLE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>you</i> 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>I</i> was quite willing to stay at home, and that it’s no fault of +<i>mine</i> we are not oftener together.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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, +<i>of course</i>,’ 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE PLAUSIBLE COUPLE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>and</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +‘<i>You</i> 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 <i>will</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>did</i> I do with my pocket-handkerchief!’ +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<h3>THE NICE LITTLE COUPLE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE EGOTISTICAL COUPLE</h3> + +<p> +Egotism in couples is of two kinds.—It is our purpose to show this by two +examples. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>such</i> 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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>was</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE COUPLE WHO CODDLE THEMSELVES</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle are a couple who coddle themselves; and the venerable +Mrs. Chopper is an aider and abettor in the same. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>must</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>THE OLD COUPLE</h3> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>his</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>CONCLUSION</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p class="center"> +<span class="smcap">God bless them</span>. +</p> +</blockquote> + +<h2>THE MUDFOG AND OTHER SKETCHES</h2> + +<h3>PUBLIC LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLE—ONCE MAYOR OF MUDFOG</h3> + +<p> +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 <i>will</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘My dear,’ said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, ‘they have elected +me, Mayor of Mudfog.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Lor-a-mussy!’ said Mrs. Tulrumble: ‘why what’s become +of old Sniggs?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I <i>might</i> have a show in Mudfog, if I thought proper, I +apprehend,’ said Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously. +</p> + +<p> +‘Lor! so you might, I declare,’ replied Mrs. Tulrumble. +</p> + +<p> +‘And a good one too,’ said Mr. Tulrumble. +</p> + +<p> +‘Delightful!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble. +</p> + +<p> +‘One which would rather astonish the ignorant people down there,’ +said Mr. Tulrumble. +</p> + +<p> +‘It would kill them with envy,’ said Mrs. Tulrumble. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>sobriquet</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, Twigger!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want you to go into training, Twigger,’ said Mr. Tulrumble. +</p> + +<p> +‘What for, sir?’ inquired Ned, with a stare. +</p> + +<p> +‘Hush, hush, Twigger!’ said the Mayor. ‘Shut the door, Mr. +Jennings. Look here, Twigger.’ +</p> + +<p> +As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a complete +suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions. +</p> + +<p> +‘I want you to wear this next Monday, Twigger,’ said the Mayor. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Nonsense, Twigger, nonsense!’ said the Mayor. +</p> + +<p> +‘I couldn’t stand under it, sir,’ said Twigger; ‘it +would make mashed potatoes of me, if I attempted it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s the easiest thing in the world,’ rejoined the Mayor. +</p> + +<p> +‘It’s nothing,’ said Mr. Jennings. +</p> + +<p> +‘When you’re used to it,’ added Ned. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday next,’ said +Tulrumble, ‘and I’ll make your fortune.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I’ll try what I can do, sir,’ said Twigger. +</p> + +<p> +‘It must be kept a profound secret,’ said Tulrumble. +</p> + +<p> +‘Of course, sir,’ replied Twigger. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +The day—<i>the</i> Monday—arrived. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas +Tulrumble. +</p> + +<p> +‘I think not, sir,’ said Mr. Jennings. +</p> + +<p> +‘See how eager they look,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble. ‘Aha! the +laugh will be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it was +most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘I am afraid, sir—’ faltered Mr. Jennings. +</p> + +<p> +‘Afraid of what, sir?’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, looking up into the +secretary’s face. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am afraid he’s drunk, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Twigger, you villain!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, quite forgetting +his dignity, ‘go back.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Never,’ said Ned. ‘I’m a miserable wretch. I’ll +never leave you.’ +</p> + +<p> +The by-standers of course received this declaration with acclamations of +‘That’s right, Ned; don’t!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Here! will anybody lead him away?’ said Nicholas: ‘if +they’ll call on me afterwards, I’ll reward them well.’ +</p> + +<p> +Two or three men stepped forward, with the view of bearing Ned off, when the +secretary interposed. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘But, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, ‘he’ll be +suffocated.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>him</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?’ said one. +</p> + +<p> +‘Or trace the progress of crime to ‘bacca?’ growled another. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>FULL REPORT OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION<br/> +<span class="smcap">for the advancement of everything</span></h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Mudfog</i>, <i>Monday night</i>, <i>seven o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half-past seven</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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!’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Tuesday</i>, <i>noon</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Five o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘It is now ascertained, beyond all doubt, that Professors Snore, Doze, +and Wheezy will <i>not</i> repair to the Pig and Tinder-box, but have actually +engaged apartments at the Original Pig. This intelligence is <i>exclusive</i>; +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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! +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Twenty minutes past six</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Three-quarters part seven</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half-past eight</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Ten minutes to nine</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Nine o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half after ten</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>protégé</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Twelve o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘No news yet of either of the Professors Snore, Doze, or Wheezy. It is +very strange!’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Wednesday afternoon</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 +<i>his</i> 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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Four o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half-past ten</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Eleven o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘I open my letter to say that nothing whatever has occurred since I +folded it up.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Thursday</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 +</p> + +<h4>‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY.<br/> +GREAT ROOM, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.</h4> + +<p class="gutsumm"><i>President</i>—Professor Snore. +<i>Vice-Presidents</i>—Professors Doze and Wheezy. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>coup d’oeil</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.” +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The Author</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Wigsby</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> congratulated the public on the +<i>grand gala</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘A Member wished to know how many thousand additional lamps the royal +property would be illuminated with, on the night after the descent. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Wigsby</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘The Member expressed himself much gratified with this announcement. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Blunderum</span> 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! +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Wheezy</span> inquired whether, previous +to his demise, the animal had expressed, by signs or otherwise, any wishes +regarding the disposal of his little property. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Blunderum</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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? +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<h4>‘SECTION B.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.<br/> +COACH-HOUSE, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.</h4> + +<p class="gutsumm"><i>President</i>—Dr. Toorell. +<i>Vice-Presidents</i>—Professors Muff and Nogo. +</p> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">Dr. Kutankumagen</span> (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 <i>per +diem</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Dr. W. R. Fee</span>, in complimenting the +honourable member upon the triumphant cure he had effected, begged to ask +whether the patient still bled freely? +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Dr. Kutankumagen</span> replied in the affirmative. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Dr. W. R. Fee</span>.—And you found that he +bled freely during the whole course of the disorder? +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Dr. Kutankumagen</span>.—Oh dear, yes; most +freely. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Dr. Neeshawts</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Knight Bell</span> (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 <i>post mortem</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Dr. Neeshawts</span> and several of the members were +of opinion that the key must have lain very cold and heavy upon the +gentleman’s stomach. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Knight Bell</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Muff</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Muff</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Nogo</span> 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. +</p> + +<h4>‘SECTION C.—STATISTICS.<br/> +HAY-LOFT, ORIGINAL PIG.</h4> + +<p class="gutsumm"><i>President</i>—Mr. Woodensconce. +<i>Vice-Presidents</i>—Mr. Ledbrain and Mr. Timbered. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Slug</span> 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:— +</p> + +<table> <tr> <td><p> +‘Jack the Giant-killer +</p> </td> <td><p class="right"> +7,943 +</p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td><p> +Ditto and Bean-stalk +</p> </td> <td><p class="right"> +8,621 +</p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td><p> +Ditto and Eleven Brothers +</p> </td> <td><p class="right"> +2,845 +</p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td><p> +Ditto and Jill +</p> </td> <td><p class="right"> +1,998 +</p> </td> </tr> <tr> <td><p class="right"> +Total +</p> </td> <td><p class="right"> +21,407 +</p> </td> </tr> </table> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>up</i> a hill to fetch a pail of water, which was a +laborious and useful occupation,—supposing the family linen was being +washed, for instance. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Slug</span> 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 +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +“‘For laughing at Jack’s disaster;” +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +besides, the whole work had this one great fault, <i>it was not true</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Slug</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. X. Ledbrain</span> 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. +</p> + +<h4>‘SECTION D.—MECHANICAL SCIENCE.<br/> +COACH-HOUSE, ORIGINAL PIG.</h4> + +<p class="gutsumm"><i>President</i>—Mr. Carter. +<i>Vice-Presidents</i>—Mr. Truck and Mr. Waghorn. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Queerspeck</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> was desirous of knowing whether +it was necessary to have a level surface on which the gentleman was to run. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Queerspeck</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Jobba</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Nogo</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Nogo</span> 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>soirées</i>, 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! +</p> + +<p class="right"> +Signed <span class="smcap">Boz</span>. +</p> + +<h3>FULL REPORT OF THE SECOND MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION<br/> +<span class="smcap">for the advancement of everything</span></h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Saloon of Steamer</i>, <i>Thursday night</i>, <i>half-past eight</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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! +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Ten minutes past nine</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half past nine</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘Some dark object has just appeared upon the wharf. I think it is a +travelling carriage.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>A quarter to ten</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘No, it isn’t.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half-past ten</i>. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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! +</p> + +<p> +‘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! +</p> + +<p> +‘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? +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half-past eleven</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Twenty minutes to twelve</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Twelve o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>ought</i> to have +come off victorious. There is an exultation about Professor Grime incompatible, +I fear, with true greatness.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>A quarter past twelve</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>One o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>A quarter past one</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Five minutes later</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Twenty minutes before two</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Three o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half-past ten</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Friday afternoon</i>, <i>six o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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! +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half-past six</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘I am again in bed. Anything so heart-rending as Mr. Slug’s +sufferings it has never yet been my lot to witness.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Seven o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Professor Grime is in bed, to all appearance quite well; but he +<i>will</i> 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?’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Black Boy and Stomach-ache</i>,<br/> +<i>Oldcastle</i>, <i>Saturday noon</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>savans</i> of both sexes. The tremendous assemblage of intellect +that one encounters in every street is in the last degree overwhelming. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half-past nine</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Sunday</i>, <i>two o’clock</i>, <i>p.m.</i> +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Half-past six</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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!” +</p> + +<p> +‘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) <i>that he +had requested Sowster to attend on the Monday morning at the Boot-jack and +Countenance</i>, <i>to keep off the boys</i>; <i>and that he had further +desired that the under-beadle might be stationed</i>, <i>with the same +object</i>, <i>at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache</i>! +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Nine o’clock</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<p> +[Picture which cannot be reproduced] +</p> + +<p> +The under-beadle has consented to write his life, but it is to be strictly +anonymous. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p class="right"> +‘<i>Monday</i>. +</p> + +<p> +‘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. +</p> + +<h4>‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY.<br/> +FRONT PARLOUR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.</h4> + +<p class="gutsumm"><i>President</i>—Sir William Joltered. +<i>Vice-Presidents</i>—Mr. Muddlebranes and Mr. Drawley. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. X. X. Misty</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> inquired by what means the +honourable member proposed to attain this most desirable end? +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The Author</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Mull</span> 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? +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. X. X. Misty</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Pumpkinskull</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘After a scene of scientific enthusiasm it was resolved that this +important question should be immediately submitted to the consideration of the +council. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> wished to know whether any +gentleman could inform the section what had become of the dancing-dogs? +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">A Member</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Flummery</span> exhibited a twig, claiming to be +a veritable branch of that noble tree known to naturalists as the <span +class="smcap">Shakspeare</span>, 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 <span class="smcap">Shakspeare</span>, by which name he +begged to introduce it to his countrymen. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> wished to know what botanical +definition the honourable gentleman could afford of the curiosity. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Flummery</span> expressed his opinion that it +was <span class="smcap">a decided plant</span>. +</p> + +<h4>‘SECTION B.—DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL SCIENCE.<br/> +LARGE ROOM, BOOT-JACK AND COUNTENANCE.</h4> + +<p class="gutsumm"><i>President</i>—Mr. Mallett. +<i>Vice-Presidents</i>—Messrs. Leaver and Scroo. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Crinkles</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘After some slight delay, occasioned by the various members of the +section buttoning their pockets, +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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? +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Crinkles</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> hoped that no such fanciful +objections would be allowed to stand in the way of such a great public +improvement. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Crinkles</span> hoped so too; but he feared that +if the gentlemen of the swell mob persevered in their objection, nothing could +be done. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Grime</span> suggested, that surely, in +that case, Her Majesty’s Government might be prevailed upon to take it +up. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Crinkles</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Coppernose</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Nogo</span> wished to be informed what +amount of automaton police force it was proposed to raise in the first +instance. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Coppernose</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Coppernose</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Muff</span>.—Will you allow me to +ask you, sir, of what materials it is intended that the magistrates’ +heads shall be composed? +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Coppernose</span>.—The magistrates will +have wooden heads of course, and they will be made of the toughest and thickest +materials that can possibly be obtained. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Muff</span>.—I am quite satisfied. +This is a great invention. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Nogo</span>.—I see but one objection +to it. It appears to me that the magistrates ought to talk. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Coppernose</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘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, +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Tickle</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Tickle</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Blank</span> exhibited a model of a fashionable +annual, composed of copper-plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and worked +entirely by milk and water. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Prosee</span>, after examining the machine, +declared it to be so ingeniously composed, that he was wholly unable to +discover how it went on at all. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Blank</span>.—Nobody can, and that is the +beauty of it. +</p> + +<h4>‘SECTION C.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.<br/> +BAR ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.</h4> + +<p class="gutsumm"><i>President</i>—Dr. Soemup. +<i>Vice-Presidents</i>—Messrs. Pessell and Mortair. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Dr. Grummidge</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Pipkin</span> (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. +</p> + +<h4>‘SECTION D.—STATISTICS.<br/> +OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.</h4> + +<p class="gutsumm"><i>President</i>—Mr. Slug. +<i>Vice-Presidents</i>—Messrs. Noakes and Styles. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Kwakley</span> 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 <i>data</i> 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. +</p> + +<h4>‘SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION, E.—UMBUGOLOGY AND DITCHWATERISICS.</h4> + +<p class="gutsumm"><i>President</i>—Mr. Grub. <i>Vice +Presidents</i>—Messrs. Dull and Dummy. +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>Fitfordogsmeataurious</i>. 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Mr. Q. J. Snuffletoffle</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor John Ketch</span> 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.” +</p> + +<p> +‘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!” +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">The President</span> begged to call the learned +gentleman to order. +</p> + +<p> +‘<span class="smcap">Professor Ketch</span>.—“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?” +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>bon mot</i> 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 <i>spread</i> of science, and a glorious spread it +is.”’ +</p> + +<h3>THE PANTOMIME OF LIFE</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Of all the pantomimic <i>dramatis personae</i>, 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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Take that old gentleman who has just emerged from the <i>Café de +l’Europe</i> 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! +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>not</i> 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 <i>do</i> mean; +and, with becoming respect, we proceed to tell them. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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? +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>the change</i> too, the parallel is quite +perfect, and still more singular. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +‘All the world’s a stage,<br/> +And all the men and women merely players:’ +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION</h3> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <i>such</i> cue to-night! +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>MR. ROBERT BOLTON: THE ‘GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE +PRESS’</h3> + +<p> +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 +<i>hem</i>! 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Can you lend me a ten-pound note till Christmas?’ inquired the +hairdresser of the stomach. +</p> + +<p> +‘Where’s your security, Mr. Clip?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Well, to be sure!’ cried the baker. ‘But how d’ye +mean, Mr. Clip?’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Mean! why, that it’s got the <i>hottergruff</i> of Pope. +</p> + +<blockquote> +<p> +“Steal not this book, for fear of hangman’s rope;<br/> +For it belongs to Alexander Pope.” +</p> +</blockquote> + +<p> +All that’s written on the inside of the binding of the book; so, as my +son says, we’re <i>bound</i> to believe it.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Clip, a little flurried, ‘you’ll +pay for the first upset afore you thinks of another.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘Now,’ said the undertaker, bowing amicably to the hairdresser, +‘I <i>think</i>, I says I <i>think</i>—you’ll excuse me, Mr. +Clip, I <i>think</i>, 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.’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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?’ +</p> + +<p> +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, <i>newness</i>, 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 +<i>tout ensemble</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +‘Horrid murder in Westminster this morning,’ observed Mr. Bolton. +</p> + +<p> +Everybody changed their positions. All eyes were fixed upon the man of +paragraphs. +</p> + +<p> +‘A baker murdered his son by boiling him in a copper,’ said Mr. +Bolton. +</p> + +<p> +‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed everybody, in simultaneous horror. +</p> + +<p> +‘Boiled him, gentlemen!’ added Mr. Bolton, with the most effective +emphasis; ‘<i>boiled</i> him!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘And the particulars, Mr. B.,’ inquired the hairdresser, ‘the +particulars?’ +</p> + +<p> +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— +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +The speaker took another draught, everybody looked at everybody else, and +exclaimed, ‘Horrid!’ +</p> + +<p> +‘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 <i>maternal</i> +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. +</p> + +<p> +‘“Where’s my boy?” shrieked the mother. +</p> + +<p> +‘“In that copper, boiling,” coolly replied the benign father. +</p> + +<p> +‘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.’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<h3>FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD<br/> +<span class="smcap">aged two years and two months</span></h3> + +<p> +<span class="smcap">My Child</span>, +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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) <i>inside</i> 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. +</p> + +<p> +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 <span class="smcap">trained animals</span> 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!’ +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +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. +</p> + +<p> +Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I regard this altered state of +things with feelings of unmingled pleasure and satisfaction. +</p> + +<p> +Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, <i>your</i> 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 <i>in loco +parentis</i> 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, +</p> + +<p class="right"> +<span class="smcap">Boz</span>. +</p> + +<h2>Footnotes:</h2> + +<p> +<a name="footnote122"></a><a href="#citation122" class="footnote">[122]</a> +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. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote161"></a><a href="#citation161" class="footnote">[161]</a> 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. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote165"></a><a href="#citation165" class="footnote">[165]</a> +These two men were executed shortly afterwards. The other was respited during +his Majesty’s pleasure. +</p> + +<p> +<a name="footnote429"></a><a href="#citation429" class="footnote">[429]</a> [In +its original form.] +</p> + +<div style='display:block;margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SKETCHES BY BOZ ***</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This file should be named 882-h.htm or 882-h.zip</div> +<div style='display:block;margin:1em 0;'>This and all associated files of various formats will be found in https://www.gutenberg.org/8/8/882/</div> +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will +be renamed. +</div> + +<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> +Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright +law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, +so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United +States without permission and without paying copyright +royalties. 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