Bot-S: Sketches by BOZ

  Mrs. Captain Waters was in
_such_ spirits after lunch!—chasing, first the captain across the turf,
and among the flower-pots; and then Mr. Cymon Tuggs; and then Miss Tuggs;
and laughing, too, quite boisterously.  But as the captain said, it
didn’t matter; who knew what they were, there?  For all the people of the
house knew, they might be common people.  To which Mr. Joseph Tuggs
responded, ‘To be sure.’  And then they went down the steep wooden steps
a little further on, which led to the bottom of the cliff; and looked at
the crabs, and the seaweed, and the eels, till it was more than fully
time to go back to Ramsgate again.  Finally, Mr. Cymon Tuggs ascended the
steps last, and Mrs. Captain Waters last but one; and Mr. Cymon Tuggs
discovered that the foot and ankle of Mrs. Captain Waters, were even more
unexceptionable than he had at first supposed.

Taking a donkey towards his ordinary place of residence, is a very
different thing, and a feat much more easily to be accomplished, than
taking him from it.  It requires a great deal of foresight and presence
of mind in the one case, to anticipate the numerous flights of his
discursive imagination; whereas, in the other, all you have to do, is, to
hold on, and place a blind confidence in the animal.  Mr. Cymon Tuggs
adopted the latter expedient on his return; and his nerves were so little
discomposed by the journey, that he distinctly understood they were all
to meet again at the library in the evening.

The library was crowded.  There were the same ladies, and the same
gentlemen, who had been on the sands in the morning, and on the pier the
day before.  There were young ladies, in maroon-coloured gowns and black
velvet bracelets, dispensing fancy articles in the shop, and presiding
over games of chance in the concert-room.  There were marriageable
daughters, and marriage-making mammas, gaming and promenading, and
turning over music, and flirting.  There were some male beaux doing the
sentimental in whispers, and others doing the ferocious in moustache.
There were Mrs. Tuggs in amber, Miss Tuggs in sky-blue, Mrs. Captain
Waters in pink.  There was Captain Waters in a braided surtout; there was
Mr. Cymon Tuggs in pumps and a gilt waistcoat; there was Mr. Joseph Tuggs
in a blue coat and a shirt-frill.

‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ cried one of the young ladies in the
maroon-coloured gowns.

‘Numbers three, eight, and eleven!’ echoed another young lady in the same
uniform.

‘Number three’s gone,’ said the first young lady.  ‘Numbers eight and
eleven!’

‘Numbers eight and eleven!’ echoed the second young lady.

‘Number eight’s gone, Mary Ann,’ said the first young lady.

‘Number eleven!’ screamed the second.

‘The numbers are all taken now, ladies, if you please,’ said the first.
The representatives of numbers three, eight, and eleven, and the rest of
the numbers, crowded round the table.

‘Will you throw, ma’am?’ said the presiding goddess, handing the dice-box
to the eldest daughter of a stout lady, with four girls.

There was a profound silence among the lookers-on.

‘Throw, Jane, my dear,’ said the stout lady.  An interesting display of
bashfulness—a little blushing in a cambric handkerchief—a whispering to a
younger sister.

‘Amelia, my dear, throw for your sister,’ said the stout lady; and then
she turned to a walking advertisement of Rowlands’ Macassar Oil, who
stood next her, and said, ‘Jane is so _very_ modest and retiring; but I
can’t be angry with her for it.  An artless and unsophisticated girl is
_so_ truly amiable, that I often wish Amelia was more like her sister!’

The gentleman with the whiskers whispered his admiring approval.

‘Now, my dear!’ said the stout lady.  Miss Amelia threw—eight for her
sister, ten for herself.

‘Nice figure, Amelia,’ whispered the stout lady to a thin youth beside
her.

‘Beautiful!’

‘And _such_ a spirit!  I am like you in that respect.  I can _not_ help
admiring that life and vivacity.  Ah! (a sigh) I wish I could make poor
Jane a little more like my dear Amelia!’

The young gentleman cordially acquiesced in the sentiment; both he, and
the individual first addressed, were perfectly contented.

‘Who’s this?’ inquired Mr. Cymon Tuggs of Mrs. Captain Waters, as a short
female, in a blue velvet hat and feathers, was led into the orchestra, by
a fat man in black tights and cloudy Berlins.

‘Mrs. Tippin, of the London theatres,’ replied Belinda, referring to the
programme of the concert.

The talented Tippin having condescendingly acknowledged the clapping of
hands, and shouts of ‘bravo!’ which greeted her appearance, proceeded to
sing the popular cavatina of ‘Bid me discourse,’ accompanied on the piano
by Mr. Tippin; after which, Mr. Tippin sang a comic song, accompanied on
the piano by Mrs. Tippin: the applause consequent upon which, was only to
be exceeded by the enthusiastic approbation bestowed upon an air with
variations on the guitar, by Miss Tippin, accompanied on the chin by
Master Tippin.

Thus passed the evening; thus passed the days and evenings of the
Tuggses, and the Waterses, for six weeks.  Sands in the morning—donkeys
at noon—pier in the afternoon—library at night—and the same people
everywhere.

On that very night six weeks, the moon was shining brightly over the calm
sea, which dashed against the feet of the tall gaunt cliffs, with just
enough noise to lull the old fish to sleep, without disturbing the young
ones, when two figures were discernible—or would have been, if anybody
had looked for them—seated on one of the wooden benches which are
stationed near the verge of the western cliff.  The moon had climbed
higher into the heavens, by two hours’ journeying, since those figures
first sat down—and yet they had moved not.  The crowd of loungers had
thinned and dispersed; the noise of itinerant musicians had died away;
light after light had appeared in the windows of the different houses in
the distance; blockade-man after blockade-man had passed the spot,
wending his way towards his solitary post; and yet those figures had
remained stationary.  Some portions of the two forms were in deep shadow,
but the light of the moon fell strongly on a puce-coloured boot and a
glazed stock.  Mr. Cymon Tuggs and Mrs. Captain Waters were seated on
that bench.  They spoke not, but were silently gazing on the sea.

‘Walter will return to-morrow,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters, mournfully
breaking silence.

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sighed like a gust of wind through a forest of gooseberry
bushes, as he replied, ‘Alas! he will.’

‘Oh, Cymon!’ resumed Belinda, ‘the chaste delight, the calm happiness, of
this one week of Platonic love, is too much for me!’  Cymon was about to
suggest that it was too little for him, but he stopped himself, and
murmured unintelligibly.

‘And to think that even this gleam of happiness, innocent as it is,’
exclaimed Belinda, ‘is now to be lost for ever!’

‘Oh, do not say for ever, Belinda,’ exclaimed the excitable Cymon, as two
strongly-defined tears chased each other down his pale face—it was so
long that there was plenty of room for a chase.  ‘Do not say for ever!’

‘I must,’ replied Belinda.

‘Why?’ urged Cymon, ‘oh why?  Such Platonic acquaintance as ours is so
harmless, that even your husband can never object to it.’

‘My husband!’ exclaimed Belinda.  ‘You little know him.  Jealous and
revengeful; ferocious in his revenge—a maniac in his jealousy!  Would you
be assassinated before my eyes?’  Mr. Cymon Tuggs, in a voice broken by
emotion, expressed his disinclination to undergo the process of
assassination before the eyes of anybody.

‘Then leave me,’ said Mrs. Captain Waters.  ‘Leave me, this night, for
ever.  It is late: let us return.’

Mr. Cymon Tuggs sadly offered the lady his arm, and escorted her to her
lodgings.  He paused at the door—he felt a Platonic pressure of his hand.
‘Good night,’ he said, hesitating.

‘Good night,’ sobbed the lady.  Mr. Cymon Tuggs paused again.

‘Won’t you walk in, sir?’ said the servant.  Mr. Tuggs hesitated.  Oh,
that hesitation!  He _did_ walk in.

‘Good night!’ said Mr. Cymon Tuggs again, when he reached the
drawing-room.

‘Good night!’ replied Belinda; ‘and, if at any period of my life,
I—Hush!’  The lady paused and stared with a steady gaze of horror, on the
ashy countenance of Mr. Cymon Tuggs.  There was a double knock at the
street-door.

‘It is my husband!’ said Belinda, as the captain’s voice was heard below.

‘And my family!’ added Cymon Tuggs, as the voices of his relatives
floated up the staircase.

‘The curtain!  The curtain!’ gasped Mrs. Captain Waters, pointing to the
window, before which some chintz hangings were closely drawn.

‘But I have done nothing wrong,’ said the hesitating Cymon.

‘The curtain!’ reiterated the frantic lady: ‘you will be murdered.’  This
last appeal to his feelings was irresistible.  The dismayed Cymon
concealed himself behind the curtain with pantomimic suddenness.

Enter the captain, Joseph Tuggs, Mrs. Tuggs, and Charlotta.

‘My dear,’ said the captain, ‘Lieutenant, Slaughter.’  Two iron-shod
boots and one gruff voice were heard by Mr. Cymon to advance, and
acknowledge the honour of the introduction.  The sabre of the lieutenant
rattled heavily upon the floor, as he seated himself at the table.  Mr.
Cymon’s fears almost overcame his reason.

‘The brandy, my dear!’ said the captain.  Here was a situation!  They
were going to make a night of it!  And Mr. Cymon Tuggs was pent up behind
the curtain and afraid to breathe!

‘Slaughter,’ said the captain, ‘a cigar?’

Now, Mr. Cymon Tuggs never could smoke without feeling it indispensably
necessary to retire, immediately, and never could smell smoke without a
strong disposition to cough.  The cigars were introduced; the captain was
a professed smoker; so was the lieutenant; so was Joseph Tuggs.  The
apartment was small, the door was closed, the smoke powerful: it hung in
heavy wreaths over the room, and at length found its way behind the
curtain.  Cymon Tuggs held his nose, his mouth, his breath.  It was all
of no use—out came the cough.

‘Bless my soul!’ said the captain, ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Tuggs.  You
dislike smoking?’

‘Oh, no; I don’t indeed,’ said Charlotta.

‘It makes you cough.’

‘Oh dear no.’

‘You coughed just now.’

‘Me, Captain Waters!  Lor! how can you say so?’

‘Somebody coughed,’ said the captain.

‘I certainly thought so,’ said Slaughter.  No; everybody denied it.

‘Fancy,’ said the captain.

‘Must be,’ echoed Slaughter.

Cigars resumed—more smoke—another cough—smothered, but violent.

‘Damned odd!’ said the captain, staring about him.

‘Sing’ler!’ ejaculated the unconscious Mr. Joseph Tuggs.

Lieutenant Slaughter looked first at one person mysteriously, then at
another: then, laid down his cigar, then approached the window on tiptoe,
and pointed with his right thumb over his shoulder, in the direction of
the curtain.

‘Slaughter!’ ejaculated the captain, rising from table, ‘what do you
mean?’

The lieutenant, in reply, drew back the curtain and discovered Mr. Cymon
Tuggs behind it: pallid with apprehension, and blue with wanting to
cough.

‘Aha!’ exclaimed the captain, furiously.  ‘What do I see?  Slaughter,
your sabre!’

‘Cymon!’ screamed the Tuggses.

‘Mercy!’ said Belinda.

‘Platonic!’ gasped Cymon.

‘Your sabre!’ roared the captain: ‘Slaughter—unhand me—the villain’s
life!’

‘Murder!’ screamed the Tuggses.

‘Hold him fast, sir!’ faintly articulated Cymon.

‘Water!’ exclaimed Joseph Tuggs—and Mr. Cymon Tuggs and all the ladies
forthwith fainted away, and formed a tableau.

Most willingly would we conceal the disastrous termination of the six
weeks’ acquaintance.  A troublesome form, and an arbitrary custom,
however, prescribe that a story should have a conclusion, in addition to
a commencement; we have therefore no alternative.  Lieutenant Slaughter
brought a message—the captain brought an action.  Mr. Joseph Tuggs
interposed—the lieutenant negotiated.  When Mr. Cymon Tuggs recovered
from the nervous disorder into which misplaced affection, and exciting
circumstances, had plunged him, he found that his family had lost their
pleasant acquaintance; that his father was minus fifteen hundred pounds;
and the captain plus the precise sum.  The money was paid to hush the
matter up, but it got abroad notwithstanding; and there are not wanting
some who affirm that three designing impostors never found more easy
dupes, than did Captain Waters, Mrs. Waters, and Lieutenant Slaughter, in
the Tuggses at Ramsgate.



CHAPTER V—HORATIO SPARKINS


‘Indeed, my love, he paid Teresa very great attention on the last
assembly night,’ said Mrs. Malderton, addressing her spouse, who, after
the fatigues of the day in the City, was sitting with a silk handkerchief
over his head, and his feet on the fender, drinking his port;—‘very great
attention; and I say again, every possible encouragement ought to be
given him.  He positively must be asked down here to dine.’

‘Who must?’ inquired Mr. Malderton.

‘Why, you know whom I mean, my dear—the young man with the black whiskers
and the white cravat, who has just come out at our assembly, and whom all
the girls are talking about.  Young—dear me! what’s his name?—Marianne,
what _is_ his name?’ continued Mrs. Malderton, addressing her youngest
daughter, who was engaged in netting a purse, and looking sentimental.

‘Mr. Horatio Sparkins, ma,’ replied Miss Marianne, with a sigh.

‘Oh! yes, to be sure—Horatio Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton.  ‘Decidedly
the most gentleman-like young man I ever saw.  I am sure in the
beautifully-made coat he wore the other night, he looked like—like—’

‘Like Prince Leopold, ma—so noble, so full of sentiment!’ suggested
Marianne, in a tone of enthusiastic admiration.

‘You should recollect, my dear,’ resumed Mrs. Malderton, ‘that Teresa is
now eight-and-twenty; and that it really is very important that something
should be done.’

Miss Teresa Malderton was a very little girl, rather fat, with vermilion
cheeks, but good-humoured, and still disengaged, although, to do her
justice, the misfortune arose from no lack of perseverance on her part.
In vain had she flirted for ten years; in vain had Mr. and Mrs. Malderton
assiduously kept up an extensive acquaintance among the young eligible
bachelors of Camberwell, and even of Wandsworth and Brixton; to say
nothing of those who ‘dropped in’ from town.  Miss Malderton was as well
known as the lion on the top of Northumberland House, and had an equal
chance of ‘going off.’

‘I am quite sure you’d like him,’ continued Mrs. Malderton, ‘he is so
gentlemanly!’

‘So clever!’ said Miss Marianne.

‘And has such a flow of language!’ added Miss Teresa.

‘He has a great respect for you, my dear,’ said Mrs. Malderton to her
husband.  Mr. Malderton coughed, and looked at the fire.

‘Yes I’m sure he’s very much attached to pa’s society,’ said Miss
Marianne.

‘No doubt of it,’ echoed Miss Teresa.

‘Indeed, he said as much to me in confidence,’ observed Mrs. Malderton.

‘Well, well,’ returned Mr. Malderton, somewhat flattered; ‘if I see him
at the assembly to-morrow, perhaps I’ll ask him down.  I hope he knows we
live at Oak Lodge, Camberwell, my dear?’

‘Of course—and that you keep a one-horse carriage.’

‘I’ll see about it,’ said Mr. Malderton, composing himself for a nap;
‘I’ll see about it.’

Mr. Malderton was a man whose whole scope of ideas was limited to
Lloyd’s, the Exchange, the India House, and the Bank.  A few successful
speculations had raised him from a situation of obscurity and comparative
poverty, to a state of affluence.  As frequently happens in such cases,
the ideas of himself and his family became elevated to an extraordinary
pitch as their means increased; they affected fashion, taste, and many
other fooleries, in imitation of their betters, and had a very decided
and becoming horror of anything which could, by possibility, be
considered low.  He was hospitable from ostentation, illiberal from
ignorance, and prejudiced from conceit.  Egotism and the love of display
induced him to keep an excellent table: convenience, and a love of good
things of this life, ensured him plenty of guests.  He liked to have
clever men, or what he considered such, at his table, because it was a
great thing to talk about; but he never could endure what he called
‘sharp fellows.’  Probably, he cherished this feeling out of compliment
to his two sons, who gave their respected parent no uneasiness in that
particular.  The family were ambitious of forming acquaintances and
connexions in some sphere of society superior to that in which they
themselves moved; and one of the necessary consequences of this desire,
added to their utter ignorance of the world beyond their own small
circle, was, that any one who could lay claim to an acquaintance with
people of rank and title, had a sure passport to the table at Oak Lodge,
Camberwell.

The appearance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins at the assembly, had excited no
small degree of surprise and curiosity among its regular frequenters.
Who could he be?  He was evidently reserved, and apparently melancholy.
Was he a clergyman?—He danced too well.  A barrister?—He said he was not
called.  He used very fine words, and talked a great deal.  Could he be a
distinguished foreigner, come to England for the purpose of describing
the country, its manners and customs; and frequenting public balls and
public dinners, with the view of becoming acquainted with high life,
polished etiquette, and English refinement?—No, he had not a foreign
accent.  Was he a surgeon, a contributor to the magazines, a writer of
fashionable novels, or an artist?—No; to each and all of these surmises,
there existed some valid objection.—‘Then,’ said everybody, ‘he must be
_somebody_.’—‘I should think he must be,’ reasoned Mr. Malderton, within
himself, ‘because he perceives our superiority, and pays us so much
attention.’

The night succeeding the conversation we have just recorded, was
‘assembly night.’  The double-fly was ordered to be at the door of Oak
Lodge at nine o’clock precisely.  The Miss Maldertons were dressed in
sky-blue satin trimmed with artificial flowers; and Mrs. M. (who was a
little fat woman), in ditto ditto, looked like her eldest daughter
multiplied by two.  Mr. Frederick Malderton, the eldest son, in
full-dress costume, was the very _beau idéal_ of a smart waiter; and Mr.
Thomas Malderton, the youngest, with his white dress-stock, blue coat,
bright buttons, and red watch-ribbon, strongly resembled the portrait of
that interesting, but rash young gentleman, George Barnwell.  Every
member of the party had made up his or her mind to cultivate the
acquaintance of Mr. Horatio Sparkins.  Miss Teresa, of course, was to be
as amiable and interesting as ladies of eight-and-twenty on the look-out
for a husband, usually are.  Mrs. Malderton would be all smiles and
graces.  Miss Marianne would request the favour of some verses for her
album.  Mr. Malderton would patronise the great unknown by asking him to
dinner.  Tom intended to ascertain the extent of his information on the
interesting topics of snuff and cigars.  Even Mr. Frederick Malderton
himself, the family authority on all points of taste, dress, and
fashionable arrangement; who had lodgings of his own in town; who had a
free admission to Covent-garden theatre; who always dressed according to
the fashions of the months; who went up the water twice a-week in the
season; and who actually had an intimate friend who once knew a gentleman
who formerly lived in the Albany,—even he had determined that Mr. Horatio
Sparkins must be a devilish good fellow, and that he would do him the
honour of challenging him to a game at billiards.

The first object that met the anxious eyes of the expectant family on
their entrance into the ball-room, was the interesting Horatio, with his
hair brushed off his forehead, and his eyes fixed on the ceiling,
reclining in a contemplative attitude on one of the seats.

‘There he is, my dear,’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to Mr. Malderton.

‘How like Lord Byron!’ murmured Miss Teresa.

‘Or Montgomery!’ whispered Miss Marianne.

‘Or the portraits of Captain Cook!’ suggested Tom.

‘Tom—don’t be an ass!’ said his father, who checked him on all occasions,
probably with a view to prevent his becoming ‘sharp’—which was very
unnecessary.

The elegant Sparkins attitudinised with admirable effect, until the
family had crossed the room.  He then started up, with the most natural
appearance of surprise and delight; accosted Mrs. Malderton with the
utmost cordiality; saluted the young ladies in the most enchanting
manner; bowed to, and shook hands with Mr. Malderton, with a degree of
respect amounting almost to veneration; and returned the greetings of the
two young men in a half-gratified, half-patronising manner, which fully
convinced them that he must be an important, and, at the same time,
condescending personage.

‘Miss Malderton,’ said Horatio, after the ordinary salutations, and
bowing very low, ‘may I be permitted to presume to hope that you will
allow me to have the pleasure—’

‘I don’t _think_ I am engaged,’ said Miss Teresa, with a dreadful
affectation of indifference—‘but, really—so many—’

Horatio looked handsomely miserable.

‘I shall be most happy,’ simpered the interesting Teresa, at last.
Horatio’s countenance brightened up, like an old hat in a shower of rain.

‘A very genteel young man, certainly!’ said the gratified Mr. Malderton,
as the obsequious Sparkins and his partner joined the quadrille which was
just forming.

‘He has a remarkably good address,’ said Mr. Frederick.

‘Yes, he is a prime fellow,’ interposed Tom, who always managed to put
his foot in it—‘he talks just like an auctioneer.’

‘Tom!’ said his father solemnly, ‘I think I desired you, before, not to
be a fool.’  Tom looked as happy as a cock on a drizzly morning.

‘How delightful!’ said the interesting Horatio to his partner, as they
promenaded the room at the conclusion of the set—‘how delightful, how
refreshing it is, to retire from the cloudy storms, the vicissitudes, and
the troubles, of life, even if it be but for a few short fleeting
moments: and to spend those moments, fading and evanescent though they
be, in the delightful, the blessed society of one individual—whose frowns
would be death, whose coldness would be madness, whose falsehood would be
ruin, whose constancy would be bliss; the possession of whose affection
would be the brightest and best reward that Heaven could bestow on man?’

‘What feeling! what sentiment!’ thought Miss Teresa, as she leaned more
heavily on her companion’s arm.

‘But enough—enough!’ resumed the elegant Sparkins, with a theatrical air.
‘What have I said? what have I—I—to do with sentiments like these!  Miss
Malderton’—here he stopped short—‘may I hope to be permitted to offer the
humble tribute of—’

‘Really, Mr. Sparkins,’ returned the enraptured Teresa, blushing in the
sweetest confusion, ‘I must refer you to papa.  I never can, without his
consent, venture to—’

‘Surely he cannot object—’

‘Oh, yes.  Indeed, indeed, you know him not!’ interrupted Miss Teresa,
well knowing there was nothing to fear, but wishing to make the interview
resemble a scene in some romantic novel.

‘He cannot object to my offering you a glass of negus,’ returned the
adorable Sparkins, with some surprise.

‘Is that all?’ thought the disappointed Teresa.  ‘What a fuss about
nothing!’

‘It will give me the greatest pleasure, sir, to see you to dinner at Oak
Lodge, Camberwell, on Sunday next at five o’clock, if you have no better
engagement,’ said Mr. Malderton, at the conclusion of the evening, as he
and his sons were standing in conversation with Mr. Horatio Sparkins.

Horatio bowed his acknowledgments, and accepted the flattering
invitation.

‘I must confess,’ continued the father, offering his snuff-box to his new
acquaintance, ‘that I don’t enjoy these assemblies half so much as the
comfort—I had almost said the luxury—of Oak Lodge.  They have no great
charms for an elderly man.’

‘And after all, sir, what is man?’ said the metaphysical Sparkins.  ‘I
say, what is man?’

‘Ah! very true,’ said Mr. Malderton; ‘very true.’

‘We know that we live and breathe,’ continued Horatio; ‘that we have
wants and wishes, desires and appetites—’

‘Certainly,’ said Mr. Frederick Malderton, looking profound.

‘I say, we know that we exist,’ repeated Horatio, raising his voice, ‘but
there we stop; there, is an end to our knowledge; there, is the summit of
our attainments; there, is the termination of our ends.  What more do we
know?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Mr. Frederick—than whom no one was more capable of
answering for himself in that particular.  Tom was about to hazard
something, but, fortunately for his reputation, he caught his father’s
angry eye, and slunk off like a puppy convicted of petty larceny.

‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Malderton the elder, as they were returning home
in the fly, ‘that Mr. Sparkins is a wonderful young man.  Such surprising
knowledge! such extraordinary information! and such a splendid mode of
expressing himself!’

‘I think he must be somebody in disguise,’ said Miss Marianne.  ‘How
charmingly romantic!’

‘He talks very loud and nicely,’ timidly observed Tom, ‘but I don’t
exactly understand what he means.’

‘I almost begin to despair of your understanding anything, Tom,’ said his
father, who, of course, had been much enlightened by Mr. Horatio
Sparkins’s conversation.

‘It strikes me, Tom,’ said Miss Teresa, ‘that you have made yourself very
ridiculous this evening.’

‘No doubt of it,’ cried everybody—and the unfortunate Tom reduced himself
into the least possible space.  That night, Mr. and Mrs. Malderton had a
long conversation respecting their daughter’s prospects and future
arrangements.  Miss Teresa went to bed, considering whether, in the event
of her marrying a title, she could conscientiously encourage the visits
of her present associates; and dreamed, all night, of disguised noblemen,
large routs, ostrich plumes, bridal favours, and Horatio Sparkins.

Various surmises were hazarded on the Sunday morning, as to the mode of
conveyance which the anxiously-expected Horatio would adopt.  Did he keep
a gig?—was it possible he could come on horseback?—or would he patronize
the stage?  These, and other various conjectures of equal importance,
engrossed the attention of Mrs. Malderton and her daughters during the
whole morning after church.

‘Upon my word, my dear, it’s a most annoying thing that that vulgar
brother of yours should have invited himself to dine here to-day,’ said
Mr. Malderton to his wife.  ‘On account of Mr. Sparkins’s coming down, I
purposely abstained from asking any one but Flamwell.  And then to think
of your brother—a tradesman—it’s insufferable!  I declare I wouldn’t have
him mention his shop, before our new guest—no, not for a thousand pounds!
I wouldn’t care if he had the good sense to conceal the disgrace he is to
the family; but he’s so fond of his horrible business, that he _will_ let
people know what he is.’

Mr. Jacob Barton, the individual alluded to, was a large grocer; so
vulgar, and so lost to all sense of feeling, that he actually never
scrupled to avow that he wasn’t above his business: ‘he’d made his money
by it, and he didn’t care who know’d it.’

‘Ah! Flamwell, my dear fellow, how d’ye do?’ said Mr. Malderton, as a
little spoffish man, with green spectacles, entered the room.  ‘You got
my note?’

‘Yes, I did; and here I am in consequence.’

‘You don’t happen to know this Mr. Sparkins by name?  You know
everybody?’

Mr. Flamwell was one of those gentlemen of remarkably extensive
information whom one occasionally meets in society, who pretend to know
everybody, but in reality know nobody.  At Malderton’s, where any stories
about great people were received with a greedy ear, he was an especial
favourite; and, knowing the kind of people he had to deal with, he
carried his passion of claiming acquaintance with everybody, to the most
immoderate length.  He had rather a singular way of telling his greatest
lies in a parenthesis, and with an air of self-denial, as if he feared
being thought egotistical.

‘Why, no, I don’t know him by that name,’ returned Flamwell, in a low
tone, and with an air of immense importance.  ‘I have no doubt I know
him, though.  Is he tall?’

‘Middle-sized,’ said Miss Teresa.

‘With black hair?’ inquired Flamwell, hazarding a bold guess.

‘Yes,’ returned Miss Teresa, eagerly.

‘Rather a snub nose?’

‘No,’ said the disappointed Teresa, ‘he has a Roman nose.’

‘I said a Roman nose, didn’t I?’ inquired Flamwell.  ‘He’s an elegant
young man?’

‘Oh, certainly.’

‘With remarkably prepossessing manners?’

‘Oh, yes!’ said all the family together.  ‘You must know him.’

‘Yes, I thought you knew him, if he was anybody,’ triumphantly exclaimed
Mr. Malderton.  ‘Who d’ye think he is?’

‘Why, from your description,’ said Flamwell, ruminating, and sinking his
voice, almost to a whisper, ‘he bears a strong resemblance to the
Honourable Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne.  He’s a very
talented young man, and rather eccentric.  It’s extremely probable he may
have changed his name for some temporary purpose.’

Teresa’s heart beat high.  Could he be the Honourable Augustus
Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne!  What a name to be elegantly engraved
upon two glazed cards, tied together with a piece of white satin ribbon!
‘The Honourable Mrs. Augustus Fitz-Edward Fitz-John Fitz-Osborne!’  The
thought was transport.

‘It’s five minutes to five,’ said Mr. Malderton, looking at his watch: ‘I
hope he’s not going to disappoint us.’

‘There he is!’ exclaimed Miss Teresa, as a loud double-knock was heard at
the door.  Everybody endeavoured to look—as people when they particularly
expect a visitor always do—as if they were perfectly unsuspicious of the
approach of anybody.

The room-door opened—‘Mr. Barton!’ said the servant.

‘Confound the man!’ murmured Malderton.  ‘Ah! my dear sir, how d’ye do!
Any news?’

‘Why no,’ returned the grocer, in his usual bluff manner.  ‘No, none
partickler.  None that I am much aware of.  How d’ye do, gals and boys?
Mr. Flamwell, sir—glad to see you.’

‘Here’s Mr. Sparkins!’ said Tom, who had been looking out at the window,
‘on _such_ a black horse!’  There was Horatio, sure enough, on a large
black horse, curvetting and prancing along, like an Astley’s
supernumerary.  After a great deal of reining in, and pulling up, with
the accompaniments of snorting, rearing, and kicking, the animal
consented to stop at about a hundred yards from the gate, where Mr.
Sparkins dismounted, and confided him to the care of Mr. Malderton’s
groom.  The ceremony of introduction was gone through, in all due form.
Mr. Flamwell looked from behind his green spectacles at Horatio with an
air of mysterious importance; and the gallant Horatio looked unutterable
things at Teresa.

‘Is he the Honourable Mr. Augustus What’s-his-name?’ whispered Mrs.
Malderton to Flamwell, as he was escorting her to the dining-room.

‘Why, no—at least not exactly,’ returned that great authority—‘not
exactly.’

‘Who _is_ he then?’

‘Hush!’ said Flamwell, nodding his head with a grave air, importing that
he knew very well; but was prevented, by some grave reasons of state,
from disclosing the important secret.  It might be one of the ministers
making himself acquainted with the views of the people.

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the delighted Mrs. Malderton, ‘pray divide the
ladies.  John, put a chair for the gentleman between Miss Teresa and Miss
Marianne.’  This was addressed to a man who, on ordinary occasions, acted
as half-groom, half-gardener; but who, as it was important to make an
impression on Mr. Sparkins, had been forced into a white neckerchief and
shoes, and touched up, and brushed, to look like a second footman.

The dinner was excellent; Horatio was most attentive to Miss Teresa, and
every one felt in high spirits, except Mr. Malderton, who, knowing the
propensity of his brother-in-law, Mr. Barton, endured that sort of agony
which the newspapers inform us is experienced by the surrounding
neighbourhood when a pot-boy hangs himself in a hay-loft, and which is
‘much easier to be imagined than described.’

‘Have you seen your friend, Sir Thomas Noland, lately, Flamwell?’
inquired Mr. Malderton, casting a sidelong look at Horatio, to see what
effect the mention of so great a man had upon him.

‘Why, no—not very lately.  I saw Lord Gubbleton the day before
yesterday.’

‘All!  I hope his lordship is very well?’ said Malderton, in a tone of
the greatest interest.  It is scarcely necessary to say that, until that
moment, he had been quite innocent of the existence of such a person.

‘Why, yes; he was very well—very well indeed.  He’s a devilish good
fellow.  I met him in the City, and had a long chat with him.  Indeed,
I’m rather intimate with him.  I couldn’t stop to talk to him as long as
I could wish, though, because I was on my way to a banker’s, a very rich
man, and a member of Parliament, with whom I am also rather, indeed I may
say very, intimate.’

‘I know whom you mean,’ returned the host, consequentially—in reality
knowing as much about the matter as Flamwell himself.—‘He has a capital
business.’

This was touching on a dangerous topic.

‘Talking of business,’ interposed Mr. Barton, from the centre of the
table.  ‘A gentleman whom you knew very well, Malderton, before you made
that first lucky spec of yours, called at our shop the other day, and—’

‘Barton, may I trouble you for a potato?’ interrupted the wretched master
of the house, hoping to nip the story in the bud.

‘Certainly,’ returned the grocer, quite insensible of his
brother-in-law’s object—‘and he said in a very plain manner—’

‘_Floury_, if you please,’ interrupted Malderton again; dreading the
termination of the anecdote, and fearing a repetition of the word ‘shop.’

‘He said, says he,’ continued the culprit, after despatching the potato;
‘says he, how goes on your business?  So I said, jokingly—you know my
way—says I, I’m never above my business, and I hope my business will
never be above me.  Ha, ha!’

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said the host, vainly endeavouring to conceal his dismay,
‘a glass of wine?’

‘With the utmost pleasure, sir.’

‘Happy to see you.’

‘Thank you.’

‘We were talking the other evening,’ resumed the host, addressing
Horatio, partly with the view of displaying the conversational powers of
his new acquaintance, and partly in the hope of drowning the grocer’s
stories—‘we were talking the other night about the nature of man.  Your
argument struck me very forcibly.’

‘And me,’ said Mr. Frederick.  Horatio made a graceful inclination of the
head.

‘Pray, what is your opinion of woman, Mr. Sparkins?’ inquired Mrs.
Malderton.  The young ladies simpered.

‘Man,’ replied Horatio, ‘man, whether he ranged the bright, gay, flowery
plains of a second Eden, or the more sterile, barren, and I may say,
commonplace regions, to which we are compelled to accustom ourselves, in
times such as these; man, under any circumstances, or in any
place—whether he were bending beneath the withering blasts of the frigid
zone, or scorching under the rays of a vertical sun—man, without woman,
would be—alone.’

‘I am very happy to find you entertain such honourable opinions, Mr.
Sparkins,’ said Mrs. Malderton.

‘And I,’ added Miss Teresa.  Horatio looked his delight, and the young
lady blushed.

‘Now, it’s my opinion—’ said Mr. Barton.

‘I know what you’re going to say,’ interposed Malderton, determined not
to give his relation another opportunity, ‘and I don’t agree with you.’

‘What!’ inquired the astonished grocer.

‘I am sorry to differ from you, Barton,’ said the host, in as positive a
manner as if he really were contradicting a position which the other had
laid down, ‘but I cannot give my assent to what I consider a very
monstrous proposition.’

‘But I meant to say—’

‘You never can convince me,’ said Malderton, with an air of obstinate
determination.  ‘Never.’

‘And I,’ said Mr. Frederick, following up his father’s attack, ‘cannot
entirely agree in Mr. Sparkins’s argument.’

‘What!’ said Horatio, who became more metaphysical, and more
argumentative, as he saw the female part of the family listening in
wondering delight—‘what!  Is effect the consequence of cause?  Is cause
the precursor of effect?’

‘That’s the point,’ said Flamwell.

‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Malderton.

‘Because, if effect is the consequence of cause, and if cause does
precede effect, I apprehend you are wrong,’ added Horatio.

‘Decidedly,’ said the toad-eating Flamwell.

‘At least, I apprehend that to be the just and logical deduction?’ said
Sparkins, in a tone of interrogation.

‘No doubt of it,’ chimed in Flamwell again.  ‘It settles the point.’

‘Well, perhaps it does,’ said Mr. Frederick; ‘I didn’t see it before.’

‘I don’t exactly see it now,’ thought the grocer; ‘but I suppose it’s all
right.’

‘How wonderfully clever he is!’ whispered Mrs. Malderton to her
daughters, as they retired to the drawing-room.

‘Oh, he’s quite a love!’ said both the young ladies together; ‘he talks
like an oracle.  He must have seen a great deal of life.’

The gentlemen being left to themselves, a pause ensued, during which
everybody looked very grave, as if they were quite overcome by the
profound nature of the previous discussion.  Flamwell, who had made up
his mind to find out who and what Mr. Horatio Sparkins really was, first
broke silence.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said that distinguished personage, ‘I presume you have
studied for the bar?  I thought of entering once, myself—indeed, I’m
rather intimate with some of the highest ornaments of that distinguished
profession.’

‘N-no!’ said Horatio, with a little hesitation; ‘not exactly.’

‘But you have been much among the silk gowns, or I mistake?’ inquired
Flamwell, deferentially.

‘Nearly all my life,’ returned Sparkins.

The question was thus pretty well settled in the mind of Mr. Flamwell.
He was a young gentleman ‘about to be called.’

‘I shouldn’t like to be a barrister,’ said Tom, speaking for the first
time, and looking round the table to find somebody who would notice the
remark.

No one made any reply.

‘I shouldn’t like to wear a wig,’ said Tom, hazarding another
observation.

‘Tom, I beg you will not make yourself ridiculous,’ said his father.
‘Pray listen, and improve yourself by the conversation you hear, and
don’t be constantly making these absurd remarks.’

‘Very well, father,’ replied the unfortunate Tom, who had not spoken a
word since he had asked for another slice of beef at a quarter-past five
o’clock, P.M., and it was then eight.

‘Well, Tom,’ observed his good-natured uncle, ‘never mind!  _I_ think
with you.  I shouldn’t like to wear a wig.  I’d rather wear an apron.’

Mr. Malderton coughed violently.  Mr. Barton resumed—‘For if a man’s
above his business—’

The cough returned with tenfold violence, and did not cease until the
unfortunate cause of it, in his alarm, had quite forgotten what he
intended to say.

‘Mr. Sparkins,’ said Flamwell, returning to the charge, ‘do you happen to
know Mr. Delafontaine, of Bedford-square?’

‘I have exchanged cards with him; since which, indeed, I have had an
opportunity of serving him considerably,’ replied Horatio, slightly
colouring; no doubt, at having been betrayed into making the
acknowledgment.

‘You are very lucky, if you have had an opportunity of obliging that
great man,’ observed Flamwell, with an air of profound respect.

‘I don’t know who he is,’ he whispered to Mr. Malderton, confidentially,
as they followed Horatio up to the drawing-room.  ‘It’s quite clear,
however, that he belongs to the law, and that he is somebody of great
importance, and very highly connected.’

‘No doubt, no doubt,’ returned his companion.

The remainder of the evening passed away most delightfully.  Mr.
Malderton, relieved from his apprehensions by the circumstance of Mr.
Barton’s falling into a profound sleep, was as affable and gracious as
possible.  Miss Teresa played the ‘Fall of Paris,’ as Mr. Sparkins
declared, in a most masterly manner, and both of them, assisted by Mr.
Frederick, tried over glees and trios without number; they having made
the pleasing discovery that their voices harmonised beautifully.  To be
sure, they all sang the first part; and Horatio, in addition to the
slight drawback of having no ear, was perfectly innocent of knowing a
note of music; still, they passed the time very agreeably, and it was
past twelve o’clock before Mr. Sparkins ordered the
mourning-coach-looking steed to be brought out—an order which was only
complied with, on the distinct understanding that he was to repeat his
visit on the following Sunday.

‘But, perhaps, Mr. Sparkins will form one of our party to-morrow
evening?’ suggested Mrs. M.  ‘Mr. Malderton intends taking the girls to
see the pantomime.’  Mr. Sparkins bowed, and promised to join the party
in box 48, in the course of the evening.

‘We will not tax you for the morning,’ said Miss Teresa, bewitchingly;
‘for ma is going to take us to all sorts of places, shopping.  I know
that gentlemen have a great horror of that employment.’  Mr. Sparkins
bowed again, and declared that he should be delighted, but business of
importance occupied him in the morning.  Flamwell looked at Malderton
significantly.—‘It’s term time!’ he whispered.

At twelve o’clock on the following morning, the ‘fly’ was at the door of
Oak Lodge, to convey Mrs. Malderton and her daughters on their expedition
for the day.  They were to dine and dress for the play at a friend’s
house.  First, driving thither with their band-boxes, they departed on
their first errand to make some purchases at Messrs. Jones, Spruggins,
and Smith’s, of Tottenham-court-road; after which, they were to go to
Redmayne’s in Bond-street; thence, to innumerable places that no one ever
heard of.  The young ladies beguiled the tediousness of the ride by
eulogising Mr. Horatio Sparkins, scolding their mamma for taking them so
far to save a shilling, and wondering whether they should ever reach
their destination.  At length, the vehicle stopped before a dirty-looking
ticketed linen-draper’s shop, with goods of all kinds, and labels of all
sorts and sizes, in the window.  There were dropsical figures of seven
with a little three-farthings in the corner; ‘perfectly invisible to the
naked eye;’ three hundred and fifty thousand ladies’ boas, _from_ one
shilling and a penny halfpenny; real French kid shoes, at two and
ninepence per pair; green parasols, at an equally cheap rate; and ‘every
description of goods,’ as the proprietors said—and they must know
best—‘fifty per cent. under cost price.’

‘Lor! ma, what a place you have brought us to!’ said Miss Teresa; ‘what
_would_ Mr. Sparkins say if he could see us!’

‘Ah! what, indeed!’ said Miss Marianne, horrified at the idea.

‘Pray be seated, ladies.  What is the first article?’ inquired the
obsequious master of the ceremonies of the establishment, who, in his
large white neckcloth and formal tie, looked like a bad ‘portrait of a
gentleman’ in the Somerset-house exhibition.

‘I want to see some silks,’ answered Mrs. Malderton.

‘Directly, ma’am.—Mr. Smith!  Where _is_ Mr. Smith?’

‘Here, sir,’ cried a voice at the back of the shop.

‘Pray make haste, Mr. Smith,’ said the M.C.  ‘You never are to be found
when you’re wanted, sir.’

Mr. Smith, thus enjoined to use all possible despatch, leaped over the
counter with great agility, and placed himself before the newly-arrived
customers.  Mrs. Malderton uttered a faint scream; Miss Teresa, who had
been stooping down to talk to her sister, raised her head, and
beheld—Horatio Sparkins!

‘We will draw a veil,’ as novel-writers say, over the scene that ensued.
The mysterious, philosophical, romantic, metaphysical Sparkins—he who, to
the interesting Teresa, seemed like the embodied idea of the young dukes
and poetical exquisites in blue silk dressing-gowns, and ditto ditto
slippers, of whom she had read and dreamed, but had never expected to
behold, was suddenly converted into Mr. Samuel Smith, the assistant at a
‘cheap shop;’ the junior partner in a slippery firm of some three weeks’
existence.  The dignified evanishment of the hero of Oak Lodge, on this
unexpected recognition, could only be equalled by that of a furtive dog
with a considerable kettle at his tail.  All the hopes of the Maldertons
were destined at once to melt away, like the lemon ices at a Company’s
dinner; Almack’s was still to them as distant as the North Pole; and Miss
Teresa had as much chance of a husband as Captain Ross had of the
north-west passage.

Years have elapsed since the occurrence of this dreadful morning.  The
daisies have thrice bloomed on Camberwell-green; the sparrows have thrice
repeated their vernal chirps in Camberwell-grove; but the Miss Maldertons
are still unmated.  Miss Teresa’s case is more desperate than ever; but
Flamwell is yet in the zenith of his reputation; and the family have the
same predilection for aristocratic personages, with an increased aversion
to anything _low_.



CHAPTER VI—THE BLACK VEIL


One winter’s evening, towards the close of the year 1800, or within a
year or two of that time, a young medical practitioner, recently
established in business, was seated by a cheerful fire in his little
parlour, listening to the wind which was beating the rain in pattering
drops against the window, or rumbling dismally in the chimney.  The night
was wet and cold; he had been walking through mud and water the whole
day, and was now comfortably reposing in his dressing-gown and slippers,
more than half asleep and less than half awake, revolving a thousand
matters in his wandering imagination.  First, he thought how hard the
wind was blowing, and how the cold, sharp rain would be at that moment
beating in his face, if he were not comfortably housed at home.  Then,
his mind reverted to his annual Christmas visit to his native place and
dearest friends; he thought how glad they would all be to see him, and
how happy it would make Rose if he could only tell her that he had found
a patient at last, and hoped to have more, and to come down again, in a
few months’ time, and marry her, and take her home to gladden his lonely
fireside, and stimulate him to fresh exertions.  Then, he began to wonder
when his first patient would appear, or whether he was destined, by a
special dispensation of Providence, never to have any patients at all;
and then, he thought about Rose again, and dropped to sleep and dreamed
about her, till the tones of her sweet merry voice sounded in his ears,
and her soft tiny hand rested on his shoulder.

There _was_ a hand upon his shoulder, but it was neither soft nor tiny;
its owner being a corpulent round-headed boy, who, in consideration of
the sum of one shilling per week and his food, was let out by the parish
to carry medicine and messages.  As there was no demand for the medicine,
however, and no necessity for the messages, he usually occupied his
unemployed hours—averaging fourteen a day—in abstracting peppermint
drops, taking animal nourishment, and going to sleep.

‘A lady, sir—a lady!’ whispered the boy, rousing his master with a shake.

‘What lady?’ cried our friend, starting up, not quite certain that his
dream was an illusion, and half expecting that it might be Rose
herself.—‘What lady?  Where?’

‘_There_, sir!’ replied the boy, pointing to the glass door leading into
the surgery, with an expression of alarm which the very unusual
apparition of a customer might have tended to excite.

The surgeon looked towards the door, and started himself, for an instant,
on beholding the appearance of his unlooked-for visitor.

It was a singularly tall woman, dressed in deep mourning, and standing so
close to the door that her face almost touched the glass.  The upper part
of her figure was carefully muffled in a black shawl, as if for the
purpose of concealment; and her face was shrouded by a thick black veil.
She stood perfectly erect, her figure was drawn up to its full height,
and though the surgeon felt that the eyes beneath the veil were fixed on
him, she stood perfectly motionless, and evinced, by no gesture whatever,
the slightest consciousness of his having turned towards her.

‘Do you wish to consult me?’ he inquired, with some hesitation, holding
open the door.  It opened inwards, and therefore the action did not alter
the position of the figure, which still remained motionless on the same
spot.

She slightly inclined her head, in token of acquiescence.

‘Pray walk in,’ said the surgeon.

The figure moved a step forward; and then, turning its head in the
direction of the boy—to his infinite horror—appeared to hesitate.

‘Leave the room, Tom,’ said the young man, addressing the boy, whose
large round eyes had been extended to their utmost width during this
brief interview.  ‘Draw the curtain, and shut the door.’

The boy drew a green curtain across the glass part of the door, retired
into the surgery, closed the door after him, and immediately applied one
of his large eyes to the keyhole on the other side.

The surgeon drew a chair to the fire, and motioned the visitor to a seat.
The mysterious figure slowly moved towards it.  As the blaze shone upon
the black dress, the surgeon observed that the bottom of it was saturated
with mud and rain.

‘You are very wet,’ be said.

‘I am,’ said the stranger, in a low deep voice.

‘And you are ill?’ added the surgeon, compassionately, for the tone was
that of a person in pain.

‘I am,’ was the reply—‘very ill; not bodily, but mentally.  It is not for
myself, or on my own behalf,’ continued the stranger, ‘that I come to
you.  If I laboured under bodily disease, I should not be out, alone, at
such an hour, or on such a night as this; and if I were afflicted with
it, twenty-four hours hence, God knows how gladly I would lie down and
pray to die.  It is for another that I beseech your aid, sir.  I may be
mad to ask it for him—I think I am; but, night after night, through the
long dreary hours of watching and weeping, the thought has been ever
present to my mind; and though even _I_ see the hopelessness of human
assistance availing him, the bare thought of laying him in his grave
without it makes my blood run cold!’  And a shudder, such as the surgeon
well knew art could not produce, trembled through the speaker’s frame.

There was a desperate earnestness in this woman’s manner, that went to
the young man’s heart.  He was young in his profession, and had not yet
witnessed enough of the miseries which are daily presented before the
eyes of its members, to have grown comparatively callous to human
suffering.

‘If,’ he said, rising hastily, ‘the person of whom you speak, be in so
hopeless a condition as you describe, not a moment is to be lost.  I will
go with you instantly.  Why did you not obtain medical advice before?’

‘Because it would have been useless before—because it is useless even
now,’ replied the woman, clasping her hands passionately.

The surgeon gazed, for a moment, on the black veil, as if to ascertain
the expression of the features beneath it: its thickness, however,
rendered such a result impossible.

‘You _are_ ill,’ he said, gently, ‘although you do not know it.  The
fever which has enabled you to bear, without feeling it, the fatigue you
have evidently undergone, is burning within you now.  Put that to your
lips,’ he continued, pouring out a glass of water—‘compose yourself for a
few moments, and then tell me, as calmly as you can, what the disease of
the patient is, and how long he has been ill.  When I know what it is
necessary I should know, to render my visit serviceable to him, I am
ready to accompany you.’

The stranger lifted the glass of water to her mouth, without raising the
veil; put it down again untasted; and burst into tears.

‘I know,’ she said, sobbing aloud, ‘that what I say to you now, seems
like the ravings of fever.  I have been told so before, less kindly than
by you.  I am not a young woman; and they do say, that as life steals on
towards its final close, the last short remnant, worthless as it may seem
to all beside, is dearer to its possessor than all the years that have
gone before, connected though they be with the recollection of old
friends long since dead, and young ones—children perhaps—who have fallen
off from, and forgotten one as completely as if they had died too.  My
natural term of life cannot be many years longer, and should be dear on
that account; but I would lay it down without a sigh—with
cheerfulness—with joy—if what I tell you now, were only false, or
imaginary.  To-morrow morning he of whom I speak will be, I _know_,
though I would fain think otherwise, beyond the reach of human aid; and
yet, to-night, though he is in deadly peril, you must not see, and could
not serve, him.’

‘I am unwilling to increase your distress,’ said the surgeon, after a
short pause, ‘by making any comment on what you have just said, or
appearing desirous to investigate a subject you are so anxious to
conceal; but there is an inconsistency in your statement which I cannot
reconcile with probability.  This person is dying to-night, and I cannot
see him when my assistance might possibly avail; you apprehend it will be
useless to-morrow, and yet you would have me see him then!  If he be,
indeed, as dear to you, as your words and manner would imply, why not try
to save his life before delay and the progress of his disease render it
impracticable?’

‘God help me!’ exclaimed the woman, weeping bitterly, ‘how can I hope
strangers will believe what appears incredible, even to myself?  You will
_not_ see him then, sir?’ she added, rising suddenly.

‘I did not say that I declined to see him,’ replied the surgeon; ‘but I
warn you, that if you persist in this extraordinary procrastination, and
the individual dies, a fearful responsibility rests with you.’

‘The responsibility will rest heavily somewhere,’ replied the stranger
bitterly.  ‘Whatever responsibility rests with me, I am content to bear,
and ready to answer.’

‘As I incur none,’ continued the surgeon, ‘by acceding to your request, I
will see him in the morning, if you leave me the address.  At what hour
can he be seen?’

‘_Nine_,’ replied the stranger.

‘You must excuse my pressing these inquiries,’ said the surgeon.  ‘But is
he in your charge now?’

‘He is not,’ was the rejoinder.

‘Then, if I gave you instructions for his treatment through the night,
you could not assist him?’

The woman wept bitterly, as she replied, ‘I could not.’

Finding that there was but little prospect of obtaining more information
by prolonging the interview; and anxious to spare the woman’s feelings,
which, subdued at first by a violent effort, were now irrepressible and
most painful to witness; the surgeon repeated his promise of calling in
the morning at the appointed hour.  His visitor, after giving him a
direction to an obscure part of Walworth, left the house in the same
mysterious manner in which she had entered it.

It will be readily believed that so extraordinary a visit produced a
considerable impression on the mind of the young surgeon; and that he
speculated a great deal and to very little purpose on the possible
circumstances of the case.  In common with the generality of people, he
had often heard and read of singular instances, in which a presentiment
of death, at a particular day, or even minute, had been entertained and
realised.  At one moment he was inclined to think that the present might
be such a case; but, then, it occurred to him that all the anecdotes of
the kind he had ever heard, were of persons who had been troubled with a
foreboding of their own death.  This woman, however, spoke of another
person—a man; and it was impossible to suppose that a mere dream or
delusion of fancy would induce her to speak of his approaching
dissolution with such terrible certainty as she had spoken.  It could not
be that the man was to be murdered in the morning, and that the woman,
originally a consenting party, and bound to secrecy by an oath, had
relented, and, though unable to prevent the commission of some outrage on
the victim, had determined to prevent his death if possible, by the
timely interposition of medical aid?  The idea of such things happening
within two miles of the metropolis appeared too wild and preposterous to
be entertained beyond the instant.  Then, his original impression that
the woman’s intellects were disordered, recurred; and, as it was the only
mode of solving the difficulty with any degree of satisfaction, he
obstinately made up his mind to believe that she was mad.  Certain
misgivings upon this point, however, stole upon his thoughts at the time,
and presented themselves again and again through the long dull course of
a sleepless night; during which, in spite of all his efforts to the
contrary, he was unable to banish the black veil from his disturbed
imagination.

The back part of Walworth, at its greatest distance from town, is a
straggling miserable place enough, even in these days; but,
five-and-thirty years ago, the greater portion of it was little better
than a dreary waste, inhabited by a few scattered people of questionable
character, whose poverty prevented their living in any better
neighbourhood, or whose pursuits and mode of life rendered its solitude
desirable.  Very many of the houses which have since sprung up on all
sides, were not built until some years afterwards; and the great majority
even of those which were sprinkled about, at irregular intervals, were of
the rudest and most miserable description.

The appearance of the place through which he walked in the morning, was
not calculated to raise the spirits of the young surgeon, or to dispel
any feeling of anxiety or depression which the singular kind of visit he
was about to make, had awakened.  Striking off from the high road, his
way lay across a marshy common, through irregular lanes, with here and
there a ruinous and dismantled cottage fast falling to pieces with decay
and neglect.  A stunted tree, or pool of stagnant water, roused into a
sluggish action by the heavy rain of the preceding night, skirted the
path occasionally; and, now and then, a miserable patch of garden-ground,
with a few old boards knocked together for a summer-house, and old
palings imperfectly mended with stakes pilfered from the neighbouring
hedges, bore testimony, at once to the poverty of the inhabitants, and
the little scruple they entertained in appropriating the property of
other people to their own use.  Occasionally, a filthy-looking woman
would make her appearance from the door of a dirty house, to empty the
contents of some cooking utensil into the gutter in front, or to scream
after a little slip-shod girl, who had contrived to stagger a few yards
from the door under the weight of a sallow infant almost as big as
herself; but, scarcely anything was stirring around: and so much of the
prospect as could be faintly traced through the cold damp mist which hung
heavily over it, presented a lonely and dreary appearance perfectly in
keeping with the objects we have described.

After plodding wearily through the mud and mire; making many inquiries
for the place to which he had been directed; and receiving as many
contradictory and unsatisfactory replies in return; the young man at
length arrived before the house which had been pointed out to him as the
object of his destination.  It was a small low building, one story above
the ground, with even a more desolate and unpromising exterior than any
he had yet passed.  An old yellow curtain was closely drawn across the
window up-stairs, and the parlour shutters were closed, but not fastened.
The house was detached from any other, and, as it stood at an angle of a
narrow lane, there was no other habitation in sight.

When we say that the surgeon hesitated, and walked a few paces beyond the
house, before he could prevail upon himself to lift the knocker, we say
nothing that need raise a smile upon the face of the boldest reader.  The
police of London were a very different body in that day; the isolated
position of the suburbs, when the rage for building and the progress of
improvement had not yet begun to connect them with the main body of the
city and its environs, rendered many of them (and this in particular) a
place of resort for the worst and most depraved characters.  Even the
streets in the gayest parts of London were imperfectly lighted, at that
time; and such places as these, were left entirely to the mercy of the
moon and stars.  The chances of detecting desperate characters, or of
tracing them to their haunts, were thus rendered very few, and their
offences naturally increased in boldness, as the consciousness of
comparative security became the more impressed upon them by daily
experience.  Added to these considerations, it must be remembered that
the young man had spent some time in the public hospitals of the
metropolis; and, although neither Burke nor Bishop had then gained a
horrible notoriety, his own observation might have suggested to him how
easily the atrocities to which the former has since given his name, might
be committed.  Be this as it may, whatever reflection made him hesitate,
he _did_ hesitate: but, being a young man of strong mind and great
personal courage, it was only for an instant;—he stepped briskly back and
knocked gently at the door.

A low whispering was audible, immediately afterwards, as if some person
at the end of the passage were conversing stealthily with another on the
landing above.  It was succeeded by the noise of a pair of heavy boots
upon the bare floor.  The door-chain was softly unfastened; the door
opened; and a tall, ill-favoured man, with black hair, and a face, as the
surgeon often declared afterwards, as pale and haggard, as the
countenance of any dead man he ever saw, presented himself.

‘Walk in, sir,’ he said in a low tone.

The surgeon did so, and the man having secured the door again, by the
chain, led the way to a small back parlour at the extremity of the
passage.

‘Am I in time?’

‘Too soon!’ replied the man.  The surgeon turned hastily round, with a
gesture of astonishment not unmixed with alarm, which he found it
impossible to repress.

‘If you’ll step in here, sir,’ said the man, who had evidently noticed
the action—‘if you’ll step in here, sir, you won’t be detained five
minutes, I assure you.’

The surgeon at once walked into the room.  The man closed the door, and
left him alone.

It was a little cold room, with no other furniture than two deal chairs,
and a table of the same material.  A handful of fire, unguarded by any
fender, was burning in the grate, which brought out the damp if it served
no more comfortable purpose, for the unwholesome moisture was stealing
down the walls, in long slug-like tracks.  The window, which was broken
and patched in many places, looked into a small enclosed piece of ground,
almost covered with water.  Not a sound was to be heard, either within
the house, or without.  The young surgeon sat down by the fireplace, to
await the result of his first professional visit.

He had not remained in this position many minutes, when the noise of some
approaching vehicle struck his ear.  It stopped; the street-door was
opened; a low talking succeeded, accompanied with a shuffling noise of
footsteps, along the passage and on the stairs, as if two or three men
were engaged in carrying some heavy body to the room above.  The creaking
of the stairs, a few seconds afterwards, announced that the new-comers
having completed their task, whatever it was, were leaving the house.
The door was again closed, and the former silence was restored.

Another five minutes had elapsed, and the surgeon had resolved to explore
the house, in search of some one to whom he might make his errand known,
when the room-door opened, and his last night’s visitor, dressed in
exactly the same manner, with the veil lowered as before, motioned him to
advance.  The singular height of her form, coupled with the circumstance
of her not speaking, caused the idea to pass across his brain for an
instant, that it might be a man disguised in woman’s attire.  The
hysteric sobs which issued from beneath the veil, and the convulsive
attitude of grief of the whole figure, however, at once exposed the
absurdity of the suspicion; and he hastily followed.

The woman led the way up-stairs to the front room, and paused at the
door, to let him enter first.  It was scantily furnished with an old deal
box, a few chairs, and a tent bedstead, without hangings or cross-rails,
which was covered with a patchwork counterpane.  The dim light admitted
through the curtain which he had noticed from the outside, rendered the
objects in the room so indistinct, and communicated to all of them so
uniform a hue, that he did not, at first, perceive the object on which
his eye at once rested when the woman rushed frantically past him, and
flung herself on her knees by the bedside.

Stretched upon the bed, closely enveloped in a linen wrapper, and covered
with blankets, lay a human form, stiff and motionless.  The head and
face, which were those of a man, were uncovered, save by a bandage which
passed over the head and under the chin.  The eyes were closed.  The left
arm lay heavily across the bed, and the woman held the passive hand.

The surgeon gently pushed the woman aside, and took the hand in his.

‘My God!’ he exclaimed, letting it fall involuntarily—‘the man is dead!’

The woman started to her feet and beat her hands together.

‘Oh! don’t say so, sir,’ she exclaimed, with a burst of passion,
amounting almost to frenzy.  ‘Oh! don’t say so, sir!  I can’t bear it!
Men have been brought to life, before, when unskilful people have given
them up for lost; and men have died, who might have been restored, if
proper means had been resorted to.  Don’t let him lie here, sir, without
one effort to save him!  This very moment life may be passing away.  Do
try, sir,—do, for Heaven’s sake!’—And while speaking, she hurriedly
chafed, first the forehead, and then the breast, of the senseless form
before her; and then, wildly beat the cold hands, which, when she ceased
to hold them, fell listlessly and heavily back on the coverlet.

‘It is of no use, my good woman,’ said the surgeon, soothingly, as he
withdrew his hand from the man’s breast.  ‘Stay—undraw that curtain!’

‘Why?’ said the woman, starting up.

‘Undraw that curtain!’ repeated the surgeon in an agitated tone.

‘I darkened the room on purpose,’ said the woman, throwing herself before
him as he rose to undraw it.—‘Oh! sir, have pity on me!  If it can be of
no use, and he is really dead, do not expose that form to other eyes than
mine!’

‘This man died no natural or easy death,’ said the surgeon.  ‘I _must_
see the body!’  With a motion so sudden, that the woman hardly knew that
he had slipped from beside her, he tore open the curtain, admitted the
full light of day, and returned to the bedside.

‘There has been violence here,’ he said, pointing towards the body, and
gazing intently on the face, from which the black veil was now, for the
first time, removed.  In the excitement of a minute before, the female
had thrown off the bonnet and veil, and now stood with her eyes fixed
upon him.  Her features were those of a woman about fifty, who had once
been handsome.  Sorrow and weeping had left traces upon them which not
time itself would ever have produced without their aid; her face was
deadly pale; and there was a nervous contortion of the lip, and an
unnatural fire in her eye, which showed too plainly that her bodily and
mental powers had nearly sunk, beneath an accumulation of misery.

‘There has been violence here,’ said the surgeon, preserving his
searching glance.

‘There has!’ replied the woman.

‘This man has been murdered.’

‘That I call God to witness he has,’ said the woman, passionately;
‘pitilessly, inhumanly murdered!’

‘By whom?’ said the surgeon, seizing the woman by the arm.

‘Look at the butchers’ marks, and then ask me!’ she replied.

The surgeon turned his face towards the bed, and bent over the body which
now lay full in the light of the window.  The throat was swollen, and a
livid mark encircled it.  The truth flashed suddenly upon him.

‘This is one of the men who were hanged this morning!’ he exclaimed,
turning away with a shudder.

‘It is,’ replied the woman, with a cold, unmeaning stare.

‘Who was he?’ inquired the surgeon.

‘_My son_,’ rejoined the woman; and fell senseless at his feet.

It was true.  A companion, equally guilty with himself, had been
acquitted for want of evidence; and this man had been left for death, and
executed.  To recount the circumstances of the case, at this distant
period, must be unnecessary, and might give pain to some persons still
alive.  The history was an every-day one.  The mother was a widow without
friends or money, and had denied herself necessaries to bestow them on
her orphan boy.  That boy, unmindful of her prayers, and forgetful of the
sufferings she had endured for him—incessant anxiety of mind, and
voluntary starvation of body—had plunged into a career of dissipation and
crime.  And this was the result; his own death by the hangman’s hands,
and his mother’s shame, and incurable insanity.

For many years after this occurrence, and when profitable and arduous
avocations would have led many men to forget that such a miserable being
existed, the young surgeon was a daily visitor at the side of the
harmless mad woman; not only soothing her by his presence and kindness,
but alleviating the rigour of her condition by pecuniary donations for
her comfort and support, bestowed with no sparing hand.  In the transient
gleam of recollection and consciousness which preceded her death, a
prayer for his welfare and protection, as fervent as mortal ever
breathed, rose from the lips of this poor friendless creature.  That
prayer flew to Heaven, and was heard.  The blessings he was instrumental
in conferring, have been repaid to him a thousand-fold; but, amid all the
honours of rank and station which have since been heaped upon him, and
which he has so well earned, he can have no reminiscence more gratifying
to his heart than that connected with The Black Veil.



CHAPTER VII—THE STEAM EXCURSION


Mr. Percy Noakes was a law student, inhabiting a set of chambers on the
fourth floor, in one of those houses in Gray’s-inn-square which command
an extensive view of the gardens, and their usual adjuncts—flaunting
nursery-maids, and town-made children, with parenthetical legs.  Mr.
Percy Noakes was what is generally termed—‘a devilish good fellow.’  He
had a large circle of acquaintance, and seldom dined at his own expense.
He used to talk politics to papas, flatter the vanity of mammas, do the
amiable to their daughters, make pleasure engagements with their sons,
and romp with the younger branches.  Like those paragons of perfection,
advertising footmen out of place, he was always ‘willing to make himself
generally useful.’  If any old lady, whose son was in India, gave a ball,
Mr. Percy Noakes was master of the ceremonies; if any young lady made a
stolen match, Mr. Percy Noakes gave her away; if a juvenile wife
presented her husband with a blooming cherub, Mr. Percy Noakes was either
godfather, or deputy-godfather; and if any member of a friend’s family
died, Mr. Percy Noakes was invariably to be seen in the second mourning
coach, with a white handkerchief to his eyes, sobbing—to use his own
appropriate and expressive description—‘like winkin’!’

It may readily be imagined that these numerous avocations were rather
calculated to interfere with Mr. Percy Noakes’s professional studies.
Mr. Percy Noakes was perfectly aware of the fact, and had, therefore,
after mature reflection, made up his mind not to study at all—a laudable
determination, to which he adhered in the most praiseworthy manner.  His
sitting-room presented a strange chaos of dress-gloves, boxing-gloves,
caricatures, albums, invitation-cards, foils, cricket-bats, cardboard
drawings, paste, gum, and fifty other miscellaneous articles, heaped
together in the strangest confusion.  He was always making something for
somebody, or planning some party of pleasure, which was his great
_forte_.  He invariably spoke with astonishing rapidity; was smart,
spoffish, and eight-and-twenty.

‘Splendid idea, ’pon my life!’ soliloquised Mr. Percy Noakes, over his
morning coffee, as his mind reverted to a suggestion which had been
thrown out on the previous night, by a lady at whose house he had spent
the evening.  ‘Glorious idea!—Mrs. Stubbs.’

‘Yes, sir,’ replied a dirty old woman with an inflamed countenance,
emerging from the bedroom, with a barrel of dirt and cinders.—This was
the laundress.  ‘Did you call, sir?’

‘Oh!  Mrs. Stubbs, I’m going out.  If that tailor should call again,
you’d better say—you’d better say I’m out of town, and shan’t be back for
a fortnight; and if that bootmaker should come, tell him I’ve lost his
address, or I’d have sent him that little amount.  Mind he writes it
down; and if Mr. Hardy should call—you know Mr. Hardy?’

‘The funny gentleman, sir?’

‘Ah! the funny gentleman.  If Mr. Hardy should call, say I’ve gone to
Mrs. Taunton’s about that water-party.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And if any fellow calls, and says he’s come about a steamer, tell him to
be here at five o’clock this afternoon, Mrs. Stubbs.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Mr. Percy Noakes brushed his hat, whisked the crumbs off his
inexpressibles with a silk handkerchief, gave the ends of his hair a
persuasive roll round his forefinger, and sallied forth for Mrs.
Taunton’s domicile in Great Marlborough-street, where she and her
daughters occupied the upper part of a house.  She was a good-looking
widow of fifty, with the form of a giantess and the mind of a child.  The
pursuit of pleasure, and some means of killing time, were the sole end of
her existence.  She doted on her daughters, who were as frivolous as
herself.

A general exclamation of satisfaction hailed the arrival of Mr. Percy
Noakes, who went through the ordinary salutations, and threw himself into
an easy chair near the ladies’ work-table, with the ease of a regularly
established friend of the family.  Mrs. Taunton was busily engaged in
planting immense bright bows on every part of a smart cap on which it was
possible to stick one; Miss Emily Taunton was making a watch-guard; Miss
Sophia was at the piano, practising a new song—poetry by the young
officer, or the police-officer, or the custom-house officer, or some
other interesting amateur.

‘You good creature!’ said Mrs. Taunton, addressing the gallant Percy.
‘You really are a good soul!  You’ve come about the water-party, I know.’

‘I should rather suspect I had,’ replied Mr. Noakes, triumphantly.  ‘Now,
come here, girls, and I’ll tell you all about it.’  Miss Emily and Miss
Sophia advanced to the table.

‘Now,’ continued Mr. Percy Noakes, ‘it seems to me that the best way will
be, to have a committee of ten, to make all the arrangements, and manage
the whole set-out.  Then, I propose that the expenses shall be paid by
these ten fellows jointly.’

‘Excellent, indeed!’ said Mrs. Taunton, who highly approved of this part
of the arrangements.

‘Then, my plan is, that each of these ten fellows shall have the power of
asking five people.  There must be a meeting of the committee, at my
chambers, to make all the arrangements, and these people shall be then
named; every member of the committee shall have the power of
black-balling any one who is proposed; and one black ball shall exclude
that person.  This will ensure our having a pleasant party, you know.’

‘What a manager you are!’ interrupted Mrs. Taunton again.

‘Charming!’ said the lovely Emily.

‘I never did!’ ejaculated Sophia.

‘Yes, I think it’ll do,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who was now quite in
his element.  ‘I think it’ll do.  Then you know we shall go down to the
Nore, and back, and have a regular capital cold dinner laid out in the
cabin before we start, so that everything may be ready without any
confusion; and we shall have the lunch laid out, on deck, in those little
tea-garden-looking concerns by the paddle-boxes—I don’t know what you
call ’em.  Then, we shall hire a steamer expressly for our party, and a
band, and have the deck chalked, and we shall be able to dance quadrilles
all day; and then, whoever we know that’s musical, you know, why they’ll
make themselves useful and agreeable; and—and—upon the whole, I really
hope we shall have a glorious day, you know!’

The announcement of these arrangements was received with the utmost
enthusiasm.  Mrs. Taunton, Emily, and Sophia, were loud in their praises.

‘Well, but tell me, Percy,’ said Mrs. Taunton, ‘who are the ten gentlemen
to be?’

‘Oh!  I know plenty of fellows who’ll be delighted with the scheme,’
replied Mr. Percy Noakes; ‘of course we shall have—’

‘Mr. Hardy!’ interrupted the servant, announcing a visitor.  Miss Sophia
and Miss Emily hastily assumed the most interesting attitudes that could
be adopted on so short a notice.

‘How are you?’ said a stout gentleman of about forty, pausing at the door
in the attitude of an awkward harlequin.  This was Mr. Hardy, whom we
have before described, on the authority of Mrs. Stubbs, as ‘the funny
gentleman.’  He was an Astley-Cooperish Joe Miller—a practical joker,
immensely popular with married ladies, and a general favourite with young
men.  He was always engaged in some pleasure excursion or other, and
delighted in getting somebody into a scrape on such occasions.  He could
sing comic songs, imitate hackney-coachmen and fowls, play airs on his
chin, and execute concertos on the Jews’-harp.  He always eat and drank
most immoderately, and was the bosom friend of Mr. Percy Noakes.  He had
a red face, a somewhat husky voice, and a tremendous laugh.

‘How _are_ you?’ said this worthy, laughing, as if it were the finest
joke in the world to make a morning call, and shaking hands with the
ladies with as much vehemence as if their arms had been so many
pump-handles.

‘You’re just the very man I wanted,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, who proceeded
to explain the cause of his being in requisition.

‘Ha! ha! ha!’ shouted Hardy, after hearing the statement, and receiving a
detailed account of the proposed excursion.  ‘Oh, capital! glorious!
What a day it will be! what fun!—But, I say, when are you going to begin
making the arrangements?’

‘No time like the present—at once, if you please.’

‘Oh, charming!’ cried the ladies.  ‘Pray, do!’

Writing materials were laid before Mr. Percy Noakes, and the names of the
different members of the committee were agreed on, after as much
discussion between him and Mr. Hardy as if the fate of nations had
depended on their appointment.  It was then agreed that a meeting should
take place at Mr. Percy Noakes’s chambers on the ensuing Wednesday
evening at eight o’clock, and the visitors departed.

Wednesday evening arrived; eight o’clock came, and eight members of the
committee were punctual in their attendance.  Mr. Loggins, the solicitor,
of Boswell-court, sent an excuse, and Mr. Samuel Briggs, the ditto of
Furnival’s Inn, sent his brother: much to his (the brother’s)
satisfaction, and greatly to the discomfiture of Mr. Percy Noakes.
Between the Briggses and the Tauntons there existed a degree of
implacable hatred, quite unprecedented.  The animosity between the
Montagues and Capulets, was nothing to that which prevailed between these
two illustrious houses.  Mrs. Briggs was a widow, with three daughters
and two sons; Mr. Samuel, the eldest, was an attorney, and Mr. Alexander,
the youngest, was under articles to his brother.  They resided in
Portland-street, Oxford-street, and moved in the same orbit as the
Tauntons—hence their mutual dislike.  If the Miss Briggses appeared in
smart bonnets, the Miss Tauntons eclipsed them with smarter.  If Mrs.
Taunton appeared in a cap of all the hues of the rainbow, Mrs. Briggs
forthwith mounted a toque, with all the patterns of the kaleidoscope.  If
Miss Sophia Taunton learnt a new song, two of the Miss Briggses came out
with a new duet.  The Tauntons had once gained a temporary triumph with
the assistance of a harp, but the Briggses brought three guitars into the
field, and effectually routed the enemy.  There was no end to the rivalry
between them.

Now, as Mr. Samuel Briggs was a mere machine, a sort of self-acting legal
walking-stick; and as the party was known to have originated, however
remotely, with Mrs. Taunton, the female branches of the Briggs family had
arranged that Mr. Alexander should attend, instead of his brother; and as
the said Mr. Alexander was deservedly celebrated for possessing all the
pertinacity of a bankruptcy-court attorney, combined with the obstinacy
of that useful animal which browses on the thistle, he required but
little tuition.  He was especially enjoined to make himself as
disagreeable as possible; and, above all, to black-ball the Tauntons at
every hazard.

The proceedings of the evening were opened by Mr. Percy Noakes.  After
successfully urging on the gentlemen present the propriety of their
mixing some brandy-and-water, he briefly stated the object of the
meeting, and concluded by observing that the first step must be the
selection of a chairman, necessarily possessing some arbitrary—he trusted
not unconstitutional—powers, to whom the personal direction of the whole
of the arrangements (subject to the approval of the committee) should be
confided.  A pale young gentleman, in a green stock and spectacles of the
same, a member of the honourable society of the Inner Temple, immediately
rose for the purpose of proposing Mr. Percy Noakes.  He had known him
long, and this he would say, that a more honourable, a more excellent, or
a better-hearted fellow, never existed.—(Hear, hear!)  The young
gentleman, who was a member of a debating society, took this opportunity
of entering into an examination of the state of the English law, from the
days of William the Conqueror down to the present period; he briefly
adverted to the code established by the ancient Druids; slightly glanced
at the principles laid down by the Athenian law-givers; and concluded
with a most glowing eulogium on pic-nics and constitutional rights.

Mr. Alexander Briggs opposed the motion.  He had the highest esteem for
Mr. Percy Noakes as an individual, but he did consider that he ought not
to be intrusted with these immense powers—(oh, oh!)—He believed that in
the proposed capacity Mr. Percy Noakes would not act fairly, impartially,
or honourably; but he begged it to be distinctly understood, that he said
this, without the slightest personal disrespect.  Mr. Hardy defended his
honourable friend, in a voice rendered partially unintelligible by
emotion and brandy-and-water.  The proposition was put to the vote, and
there appearing to be only one dissentient voice, Mr. Percy Noakes was
declared duly elected, and took the chair accordingly.

The business of the meeting now proceeded with rapidity.  The chairman
delivered in his estimate of the probable expense of the excursion, and
every one present subscribed his portion thereof.  The question was put
that ‘The Endeavour’ be hired for the occasion; Mr. Alexander Briggs
moved as an amendment, that the word ‘Fly’ be substituted for the word
‘Endeavour’; but after some debate consented to withdraw his opposition.
The important ceremony of balloting then commenced.  A tea-caddy was
placed on a table in a dark corner of the apartment, and every one was
provided with two backgammon men, one black and one white.

The chairman with great solemnity then read the following list of the
guests whom he proposed to introduce:—Mrs. Taunton and two daughters, Mr.
Wizzle, Mr. Simson.  The names were respectively balloted for, and Mrs.
Taunton and her daughters were declared to be black-balled.  Mr. Percy
Noakes and Mr. Hardy exchanged glances.

‘Is your list prepared, Mr. Briggs?’ inquired the chairman.

‘It is,’ replied Alexander, delivering in the following:—‘Mrs. Briggs and
three daughters, Mr. Samuel Briggs.’  The previous ceremony was repeated,
and Mrs. Briggs and three daughters were declared to be black-balled.
Mr. Alexander Briggs looked rather foolish, and the remainder of the
company appeared somewhat overawed by the mysterious nature of the
proceedings.

The balloting proceeded; but, one little circumstance which Mr. Percy
Noakes had not originally foreseen, prevented the system from working
quite as well as he had anticipated.  Everybody was black-balled.  Mr.
Alexander Briggs, by way of retaliation, exercised his power of exclusion
in every instance, and the result was, that after three hours had been
consumed in hard balloting, the names of only three gentlemen were found
to have been agreed to.  In this dilemma what was to be done? either the
whole plan must fall to the ground, or a compromise must be effected.
The latter alternative was preferable; and Mr. Percy Noakes therefore
proposed that the form of balloting should be dispensed with, and that
every gentleman should merely be required to state whom he intended to
bring.  The proposal was acceded to; the Tauntons and the Briggses were
reinstated; and the party was formed.

The next Wednesday was fixed for the eventful day, and it was unanimously
resolved that every member of the committee should wear a piece of blue
sarsenet ribbon round his left arm.  It appeared from the statement of
Mr. Percy Noakes, that the boat belonged to the General Steam Navigation
Company, and was then lying off the Custom-house; and, as he proposed
that the dinner and wines should be provided by an eminent city purveyor,
it was arranged that Mr. Percy Noakes should be on board by seven o’clock
to superintend the arrangements, and that the remaining members of the
committee, together with the company generally, should be expected to
join her by nine o’clock.  More brandy-and-water was despatched; several
speeches were made by the different law students present; thanks were
voted to the chairman; and the meeting separated.

The weather had been beautiful up to this period, and beautiful it
continued to be.  Sunday passed over, and Mr. Percy Noakes became
unusually fidgety—rushing, constantly, to and from the Steam Packet
Wharf, to the astonishment of the clerks, and the great emolument of the
Holborn cabmen.  Tuesday arrived, and the anxiety of Mr. Percy Noakes
knew no bounds.  He was every instant running to the window, to look out
for clouds; and Mr. Hardy astonished the whole square by practising a new
comic song for the occasion, in the chairman’s chambers.

Uneasy were the slumbers of Mr. Percy Noakes that night; he tossed and
tumbled about, and had confused dreams of steamers starting off, and
gigantic clocks with the hands pointing to a quarter-past nine, and the
ugly face of Mr. Alexander Briggs looking over the boat’s side, and
grinning, as if in derision of his fruitless attempts to move.  He made a
violent effort to get on board, and awoke.  The bright sun was shining
cheerfully into the bedroom, and Mr. Percy Noakes started up for his
watch, in the dreadful expectation of finding his worst dreams realised.

It was just five o’clock.  He calculated the time—he should be a good
half-hour dressing himself; and as it was a lovely morning, and the tide
would be then running down, he would walk leisurely to Strand-lane, and
have a boat to the Custom-house.

He dressed himself, took a hasty apology for a breakfast, and sallied
forth.  The streets looked as lonely and deserted as if they had been
crowded, overnight, for the last time.  Here and there, an early
apprentice, with quenched-looking sleepy eyes, was taking down the
shutters of a shop; and a policeman or milkwoman might occasionally be
seen pacing slowly along; but the servants had not yet begun to clean the
doors, or light the kitchen fires, and London looked the picture of
desolation.  At the corner of a by-street, near Temple-bar, was stationed
a ‘street-breakfast.’  The coffee was boiling over a charcoal fire, and
large slices of bread and butter were piled one upon the other, like
deals in a timber-yard.  The company were seated on a form, which, with a
view both to security and comfort, was placed against a neighbouring
wall.  Two young men, whose uproarious mirth and disordered dress bespoke
the conviviality of the preceding evening, were treating three ‘ladies’
and an Irish labourer.  A little sweep was standing at a short distance,
casting a longing eye at the tempting delicacies; and a policeman was
watching the group from the opposite side of the street.  The wan looks
and gaudy finery of the thinly-clad women contrasted as strangely with
the gay sunlight, as did their forced merriment with the boisterous
hilarity of the two young men, who, now and then, varied their amusements
by ‘bonneting’ the proprietor of this itinerant coffee-house.

Mr. Percy Noakes walked briskly by, and when he turned down Strand-lane,
and caught a glimpse of the glistening water, he thought he had never
felt so important or so happy in his life.

‘Boat, sir?’ cried one of the three watermen who were mopping out their
boats, and all whistling.  ‘Boat, sir?’

‘No,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, rather sharply; for the inquiry was not
made in a manner at all suitable to his dignity.

‘Would you prefer a wessel, sir?’ inquired another, to the infinite
delight of the ‘Jack-in-the-water.’

Mr. Percy Noakes replied with a look of supreme contempt.

‘Did you want to be put on board a steamer, sir?’ inquired an old
fireman-waterman, very confidentially.  He was dressed in a faded red
suit, just the colour of the cover of a very old Court-guide.

‘Yes, make haste—the Endeavour—off the Custom-house.’

‘Endeavour!’ cried the man who had convulsed the ‘Jack’ before.  ‘Vy, I
see the Endeavour go up half an hour ago.’

‘So did I,’ said another; ‘and I should think she’d gone down by this
time, for she’s a precious sight too full of ladies and gen’lemen.’

Mr. Percy Noakes affected to disregard these representations, and stepped
into the boat, which the old man, by dint of scrambling, and shoving, and
grating, had brought up to the causeway.  ‘Shove her off!’ cried Mr.
Percy Noakes, and away the boat glided down the river; Mr. Percy Noakes
seated on the recently mopped seat, and the watermen at the stairs
offering to bet him any reasonable sum that he’d never reach the
‘Custum-us.’

‘Here she is, by Jove!’ said the delighted Percy, as they ran alongside
the Endeavour.

‘Hold hard!’ cried the steward over the side, and Mr. Percy Noakes jumped
on board.

‘Hope you will find everything as you wished, sir.  She looks uncommon
well this morning.’

‘She does, indeed,’ replied the manager, in a state of ecstasy which it
is impossible to describe.  The deck was scrubbed, and the seats were
scrubbed, and there was a bench for the band, and a place for dancing,
and a pile of camp-stools, and an awning; and then Mr. Percy Noakes
bustled down below, and there were the pastrycook’s men, and the
steward’s wife, laying out the dinner on two tables the whole length of
the cabin; and then Mr. Percy Noakes took off his coat and rushed
backwards and forwards, doing nothing, but quite convinced he was
assisting everybody; and the steward’s wife laughed till she cried, and
Mr. Percy Noakes panted with the violence of his exertions.  And then the
bell at London-bridge wharf rang; and a Margate boat was just starting;
and a Gravesend boat was just starting, and people shouted, and porters
ran down the steps with luggage that would crush any men but porters; and
sloping boards, with bits of wood nailed on them, were placed between the
outside boat and the inside boat; and the passengers ran along them, and
looked like so many fowls coming out of an area; and then, the bell
ceased, and the boards were taken away, and the boats started, and the
whole scene was one of the most delightful bustle and confusion.

The time wore on; half-past eight o’clock arrived; the pastry-cook’s men
went ashore; the dinner was completely laid out; and Mr. Percy Noakes
locked the principal cabin, and put the key in his pocket, in order that
it might be suddenly disclosed, in all its magnificence, to the eyes of
the astonished company.  The band came on board, and so did the wine.

Ten minutes to nine, and the committee embarked in a body.  There was Mr.
Hardy, in a blue jacket and waistcoat, white trousers, silk stockings,
and pumps—in full aquatic costume, with a straw hat on his head, and an
immense telescope under his arm; and there was the young gentleman with
the green spectacles, in nankeen inexplicables, with a ditto waistcoat
and bright buttons, like the pictures of Paul—not the saint, but he of
Virginia notoriety.  The remainder of the committee, dressed in white
hats, light jackets, waistcoats, and trousers, looked something between
waiters and West India planters.

Nine o’clock struck, and the company arrived in shoals.  Mr. Samuel
Briggs, Mrs. Briggs, and the Misses Briggs, made their appearance in a
smart private wherry.  The three guitars, in their respective dark green
cases, were carefully stowed away in the bottom of the boat, accompanied
by two immense portfolios of music, which it would take at least a week’s
incessant playing to get through.  The Tauntons arrived at the same
moment with more music, and a lion—a gentleman with a bass voice and an
incipient red moustache.  The colours of the Taunton party were pink;
those of the Briggses a light blue.  The Tauntons had artificial flowers
in their bonnets; here the Briggses gained a decided advantage—they wore
feathers.

‘How d’ye do, dear?’ said the Misses Briggs to the Misses Taunton.  (The
word ‘dear’ among girls is frequently synonymous with ‘wretch.’)

‘Quite well, thank you, dear,’ replied the Misses Taunton to the Misses
Briggs; and then, there was such a kissing, and congratulating, and
shaking of hands, as might have induced one to suppose that the two
families were the best friends in the world, instead of each wishing the
other overboard, as they most sincerely did.

Mr. Percy Noakes received the visitors, and bowed to the strange
gentleman, as if he should like to know who he was.  This was just what
Mrs. Taunton wanted.  Here was an opportunity to astonish the Briggses.

‘Oh!  I beg your pardon,’ said the general of the Taunton party, with a
careless air.—‘Captain Helves—Mr. Percy Noakes—Mrs. Briggs—Captain
Helves.’

Mr. Percy Noakes bowed very low; the gallant captain did the same with
all due ferocity, and the Briggses were clearly overcome.

‘Our friend, Mr. Wizzle, being unfortunately prevented from coming,’
resumed Mrs. Taunton, ‘I did myself the pleasure of bringing the captain,
whose musical talents I knew would be a great acquisition.’

‘In the name of the committee I have to thank you for doing so, and to
offer you welcome, sir,’ replied Percy.  (Here the scraping was renewed.)
‘But pray be seated—won’t you walk aft?  Captain, will you conduct Miss
Taunton?—Miss Briggs, will you allow me?’

‘Where could they have picked up that military man?’ inquired Mrs. Briggs
of Miss Kate Briggs, as they followed the little party.

‘I can’t imagine,’ replied Miss Kate, bursting with vexation; for the
very fierce air with which the gallant captain regarded the company, had
impressed her with a high sense of his importance.

Boat after boat came alongside, and guest after guest arrived.  The
invites had been excellently arranged: Mr. Percy Noakes having considered
it as important that the number of young men should exactly tally with
that of the young ladies, as that the quantity of knives on board should
be in precise proportion to the forks.

‘Now, is every one on board?’ inquired Mr. Percy Noakes.  The committee
(who, with their bits of blue ribbon, looked as if they were all going to
be bled) bustled about to ascertain the fact, and reported that they
might safely start.

‘Go on!’ cried the master of the boat from the top of one of the
paddle-boxes.

‘Go on!’ echoed the boy, who was stationed over the hatchway to pass the
directions down to the engineer; and away went the vessel with that
agreeable noise which is peculiar to steamers, and which is composed of a
mixture of creaking, gushing, clanging, and snorting.

‘Hoi-oi-oi-oi-oi-oi-o-i-i-i!’ shouted half-a-dozen voices from a boat, a
quarter of a mile astern.

‘Ease her!’ cried the captain: ‘do these people belong to us, sir?’

‘Noakes,’ exclaimed Hardy, who had been looking at every object far and
near, through the large telescope, ‘it’s the Fleetwoods and the
Wakefields—and two children with them, by Jove!’

‘What a shame to bring children!’ said everybody; ‘how very
inconsiderate!’

‘I say, it would be a good joke to pretend not to see ’em, wouldn’t it?’
suggested Hardy, to the immense delight of the company generally.  A
council of war was hastily held, and it was resolved that the newcomers
should be taken on board, on Mr. Hardy solemnly pledging himself to tease
the children during the whole of the day.

‘Stop her!’ cried the captain.

‘Stop her!’ repeated the boy; whizz went the steam, and all the young
ladies, as in duty bound, screamed in concert.  They were only appeased
by the assurance of the martial Helves, that the escape of steam
consequent on stopping a vessel was seldom attended with any great loss
of human life.

Two men ran to the side; and after some shouting, and swearing, and
angling for the wherry with a boat-hook, Mr. Fleetwood, and Mrs.
Fleetwood, and Master Fleetwood, and Mr. Wakefield, and Mrs. Wakefield,
and Miss Wakefield, were safely deposited on the deck.  The girl was
about six years old, the boy about four; the former was dressed in a
white frock with a pink sash and dog’s-eared-looking little spencer: a
straw bonnet and green veil, six inches by three and a half; the latter,
was attired for the occasion in a nankeen frock, between the bottom of
which, and the top of his plaid socks, a considerable portion of two
small mottled legs was discernible.  He had a light blue cap with a gold
band and tassel on his head, and a damp piece of gingerbread in his hand,
with which he had slightly embossed his countenance.

The boat once more started off; the band played ‘Off she goes:’ the major
part of the company conversed cheerfully in groups; and the old gentlemen
walked up and down the deck in pairs, as perseveringly and gravely as if
they were doing a match against time for an immense stake.  They ran
briskly down the Pool; the gentlemen pointed out the Docks, the Thames
Police-office, and other elegant public edifices; and the young ladies
exhibited a proper display of horror at the appearance of the
coal-whippers and ballast-heavers.  Mr. Hardy told stories to the married
ladies, at which they laughed very much in their pocket-handkerchiefs,
and hit him on the knuckles with their fans, declaring him to be ‘a
naughty man—a shocking creature’—and so forth; and Captain Helves gave
slight descriptions of battles and duels, with a most bloodthirsty air,
which made him the admiration of the women, and the envy of the men.
Quadrilling commenced; Captain Helves danced one set with Miss Emily
Taunton, and another set with Miss Sophia Taunton.  Mrs. Taunton was in
ecstasies.  The victory appeared to be complete; but alas! the
inconstancy of man!  Having performed this necessary duty, he attached
himself solely to Miss Julia Briggs, with whom he danced no less than
three sets consecutively, and from whose side he evinced no intention of
stirring for the remainder of the day.

Mr. Hardy, having played one or two very brilliant fantasias on the
Jews’-harp, and having frequently repeated the exquisitely amusing joke
of slily chalking a large cross on the back of some member of the
committee, Mr. Percy Noakes expressed his hope that some of their musical
friends would oblige the company by a display of their abilities.

‘Perhaps,’ he said in a very insinuating manner, ‘Captain Helves will
oblige us?’  Mrs. Taunton’s countenance lighted up, for the captain only
sang duets, and couldn’t sing them with anybody but one of her daughters.

‘Really,’ said that warlike individual, ‘I should be very happy, ‘but—’

‘Oh! pray do,’ cried all the young ladies.

‘Miss Emily, have you any objection to join in a duet?’

‘Oh! not the slightest,’ returned the young lady, in a tone which clearly
showed she had the greatest possible objection.

‘Shall I accompany you, dear?’ inquired one of the Miss Briggses, with
the bland intention of spoiling the effect.

‘Very much obliged to you, Miss Briggs,’ sharply retorted Mrs. Taunton,
who saw through the manoeuvre; ‘my daughters always sing without
accompaniments.’

‘And without voices,’ tittered Mrs. Briggs, in a low tone.

‘Perhaps,’ said Mrs. Taunton, reddening, for she guessed the tenor of the
observation, though she had not heard it clearly—‘Perhaps it would be as
well for some people, if their voices were not quite so audible as they
are to other people.’

‘And, perhaps, if gentlemen who are kidnapped to pay attention to some
persons’ daughters, had not sufficient discernment to pay attention to
other persons’ daughters,’ returned Mrs. Briggs, ‘some persons would not
be so ready to display that ill-temper which, thank God, distinguishes
them from other persons.’

‘Persons!’ ejaculated Mrs. Taunton.

‘Persons,’ replied Mrs. Briggs.

‘Insolence!’

‘Creature!’

‘Hush! hush!’ interrupted Mr. Percy Noakes, who was one of the very few
by whom this dialogue had been overheard.  ‘Hush!—pray, silence for the
duet.’

After a great deal of preparatory crowing and humming, the captain began
the following duet from the opera of ‘Paul and Virginia,’ in that
grunting tone in which a man gets down, Heaven knows where, without the
remotest chance of ever getting up again.  This, in private circles, is
frequently designated ‘a bass voice.’

    ‘See (sung the captain) from o—ce—an ri—sing
    Bright flames the or—b of d—ay.
    From yon gro—ove, the varied so—ongs—’

Here, the singer was interrupted by varied cries of the most dreadful
description, proceeding from some grove in the immediate vicinity of the
starboard paddle-box.

‘My child!’ screamed Mrs. Fleetwood.  ‘My child! it is his voice—I know
it.’

Mr. Fleetwood, accompanied by several gentlemen, here rushed to the
quarter from whence the noise proceeded, and an exclamation of horror
burst from the company; the general impression being, that the little
innocent had either got his head in the water, or his legs in the
machinery.

‘What is the matter?’ shouted the agonised father, as he returned with
the child in his arms.

‘Oh! oh! oh!’ screamed the small sufferer again.

‘What is the matter, dear?’ inquired the father once more—hastily
stripping off the nankeen frock, for the purpose of ascertaining whether
the child had one bone which was not smashed to pieces.

‘Oh! oh!—I’m so frightened!’

‘What at, dear?—what at?’ said the mother, soothing the sweet infant.

‘Oh! he’s been making such dreadful faces at me,’ cried the boy,
relapsing into convulsions at the bare recollection.

‘He!—who?’ cried everybody, crowding round him.

‘Oh!—him!’ replied the child, pointing at Hardy, who affected to be the
most concerned of the whole group.

The real state of the case at once flashed upon the minds of all present,
with the exception of the Fleetwoods and the Wakefields.  The facetious
Hardy, in fulfilment of his promise, had watched the child to a remote
part of the vessel, and, suddenly appearing before him with the most
awful contortions of visage, had produced his paroxysm of terror.  Of
course, he now observed that it was hardly necessary for him to deny the
accusation; and the unfortunate little victim was accordingly led below,
after receiving sundry thumps on the head from both his parents, for
having the wickedness to tell a story.

This little interruption having been adjusted, the captain resumed, and
Miss Emily chimed in, in due course.  The duet was loudly applauded, and,
certainly, the perfect independence of the parties deserved great
commendation.  Miss Emily sung her part, without the slightest reference
to the captain; and the captain sang so loud, that he had not the
slightest idea what was being done by his partner.  After having gone
through the last few eighteen or nineteen bars by himself, therefore, he
acknowledged the plaudits of the circle with that air of self-denial
which men usually assume when they think they have done something to
astonish the company.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, who had just ascended from the fore-cabin,
where he had been busily engaged in decanting the wine, ‘if the Misses
Briggs will oblige us with something before dinner, I am sure we shall be
very much delighted.’

One of those hums of admiration followed the suggestion, which one
frequently hears in society, when nobody has the most distant notion what
he is expressing his approval of.  The three Misses Briggs looked
modestly at their mamma, and the mamma looked approvingly at her
daughters, and Mrs. Taunton looked scornfully at all of them.  The Misses
Briggs asked for their guitars, and several gentlemen seriously damaged
the cases in their anxiety to present them.  Then, there was a very
interesting production of three little keys for the aforesaid cases, and
a melodramatic expression of horror at finding a string broken; and a
vast deal of screwing and tightening, and winding, and tuning, during
which Mrs. Briggs expatiated to those near her on the immense difficulty
of playing a guitar, and hinted at the wondrous proficiency of her
daughters in that mystic art.  Mrs. Taunton whispered to a neighbour that
it was ‘quite sickening!’ and the Misses Taunton looked as if they knew
how to play, but disdained to do it.

At length, the Misses Briggs began in real earnest.  It was a new Spanish
composition, for three voices and three guitars.  The effect was
electrical.  All eyes were turned upon the captain, who was reported to
have once passed through Spain with his regiment, and who must be well
acquainted with the national music.  He was in raptures.  This was
sufficient; the trio was encored; the applause was universal; and never
had the Tauntons suffered such a complete defeat.

‘Bravo! bravo!’ ejaculated the captain;—‘bravo!’

‘Pretty! isn’t it, sir?’ inquired Mr. Samuel Briggs, with the air of a
self-satisfied showman.  By-the-bye, these were the first words he had
been heard to utter since he left Boswell-court the evening before.

‘De-lightful!’ returned the captain, with a flourish, and a military
cough;—‘de-lightful!’

‘Sweet instrument!’ said an old gentleman with a bald head, who had been
trying all the morning to look through a telescope, inside the glass of
which Mr. Hardy had fixed a large black wafer.

‘Did you ever hear a Portuguese tambourine?’ inquired that jocular
individual.

‘Did _you_ ever hear a tom-tom, sir?’ sternly inquired the captain, who
lost no opportunity of showing off his travels, real or pretended.

‘A what?’ asked Hardy, rather taken aback.

‘A tom-tom.’

‘Never!’

‘Nor a gum-gum?’

‘Never!’

‘What _is_ a gum-gum?’ eagerly inquired several young ladies.

‘When I was in the East Indies,’ replied the captain—(here was a
discovery—he had been in the East Indies!)—‘when I was in the East
Indies, I was once stopping a few thousand miles up the country, on a
visit at the house of a very particular friend of mine, Ram Chowdar Doss
Azuph Al Bowlar—a devilish pleasant fellow.  As we were enjoying our
hookahs, one evening, in the cool verandah in front of his villa, we were
rather surprised by the sudden appearance of thirty-four of his
Kit-ma-gars (for he had rather a large establishment there), accompanied
by an equal number of Con-su-mars, approaching the house with a
threatening aspect, and beating a tom-tom.  The Ram started up—’

‘Who?’ inquired the bald gentleman, intensely interested.

‘The Ram—Ram Chowdar—’

‘Oh!’ said the old gentleman, ‘beg your pardon; pray go on.’

‘—Started up and drew a pistol.  “Helves,” said he, “my boy,”—he always
called me, my boy—“Helves,” said he, “do you hear that tom-tom?”  “I do,”
said I.  His countenance, which before was pale, assumed a most frightful
appearance; his whole visage was distorted, and his frame shaken by
violent emotions.  “Do you see that gum-gum?” said he.  “No,” said I,
staring about me.  “You don’t?” said he.  “No, I’ll be damned if I do,”
said I; “and what’s more, I don’t know what a gum-gum is,” said I.  I
really thought the Ram would have dropped.  He drew me aside, and with an
expression of agony I shall never forget, said in a low whisper—’

‘Dinner’s on the table, ladies,’ interrupted the steward’s wife.

‘Will you allow me?’ said the captain, immediately suiting the action to
the word, and escorting Miss Julia Briggs to the cabin, with as much ease
as if he had finished the story.

‘What an extraordinary circumstance!’ ejaculated the same old gentleman,
preserving his listening attitude.

‘What a traveller!’ said the young ladies.

‘What a singular name!’ exclaimed the gentlemen, rather confused by the
coolness of the whole affair.

‘I wish he had finished the story,’ said an old lady.  ‘I wonder what a
gum-gum really is?’

‘By Jove!’ exclaimed Hardy, who until now had been lost in utter
amazement, ‘I don’t know what it may be in India, but in England I think
a gum-gum has very much the same meaning as a hum-bug.’

‘How illiberal! how envious!’ cried everybody, as they made for the
cabin, fully impressed with a belief in the captain’s amazing adventures.
Helves was the sole lion for the remainder of the day—impudence and the
marvellous are pretty sure passports to any society.

The party had by this time reached their destination, and put about on
their return home.  The wind, which had been with them the whole day, was
now directly in their teeth; the weather had become gradually more and
more overcast; and the sky, water, and shore, were all of that dull,
heavy, uniform lead-colour, which house-painters daub in the first
instance over a street-door which is gradually approaching a state of
convalescence.  It had been ‘spitting’ with rain for the last half-hour,
and now began to pour in good earnest.  The wind was freshening very
fast, and the waterman at the wheel had unequivocally expressed his
opinion that there would shortly be a squall.  A slight emotion on the
part of the vessel, now and then, seemed to suggest the possibility of
its pitching to a very uncomfortable extent in the event of its blowing
harder; and every timber began to creak, as if the boat were an overladen
clothes-basket.  Sea-sickness, however, is like a belief in ghosts—every
one entertains some misgivings on the subject, but few will acknowledge
any.  The majority of the company, therefore, endeavoured to look
peculiarly happy, feeling all the while especially miserable.

‘Don’t it rain?’ inquired the old gentleman before noticed, when, by dint
of squeezing and jamming, they were all seated at table.

‘I think it does—a little,’ replied Mr. Percy Noakes, who could hardly
hear himself speak, in consequence of the pattering on the deck.

‘Don’t it blow?’ inquired some one else.

‘No, I don’t think it does,’ responded Hardy, sincerely wishing that he
could persuade himself that it did not; for he sat near the door, and was
almost blown off his seat.

‘It’ll soon clear up,’ said Mr. Percy Noakes, in a cheerful tone.

‘Oh, certainly!’ ejaculated the committee generally.

‘No doubt of it!’ said the remainder of the company, whose attention was
now pretty well engrossed by the serious business of eating, carving,
taking wine, and so forth.

The throbbing motion of the engine was but too perceptible.  There was a
large, substantial, cold boiled leg of mutton, at the bottom of the
table, shaking like blancmange; a previously hearty sirloin of beef
looked as if it had been suddenly seized with the palsy; and some
tongues, which were placed on dishes rather too large for them, went
through the most surprising evolutions; darting from side to side, and
from end to end, like a fly in an inverted wine-glass.  Then, the sweets
shook and trembled, till it was quite impossible to help them, and people
gave up the attempt in despair; and the pigeon-pies looked as if the
birds, whose legs were stuck outside, were trying to get them in.  The
table vibrated and started like a feverish pulse, and the very legs were
convulsed—everything was shaking and jarring.  The beams in the roof of
the cabin seemed as if they were put there for the sole purpose of giving
people head-aches, and several elderly gentlemen became ill-tempered in
consequence.  As fast as the steward put the fire-irons up, they _would_
fall down again; and the more the ladies and gentlemen tried to sit
comfortably on their seats, the more the seats seemed to slide away from
the ladies and gentlemen.  Several ominous demands were made for small
glasses of brandy; the countenances of the company gradually underwent
most extraordinary changes; one gentleman was observed suddenly to rush
from table without the slightest ostensible reason, and dart up the steps
with incredible swiftness: thereby greatly damaging both himself and the
steward, who happened to be coming down at the same moment.

The cloth was removed; the dessert was laid on the table; and the glasses
were filled.  The motion of the boat increased; several members of the
party began to feel rather vague and misty, and looked as if they had
only just got up.  The young gentleman with the spectacles, who had been
in a fluctuating state for some time—at one moment bright, and at another
dismal, like a revolving light on the sea-coast—rashly announced his wish
to propose a toast.  After several ineffectual attempts to preserve his
perpendicular, the young gentleman, having managed to hook himself to the
centre leg of the table with his left hand, proceeded as follows:

‘Ladies and gentlemen.  A gentleman is among us—I may say a
stranger—(here some painful thought seemed to strike the orator; he
paused, and looked extremely odd)—whose talents, whose travels, whose
cheerfulness—’

‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ hastily interrupted Mr. Percy
Noakes,—‘Hardy, what’s the matter?’

‘Nothing,’ replied the ‘funny gentleman,’ who had just life enough left
to utter two consecutive syllables.

‘Will you have some brandy?’

‘No!’ replied Hardy in a tone of great indignation, and looking as
comfortable as Temple-bar in a Scotch mist; ‘what should I want brandy
for?’

‘Will you go on deck?’

‘No, I will _not_.’  This was said with a most determined air, and in a
voice which might have been taken for an imitation of anything; it was
quite as much like a guinea-pig as a bassoon.

‘I beg your pardon, Edkins,’ said the courteous Percy; ‘I thought our
friend was ill.  Pray go on.’

A pause.

‘Pray go on.’

‘Mr. Edkins _is_ gone,’ cried somebody.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said the steward, running up to Mr. Percy
Noakes, ‘I beg your pardon, sir, but the gentleman as just went on
deck—him with the green spectacles—is uncommon bad, to be sure; and the
young man as played the wiolin says, that unless he has some brandy he
can’t answer for the consequences.  He says he has a wife and two
children, whose werry subsistence depends on his breaking a wessel, and
he expects to do so every moment.  The flageolet’s been werry ill, but
he’s better, only he’s in a dreadful prusperation.’

All disguise was now useless; the company staggered on deck; the
gentlemen tried to see nothing but the clouds; and the ladies, muffled up
in such shawls and cloaks as they had brought with them, lay about on the
seats, and under the seats, in the most wretched condition.  Never was
such a blowing, and raining, and pitching, and tossing, endured by any
pleasure party before.  Several remonstrances were sent down below, on
the subject of Master Fleetwood, but they were totally unheeded in
consequence of the indisposition of his natural protectors.  That
interesting child screamed at the top of his voice, until he had no voice
left to scream with; and then, Miss Wakefield began, and screamed for the
remainder of the passage.

Mr. Hardy was observed, some hours afterwards, in an attitude which
induced his friends to suppose that he was busily engaged in
contemplating the beauties of the deep; they only regretted that his
taste for the picturesque should lead him to remain so long in a
position, very injurious at all times, but especially so, to an
individual labouring under a tendency of blood to the head.

The party arrived off the Custom-house at about two o’clock on the
Thursday morning dispirited and worn out.  The Tauntons were too ill to
quarrel with the Briggses, and the Briggses were too wretched to annoy
the Tauntons.  One of the guitar-cases was lost on its passage to a
hackney-coach, and Mrs. Briggs has not scrupled to state that the
Tauntons bribed a porter to throw it down an area.  Mr. Alexander Briggs
opposes vote by ballot—he says from personal experience of its
inefficacy; and Mr. Samuel Briggs, whenever he is asked to express his
sentiments on the point, says he has no opinion on that or any other
subject.

Mr. Edkins—the young gentleman in the green spectacles—makes a speech on
every occasion on which a speech can possibly be made: the eloquence of
which can only be equalled by its length.  In the event of his not being
previously appointed to a judgeship, it is probable that he will practise
as a barrister in the New Central Criminal Court.

Captain Helves continued his attention to Miss Julia Briggs, whom he
might possibly have espoused, if it had not unfortunately happened that
Mr. Samuel arrested him, in the way of business, pursuant to instructions
received from Messrs.  Scroggins and Payne, whose town-debts the gallant
captain had condescended to collect, but whose accounts, with the
indiscretion sometimes peculiar to military minds, he had omitted to keep
with that dull accuracy which custom has rendered necessary.  Mrs.
Taunton complains that she has been much deceived in him.  He introduced
himself to the family on board a Gravesend steam-packet, and certainly,
therefore, ought to have proved respectable.

Mr. Percy Noakes is as light-hearted and careless as ever.



CHAPTER VIII—THE GREAT WINGLEBURY DUEL


The little town of Great Winglebury is exactly forty-two miles and
three-quarters from Hyde Park corner.  It has a long, straggling, quiet
High-street, with a great black and white clock at a small red Town-hall,
half-way up—a market-place—a cage—an assembly-room—a church—a bridge—a
chapel—a theatre—a library—an inn—a pump—and a Post-office.  Tradition
tells of a ‘Little Winglebury,’ down some cross-road about two miles off;
and, as a square mass of dirty paper, supposed to have been originally
intended for a letter, with certain tremulous characters inscribed
thereon, in which a lively imagination might trace a remote resemblance
to the word ‘Little,’ was once stuck up to be owned in the sunny window
of the Great Winglebury Post-office, from which it only disappeared when
it fell to pieces with dust and extreme old age, there would appear to be
some foundation for the legend.  Common belief is inclined to bestow the
name upon a little hole at the end of a muddy lane about a couple of
miles long, colonised by one wheelwright, four paupers, and a beer-shop;
but, even this authority, slight as it is, must be regarded with extreme
suspicion, inasmuch as the inhabitants of the hole aforesaid, concur in
opining that it never had any name at all, from the earliest ages down to
the present day.

The Winglebury Arms, in the centre of the High-street, opposite the small
building with the big clock, is the principal inn of Great Winglebury—the
commercial-inn, posting-house, and excise-office; the ‘Blue’ house at
every election, and the judges’ house at every assizes.  It is the
head-quarters of the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury Blues (so
called in opposition to the Gentlemen’s Whist Club of Winglebury Buffs,
held at the other house, a little further down): and whenever a juggler,
or wax-work man, or concert-giver, takes Great Winglebury in his circuit,
it is immediately placarded all over the town that Mr. So-and-so,
‘trusting to that liberal support which the inhabitants of Great
Winglebury have long been so liberal in bestowing, has at a great expense
engaged the elegant and commodious assembly-rooms, attached to the
Winglebury Arms.’  The house is a large one, with a red brick and stone
front; a pretty spacious hall, ornamented with evergreen plants,
terminates in a perspective view of the bar, and a glass case, in which
are displayed a choice variety of delicacies ready for dressing, to catch
the eye of a new-comer the moment he enters, and excite his appetite to
the highest possible pitch.  Opposite doors lead to the ‘coffee’ and
‘commercial’ rooms; and a great wide, rambling staircase,—three stairs
and a landing—four stairs and another landing—one step and another
landing—half-a-dozen stairs and another landing—and so on—conducts to
galleries of bedrooms, and labyrinths of sitting-rooms, denominated
‘private,’ where you may enjoy yourself, as privately as you can in any
place where some bewildered being walks into your room every five
minutes, by mistake, and then walks out again, to open all the doors
along the gallery until he finds his own.

Such is the Winglebury Arms, at this day, and such was the Winglebury
Arms some time since—no matter when—two or three minutes before the
arrival of the London stage.  Four horses with cloths on—change for a
coach—were standing quietly at the corner of the yard surrounded by a
listless group of post-boys in shiny hats and smock-frocks, engaged in
discussing the merits of the cattle; half a dozen ragged boys were
standing a little apart, listening with evident interest to the
conversation of these worthies; and a few loungers were collected round
the horse-trough, awaiting the arrival of the coach.

The day was hot and sunny, the town in the zenith of its dulness, and
with the exception of these few idlers, not a living creature was to be
seen.  Suddenly, the loud notes of a key-bugle broke the monotonous
stillness of the street; in came the coach, rattling over the uneven
paving with a noise startling enough to stop even the large-faced clock
itself.  Down got the outsides, up went the windows in all directions,
out came the waiters, up started the ostlers, and the loungers, and the
post-boys, and the ragged boys, as if they were electrified—unstrapping,
and unchaining, and unbuckling, and dragging willing horses out, and
forcing reluctant horses in, and making a most exhilarating bustle.
‘Lady inside, here!’ said the guard.  ‘Please to alight, ma’am,’ said the
waiter.  ‘Private sitting-room?’ interrogated the lady.  ‘Certainly,
ma’am,’ responded the chamber-maid.  ‘Nothing but these ’ere trunks,
ma’am?’ inquired the guard.  ‘Nothing more,’ replied the lady.  Up got
the outsides again, and the guard, and the coachman; off came the cloths,
with a jerk; ‘All right,’ was the cry; and away they went.  The loungers
lingered a minute or two in the road, watching the coach until it turned
the corner, and then loitered away one by one.  The street was clear
again, and the town, by contrast, quieter than ever.

‘Lady in number twenty-five,’ screamed the landlady.—‘Thomas!’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘Letter just been left for the gentleman in number nineteen.  Boots at
the Lion left it.  No answer.’

‘Letter for you, sir,’ said Thomas, depositing the letter on number
nineteen’s table.

‘For me?’ said number nineteen, turning from the window, out of which he
had been surveying the scene just described.

‘Yes, sir,’—(waiters always speak in hints, and never utter complete
sentences,)—‘yes, sir,—Boots at the Lion, sir,—Bar, sir,—Missis said
number nineteen, sir—Alexander Trott, Esq., sir?—Your card at the bar,
sir, I think, sir?’

‘My name _is_ Trott,’ replied number nineteen, breaking the seal.  ‘You
may go, waiter.’  The waiter pulled down the window-blind, and then
pulled it up again—for a regular waiter must do something before he
leaves the room—adjusted the glasses on the side-board, brushed a place
that was _not_ dusty, rubbed his hands very hard, walked stealthily to
the door, and evaporated.

There was, evidently, something in the contents of the letter, of a
nature, if not wholly unexpected, certainly extremely disagreeable.  Mr.
Alexander Trott laid it down, and took it up again, and walked about the
room on particular squares of the carpet, and even attempted, though
unsuccessfully, to whistle an air.  It wouldn’t do.  He threw himself
into a chair, and read the following epistle aloud:—

                                            ‘Blue Lion and Stomach-warmer,
                                                        ‘Great Winglebury.
                                                     ‘_Wednesday Morning_.

    ‘Sir.  Immediately on discovering your intentions, I left our
    counting-house, and followed you.  I know the purport of your
    journey;—that journey shall never be completed.

    ‘I have no friend here, just now, on whose secrecy I can rely.  This
    shall be no obstacle to my revenge.  Neither shall Emily Brown be
    exposed to the mercenary solicitations of a scoundrel, odious in her
    eyes, and contemptible in everybody else’s: nor will I tamely submit
    to the clandestine attacks of a base umbrella-maker.

    ‘Sir.  From Great Winglebury church, a footpath leads through four
    meadows to a retired spot known to the townspeople as Stiffun’s
    Acre.’  [Mr. Trott shuddered.]  ‘I shall be waiting there alone, at
    twenty minutes before six o’clock to-morrow morning.  Should I be
    disappointed in seeing you there, I will do myself the pleasure of
    calling with a horsewhip.

                                                           ‘HORACE HUNTER.

    ‘PS.  There is a gunsmiths in the High-street; and they won’t sell
    gunpowder after dark—you understand me.

    ‘PPS.  You had better not order your breakfast in the morning until
    you have met me.  It may be an unnecessary expense.’

‘Desperate-minded villain!  I knew how it would be!’ ejaculated the
terrified Trott.  ‘I always told father, that once start me on this
expedition, and Hunter would pursue me like the Wandering Jew.  It’s bad
enough as it is, to marry with the old people’s commands, and without the
girl’s consent; but what will Emily think of me, if I go down there
breathless with running away from this infernal salamander?  What _shall_
I do?  What _can_ I do?  If I go back to the city, I’m disgraced for
ever—lose the girl—and, what’s more, lose the money too.  Even if I did
go on to the Browns’ by the coach, Hunter would be after me in a
post-chaise; and if I go to this place, this Stiffun’s Acre (another
shudder), I’m as good as dead.  I’ve seen him hit the man at the
Pall-mall shooting-gallery, in the second button-hole of the waistcoat,
five times out of every six, and when he didn’t hit him there, he hit him
in the head.’  With this consolatory reminiscence Mr. Alexander Trott
again ejaculated, ‘What shall I do?’

Long and weary were his reflections, as, burying his face in his hand, he
sat, ruminating on the best course to be pursued.  His mental
direction-post pointed to London.  He thought of the ‘governor’s’ anger,
and the loss of the fortune which the paternal Brown had promised the
paternal Trott his daughter should contribute to the coffers of his son.
Then the words ‘To Brown’s’ were legibly inscribed on the said
direction-post, but Horace Hunter’s denunciation rung in his ears;—last
of all it bore, in red letters, the words, ‘To Stiffun’s Acre;’ and then
Mr. Alexander Trott decided on adopting a plan which he presently
matured.

First and foremost, he despatched the under-boots to the Blue Lion and
Stomach-warmer, with a gentlemanly note to Mr. Horace Hunter, intimating
that he thirsted for his destruction and would do himself the pleasure of
slaughtering him next morning, without fail.  He then wrote another
letter, and requested the attendance of the other boots—for they kept a
pair.  A modest knock at the room door was heard.  ‘Come in,’ said Mr.
Trott.  A man thrust in a red head with one eye in it, and being again
desired to ‘come in,’ brought in the body and the legs to which the head
belonged, and a fur cap which belonged to the head.

‘You are the upper-boots, I think?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Yes, I am the upper-boots,’ replied a voice from inside a velveteen
case, with mother-of-pearl buttons—‘that is, I’m the boots as b’longs to
the house; the other man’s my man, as goes errands and does odd jobs.
Top-boots and half-boots, I calls us.’

‘You’re from London?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Driv a cab once,’ was the laconic reply.

‘Why don’t you drive it now?’ asked Mr. Trott.

‘Over-driv the cab, and driv over a ’ooman,’ replied the top-boots, with
brevity.

‘Do you know the mayor’s house?’ inquired Mr. Trott.

‘Rather,’ replied the boots, significantly, as if he had some good reason
to remember it.

‘Do you think you could manage to leave a letter there?’ interrogated
Trott.

‘Shouldn’t wonder,’ responded boots.

‘But this letter,’ said Trott, holding a deformed note with a paralytic
direction in one hand, and five shillings in the other—‘this letter is
anonymous.’

‘A—what?’ interrupted the boots.

‘Anonymous—he’s not to know who it comes from.’

‘Oh!  I see,’ responded the reg’lar, with a knowing wink, but without
evincing the slightest disinclination to undertake the charge—‘I see—bit
o’ Sving, eh?’ and his one eye wandered round the room, as if in quest of
a dark lantern and phosphorus-box.  ‘But, I say!’ he continued, recalling
the eye from its search, and bringing it to bear on Mr. Trott.  ‘I say,
he’s a lawyer, our mayor, and insured in the County.  If you’ve a spite
agen him, you’d better not burn his house down—blessed if I don’t think
it would be the greatest favour you could do him.’  And he chuckled
inwardly.

If Mr. Alexander Trott had been in any other situation, his first act
would have been to kick the man down-stairs by deputy; or, in other
words, to ring the bell, and desire the landlord to take his boots off.
He contented himself, however, with doubling the fee and explaining that
the letter merely related to a breach of the peace.  The top-boots
retired, solemnly pledged to secrecy; and Mr. Alexander Trott sat down to
a fried sole, maintenon cutlet, Madeira, and sundries, with greater
composure than he had experienced since the receipt of Horace Hunter’s
letter of defiance.

The lady who alighted from the London coach had no sooner been installed
in number twenty-five, and made some alteration in her travelling-dress,
than she indited a note to Joseph Overton, esquire, solicitor, and mayor
of Great Winglebury, requesting his immediate attendance on private
business of paramount importance—a summons which that worthy functionary
lost no time in obeying; for after sundry openings of his eyes, divers
ejaculations of ‘Bless me!’ and other manifestations of surprise, he took
his broad-brimmed hat from its accustomed peg in his little front office,
and walked briskly down the High-street to the Winglebury Arms; through
the hall and up the staircase of which establishment he was ushered by
the landlady, and a crowd of officious waiters, to the door of number
twenty-five.

‘Show the gentleman in,’ said the stranger lady, in reply to the foremost
waiter’s announcement.  The gentleman was shown in accordingly.

The lady rose from the sofa; the mayor advanced a step from the door; and
there they both paused, for a minute or two, looking at one another as if
by mutual consent.  The mayor saw before him a buxom, richly-dressed
female of about forty; the lady looked upon a sleek man, about ten years
older, in drab shorts and continuations, black coat, neckcloth, and
gloves.

‘Miss Julia Manners!’ exclaimed the mayor at length, ‘you astonish me.’

‘That’s very unfair of you, Overton,’ replied Miss Julia, ‘for I have
known you, long enough, not to be surprised at anything you do, and you
might extend equal courtesy to me.’

‘But to run away—actually run away—with a young man!’ remonstrated the
mayor.

‘You wouldn’t have me actually run away with an old one, I presume?’ was
the cool rejoinder.

‘And then to ask me—me—of all people in the world—a man of my age and
appearance—mayor of the town—to promote such a scheme!’ pettishly
ejaculated Joseph Overton; throwing himself into an arm-chair, and
producing Miss Julia’s letter from his pocket, as if to corroborate the
assertion that he _had_ been asked.

‘Now, Overton,’ replied the lady, ‘I want your assistance in this matter,
and I must have it.  In the lifetime of that poor old dear, Mr.
Cornberry, who—who—’

‘Who was to have married you, and didn’t, because he died first; and who
left you his property unencumbered with the addition of himself,’
suggested the mayor.

‘Well,’ replied Miss Julia, reddening slightly, ‘in the lifetime of the
poor old dear, the property had the incumbrance of your management; and
all I will say of that, is, that I only wonder it didn’t die of
consumption instead of its master.  You helped yourself then:—help me
now.’

Mr. Joseph Overton was a man of the world, and an attorney; and as
certain indistinct recollections of an odd thousand pounds or two,
appropriated by mistake, passed across his mind he hemmed deprecatingly,
smiled blandly, remained silent for a few seconds; and finally inquired,
‘What do you wish me to do?’

‘I’ll tell you,’ replied Miss Julia—‘I’ll tell you in three words.  Dear
Lord Peter—’

‘That’s the young man, I suppose—’ interrupted the mayor.

‘That’s the young Nobleman,’ replied the lady, with a great stress on the
last word.  ‘Dear Lord Peter is considerably afraid of the resentment of
his family; and we have therefore thought it better to make the match a
stolen one.  He left town, to avoid suspicion, on a visit to his friend,
the Honourable Augustus Flair, whose seat, as you know, is about thirty
miles from this, accompanied only by his favourite tiger.  We arranged
that I should come here alone in the London coach; and that he, leaving
his tiger and cab behind him, should come on, and arrive here as soon as
possible this afternoon.’

‘Very well,’ observed Joseph Overton, ‘and then he can order the chaise,
and you can go on to Gretna Green together, without requiring the
presence or interference of a third party, can’t you?’

‘No,’ replied Miss Julia.  ‘We have every reason to believe—dear Lord
Peter not being considered very prudent or sagacious by his friends, and
they having discovered his attachment to me—that, immediately on his
absence being observed, pursuit will be made in this direction:—to elude
which, and to prevent our being traced, I wish it to be understood in
this house, that dear Lord Peter is slightly deranged, though perfectly
harmless; and that I am, unknown to him, awaiting his arrival to convey
him in a post-chaise to a private asylum—at Berwick, say.  If I don’t
show myself much, I dare say I can manage to pass for his mother.’

The thought occurred to the mayor’s mind that the lady might show herself
a good deal without fear of detection; seeing that she was about double
the age of her intended husband.  He said nothing, however, and the lady
proceeded.

‘With the whole of this arrangement dear Lord Peter is acquainted; and
all I want you to do, is, to make the delusion more complete by giving it
the sanction of your influence in this place, and assigning this as a
reason to the people of the house for my taking the young gentleman away.
As it would not be consistent with the story that I should see him until
after he has entered the chaise, I also wish you to communicate with him,
and inform him that it is all going on well.’

‘Has he arrived?’ inquired Overton.

‘I don’t know,’ replied the lady.

‘Then how am I to know!’ inquired the mayor.  ‘Of course he will not give
his own name at the bar.’

‘I begged him, immediately on his arrival, to write you a note,’ replied
Miss Manners; ‘and to prevent the possibility of our project being
discovered through its means, I desired him to write anonymously, and in
mysterious terms, to acquaint you with the number of his room.’

‘Bless me!’ exclaimed the mayor, rising from his seat, and searching his
pockets—‘most extraordinary circumstance—he has arrived—mysterious note
left at my house in a most mysterious manner, just before yours—didn’t
know what to make of it before, and certainly shouldn’t have attended to
it.—Oh! here it is.’  And Joseph Overton pulled out of an inner
coat-pocket the identical letter penned by Alexander Trott.  ‘Is this his
lordship’s hand?’

‘Oh yes,’ replied Julia; ‘good, punctual creature!  I have not seen it
more than once or twice, but I know he writes very badly and very large.
These dear, wild young noblemen, you know, Overton—’

‘Ay, ay, I see,’ replied the mayor.—‘Horses and dogs, play and
wine—grooms, actresses, and cigars—the stable, the green-room, the
saloon, and the tavern; and the legislative assembly at last.’

‘Here’s what he says,’ pursued the mayor; ‘“Sir,—A young gentleman in
number nineteen at the Winglebury Arms, is bent on committing a rash act
to-morrow morning at an early hour.”  (That’s good—he means marrying.)
“If you have any regard for the peace of this town, or the preservation
of one—it may be two—human lives”—What the deuce does he mean by that?’

‘That he’s so anxious for the ceremony, he will expire if it’s put off,
and that I may possibly do the same,’ replied the lady with great
complacency.

‘Oh!  I see—not much fear of that;—well—“two human lives, you will cause
him to be removed to-night.”  (He wants to start at once.)  “Fear not to
do this on your responsibility: for to-morrow the absolute necessity of
the proceeding will be but too apparent.  Remember: number nineteen.  The
name is Trott.  No delay; for life and death depend upon your
promptitude.”  Passionate language, certainly.  Shall I see him?’

‘Do,’ replied Miss Julia; ‘and entreat him to act his part well.  I am
half afraid of him.  Tell him to be cautious.’

‘I will,’ said the mayor.

‘Settle all the arrangements.’

‘I will,’ said the mayor again.

‘And say I think the chaise had better be ordered for one o’clock.’

‘Very well,’ said the mayor once more; and, ruminating on the absurdity
of the situation in which fate and old acquaintance had placed him, he
desired a waiter to herald his approach to the temporary representative
of number nineteen.

The announcement, ‘Gentleman to speak with you, sir,’ induced Mr. Trott
to pause half-way in the glass of port, the contents of which he was in
the act of imbibing at the moment; to rise from his chair; and retreat a
few paces towards the window, as if to secure a retreat, in the event of
the visitor assuming the form and appearance of Horace Hunter.  One
glance at Joseph Overton, however, quieted his apprehensions.  He
courteously motioned the stranger to a seat.  The waiter, after a little
jingling with the decanter and glasses, consented to leave the room; and
Joseph Overton, placing the broad-brimmed hat on the chair next him, and
bending his body gently forward, opened the business by saying in a very
low and cautious tone,

‘My lord—’

‘Eh?’ said Mr. Alexander Trott, in a loud key, with the vacant and
mystified stare of a chilly somnambulist.

‘Hush—hush!’ said the cautious attorney: ‘to be sure—quite right—no
titles here—my name is Overton, sir.’

‘Overton?’

‘Yes: the mayor of this place—you sent me a letter with anonymous
information, this afternoon.’

‘I, sir?’ exclaimed Trott with ill-dissembled surprise; for, coward as he
was, he would willingly have repudiated the authorship of the letter in
question.  ‘I, sir?’

‘Yes, you, sir; did you not?’ responded Overton, annoyed with what he
supposed to be an extreme degree of unnecessary suspicion.  ‘Either this
letter is yours, or it is not.  If it be, we can converse securely upon
the subject at once.  If it be not, of course I have no more to say.’

‘Stay, stay,’ said Trott, ‘it _is_ mine; I _did_ write it.  What could I
do, sir?  I had no friend here.’

‘To be sure, to be sure,’ said the mayor, encouragingly, ‘you could not
have managed it better.  Well, sir; it will be necessary for you to leave
here to-night in a post-chaise and four.  And the harder the boys drive,
the better.  You are not safe from pursuit.’

‘Bless me!’ exclaimed Trott, in an agony of apprehension, ‘can such
things happen in a country like this?  Such unrelenting and cold-blooded
hostility!’  He wiped off the concentrated essence of cowardice that was
oozing fast down his forehead, and looked aghast at Joseph Overton.

‘It certainly is a very hard case,’ replied the mayor with a smile,
‘that, in a free country, people can’t marry whom they like, without
being hunted down as if they were criminals.  However, in the present
instance the lady is willing, you know, and that’s the main point, after
all.’

‘Lady willing,’ repeated Trott, mechanically.  ‘How do you know the
lady’s willing?’

‘Come, that’s a good one,’ said the mayor, benevolently tapping Mr. Trott
on the arm with his broad-brimmed hat; ‘I have known her, well, for a
long time; and if anybody could entertain the remotest doubt on the
subject, I assure you I have none, nor need you have.’

‘Dear me!’ said Mr. Trott, ruminating.  ‘This is _very_ extraordinary!’

‘Well, Lord Peter,’ said the mayor, rising.

‘Lord Peter?’ repeated Mr. Trott.

‘Oh—ah, I forgot.  Mr. Trott, then—Trott—very good, ha! ha!—Well, sir,
the chaise shall be ready at half-past twelve.’

‘And what is to become of me until then?’ inquired Mr. Trott, anxiously.
‘Wouldn’t it save appearances, if I were placed under some restraint?’

‘Ah!’ replied Overton, ‘very good thought—capital idea indeed.  I’ll send
somebody up directly.  And if you make a little resistance when we put
you in the chaise it wouldn’t be amiss—look as if you didn’t want to be
taken away, you know.’

‘To be sure,’ said Trott—‘to be sure.’

‘Well, my lord,’ said Overton, in a low tone, ‘until then, I wish your
lordship a good evening.’

‘Lord—lordship?’ ejaculated Trott again, falling back a step or two, and
gazing, in unutterable wonder, on the countenance of the mayor.

‘Ha-ha!  I see, my lord—practising the madman?—very good indeed—very
vacant look—capital, my lord, capital—good evening, Mr.—Trott—ha! ha!
ha!’

‘That mayor’s decidedly drunk,’ soliloquised Mr. Trott, throwing himself
back in his chair, in an attitude of reflection.

‘He is a much cleverer fellow than I thought him, that young nobleman—he
carries it off uncommonly well,’ thought Overton, as he went his way to
the bar, there to complete his arrangements.  This was soon done.  Every
word of the story was implicitly believed, and the one-eyed boots was
immediately instructed to repair to number nineteen, to act as custodian
of the person of the supposed lunatic until half-past twelve o’clock.  In
pursuance of this direction, that somewhat eccentric gentleman armed
himself with a walking-stick of gigantic dimensions, and repaired, with
his usual equanimity of manner, to Mr. Trott’s apartment, which he
entered without any ceremony, and mounted guard in, by quietly depositing
himself on a chair near the door, where he proceeded to beguile the time
by whistling a popular air with great apparent satisfaction.

‘What do you want here, you scoundrel?’ exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott,
with a proper appearance of indignation at his detention.

The boots beat time with his head, as he looked gently round at Mr. Trott
with a smile of pity, and whistled an _adagio_ movement.

‘Do you attend in this room by Mr. Overton’s desire?’ inquired Trott,
rather astonished at the man’s demeanour.

‘Keep yourself to yourself, young feller,’ calmly responded the boots,
‘and don’t say nothing to nobody.’  And he whistled again.

‘Now mind!’ ejaculated Mr. Trott, anxious to keep up the farce of wishing
with great earnestness to fight a duel if they’d let him.  ‘I protest
against being kept here.  I deny that I have any intention of fighting
with anybody.  But as it’s useless contending with superior numbers, I
shall sit quietly down.’

‘You’d better,’ observed the placid boots, shaking the large stick
expressively.

‘Under protest, however,’ added Alexander Trott, seating himself with
indignation in his face, but great content in his heart.  ‘Under
protest.’

‘Oh, certainly!’ responded the boots; ‘anything you please.  If you’re
happy, I’m transported; only don’t talk too much—it’ll make you worse.’

‘Make me worse?’ exclaimed Trott, in unfeigned astonishment: ‘the man’s
drunk!’

‘You’d better be quiet, young feller,’ remarked the boots, going through
a threatening piece of pantomime with the stick.

‘Or mad!’ said Mr. Trott, rather alarmed.  ‘Leave the room, sir, and tell
them to send somebody else.’

‘Won’t do!’ replied the boots.

‘Leave the room!’ shouted Trott, ringing the bell violently: for he began
to be alarmed on a new score.

‘Leave that ’ere bell alone, you wretched loo-nattic!’ said the boots,
suddenly forcing the unfortunate Trott back into his chair, and
brandishing the stick aloft.  ‘Be quiet, you miserable object, and don’t
let everybody know there’s a madman in the house.’

‘He _is_ a madman!  He _is_ a madman!’ exclaimed the terrified Mr. Trott,
gazing on the one eye of the red-headed boots with a look of abject
horror.

‘Madman!’ replied the boots, ‘dam’me, I think he _is_ a madman with a
vengeance!  Listen to me, you unfortunate.  Ah! would you?’ [a slight tap
on the head with the large stick, as Mr. Trott made another move towards
the bell-handle] ‘I caught you there! did I?’

‘Spare my life!’ exclaimed Trott, raising his hands imploringly.

‘I don’t want your life,’ replied the boots, disdainfully, ‘though I
think it ’ud be a charity if somebody took it.’

‘No, no, it wouldn’t,’ interrupted poor Mr. Trott, hurriedly, ‘no, no, it
wouldn’t!  I—I-’d rather keep it!’

‘O werry well,’ said the boots: ‘that’s a mere matter of taste—ev’ry one
to his liking.  Hows’ever, all I’ve got to say is this here: You sit
quietly down in that chair, and I’ll sit hoppersite you here, and if you
keep quiet and don’t stir, I won’t damage you; but, if you move hand or
foot till half-past twelve o’clock, I shall alter the expression of your
countenance so completely, that the next time you look in the glass
you’ll ask vether you’re gone out of town, and ven you’re likely to come
back again.  So sit down.’

‘I will—I will,’ responded the victim of mistakes; and down sat Mr. Trott
and down sat the boots too, exactly opposite him, with the stick ready
for immediate action in case of emergency.

Long and dreary were the hours that followed.  The bell of Great
Winglebury church had just struck ten, and two hours and a half would
probably elapse before succour arrived.

For half an hour, the noise occasioned by shutting up the shops in the
street beneath, betokened something like life in the town, and rendered
Mr. Trott’s situation a little less insupportable; but, when even these
ceased, and nothing was heard beyond the occasional rattling of a
post-chaise as it drove up the yard to change horses, and then drove away
again, or the clattering of horses’ hoofs in the stables behind, it
became almost unbearable.  The boots occasionally moved an inch or two,
to knock superfluous bits of wax off the candles, which were burning low,
but instantaneously resumed his former position; and as he remembered to
have heard, somewhere or other, that the human eye had an unfailing
effect in controlling mad people, he kept his solitary organ of vision
constantly fixed on Mr. Alexander Trott.  That unfortunate individual
stared at his companion in his turn, until his features grew more and
more indistinct—his hair gradually less red—and the room more misty and
obscure.  Mr. Alexander Trott fell into a sound sleep, from which he was
awakened by a rumbling in the street, and a cry of ‘Chaise-and-four for
number twenty-five!’  A bustle on the stairs succeeded; the room door was
hastily thrown open; and Mr. Joseph Overton entered, followed by four
stout waiters, and Mrs. Williamson, the stout landlady of the Winglebury
Arms.

‘Mr. Overton!’ exclaimed Mr. Alexander Trott, jumping up in a frenzy.
‘Look at this man, sir; consider the situation in which I have been
placed for three hours past—the person you sent to guard me, sir, was a
madman—a madman—a raging, ravaging, furious madman.’

‘Bravo!’ whispered Mr. Overton.

‘Poor dear!’ said the compassionate Mrs. Williamson, ‘mad people always
thinks other people’s mad.’

‘Poor dear!’ ejaculated Mr. Alexander Trott.  ‘What the devil do you mean
by poor dear!  Are you the landlady of this house?’

‘Yes, yes,’ replied the stout old lady, ‘don’t exert yourself, there’s a
dear!  Consider your health, now; do.’

‘Exert myself!’ shouted Mr. Alexander Trott; ‘it’s a mercy, ma’am, that I
have any breath to exert myself with!  I might have been assassinated
three hours ago by that one-eyed monster with the oakum head.  How dare
you have a madman, ma’am—how dare you have a madman, to assault and
terrify the visitors to your house?’

‘I’ll never have another,’ said Mrs. Williamson, casting a look of
reproach at the mayor.

‘Capital, capital,’ whispered Overton again, as he enveloped Mr.
Alexander Trott in a thick travelling-cloak.

‘Capital, sir!’ exclaimed Trott, aloud; ‘it’s horrible.  The very
recollection makes me shudder.  I’d rather fight four duels in three
hours, if I survived the first three, than I’d sit for that time face to
face with a madman.’

‘Keep it up, my lord, as you go down-stairs,’ whispered Overton, ‘your
bill is paid, and your portmanteau in the chaise.’  And then he added
aloud, ‘Now, waiters, the gentleman’s ready.’

At this signal, the waiters crowded round Mr. Alexander Trott.  One took
one arm; another, the other; a third, walked before with a candle; the
fourth, behind with another candle; the boots and Mrs. Williamson brought
up the rear; and down-stairs they went: Mr. Alexander Trott expressing
alternately at the very top of his voice either his feigned reluctance to
go, or his unfeigned indignation at being shut up with a madman.

Mr. Overton was waiting at the chaise-door, the boys were ready mounted,
and a few ostlers and stable nondescripts were standing round to witness
the departure of ‘the mad gentleman.’  Mr. Alexander Trott’s foot was on
the step, when he observed (which the dim light had prevented his doing
before) a figure seated in the chaise, closely muffled up in a cloak like
his own.

‘Who’s that?’ he inquired of Overton, in a whisper.

‘Hush, hush,’ replied the mayor: ‘the other party of course.’

‘The other party!’ exclaimed Trott, with an effort to retreat.

‘Yes, yes; you’ll soon find that out, before you go far, I should
think—but make a noise, you’ll excite suspicion if you whisper to me so
much.’

‘I won’t go in this chaise!’ shouted Mr. Alexander Trott, all his
original fears recurring with tenfold violence.  ‘I shall be
assassinated—I shall be—’

‘Bravo, bravo,’ whispered Overton.  ‘I’ll push you in.’

‘But I won’t go,’ exclaimed Mr. Trott.  ‘Help here, help!  They’re
carrying me away against my will.  This is a plot to murder me.’

‘Poor dear!’ said Mrs. Williamson again.

‘Now, boys, put ’em along,’ cried the mayor, pushing Trott in and
slamming the door.  ‘Off with you, as quick as you can, and stop for
nothing till you come to the next stage—all right!’

‘Horses are paid, Tom,’ screamed Mrs. Williamson; and away went the
chaise, at the rate of fourteen miles an hour, with Mr. Alexander Trott
and Miss Julia Manners carefully shut up in the inside.

Mr. Alexander Trott remained coiled up in one corner of the chaise, and
his mysterious companion in the other, for the first two or three miles;
Mr. Trott edging more and more into his corner, as he felt his companion
gradually edging more and more from hers; and vainly endeavouring in the
darkness to catch a glimpse of the furious face of the supposed Horace
Hunter.

‘We may speak now,’ said his fellow-traveller, at length; ‘the post-boys
can neither see nor hear us.’

‘That’s not Hunter’s voice!’—thought Alexander, astonished.

‘Dear Lord Peter!’ said Miss Julia, most winningly: putting her arm on
Mr. Trott’s shoulder.  ‘Dear Lord Peter.  Not a word?’

‘Why, it’s a woman!’ exclaimed Mr. Trott, in a low tone of excessive
wonder.

‘Ah!  Whose voice is that?’ said Julia; ‘’tis not Lord Peter’s.’

‘No,—it’s mine,’ replied Mr. Trott.

‘Yours!’ ejaculated Miss Julia Manners; ‘a strange man!  Gracious heaven!
How came you here!’

‘Whoever you are, you might have known that I came against my will,
ma’am,’ replied Alexander, ‘for I made noise enough when I got in.’

‘Do you come from Lord Peter?’ inquired Miss Manners.

‘Confound Lord Peter,’ replied Trott pettishly.  ‘I don’t know any Lord
Peter.  I never heard of him before to-night, when I’ve been Lord Peter’d
by one and Lord Peter’d by another, till I verily believe I’m mad, or
dreaming—’

‘Whither are we going?’ inquired the lady tragically.

‘How should _I_ know, ma’am?’ replied Trott with singular coolness; for
the events of the evening had completely hardened him.

‘Stop stop!’ cried the lady, letting down the front glasses of the
chaise.

‘Stay, my dear ma’am!’ said Mr. Trott, pulling the glasses up again with
one hand, and gently squeezing Miss Julia’s waist with the other.  ‘There
is some mistake here; give me till the end of this stage to explain my
share of it.  We must go so far; you cannot be set down here alone, at
this hour of the night.’

The lady consented; the mistake was mutually explained.  Mr. Trott was a
young man, had highly promising whiskers, an undeniable tailor, and an
insinuating address—he wanted nothing but valour, and who wants that with
three thousand a-year?  The lady had this, and more; she wanted a young
husband, and the only course open to Mr. Trott to retrieve his disgrace
was a rich wife.  So, they came to the conclusion that it would be a pity
to have all this trouble and expense for nothing; and that as they were
so far on the road already, they had better go to Gretna Green, and marry
each other; and they did so.  And the very next preceding entry in the
Blacksmith’s book, was an entry of the marriage of Emily Brown with
Horace Hunter.  Mr. Hunter took his wife home, and begged pardon, and
_was_ pardoned; and Mr. Trott took _his_ wife home, begged pardon too,
and was pardoned also.  And Lord Peter, who had been detained beyond his
time by drinking champagne and riding a steeple-chase, went back to the
Honourable Augustus Flair’s, and drank more champagne, and rode another
steeple-chase, and was thrown and killed.  And Horace Hunter took great
credit to himself for practising on the cowardice of Alexander Trott; and
all these circumstances were discovered in time, and carefully noted
down; and if you ever stop a week at the Winglebury Arms, they will give
you just this account of The Great Winglebury Duel.



CHAPTER IX—MRS. JOSEPH PORTER


Most extensive were the preparations at Rose Villa, Clapham Rise, in the
occupation of Mr. Gattleton (a stock-broker in especially comfortable
circumstances), and great was the anxiety of Mr. Gattleton’s interesting
family, as the day fixed for the representation of the Private Play which
had been ‘many months in preparation,’ approached.  The whole family was
infected with the mania for Private Theatricals; the house, usually so
clean and tidy, was, to use Mr. Gattleton’s expressive description,
‘regularly turned out o’ windows;’ the large dining-room, dismantled of
its furniture, and ornaments, presented a strange jumble of flats, flies,
wings, lamps, bridges, clouds, thunder and lightning, festoons and
flowers, daggers and foil, and various other messes in theatrical slang
included under the comprehensive name of ‘properties.’  The bedrooms were
crowded with scenery, the kitchen was occupied by carpenters.  Rehearsals
took place every other night in the drawing-room, and every sofa in the
house was more or less damaged by the perseverance and spirit with which
Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and Miss Lucina, rehearsed the smothering scene
in ‘Othello’—it having been determined that that tragedy should form the
first portion of the evening’s entertainments.

‘When we’re a _leetle_ more perfect, I think it will go admirably,’ said
Mr. Sempronius, addressing his _corps dramatique_, at the conclusion of
the hundred and fiftieth rehearsal.  In consideration of his sustaining
the trifling inconvenience of bearing all the expenses of the play, Mr.
Sempronius had been, in the most handsome manner, unanimously elected
stage-manager.  ‘Evans,’ continued Mr. Gattleton, the younger, addressing
a tall, thin, pale young gentleman, with extensive whiskers—‘Evans, you
play _Roderigo_ beautifully.’

‘Beautifully,’ echoed the three Miss Gattletons; for Mr. Evans was
pronounced by all his lady friends to be ‘quite a dear.’  He looked so
interesting, and had such lovely whiskers: to say nothing of his talent
for writing verses in albums and playing the flute!  _Roderigo_ simpered
and bowed.

‘But I think,’ added the manager, ‘you are hardly perfect in the—fall—in
the fencing-scene, where you are—you understand?’

‘It’s very difficult,’ said Mr. Evans, thoughtfully; ‘I’ve fallen about,
a good deal, in our counting-house lately, for practice, only I find it
hurts one so.  Being obliged to fall backward you see, it bruises one’s
head a good deal.’

‘But you must take care you don’t knock a wing down,’ said Mr. Gattleton,
the elder, who had been appointed prompter, and who took as much interest
in the play as the youngest of the company.  ‘The stage is very narrow,
you know.’

‘Oh! don’t be afraid,’ said Mr. Evans, with a very self-satisfied air; ‘I
shall fall with my head “off,” and then I can’t do any harm.’

‘But, egad,’ said the manager, rubbing his hands, ‘we shall make a
decided hit in “Masaniello.”  Harleigh sings that music admirably.’

Everybody echoed the sentiment.  Mr. Harleigh smiled, and looked
foolish—not an unusual thing with him—hummed’  Behold how brightly breaks
the morning,’ and blushed as red as the fisherman’s nightcap he was
trying on.

‘Let’s see,’ resumed the manager, telling the number on his fingers, ‘we
shall have three dancing female peasants, besides _Fenella_, and four
fishermen.  Then, there’s our man Tom; he can have a pair of ducks of
mine, and a check shirt of Bob’s, and a red nightcap, and he’ll do for
another—that’s five.  In the choruses, of course, we can sing at the
sides; and in the market-scene we can walk about in cloaks and things.
When the revolt takes place, Tom must keep rushing in on one side and out
on the other, with a pickaxe, as fast as he can.  The effect will be
electrical; it will look exactly as if there were an immense number of
’em.  And in the eruption-scene we must burn the red fire, and upset the
tea-trays, and make all sorts of noises—and it’s sure to do.’

‘Sure! sure!’ cried all the performers _unâ voce_—and away hurried Mr.
Sempronius Gattleton to wash the burnt cork off his face, and superintend
the ‘setting up’ of some of the amateur-painted, but
never-sufficiently-to-be-admired, scenery.

Mrs. Gattleton was a kind, good-tempered, vulgar soul, exceedingly fond
of her husband and children, and entertaining only three dislikes.  In
the first place, she had a natural antipathy to anybody else’s unmarried
daughters; in the second, she was in bodily fear of anything in the shape
of ridicule; lastly—almost a necessary consequence of this feeling—she
regarded, with feelings of the utmost horror, one Mrs. Joseph Porter over
the way.  However, the good folks of Clapham and its vicinity stood very
much in awe of scandal and sarcasm; and thus Mrs. Joseph Porter was
courted, and flattered, and caressed, and invited, for much the same
reason that induces a poor author, without a farthing in his pocket, to
behave with extraordinary civility to a twopenny postman.

‘Never mind, ma,’ said Miss Emma Porter, in colloquy with her respected
relative, and trying to look unconcerned; ‘if they had invited me, you
know that neither you nor pa would have allowed me to take part in such
an exhibition.’

‘Just what I should have thought from your high sense of propriety,’
returned the mother.  ‘I am glad to see, Emma, you know how to designate
the proceeding.’  Miss P., by-the-bye, had only the week before made ‘an
exhibition’ of herself for four days, behind a counter at a fancy fair,
to all and every of her Majesty’s liege subjects who were disposed to pay
a shilling each for the privilege of seeing some four dozen girls
flirting with strangers, and playing at shop.

‘There!’ said Mrs. Porter, looking out of window; ‘there are two rounds
of beef and a ham going in—clearly for sandwiches; and Thomas, the
pastry-cook, says, there have been twelve dozen tarts ordered, besides
blancmange and jellies.  Upon my word! think of the Miss Gattletons in
fancy dresses, too!’

‘Oh, it’s too ridiculous!’ said Miss Porter, hysterically.

‘I’ll manage to put them a little out of conceit with the business,
however,’ said Mrs. Porter; and out she went on her charitable errand.

‘Well, my dear Mrs. Gattleton,’ said Mrs. Joseph Porter, after they had
been closeted for some time, and when, by dint of indefatigable pumping,
she had managed to extract all the news about the play, ‘well, my dear,
people may say what they please; indeed we know they will, for some folks
are _so_ ill-natured.  Ah, my dear Miss Lucina, how d’ye do?  I was just
telling your mamma that I have heard it said, that—’

‘What?’

‘Mrs. Porter is alluding to the play, my dear,’ said Mrs. Gattleton; ‘she
was, I am sorry to say, just informing me that—’

‘Oh, now pray don’t mention it,’ interrupted Mrs. Porter; ‘it’s most
absurd—quite as absurd as young What’s-his-name saying he wondered how
Miss Caroline, with such a foot and ankle, could have the vanity to play
_Fenella_.’

‘Highly impertinent, whoever said it,’ said Mrs. Gattleton, bridling up.

‘Certainly, my dear,’ chimed in the delighted Mrs. Porter; ‘most
undoubtedly!  Because, as I said, if Miss Caroline _does_ play _Fenella_,
it doesn’t follow, as a matter of course, that she should think she has a
pretty foot;—and then—such puppies as these young men are—he had the
impudence to say, that—’

How far the amiable Mrs. Porter might have succeeded in her pleasant
purpose, it is impossible to say, had not the entrance of Mr. Thomas
Balderstone, Mrs. Gattleton’s brother, familiarly called in the family
‘Uncle Tom,’ changed the course of conversation, and suggested to her
mind an excellent plan of operation on the evening of the play.

Uncle Tom was very rich, and exceedingly fond of his nephews and nieces:
as a matter of course, therefore, he was an object of great importance in
his own family.  He was one of the best-hearted men in existence: always
in a good temper, and always talking.  It was his boast that he wore
top-boots on all occasions, and had never worn a black silk neckerchief;
and it was his pride that he remembered all the principal plays of
Shakspeare from beginning to end—and so he did.  The result of this
parrot-like accomplishment was, that he was not only perpetually quoting
himself, but that he could never sit by, and hear a misquotation from the
‘Swan of Avon’ without setting the unfortunate delinquent right.  He was
also something of a wag; never missed an opportunity of saying what he
considered a good thing, and invariably laughed until he cried at
anything that appeared to him mirth-moving or ridiculous.

‘Well, girls!’ said Uncle Tom, after the preparatory ceremony of kissing
and how-d’ye-do-ing had been gone through—‘how d’ye get on?  Know your
parts, eh?—Lucina, my dear, act II., scene I—place, left-cue—“Unknown
fate,”—What’s next, eh?—Go on—“The Heavens—”’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Miss Lucina, ‘I recollect—

                “The heavens forbid
    But that our loves and comforts should increase
    Even as our days do grow!”’

‘Make a pause here and there,’ said the old gentleman, who was a great
critic.  ‘“But that our loves and comforts should increase”—emphasis on
the last syllable, “crease,”—loud “even,”—one, two, three, four; then
loud again, “as our days do grow;” emphasis on _days_.  That’s the way,
my dear; trust to your uncle for emphasis.  Ah!  Sem, my boy, how are
you?’

‘Very well, thankee, uncle,’ returned Mr. Sempronius, who had just
appeared, looking something like a ringdove, with a small circle round
each eye: the result of his constant corking.  ‘Of course we see you on
Thursday.’

‘Of course, of course, my dear boy.’

‘What a pity it is your nephew didn’t think of making you prompter, Mr.
Balderstone!’ whispered Mrs. Joseph Porter; ‘you would have been
invaluable.’

‘Well, I flatter myself, I _should_ have been tolerably up to the thing,’
responded Uncle Tom.

‘I must bespeak sitting next you on the night,’ resumed Mrs. Porter; ‘and
then, if our dear young friends here, should be at all wrong, you will be
able to enlighten me.  I shall be so interested.’

‘I am sure I shall be most happy to give you any assistance in my power’

‘Mind, it’s a bargain.’

‘Certainly.’

‘I don’t know how it is,’ said Mrs. Gattleton to her daughters, as they
were sitting round the fire in the evening, looking over their parts,
‘but I really very much wish Mrs. Joseph Porter wasn’t coming on
Thursday.  I am sure she’s scheming something.’

‘She can’t make us ridiculous, however,’ observed Mr. Sempronius
Gattleton, haughtily.

The long-looked-for Thursday arrived in due course, and brought with it,
as Mr. Gattleton, senior, philosophically observed, ‘no disappointments,
to speak of.’  True, it was yet a matter of doubt whether _Cassio_ would
be enabled to get into the dress which had been sent for him from the
masquerade warehouse.  It was equally uncertain whether the principal
female singer would be sufficiently recovered from the influenza to make
her appearance; Mr. Harleigh, the _Masaniello_ of the night, was hoarse,
and rather unwell, in consequence of the great quantity of lemon and
sugar-candy he had eaten to improve his voice; and two flutes and a
violoncello had pleaded severe colds.  What of that? the audience were
all coming.  Everybody knew his part: the dresses were covered with
tinsel and spangles; the white plumes looked beautiful; Mr. Evans had
practised falling until he was bruised from head to foot and quite
perfect; _Iago_ was sure that, in the stabbing-scene, he should make ‘a
decided hit.’  A self-taught deaf gentleman, who had kindly offered to
bring his flute, would be a most valuable addition to the orchestra; Miss
Jenkins’s talent for the piano was too well known to be doubted for an
instant; Mr. Cape had practised the violin accompaniment with her
frequently; and Mr. Brown, who had kindly undertaken, at a few hours’
notice, to bring his violoncello, would, no doubt, manage extremely well.

Seven o’clock came, and so did the audience; all the rank and fashion of
Clapham and its vicinity was fast filling the theatre.  There were the
Smiths, the Gubbinses, the Nixons, the Dixons, the Hicksons, people with
all sorts of names, two aldermen, a sheriff in perspective, Sir Thomas
Glumper (who had been knighted in the last reign for carrying up an
address on somebody’s escaping from nothing); and last, not least, there
were Mrs. Joseph Porter and Uncle Tom, seated in the centre of the third
row from the stage; Mrs. P. amusing Uncle Tom with all sorts of stories,
and Uncle Tom amusing every one else by laughing most immoderately.

Ting, ting, ting! went the prompter’s bell at eight o’clock precisely,
and dash went the orchestra into the overture to ‘The Men of Prometheus.’
The pianoforte player hammered away with laudable perseverance; and the
violoncello, which struck in at intervals, ‘sounded very well,
considering.’  The unfortunate individual, however, who had undertaken to
play the flute accompaniment ‘at sight,’ found, from fatal experience,
the perfect truth of the old adage, ‘ought of sight, out of mind;’ for
being very near-sighted, and being placed at a considerable distance from
his music-book, all he had an opportunity of doing was to play a bar now
and then in the wrong place, and put the other performers out.  It is,
however, but justice to Mr. Brown to say that he did this to admiration.
The overture, in fact, was not unlike a race between the different
instruments; the piano came in first by several bars, and the violoncello
next, quite distancing the poor flute; for the deaf gentleman _too-too’d_
away, quite unconscious that he was at all wrong, until apprised, by the
applause of the audience, that the overture was concluded.  A
considerable bustle and shuffling of feet was then heard upon the stage,
accompanied by whispers of ‘Here’s a pretty go!—what’s to be done?’ &c.
The audience applauded again, by way of raising the spirits of the
performers; and then Mr. Sempronius desired the prompter, in a very
audible voice, to ‘clear the stage, and ring up.’

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again.  Everybody sat down; the curtain
shook; rose sufficiently high to display several pair of yellow boots
paddling about; and there remained.

Ting, ting, ting! went the bell again.  The curtain was violently
convulsed, but rose no higher; the audience tittered; Mrs. Porter looked
at Uncle Tom; Uncle Tom looked at everybody, rubbing his hands, and
laughing with perfect rapture.  After as much ringing with the little
bell as a muffin-boy would make in going down a tolerably long street,
and a vast deal of whispering, hammering, and calling for nails and cord,
the curtain at length rose, and discovered Mr. Sempronius Gattleton
_solus_, and decked for _Othello_.  After three distinct rounds of
applause, during which Mr. Sempronius applied his right hand to his left
breast, and bowed in the most approved manner, the manager advanced and
said:

‘Ladies and Gentlemen—I assure you it is with sincere regret, that I
regret to be compelled to inform you, that _Iago_ who was to have played
Mr. Wilson—I beg your pardon, Ladies and Gentlemen, but I am naturally
somewhat agitated (applause)—I mean, Mr. Wilson, who was to have played
_Iago_, is—that is, has been—or, in other words, Ladies and Gentlemen,
the fact is, that I have just received a note, in which I am informed
that _Iago_ is unavoidably detained at the Post-office this evening.
Under these circumstances, I trust—a—a—amateur performance—a—another
gentleman undertaken to read the part—request indulgence for a short
time—courtesy and kindness of a British audience.’  Overwhelming
applause.  Exit Mr. Sempronius Gattleton, and curtain falls.

The audience were, of course, exceedingly good-humoured; the whole
business was a joke; and accordingly they waited for an hour with the
utmost patience, being enlivened by an interlude of rout-cakes and
lemonade.  It appeared by Mr. Sempronius’s subsequent explanation, that
the delay would not have been so great, had it not so happened that when
the substitute _Iago_ had finished dressing, and just as the play was on
the point of commencing, the original _Iago_ unexpectedly arrived.  The
former was therefore compelled to undress, and the latter to dress for
his part; which, as he found some difficulty in getting into his clothes,
occupied no inconsiderable time.  At last, the tragedy began in real
earnest.  It went off well enough, until the third scene of the first
act, in which _Othello_ addresses the Senate: the only remarkable
circumstance being, that as _Iago_ could not get on any of the stage
boots, in consequence of his feet being violently swelled with the heat
and excitement, he was under the necessity of playing the part in a pair
of Wellingtons, which contrasted rather oddly with his richly embroidered
pantaloons.  When _Othello_ started with his address to the Senate (whose
dignity was represented by, the _Duke_, _a_ carpenter, two men engaged on
the recommendation of the gardener, and a boy), Mrs. Porter found the
opportunity she so anxiously sought.

Mr. Sempronius proceeded:

    ‘“Most potent, grave, and reverend signiors,
    My very noble and approv’d good masters,
    That I have ta’en away this old man’s daughter,
    It is most true;—rude am I in my speech—”’

‘Is that right?’ whispered Mrs. Porter to Uncle Tom.

‘No.’

‘Tell him so, then.’

‘I will.  Sem!’ called out Uncle Tom, ‘that’s wrong, my boy.’

‘What’s wrong, uncle?’ demanded _Othello_, quite forgetting the dignity
of his situation.

‘You’ve left out something.  “True I have married—”’

‘Oh, ah!’ said Mr. Sempronius, endeavouring to hide his confusion as much
and as ineffectually as the audience attempted to conceal their
half-suppressed tittering, by coughing with extraordinary violence—

    —‘“true I have married her;—
    The very head and front of my offending
    Hath this extent; no more.”

(_Aside_) Why don’t you prompt, father?’

‘Because I’ve mislaid my spectacles,’ said poor Mr. Gattleton, almost
dead with the heat and bustle.

‘There, now it’s “rude am I,”’ said Uncle Tom.

‘Yes, I know it is,’ returned the unfortunate manager, proceeding with
his part.

It would be useless and tiresome to quote the number of instances in
which Uncle Tom, now completely in his element, and instigated by the
mischievous Mrs. Porter, corrected the mistakes of the performers;
suffice it to say, that having mounted his hobby, nothing could induce
him to dismount; so, during the whole remainder of the play, he performed
a kind of running accompaniment, by muttering everybody’s part as it was
being delivered, in an under-tone.  The audience were highly amused, Mrs.
Porter delighted, the performers embarrassed; Uncle Tom never was better
pleased in all his life; and Uncle Tom’s nephews and nieces had never,
although the declared heirs to his large property, so heartily wished him
gathered to his fathers as on that memorable occasion.

Several other minor causes, too, united to damp the ardour of the
_dramatis personae_.  None of the performers could walk in their tights,
or move their arms in their jackets; the pantaloons were too small, the
boots too large, and the swords of all shapes and sizes.  Mr. Evans,
naturally too tall for the scenery, wore a black velvet hat with immense
white plumes, the glory of which was lost in ‘the flies;’ and the only
other inconvenience of which was, that when it was off his head he could
not put it on, and when it was on he could not take it off.
Notwithstanding all his practice, too, he fell with his head and
shoulders as neatly through one of the side scenes, as a harlequin would
jump through a panel in a Christmas pantomime.  The pianoforte player,
overpowered by the extreme heat of the room, fainted away at the
commencement of the entertainments, leaving the music of ‘Masaniello’ to
the flute and violoncello.  The orchestra complained that Mr. Harleigh
put them out, and Mr. Harleigh declared that the orchestra prevented his
singing a note.  The fishermen, who were hired for the occasion, revolted
to the very life, positively refusing to play without an increased
allowance of spirits; and, their demand being complied with, getting
drunk in the eruption-scene as naturally as possible.  The red fire,
which was burnt at the conclusion of the second act, not only nearly
suffocated the audience, but nearly set the house on fire into the
bargain; and, as it was, the remainder of the piece was acted in a thick
fog.

In short, the whole affair was, as Mrs. Joseph Porter triumphantly told
everybody, ‘a complete failure.’  The audience went home at four o’clock
in the morning, exhausted with laughter, suffering from severe headaches,
and smelling terribly of brimstone and gunpowder.  The Messrs. Gattleton,
senior and junior, retired to rest, with the vague idea of emigrating to
Swan River early in the ensuing week.

Rose Villa has once again resumed its wonted appearance; the dining-room
furniture has been replaced; the tables are as nicely polished as
formerly; the horsehair chairs are ranged against the wall, as regularly
as ever; Venetian blinds have been fitted to every window in the house to
intercept the prying gaze of Mrs. Joseph Porter.  The subject of
theatricals is never mentioned in the Gattleton family, unless, indeed,
by Uncle Tom, who cannot refrain from sometimes expressing his surprise
and regret at finding that his nephews and nieces appear to have lost the
relish they once possessed for the beauties of Shakspeare, and quotations
from the works of that immortal bard.



CHAPTER X—A PASSAGE IN THE LIFE OF MR. WATKINS TOTTLE


CHAPTER THE FIRST


Matrimony is proverbially a serious undertaking.  Like an over-weening
predilection for brandy-and-water, it is a misfortune into which a man
easily falls, and from which he finds it remarkably difficult to
extricate himself.  It is of no use telling a man who is timorous on
these points, that it is but one plunge, and all is over.  They say the
same thing at the Old Bailey, and the unfortunate victims derive as much
comfort from the assurance in the one case as in the other.

Mr. Watkins Tottle was a rather uncommon compound of strong uxorious
inclinations, and an unparalleled degree of anti-connubial timidity.  He
was about fifty years of age; stood four feet six inches and
three-quarters in his socks—for he never stood in stockings at all—plump,
clean, and rosy.  He looked something like a vignette to one of
Richardson’s novels, and had a clean-cravatish formality of manner, and
kitchen-pokerness of carriage, which Sir Charles Grandison himself might
have envied.  He lived on an annuity, which was well adapted to the
individual who received it, in one respect—it was rather small.  He
received it in periodical payments on every alternate Monday; but he ran
himself out, about a day after the expiration of the first week, as
regularly as an eight-day clock; and then, to make the comparison
complete, his landlady wound him up, and he went on with a regular tick.

Mr. Watkins Tottle had long lived in a state of single blessedness, as
bachelors say, or single cursedness, as spinsters think; but the idea of
matrimony had never ceased to haunt him.  Wrapt in profound reveries on
this never-failing theme, fancy transformed his small parlour in
Cecil-street, Strand, into a neat house in the suburbs; the
half-hundredweight of coals under the kitchen-stairs suddenly sprang up
into three tons of the best Walls-end; his small French bedstead was
converted into a regular matrimonial four-poster; and in the empty chair
on the opposite side of the fireplace, imagination seated a beautiful
young lady, with a very little independence or will of her own, and a
very large independence under a will of her father’s.

‘Who’s there?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle, as a gentle tap at his
room-door disturbed these meditations one evening.

‘Tottle, my dear fellow, how _do_ you do?’ said a short elderly gentleman
with a gruffish voice, bursting into the room, and replying to the
question by asking another.

‘Told you I should drop in some evening,’ said the short gentleman, as he
delivered his hat into Tottle’s hand, after a little struggling and
dodging.

‘Delighted to see you, I’m sure,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, wishing
internally that his visitor had ‘dropped in’ to the Thames at the bottom
of the street, instead of dropping into his parlour.  The fortnight was
nearly up, and Watkins was hard up.

‘How is Mrs. Gabriel Parsons?’ inquired Tottle.

‘Quite well, thank you,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, for that was the
name the short gentleman revelled in.  Here there was a pause; the short
gentleman looked at the left hob of the fireplace; Mr. Watkins Tottle
stared vacancy out of countenance.

‘Quite well,’ repeated the short gentleman, when five minutes had
expired.  ‘I may say remarkably well.’  And he rubbed the palms of his
hands as hard as if he were going to strike a light by friction.

‘What will you take?’ inquired Tottle, with the desperate suddenness of a
man who knew that unless the visitor took his leave, he stood very little
chance of taking anything else.

‘Oh, I don’t know—have you any whiskey?’

‘Why,’ replied Tottle, very slowly, for all this was gaining time, ‘I
_had_ some capital, and remarkably strong whiskey last week; but it’s all
gone—and therefore its strength—’

‘Is much beyond proof; or, in other words, impossible to be proved,’ said
the short gentleman; and he laughed very heartily, and seemed quite glad
the whiskey had been drunk.  Mr. Tottle smiled—but it was the smile of
despair.  When Mr. Gabriel Parsons had done laughing, he delicately
insinuated that, in the absence of whiskey, he would not be averse to
brandy.  And Mr. Watkins Tottle, lighting a flat candle very
ostentatiously; and displaying an immense key, which belonged to the
street-door, but which, for the sake of appearances, occasionally did
duty in an imaginary wine-cellar; left the room to entreat his landlady
to charge their glasses, and charge them in the bill.  The application
was successful; the spirits were speedily called—not from the vasty deep,
but the adjacent wine-vaults.  The two short gentlemen mixed their grog;
and then sat cosily down before the fire—a pair of shorts, airing
themselves.

‘Tottle,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘you know my way—off-hand, open, say
what I mean, mean what I say, hate reserve, and can’t bear affectation.
One, is a bad domino which only hides what good people have about ’em,
without making the bad look better; and the other is much about the same
thing as pinking a white cotton stocking to make it look like a silk one.
Now listen to what I’m going to say.’

Here, the little gentleman paused, and took a long pull at his
brandy-and-water.  Mr. Watkins Tottle took a sip of his, stirred the
fire, and assumed an air of profound attention.

‘It’s of no use humming and ha’ing about the matter,’ resumed the short
gentleman.—‘You want to get married.’

‘Why,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle evasively; for he trembled violently,
and felt a sudden tingling throughout his whole frame; ‘why—I should
certainly—at least, I _think_ I should like—’

‘Won’t do,’ said the short gentleman.—‘Plain and free—or there’s an end
of the matter.  Do you want money?’

‘You know I do.’

‘You admire the sex?’

‘I do.’

‘And you’d like to be married?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then you shall be.  There’s an end of that.’  Thus saying, Mr. Gabriel
Parsons took a pinch of snuff, and mixed another glass.

‘Let me entreat you to be more explanatory,’ said Tottle.  ‘Really, as
the party principally interested, I cannot consent to be disposed of, in
this way.’

‘I’ll tell you,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons, warming with the subject,
and the brandy-and-water—‘I know a lady—she’s stopping with my wife
now—who is just the thing for you.  Well educated; talks French; plays
the piano; knows a good deal about flowers, and shells, and all that sort
of thing; and has five hundred a year, with an uncontrolled power of
disposing of it, by her last will and testament.’

‘I’ll pay my addresses to her,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle.  ‘She isn’t
_very_ young—is she?’

‘Not very; just the thing for you.  I’ve said that already.’

‘What coloured hair has the lady?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Egad, I hardly recollect,’ replied Gabriel, with coolness.  ‘Perhaps I
ought to have observed, at first, she wears a front.’

‘A what?’ ejaculated Tottle.

‘One of those things with curls, along here,’ said Parsons, drawing a
straight line across his forehead, just over his eyes, in illustration of
his meaning.  ‘I know the front’s black; I can’t speak quite positively
about her own hair; because, unless one walks behind her, and catches a
glimpse of it under her bonnet, one seldom sees it; but I should say that
it was _rather_ lighter than the front—a shade of a greyish tinge,
perhaps.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle looked as if he had certain misgivings of mind.  Mr.
Gabriel Parsons perceived it, and thought it would be safe to begin the
next attack without delay.

‘Now, were you ever in love, Tottle?’ he inquired.

Mr. Watkins Tottle blushed up to the eyes, and down to the chin, and
exhibited a most extensive combination of colours as he confessed the
soft impeachment.

‘I suppose you popped the question, more than once, when you were a
young—I beg your pardon—a younger—man,’ said Parsons.

‘Never in my life!’ replied his friend, apparently indignant at being
suspected of such an act.  ‘Never!  The fact is, that I entertain, as you
know, peculiar opinions on these subjects.  I am not afraid of ladies,
young or old—far from it; but, I think, that in compliance with the
custom of the present day, they allow too much freedom of speech and
manner to marriageable men.  Now, the fact is, that anything like this
easy freedom I never could acquire; and as I am always afraid of going
too far, I am generally, I dare say, considered formal and cold.’

‘I shouldn’t wonder if you were,’ replied Parsons, gravely; ‘I shouldn’t
wonder.  However, you’ll be all right in this case; for the strictness
and delicacy of this lady’s ideas greatly exceed your own.  Lord bless
you, why, when she came to our house, there was an old portrait of some
man or other, with two large, black, staring eyes, hanging up in her
bedroom; she positively refused to go to bed there, till it was taken
down, considering it decidedly wrong.’

‘I think so, too,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle; ‘certainly.’

‘And then, the other night—I never laughed so much in my life’—resumed
Mr. Gabriel Parsons; ‘I had driven home in an easterly wind, and caught a
devil of a face-ache.  Well; as Fanny—that’s Mrs. Parsons, you know—and
this friend of hers, and I, and Frank Ross, were playing a rubber, I
said, jokingly, that when I went to bed I should wrap my head in Fanny’s
flannel petticoat.  She instantly threw up her cards, and left the room.’

‘Quite right!’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle; ‘she could not possibly have
behaved in a more dignified manner.  What did you do?’

‘Do?—Frank took dummy; and I won sixpence.’

‘But, didn’t you apologise for hurting her feelings?’

‘Devil a bit.  Next morning at breakfast, we talked it over.  She
contended that any reference to a flannel petticoat was improper;—men
ought not to be supposed to know that such things were.  I pleaded my
coverture; being a married man.’

‘And what did the lady say to that?’ inquired Tottle, deeply interested.

‘Changed her ground, and said that Frank being a single man, its
impropriety was obvious.’

‘Noble-minded creature!’ exclaimed the enraptured Tottle.

‘Oh! both Fanny and I said, at once, that she was regularly cut out for
you.’

A gleam of placid satisfaction shone on the circular face of Mr. Watkins
Tottle, as he heard the prophecy.

‘There’s one thing I can’t understand,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he
rose to depart; ‘I cannot, for the life and soul of me, imagine how the
deuce you’ll ever contrive to come together.  The lady would certainly go
into convulsions if the subject were mentioned.’  Mr. Gabriel Parsons sat
down again, and laughed until he was weak.  Tottle owed him money, so he
had a perfect right to laugh at Tottle’s expense.

Mr. Watkins Tottle feared, in his own mind, that this was another
characteristic which he had in common with this modern Lucretia.  He,
however, accepted the invitation to dine with the Parsonses on the next
day but one, with great firmness: and looked forward to the introduction,
when again left alone, with tolerable composure.

The sun that rose on the next day but one, had never beheld a sprucer
personage on the outside of the Norwood stage, than Mr. Watkins Tottle;
and when the coach drew up before a cardboard-looking house with
disguised chimneys, and a lawn like a large sheet of green letter-paper,
he certainly had never lighted to his place of destination a gentleman
who felt more uncomfortable.

The coach stopped, and Mr. Watkins Tottle jumped—we beg his
pardon—alighted, with great dignity.  ‘All right!’ said he, and away went
the coach up the hill with that beautiful equanimity of pace for which
‘short’ stages are generally remarkable.

Mr. Watkins Tottle gave a faltering jerk to the handle of the garden-gate
bell.  He essayed a more energetic tug, and his previous nervousness was
not at all diminished by hearing the bell ringing like a fire alarum.

‘Is Mr. Parsons at home?’ inquired Tottle of the man who opened the gate.
He could hardly hear himself speak, for the bell had not yet done
tolling.

‘Here I am,’ shouted a voice on the lawn,—and there was Mr. Gabriel
Parsons in a flannel jacket, running backwards and forwards, from a
wicket to two hats piled on each other, and from the two hats to the
wicket, in the most violent manner, while another gentleman with his coat
off was getting down the area of the house, after a ball.  When the
gentleman without the coat had found it—which he did in less than ten
minutes—he ran back to the hats, and Gabriel Parsons pulled up.  Then,
the gentleman without the coat called out ‘play,’ very loudly, and
bowled.  Then Mr. Gabriel Parsons knocked the ball several yards, and
took another run.  Then, the other gentleman aimed at the wicket, and
didn’t hit it; and Mr. Gabriel Parsons, having finished running on his
own account, laid down the bat and ran after the ball, which went into a
neighbouring field.  They called this cricket.

‘Tottle, will you “go in?”’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he
approached him, wiping the perspiration off his face.

Mr. Watkins Tottle declined the offer, the bare idea of accepting which
made him even warmer than his friend.

‘Then we’ll go into the house, as it’s past four, and I shall have to
wash my hands before dinner,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.  ‘Here, I hate
ceremony, you know!  Timson, that’s Tottle—Tottle, that’s Timson; bred
for the church, which I fear will never be bread for him;’ and he
chuckled at the old joke.  Mr. Timson bowed carelessly.  Mr. Watkins
Tottle bowed stiffly.  Mr. Gabriel Parsons led the way to the house.  He
was a rich sugar-baker, who mistook rudeness for honesty, and abrupt
bluntness for an open and candid manner; many besides Gabriel mistake
bluntness for sincerity.

Mrs. Gabriel Parsons received the visitors most graciously on the steps,
and preceded them to the drawing-room.  On the sofa, was seated a lady of
very prim appearance, and remarkably inanimate.  She was one of those
persons at whose age it is impossible to make any reasonable guess; her
features might have been remarkably pretty when she was younger, and they
might always have presented the same appearance.  Her complexion—with a
slight trace of powder here and there—was as clear as that of a well-made
wax doll, and her face as expressive.  She was handsomely dressed, and
was winding up a gold watch.

‘Miss Lillerton, my dear, this is our friend Mr. Watkins Tottle; a very
old acquaintance I assure you,’ said Mrs. Parsons, presenting the
Strephon of Cecil-street, Strand.  The lady rose, and made a deep
courtesy; Mr. Watkins Tottle made a bow.

‘Splendid, majestic creature!’ thought Tottle.

Mr. Timson advanced, and Mr. Watkins Tottle began to hate him.  Men
generally discover a rival, instinctively, and Mr. Watkins Tottle felt
that his hate was deserved.

‘May I beg,’ said the reverend gentleman,—‘May I beg to call upon you,
Miss Lillerton, for some trifling donation to my soup, coals, and blanket
distribution society?’

‘Put my name down, for two sovereigns, if you please,’ responded Miss
Lillerton.

‘You are truly charitable, madam,’ said the Reverend Mr. Timson, ‘and we
know that charity will cover a multitude of sins.  Let me beg you to
understand that I do not say this from the supposition that you have many
sins which require palliation; believe me when I say that I never yet met
any one who had fewer to atone for, than Miss Lillerton.’

Something like a bad imitation of animation lighted up the lady’s face,
as she acknowledged the compliment.  Watkins Tottle incurred the sin of
wishing that the ashes of the Reverend Charles Timson were quietly
deposited in the churchyard of his curacy, wherever it might be.

‘I’ll tell you what,’ interrupted Parsons, who had just appeared with
clean hands, and a black coat, ‘it’s my private opinion, Timson, that
your “distribution society” is rather a humbug.’

‘You are so severe,’ replied Timson, with a Christian smile: he disliked
Parsons, but liked his dinners.

‘So positively unjust!’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Certainly,’ observed Tottle.  The lady looked up; her eyes met those of
Mr. Watkins Tottle.  She withdrew them in a sweet confusion, and Watkins
Tottle did the same—the confusion was mutual.

‘Why,’ urged Mr. Parsons, pursuing his objections, ‘what on earth is the
use of giving a man coals who has nothing to cook, or giving him blankets
when he hasn’t a bed, or giving him soup when he requires substantial
food?—“like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.”  Why not give ’em
a trifle of money, as I do, when I think they deserve it, and let them
purchase what they think best?  Why?—because your subscribers wouldn’t
see their names flourishing in print on the church-door—that’s the
reason.’

‘Really, Mr. Parsons, I hope you don’t mean to insinuate that I wish to
see _my_ name in print, on the church-door,’ interrupted Miss Lillerton.

‘I hope not,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, putting in another word, and
getting another glance.

‘Certainly not,’ replied Parsons.  ‘I dare say you wouldn’t mind seeing
it in writing, though, in the church register—eh?’

‘Register!  What register?’ inquired the lady gravely.

‘Why, the register of marriages, to be sure,’ replied Parsons, chuckling
at the sally, and glancing at Tottle.  Mr. Watkins Tottle thought he
should have fainted for shame, and it is quite impossible to imagine what
effect the joke would have had upon the lady, if dinner had not been, at
that moment, announced.  Mr. Watkins Tottle, with an unprecedented effort
of gallantry, offered the tip of his little finger; Miss Lillerton
accepted it gracefully, with maiden modesty; and they proceeded in due
state to the dinner-table, where they were soon deposited side by side.
The room was very snug, the dinner very good, and the little party in
spirits.  The conversation became pretty general, and when Mr. Watkins
Tottle had extracted one or two cold observations from his neighbour, and
had taken wine with her, he began to acquire confidence rapidly.  The
cloth was removed; Mrs. Gabriel Parsons drank four glasses of port on the
plea of being a nurse just then; and Miss Lillerton took about the same
number of sips, on the plea of not wanting any at all.  At length, the
ladies retired, to the great gratification of Mr. Gabriel Parsons, who
had been coughing and frowning at his wife, for half-an-hour
previously—signals which Mrs. Parsons never happened to observe, until
she had been pressed to take her ordinary quantum, which, to avoid giving
trouble, she generally did at once.

‘What do you think of her?’ inquired Mr. Gabriel Parsons of Mr. Watkins
Tottle, in an under-tone.

‘I dote on her with enthusiasm already!’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Gentlemen, pray let us drink “the ladies,”’ said the Reverend Mr.
Timson.

‘The ladies!’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle, emptying his glass.  In the
fulness of his confidence, he felt as if he could make love to a dozen
ladies, off-hand.

‘Ah!’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘I remember when I was a young man—fill
your glass, Timson.’

‘I have this moment emptied it.’

‘Then fill again.’

‘I will,’ said Timson, suiting the action to the word.

‘I remember,’ resumed Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘when I was a younger man,
with what a strange compound of feelings I used to drink that toast, and
how I used to think every woman was an angel.’

‘Was that before you were married?’ mildly inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Oh! certainly,’ replied Mr. Gabriel Parsons.  ‘I have never thought so
since; and a precious milksop I must have been, ever to have thought so
at all.  But, you know, I married Fanny under the oddest, and most
ridiculous circumstances possible.’

‘What were they, if one may inquire?’ asked Timson, who had heard the
story, on an average, twice a week for the last six months.  Mr. Watkins
Tottle listened attentively, in the hope of picking up some suggestion
that might be useful to him in his new undertaking.

‘I spent my wedding-night in a back-kitchen chimney,’ said Parsons, by
way of a beginning.

‘In a back-kitchen chimney!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle.  ‘How dreadful!’

‘Yes, it wasn’t very pleasant,’ replied the small host.  ‘The fact is,
Fanny’s father and mother liked me well enough as an individual, but had
a decided objection to my becoming a husband.  You see, I hadn’t any
money in those days, and they had; and so they wanted Fanny to pick up
somebody else.  However, we managed to discover the state of each other’s
affections somehow.  I used to meet her, at some mutual friends’ parties;
at first we danced together, and talked, and flirted, and all that sort
of thing; then, I used to like nothing so well as sitting by her side—we
didn’t talk so much then, but I remember I used to have a great notion of
looking at her out of the extreme corner of my left eye—and then I got
very miserable and sentimental, and began to write verses, and use
Macassar oil.  At last I couldn’t bear it any longer, and after I had
walked up and down the sunny side of Oxford-street in tight boots for a
week—and a devilish hot summer it was too—in the hope of meeting her, I
sat down and wrote a letter, and begged her to manage to see me
clandestinely, for I wanted to hear her decision from her own mouth.  I
said I had discovered, to my perfect satisfaction, that I couldn’t live
without her, and that if she didn’t have me, I had made up my mind to
take prussic acid, or take to drinking, or emigrate, so as to take myself
off in some way or other.  Well, I borrowed a pound, and bribed the
housemaid to give her the note, which she did.’

‘And what was the reply?’ inquired Timson, who had found, before, that to
encourage the repetition of old stories is to get a general invitation.

‘Oh, the usual one!  Fanny expressed herself very miserable; hinted at
the possibility of an early grave; said that nothing should induce her to
swerve from the duty she owed her parents; implored me to forget her, and
find out somebody more deserving, and all that sort of thing.  She said
she could, on no account, think of meeting me unknown to her pa and ma;
and entreated me, as she should be in a particular part of Kensington
Gardens at eleven o’clock next morning, not to attempt to meet her
there.’

‘You didn’t go, of course?’ said Watkins Tottle.

‘Didn’t I?—Of course I did.  There she was, with the identical housemaid
in perspective, in order that there might be no interruption.  We walked
about, for a couple of hours; made ourselves delightfully miserable; and
were regularly engaged.  Then, we began to “correspond”—that is to say,
we used to exchange about four letters a day; what we used to say in ’em
I can’t imagine.  And I used to have an interview, in the kitchen, or the
cellar, or some such place, every evening.  Well, things went on in this
way for some time; and we got fonder of each other every day.  At last,
as our love was raised to such a pitch, and as my salary had been raised
too, shortly before, we determined on a secret marriage.  Fanny arranged
to sleep at a friend’s, on the previous night; we were to be married
early in the morning; and then we were to return to her home and be
pathetic.  She was to fall at the old gentleman’s feet, and bathe his
boots with her tears; and I was to hug the old lady and call her
“mother,” and use my pocket-handkerchief as much as possible.  Married we
were, the next morning; two girls-friends of Fanny’s—acting as
bridesmaids; and a man, who was hired for five shillings and a pint of
porter, officiating as father.  Now, the old lady unfortunately put off
her return from Ramsgate, where she had been paying a visit, until the
next morning; and as we placed great reliance on her, we agreed to
postpone our confession for four-and-twenty hours.  My newly-made wife
returned home, and I spent my wedding-day in strolling about
Hampstead-heath, and execrating my father-in-law.  Of course, I went to
comfort my dear little wife at night, as much as I could, with the
assurance that our troubles would soon be over.  I opened the
garden-gate, of which I had a key, and was shown by the servant to our
old place of meeting—a back kitchen, with a stone-floor and a dresser:
upon which, in the absence of chairs, we used to sit and make love.’

‘Make love upon a kitchen-dresser!’ interrupted Mr. Watkins Tottle, whose
ideas of decorum were greatly outraged.

‘Ah!  On a kitchen-dresser!’ replied Parsons.  ‘And let me tell you, old
fellow, that, if you were really over head-and-ears in love, and had no
other place to make love in, you’d be devilish glad to avail yourself of
such an opportunity.  However, let me see;—where was I?’

‘On the dresser,’ suggested Timson.

‘Oh—ah!  Well, here I found poor Fanny, quite disconsolate and
uncomfortable.  The old boy had been very cross all day, which made her
feel still more lonely; and she was quite out of spirits.  So, I put a
good face on the matter, and laughed it off, and said we should enjoy the
pleasures of a matrimonial life more by contrast; and, at length, poor
Fanny brightened up a little.  I stopped there, till about eleven
o’clock, and, just as I was taking my leave for the fourteenth time, the
girl came running down the stairs, without her shoes, in a great fright,
to tell us that the old villain—Heaven forgive me for calling him so, for
he is dead and gone now!—prompted I suppose by the prince of darkness,
was coming down, to draw his own beer for supper—a thing he had not done
before, for six months, to my certain knowledge; for the cask stood in
that very back kitchen.  If he discovered me there, explanation would
have been out of the question; for he was so outrageously violent, when
at all excited, that he never would have listened to me.  There was only
one thing to be done.  The chimney was a very wide one; it had been
originally built for an oven; went up perpendicularly for a few feet, and
then shot backward and formed a sort of small cavern.  My hopes and
fortune—the means of our joint existence almost—were at stake.  I
scrambled in like a squirrel; coiled myself up in this recess; and, as
Fanny and the girl replaced the deal chimney-board, I could see the light
of the candle which my unconscious father-in-law carried in his hand.  I
heard him draw the beer; and I never heard beer run so slowly.  He was
just leaving the kitchen, and I was preparing to descend, when down came
the infernal chimney-board with a tremendous crash.  He stopped and put
down the candle and the jug of beer on the dresser; he was a nervous old
fellow, and any unexpected noise annoyed him.  He coolly observed that
the fire-place was never used, and sending the frightened servant into
the next kitchen for a hammer and nails, actually nailed up the board,
and locked the door on the outside.  So, there was I, on my
wedding-night, in the light kerseymere trousers, fancy waistcoat, and
blue coat, that I had been married in in the morning, in a back-kitchen
chimney, the bottom of which was nailed up, and the top of which had been
formerly raised some fifteen feet, to prevent the smoke from annoying the
neighbours.  And there,’ added Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as he passed the
bottle, ‘there I remained till half-past seven the next morning, when the
housemaid’s sweetheart, who was a carpenter, unshelled me.  The old dog
had nailed me up so securely, that, to this very hour, I firmly believe
that no one but a carpenter could ever have got me out.’

‘And what did Mrs. Parsons’s father say, when he found you were married?’
inquired Watkins Tottle, who, although he never saw a joke, was not
satisfied until he heard a story to the very end.

‘Why, the affair of the chimney so tickled his fancy, that he pardoned us
off-hand, and allowed us something to live on till he went the way of all
flesh.  I spent the next night in his second-floor front, much more
comfortably than I had spent the preceding one; for, as you will probably
guess—’

‘Please, sir, missis has made tea,’ said a middle-aged female servant,
bobbing into the room.

‘That’s the very housemaid that figures in my story,’ said Mr. Gabriel
Parsons.  ‘She went into Fanny’s service when we were first married, and
has been with us ever since; but I don’t think she has felt one atom of
respect for me since the morning she saw me released, when she went into
violent hysterics, to which she has been subject ever since.  Now, shall
we join the ladies?’

‘If you please,’ said Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘By all means,’ added the obsequious Mr. Timson; and the trio made for
the drawing-room accordingly.

Tea being concluded, and the toast and cups having been duly handed, and
occasionally upset, by Mr. Watkins Tottle, a rubber was proposed.  They
cut for partners—Mr. and Mrs. Parsons; and Mr. Watkins Tottle and Miss
Lillerton.  Mr. Timson having conscientious scruples on the subject of
card-playing, drank brandy-and-water, and kept up a running spar with Mr.
Watkins Tottle.  The evening went off well; Mr. Watkins Tottle was in
high spirits, having some reason to be gratified with his reception by
Miss Lillerton; and before he left, a small party was made up to visit
the Beulah Spa on the following Saturday.

‘It’s all right, I think,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons to Mr. Watkins Tottle
as he opened the garden gate for him.

‘I hope so,’ he replied, squeezing his friend’s hand.

‘You’ll be down by the first coach on Saturday,’ said Mr. Gabriel
Parsons.

‘Certainly,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.  ‘Undoubtedly.’

But fortune had decreed that Mr. Watkins Tottle should not be down by the
first coach on Saturday.  His adventures on that day, however, and the
success of his wooing, are subjects for another chapter.


CHAPTER THE SECOND


‘The first coach has not come in yet, has it, Tom?’ inquired Mr. Gabriel
Parsons, as he very complacently paced up and down the fourteen feet of
gravel which bordered the ‘lawn,’ on the Saturday morning which had been
fixed upon for the Beulah Spa jaunt.

‘No, sir; I haven’t seen it,’ replied a gardener in a blue apron, who let
himself out to do the ornamental for half-a-crown a day and his ‘keep.’

‘Time Tottle was down,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ruminating—‘Oh, here he
is, no doubt,’ added Gabriel, as a cab drove rapidly up the hill; and he
buttoned his dressing-gown, and opened the gate to receive the expected
visitor.  The cab stopped, and out jumped a man in a coarse Petersham
great-coat, whity-brown neckerchief, faded black suit, gamboge-coloured
top-boots, and one of those large-crowned hats, formerly seldom met with,
but now very generally patronised by gentlemen and costermongers.

‘Mr. Parsons?’ said the man, looking at the superscription of a note he
held in his hand, and addressing Gabriel with an inquiring air.

‘_My_ name is Parsons,’ responded the sugar-baker.

‘I’ve brought this here note,’ replied the individual in the painted
tops, in a hoarse whisper: ‘I’ve brought this here note from a gen’lm’n
as come to our house this mornin’.’

‘I expected the gentleman at my house,’ said Parsons, as he broke the
seal, which bore the impression of her Majesty’s profile as it is seen on
a sixpence.

‘I’ve no doubt the gen’lm’n would ha’ been here, replied the stranger,
‘if he hadn’t happened to call at our house first; but we never trusts no
gen’lm’n furder nor we can see him—no mistake about that there’—added the
unknown, with a facetious grin; ‘beg your pardon, sir, no offence meant,
only—once in, and I wish you may—catch the idea, sir?’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons was not remarkable for catching anything suddenly,
but a cold.  He therefore only bestowed a glance of profound astonishment
on his mysterious companion, and proceeded to unfold the note of which he
had been the bearer.  Once opened and the idea was caught with very
little difficulty.  Mr. Watkins Tottle had been suddenly arrested for
33_l._ 10_s._ 4_d._, and dated his communication from a lock-up house in
the vicinity of Chancery-lane.

‘Unfortunate affair this!’ said Parsons, refolding the note.

‘Oh! nothin’ ven you’re used to it,’ coolly observed the man in the
Petersham.

‘Tom!’ exclaimed Parsons, after a few minutes’ consideration, ‘just put
the horse in, will you?—Tell the gentleman that I shall be there almost
as soon as you are,’ he continued, addressing the sheriff-officer’s
Mercury.

‘Werry well,’ replied that important functionary; adding, in a
confidential manner, ‘I’d adwise the gen’lm’n’s friends to settle.  You
see it’s a mere trifle; and, unless the gen’lm’n means to go up afore the
court, it’s hardly worth while waiting for detainers, you know.  Our
governor’s wide awake, he is.  I’ll never say nothin’ agin him, nor no
man; but he knows what’s o’clock, he does, uncommon.’  Having delivered
this eloquent, and, to Parsons, particularly intelligible harangue, the
meaning of which was eked out by divers nods and winks, the gentleman in
the boots reseated himself in the cab, which went rapidly off, and was
soon out of sight.  Mr. Gabriel Parsons continued to pace up and down the
pathway for some minutes, apparently absorbed in deep meditation.  The
result of his cogitations seemed to be perfectly satisfactory to himself,
for he ran briskly into the house; said that business had suddenly
summoned him to town; that he had desired the messenger to inform Mr.
Watkins Tottle of the fact; and that they would return together to
dinner.  He then hastily equipped himself for a drive, and mounting his
gig, was soon on his way to the establishment of Mr. Solomon Jacobs,
situate (as Mr. Watkins Tottle had informed him) in Cursitor-street,
Chancery-lane.

When a man is in a violent hurry to get on, and has a specific object in
view, the attainment of which depends on the completion of his journey,
the difficulties which interpose themselves in his way appear not only to
be innumerable, but to have been called into existence especially for the
occasion.  The remark is by no means a new one, and Mr. Gabriel Parsons
had practical and painful experience of its justice in the course of his
drive.  There are three classes of animated objects which prevent your
driving with any degree of comfort or celerity through streets which are
but little frequented—they are pigs, children, and old women.  On the
occasion we are describing, the pigs were luxuriating on cabbage-stalks,
and the shuttlecocks fluttered from the little deal battledores, and the
children played in the road; and women, with a basket in one hand, and
the street-door key in the other, _would_ cross just before the horse’s
head, until Mr. Gabriel Parsons was perfectly savage with vexation, and
quite hoarse with hoi-ing and imprecating.  Then, when he got into
Fleet-street, there was ‘a stoppage,’ in which people in vehicles have
the satisfaction of remaining stationary for half an hour, and envying
the slowest pedestrians; and where policemen rush about, and seize hold
of horses’ bridles, and back them into shop-windows, by way of clearing
the road and preventing confusion.  At length Mr. Gabriel Parsons turned
into Chancery-lane, and having inquired for, and been directed to
Cursitor-street (for it was a locality of which he was quite ignorant),
he soon found himself opposite the house of Mr. Solomon Jacobs.
Confiding his horse and gig to the care of one of the fourteen boys who
had followed him from the other side of Blackfriars-bridge on the chance
of his requiring their services, Mr. Gabriel Parsons crossed the road and
knocked at an inner door, the upper part of which was of glass, grated
like the windows of this inviting mansion with iron bars—painted white to
look comfortable.

The knock was answered by a sallow-faced, red-haired, sulky boy, who,
after surveying Mr. Gabriel Parsons through the glass, applied a large
key to an immense wooden excrescence, which was in reality a lock, but
which, taken in conjunction with the iron nails with which the panels
were studded, gave the door the appearance of being subject to warts.

‘I want to see Mr. Watkins Tottle,’ said Parsons.

‘It’s the gentleman that come in this morning, Jem,’ screamed a voice
from the top of the kitchen-stairs, which belonged to a dirty woman who
had just brought her chin to a level with the passage-floor.  ‘The
gentleman’s in the coffee-room.’

‘Up-stairs, sir,’ said the boy, just opening the door wide enough to let
Parsons in without squeezing him, and double-locking it the moment he had
made his way through the aperture—‘First floor—door on the left.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons thus instructed, ascended the uncarpeted and
ill-lighted staircase, and after giving several subdued taps at the
before-mentioned ‘door on the left,’ which were rendered inaudible by the
hum of voices within the room, and the hissing noise attendant on some
frying operations which were carrying on below stairs, turned the handle,
and entered the apartment.  Being informed that the unfortunate object of
his visit had just gone up-stairs to write a letter, he had leisure to
sit down and observe the scene before him.

The room—which was a small, confined den—was partitioned off into boxes,
like the common-room of some inferior eating-house.  The dirty floor had
evidently been as long a stranger to the scrubbing-brush as to carpet or
floor-cloth: and the ceiling was completely blackened by the flare of the
oil-lamp by which the room was lighted at night.  The gray ashes on the
edges of the tables, and the cigar ends which were plentifully scattered
about the dusty grate, fully accounted for the intolerable smell of
tobacco which pervaded the place; and the empty glasses and
half-saturated slices of lemon on the tables, together with the porter
pots beneath them, bore testimony to the frequent libations in which the
individuals who honoured Mr. Solomon Jacobs by a temporary residence in
his house indulged.  Over the mantel-shelf was a paltry looking-glass,
extending about half the width of the chimney-piece; but by way of
counterpoise, the ashes were confined by a rusty fender about twice as
long as the hearth.

From this cheerful room itself, the attention of Mr. Gabriel Parsons was
naturally directed to its inmates.  In one of the boxes two men were
playing at cribbage with a very dirty pack of cards, some with blue, some
with green, and some with red backs—selections from decayed packs.  The
cribbage board had been long ago formed on the table by some ingenious
visitor with the assistance of a pocket-knife and a two-pronged fork,
with which the necessary number of holes had been made in the table at
proper distances for the reception of the wooden pegs.  In another box a
stout, hearty-looking man, of about forty, was eating some dinner which
his wife—an equally comfortable-looking personage—had brought him in a
basket: and in a third, a genteel-looking young man was talking
earnestly, and in a low tone, to a young female, whose face was concealed
by a thick veil, but whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons immediately set down in his
own mind as the debtor’s wife.  A young fellow of vulgar manners, dressed
in the very extreme of the prevailing fashion, was pacing up and down the
room, with a lighted cigar in his mouth and his hands in his pockets,
ever and anon puffing forth volumes of smoke, and occasionally applying,
with much apparent relish, to a pint pot, the contents of which were
‘chilling’ on the hob.

‘Fourpence more, by gum!’ exclaimed one of the cribbage-players, lighting
a pipe, and addressing his adversary at the close of the game; ‘one ’ud
think you’d got luck in a pepper-cruet, and shook it out when you wanted
it.’

‘Well, that a’n’t a bad un,’ replied the other, who was a horse-dealer
from Islington.

‘No; I’m blessed if it is,’ interposed the jolly-looking fellow, who,
having finished his dinner, was drinking out of the same glass as his
wife, in truly conjugal harmony, some hot gin-and-water.  The faithful
partner of his cares had brought a plentiful supply of the
anti-temperance fluid in a large flat stone bottle, which looked like a
half-gallon jar that had been successfully tapped for the dropsy.
‘You’re a rum chap, you are, Mr. Walker—will you dip your beak into this,
sir?’

‘Thank’ee, sir,’ replied Mr. Walker, leaving his box, and advancing to
the other to accept the proffered glass.  ‘Here’s your health, sir, and
your good ’ooman’s here.  Gentlemen all—yours, and better luck still.
Well, Mr. Willis,’ continued the facetious prisoner, addressing the young
man with the cigar, ‘you seem rather down to-day—floored, as one may say.
What’s the matter, sir?  Never say die, you know.’

‘Oh! I’m all right,’ replied the smoker.  ‘I shall be bailed out
to-morrow.’

‘Shall you, though?’ inquired the other.  ‘Damme, I wish I could say the
same.  I am as regularly over head and ears as the Royal George, and
stand about as much chance of being _bailed out_.  Ha! ha! ha!’

‘Why,’ said the young man, stopping short, and speaking in a very loud
key, ‘look at me.  What d’ye think I’ve stopped here two days for?’

‘’Cause you couldn’t get out, I suppose,’ interrupted Mr. Walker, winking
to the company.  ‘Not that you’re exactly obliged to stop here, only you
can’t help it.  No compulsion, you know, only you must—eh?’

‘A’n’t he a rum un?’ inquired the delighted individual, who had offered
the gin-and-water, of his wife.

‘Oh, he just is!’ replied the lady, who was quite overcome by these
flashes of imagination.

‘Why, my case,’ frowned the victim, throwing the end of his cigar into
the fire, and illustrating his argument by knocking the bottom of the pot
on the table, at intervals,—‘my case is a very singular one.  My father’s
a man of large property, and I am his son.’

‘That’s a very strange circumstance!’ interrupted the jocose Mr. Walker,
_en passant_.

‘—I am his son, and have received a liberal education.  I don’t owe no
man nothing—not the value of a farthing, but I was induced, you see, to
put my name to some bills for a friend—bills to a large amount, I may say
a very large amount, for which I didn’t receive no consideration.  What’s
the consequence?’

‘Why, I suppose the bills went out, and you came in.  The acceptances
weren’t taken up, and you were, eh?’ inquired Walker.

‘To be sure,’ replied the liberally educated young gentleman.  ‘To be
sure; and so here I am, locked up for a matter of twelve hundred pound.’

‘Why don’t you ask your old governor to stump up?’ inquired Walker, with
a somewhat sceptical air.

‘Oh! bless you, he’d never do it,’ replied the other, in a tone of
expostulation—‘Never!’

‘Well, it is very odd to—be—sure,’ interposed the owner of the flat
bottle, mixing another glass, ‘but I’ve been in difficulties, as one may
say, now for thirty year.  I went to pieces when I was in a milk-walk,
thirty year ago; arterwards, when I was a fruiterer, and kept a spring
wan; and arter that again in the coal and ’tatur line—but all that time I
never see a youngish chap come into a place of this kind, who wasn’t
going out again directly, and who hadn’t been arrested on bills which
he’d given a friend and for which he’d received nothing whatsomever—not a
fraction.’

‘Oh! it’s always the cry,’ said Walker.  ‘I can’t see the use on it;
that’s what makes me so wild.  Why, I should have a much better opinion
of an individual, if he’d say at once in an honourable and gentlemanly
manner as he’d done everybody he possibly could.’

‘Ay, to be sure,’ interposed the horse-dealer, with whose notions of
bargain and sale the axiom perfectly coincided, ‘so should I.’  The young
gentleman, who had given rise to these observations, was on the point of
offering a rather angry reply to these sneers, but the rising of the
young man before noticed, and of the female who had been sitting by him,
to leave the room, interrupted the conversation.  She had been weeping
bitterly, and the noxious atmosphere of the room acting upon her excited
feelings and delicate frame, rendered the support of her companion
necessary as they quitted it together.

There was an air of superiority about them both, and something in their
appearance so unusual in such a place, that a respectful silence was
observed until the _whirr—r—bang_ of the spring door announced that they
were out of hearing.  It was broken by the wife of the ex-fruiterer.

‘Poor creetur!’ said she, quenching a sigh in a rivulet of gin-and-water.
‘She’s very young.’

‘She’s a nice-looking ’ooman too,’ added the horse-dealer.

‘What’s he in for, Ikey?’ inquired Walker, of an individual who was
spreading a cloth with numerous blotches of mustard upon it, on one of
the tables, and whom Mr. Gabriel Parsons had no difficulty in recognising
as the man who had called upon him in the morning.

‘Vy,’ responded the factotum, ‘it’s one of the rummiest rigs you ever
heard on.  He come in here last Vensday, which by-the-bye he’s a-going
over the water to-night—hows’ever that’s neither here nor there.  You see
I’ve been a going back’ards and for’ards about his business, and ha’
managed to pick up some of his story from the servants and them; and so
far as I can make it out, it seems to be summat to this here effect—’

‘Cut it short, old fellow,’ interrupted Walker, who knew from former
experience that he of the top-boots was neither very concise nor
intelligible in his narratives.

‘Let me alone,’ replied Ikey, ‘and I’ll ha’ wound up, and made my lucky
in five seconds.  This here young gen’lm’n’s father—so I’m told, mind
ye—and the father o’ the young voman, have always been on very bad,
out-and-out, rig’lar knock-me-down sort o’ terms; but somehow or another,
when he was a wisitin’ at some gentlefolk’s house, as he knowed at
college, he came into contract with the young lady.  He seed her several
times, and then he up and said he’d keep company with her, if so be as
she vos agreeable.  Vell, she vos as sweet upon him as he vos upon her,
and so I s’pose they made it all right; for they got married ’bout six
months arterwards, unbeknown, mind ye, to the two fathers—leastways so
I’m told.  When they heard on it—my eyes, there was such a combustion!
Starvation vos the very least that vos to be done to ’em.  The young
gen’lm’n’s father cut him off vith a bob, ’cos he’d cut himself off vith
a wife; and the young lady’s father he behaved even worser and more
unnat’ral, for he not only blow’d her up dreadful, and swore he’d never
see her again, but he employed a chap as I knows—and as you knows, Mr.
Valker, a precious sight too well—to go about and buy up the bills and
them things on which the young husband, thinking his governor ’ud come
round agin, had raised the vind just to blow himself on vith for a time;
besides vich, he made all the interest he could to set other people agin
him.  Consequence vos, that he paid as long as he could; but things he
never expected to have to meet till he’d had time to turn himself round,
come fast upon him, and he vos nabbed.  He vos brought here, as I said
afore, last Vensday, and I think there’s about—ah, half-a-dozen detainers
agin him down-stairs now.  I have been,’ added Ikey, ‘in the purfession
these fifteen year, and I never met vith such windictiveness afore!’

‘Poor creeturs!’ exclaimed the coal-dealer’s wife once more: again
resorting to the same excellent prescription for nipping a sigh in the
bud.  ‘Ah! when they’ve seen as much trouble as I and my old man here
have, they’ll be as comfortable under it as we are.’

‘The young lady’s a pretty creature,’ said Walker, ‘only she’s a little
too delicate for my taste—there ain’t enough of her.  As to the young
cove, he may be very respectable and what not, but he’s too down in the
mouth for me—he ain’t game.’

‘Game!’ exclaimed Ikey, who had been altering the position of a
green-handled knife and fork at least a dozen times, in order that he
might remain in the room under the pretext of having something to do.
‘He’s game enough ven there’s anything to be fierce about; but who could
be game as you call it, Mr. Walker, with a pale young creetur like that,
hanging about him?—It’s enough to drive any man’s heart into his boots to
see ’em together—and no mistake at all about it.  I never shall forget
her first comin’ here; he wrote to her on the Thursday to come—I know he
did, ’cos I took the letter.  Uncommon fidgety he was all day to be sure,
and in the evening he goes down into the office, and he says to Jacobs,
says he, “Sir, can I have the loan of a private room for a few minutes
this evening, without incurring any additional expense—just to see my
wife in?” says he.  Jacobs looked as much as to say—“Strike me bountiful
if you ain’t one of the modest sort!” but as the gen’lm’n who had been in
the back parlour had just gone out, and had paid for it for that day, he
says—werry grave—“Sir,” says he, “it’s agin our rules to let private
rooms to our lodgers on gratis terms, but,” says he, “for a gentleman, I
don’t mind breaking through them for once.”  So then he turns round to
me, and says, “Ikey, put two mould candles in the back parlour, and
charge ’em to this gen’lm’n’s account,” vich I did.  Vell, by-and-by a
hackney-coach comes up to the door, and there, sure enough, was the young
lady, wrapped up in a hopera-cloak, as it might be, and all alone.  I
opened the gate that night, so I went up when the coach come, and he vos
a waitin’ at the parlour door—and wasn’t he a trembling, neither?  The
poor creetur see him, and could hardly walk to meet him.  “Oh, Harry!”
she says, “that it should have come to this; and all for my sake,” says
she, putting her hand upon his shoulder.  So he puts his arm round her
pretty little waist, and leading her gently a little way into the room,
so that he might be able to shut the door, he says, so kind and
soft-like—“Why, Kate,” says he—’

‘Here’s the gentleman you want,’ said Ikey, abruptly breaking off in his
story, and introducing Mr. Gabriel Parsons to the crest-fallen Watkins
Tottle, who at that moment entered the room.  Watkins advanced with a
wooden expression of passive endurance, and accepted the hand which Mr.
Gabriel Parsons held out.

‘I want to speak to you,’ said Gabriel, with a look strongly expressive
of his dislike of the company.

‘This way,’ replied the imprisoned one, leading the way to the front
drawing-room, where rich debtors did the luxurious at the rate of a
couple of guineas a day.

‘Well, here I am,’ said Mr. Watkins, as he sat down on the sofa; and
placing the palms of his hands on his knees, anxiously glanced at his
friend’s countenance.

‘Yes; and here you’re likely to be,’ said Gabriel, coolly, as he rattled
the money in his unmentionable pockets, and looked out of the window.

‘What’s the amount with the costs?’ inquired Parsons, after an awkward
pause.

‘Have you any money?’

‘Nine and sixpence halfpenny.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons walked up and down the room for a few seconds, before
he could make up his mind to disclose the plan he had formed; he was
accustomed to drive hard bargains, but was always most anxious to conceal
his avarice.  At length he stopped short, and said, ‘Tottle, you owe me
fifty pounds.’

‘I do.’

‘And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe it to me.’

‘I fear I am.’

‘Though you have every disposition to pay me if you could?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘listen: here’s my proposition.  You
know my way of old.  Accept it—yes or no—I will or I won’t.  I’ll pay the
debt and costs, and I’ll lend you 10_l._ more (which, added to your
annuity, will enable you to carry on the war well) if you’ll give me your
note of hand to pay me one hundred and fifty pounds within six months
after you are married to Miss Lillerton.’

‘My dear—’

‘Stop a minute—on one condition; and that is, that you propose to Miss
Lillerton at once.’

‘At once!  My dear Parsons, consider.’

‘It’s for you to consider, not me.  She knows you well from reputation,
though she did not know you personally until lately.  Notwithstanding all
her maiden modesty, I think she’d be devilish glad to get married out of
hand with as little delay as possible.  My wife has sounded her on the
subject, and she has confessed.’

‘What—what?’ eagerly interrupted the enamoured Watkins.

‘Why,’ replied Parsons, ‘to say exactly what she has confessed, would be
rather difficult, because they only spoke in hints, and so forth; but my
wife, who is no bad judge in these cases, declared to me that what she
had confessed was as good as to say that she was not insensible of your
merits—in fact, that no other man should have her.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and rang the bell.

‘What’s that for?’ inquired Parsons.

‘I want to send the man for the bill stamp,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Then you’ve made up your mind?’

‘I have,’—and they shook hands most cordially.  The note of hand was
given—the debt and costs were paid—Ikey was satisfied for his trouble,
and the two friends soon found themselves on that side of Mr. Solomon
Jacobs’s establishment, on which most of his visitors were very happy
when they found themselves once again—to wit, the _out_side.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together—‘you
shall have an opportunity to make the disclosure to-night, and mind you
speak out, Tottle.’

‘I will—I will!’ replied Watkins, valorously.

‘How I should like to see you together,’ ejaculated Mr. Gabriel
Parsons.—‘What fun!’ and he laughed so long and so loudly, that he
disconcerted Mr. Watkins Tottle, and frightened the horse.

‘There’s Fanny and your intended walking about on the lawn,’ said
Gabriel, as they approached the house.  ‘Mind your eye, Tottle.’

‘Never fear,’ replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made his way to the spot
where the ladies were walking.

‘Here’s Mr. Tottle, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, addressing Miss
Lillerton.  The lady turned quickly round, and acknowledged his courteous
salute with the same sort of confusion that Watkins had noticed on their
first interview, but with something like a slight expression of
disappointment or carelessness.

‘Did you see how glad she was to see you?’ whispered Parsons to his
friend.

‘Why, I really thought she looked as if she would rather have seen
somebody else,’ replied Tottle.

‘Pooh, nonsense!’ whispered Parsons again—‘it’s always the way with the
women, young or old.  They never show how delighted they are to see those
whose presence makes their hearts beat.  It’s the way with the whole sex,
and no man should have lived to your time of life without knowing it.
Fanny confessed it to me, when we were first married, over and over
again—see what it is to have a wife.’

‘Certainly,’ whispered Tottle, whose courage was vanishing fast.

‘Well, now, you’d better begin to pave the way,’ said Parsons, who,
having invested some money in the speculation, assumed the office of
director.

‘Yes, yes, I will—presently,’ replied Tottle, greatly flurried.

‘Say something to her, man,’ urged Parsons again.  ‘Confound it! pay her
a compliment, can’t you?’

‘No! not till after dinner,’ replied the bashful Tottle, anxious to
postpone the evil moment.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘you are really very polite; you
stay away the whole morning, after promising to take us out, and when you
do come home, you stand whispering together and take no notice of us.’

‘We were talking of the _business_, my dear, which detained us this
morning,’ replied Parsons, looking significantly at Tottle.

‘Dear me! how very quickly the morning has gone,’ said Miss Lillerton,
referring to the gold watch, which was wound up on state occasions,
whether it required it or not.

‘I think it has passed very slowly,’ mildly suggested Tottle.

(‘That’s right—bravo!’) whispered Parsons.

‘Indeed!’ said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic surprise.

‘I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from your society,
madam,’ said Watkins, ‘and that of Mrs. Parsons.’

During this short dialogue, the ladies had been leading the way to the
house.

‘What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last compliment for?’
inquired Parsons, as they followed together; ‘it quite spoilt the
effect.’

‘Oh! it really would have been too broad without,’ replied Watkins
Tottle, ‘much too broad!’

‘He’s mad!’ Parsons whispered his wife, as they entered the drawing-room,
‘mad from modesty.’

‘Dear me!’ ejaculated the lady, ‘I never heard of such a thing.’

‘You’ll find we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,’ said Mrs.
Parsons, when they sat down to table: ‘Miss Lillerton is one of us, and,
of course, we make no stranger of you.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle expressed a hope that the Parsons family never would
make a stranger of him; and wished internally that his bashfulness would
allow him to feel a little less like a stranger himself.

‘Take off the covers, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons, directing the shifting
of the scenery with great anxiety.  The order was obeyed, and a pair of
boiled fowls, with tongue and et ceteras, were displayed at the top, and
a fillet of veal at the bottom.  On one side of the table two green
sauce-tureens, with ladles of the same, were setting to each other in a
green dish; and on the other was a curried rabbit, in a brown suit,
turned up with lemon.

‘Miss Lillerton, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘shall I assist you?’

‘Thank you, no; I think I’ll trouble Mr. Tottle.’

Watkins started—trembled—helped the rabbit—and broke a tumbler.  The
countenance of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles
previously, underwent an awful change.

‘Extremely sorry,’ stammered Watkins, assisting himself to currie and
parsley and butter, in the extremity of his confusion.

‘Not the least consequence,’ replied Mrs. Parsons, in a tone which
implied that it was of the greatest consequence possible,—directing aside
the researches of the boy, who was groping under the table for the bits
of broken glass.

‘I presume,’ said Miss Lillerton, ‘that Mr. Tottle is aware of the
interest which bachelors usually pay in such cases; a dozen glasses for
one is the lowest penalty.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons gave his friend an admonitory tread on the toe.  Here
was a clear hint that the sooner he ceased to be a bachelor and
emancipated himself from such penalties, the better.  Mr. Watkins Tottle
viewed the observation in the same light, and challenged Mrs. Parsons to
take wine, with a degree of presence of mind, which, under all the
circumstances, was really extraordinary.

‘Miss Lillerton,’ said Gabriel, ‘may I have the pleasure?’

‘I shall be most happy.’

‘Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the decanter.  Thank
you.’  (The usual pantomimic ceremony of nodding and sipping gone
through)—

‘Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk?’ inquired the master of the house, who
was burning to tell one of his seven stock stories.

‘No,’ responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving clause, ‘but I’ve
been in Devonshire.’

‘Ah!’ replied Gabriel, ‘it was in Suffolk that a rather singular
circumstance happened to me many years ago.  Did you ever happen to hear
me mention it?’

Mr. Watkins Tottle _had_ happened to hear his friend mention it some four
hundred times.  Of course he expressed great curiosity, and evinced the
utmost impatience to hear the story again.  Mr. Gabriel Parsons forthwith
attempted to proceed, in spite of the interruptions to which, as our
readers must frequently have observed, the master of the house is often
exposed in such cases.  We will attempt to give them an idea of our
meaning.

‘When I was in Suffolk—’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.

‘Take off the fowls first, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons.  ‘I beg your
pardon, my dear.’

‘When I was in Suffolk,’ resumed Mr. Parsons, with an impatient glance at
his wife, who pretended not to observe it, ‘which is now years ago,
business led me to the town of Bury St. Edmund’s.  I had to stop at the
principal places in my way, and therefore, for the sake of convenience, I
travelled in a gig.  I left Sudbury one dark night—it was winter
time—about nine o’clock; the rain poured in torrents, the wind howled
among the trees that skirted the roadside, and I was obliged to proceed
at a foot-pace, for I could hardly see my hand before me, it was so
dark—’

‘John,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow voice, ‘don’t spill
that gravy.’

‘Fanny,’ said Parsons impatiently, ‘I wish you’d defer these domestic
reproofs to some more suitable time.  Really, my dear, these constant
interruptions are very annoying.’

‘My dear, I didn’t interrupt you,’ said Mrs. Parsons.

‘But, my dear, you _did_ interrupt me,’ remonstrated Mr. Parsons.

‘How very absurd you are, my love!  I must give directions to the
servants; I am quite sure that if I sat here and allowed John to spill
the gravy over the new carpet, you’d be the first to find fault when you
saw the stain to-morrow morning.’

‘Well,’ continued Gabriel with a resigned air, as if he knew there was no
getting over the point about the carpet, ‘I was just saying, it was so
dark that I could hardly see my hand before me.  The road was very
lonely, and I assure you, Tottle (this was a device to arrest the
wandering attention of that individual, which was distracted by a
confidential communication between Mrs. Parsons and Martha, accompanied
by the delivery of a large bunch of keys), I assure you, Tottle, I became
somehow impressed with a sense of the loneliness of my situation—’

‘Pie to your master,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the
servant.

‘Now, pray, my dear,’ remonstrated Parsons once more, very pettishly.
Mrs. P. turned up her hands and eyebrows, and appealed in dumb show to
Miss Lillerton.  ‘As I turned a corner of the road,’ resumed Gabriel,
‘the horse stopped short, and reared tremendously.  I pulled up, jumped
out, ran to his head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle of
the road, with his eyes fixed on the sky.  I thought he was dead; but no,
he was alive, and there appeared to be nothing the matter with him.  He
jumped up, and putting his hand to his chest, and fixing upon me the most
earnest gaze you can imagine, exclaimed—’

‘Pudding here,’ said Mrs. Parsons.

‘Oh! it’s no use,’ exclaimed the host, now rendered desperate.  ‘Here,
Tottle; a glass of wine.  It’s useless to attempt relating anything when
Mrs. Parsons is present.’

This attack was received in the usual way.  Mrs. Parsons talked _to_ Miss
Lillerton and _at_ her better half; expatiated on the impatience of men
generally; hinted that her husband was peculiarly vicious in this
respect, and wound up by insinuating that she must be one of the best
tempers that ever existed, or she never could put up with it.  Really
what she had to endure sometimes, was more than any one who saw her in
every-day life could by possibility suppose.—The story was now a painful
subject, and therefore Mr. Parsons declined to enter into any details,
and contented himself by stating that the man was a maniac, who had
escaped from a neighbouring mad-house.

The cloth was removed; the ladies soon afterwards retired, and Miss
Lillerton played the piano in the drawing-room overhead, very loudly, for
the edification of the visitor.  Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel
Parsons sat chatting comfortably enough, until the conclusion of the
second bottle, when the latter, in proposing an adjournment to the
drawing-room, informed Watkins that he had concerted a plan with his
wife, for leaving him and Miss Lillerton alone, soon after tea.

‘I say,’ said Tottle, as they went up-stairs, ‘don’t you think it would
be better if we put it off till-till-to-morrow?’

‘Don’t _you_ think it would have been much better if I had left you in
that wretched hole I found you in this morning?’ retorted Parsons
bluntly.

‘Well—well—I only made a suggestion,’ said poor Watkins Tottle, with a
deep sigh.

Tea was soon concluded, and Miss Lillerton, drawing a small work-table on
one side of the fire, and placing a little wooden frame upon it,
something like a miniature clay-mill without the horse, was soon busily
engaged in making a watch-guard with brown silk.

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Parsons, starting up with well-feigned
surprise, ‘I’ve forgotten those confounded letters.  Tottle, I know
you’ll excuse me.’

If Tottle had been a free agent, he would have allowed no one to leave
the room on any pretence, except himself.  As it was, however, he was
obliged to look cheerful when Parsons quitted the apartment.

He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into the room,
with—‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted.’

Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully after her, and Mr.
Watkins Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton.

For the first five minutes there was a dead silence.—Mr. Watkins Tottle
was thinking how he should begin, and Miss Lillerton appeared to be
thinking of nothing.  The fire was burning low; Mr. Watkins Tottle
stirred it, and put some coals on.

‘Hem!’ coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the fair
creature had spoken.  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said he.

‘Eh?’

‘I thought you spoke.’

‘No.’

‘Oh!’

‘There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you would like to look
at them,’ said Miss Lillerton, after the lapse of another five minutes.

‘No, thank you,’ returned Watkins; and then he added, with a courage
which was perfectly astonishing, even to himself, ‘Madam, that is Miss
Lillerton, I wish to speak to you.’

‘To me!’ said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands, and
sliding her chair back a few paces.—‘Speak—to me!’

‘To you, madam—and on the subject of the state of your affections.’  The
lady hastily rose and would have left the room; but Mr. Watkins Tottle
gently detained her by the hand, and holding it as far from him as the
joint length of their arms would permit, he thus proceeded: ‘Pray do not
misunderstand me, or suppose that I am led to address you, after so short
an acquaintance, by any feeling of my own merits—for merits I have none
which could give me a claim to your hand.  I hope you will acquit me of
any presumption when I explain that I have been acquainted through Mrs.
Parsons, with the state—that is, that Mrs. Parsons has told me—at least,
not Mrs. Parsons, but—’ here Watkins began to wander, but Miss Lillerton
relieved him.

‘Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has acquainted you
with my feeling—my affection—I mean my respect, for an individual of the
opposite sex?’

‘She has.’

‘Then, what?’ inquired Miss Lillerton, averting her face, with a girlish
air, ‘what could induce _you_ to seek such an interview as this?  What
can your object be?  How can I promote your happiness, Mr. Tottle?’

Here was the time for a flourish—‘By allowing me,’ replied Watkins,
falling bump on his knees, and breaking two brace-buttons and a
waistcoat-string, in the act—‘By allowing me to be your slave, your
servant—in short, by unreservedly making me the confidant of your heart’s
feelings—may I say for the promotion of your own happiness—may I say, in
order that you may become the wife of a kind and affectionate husband?’

‘Disinterested creature!’ exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in a
white pocket-handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border.

Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew all, she might possibly
alter her opinion on this last point.  He raised the tip of her middle
finger ceremoniously to his lips, and got off his knees, as gracefully as
he could.  ‘My information was correct?’ he tremulously inquired, when he
was once more on his feet.

‘It was.’  Watkins elevated his hands, and looked up to the ornament in
the centre of the ceiling, which had been made for a lamp, by way of
expressing his rapture.

‘Our situation, Mr. Tottle,’ resumed the lady, glancing at him through
one of the eyelet-holes, ‘is a most peculiar and delicate one.’

‘It is,’ said Mr. Tottle.

‘Our acquaintance has been of _so_ short duration,’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Only a week,’ assented Watkins Tottle.

‘Oh! more than that,’ exclaimed the lady, in a tone of surprise.

‘Indeed!’ said Tottle.

‘More than a month—more than two months!’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Rather odd, this,’ thought Watkins.

‘Oh!’ he said, recollecting Parsons’s assurance that she had known him
from report, ‘I understand.  But, my dear madam, pray, consider.  The
longer this acquaintance has existed, the less reason is there for delay
now.  Why not at once fix a period for gratifying the hopes of your
devoted admirer?’

‘It has been represented to me again and again that this is the course I
ought to pursue,’ replied Miss Lillerton, ‘but pardon my feelings of
delicacy, Mr. Tottle—pray excuse this embarrassment—I have peculiar ideas
on such subjects, and I am quite sure that I never could summon up
fortitude enough to name the day to my future husband.’

‘Then allow _me_ to name it,’ said Tottle eagerly.

‘I should like to fix it myself,’ replied Miss Lillerton, bashfully, ‘but
I cannot do so without at once resorting to a third party.’

‘A third party!’ thought Watkins Tottle; ‘who the deuce is that to be, I
wonder!’

‘Mr. Tottle,’ continued Miss Lillerton, ‘you have made me a most
disinterested and kind offer—that offer I accept.  Will you at once be
the bearer of a note from me to—to Mr. Timson?’

‘Mr. Timson!’ said Watkins.

‘After what has passed between us,’ responded Miss Lillerton, still
averting her head, ‘you must understand whom I mean; Mr. Timson,
the—the—clergyman.’

‘Mr. Timson, the clergyman!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, in a state of
inexpressible beatitude, and positive wonder at his own success.  ‘Angel!
Certainly—this moment!’

‘I’ll prepare it immediately,’ said Miss Lillerton, making for the door;
‘the events of this day have flurried me so much, Mr. Tottle, that I
shall not leave my room again this evening; I will send you the note by
the servant.’

‘Stay,—stay,’ cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most respectful
distance from the lady; ‘when shall we meet again?’

‘Oh!  Mr. Tottle,’ replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, ‘when _we_ are
married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too much;’ and she
left the room.

Mr. Watkins Tottle flung himself into an arm-chair, and indulged in the
most delicious reveries of future bliss, in which the idea of ‘Five
hundred pounds per annum, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it
by her last will and testament,’ was somehow or other the foremost.  He
had gone through the interview so well, and it had terminated so
admirably, that he almost began to wish he had expressly stipulated for
the settlement of the annual five hundred on himself.

‘May I come in?’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door.

‘You may,’ replied Watkins.

‘Well, have you done it?’ anxiously inquired Gabriel.

‘Have I done it!’ said Watkins Tottle.  ‘Hush—I’m going to the
clergyman.’

‘No!’ said Parsons.  ‘How well you have managed it!’

‘Where does Timson live?’ inquired Watkins.

‘At his uncle’s,’ replied Gabriel, ‘just round the lane.  He’s waiting
for a living, and has been assisting his uncle here for the last two or
three months.  But how well you have done it—I didn’t think you could
have carried it off so!’

Mr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate that the Richardsonian
principle was the best on which love could possibly be made, when he was
interrupted by the entrance of Martha, with a little pink note folded
like a fancy cocked-hat.

‘Miss Lillerton’s compliments,’ said Martha, as she delivered it into
Tottle’s hands, and vanished.

‘Do you observe the delicacy?’ said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel
Parsons.  ‘_Compliments_, not _love_, by the servant, eh?’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn’t exactly know what reply to make, so he poked
the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr.
Watkins Tottle.

‘Come,’ said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this
practical jest, had subsided, ‘we’ll be off at once—let’s lose no time.’

‘Capital!’ echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the
garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson.

‘Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr.
Charles Timson’s uncle’s man.

‘Mr. Charles _is_ at home,’ replied the man, stammering; ‘but he desired
me to say he couldn’t be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.’

‘_I_ am not a parishioner,’ replied Watkins.

‘Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?’ inquired Parsons, thrusting
himself forward.

‘No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he’s not exactly writing a sermon, but he is
practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not
to be disturbed.’

‘Say I’m here,’ replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; ‘Mr.
Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.’

They were shown into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver his
message.  The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps were
heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook hands
with Parsons with the utmost cordiality.

‘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 found to
me, and says, “Ikey, put two mould candles in the back parlour, and
charge ’em to this gen’lm’n’s account,” vich I did.  Vell, by-and-by a
hackney-coach comes up to the door, and there, sure enough, was the young
lady, wrapped up in a hopera-cloak, as it might be, and all alone.  I
opened the gate that night, so I went up when the coach come, and he vos
a waitin’ at the parlour door—and wasn’t he a trembling, neither?  The
poor creetur see him, and could hardly walk to meet him.  “Oh, Harry!”
she says, “that it should have come to this; and all for my sake,” says
she, putting her hand upon his shoulder.  So he puts his arm round her
pretty little waist, and leading her gently a little way into the room,
so that he might be able to shut the door, he says, so kind and
soft-like—“Why, Kate,” says he—’

‘Here’s the gentleman you want,’ said Ikey, abruptly breaking off in his
story, and introducing Mr. Gabriel Parsons to the crest-fallen Watkins
Tottle, who at that moment entered the room.  Watkins advanced with a
wooden expression of passive endurance, and accepted the hand which Mr.
Gabriel Parsons held out.

‘I want to speak to you,’ said Gabriel, with a look strongly expressive
of his dislike of the company.

‘This way,’ replied the imprisoned one, leading the way to the front
drawing-room, where rich debtors did the luxurious at the rate of a
couple of guineas a day.

‘Well, here I am,’ said Mr. Watkins, as he sat down on the sofa; and
placing the palms of his hands on his knees, anxiously glanced at his
friend’s countenance.

‘Yes; and here you’re likely to be,’ said Gabriel, coolly, as he rattled
the money in his unmentionable pockets, and looked out of the window.

‘What’s the amount with the costs?’ inquired Parsons, after an awkward
pause.

‘Have you any money?’

‘Nine and sixpence halfpenny.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons walked up and down the room for a few seconds, before
he could make up his mind to disclose the plan he had formed; he was
accustomed to drive hard bargains, but was always most anxious to conceal
his avarice.  At length he stopped short, and said, ‘Tottle, you owe me
fifty pounds.’

‘I do.’

‘And from all I see, I infer that you are likely to owe it to me.’

‘I fear I am.’

‘Though you have every disposition to pay me if you could?’

‘Certainly.’

‘Then,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, ‘listen: here’s my proposition.  You
know my way of old.  Accept it—yes or no—I will or I won’t.  I’ll pay the
debt and costs, and I’ll lend you 10_l._ more (which, added to your
annuity, will enable you to carry on the war well) if you’ll give me your
note of hand to pay me one hundred and fifty pounds within six months
after you are married to Miss Lillerton.’

‘My dear—’

‘Stop a minute—on one condition; and that is, that you propose to Miss
Lillerton at once.’

‘At once!  My dear Parsons, consider.’

‘It’s for you to consider, not me.  She knows you well from reputation,
though she did not know you personally until lately.  Notwithstanding all
her maiden modesty, I think she’d be devilish glad to get married out of
hand with as little delay as possible.  My wife has sounded her on the
subject, and she has confessed.’

‘What—what?’ eagerly interrupted the enamoured Watkins.

‘Why,’ replied Parsons, ‘to say exactly what she has confessed, would be
rather difficult, because they only spoke in hints, and so forth; but my
wife, who is no bad judge in these cases, declared to me that what she
had confessed was as good as to say that she was not insensible of your
merits—in fact, that no other man should have her.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle rose hastily from his seat, and rang the bell.

‘What’s that for?’ inquired Parsons.

‘I want to send the man for the bill stamp,’ replied Mr. Watkins Tottle.

‘Then you’ve made up your mind?’

‘I have,’—and they shook hands most cordially.  The note of hand was
given—the debt and costs were paid—Ikey was satisfied for his trouble,
and the two friends soon found themselves on that side of Mr. Solomon
Jacobs’s establishment, on which most of his visitors were very happy
when they found themselves once again—to wit, the outside.

‘Now,’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, as they drove to Norwood together—‘you
shall have an opportunity to make the disclosure to-night, and mind you
speak out, Tottle.’

‘I will—I will!’ replied Watkins, valorously.

‘How I should like to see you together,’ ejaculated Mr. Gabriel
Parsons.—‘What fun!’ and he laughed so long and so loudly, that he
disconcerted Mr. Watkins Tottle, and frightened the horse.

‘There’s Fanny and your intended walking about on the lawn,’ said
Gabriel, as they approached the house.  ‘Mind your eye, Tottle.’

‘Never fear,’ replied Watkins, resolutely, as he made his way to the spot
where the ladies were walking.

‘Here’s Mr. Tottle, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, addressing Miss
Lillerton.  The lady turned quickly round, and acknowledged his courteous
salute with the same sort of confusion that Watkins had noticed on their
first interview, but with something like a slight expression of
disappointment or carelessness.

‘Did you see how glad she was to see you?’ whispered Parsons to his
friend.

‘Why, I really thought she looked as if she would rather have seen
somebody else,’ replied Tottle.

‘Pooh, nonsense!’ whispered Parsons again—‘it’s always the way with the
women, young or old.  They never show how delighted they are to see those
whose presence makes their hearts beat.  It’s the way with the whole sex,
and no man should have lived to your time of life without knowing it.
Fanny confessed it to me, when we were first married, over and over
again—see what it is to have a wife.’

‘Certainly,’ whispered Tottle, whose courage was vanishing fast.

‘Well, now, you’d better begin to pave the way,’ said Parsons, who,
having invested some money in the speculation, assumed the office of
director.

‘Yes, yes, I will—presently,’ replied Tottle, greatly flurried.

‘Say something to her, man,’ urged Parsons again.  ‘Confound it! pay her
a compliment, can’t you?’

‘No! not till after dinner,’ replied the bashful Tottle, anxious to
postpone the evil moment.

‘Well, gentlemen,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘you are really very polite; you
stay away the whole morning, after promising to take us out, and when you
do come home, you stand whispering together and take no notice of us.’

‘We were talking of the _business_, my dear, which detained us this
morning,’ replied Parsons, looking significantly at Tottle.

‘Dear me! how very quickly the morning has gone,’ said Miss Lillerton,
referring to the gold watch, which was wound up on state occasions,
whether it required it or not.

‘I think it has passed very slowly,’ mildly suggested Tottle.

(‘That’s right—bravo!’) whispered Parsons.

‘Indeed!’ said Miss Lillerton, with an air of majestic surprise.

‘I can only impute it to my unavoidable absence from your society,
madam,’ said Watkins, ‘and that of Mrs. Parsons.’

During this short dialogue, the ladies had been leading the way to the
house.

‘What the deuce did you stick Fanny into that last compliment for?’
inquired Parsons, as they followed together; ‘it quite spoilt the
effect.’

‘Oh! it really would have been too broad without,’ replied Watkins
Tottle, ‘much too broad!’

‘He’s mad!’ Parsons whispered his wife, as they entered the drawing-room,
‘mad from modesty.’

‘Dear me!’ ejaculated the lady, ‘I never heard of such a thing.’

‘You’ll find we have quite a family dinner, Mr. Tottle,’ said Mrs.
Parsons, when they sat down to table: ‘Miss Lillerton is one of us, and,
of course, we make no stranger of you.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle expressed a hope that the Parsons family never would
make a stranger of him; and wished internally that his bashfulness would
allow him to feel a little less like a stranger himself.

‘Take off the covers, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons, directing the shifting
of the scenery with great anxiety.  The order was obeyed, and a pair of
boiled fowls, with tongue and et ceteras, were displayed at the top, and
a fillet of veal at the bottom.  On one side of the table two green
sauce-tureens, with ladles of the same, were setting to each other in a
green dish; and on the other was a curried rabbit, in a brown suit,
turned up with lemon.

‘Miss Lillerton, my dear,’ said Mrs. Parsons, ‘shall I assist you?’

‘Thank you, no; I think I’ll trouble Mr. Tottle.’

Watkins started—trembled—helped the rabbit—and broke a tumbler.  The
countenance of the lady of the house, which had been all smiles
previously, underwent an awful change.

‘Extremely sorry,’ stammered Watkins, assisting himself to currie and
parsley and butter, in the extremity of his confusion.

‘Not the least consequence,’ replied Mrs. Parsons, in a tone which
implied that it was of the greatest consequence possible,—directing aside
the researches of the boy, who was groping under the table for the bits
of broken glass.

‘I presume,’ said Miss Lillerton, ‘that Mr. Tottle is aware of the
interest which bachelors usually pay in such cases; a dozen glasses for
one is the lowest penalty.’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons gave his friend an admonitory tread on the toe.  Here
was a clear hint that the sooner he ceased to be a bachelor and
emancipated himself from such penalties, the better.  Mr. Watkins Tottle
viewed the observation in the same light, and challenged Mrs. Parsons to
take wine, with a degree of presence of mind, which, under all the
circumstances, was really extraordinary.

‘Miss Lillerton,’ said Gabriel, ‘may I have the pleasure?’

‘I shall be most happy.’

‘Tottle, will you assist Miss Lillerton, and pass the decanter.  Thank
you.’  (The usual pantomimic ceremony of nodding and sipping gone
through)—

‘Tottle, were you ever in Suffolk?’ inquired the master of the house, who
was burning to tell one of his seven stock stories.

‘No,’ responded Watkins, adding, by way of a saving clause, ‘but I’ve
been in Devonshire.’

‘Ah!’ replied Gabriel, ‘it was in Suffolk that a rather singular
circumstance happened to me many years ago.  Did you ever happen to hear
me mention it?’

Mr. Watkins Tottle _had_ happened to hear his friend mention it some four
hundred times.  Of course he expressed great curiosity, and evinced the
utmost impatience to hear the story again.  Mr. Gabriel Parsons forthwith
attempted to proceed, in spite of the interruptions to which, as our
readers must frequently have observed, the master of the house is often
exposed in such cases.  We will attempt to give them an idea of our
meaning.

‘When I was in Suffolk—’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons.

‘Take off the fowls first, Martha,’ said Mrs. Parsons.  ‘I beg your
pardon, my dear.’

‘When I was in Suffolk,’ resumed Mr. Parsons, with an impatient glance at
his wife, who pretended not to observe it, ‘which is now years ago,
business led me to the town of Bury St. Edmund’s.  I had to stop at the
principal places in my way, and therefore, for the sake of convenience, I
travelled in a gig.  I left Sudbury one dark night—it was winter
time—about nine o’clock; the rain poured in torrents, the wind howled
among the trees that skirted the roadside, and I was obliged to proceed
at a foot-pace, for I could hardly see my hand before me, it was so
dark—’

‘John,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, in a low, hollow voice, ‘don’t spill
that gravy.’

‘Fanny,’ said Parsons impatiently, ‘I wish you’d defer these domestic
reproofs to some more suitable time.  Really, my dear, these constant
interruptions are very annoying.’

‘My dear, I didn’t interrupt you,’ said Mrs. Parsons.

‘But, my dear, you did interrupt me,’ remonstrated Mr. Parsons.

‘How very absurd you are, my love!  I must give directions to the
servants; I am quite sure that if I sat here and allowed John to spill
the gravy over the new carpet, you’d be the first to find fault when you
saw the stain to-morrow morning.’

‘Well,’ continued Gabriel with a resigned air, as if he knew there was no
getting over the point about the carpet, ‘I was just saying, it was so
dark that I could hardly see my hand before me.  The road was very
lonely, and I assure you, Tottle (this was a device to arrest the
wandering attention of that individual, which was distracted by a
confidential communication between Mrs. Parsons and Martha, accompanied
by the delivery of a large bunch of keys), I assure you, Tottle, I became
somehow impressed with a sense of the loneliness of my situation—’

‘Pie to your master,’ interrupted Mrs. Parsons, again directing the
servant.

‘Now, pray, my dear,’ remonstrated Parsons once more, very pettishly.
Mrs. P. turned up her hands and eyebrows, and appealed in dumb show to
Miss Lillerton.  ‘As I turned a corner of the road,’ resumed Gabriel,
‘the horse stopped short, and reared tremendously.  I pulled up, jumped
out, ran to his head, and found a man lying on his back in the middle of
the road, with his eyes fixed on the sky.  I thought he was dead; but no,
he was alive, and there appeared to be nothing the matter with him.  He
jumped up, and potting his hand to his chest, and fixing upon me the most
earnest gaze you can imagine, exclaimed—‘Pudding here,’ said Mrs.
Parsons.

‘Oh! it’s no use,’ exclaimed the host, now rendered desperate.  ‘Here,
Tottle; a glass of wine.  It’s useless to attempt relating anything when
Mrs. Parsons is present.’

This attack was received in the usual way.  Mrs. Parsons talked _to_ Miss
Lillerton and _at_ her better half; expatiated on the impatience of men
generally; hinted that her husband was peculiarly vicious in this
respect, and wound up by insinuating that she must be one of the best
tempers that ever existed, or she never could put up with it.  Really
what she had to endure sometimes, was more than any one who saw her in
every-day life could by possibility suppose.—The story was now a painful
subject, and therefore Mr. Parsons declined to enter into any details,
and contented himself by stating that the man was a maniac, who had
escaped from a neighbouring mad-house.

The cloth was removed; the ladies soon afterwards retired, and Miss
Lillerton played the piano in the drawing-room overhead, very loudly, for
the edification of the visitor.  Mr. Watkins Tottle and Mr. Gabriel
Parsons sat chatting comfortably enough, until the conclusion of the
second bottle, when the latter, in proposing an adjournment to the
drawing-room, informed Watkins that he had concerted a plan with his
wife, for leaving him and Miss Lillerton alone, soon after tea.

‘I say,’ said Tottle, as they went up-stairs, ‘don’t you think it would
be better if we put it off till-till-to-morrow?’

‘Don’t _you_ think it would have been much better if I had left you in
that wretched hole I found you in this morning?’ retorted Parsons
bluntly.

‘Well—well—I only made a suggestion,’ said poor Watkins Tottle, with a
deep sigh.

Tea was soon concluded, and Miss Lillerton, drawing a small work-table on
one side of the fire, and placing a little wooden frame upon it,
something like a miniature clay-mill without the horse, was soon busily
engaged in making a watch-guard with brown silk.

‘God bless me!’ exclaimed Parsons, starting up with well-feigned
surprise, ‘I’ve forgotten those confounded letters.  Tottle, I know
you’ll excuse me.’

If Tottle had been a free agent, he would have allowed no one to leave
the room on any pretence, except himself.  As it was, however, he was
obliged to look cheerful when Parsons quitted the apartment.

He had scarcely left, when Martha put her head into the room,
with—‘Please, ma’am, you’re wanted.’

Mrs. Parsons left the room, shut the door carefully after her, and Mr.
Watkins Tottle was left alone with Miss Lillerton.

For the first five minutes there was a dead silence.—Mr. Watkins Tottle
was thinking how he should begin, and Miss Lillerton appeared to be
thinking of nothing.  The fire was burning low; Mr. Watkins Tottle
stirred it, and put some coals on.

‘Hem!’ coughed Miss Lillerton; Mr. Watkins Tottle thought the fair
creature had spoken.  ‘I beg your pardon,’ said he.

‘Eh?’

‘I thought you spoke.’

‘No.’

‘Oh!’

‘There are some books on the sofa, Mr. Tottle, if you would like to look
at them,’ said Miss Lillerton, after the lapse of another five minutes.

‘No, thank you,’ returned Watkins; and then he added, with a courage
which was perfectly astonishing, even to himself, ‘Madam, that is Miss
Lillerton, I wish to speak to you.’

‘To me!’ said Miss Lillerton, letting the silk drop from her hands, and
sliding her chair back a few paces.—‘Speak—to me!’

‘To you, madam—and on the subject of the state of your affections.’  The
lady hastily rose and would have left the room; but Mr. Watkins Tottle
gently detained her by the hand, and holding it as far from him as the
joint length of their arms would permit, he thus proceeded: ‘Pray do not
misunderstand me, or suppose that I am led to address you, after so short
an acquaintance, by any feeling of my own merits—for merits I have none
which could give me a claim to your hand.  I hope you will acquit me of
any presumption when I explain that I have been acquainted through Mrs.
Parsons, with the state—that is, that Mrs. Parsons has told me—at least,
not Mrs. Parsons, but—’ here Watkins began to wander, but Miss Lillerton
relieved him.

‘Am I to understand, Mr. Tottle, that Mrs. Parsons has acquainted you
with my feeling—my affection—I mean my respect, for an individual of the
opposite sex?’

‘She has.’

‘Then, what?’ inquired Miss Lillerton, averting her face, with a girlish
air, ‘what could induce _you_ to seek such an interview as this?  What
can your object be?  How can I promote your happiness, Mr. Tottle?’

Here was the time for a flourish—‘By allowing me,’ replied Watkins,
falling bump on his knees, and breaking two brace-buttons and a
waistcoat-string, in the act—‘By allowing me to be your slave, your
servant—in short, by unreservedly making me the confidant of your heart’s
feelings—may I say for the promotion of your own happiness—may I say, in
order that you may become the wife of a kind and affectionate husband?’

‘Disinterested creature!’ exclaimed Miss Lillerton, hiding her face in a
white pocket-handkerchief with an eyelet-hole border.

Mr. Watkins Tottle thought that if the lady knew all, she might possibly
alter her opinion on this last point.  He raised the tip of her middle
finger ceremoniously to his lips, and got off his knees, as gracefully as
he could.  ‘My information was correct?’ he tremulously inquired, when he
was once more on his feet.

‘It was.’  Watkins elevated his hands, and looked up to the ornament in
the centre of the ceiling, which had been made for a lamp, by way of
expressing his rapture.

‘Our situation, Mr. Tottle,’ resumed the lady, glancing at him through
one of the eyelet-holes, ‘is a most peculiar. and delicate one.’

‘It is,’ said Mr. Tottle.

‘Our acquaintance has been of _so_ short duration,’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Only a week,’ assented Watkins Tottle.

‘Oh! more than that,’ exclaimed the lady, in a tone of surprise.

‘Indeed!’ said Tottle.

‘More than a month—more than two months!’ said Miss Lillerton.

‘Rather odd, this,’ thought Watkins.

‘Oh!’ he said, recollecting Parsons’s assurance that she had known him
from report, ‘I understand.  But, my dear madam, pray, consider.  The
longer this acquaintance has existed, the less reason is I there for
delay now.  Why not at once fix a period for gratifying the hopes of your
devoted admirer?’

‘It has been represented to me again and again that this is the course I
ought to pursue,’ replied Miss Lillerton, ‘but pardon my feelings of
delicacy, Mr. Tottle—pray excuse this embarrassment—I have peculiar ideas
on such subjects, and I am quite sure that I never could summon up
fortitude enough to name the day to my future husband.’

‘Then allow _me_ to name it,’ said Tottle eagerly.

‘I should like to fix it myself,’ replied Miss Lillerton, bashfully, but
I cannot do so without at once resorting to a third party.’

‘A third party!’ thought Watkins Tottle; ‘who the deuce is that to be, I
wonder!’

‘Mr. Tottle,’ continued Miss Lillerton, ‘you have made me a most
disinterested and kind offer—that offer I accept.  Will you at once be
the bearer of a note from me to—to Mr. Timson?’

‘Mr. Timson!’ said Watkins.

‘After what has passed between us,’ responded Miss Lillerton, still
averting her head, ‘you must understand whom I mean; Mr. Timson,
the—the—clergyman.’

‘Mr. Timson, the clergyman!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, in a state of
inexpressible beatitude, and positive wonder at his own success.  ‘Angel!
Certainly—this moment!’

‘I’ll prepare it immediately,’ said Miss Lillerton, making for the door;
‘the events of this day have flurried me so much, Mr. Tottle, that I
shall not leave my room again this evening; I will send you the note by
the servant.’

‘Stay,—stay,’ cried Watkins Tottle, still keeping a most respectful
distance from the lady; ‘when shall we meet again?’

‘Oh!  Mr. Tottle,’ replied Miss Lillerton, coquettishly, ‘when we are
married, I can never see you too often, nor thank you too much;’ and she
left the room.

Mr. Watkins Tottle flung himself into an arm-chair, and indulged in the
most delicious reveries of future bliss, in which the idea of ‘Five
hundred pounds per annum, with an uncontrolled power of disposing of it
by her last will and testament,’ was somehow or other the foremost.  He
had gone through the interview so well, and it had terminated so
admirably, that he almost began to wish he had expressly stipulated for
the settlement of the annual five hundred on himself.

‘May I come in?’ said Mr. Gabriel Parsons, peeping in at the door.

‘You may,’ replied Watkins.

‘Well, have you done it?’ anxiously inquired Gabriel.

‘Have I done it!’ said Watkins Tottle.  ‘Hush—I’m going to the
clergyman.’

‘No!’ said Parsons.  ‘How well you have managed it!’

‘Where does Timson live?’ inquired Watkins.

‘At his uncle’s,’ replied Gabriel, ‘just round the lane.  He’s waiting
for a living, and has been assisting his uncle here for the last two or
three months.  But how well you have done it—I didn’t think you could
have carried it off so!’

Mr. Watkins Tottle was proceeding to demonstrate that the Richardsonian
principle was the best on which love could possibly be made, when he was
interrupted by the entrance of Martha, with a little pink note folded
like a fancy cocked-hat.

‘Miss Lillerton’s compliments,’ said Martha, as she delivered it into
Tottle’s hands, and vanished.

‘Do you observe the delicacy?’ said Tottle, appealing to Mr. Gabriel
Parsons.  ‘_Compliments_, not _love_, by the servant, eh?’

Mr. Gabriel Parsons didn’t exactly know what reply to make, so he poked
the forefinger of his right hand between the third and fourth ribs of Mr.
Watkins Tottle.

‘Come,’ said Watkins, when the explosion of mirth, consequent on this
practical jest, had subsided, ‘we’ll be off at once—let’s lose no time.’

‘Capital!’ echoed Gabriel Parsons; and in five minutes they were at the
garden-gate of the villa tenanted by the uncle of Mr. Timson.

‘Is Mr. Charles Timson at home?’ inquired Mr. Watkins Tottle of Mr.
Charles Timson’s uncle’s man.

‘Mr. Charles _is_ at home,’ replied the man, stammering; ‘but he desired
me to say he couldn’t be interrupted, sir, by any of the parishioners.’

‘_I_ am not a parishioner,’ replied Watkins.

‘Is Mr. Charles writing a sermon, Tom?’ inquired Parsons, thrusting
himself forward.

‘No, Mr. Parsons, sir; he’s not exactly writing a sermon, but he is
practising the violoncello in his own bedroom, and gave strict orders not
to be disturbed.’

‘Say I’m here,’ replied Gabriel, leading the way across the garden; ‘Mr.
Parsons and Mr. Tottle, on private and particular business.’

They were shown into the parlour, and the servant departed to deliver his
message.  The distant groaning of the violoncello ceased; footsteps were
heard on the stairs; and Mr. Timson presented himself, and shook hands
with Parsons with the utmost cordiality.

‘How do you do, sir?’ said Watkins Tottle, with great solemnity.

‘How do _you_ do, sir?’ replied Timson, with as much coldness as if it
were a matter of perfect indifference to him how he did, as it very
likely was.

‘I beg to deliver this note to you,’ said Watkins Tottle, producing the
cocked-hat.

‘From Miss Lillerton!’ said Timson, suddenly changing colour.  ‘Pray sit
down.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle sat down; and while Timson perused the note, fixed his
eyes on an oyster-sauce-coloured portrait of the Archbishop of
Canterbury, which hung over the fireplace.

Mr. Timson rose from his seat when he had concluded the note, and looked
dubiously at Parsons.  ‘May I ask,’ he inquired, appealing to Watkins
Tottle, ‘whether our friend here is acquainted with the object of your
visit?’

‘Our friend is in _my_ confidence,’ replied Watkins, with considerable
importance.

‘Then, sir,’ said Timson, seizing both Tottle’s hands, ‘allow me in his
presence to thank you most unfeignedly and cordially, for the noble part
you have acted in this affair.’

‘He thinks I recommended him,’ thought Tottle.  ‘Confound these fellows!
they never think of anything but their fees.’

‘I deeply regret having misunderstood your intentions, my dear sir,’
continued Timson.  ‘Disinterested and manly, indeed!  There are very few
men who would have acted as you have done.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle could not help thinking that this last remark was
anything but complimentary.  He therefore inquired, rather hastily, ‘When
is it to be?’

‘On Thursday,’ replied Timson,—‘on Thursday morning at half-past eight.’

‘Uncommonly early,’ observed Watkins Tottle, with an air of triumphant
self-denial.  ‘I shall hardly be able to get down here by that hour.’
(This was intended for a joke.)

‘Never mind, my dear fellow,’ replied Timson, all suavity, shaking hands
with Tottle again most heartily, ‘so long as we see you to breakfast, you
know—’

‘Eh!’ said Parsons, with one of the most extraordinary expressions of
countenance that ever appeared in a human face.

‘What!’ ejaculated Watkins Tottle, at the same moment.

‘I say that so long as we see you to breakfast,’ replied Timson, ‘we will
excuse your being absent from the ceremony, though of course your
presence at it would give us the utmost pleasure.’

Mr. Watkins Tottle staggered against the wall, and fixed his eyes on
Timson with appalling perseverance.

‘Timson,’ said Parsons, hurriedly brushing his hat with his left arm,
‘when you say “us,” whom do you mean?’

Mr. Timson looked foolish in his turn, when he replied, ‘Why—Mrs. Timson
that will be this day week: Miss Lillerton that is—’

‘Now don’t stare at that idiot in the corner,’ angrily exclaimed Parsons,
as the extraordinary convulsions of Watkins Tottle’s countenance excited
the wondering gaze of Timson,—‘but have the goodness to tell me in three
words the contents of that note?’

‘This note,’ replied Timson, ‘is from Miss Lillerton, to whom I have been
for the last five weeks regularly engaged.  Her singular scruples and
strange feeling on some points have hitherto prevented my bringing the
engagement to that termination which I so anxiously desire.  She informs
me here, that she sounded Mrs. Parsons with the view of making her her
confidante and go-between, that Mrs. Parsons informed this elderly
gentleman, Mr. Tottle, of the circumstance, and that he, in the most kind
and delicate terms, offered to assist us in any way, and even undertook
to convey this note, which contains the promise I have long sought in
vain—an act of kindness for which I can never be sufficiently grateful.’

‘Good night, Timson,’ said Parsons, hurrying off, and carrying the
bewildered Tottle with him.

‘Won’t you stay—and have something?’ said Timson.

‘No, thank ye,’ replied Parsons; ‘I’ve had quite enough;’ and away he
went, followed by Watkins Tottle in a state of stupefaction.

Mr. Gabriel Parsons whistled until they had walked some quarter of a mile
past his own gate, when he suddenly stopped, and said—

‘You are a clever fellow, Tottle, ain’t you?’

‘I don’t know,’ said the unfortunate Watkins.

‘I suppose you’ll say this is Fanny’s fault, won’t you?’ inquired
Gabriel.

‘I don’t know anything about it,’ replied the bewildered Tottle.

‘Well,’ said Parsons, turning on his heel to go home, ‘the next time you
make an offer, you had better speak plainly, and don’t throw a chance
away.  And the next time you’re locked up in a spunging-house, just wait
there till I come and take you out, there’s a good fellow.’

How, or at what hour, Mr. Watkins Tottle returned to Cecil-street is
unknown.  His boots were seen outside his bedroom-door next morning; but
we have the authority of his landlady for stating that he neither emerged
therefrom nor accepted sustenance for four-and-twenty hours.  At the
expiration of that period, and when a council of war was being held in
the kitchen on the propriety of summoning the parochial beadle to break
his door open, he rang his bell, and demanded a cup of milk-and-water.
The next morning he went through the formalities of eating and drinking
as usual, but a week afterwards he was seized with a relapse, while
perusing the list of marriages in a morning paper, from which he never
perfectly recovered.

A few weeks after the last-named occurrence, the body of a gentleman
unknown, was found in the Regent’s canal.  In the trousers-pockets were
four shillings and threepence halfpenny; a matrimonial advertisement from
a lady, which appeared to have been cut out of a Sunday paper: a
tooth-pick, and a card-case, which it is confidently believed would have
led to the identification of the unfortunate gentleman, but for the
circumstance of there being none but blank cards in it.  Mr. Watkins
Tottle absented himself from his lodgings shortly before.  A bill, which
has not been taken up, was presented next morning; and a bill, which has
not been taken down, was soon afterwards affixed in his parlour-window.



CHAPTER XI—THE BLOOMSBURY CHRISTENING


Mr. Nicodemus Dumps, or, as his acquaintance called him, ‘long Dumps,’
was a bachelor, six feet high, and fifty years old: cross, cadaverous,
odd, and ill-natured.  He was never happy but when he was miserable; and
always miserable when he had the best reason to be happy.  The only real
comfort of his existence was to make everybody about him wretched—then he
might be truly said to enjoy life.  He was afflicted with a situation in
the Bank worth five hundred a-year, and he rented a ‘first-floor
furnished,’ at Pentonville, which he originally took because it commanded
a dismal prospect of an adjacent churchyard.  He was familiar with the
face of every tombstone, and the burial service seemed to excite his
strongest sympathy.  His friends said he was surly—he insisted he was
nervous; they thought him a lucky dog, but he protested that he was ‘the
most unfortunate man in the world.’  Cold as he was, and wretched as he
declared himself to be, he was not wholly unsusceptible of attachments.
He revered the memory of Hoyle, as he was himself an admirable and
imperturbable whist-player, and he chuckled with delight at a fretful and
impatient adversary.  He adored King Herod for his massacre of the
innocents; and if he hated one thing more than another, it was a child.
However, he could hardly be said to hate anything in particular, because
he disliked everything in general; but perhaps his greatest antipathies
were cabs, old women, doors that would not shut, musical amateurs, and
omnibus cads.  He subscribed to the ‘Society for the Suppression of Vice’
for the pleasure of putting a stop to any harmless amusements; and he
contributed largely towards the support of two itinerant methodist
parsons, in the amiable hope that if circumstances rendered any people
happy in this world, they might perchance be rendered miserable by fears
for the next.

Mr. Dumps had a nephew who had been married about a year, and who was
somewhat of a favourite with his uncle, because he was an admirable
subject to exercise his misery-creating powers upon.  Mr. Charles
Kitterbell was a small, sharp, spare man, with a very large head, and a
broad, good-humoured countenance.  He looked like a faded giant, with the
head and face partially restored; and he had a cast in his eye which
rendered it quite impossible for any one with whom he conversed to know
where he was looking.  His eyes appeared fixed on the wall, and he was
staring you out of countenance; in short, there was no catching his eye,
and perhaps it is a merciful dispensation of Providence that such eyes
are not catching.  In addition to these characteristics, it may be added
that Mr. Charles Kitterbell was one of the most credulous and
matter-of-fact little personages that ever took _to_ himself a wife, and
_for_ himself a house in Great Russell-street, Bedford-square.  (Uncle
Dumps always dropped the ‘Bedford-square,’ and inserted in lieu thereof
the dreadful words ‘Tottenham-court-road.’)

‘No, but, uncle, ’pon my life you must—you must promise to be godfather,’
said Mr. Kitterbell, as he sat in conversation with his respected
relative one morning.

‘I cannot, indeed I cannot,’ returned Dumps.

‘Well, but why not?  Jemima will think it very unkind.  It’s very little
trouble.’

‘As to the trouble,’ rejoined the most unhappy man in existence, ‘I don’t
mind that; but my nerves are in that state—I cannot go through the
ceremony.  You know I don’t like going out.—For God’s sake, Charles,
don’t fidget with that stool so; you’ll drive me mad.’  Mr. Kitterbell,
quite regardless of his uncle’s nerves, had occupied himself for some ten
minutes in describing a circle on the floor with one leg of the
office-stool on which he was seated, keeping the other three up in the
air, and holding fast on by the desk.

‘I beg your pardon, uncle,’ said Kitterbell, quite abashed, suddenly
releasing his hold of the desk, and bringing the three wandering legs
back to the floor, with a force sufficient to drive them through it.

‘But come, don’t refuse.  If it’s a boy, you know, we must have two
godfathers.’

‘_If_ it’s a boy!’ said Dumps; ‘why can’t you say at once whether it _is_
a boy or not?’

‘I should be very happy to tell you, but it’s impossible I can undertake
to say whether it’s a girl or a boy, if the child isn’t born yet.’

‘Not born yet!’ echoed Dumps, with a gleam of hope lighting up his
lugubrious visage.  ‘Oh, well, it _may_ be a girl, and then you won’t
want me; or if it is a boy, it _may_ die before it is christened.’

‘I hope not,’ said the father that expected to be, looking very grave.

‘I hope not,’ acquiesced Dumps, evidently pleased with the subject.  He
was beginning to get happy.  ‘I hope not, but distressing cases
frequently occur during the first two or three days of a child’s life;
fits, I am told, are exceedingly common, and alarming convulsions are
almost matters of course.’

‘Lord, uncle!’ ejaculated little Kitterbell, gasping for breath.

‘Yes; my landlady was confined—let me see—last Tuesday: an uncommonly
fine boy.  On the Thursday night the nurse was sitting with him upon her
knee before the fire, and he was as well as possible.  Suddenly he became
black in the face, and alarmingly spasmodic.  The medical man was
instantly sent for, and every remedy was tried, but—’

‘How frightful!’ interrupted the horror-stricken Kitterbell.

‘The child died, of course.  However, your child _may_ not die; and if it
should be a boy, and should _live_ to be christened, why I suppose I must
be one of the sponsors.’  Dumps was evidently good-natured on the faith
of his anticipations.

‘Thank you, uncle,’ said his agitated nephew, grasping his hand as warmly
as if he had done him some essential service.  ‘Perhaps I had better not
tell Mrs. K. what you have mentioned.’

‘Why, if she’s low-spirited, perhaps you had better not mention the
melancholy case to her,’ returned Dumps, who of course had invented the
whole story; ‘though perhaps it would be but doing your duty as a husband
to prepare her for the _worst_.’

A day or two afterwards, as Dumps was perusing a morning paper at the
chop-house which he regularly frequented, the following-paragraph met his
eyes:—

    ‘_Births_.—On Saturday, the 18th inst., in Great Russell-street, the
    lady of Charles Kitterbell, Esq., of a son.’

‘It _is_ a boy!’ he exclaimed, dashing down the paper, to the
astonishment of the waiters.  ‘It _is_ a boy!’  But he speedily regained
his composure as his eye rested on a paragraph quoting the number of
infant deaths from the bills of mortality.

Six weeks passed away, and as no communication had been received from the
Kitterbells, Dumps was beginning to flatter himself that the child was
dead, when the following note painfully resolved his doubts:—

                                                  ‘_Great Russell-street_,
                                                         _Monday morning_.

    ‘DEAR UNCLE,—You will be delighted to hear that my dear Jemima has
    left her room, and that your future godson is getting on capitally.
    He was very thin at first, but he is getting much larger, and nurse
    says he is filling out every day.  He cries a good deal, and is a
    very singular colour, which made Jemima and me rather uncomfortable;
    but as nurse says it’s natural, and as of course we know nothing
    about these things yet, we are quite satisfied with what nurse says.
    We think he will be a sharp child; and nurse says she’s sure he will,
    because he never goes to sleep.  You will readily believe that we are
    all very happy, only we’re a little worn out for want of rest, as he
    keeps us awake all night; but this we must expect, nurse says, for
    the first six or eight months.  He has been vaccinated, but in
    consequence of the operation being rather awkwardly performed, some
    small particles of glass were introduced into the arm with the
    matter.  Perhaps this may in some degree account for his being rather
    fractious; at least, so nurse says.  We propose to have him
    christened at twelve o’clock on Friday, at Saint George’s church, in
    Hart-street, by the name of Frederick Charles William.  Pray don’t be
    later than a quarter before twelve.  We shall have a very few friends
    in the evening, when of course we shall see you.  I am sorry to say
    that the dear boy appears rather restless and uneasy to-day: the
    cause, I fear, is fever.

                                                  ‘Believe me, dear Uncle,
                                                    ‘Yours affectionately,
                                                      ‘CHARLES KITTERBELL.

    ‘P.S.—I open this note to say that we have just discovered the cause
    of little Frederick’s restlessness.  It is not fever, as I
    apprehended, but a small pin, which nurse accidentally stuck in his
    leg yesterday evening.  We have taken it out, and he appears more
    composed, though he still sobs a good deal.’

It is almost unnecessary to say that the perusal of the above interesting
statement was no great relief to the mind of the hypochondriacal Dumps.
It was impossible to recede, however, and so he put the best face—that is
to say, an uncommonly miserable one—upon the matter; and purchased a
handsome silver mug for the infant Kitterbell, upon which he ordered the
initials ‘F. C. W. K.,’ with the customary untrained grape-vine-looking
flourishes, and a large full stop, to be engraved forthwith.

Monday was a fine day, Tuesday was delightful, Wednesday was equal to
either, and Thursday was finer than ever; four successive fine days in
London!  Hackney-coachmen became revolutionary, and crossing-sweepers
began to doubt the existence of a First Cause.  The _Morning Herald_
informed its readers that an old woman in Camden Town had been heard to
say that the fineness of the season was ‘unprecedented in the memory of
the oldest inhabitant;’ and Islington clerks, with large families and
small salaries, left off their black gaiters, disdained to carry their
once green cotton umbrellas, and walked to town in the conscious pride of
white stockings and cleanly brushed Bluchers.  Dumps beheld all this with
an eye of supreme contempt—his triumph was at hand.  He knew that if it
had been fine for four weeks instead of four days, it would rain when he
went out; he was lugubriously happy in the conviction that Friday would
be a wretched day—and so it was.  ‘I knew how it would be,’ said Dumps,
as he turned round opposite the Mansion-house at half-past eleven o’clock
on the Friday morning.  ‘I knew how it would be.  _I_ am concerned, and
that’s enough;’—and certainly the appearance of the day was sufficient to
depress the spirits of a much more buoyant-hearted individual than
himself.  It had rained, without a moment’s cessation, since eight
o’clock; everybody that passed up Cheapside, and down Cheapside, looked
wet, cold, and dirty.  All sorts of forgotten and long-concealed
umbrellas had been put into requisition.  Cabs whisked about, with the
‘fare’ as carefully boxed up behind two glazed calico curtains as any
mysterious picture in any one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s castles; omnibus horses
smoked like steam-engines; nobody thought of ‘standing up’ under doorways
or arches; they were painfully convinced it was a hopeless case; and so
everybody went hastily along, jumbling and jostling, and swearing and
perspiring, and slipping about, like amateur skaters behind wooden chairs
on the Serpentine on a frosty Sunday.

Dumps paused; he could not think of walking, being rather smart for the
christening.  If he took a cab he was sure to be spilt, and a
hackney-coach was too expensive for his economical ideas.  An omnibus was
waiting at the opposite corner—it was a desperate case—he had never heard
of an omnibus upsetting or running away, and if the cad did knock him
down, he could ‘pull him up’ in return.

‘Now, sir!’ cried the young gentleman who officiated as ‘cad’ to the
‘Lads of the Village,’ which was the name of the machine just noticed.
Dumps crossed.

‘This vay, sir!’ shouted the driver of the ‘Hark-away,’ pulling up his
vehicle immediately across the door of the opposition—‘This vay, sir—he’s
full.’  Dumps hesitated, whereupon the ‘Lads of the Village’ commenced
pouring out a torrent of abuse against the ‘Hark-away;’ but the conductor
of the ‘Admiral Napier’ settled the contest in a most satisfactory
manner, for all parties, by seizing Dumps round the waist, and thrusting
him into the middle of his vehicle which had just come up and only wanted
the sixteenth inside.

‘All right,’ said the ‘Admiral,’ and off the thing thundered, like a
fire-engine at full gallop, with the kidnapped customer inside, standing
in the position of a half doubled-up bootjack, and falling about with
every jerk of the machine, first on the one side, and then on the other,
like a ‘Jack-in-the-green,’ on May-day, setting to the lady with a brass
ladle.

‘For Heaven’s sake, where am I to sit?’ inquired the miserable man of an
old gentleman, into whose stomach he had just fallen for the fourth time.

‘Anywhere but on my _chest_, sir,’ replied the old gentleman in a surly
tone.

‘Perhaps the _box_ would suit the gentleman better,’ suggested a very
damp lawyer’s clerk, in a pink shirt, and a smirking countenance.

After a great deal of struggling and falling about, Dumps at last managed
to squeeze himself into a seat, which, in addition to the slight
disadvantage of being between a window that would not shut, and a door
that must be open, placed him in close contact with a passenger, who had
been walking about all the morning without an umbrella, and who looked as
if he had spent the day in a full water-butt—only wetter.

‘Don’t bang the door so,’ said Dumps to the conductor, as he shut it
after letting out four of the passengers; I am very nervous—it destroys
me.’

‘Did any gen’lm’n say anythink?’ replied the cad, thrusting in his head,
and trying to look as if he didn’t understand the request.

‘I told you not to bang the door so!’ repeated Dumps, with an expression
of countenance like the knave of clubs, in convulsions.

‘Oh! vy, it’s rather a sing’ler circumstance about this here door, sir,
that it von’t shut without banging,’ replied the conductor; and he opened
the door very wide, and shut it again with a terrific bang, in proof of
the assertion.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,’ said a little prim, wheezing old gentleman,
sitting opposite Dumps, ‘I beg your pardon; but have you ever observed,
when you have been in an omnibus on a wet day, that four people out of
five always come in with large cotton umbrellas, without a handle at the
top, or the brass spike at the bottom?’

‘Why, sir,’ returned Dumps, as he heard the clock strike twelve, ‘it
never struck me before; but now you mention it, I—Hollo! hollo!’ shouted
the persecuted individual, as the omnibus dashed past Drury-lane, where
he had directed to be set down.—‘Where is the cad?’

‘I think he’s on the box, sir,’ said the young gentleman before noticed
in the pink shirt, which looked like a white one ruled with red ink.

‘I want to be set down!’ said Dumps in a faint voice, overcome by his
previous efforts.

‘I think these cads want to be _set down_,’ returned the attorney’s
clerk, chuckling at his sally.

‘Hollo!’ cried Dumps again.

‘Hollo!’ echoed the passengers.  The omnibus passed St. Giles’s church.

‘Hold hard!’ said the conductor; ‘I’m blowed if we ha’n’t forgot the
gen’lm’n as vas to be set down at Doory-lane.—Now, sir, make haste, if
you please,’ he added, opening the door, and assisting Dumps out with as
much coolness as if it was ‘all right.’  Dumps’s indignation was for once
getting the better of his cynical equanimity.  ‘Drury-lane!’ he gasped,
with the voice of a boy in a cold bath for the first time.

‘Doory-lane, sir?—yes, sir,—third turning on the right-hand side, sir.’

Dumps’s passion was paramount: he clutched his umbrella, and was striding
off with the firm determination of not paying the fare.  The cad, by a
remarkable coincidence, happened to entertain a directly contrary
opinion, and Heaven knows how far the altercation would have proceeded,
if it had not been most ably and satisfactorily brought to a close by the
driver.

‘Hollo!’ said that respectable person, standing up on the box, and
leaning with one hand on the roof of the omnibus.  ‘Hollo, Tom! tell the
gentleman if so be as he feels aggrieved, we will take him up to the
Edge-er (Edgeware) Road for nothing, and set him down at Doory-lane when
we comes back.  He can’t reject that, anyhow.’

The argument was irresistible: Dumps paid the disputed sixpence, and in a
quarter of an hour was on the staircase of No. 14, Great Russell-street.

Everything indicated that preparations were making for the reception of
‘a few friends’ in the evening.  Two dozen extra tumblers, and four ditto
wine-glasses—looking anything but transparent, with little bits of straw
in them on the slab in the passage, just arrived.  There was a great
smell of nutmeg, port wine, and almonds, on the staircase; the covers
were taken off the stair-carpet, and the figure of Venus on the first
landing looked as if she were ashamed of the composition-candle in her
right hand, which contrasted beautifully with the lamp-blacked drapery of
the goddess of love.  The female servant (who looked very warm and
bustling) ushered Dumps into a front drawing-room, very prettily
furnished, with a plentiful sprinkling of little baskets, paper
table-mats, china watchmen, pink and gold albums, and rainbow-bound
little books on the different tables.

‘Ah, uncle!’ said Mr. Kitterbell, ‘how d’ye do?  Allow me—Jemima, my
dear—my uncle.  I think you’ve seen Jemima before, sir?’

‘Have had the _pleasure_,’ returned big Dumps, his tone and look making
it doubtful whether in his life he had ever experienced the sensation.

‘I’m sure,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, with a languid smile, and a slight
cough.  ‘I’m sure—hem—any friend—of Charles’s—hem—much less a relation,
is—’

‘I knew you’d say so, my love,’ said little Kitterbell, who, while he
appeared to be gazing on the opposite houses, was looking at his wife
with a most affectionate air: ‘Bless you!’  The last two words were
accompanied with a simper, and a squeeze of the hand, which stirred up
all Uncle Dumps’s bile.

‘Jane, tell nurse to bring down baby,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, addressing
the servant.  Mrs. Kitterbell was a tall, thin young lady, with very
light hair, and a particularly white face—one of those young women who
almost invariably, though one hardly knows why, recall to one’s mind the
idea of a cold fillet of veal.  Out went the servant, and in came the
nurse, with a remarkably small parcel in her arms, packed up in a blue
mantle trimmed with white fur.—This was the baby.

‘Now, uncle,’ said Mr. Kitterbell, lifting up that part of the mantle
which covered the infant’s face, with an air of great triumph, ‘_Who_ do
you think he’s like?’

‘He! he!  Yes, who?’ said Mrs. K., putting her arm through her husband’s,
and looking up into Dumps’s face with an expression of as much interest
as she was capable of displaying.

‘Good God, how small he is!’ cried the amiable uncle, starting back with
well-feigned surprise; ‘_remarkably_ small indeed.’

‘Do you think so?’ inquired poor little Kitterbell, rather alarmed.
‘He’s a monster to what he was—ain’t he, nurse?’

‘He’s a dear,’ said the nurse, squeezing the child, and evading the
question—not because she scrupled to disguise the fact, but because she
couldn’t afford to throw away the chance of Dumps’s half-crown.

‘Well, but who is he like?’ inquired little Kitterbell.

Dumps looked at the little pink heap before him, and only thought at the
moment of the best mode of mortifying the youthful parents.

‘I really don’t know _who_ he’s like,’ he answered, very well knowing the
reply expected of him.

‘Don’t you think he’s like _me_?’ inquired his nephew with a knowing air.

‘Oh, _decidedly_ not!’ returned Dumps, with an emphasis not to be
misunderstood.  ‘Decidedly not like you.—Oh, certainly not.’

‘Like Jemima?’ asked Kitterbell, faintly.

‘Oh, dear no; not in the least.  I’m no judge, of course, in such cases;
but I really think he’s more like one of those little carved
representations that one sometimes sees blowing a trumpet on a
tombstone!’  The nurse stooped down over the child, and with great
difficulty prevented an explosion of mirth.  Pa and ma looked almost as
miserable as their amiable uncle.

‘Well!’ said the disappointed little father, ‘you’ll be better able to
tell what he’s like by-and-by.  You shall see him this evening with his
mantle off.’

‘Thank you,’ said Dumps, feeling particularly grateful.

‘Now, my love,’ said Kitterbell to his wife, ‘it’s time we were off.
We’re to meet the other godfather and the godmother at the church,
uncle,—Mr. and Mrs. Wilson from over the way—uncommonly nice people.  My
love, are you well wrapped up?’

‘Yes, dear.’

‘Are you sure you won’t have another shawl?’ inquired the anxious
husband.

‘No, sweet,’ returned the charming mother, accepting Dumps’s proffered
arm; and the little party entered the hackney-coach that was to take them
to the church; Dumps amusing Mrs. Kitterbell by expatiating largely on
the danger of measles, thrush, teeth-cutting, and other interesting
diseases to which children are subject.

The ceremony (which occupied about five minutes) passed off without
anything particular occurring.  The clergyman had to dine some distance
from town, and had two churchings, three christenings, and a funeral to
perform in something less than an hour.  The godfathers and godmother,
therefore, promised to renounce the devil and all his works—‘and all that
sort of thing’—as little Kitterbell said—‘in less than no time;’ and with
the exception of Dumps nearly letting the child fall into the font when
he handed it to the clergyman, the whole affair went off in the usual
business-like and matter-of-course manner, and Dumps re-entered the
Bank-gates at two o’clock with a heavy heart, and the painful conviction
that he was regularly booked for an evening party.

Evening came—and so did Dumps’s pumps, black silk stockings, and white
cravat which he had ordered to be forwarded, per boy, from Pentonville.
The depressed godfather dressed himself at a friend’s counting-house,
from whence, with his spirits fifty degrees below proof, he sallied
forth—as the weather had cleared up, and the evening was tolerably
fine—to walk to Great Russell-street.  Slowly he paced up Cheapside,
Newgate-street, down Snow-hill, and up Holborn ditto, looking as grim as
the figure-head of a man-of-war, and finding out fresh causes of misery
at every step.  As he was crossing the corner of Hatton-garden, a man
apparently intoxicated, rushed against him, and would have knocked him
down, had he not been providentially caught by a very genteel young man,
who happened to be close to him at the time.  The shock so disarranged
Dumps’s nerves, as well as his dress, that he could hardly stand.  The
gentleman took his arm, and in the kindest manner walked with him as far
as Furnival’s Inn.  Dumps, for about the first time in his life, felt
grateful and polite; and he and the gentlemanly-looking young man parted
with mutual expressions of good will.

‘There are at least some well-disposed men in the world,’ ruminated the
misanthropical Dumps, as he proceeded towards his destination.

Rat—tat—ta-ra-ra-ra-ra-rat—knocked a hackney-coachman at Kitterbell’s
door, in imitation of a gentleman’s servant, just as Dumps reached it;
and out came an old lady in a large toque, and an old gentleman in a blue
coat, and three female copies of the old lady in pink dresses, and shoes
to match.

‘It’s a large party,’ sighed the unhappy godfather, wiping the
perspiration from his forehead, and leaning against the area-railings.
It was some time before the miserable man could muster up courage to
knock at the door, and when he did, the smart appearance of a
neighbouring greengrocer (who had been hired to wait for seven and
sixpence, and whose calves alone were worth double the money), the lamp
in the passage, and the Venus on the landing, added to the hum of many
voices, and the sound of a harp and two violins, painfully convinced him
that his surmises were but too well founded.

‘How are you?’ said little Kitterbell, in a greater bustle than ever,
bolting out of the little back parlour with a cork-screw in his hand, and
various particles of sawdust, looking like so many inverted commas, on
his inexpressibles.

‘Good God!’ said Dumps, turning into the aforesaid parlour to put his
shoes on, which he had brought in his coat-pocket, and still more
appalled by the sight of seven fresh-drawn corks, and a corresponding
number of decanters.  ‘How many people are there up-stairs?’

‘Oh, not above thirty-five.  We’ve had the carpet taken up in the back
drawing-room, and the piano and the card-tables are in the front.  Jemima
thought we’d better have a regular sit-down supper in the front parlour,
because of the speechifying, and all that.  But, Lord! uncle, what’s the
matter?’ continued the excited little man, as Dumps stood with one shoe
on, rummaging his pockets with the most frightful distortion of visage.
‘What have you lost?  Your pocket-book?’

‘No,’ returned Dumps, diving first into one pocket and then into the
other, and speaking in a voice like Desdemona with the pillow over her
mouth.

‘Your card-case? snuff-box? the key of your lodgings?’ continued
Kitterbell, pouring question on question with the rapidity of lightning.

‘No! no!’ ejaculated Dumps, still diving eagerly into his empty pockets.

‘Not—not—the _mug_ you spoke of this morning?’

‘Yes, the _mug_!’ replied Dumps, sinking into a chair.

‘How _could_ you have done it?’ inquired Kitterbell.  ‘Are you sure you
brought it out?’

‘Yes! yes!  I see it all!’ said Dumps, starting up as the idea flashed
across his mind; ‘miserable dog that I am—I was born to suffer.  I see it
all: it was the gentlemanly-looking young man!’

‘Mr. Dumps!’ shouted the greengrocer in a stentorian voice, as he ushered
the somewhat recovered godfather into the drawing-room half an hour after
the above declaration.  ‘Mr. Dumps!’—everybody looked at the door, and in
came Dumps, feeling about as much out of place as a salmon might be
supposed to be on a gravel-walk.

‘Happy to see you again,’ said Mrs. Kitterbell, quite unconscious of the
unfortunate man’s confusion and misery; ‘you must allow me to introduce
you to a few of our friends:—my mamma, Mr. Dumps—my papa and sisters.’
Dumps seized the hand of the mother as warmly as if she was his own
parent, bowed _to_ the young ladies, and _against_ a gentleman behind
him, and took no notice whatever of the father, who had been bowing
incessantly for three minutes and a quarter.

‘Uncle,’ said little Kitterbell, after Dumps had been introduced to a
select dozen or two, ‘you must let me lead you to the other end of the
room, to introduce you to my friend Danton.  Such a splendid fellow!—I’m
sure you’ll like him—this way,’—Dumps followed as tractably as a tame
bear.

Mr. Danton was a young man of about five-and-twenty, with a considerable
stock of impudence, and a very small share of ideas: he was a great
favourite, especially with young ladies of from sixteen to twenty-six
years of age, both inclusive.  He could imitate the French-horn to
admiration, sang comic songs most inimitably, and had the most
insinuating way of saying impertinent nothings to his doting female
admirers.  He had acquired, somehow or other, the reputation of being a
great wit, and, accordingly, whenever he opened his mouth, everybody who
knew him laughed very heartily.

The introduction took place in due form.  Mr. Danton bowed, and twirled a
lady’s handkerchief, which he held in his hand, in a most comic way.
Everybody smiled.

‘Very warm,’ said Dumps, feeling it necessary to say something.

‘Yes.  It was warmer yesterday,’ returned the brilliant Mr. Danton.—A
general laugh.

‘I have great pleasure in congratulating you on your first appearance in
the character of a father, sir,’ he continued, addressing
Dumps—‘godfather, I mean.’—The young ladies were convulsed, and the
gentlemen in ecstasies.

A general hum of admiration interrupted the conversation, and announced
the entrance of nurse with the baby.  An universal rush of the young
ladies immediately took place.  (Girls are always _so_ fond of babies in
company.)

‘Oh, you dear!’ said one.

‘How sweet!’ cried another, in a low tone of the most enthusiastic
admiration.

‘Heavenly!’ added a third.

‘Oh! what dear little arms!’ said a fourth, holding up an arm and fist
about the size and shape of the leg of a fowl cleanly picked.

‘Did you ever!’—said a little coquette with a large bustle, who looked
like a French lithograph, appealing to a gentleman in three
waistcoats—‘Did you ever!’

‘Never, in my life,’ returned her admirer, pulling up his collar.

‘Oh! _do_ let me take it, nurse,’ cried another young lady.  ‘The love!’

‘Can it open its eyes, nurse?’ inquired another, affecting the utmost
innocence.—Suffice it to say, that the single ladies unanimously voted
him an angel, and that the married ones, _nem. con._, agreed that he was
decidedly the finest baby they had ever beheld—except their own.

The quadrilles were resumed with great spirit.  Mr. Danton was
universally admitted to be beyond himself; several young ladies enchanted
the company and gained admirers by singing ‘We met’—‘I saw her at the
Fancy Fair’—and other equally sentimental and interesting ballads.  ‘The
young men,’ as Mrs. Kitterbell said, ‘made themselves very agreeable;’
the girls did not lose their opportunity; and the evening promised to go
off excellently.  Dumps didn’t mind it: he had devised a plan for
himself—a little bit of fun in his own way—and he was almost happy!  He
played a rubber and lost every point Mr. Danton said he could not have
lost every point, because he made a point of losing: everybody laughed
tremendously.  Dumps retorted with a better joke, and nobody smiled, with
the exception of the host, who seemed to consider it his duty to laugh
till he was black in the face, at everything.  There was only one
drawback—the musicians did not play with quite as much spirit as could
have been wished.  The cause, however, was satisfactorily explained; for
it appeared, on the testimony of a gentleman who had come up from
Gravesend in the afternoon, that they had been engaged on board a steamer
all day, and had played almost without cessation all the way to
Gravesend, and all the way back again.

The ‘sit-down supper’ was excellent; there were four barley-sugar temples
on the table, which would have looked beautiful if they had not melted
away when the supper began; and a water-mill, whose only fault was that
instead of going round, it ran over the table-cloth.  Then there were
fowls, and tongue, and trifle, and sweets, and lobster salad, and potted
beef—and everything.  And little Kitterbell kept calling out for clean
plates, and the clean plates did not come: and then the gentlemen who
wanted the plates said they didn’t mind, they’d take a lady’s; and then
Mrs. Kitterbell applauded their gallantry, and the greengrocer ran about
till he thought his seven and sixpence was very hardly earned; and the
young ladies didn’t eat much for fear it shouldn’t look romantic, and the
married ladies eat as much as possible, for fear they shouldn’t have
enough; and a great deal of wine was drunk, and everybody talked and
laughed considerably.

‘Hush! hush!’ said Mr. Kitterbell, rising and looking very important.
‘My love (this was addressed to his wife at the other end of the table),
take care of Mrs. Maxwell, and your mamma, and the rest of the married
ladies; the gentlemen will persuade the young ladies to fill their
glasses, I am sure.’

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ said long Dumps, in a very sepulchral voice and
rueful accent, rising from his chair like the ghost in Don Juan, ‘will
you have the kindness to charge your glasses?  I am desirous of proposing
a toast.’

A dead silence ensued, and the glasses were filled—everybody looked
serious.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ slowly continued the ominous Dumps, ‘I’—(here Mr.
Danton imitated two notes from the French-horn, in a very loud key, which
electrified the nervous toast-proposer, and convulsed his audience).

‘Order! order!’ said little Kitterbell, endeavouring to suppress his
laughter.

‘Order!’ said the gentlemen.

‘Danton, be quiet,’ said a particular friend on the opposite side of the
table.

‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ resumed Dumps, somewhat recovered, and not much
disconcerted, for he was always a pretty good hand at a speech—‘In
accordance with what is, I believe, the established usage on these
occasions, I, as one of the godfathers of Master Frederick Charles
William Kitterbell—(here the speaker’s voice faltered, for he remembered
the mug)—venture to rise to propose a toast.  I need hardly say that it
is the health and prosperity of that young gentleman, the particular
event of whose early life we are here met to celebrate—(applause).
Ladies and gentlemen, it is impossible to suppose that our friends here,
whose sincere well-wishers we all are, can pass through life without some
trials, considerable suffering, severe affliction, and heavy
losses!’—Here the arch-traitor paused, and slowly drew forth a long,
white pocket-handkerchief—his example was followed by several ladies.
‘That these trials may be long spared them is my most earnest prayer, my
most fervent wish (a distinct sob from the grandmother).  I hope and
trust, ladies and gentlemen, that the infant whose christening we have
this evening met to celebrate, may not be removed from the arms of his
parents by premature decay (several cambrics were in requisition): that
his young and now _apparently_ healthy form, may not be wasted by
lingering disease.  (Here Dumps cast a sardonic glance around, for a
great sensation was manifest among the married ladies.)  You, I am sure,
will concur with me in wishing that he may live to be a comfort and a
blessing to his parents.  (“Hear, hear!” and an audible sob from Mr.
Kitterbell.)  But should he not be what we could wish—should he forget in
after times the duty which he owes to them—should they unhappily
experience that distracting truth, “how sharper than a serpent’s tooth it
is to have a thankless child”’—Here Mrs. Kitterbell, with her
handkerchief to her eyes, and accompanied by several ladies, rushed from
the room, and went into violent hysterics in the passage, leaving her
better half in almost as bad a condition, and a general impression in
Dumps’s favour; for people like sentiment, after all.

It need hardly be added, that this occurrence quite put a stop to the
harmony of the evening.  Vinegar, hartshorn, and cold water, were now as
much in request as negus, rout-cakes, and _bon-bons_ had been a short
time before.  Mrs. Kitterbell was immediately conveyed to her apartment,
the musicians were silenced, flirting ceased, and the company slowly
departed.  Dumps left the house at the commencement of the bustle, and
walked home with a light step, and (for him) a cheerful heart.  His
landlady, who slept in the next room, has offered to make oath that she
heard him laugh, in his peculiar manner, after he had locked his door.
The assertion, however, is so improbable, and bears on the face of it
such strong evidence of untruth, that it has never obtained credence to
this hour.

The family of Mr. Kitterbell has considerably increased since the period
to which we have referred; he has now two sons and a daughter; and as he
expects, at no distant period, to have another addition to his blooming
progeny, he is anxious to secure an eligible godfather for the occasion.
He is determined, however, to impose upon him two conditions.  He must
bind himself, by a solemn obligation, not to make any speech after
supper; and it is indispensable that he should be in no way connected
with ‘the most miserable man in the world.’



CHAPTER XII—THE DRUNKARD’S DEATH


We will be bold to say, that there is scarcely a man in the constant
habit of walking, day after day, through any of the crowded thoroughfares
of London, who cannot recollect among the people whom he ‘knows by
sight,’ to use a familiar phrase, some being of abject and wretched
appearance whom he remembers to have seen in a very different condition,
whom he has observed sinking lower and lower, by almost imperceptible
degrees, and the shabbiness and utter destitution of whose appearance, at
last, strike forcibly and painfully upon him, as he passes by.  Is there
any man who has mixed much with society, or whose avocations have caused
him to mingle, at one time or other, with a great number of people, who
cannot call to mind the time when some shabby, miserable wretch, in rags
and filth, who shuffles past him now in all the squalor of disease and
poverty, with a respectable tradesman, or clerk, or a man following some
thriving pursuit, with good prospects, and decent means?—or cannot any of
our readers call to mind from among the list of their _quondam_
acquaintance, some fallen and degraded man, who lingers about the
pavement in hungry misery—from whom every one turns coldly away, and who
preserves himself from sheer starvation, nobody knows how?  Alas! such
cases are of too frequent occurrence to be rare items in any man’s
experience; and but too often arise from one cause—drunkenness—that
fierce rage for the slow, sure poison, that oversteps every other
consideration; that casts aside wife, children, friends, happiness, and
station; and hurries its victims madly on to degradation and death.

Some of these men have been impelled, by misfortune and misery, to the
vice that has degraded them.  The ruin of worldly expectations, the death
of those they loved, the sorrow that slowly consumes, but will not break
the heart, has driven them wild; and they present the hideous spectacle
of madmen, slowly dying by their own hands.  But by far the greater part
have wilfully, and with open eyes, plunged into the gulf from which the
man who once enters it never rises more, but into which he sinks deeper
and deeper down, until recovery is hopeless.

Such a man as this once stood by the bedside of his dying wife, while his
children knelt around, and mingled loud bursts of grief with their
innocent prayers.  The room was scantily and meanly furnished; and it
needed but a glance at the pale form from which the light of life was
fast passing away, to know that grief, and want, and anxious care, had
been busy at the heart for many a weary year.  An elderly woman, with her
face bathed in tears, was supporting the head of the dying woman—her
daughter—on her arm.  But it was not towards her that the was face
turned; it was not her hand that the cold and trembling fingers clasped;
they pressed the husband’s arm; the eyes so soon to be closed in death
rested on his face, and the man shook beneath their gaze.  His dress was
slovenly and disordered, his face inflamed, his eyes bloodshot and heavy.
He had been summoned from some wild debauch to the bed of sorrow and
death.

A shaded lamp by the bed-side cast a dim light on the figures around, and
left the remainder of the room in thick, deep shadow.  The silence of
night prevailed without the house, and the stillness of death was in the
chamber.  A watch hung over the mantel-shelf; its low ticking was the
only sound that broke the profound quiet, but it was a solemn one, for
well they knew, who heard it, that before it had recorded the passing of
another hour, it would beat the knell of a departed spirit.

It is a dreadful thing to wait and watch for the approach of death; to
know that hope is gone, and recovery impossible; and to sit and count the
dreary hours through long, long nights—such nights as only watchers by
the bed of sickness know.  It chills the blood to hear the dearest
secrets of the heart—the pent-up, hidden secrets of many years—poured
forth by the unconscious, helpless being before you; and to think how
little the reserve and cunning of a whole life will avail, when fever and
delirium tear off the mask at last.  Strange tales have been told in the
wanderings of dying men; tales so full of guilt and crime, that those who
stood by the sick person’s couch have fled in horror and affright, lest
they should be scared to madness by what they heard and saw; and many a
wretch has died alone, raving of deeds the very name of which has driven
the boldest man away.

But no such ravings were to be heard at the bed-side by which the
children knelt.  Their half-stifled sobs and moaning alone broke the
silence of the lonely chamber.  And when at last the mother’s grasp
relaxed, and, turning one look from the children to the father, she
vainly strove to speak, and fell backward on the pillow, all was so calm
and tranquil that she seemed to sink to sleep.  They leant over her; they
called upon her name, softly at first, and then in the loud and piercing
tones of desperation.  But there was no reply.  They listened for her
breath, but no sound came.  They felt for the palpitation of the heart,
but no faint throb responded to the touch.  That heart was broken, and
she was dead!

The husband sunk into a chair by the bed-side, and clasped his hands upon
his burning forehead.  He gazed from child to child, but when a weeping
eye met his, he quailed beneath its look.  No word of comfort was
whispered in his ear, no look of kindness lighted on his face.  All
shrunk from and avoided him; and when at last he staggered from the room,
no one sought to follow or console the widower.

The time had been when many a friend would have crowded round him in his
affliction, and many a heartfelt condolence would have met him in his
grief.  Where were they now?  One by one, friends, relations, the
commonest acquaintance even, had fallen off from and deserted the
drunkard.  His wife alone had clung to him in good and evil, in sickness
and poverty, and how had he rewarded her?  He had reeled from the tavern
to her bed-side in time to see her die.

He rushed from the house, and walked swiftly through the streets.
Remorse, fear, shame, all crowded on his mind.  Stupefied with drink, and
bewildered with the scene he had just witnessed, he re-entered the tavern
he had quitted shortly before.  Glass succeeded glass.  His blood
mounted, and his brain whirled round.  Death!  Every one must die, and
why not _she_?  She was too good for him; her relations had often told
him so.  Curses on them!  Had they not deserted her, and left her to
whine away the time at home?  Well—she was dead, and happy perhaps.  It
was better as it was.  Another glass—one more!  Hurrah!  It was a merry
life while it lasted; and he would make the most of it.

Time went on; the three children who were left to him, grew up, and were
children no longer.  The father remained the same—poorer, shabbier, and
more dissolute-looking, but the same confirmed and irreclaimable
drunkard.  The boys had, long ago, run wild in the streets, and left him;
the girl alone remained, but she worked hard, and words or blows could
always procure him something for the tavern.  So he went on in the old
course, and a merry life he led.

One night, as early as ten o’clock—for the girl had been sick for many
days, and there was, consequently, little to spend at the public-house—he
bent his steps homeward, bethinking himself that if he would have her
able to earn money, it would be as well to apply to the parish surgeon,
or, at all events, to take the trouble of inquiring what ailed her, which
he had not yet thought it worth while to do.  It was a wet December
night; the wind blew piercing cold, and the rain poured heavily down.  He
begged a few halfpence from a passer-by, and having bought a small loaf
(for it was his interest to keep the girl alive, if he could), he
shuffled onwards as fast as the wind and rain would let him.

At the back of Fleet-street, and lying between it and the water-side, are
several mean and narrow courts, which form a portion of Whitefriars: it
was to one of these that he directed his steps.

The alley into which he turned, might, for filth and misery, have
competed with the darkest corner of this ancient sanctuary in its
dirtiest and most lawless time.  The houses, varying from two stories in
height to four, were stained with every indescribable hue that long
exposure to the weather, damp, and rottenness can impart to tenements
composed originally of the roughest and coarsest materials.  The windows
were patched with paper, and stuffed with the foulest rags; the doors
were falling from their hinges; poles with lines on which to dry clothes,
projected from every casement, and sounds of quarrelling or drunkenness
issued from every room.

The solitary oil lamp in the centre of the court had been blown out,
either by the violence of the wind or the act of some inhabitant who had
excellent reasons for objecting to his residence being rendered too
conspicuous; and the only light which fell upon the broken and uneven
pavement, was derived from the miserable candles that here and there
twinkled in the rooms of such of the more fortunate residents as could
afford to indulge in so expensive a luxury.  A gutter ran down the centre
of the alley—all the sluggish odours of which had been called forth by
the rain; and as the wind whistled through the old houses, the doors and
shutters creaked upon their hinges, and the windows shook in their
frames, with a violence which every moment seemed to threaten the
destruction of the whole place.

The man whom we have followed into this den, walked on in the darkness,
sometimes stumbling into the main gutter, and at others into some branch
repositories of garbage which had been formed by the rain, until he
reached the last house in the court.  The door, or rather what was left
of it, stood ajar, for the convenience of the numerous lodgers; and he
proceeded to grope his way up the old and broken stair, to the attic
story.

He was within a step or two of his room door, when it opened, and a girl,
whose miserable and emaciated appearance was only to be equalled by that
of the candle which she shaded with her hand, peeped anxiously out.

‘Is that you, father?’ said the girl.

‘Who else should it be?’ replied the man gruffly.  ‘What are you
trembling at?  It’s little enough that I’ve had to drink to-day, for
there’s no drink without money, and no money without work.  What the
devil’s the matter with the girl?’

‘I am not well, father—not at all well,’ said the girl, bursting into
tears.

‘Ah!’ replied the man, in the tone of a person who is compelled to admit
a very unpleasant fact, to which he would rather remain blind, if he
could.  ‘You must get better somehow, for we must have money.  You must
go to the parish doctor, and make him give you some medicine.  They’re
paid for it, damn ’em.  What are you standing before the door for?  Let
me come in, can’t you?’

‘Father,’ whispered the girl, shutting the door behind her, and placing
herself before it, ‘William has come back.’

‘Who!’ said the man with a start.

‘Hush,’ replied the girl, ‘William; brother William.’

‘And what does he want?’ said the man, with an effort at
composure—‘money? meat? drink?  He’s come to the wrong shop for that, if
he does.  Give me the candle—give me the candle, fool—I ain’t going to
hurt him.’  He snatched the candle from her hand, and walked into the
room.

Sitting on an old box, with his head resting on his hand, and his eyes
fixed on a wretched cinder fire that was smouldering on the hearth, was a
young man of about two-and-twenty, miserably clad in an old coarse jacket
and trousers.  He started up when his father entered.

‘Fasten the door, Mary,’ said the young man hastily—‘Fasten the door.
You look as if you didn’t know me, father.  It’s long enough, since you
drove me from home; you may well forget me.’

‘And what do you want here, now?’ said the father, seating himself on a
stool, on the other side of the fireplace.  ‘What do you want here, now?’

‘Shelter,’ replied the son.  ‘I’m in trouble: that’s enough.  If I’m
caught I shall swing; that’s certain.  Caught I shall be, unless I stop
here; that’s _as_ certain.  And there’s an end of it.’

‘You mean to say, you’ve been robbing, or murdering, then?’ said the
father.

‘Yes, I do,’ replied the son.  ‘Does it surprise you, father?’  He looked
steadily in the man’s face, but he withdrew his eyes, and bent them on
the ground.

‘Where’s your brothers?’ he said, after a long pause.

‘Where they’ll never trouble you,’ replied his son: ‘John’s gone to
America, and Henry’s dead.’

‘Dead!’ said the father, with a shudder, which even he could not express.

‘Dead,’ replied the young man.  ‘He died in my arms—shot like a dog, by a
gamekeeper.  He staggered back, I caught him, and his blood trickled down
my hands.  It poured out from his side like water.  He was weak, and it
blinded him, but he threw himself down on his knees, on the grass, and
prayed to God, that if his mother was in heaven, He would hear her
prayers for pardon for her youngest son.  “I was her favourite boy,
Will,” he said, “and I am glad to think, now, that when she was dying,
though I was a very young child then, and my little heart was almost
bursting, I knelt down at the foot of the bed, and thanked God for having
made me so fond of her as to have never once done anything to bring the
tears into her eyes.  O Will, why was she taken away, and father left?”
There’s his dying words, father,’ said the young man; ‘make the best you
can of ’em.  You struck him across the face, in a drunken fit, the
morning we ran away; and here’s the end of it.’

The girl wept aloud; and the father, sinking his head upon his knees,
rocked himself to and fro.

‘If I am taken,’ said the young man, ‘I shall be carried back into the
country, and hung for that man’s murder.  They cannot trace me here,
without your assistance, father.  For aught I know, you may give me up to
justice; but unless you do, here I stop, until I can venture to escape
abroad.’

For two whole days, all three remained in the wretched room, without
stirring out.  On the third evening, however, the girl was worse than she
had been yet, and the few scraps of food they had were gone.  It was
indispensably necessary that somebody should go out; and as the girl was
too weak and ill, the father went, just at nightfall.

He got some medicine for the girl, and a trifle in the way of pecuniary
assistance.  On his way back, he earned sixpence by holding a horse; and
he turned homewards with enough money to supply their most pressing wants
for two or three days to come.  He had to pass the public-house.  He
lingered for an instant, walked past it, turned back again, lingered once
more, and finally slunk in.  Two men whom he had not observed, were on
the watch.  They were on the point of giving up their search in despair,
when his loitering attracted their attention; and when he entered the
public-house, they followed him.

‘You’ll drink with me, master,’ said one of them, proffering him a glass
of liquor.

‘And me too,’ said the other, replenishing the glass as soon as it was
drained of its contents.

The man thought of his hungry children, and his son’s danger.  But they
were nothing to the drunkard.  He _did_ drink; and his reason left him.

‘A wet night, Warden,’ whispered one of the men in his ear, as he at
length turned to go away, after spending in liquor one-half of the money
on which, perhaps, his daughter’s life depended.

‘The right sort of night for our friends in hiding, Master Warden,’
whispered the other.

‘Sit down here,’ said the one who had spoken first, drawing him into a
corner.  ‘We have been looking arter the young un.  We came to tell him,
it’s all right now, but we couldn’t find him ’cause we hadn’t got the
precise direction.  But that ain’t strange, for I don’t think he know’d
it himself, when he come to London, did he?’

‘No, he didn’t,’ replied the father.

The two men exchanged glances.

‘There’s a vessel down at the docks, to sail at midnight, when it’s high
water,’ resumed the first speaker, ‘and we’ll put him on board.  His
passage is taken in another name, and what’s better than that, it’s paid
for.  It’s lucky we met you.’

‘Very,’ said the second.

‘Capital luck,’ said the first, with a wink to his companion.

‘Great,’ replied the second, with a slight nod of intelligence.

‘Another glass here; quick’—said the first speaker.  And in five minutes
more, the father had unconsciously yielded up his own son into the
hangman’s hands.

Slowly and heavily the time dragged along, as the brother and sister, in
their miserable hiding-place, listened in anxious suspense to the
slightest sound.  At length, a heavy footstep was heard upon the stair;
it approached nearer; it reached the landing; and the father staggered
into the room.

The girl saw that he was intoxicated, and advanced with the candle in her
hand to meet him; she stopped short, gave a loud scream, and fell
senseless on the ground.  She had caught sight of the shadow of a man
reflected on the floor.  They both rushed in, and in another instant the
young man was a prisoner, and handcuffed.

‘Very quietly done,’ said one of the men to his companion, ‘thanks to the
old man.  Lift up the girl, Tom—come, come, it’s no use crying, young
woman.  It’s all over now, and can’t be helped.’

The young man stooped for an instant over the girl, and then turned
fiercely round upon his father, who had reeled against the wall, and was
gazing on the group with drunken stupidity.

‘Listen to me, father,’ he said, in a tone that made the drunkard’s flesh
creep.  ‘My brother’s blood, and mine, is on your head: I never had kind
look, or word, or care, from you, and alive or dead, I never will forgive
you.  Die when you will, or how, I will be with you.  I speak as a dead
man now, and I warn you, father, that as surely as you must one day stand
before your Maker, so surely shall your children be there, hand in hand,
to cry for judgment against you.’  He raised his manacled hands in a
threatening attitude, fixed his eyes on his shrinking parent, and slowly
left the room; and neither father nor sister ever beheld him more, on
this side of the grave.

When the dim and misty light of a winter’s morning penetrated into the
narrow court, and struggled through the begrimed window of the wretched
room, Warden awoke from his heavy sleep, and found himself alone.  He
rose, and looked round him; the old flock mattress on the floor was
undisturbed; everything was just as he remembered to have seen it last:
and there were no signs of any one, save himself, having occupied the
room during the night.  He inquired of the other lodgers, and of the
neighbours; but his daughter had not been seen or heard of.  He rambled
through the streets, and scrutinised each wretched face among the crowds
that thronged them, with anxious eyes.  But his search was fruitless, and
he returned to his garret when night came on, desolate and weary.

For many days he occupied himself in the same manner, but no trace of his
daughter did he meet with, and no word of her reached his ears.  At
length he gave up the pursuit as hopeless.  He had long thought of the
probability of her leaving him, and endeavouring to gain her bread in
quiet, elsewhere.  She had left him at last to starve alone.  He ground
his teeth, and cursed her!

He begged his bread from door to door.  Every halfpenny he could wring
from the pity or credulity of those to whom he addressed himself, was
spent in the old way.  A year passed over his head; the roof of a jail
was the only one that had sheltered him for many months.  He slept under
archways, and in brickfields—anywhere, where there was some warmth or
shelter from the cold and rain.  But in the last stage of poverty,
disease, and houseless want, he was a drunkard still.

At last, one bitter night, he sunk down on a door-step faint and ill.
The premature decay of vice and profligacy had worn him to the bone.  His
cheeks were hollow and livid; his eyes were sunken, and their sight was
dim.  His legs trembled beneath his weight, and a cold shiver ran through
every limb.

And now the long-forgotten scenes of a misspent life crowded thick and
fast upon him.  He thought of the time when he had a home—a happy,
cheerful home—and of those who peopled it, and flocked about him then,
until the forms of his elder children seemed to rise from the grave, and
stand about him—so plain, so clear, and so distinct they were that he
could touch and feel them.  Looks that he had long forgotten were fixed
upon him once more; voices long since hushed in death sounded in his ears
like the music of village bells.  But it was only for an instant.  The
rain beat heavily upon him; and cold and hunger were gnawing at his heart
again.

He rose, and dragged his feeble limbs a few paces further.  The street
was silent and empty; the few passengers who passed by, at that late
hour, hurried quickly on, and his tremulous voice was lost in the
violence of the storm.  Again that heavy chill struck through his frame,
and his blood seemed to stagnate beneath it.  He coiled himself up in a
projecting doorway, and tried to sleep.

But sleep had fled from his dull and glazed eyes.  His mind wandered
strangely, but he was awake, and conscious.  The well-known shout of
drunken mirth sounded in his ear, the glass was at his lips, the board
was covered with choice rich food—they were before him: he could see them
all, he had but to reach out his hand, and take them—and, though the
illusion was reality itself, he knew that he was sitting alone in the
deserted street, watching the rain-drops as they pattered on the stones;
that death was coming upon him by inches—and that there were none to care
for or help him.

Suddenly he started up, in the extremity of terror.  He had heard his own
voice shouting in the night air, he knew not what, or why.  Hark!  A
groan!—another!  His senses were leaving him: half-formed and incoherent
words burst from his lips; and his hands sought to tear and lacerate his
flesh.  He was going mad, and he shrieked for help till his voice failed
him.

He raised his head, and looked up the long dismal street.  He recollected
that outcasts like himself, condemned to wander day and night in those
dreadful streets, had sometimes gone distracted with their own
loneliness.  He remembered to have heard many years before that a
homeless wretch had once been found in a solitary corner, sharpening a
rusty knife to plunge into his own heart, preferring death to that
endless, weary, wandering to and fro.  In an instant his resolve was
taken, his limbs received new life; he ran quickly from the spot, and
paused not for breath until he reached the river-side.

He crept softly down the steep stone stairs that lead from the
commencement of Waterloo Bridge, down to the water’s level.  He crouched
into a corner, and held his breath, as the patrol passed.  Never did
prisoner’s heart throb with the hope of liberty and life half so eagerly
as did that of the wretched man at the prospect of death.  The watch
passed close to him, but he remained unobserved; and after waiting till
the sound of footsteps had died away in the distance, he cautiously
descended, and stood beneath the gloomy arch that forms the landing-place
from the river.

The tide was in, and the water flowed at his feet.  The rain had ceased,
the wind was lulled, and all was, for the moment, still and quiet—so
quiet, that the slightest sound on the opposite bank, even the rippling
of the water against the barges that were moored there, was distinctly
audible to his ear.  The stream stole languidly and sluggishly on.
Strange and fantastic forms rose to the surface, and beckoned him to
approach; dark gleaming eyes peered from the water, and seemed to mock
his hesitation, while hollow murmurs from behind, urged him onwards.  He
retreated a few paces, took a short run, desperate leap, and plunged into
the river.

Not five seconds had passed when he rose to the water’s surface—but what
a change had taken place in that short time, in all his thoughts and
feelings!  Life—life in any form, poverty, misery, starvation—anything
but death.  He fought and struggled with the water that closed over his
head, and screamed in agonies of terror.  The curse of his own son rang
in his ears.  The shore—but one foot of dry ground—he could almost touch
the step.  One hand’s breadth nearer, and he was saved—but the tide bore
him onward, under the dark arches of the bridge, and he sank to the
bottom.

Again he rose, and struggled for life.  For one instant—for one brief
instant—the buildings on the river’s banks, the lights on the bridge
through which the current had borne him, the black water, and the
fast-flying clouds, were distinctly visible—once more he sunk, and once
again he rose.  Bright flames of fire shot up from earth to heaven, and
reeled before his eyes, while the water thundered in his ears, and
stunned him with its furious roar.

A week afterwards the body was washed ashore, some miles down the river,
a swollen and disfigured mass.  Unrecognised and unpitied, it was borne
to the grave; and there it has long since mouldered away!




SKETCHES OF YOUNG GENTLEMEN


                           TO THE YOUNG LADIES
                                  OF THE
               United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland;
                                   ALSO
                             THE YOUNG LADIES
                                    OF
                        THE PRINCIPALITY OF WALES,
                               AND LIKEWISE
                             THE YOUNG LADIES
                         RESIDENT IN THE ISLES OF
                  GUERNSEY, JERSEY, ALDERNEY, AND SARK,
             THE HUMBLE DEDICATION OF THEIR DEVOTED ADMIRER,

SHEWETH,—

THAT your Dedicator has perused, with feelings of virtuous indignation, a
work purporting to be ‘Sketches of Young Ladies;’ written by Quiz,
illustrated by Phiz, and published in one volume, square twelvemo.

THAT after an attentive and vigilant perusal of the said work, your
Dedicator is humbly of opinion that so many libels, upon your Honourable
sex, were never contained in any previously published work, in twelvemo
or any other mo.

THAT in the title page and preface to the said work, your Honourable sex
are described and classified as animals; and although your Dedicator is
not at present prepared to deny that you _are_ animals, still he humbly
submits that it is not polite to call you so.

THAT in the aforesaid preface, your Honourable sex are also described as
Troglodites, which, being a hard word, may, for aught your Honourable sex
or your Dedicator can say to the contrary, be an injurious and
disrespectful appellation.

THAT the author of the said work applied himself to his task in malice
prepense and with wickedness aforethought; a fact which, your Dedicator
contends, is sufficiently demonstrated, by his assuming the name of Quiz,
which, your Dedicator submits, denotes a foregone conclusion, and implies
an intention of quizzing.

THAT in the execution of his evil design, the said Quiz, or author of the
said work, must have betrayed some trust or confidence reposed in him by
some members of your Honourable sex, otherwise he never could have
acquired so much information relative to the manners and customs of your
Honourable sex in general.

THAT actuated by these considerations, and further moved by various
slanders and insinuations respecting your Honourable sex contained in the
said work, square twelvemo, entitled ‘Sketches of Young Ladies,’ your
Dedicator ventures to produce another work, square twelvemo, entitled
‘Sketches of Young Gentlemen,’ of which he now solicits your acceptance
and approval.

THAT as the Young Ladies are the best companions of the Young Gentlemen,
so the Young Gentlemen should be the best companions of the Young Ladies;
and extending the comparison from animals (to quote the disrespectful
language of the said Quiz) to inanimate objects, your Dedicator humbly
suggests, that such of your Honourable sex as purchased the bane should
possess themselves of the antidote, and that those of your Honourable sex
who were not rash enough to take the first, should lose no time in
swallowing the last,—prevention being in all cases better than cure, as
we are informed upon the authority, not only of general acknowledgment,
but also of traditionary wisdom.

THAT with reference to the said bane and antidote, your Dedicator has no
further remarks to make, than are comprised in the printed directions
issued with Doctor Morison’s pills; namely, that whenever your Honourable
sex take twenty-five of Number, 1, you will be pleased to take fifty of
Number 2, without delay.

                                   And your Dedicator shall ever pray, &c.



THE BASHFUL YOUNG GENTLEMAN


We found ourself seated at a small dinner party the other day, opposite a
stranger of such singular appearance and manner, that he irresistibly
attracted our attention.

This was a fresh-coloured young gentleman, with as good a promise of
light whisker as one might wish to see, and possessed of a very
velvet-like, soft-looking countenance.  We do not use the latter term
invidiously, but merely to denote a pair of smooth, plump,
highly-coloured cheeks of capacious dimensions, and a mouth rather
remarkable for the fresh hue of the lips than for any marked or striking
expression it presented.  His whole face was suffused with a crimson
blush, and bore that downcast, timid, retiring look, which betokens a man
ill at ease with himself.

There was nothing in these symptoms to attract more than a passing
remark, but our attention had been originally drawn to the bashful young
gentleman, on his first appearance in the drawing-room above-stairs, into
which he was no sooner introduced, than making his way towards us who
were standing in a window, and wholly neglecting several persons who
warmly accosted him, he seized our hand with visible emotion, and pressed
it with a convulsive grasp for a good couple of minutes, after which he
dived in a nervous manner across the room, oversetting in his way a fine
little girl of six years and a quarter old—and shrouding himself behind
some hangings, was seen no more, until the eagle eye of the hostess
detecting him in his concealment, on the announcement of dinner, he was
requested to pair off with a lively single lady, of two or three and
thirty.

This most flattering salutation from a perfect stranger, would have
gratified us not a little as a token of his having held us in high
respect, and for that reason been desirous of our acquaintance, if we had
not suspected from the first, that the young gentleman, in making a
desperate effort to get through the ceremony of introduction, had, in the
bewilderment of his ideas, shaken hands with us at random.  This
impression was fully confirmed by the subsequent behaviour of the bashful
young gentleman in question, which we noted particularly, with the view
of ascertaining whether we were right in our conjecture.

The young gentleman seated himself at table with evident misgivings, and
turning sharp round to pay attention to some observation of his
loquacious neighbour, overset his bread.  There was nothing very bad in
this, and if he had had the presence of mind to let it go, and say
nothing about it, nobody but the man who had laid the cloth would have
been a bit the wiser; but the young gentleman in various semi-successful
attempts to prevent its fall, played with it a little, as gentlemen in
the streets may be seen to do with their hats on a windy day, and then
giving the roll a smart rap in his anxiety to catch it, knocked it with
great adroitness into a tureen of white soup at some distance, to the
unspeakable terror and disturbance of a very amiable bald gentleman, who
was dispensing the contents.  We thought the bashful young gentleman
would have gone off in an apoplectic fit, consequent upon the violent
rush of blood to his face at the occurrence of this catastrophe.

From this moment we perceived, in the phraseology of the fancy, that it
was ‘all up’ with the bashful young gentleman, and so indeed it was.
Several benevolent persons endeavoured to relieve his embarrassment by
taking wine with him, but finding that it only augmented his sufferings,
and that after mingling sherry, champagne, hock, and moselle together, he
applied the greater part of the mixture externally, instead of
internally, they gradually dropped off, and left him to the exclusive
care of the talkative lady, who, not noting the wildness of his eye,
firmly believed she had secured a listener.  He broke a glass or two in
the course of the meal, and disappeared shortly afterwards; it is
inferred that he went away in some confusion, inasmuch as he left the
house in another gentleman’s coat, and the footman’s hat.

This little incident led us to reflect upon the most prominent
characteristics of bashful young gentlemen in the abstract; and as this
portable volume will be the great text-book of young ladies in all future
generations, we record them here for their guidance and behoof.

If the bashful young gentleman, in turning a street corner, chance to
stumble suddenly upon two or three young ladies of his acquaintance,
nothing can exceed his confusion and agitation.  His first impulse is to
make a great variety of bows, and dart past them, which he does until,
observing that they wish to stop, but are uncertain whether to do so or
not, he makes several feints of returning, which causes them to do the
same; and at length, after a great quantity of unnecessary dodging and
falling up against the other passengers, he returns and shakes hands most
affectionately with all of them, in doing which he knocks out of their
grasp sundry little parcels, which he hastily picks up, and returns very
muddy and disordered.  The chances are that the bashful young gentleman
then observes it is very fine weather, and being reminded that it has
only just left off raining for the first time these three days, he
blushes very much, and smiles as if he had said a very good thing.  The
young lady who was most anxious to speak, here inquires, with an air of
great commiseration, how his dear sister Harriet is to-day; to which the
young gentleman, without the slightest consideration, replies with many
thanks, that she is remarkably well.  ‘Well, Mr. Hopkins!’ cries the
young lady, ‘why, we heard she was bled yesterday evening, and have been
perfectly miserable about her.’  ‘Oh, ah,’ says the young gentleman, ‘so
she was.  Oh, she’s very ill, very ill indeed.’  The young gentleman then
shakes his head, and looks very desponding (he has been smiling
perpetually up to this time), and after a short pause, gives his glove a
great wrench at the wrist, and says, with a strong emphasis on the
adjective, ‘_Good_ morning, _good_ morning.’  And making a great number
of bows in acknowledgment of several little messages to his sister, walks
backward a few paces, and comes with great violence against a lamp-post,
knocking his hat off in the contact, which in his mental confusion and
bodily pain he is going to walk away without, until a great roar from a
carter attracts his attention, when he picks it up, and tries to smile
cheerfully to the young ladies, who are looking back, and who, he has the
satisfaction of seeing, are all laughing heartily.

At a quadrille party, the bashful young gentleman always remains as near
the entrance of the room as possible, from which position he smiles at
the people he knows as they come in, and sometimes steps forward to shake
hands with more intimate friends: a process which on each repetition
seems to turn him a deeper scarlet than before.  He declines dancing the
first set or two, observing, in a faint voice, that he would rather wait
a little; but at length is absolutely compelled to allow himself to be
introduced to a partner, when he is led, in a great heat and blushing
furiously, across the room to a spot where half-a-dozen unknown ladies
are congregated together.

‘Miss Lambert, let me introduce Mr. Hopkins for the next quadrille.’
Miss Lambert inclines her head graciously.  Mr. Hopkins bows, and his
fair conductress disappears, leaving Mr. Hopkins, as he too well knows,
to make himself agreeable.  The young lady more than half expects that
the bashful young gentleman will say something, and the bashful young
gentleman feeling this, seriously thinks whether he has got anything to
say, which, upon mature reflection, he is rather disposed to conclude he
has not, since nothing occurs to him.  Meanwhile, the young lady, after
several inspections of her _bouquet_, all made in the expectation that
the bashful young gentleman is going to talk, whispers her mamma, who is
sitting next her, which whisper the bashful young gentleman immediately
suspects (and possibly with very good reason) must be about _him_.  In
this comfortable condition he remains until it is time to ‘stand up,’
when murmuring a ‘Will you allow me?’ he gives the young lady his arm,
and after inquiring where she will stand, and receiving a reply that she
has no choice, conducts her to the remotest corner of the quadrille, and
making one attempt at conversation, which turns out a desperate failure,
preserves a profound silence until it is all over, when he walks her
twice round the room, deposits her in her old seat, and retires in
confusion.

A married bashful gentleman—for these bashful gentlemen do get married
sometimes; how it is ever brought about, is a mystery to us—a married
bashful gentleman either causes his wife to appear bold by contrast, or
merges her proper importance in his own insignificance.  Bashful young
gentlemen should be cured, or avoided.  They are never hopeless, and
never will be, while female beauty and attractions retain their
influence, as any young lady will find, who may think it worth while on
this confident assurance to take a patient in hand.



THE OUT-AND-OUT YOUNG GENTLEMAN


Out-and-out young gentlemen may be divided into two classes—those who
have something to do, and those who have nothing.  I shall commence with
the former, because that species come more frequently under the notice of
young ladies, whom it is our province to warn and to instruct.

The out-and-out young gentleman is usually no great dresser, his
instructions to his tailor being all comprehended in the one general
direction to ‘make that what’s-a-name a regular bang-up sort of thing.’
For some years past, the favourite costume of the out-and-out young
gentleman has been a rough pilot coat, with two gilt hooks and eyes to
the velvet collar; buttons somewhat larger than crown-pieces; a black or
fancy neckerchief, loosely tied; a wide-brimmed hat, with a low crown;
tightish inexpressibles, and iron-shod boots.  Out of doors he sometimes
carries a large ash stick, but only on special occasions, for he prefers
keeping his hands in his coat pockets.  He smokes at all hours, of
course, and swears considerably.

The out-and-out young gentleman is employed in a city counting-house or
solicitor’s office, in which he does as little as he possibly can: his
chief places of resort are, the streets, the taverns, and the theatres.
In the streets at evening time, out-and-out young gentlemen have a
pleasant custom of walking six or eight abreast, thus driving females and
other inoffensive persons into the road, which never fails to afford them
the highest satisfaction, especially if there be any immediate danger of
their being run over, which enhances the fun of the thing materially.  In
all places of public resort, the out-and-outers are careful to select
each a seat to himself, upon which he lies at full length, and (if the
weather be very dirty, but not in any other case) he lies with his knees
up, and the soles of his boots planted firmly on the cushion, so that if
any low fellow should ask him to make room for a lady, he takes ample
revenge upon her dress, without going at all out of his way to do it.  He
always sits with his hat on, and flourishes his stick in the air while
the play is proceeding, with a dignified contempt of the performance; if
it be possible for one or two out-and-out young gentlemen to get up a
little crowding in the passages, they are quite in their element,
squeezing, pushing, whooping, and shouting in the most humorous manner
possible.  If they can only succeed in irritating the gentleman who has a
family of daughters under his charge, they are like to die with laughing,
and boast of it among their companions for a week afterwards, adding,
that one or two of them were ‘devilish fine girls,’ and that they really
thought the youngest would have fainted, which was the only thing wanted
to render the joke complete.

If the out-and-out young gentleman have a mother and sisters, of course
he treats them with becoming contempt, inasmuch as they (poor things!)
having no notion of life or gaiety, are far too weak-spirited and moping
for him.  Sometimes, however, on a birth-day or at Christmas-time, he
cannot very well help accompanying them to a party at some old friend’s,
with which view he comes home when they have been dressed an hour or two,
smelling very strongly of tobacco and spirits, and after exchanging his
rough coat for some more suitable attire (in which however he loses
nothing of the out-and-outer), gets into the coach and grumbles all the
way at his own good nature: his bitter reflections aggravated by the
recollection, that Tom Smith has taken the chair at a little impromptu
dinner at a fighting man’s, and that a set-to was to take place on a
dining-table, between the fighting man and his brother-in-law, which is
probably ‘coming off’ at that very instant.

As the out-and-out young gentleman is by no means at his ease in ladies’
society, he shrinks into a corner of the drawing-room when they reach the
friend’s, and unless one of his sisters is kind enough to talk to him,
remains there without being much troubled by the attentions of other
people, until he espies, lingering outside the door, another gentleman,
whom he at once knows, by his air and manner (for there is a kind of
free-masonry in the craft), to be a brother out-and-outer, and towards
whom he accordingly makes his way.  Conversation being soon opened by
some casual remark, the second out-and-outer confidentially informs the
first, that he is one of the rough sort and hates that kind of thing,
only he couldn’t very well be off coming; to which the other replies,
that that’s just his case—‘and I’ll tell you what,’ continues the
out-and-outer in a whisper, ‘I should like a glass of warm brandy and
water just now,’—‘Or a pint of stout and a pipe,’ suggests the other
out-and-outer.

The discovery is at once made that they are sympathetic souls; each of
them says at the same moment, that he sees the other understands what’s
what: and they become fast friends at once, more especially when it
appears, that the second out-and-outer is no other than a gentleman, long
favourably known to his familiars as ‘Mr. Warmint Blake,’ who upon divers
occasions has distinguished himself in a manner that would not have
disgraced the fighting man, and who—having been a pretty long time about
town—had the honour of once shaking hands with the celebrated Mr.
Thurtell himself.

At supper, these gentlemen greatly distinguish themselves, brightening up
very much when the ladies leave the table, and proclaiming aloud their
intention of beginning to spend the evening—a process which is generally
understood to be satisfactorily performed, when a great deal of wine is
drunk and a great deal of noise made, both of which feats the out-and-out
young gentlemen execute to perfection.  Having protracted their sitting
until long after the host and the other guests have adjourned to the
drawing-room, and finding that they have drained the decanters empty,
they follow them thither with complexions rather heightened, and faces
rather bloated with wine; and the agitated lady of the house whispers her
friends as they waltz together, to the great terror of the whole room,
that ‘both Mr. Blake and Mr. Dummins are very nice sort of young men in
their way, only they are eccentric persons, and unfortunately _rather too
wild_!’

The remaining class of out-and-out young gentlemen is composed of
persons, who, having no money of their own and a soul above earning any,
enjoy similar pleasures, nobody knows how.  These respectable gentlemen,
without aiming quite so much at the out-and-out in external appearance,
are distinguished by all the same amiable and attractive characteristics,
in an equal or perhaps greater degree, and now and then find their way
into society, through the medium of the other class of out-and-out young
gentlemen, who will sometimes carry them home, and who usually pay their
tavern bills.  As they are equally gentlemanly, clever, witty,
intelligent, wise, and well-bred, we need scarcely have recommended them
to the peculiar consideration of the young ladies, if it were not that
some of the gentle creatures whom we hold in such high respect, are
perhaps a little too apt to confound a great many heavier terms with the
light word eccentricity, which we beg them henceforth to take in a
strictly Johnsonian sense, without any liberality or latitude of
construction.



THE VERY FRIENDLY YOUNG GENTLEMAN


We know—and all people know—so many specimens of this class, that in
selecting the few heads our limits enable us to take from a great number,
we have been induced to give the very friendly young gentleman the
preference over many others, to whose claims upon a more cursory view of
the question we had felt disposed to assign the priority.

The very friendly young gentleman is very friendly to everybody, but he
attaches himself particularly to two, or at most to three families:
regulating his choice by their dinners, their circle of acquaintance, or
some other criterion in which he has an immediate interest.  He is of any
age between twenty and forty, unmarried of course, must be fond of
children, and is expected to make himself generally useful if possible.
Let us illustrate our meaning by an example, which is the shortest mode
and the clearest.

We encountered one day, by chance, an old friend of whom we had lost
sight for some years, and who—expressing a strong anxiety to renew our
former intimacy—urged us to dine with him on an early day, that we might
talk over old times.  We readily assented, adding, that we hoped we
should be alone.  ‘Oh, certainly, certainly,’ said our friend, ‘not a
soul with us but Mincin.’  ‘And who is Mincin?’ was our natural inquiry.
‘O don’t mind him,’ replied our friend, ‘he’s a most particular friend of
mine, and a very friendly fellow you will find him;’ and so he left us.

‘We thought no more about Mincin until we duly presented ourselves at the
house next day, when, after a hearty welcome, our friend motioned towards
a gentleman who had been previously showing his teeth by the fireplace,
and gave us to understand that it was Mr. Mincin, of whom he had spoken.
It required no great penetration on our part to discover at once that Mr.
Mincin was in every respect a very friendly young gentleman.

‘I am delighted,’ said Mincin, hastily advancing, and pressing our hand
warmly between both of his, ‘I am delighted, I am sure, to make your
acquaintance—(here he smiled)—very much delighted indeed—(here he
exhibited a little emotion)—I assure you that I have looked forward to it
anxiously for a very long time:’ here he released our hands, and rubbing
his own, observed, that the day was severe, but that he was delighted to
perceive from our appearance that it agreed with us wonderfully; and then
went on to observe, that, notwithstanding the coldness of the weather, he
had that morning seen in the paper an exceedingly curious paragraph, to
the effect, that there was now in the garden of Mr. Wilkins of
Chichester, a pumpkin, measuring four feet in height, and eleven feet
seven inches in circumference, which he looked upon as a very
extraordinary piece of intelligence.  We ventured to remark, that we had
a dim recollection of having once or twice before observed a similar
paragraph in the public prints, upon which Mr. Mincin took us
confidentially by the button, and said, Exactly, exactly, to be sure, we
were very right, and he wondered what the editors meant by putting in
such things.  Who the deuce, he should like to know, did they suppose
cared about them? that struck him as being the best of it.

The lady of the house appeared shortly afterwards, and Mr. Mincin’s
friendliness, as will readily be supposed, suffered no diminution in
consequence; he exerted much strength and skill in wheeling a large
easy-chair up to the fire, and the lady being seated in it, carefully
closed the door, stirred the fire, and looked to the windows to see that
they admitted no air; having satisfied himself upon all these points, he
expressed himself quite easy in his mind, and begged to know how she
found herself to-day.  Upon the lady’s replying very well, Mr. Mincin
(who it appeared was a medical gentleman) offered some general remarks
upon the nature and treatment of colds in the head, which occupied us
agreeably until dinner-time.  During the meal, he devoted himself to
complimenting everybody, not forgetting himself, so that we were an
uncommonly agreeable quartette.

‘I’ll tell you what, Capper,’ said Mr. Mincin to our host, as he closed
the room door after the lady had retired, ‘you have very great reason to
be fond of your wife.  Sweet woman, Mrs. Capper, sir!’  ‘Nay, Mincin—I
beg,’ interposed the host, as we were about to reply that Mrs. Capper
unquestionably was particularly sweet.  ‘Pray, Mincin, don’t.’  ‘Why
not?’ exclaimed Mr. Mincin, ‘why not?  Why should you feel any delicacy
before your old friend—_our_ old friend, if I may be allowed to call you
so, sir; why should you, I ask?’  We of course wished to know why he
should also, upon which our friend admitted that Mrs. Capper _was_ a very
sweet woman, at which admission Mr. Mincin cried ‘Bravo!’ and begged to
propose Mrs. Capper with heartfelt enthusiasm, whereupon our host said,
‘Thank you, Mincin,’ with deep feeling; and gave us, in a low voice, to
understand, that Mincin had saved Mrs. Capper’s cousin’s life no less
than fourteen times in a year and a half, which he considered no common
circumstance—an opinion to which we most cordially subscribed.

Now that we three were left to entertain ourselves with conversation, Mr.
Mincin’s extreme friendliness became every moment more apparent; he was
so amazingly friendly, indeed, that it was impossible to talk about
anything in which he had not the chief concern.  We happened to allude to
some affairs in which our friend and we had been mutually engaged nearly
fourteen years before, when Mr. Mincin was all at once reminded of a joke
which our friend had made on that day four years, which he positively
must insist upon telling—and which he did tell accordingly, with many
pleasant recollections of what he said, and what Mrs. Capper said, and
how he well remembered that they had been to the play with orders on the
very night previous, and had seen Romeo and Juliet, and the pantomime,
and how Mrs. Capper being faint had been led into the lobby, where she
smiled, said it was nothing after all, and went back again, with many
other interesting and absorbing particulars: after which the friendly
young gentleman went on to assure us, that our friend had experienced a
marvellously prophetic opinion of that same pantomime, which was of such
an admirable kind, that two morning papers took the same view next day:
to this our friend replied, with a little triumph, that in that instance
he had some reason to think he had been correct, which gave the friendly
young gentleman occasion to believe that our friend was always correct;
and so we went on, until our friend, filling a bumper, said he must drink
one glass to his dear friend Mincin, than whom he would say no man saved
the lives of his acquaintances more, or had a more friendly heart.
Finally, our friend having emptied his glass, said, ‘God bless you,
Mincin,’—and Mr. Mincin and he shook hands across the table with much
affection and earnestness.

But great as the friendly young gentleman is, in a limited scene like
this, he plays the same part on a larger scale with increased _éclat_.
Mr. Mincin is invited to an evening party with his dear friends the
Martins, where he meets his dear friends the Cappers, and his dear
friends the Watsons, and a hundred other dear friends too numerous to
mention.  He is as much at home with the Martins as with the Cappers; but
how exquisitely he balances his attentions, and divides them among his
dear friends!  If he flirts with one of the Miss Watsons, he has one
little Martin on the sofa pulling his hair, and the other little Martin
on the carpet riding on his foot.  He carries Mrs. Watson down to supper
on one arm, and Miss Martin on the other, and takes wine so judiciously,
and in such exact order, that it is impossible for the most punctilious
old lady to consider herself neglected.  If any young lady, being
prevailed upon to sing, become nervous afterwards, Mr. Mincin leads her
tenderly into the next room, and restores her with port wine, which she
must take medicinally.  If any gentleman be standing by the piano during
the progress of the ballad, Mr. Mincin seizes him by the arm at one point
of the melody, and softly beating time the while with his head, expresses
in dumb show his intense perception of the delicacy of the passage.  If
anybody’s self-love is to be flattered, Mr. Mincin is at hand.  If
anybody’s overweening vanity is to be pampered, Mr. Mincin will surfeit
it.  What wonder that people of all stations and ages recognise Mr.
Mincin’s friendliness; that he is universally allowed to be handsome as
amiable; that mothers think him an oracle, daughters a dear, brothers a
beau, and fathers a wonder!  And who would not have the reputation of the
very friendly young gentleman?



THE MILITARY YOUNG GENTLEMAN


We are rather at a loss to imagine how it has come to pass that military
young gentlemen have obtained so much favour in the eyes of the young
ladies of this kingdom.  We cannot think so lightly of them as to suppose
that the mere circumstance of a man’s wearing a red coat ensures him a
ready passport to their regard; and even if this were the case, it would
be no satisfactory explanation of the circumstance, because, although the
analogy may in some degree hold good in the case of mail coachmen and
guards, still general postmen wear red coats, and _they_ are not to our
knowledge better received than other men; nor are firemen either, who
wear (or used to wear) not only red coats, but very resplendent and
massive badges besides—much larger than epaulettes.  Neither do the
twopenny post-office boys, if the result of our inquiries be correct,
find any peculiar favour in woman’s eyes, although they wear very bright
red jackets, and have the additional advantage of constantly appearing in
public on horseback, which last circumstance may be naturally supposed to
be greatly in their favour.

We have sometimes thought that this phenomenon may take its rise in the
conventional behaviour of captains and colonels and other gentlemen in
red coats on the stage, where they are invariably represented as fine
swaggering fellows, talking of nothing but charming girls, their king and
country, their honour, and their debts, and crowing over the inferior
classes of the community, whom they occasionally treat with a little
gentlemanly swindling, no less to the improvement and pleasure of the
audience, than to the satisfaction and approval of the choice spirits who
consort with them.  But we will not devote these pages to our
speculations upon the subject, inasmuch as our business at the present
moment is not so much with the young ladies who are bewitched by her
Majesty’s livery as with the young gentlemen whose heads are turned by
it.  For ‘heads’ we had written ‘brains;’ but upon consideration, we
think the former the more appropriate word of the two.

These young gentlemen may be divided into two classes—young gentlemen who
are actually in the army, and young gentlemen who, having an intense and
enthusiastic admiration for all things appertaining to a military life,
are compelled by adverse fortune or adverse relations to wear out their
existence in some ignoble counting-house.  We will take this latter
description of military young gentlemen first.

The whole heart and soul of the military young gentleman are concentrated
in his favourite topic.  There is nothing that he is so learned upon as
uniforms; he will tell you, without faltering for an instant, what the
habiliments of any one regiment are turned up with, what regiment wear
stripes down the outside and inside of the leg, and how many buttons the
Tenth had on their coats; he knows to a fraction how many yards and odd
inches of gold lace it takes to make an ensign in the Guards; is deeply
read in the comparative merits of different bands, and the apparelling of
trumpeters; and is very luminous indeed in descanting upon ‘crack
regiments,’ and the ‘crack’ gentlemen who compose them, of whose
mightiness and grandeur he is never tired of telling.

We were suggesting to a military young gentleman only the other day,
after he had related to us several dazzling instances of the profusion of
half-a-dozen honourable ensign somebodies or nobodies in the articles of
kid gloves and polished boots, that possibly ‘cracked’ regiments would be
an improvement upon ‘crack,’ as being a more expressive and appropriate
designation, when he suddenly interrupted us by pulling out his watch,
and observing that he must hurry off to the Park in a cab, or he would be
too late to hear the band play.  Not wishing to interfere with so
important an engagement, and being in fact already slightly overwhelmed
by the anecdotes of the honourable ensigns afore-mentioned, we made no
attempt to detain the military young gentleman, but parted company with
ready good-will.

Some three or four hours afterwards, we chanced to be walking down
Whitehall, on the Admiralty side of the way, when, as we drew near to one
of the little stone places in which a couple of horse soldiers mount
guard in the daytime, we were attracted by the motionless appearance and
eager gaze of a young gentleman, who was devouring both man and horse
with his eyes, so eagerly, that he seemed deaf and blind to all that was
passing around him.  We were not much surprised at the discovery that it
was our friend, the military young gentleman, but we _were_ a little
astonished when we returned from a walk to South Lambeth to find him
still there, looking on with the same intensity as before.  As it was a
very windy day, we felt bound to awaken the young gentleman from his
reverie, when he inquired of us with great enthusiasm, whether ‘that was
not a glorious spectacle,’ and proceeded to give us a detailed account of
the weight of every article of the spectacle’s trappings, from the man’s
gloves to the horse’s shoes.

We have made it a practice since, to take the Horse Guards in our daily
walk, and we find it is the custom of military young gentlemen to plant
themselves opposite the sentries, and contemplate them at leisure, in
periods varying from fifteen minutes to fifty, and averaging twenty-five.
We were much struck a day or two since, by the behaviour of a very
promising young butcher who (evincing an interest in the service, which
cannot be too strongly commanded or encouraged), after a prolonged
inspection of the sentry, proceeded to handle his boots with great
curiosity, and as much composure and indifference as if the man were
wax-work.

But the really military young gentleman is waiting all this time, and at
the very moment that an apology rises to our lips, he emerges from the
barrack gate (he is quartered in a garrison town), and takes the way
towards the high street.  He wears his undress uniform, which somewhat
mars the glory of his outward man; but still how great, how grand, he is!
What a happy mixture of ease and ferocity in his gait and carriage, and
how lightly he carries that dreadful sword under his arm, making no more
ado about it than if it were a silk umbrella!  The lion is sleeping: only
think if an enemy were in sight, how soon he’d whip it out of the
scabbard, and what a terrible fellow he would be!

But he walks on, thinking of nothing less than blood and slaughter; and
now he comes in sight of three other military young gentlemen,
arm-in-arm, who are bearing down towards him, clanking their iron heels
on the pavement, and clashing their swords with a noise, which should
cause all peaceful men to quail at heart.  They stop to talk.  See how
the flaxen-haired young gentleman with the weak legs—he who has his
pocket-handkerchief thrust into the breast of his coat-glares upon the
fainthearted civilians who linger to look upon his glory; how the next
young gentleman elevates his head in the air, and majestically places his
arms a-kimbo, while the third stands with his legs very wide apart, and
clasps his hands behind him.  Well may we inquire—not in familiar jest,
but in respectful earnest—if you call that nothing.  Oh! if some
encroaching foreign power—the Emperor of Russia, for instance, or any of
those deep fellows, could only see those military young gentlemen as they
move on together towards the billiard-room over the way, wouldn’t he
tremble a little!

And then, at the Theatre at night, when the performances are by command
of Colonel Fitz-Sordust and the officers of the garrison—what a splendid
sight it is!  How sternly the defenders of their country look round the
house as if in mute assurance to the audience, that they may make
themselves comfortable regarding any foreign invasion, for they (the
military young gentlemen) are keeping a sharp look-out, and are ready for
anything.  And what a contrast between them, and that stage-box full of
grey-headed officers with tokens of many battles about them, who have
nothing at all in common with the military young gentlemen, and who—but
for an old-fashioned kind of manly dignity in their looks and
bearing—might be common hard-working soldiers for anything they take the
pains to announce to the contrary!

Ah! here is a family just come in who recognise the flaxen-headed young
gentleman; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman recognises them too,
only he doesn’t care to show it just now.  Very well done indeed!  He
talks louder to the little group of military young gentlemen who are
standing by him, and coughs to induce some ladies in the next box but one
to look round, in order that their faces may undergo the same ordeal of
criticism to which they have subjected, in not a wholly inaudible tone,
the majority of the female portion of the audience.  Oh! a gentleman in
the same box looks round as if he were disposed to resent this as an
impertinence; and the flaxen-headed young gentleman sees his friends at
once, and hurries away to them with the most charming cordiality.

Three young ladies, one young man, and the mamma of the party, receive
the military young gentleman with great warmth and politeness, and in
five minutes afterwards the military young gentleman, stimulated by the
mamma, introduces the two other military young gentlemen with whom he was
walking in the morning, who take their seats behind the young ladies and
commence conversation; whereat the mamma bestows a triumphant bow upon a
rival mamma, who has not succeeded in decoying any military young
gentlemen, and prepares to consider her visitors from that moment three
of the most elegant and superior young gentlemen in the whole world.



THE POLITICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN


Once upon a time—_not_ in the days when pigs drank wine, but in a more
recent period of our history—it was customary to banish politics when
ladies were present.  If this usage still prevailed, we should have had
no chapter for political young gentlemen, for ladies would have neither
known nor cared what kind of monster a political young gentleman was.
But as this good custom in common with many others has ‘gone out,’ and
left no word when it is likely to be home again; as political young
ladies are by no means rare, and political young gentlemen the very
reverse of scarce, we are bound in the strict discharge of our most
responsible duty not to neglect this natural division of our subject.

If the political young gentleman be resident in a country town (and there
_are_ political young gentlemen in country towns sometimes), he is wholly
absorbed in his politics; as a pair of purple spectacles communicate the
same uniform tint to all objects near and remote, so the political
glasses, with which the young gentleman assists his mental vision, give
to everything the hue and tinge of party feeling.  The political young
gentleman would as soon think of being struck with the beauty of a young
lady in the opposite interest, as he would dream of marrying his sister
to the opposite member.

If the political young gentleman be a Conservative, he has usually some
vague ideas about Ireland and the Pope which he cannot very clearly
explain, but which he knows are the right sort of thing, and not to be
very easily got over by the other side.  He has also some choice
sentences regarding church and state, culled from the banners in use at
the last election, with which he intersperses his conversation at
intervals with surprising effect.  But his great topic is the
constitution, upon which he will declaim, by the hour together, with much
heat and fury; not that he has any particular information on the subject,
but because he knows that the constitution is somehow church and state,
and church and state somehow the constitution, and that the fellows on
the other side say it isn’t, which is quite a sufficient reason for him
to say it is, and to stick to it.

Perhaps his greatest topic of all, though, is the people.  If a fight
takes place in a populous town, in which many noses are broken, and a few
windows, the young gentleman throws down the newspaper with a triumphant
air, and exclaims, ‘Here’s your precious people!’  If half-a-dozen boys
run across the course at race time, when it ought to be kept clear, the
young gentleman looks indignantly round, and begs you to observe the
conduct of the people; if the gallery demand a hornpipe between the play
and the afterpiece, the same young gentleman cries ‘No’ and ‘Shame’ till
he is hoarse, and then inquires with a sneer what you think of popular
moderation _now_; in short, the people form a never-failing theme for
him; and when the attorney, on the side of his candidate, dwells upon it
with great power of eloquence at election time, as he never fails to do,
the young gentleman and his friends, and the body they head, cheer with
great violence against _the other people_, with whom, of course, they
have no possible connexion.  In much the same manner the audience at a
theatre never fail to be highly amused with any jokes at the expense of
the public—always laughing heartily at some other public, and never at
themselves.

If the political young gentleman be a Radical, he is usually a very
profound person indeed, having great store of theoretical questions to
put to you, with an infinite variety of possible cases and logical
deductions therefrom.  If he be of the utilitarian school, too, which is
more than probable, he is particularly pleasant company, having many
ingenious remarks to offer upon the voluntary principle and various
cheerful disquisitions connected with the population of the country, the
position of Great Britain in the scale of nations, and the balance of
power.  Then he is exceedingly well versed in all doctrines of political
economy as laid down in the newspapers, and knows a great many
parliamentary speeches by heart; nay, he has a small stock of aphorisms,
none of them exceeding a couple of lines in length, which will settle the
toughest question and leave you nothing to say.  He gives all the young
ladies to understand, that Miss Martineau is the greatest woman that ever
lived; and when they praise the good looks of Mr. Hawkins the new member,
says he’s very well for a representative, all things considered, but he
wants a little calling to account, and he is more than half afraid it
will be necessary to bring him down on his knees for that vote on the
miscellaneous estimates.  At this, the young ladies express much
wonderment, and say surely a Member of Parliament is not to be brought
upon his knees so easily; in reply to which the political young gentleman
smiles sternly, and throws out dark hints regarding the speedy arrival of
that day, when Members of Parliament will be paid salaries, and required
to render weekly accounts of their proceedings, at which the young ladies
utter many expressions of astonishment and incredulity, while their
lady-mothers regard the prophecy as little else than blasphemous.

It is extremely improving and interesting to hear two political young
gentlemen, of diverse opinions, discuss some great question across a
dinner-table; such as, whether, if the public were admitted to
Westminster Abbey for nothing, they would or would not convey small
chisels and hammers in their pockets, and immediately set about chipping
all the noses off the statues; or whether, if they once got into the
Tower for a shilling, they would not insist upon trying the crown on
their own heads, and loading and firing off all the small arms in the
armoury, to the great discomposure of Whitechapel and the Minories.  Upon
these, and many other momentous questions which agitate the public mind
in these desperate days, they will discourse with great vehemence and
irritation for a considerable time together, both leaving off precisely
where they began, and each thoroughly persuaded that he has got the
better of the other.

In society, at assemblies, balls, and playhouses, these political young
gentlemen are perpetually on the watch for a political allusion, or
anything which can be tortured or construed into being one; when,
thrusting themselves into the very smallest openings for their favourite
discourse, they fall upon the unhappy company tooth and nail.  They have
recently had many favourable opportunities of opening in churches, but as
there the clergyman has it all his own way, and must not be contradicted,
whatever politics he preaches, they are fain to hold their tongues until
they reach the outer door, though at the imminent risk of bursting in the
effort.

As such discussions can please nobody but the talkative parties
concerned, we hope they will henceforth take the hint and discontinue
them, otherwise we now give them warning, that the ladies have our advice
to discountenance such talkers altogether.



THE DOMESTIC YOUNG GENTLEMAN


Let us make a slight sketch of our amiable friend, Mr. Felix Nixon.  We
are strongly disposed to think, that if we put him in this place, he will
answer our purpose without another word of comment.

Felix, then, is a young gentleman who lives at home with his mother, just
within the twopenny-post office circle of three miles from St.
Martin-le-Grand.  He wears Indiarubber goloshes when the weather is at
all damp, and always has a silk handkerchief neatly folded up in the
right-hand pocket of his great-coat, to tie over his mouth when he goes
home at night; moreover, being rather near-sighted, he carries spectacles
for particular occasions, and has a weakish tremulous voice, of which he
makes great use, for he talks as much as any old lady breathing.

The two chief subjects of Felix’s discourse, are himself and his mother,
both of whom would appear to be very wonderful and interesting persons.
As Felix and his mother are seldom apart in body, so Felix and his mother
are scarcely ever separate in spirit.  If you ask Felix how he finds
himself to-day, he prefaces his reply with a long and minute bulletin of
his mother’s state of health; and the good lady in her turn, edifies her
acquaintance with a circumstantial and alarming account, how he sneezed
four times and coughed once after being out in the rain the other night,
but having his feet promptly put into hot water, and his head into a
flannel-something, which we will not describe more particularly than by
this delicate allusion, was happily brought round by the next morning,
and enabled to go to business as usual.

Our friend is not a very adventurous or hot-headed person, but he has
passed through many dangers, as his mother can testify: there is one
great story in particular, concerning a hackney coachman who wanted to
overcharge him one night for bringing them home from the play, upon which
Felix gave the aforesaid coachman a look which his mother thought would
have crushed him to the earth, but which did not crush him quite, for he
continued to demand another sixpence, notwithstanding that Felix took out
his pocket-book, and, with the aid of a flat candle, pointed out the fare
in print, which the coachman obstinately disregarding, he shut the
street-door with a slam which his mother shudders to think of; and then,
roused to the most appalling pitch of passion by the coachman knocking a
double knock to show that he was by no means convinced, he broke with
uncontrollable force from his parent and the servant girl, and running
into the street without his hat, actually shook his fist at the coachman,
and came back again with a face as white, Mrs. Nixon says, looking about
her for a simile, as white as that ceiling.  She never will forget his
fury that night, Never!

To this account Felix listens with a solemn face, occasionally looking at
you to see how it affects you, and when his mother has made an end of it,
adds that he looked at every coachman he met for three weeks afterwards,
in hopes that he might see the scoundrel; whereupon Mrs. Nixon, with an
exclamation of terror, requests to know what he would have done to him if
he _had_ seen him, at which Felix smiling darkly and clenching his right
fist, she exclaims, ‘Goodness gracious!’ with a distracted air, and
insists upon extorting a promise that he never will on any account do
anything so rash, which her dutiful son—it being something more than
three years since the offence was committed—reluctantly concedes, and his
mother, shaking her head prophetically, fears with a sigh that his spirit
will lead him into something violent yet.  The discourse then, by an easy
transition, turns upon the spirit which glows within the bosom of Felix,
upon which point Felix himself becomes eloquent, and relates a thrilling
anecdote of the time when he used to sit up till two o’clock in the
morning reading French, and how his mother used to say, ‘Felix, you will
make yourself ill, I know you will;’ and how _he_ used to say, ‘Mother, I
don’t care—I will do it;’ and how at last his mother privately procured a
doctor to come and see him, who declared, the moment he felt his pulse,
that if he had gone on reading one night more—only one night more—he must
have put a blister on each temple, and another between his shoulders; and
who, as it was, sat down upon the instant, and writing a prescription for
a blue pill, said it must be taken immediately, or he wouldn’t answer for
the consequences.  The recital of these and many other moving perils of
the like nature, constantly harrows up the feelings of Mr. Nixon’s
friends.

Mrs. Nixon has a tolerably extensive circle of female acquaintance, being
a good-humoured, talkative, bustling little body, and to the unmarried
girls among them she is constantly vaunting the virtues of her son,
hinting that she will be a very happy person who wins him, but that they
must mind their P’s and Q’s, for he is very particular, and terribly
severe upon young ladies.  At this last caution the young ladies resident
in the same row, who happen to be spending the evening there, put their
pocket-handkerchiefs before their mouths, and are troubled with a short
cough; just then Felix knocks at the door, and his mother drawing the
tea-table nearer the fire, calls out to him as he takes off his boots in
the back parlour that he needn’t mind coming in in his slippers, for
there are only the two Miss Greys and Miss Thompson, and she is quite
sure they will excuse _him_, and nodding to the two Miss Greys, she adds,
in a whisper, that Julia Thompson is a great favourite with Felix, at
which intelligence the short cough comes again, and Miss Thompson in
particular is greatly troubled with it, till Felix coming in, very faint
for want of his tea, changes the subject of discourse, and enables her to
laugh out boldly and tell Amelia Grey not to be so foolish.  Here they
all three laugh, and Mrs. Nixon says they are giddy girls; in which stage
of the proceedings, Felix, who has by this time refreshened himself with
the grateful herb that ‘cheers but not inebriates,’ removes his cup from
his countenance and says with a knowing smile, that all girls are;
whereat his admiring mamma pats him on the back and tells him not to be
sly, which calls forth a general laugh from the young ladies, and another
smile from Felix, who, thinking he looks very sly indeed, is perfectly
satisfied.

Tea being over, the young ladies resume their work, and Felix insists
upon holding a skein of silk while Miss Thompson winds it on a card.
This process having been performed to the satisfaction of all parties, he
brings down his flute in compliance with a request from the youngest Miss
Grey, and plays divers tunes out of a very small music-book till
supper-time, when he is very facetious and talkative indeed.  Finally,
after half a tumblerful of warm sherry and water, he gallantly puts on
his goloshes over his slippers, and telling Miss Thompson’s servant to
run on first and get the door open, escorts that young lady to her house,
five doors off: the Miss Greys who live in the next house but one
stopping to peep with merry faces from their own door till he comes back
again, when they call out ‘Very well, Mr. Felix,’ and trip into the
passage with a laugh more musical than any flute that was ever played.

Felix is rather prim in his appearance, and perhaps a little priggish
about his books and flute, and so forth, which have all their peculiar
corners of peculiar shelves in his bedroom; indeed all his female
acquaintance (and they are good judges) have long ago set him down as a
thorough old bachelor.  He is a favourite with them however, in a certain
way, as an honest, inoffensive, kind-hearted creature; and as his
peculiarities harm nobody, not even himself, we are induced to hope that
many who are not personally acquainted with him will take our good word
in his behalf, and be content to leave him to a long continuance of his
harmless existence.



THE CENSORIOUS YOUNG GENTLEMAN


There is an amiable kind of young gentleman going about in society, upon
whom, after much experience of him, and considerable turning over of the
subject in our mind, we feel it our duty to affix the above appellation.
Young ladies mildly call him a ‘sarcastic’ young gentleman, or a ‘severe’
young gentleman.  We, who know better, beg to acquaint them with the
fact, that he is merely a censorious young gentleman, and nothing else.

The censorious young gentleman has the reputation among his familiars of
a remarkably clever person, which he maintains by receiving all
intelligence and expressing all opinions with a dubious sneer,
accompanied with a half smile, expressive of anything you please but
good-humour.  This sets people about thinking what on earth the
censorious young gentleman means, and they speedily arrive at the
conclusion that he means something very deep indeed; for they reason in
this way—‘This young gentleman looks so very knowing that he must mean
something, and as I am by no means a dull individual, what a very deep
meaning he must have if I can’t find it out!’  It is extraordinary how
soon a censorious young gentleman may make a reputation in his own small
circle if he bear this in his mind, and regulate his proceedings
accordingly.

As young ladies are generally—not curious, but laudably desirous to
acquire information, the censorious young gentleman is much talked about
among them, and many surmises are hazarded regarding him.  ‘I wonder,’
exclaims the eldest Miss Greenwood, laying down her work to turn up the
lamp, ‘I wonder whether Mr. Fairfax will ever be married.’  ‘Bless me,
dear,’ cries Miss Marshall, ‘what ever made you think of him?’  ‘Really I
hardly know,’ replies Miss Greenwood; ‘he is such a very mysterious
person, that I often wonder about him.’  ‘Well, to tell you the truth,’
replies Miss Marshall, ‘and so do I.’  Here two other young ladies
profess that they are constantly doing the like, and all present appear
in the same condition except one young lady, who, not scrupling to state
that she considers Mr. Fairfax ‘a horror,’ draws down all the opposition
of the others, which having been expressed in a great many ejaculatory
passages, such as ‘Well, did I ever!’—and ‘Lor, Emily, dear!’ ma takes up
the subject, and gravely states, that she must say she does not think Mr.
Fairfax by any means a horror, but rather takes him to be a young man of
very great ability; ‘and I am quite sure,’ adds the worthy lady, ‘he
always means a great deal more than he says.’

The door opens at this point of the disclosure, and who of all people
alive walks into the room, but the very Mr. Fairfax, who has been the
subject of conversation!  ‘Well, it really is curious,’ cries ma, ‘we
were at that very moment talking about you.’  ‘You did me great honour,’
replies Mr. Fairfax; ‘may I venture to ask what you were saying?’  ‘Why,
if you must know,’ returns the eldest girl, ‘we were remarking what a
very mysterious man you are.’  ‘Ay, ay!’ observes Mr. Fairfax, ‘Indeed!’
Now Mr. Fairfax says this ay, ay, and indeed, which are slight words
enough in themselves, with so very unfathomable an air, and accompanies
them with such a very equivocal smile, that ma and the young ladies are
more than ever convinced that he means an immensity, and so tell him he
is a very dangerous man, and seems to be always thinking ill of somebody,
which is precisely the sort of character the censorious young gentleman
is most desirous to establish; wherefore he says, ‘Oh, dear, no,’ in a
tone, obviously intended to mean, ‘You have me there,’ and which gives
them to understand that they have hit the right nail on the very centre
of its head.

When the conversation ranges from the mystery overhanging the censorious
young gentleman’s behaviour, to the general topics of the day, he
sustains his character to admiration.  He considers the new tragedy well
enough for a new tragedy, but Lord bless us—well, no matter; he could say
a great deal on that point, but he would rather not, lest he should be
thought ill-natured, as he knows he would be.  ‘But is not Mr.
So-and-so’s performance truly charming?’ inquires a young lady.
‘Charming!’ replies the censorious young gentleman.  ‘Oh, dear, yes,
certainly; very charming—oh, very charming indeed.’  After this, he stirs
the fire, smiling contemptuously all the while: and a modest young
gentleman, who has been a silent listener, thinks what a great thing it
must be, to have such a critical judgment.  Of music, pictures, books,
and poetry, the censorious young gentleman has an equally fine
conception.  As to men and women, he can tell all about them at a glance.
‘Now let us hear your opinion of young Mrs. Barker,’ says some great
believer in the powers of Mr. Fairfax, ‘but don’t be too severe.’  ‘I
never am severe,’ replies the censorious young gentleman.  ‘Well, never
mind that now.  She is very lady-like, is she not?’  ‘Lady-like!’ repeats
the censorious young gentleman (for he always repeats when he is at a
loss for anything to say).  ‘Did you observe her manner?  Bless my heart
and soul, Mrs. Thompson, did you observe her manner?—that’s all I ask.’
‘I thought I had done so,’ rejoins the poor lady, much perplexed; ‘I did
not observe it very closely perhaps.’  ‘Oh, not very closely,’ rejoins
the censorious young gentleman, triumphantly.  ‘Very good; then _I_ did.
Let us talk no more about her.’  The censorious young gentleman purses up
his lips, and nods his head sagely, as he says this; and it is forthwith
whispered about, that Mr. Fairfax (who, though he is a little prejudiced,
must be admitted to be a very excellent judge) has observed something
exceedingly odd in Mrs. Barker’s manner.



THE FUNNY YOUNG GENTLEMAN


As one funny young gentleman will serve as a sample of all funny young
Gentlemen we purpose merely to note down the conduct and behaviour of an
individual specimen of this class, whom we happened to meet at an annual
family Christmas party in the course of this very last Christmas that
ever came.

We were all seated round a blazing fire which crackled pleasantly as the
guests talked merrily and the urn steamed cheerily—for, being an
old-fashioned party, there _was_ an urn, and a teapot besides—when there
came a postman’s knock at the door, so violent and sudden, that it
startled the whole circle, and actually caused two or three very
interesting and most unaffected young ladies to scream aloud and to
exhibit many afflicting symptoms of terror and distress, until they had
been several times assured by their respective adorers, that they were in
no danger.  We were about to remark that it was surely beyond post-time,
and must have been a runaway knock, when our host, who had hitherto been
paralysed with wonder, sank into a chair in a perfect ecstasy of
laughter, and offered to lay twenty pounds that it was that droll dog
Griggins.  He had no sooner said this, than the majority of the company
and all the children of the house burst into a roar of laughter too, as
if some inimitable joke flashed upon them simultaneously, and gave vent
to various exclamations of—To be sure it must be Griggins, and How like
him that was, and What spirits he was always in! with many other
commendatory remarks of the like nature.

Not having the happiness to know Griggins, we became extremely desirous
to see so pleasant a fellow, the more especially as a stout gentleman
with a powdered head, who was sitting with his breeches buckles almost
touching the hob, whispered us he was a wit of the first water, when the
door opened, and Mr. Griggins being announced, presented himself, amidst
another shout of laughter and a loud clapping of hands from the younger
branches.  This welcome he acknowledged by sundry contortions of
countenance, imitative of the clown in one of the new pantomimes, which
were so extremely successful, that one stout gentleman rolled upon an
ottoman in a paroxysm of delight, protesting, with many gasps, that if
somebody didn’t make that fellow Griggins leave off, he would be the
death of him, he knew.  At this the company only laughed more
boisterously than before, and as we always like to accommodate our tone
and spirit if possible to the humour of any society in which we find
ourself, we laughed with the rest, and exclaimed, ‘Oh! capital, capital!’
as loud as any of them.

When he had quite exhausted all beholders, Mr. Griggins received the
welcomes and congratulations of the circle, and went through the needful
introductions with much ease and many puns.  This ceremony over, he
avowed his intention of sitting in somebody’s lap unless the young ladies
made room for him on the sofa, which being done, after a great deal of
tittering and pleasantry, he squeezed himself among them, and likened his
condition to that of love among the roses.  At this novel jest we all
roared once more.  ‘You should consider yourself highly honoured, sir,’
said we.  ‘Sir,’ replied Mr. Griggins, ‘you do me proud.’  Here everybody
laughed again; and the stout gentleman by the fire whispered in our ear
that Griggins was making a dead set at us.

The tea-things having been removed, we all sat down to a round game, and
here Mr. Griggins shone forth with peculiar brilliancy, abstracting other
people’s fish, and looking over their hands in the most comical manner.
He made one most excellent joke in snuffing a candle, which was neither
more nor less than setting fire to the hair of a pale young gentleman who
sat next him, and afterwards begging his pardon with considerable humour.
As the young gentleman could not see the joke however, possibly in
consequence of its being on the top of his own head, it did not go off
quite as well as it might have done; indeed, the young gentleman was
heard to murmur some general references to ‘impertinence,’ and a
‘rascal,’ and to state the number of his lodgings in an angry tone—a turn
of the conversation which might have been productive of slaughterous
consequences, if a young lady, betrothed to the young gentleman, had not
used her immediate influence to bring about a reconciliation:
emphatically declaring in an agitated whisper, intended for his peculiar
edification but audible to the whole table, that if he went on in that
way, she never would think of him otherwise than as a friend, though as
that she must always regard him.  At this terrible threat the young
gentleman became calm, and the young lady, overcome by the revulsion of
feeling, instantaneously fainted.

Mr. Griggins’s spirits were slightly depressed for a short period by this
unlooked-for result of such a harmless pleasantry, but being promptly
elevated by the attentions of the host and several glasses of wine, he
soon recovered, and became even more vivacious than before, insomuch that
the stout gentleman previously referred to, assured us that although he
had known him since he was _that_ high (something smaller than a
nutmeg-grater), he had never beheld him in such excellent cue.

When the round game and several games at blind man’s buff which followed
it were all over, and we were going down to supper, the inexhaustible Mr.
Griggins produced a small sprig of mistletoe from his waistcoat pocket,
and commenced a general kissing of the assembled females, which
occasioned great commotion and much excitement.  We observed that several
young gentlemen—including the young gentleman with the pale
countenance—were greatly scandalised at this indecorous proceeding, and
talked very big among themselves in corners; and we observed too, that
several young ladies when remonstrated with by the aforesaid young
gentlemen, called each other to witness how they had struggled, and
protested vehemently that it was very rude, and that they were surprised
at Mrs. Brown’s allowing it, and that they couldn’t bear it, and had no
patience with such impertinence.  But such is the gentle and forgiving
nature of woman, that although we looked very narrowly for it, we could
not detect the slightest harshness in the subsequent treatment of Mr.
Griggins.  Indeed, upon the whole, it struck us that among the ladies he
seemed rather more popular than before!

To recount all the drollery of Mr. Griggins at supper, would fill such a
tiny volume as this, {429} to the very bottom of the outside cover.  How
he drank out of other people’s glasses, and ate of other people’s bread,
how he frightened into screaming convulsions a little boy who was sitting
up to supper in a high chair, by sinking below the table and suddenly
reappearing with a mask on; how the hostess was really surprised that
anybody could find a pleasure in tormenting children, and how the host
frowned at the hostess, and felt convinced that Mr. Griggins had done it
with the very best intentions; how Mr. Griggins explained, and how
everybody’s good-humour was restored but the child’s;—to tell these and a
hundred other things ever so briefly, would occupy more of our room and
our readers’ patience, than either they or we can conveniently spare.
Therefore we change the subject, merely observing that we have offered no
description of the funny young gentleman’s personal appearance, believing
that almost every society has a Griggins of its own, and leaving all
readers to supply the deficiency, according to the particular
circumstances of their particular case.



THE THEATRICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN


All gentlemen who love the drama—and there are few gentlemen who are not
attached to the most intellectual and rational of all our amusements—do
not come within this definition.  As we have no mean relish for
theatrical entertainments ourself, we are disinterestedly anxious that
this should be perfectly understood.

The theatrical young gentleman has early and important information on all
theatrical topics.  ‘Well,’ says he, abruptly, when you meet him in the
street, ‘here’s a pretty to-do.  Flimkins has thrown up his part in the
melodrama at the Surrey.’—‘And what’s to be done?’ you inquire with as
much gravity as you can counterfeit.  ‘Ah, that’s the point,’ replies the
theatrical young gentleman, looking very serious; ‘Boozle declines it;
positively declines it.  From all I am told, I should say it was
decidedly in Boozle’s line, and that he would be very likely to make a
great hit in it; but he objects on the ground of Flimkins having been put
up in the part first, and says no earthly power shall induce him to take
the character.  It’s a fine part, too—excellent business, I’m told.  He
has to kill six people in the course of the piece, and to fight over a
bridge in red fire, which is as safe a card, you know, as can be.  Don’t
mention it; but I hear that the last scene, when he is first poisoned,
and then stabbed, by Mrs. Flimkins as Vengedora, will be the greatest
thing that has been done these many years.’  With this piece of news, and
laying his finger on his lips as a caution for you not to excite the town
with it, the theatrical young gentleman hurries away.

The theatrical young gentleman, from often frequenting the different
theatrical establishments, has pet and familiar names for them all.  Thus
Covent-Garden is the garden, Drury-Lane the lane, the Victoria the vic,
and the Olympic the pic.  Actresses, too, are always designated by their
surnames only, as Taylor, Nisbett, Faucit, Honey; that talented and
lady-like girl Sheriff, that clever little creature Horton, and so on.
In the same manner he prefixes Christian names when he mentions actors,
as Charley Young, Jemmy Buckstone, Fred. Yates, Paul Bedford.  When he is
at a loss for a Christian name, the word ‘old’ applied indiscriminately
answers quite as well: as old Charley Matthews at Vestris’s, old Harley,
and old Braham.  He has a great knowledge of the private proceedings of
actresses, especially of their getting married, and can tell you in a
breath half-a-dozen who have changed their names without avowing it.
Whenever an alteration of this kind is made in the playbills, he will
remind you that he let you into the secret six months ago.

The theatrical young gentleman has a great reverence for all that is
connected with the stage department of the different theatres.  He would,
at any time, prefer going a street or two out of his way, to omitting to
pass a stage-entrance, into which he always looks with a curious and
searching eye.  If he can only identify a popular actor in the street, he
is in a perfect transport of delight; and no sooner meets him, than he
hurries back, and walks a few paces in front of him, so that he can turn
round from time to time, and have a good stare at his features.  He looks
upon a theatrical-fund dinner as one of the most enchanting festivities
ever known; and thinks that to be a member of the Garrick Club, and see
so many actors in their plain clothes, must be one of the highest
gratifications the world can bestow.

The theatrical young gentleman is a constant half-price visitor at one or
other of the theatres, and has an infinite relish for all pieces which
display the fullest resources of the establishment.  He likes to place
implicit reliance upon the play-bills when he goes to see a show-piece,
and works himself up to such a pitch of enthusiasm, as not only to
believe (if the bills say so) that there are three hundred and
seventy-five people on the stage at one time in the last scene, but is
highly indignant with you, unless you believe it also.  He considers that
if the stage be opened from the foot-lights to the back wall, in any new
play, the piece is a triumph of dramatic writing, and applauds
accordingly.  He has a great notion of trap-doors too; and thinks any
character going down or coming up a trap (no matter whether he be an
angel or a demon—they both do it occasionally) one of the most
interesting feats in the whole range of scenic illusion.

Besides these acquirements, he has several veracious accounts to
communicate of the private manners and customs of different actors,
which, during the pauses of a quadrille, he usually communicates to his
partner, or imparts to his neighbour at a supper table.  Thus he is
advised, that Mr. Liston always had a footman in gorgeous livery waiting
at the side-scene with a brandy bottle and tumbler, to administer half a
pint or so of spirit to him every time he came off, without which
assistance he must infallibly have fainted.  He knows for a fact, that,
after an arduous part, Mr. George Bennett is put between two feather
beds, to absorb the perspiration; and is credibly informed, that Mr.
Baker has, for many years, submitted to a course of lukewarm
toast-and-water, to qualify him to sustain his favourite characters.  He
looks upon Mr. Fitz Ball as the principal dramatic genius and poet of the
day; but holds that there are great writers extant besides him,—in proof
whereof he refers you to various dramas and melodramas recently produced,
of which he takes in all the sixpenny and three-penny editions as fast as
they appear.

The theatrical young gentleman is a great advocate for violence of
emotion and redundancy of action.  If a father has to curse a child upon
the stage, he likes to see it done in the thorough-going style, with no
mistake about it: to which end it is essential that the child should
follow the father on her knees, and be knocked violently over on her face
by the old gentleman as he goes into a small cottage, and shuts the door
behind him.  He likes to see a blessing invoked upon the young lady, when
the old gentleman repents, with equal earnestness, and accompanied by the
usual conventional forms, which consist of the old gentleman looking
anxiously up into the clouds, as if to see whether it rains, and then
spreading an imaginary tablecloth in the air over the young lady’s
head—soft music playing all the while.  Upon these, and other points of a
similar kind, the theatrical young gentleman is a great critic indeed.
He is likewise very acute in judging of natural expressions of the
passions, and knows precisely the frown, wink, nod, or leer, which stands
for any one of them, or the means by which it may be converted into any
other: as jealousy, with a good stamp of the right foot, becomes anger;
or wildness, with the hands clasped before the throat, instead of tearing
the wig, is passionate love.  If you venture to express a doubt of the
accuracy of any of these portraitures, the theatrical young gentleman
assures you, with a haughty smile, that it always has been done in that
way, and he supposes they are not going to change it at this time of day
to please you; to which, of course, you meekly reply that you suppose
not.

There are innumerable disquisitions of this nature, in which the
theatrical young gentleman is very profound, especially to ladies whom he
is most in the habit of entertaining with them; but as we have no space
to recapitulate them at greater length, we must rest content with calling
the attention of the young ladies in general to the theatrical young
gentlemen of their own acquaintance.



THE POETICAL YOUNG GENTLEMAN


Time was, and not very long ago either, when a singular epidemic raged
among the young gentlemen, vast numbers of whom, under the influence of
the malady, tore off their neckerchiefs, turned down their shirt collars,
and exhibited themselves in the open streets with bare throats and
dejected countenances, before the eyes of an astonished public.  These
were poetical young gentlemen.  The custom was gradually found to be
inconvenient, as involving the necessity of too much clean linen and too
large washing bills, and these outward symptoms have consequently passed
away; but we are disposed to think, notwithstanding, that the number of
poetical young gentlemen is considerably on the increase.

We know a poetical young gentleman—a very poetical young gentleman.  We
do not mean to say that he is troubled with the gift of poesy in any
remarkable degree, but his countenance is of a plaintive and melancholy
cast, his manner is abstracted and bespeaks affliction of soul: he seldom
has his hair cut, and often talks about being an outcast and wanting a
kindred spirit; from which, as well as from many general observations in
which he is wont to indulge, concerning mysterious impulses, and
yearnings of the heart, and the supremacy of intellect gilding all
earthly things with the glowing magic of immortal verse, it is clear to
all his friends that he has been stricken poetical.

The favourite attitude of the poetical young gentleman is lounging on a
sofa with his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, or sitting bolt upright in a
high-backed chair, staring with very round eyes at the opposite wall.
When he is in one of these positions, his mother, who is a worthy,
affectionate old soul, will give you a nudge to bespeak your attention
without disturbing the abstracted one, and whisper with a shake of the
head, that John’s imagination is at some extraordinary work or other, you
may take her word for it.  Hereupon John looks more fiercely intent upon
vacancy than before, and suddenly snatching a pencil from his pocket,
puts down three words, and a cross on the back of a card, sighs deeply,
paces once or twice across the room, inflicts a most unmerciful slap upon
his head, and walks moodily up to his dormitory.

The poetical young gentleman is apt to acquire peculiar notions of things
too, which plain ordinary people, unblessed with a poetical obliquity of
vision, would suppose to be rather distorted.  For instance, when the
sickening murder and mangling of a wretched woman was affording delicious
food wherewithal to gorge the insatiable curiosity of the public, our
friend the poetical young gentleman was in ecstasies—not of disgust, but
admiration.  ‘Heavens!’ cried the poetical young gentleman, ‘how grand;
how great!’  We ventured deferentially to inquire upon whom these
epithets were bestowed: our humble thoughts oscillating between the
police officer who found the criminal, and the lock-keeper who found the
head.  ‘Upon whom!’ exclaimed the poetical young gentleman in a frenzy of
poetry, ‘Upon whom should they be bestowed but upon the murderer!’—and
thereupon it came out, in a fine torrent of eloquence, that the murderer
was a great spirit, a bold creature full of daring and nerve, a man of
dauntless heart and determined courage, and withal a great casuist and
able reasoner, as was fully demonstrated in his philosophical colloquies
with the great and noble of the land.  We held our peace, and meekly
signified our indisposition to controvert these opinions—firstly, because
we were no match at quotation for the poetical young gentleman; and
secondly, because we felt it would be of little use our entering into any
disputation, if we were: being perfectly convinced that the respectable
and immoral hero in question is not the first and will not be the last
hanged gentleman upon whom false sympathy or diseased curiosity will be
plentifully expended.

This was a stern mystic flight of the poetical young gentleman.  In his
milder and softer moments he occasionally lays down his neckcloth, and
pens stanzas, which sometimes find their way into a Lady’s Magazine, or
the ‘Poets’ Corner’ of some country newspaper; or which, in default of
either vent for his genius, adorn the rainbow leaves of a lady’s album.
These are generally written upon some such occasions as contemplating the
Bank of England by midnight, or beholding Saint Paul’s in a snow-storm;
and when these gloomy objects fail to afford him inspiration, he pours
forth his soul in a touching address to a violet, or a plaintive lament
that he is no longer a child, but has gradually grown up.

The poetical young gentleman is fond of quoting passages from his
favourite authors, who are all of the gloomy and desponding school.  He
has a great deal to say too about the world, and is much given to
opining, especially if he has taken anything strong to drink, that there
is nothing in it worth living for.  He gives you to understand, however,
that for the sake of society, he means to bear his part in the tiresome
play, manfully resisting the gratification of his own strong desire to
make a premature exit; and consoles himself with the reflection, that
immortality has some chosen nook for himself and the other great spirits
whom earth has chafed and wearied.

When the poetical young gentleman makes use of adjectives, they are all
superlatives.  Everything is of the grandest, greatest, noblest,
mightiest, loftiest; or the lowest, meanest, obscurest, vilest, and most
pitiful.  He knows no medium: for enthusiasm is the soul of poetry; and
who so enthusiastic as a poetical young gentleman?  ‘Mr. Milkwash,’ says
a young lady as she unlocks her album to receive the young gentleman’s
original impromptu contribution, ‘how very silent you are!  I think you
must be in love.’  ‘Love!’ cries the poetical young gentleman, starting
from his seat by the fire and terrifying the cat who scampers off at full
speed, ‘Love! that burning, consuming passion; that ardour of the soul,
that fierce glowing of the heart.  Love!  The withering, blighting
influence of hope misplaced and affection slighted.  Love did you say!
Ha! ha! ha!’

With this, the poetical young gentleman laughs a laugh belonging only to
poets and Mr. O. Smith of the Adelphi Theatre, and sits down, pen in
hand, to throw off a page or two of verse in the biting, semi-atheistical
demoniac style, which, like the poetical young gentleman himself, is full
of sound and fury, signifying nothing.



THE ‘THROWING-OFF’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN


There is a certain kind of impostor—a bragging, vaunting, puffing young
gentleman—against whom we are desirous to warn that fairer part of the
creation, to whom we more peculiarly devote these our labours.  And we
are particularly induced to lay especial stress upon this division of our
subject, by a little dialogue we held some short time ago, with an
esteemed young lady of our acquaintance, touching a most gross specimen
of this class of men.  We had been urging all the absurdities of his
conduct and conversation, and dwelling upon the impossibilities he
constantly recounted—to which indeed we had not scrupled to prefix a
certain hard little word of one syllable and three letters—when our fair
friend, unable to maintain the contest any longer, reluctantly cried,
‘Well; he certainly has a habit of throwing-off, but then—’  What then?
Throw him off yourself, said we.  And so she did, but not at our
instance, for other reasons appeared, and it might have been better if
she had done so at first.

The throwing-off young gentleman has so often a father possessed of vast
property in some remote district of Ireland, that we look with some
suspicion upon all young gentlemen who volunteer this description of
themselves.  The deceased grandfather of the throwing-off young gentleman
was a man of immense possessions, and untold wealth; the throwing-off
young gentleman remembers, as well as if it were only yesterday, the
deceased baronet’s library, with its long rows of scarce and valuable
books in superbly embossed bindings, arranged in cases, reaching from the
lofty ceiling to the oaken floor; and the fine antique chairs and tables,
and the noble old castle of Ballykillbabaloo, with its splendid prospect
of hill and dale, and wood, and rich wild scenery, and the fine hunting
stables and the spacious court-yards, ‘and—and—everything upon the same
magnificent scale,’ says the throwing-off young gentleman, ‘princely;
quite princely.  Ah!’  And he sighs as if mourning over the fallen
fortunes of his noble house.

The throwing-off young gentleman is a universal genius; at walking,
running, rowing, swimming, and skating, he is unrivalled; at all games of
chance or skill, at hunting, shooting, fishing, riding, driving, or
amateur theatricals, no one can touch him—that is _could_ not, because he
gives you carefully to understand, lest there should be any opportunity
of testing his skill, that he is quite out of practice just now, and has
been for some years.  If you mention any beautiful girl of your common
acquaintance in his hearing, the throwing-off young gentleman starts,
smiles, and begs you not to mind him, for it was quite involuntary:
people do say indeed that they were once engaged, but no—although she is
a very fine girl, he was so situated at that time that he couldn’t
possibly encourage the—‘but it’s of no use talking about it!’ he adds,
interrupting himself.  ‘She has got over it now, and I firmly hope and
trust is happy.’  With this benevolent aspiration he nods his head in a
mysterious manner, and whistling the first part of some popular air,
thinks perhaps it will be better to change the subject.

There is another great characteristic of the throwing-off young
gentleman, which is, that he ‘happens to be acquainted’ with a most
extraordinary variety of people in all parts of the world.  Thus in all
disputed questions, when the throwing-off young gentleman has no argument
to bring forward, he invariably happens to be acquainted with some
distant person, intimately connected with the subject, whose testimony
decides the point against you, to the great—may we say it—to the great
admiration of three young ladies out of every four, who consider the
throwing-off young gentleman a very highly-connected young man, and a
most charming person.

Sometimes the throwing-off young gentleman happens to look in upon a
little family circle of young ladies who are quietly spending the evening
together, and then indeed is he at the very height and summit of his
glory; for it is to be observed that he by no means shines to equal
advantage in the presence of men as in the society of over-credulous
young ladies, which is his proper element.  It is delightful to hear the
number of pretty things the throwing-off young gentleman gives utterance
to, during tea, and still more so to observe the ease with which, from
long practice and study, he delicately blends one compliment to a lady
with two for himself.  ‘Did you ever see a more lovely blue than this
flower, Mr. Caveton?’ asks a young lady who, truth to tell, is rather
smitten with the throwing-off young gentleman.  ‘Never,’ he replies,
bending over the object of admiration, ‘never but in your eyes.’  ‘Oh,
Mr. Caveton,’ cries the young lady, blushing of course.  ‘Indeed I speak
the truth,’ replies the throwing-off young gentleman, ‘I never saw any
approach to them.  I used to think my cousin’s blue eyes lovely, but they
grow dim and colourless beside yours.’  ‘Oh! a beautiful cousin, Mr.
Caveton!’ replies the young lady, with that perfect artlessness which is
the distinguishing characteristic of all young ladies; ‘an affair, of
course.’  ‘No; indeed, indeed you wrong me,’ rejoins the throwing-off
young gentleman with great energy.  ‘I fervently hope that her attachment
towards me may be nothing but the natural result of our close intimacy in
childhood, and that in change of scene and among new faces she may soon
overcome it.  _I_ love her!  Think not so meanly of me, Miss Lowfield, I
beseech, as to suppose that title, lands, riches, and beauty, can
influence _my_ choice.  The heart, the heart, Miss Lowfield.’  Here the
throwing-off young gentleman sinks his voice to a still lower whisper;
and the young lady duly proclaims to all the other young ladies when they
go up-stairs, to put their bonnets on, that Mr. Caveton’s relations are
all immensely rich, and that he is hopelessly beloved by title, lands,
riches, and beauty.

We have seen a throwing-off young gentleman who, to our certain
knowledge, was innocent of a note of music, and scarcely able to
recognise a tune by ear, volunteer a Spanish air upon the guitar when he
had previously satisfied himself that there was not such an instrument
within a mile of the house.

We have heard another throwing-off young gentleman, after striking a note
or two upon the piano, and accompanying it correctly (by dint of
laborious practice) with his voice, assure a circle of wondering
listeners that so acute was his ear that he was wholly unable to sing out
of tune, let him try as he would.  We have lived to witness the unmasking
of another throwing-off young gentleman, who went out a visiting in a
military cap with a gold band and tassel, and who, after passing
successfully for a captain and being lauded to the skies for his red
whiskers, his bravery, his soldierly bearing and his pride, turned out to
be the dishonest son of an honest linen-draper in a small country town,
and whom, if it were not for this fortunate exposure, we should not yet
despair of encountering as the fortunate husband of some rich heiress.
Ladies, ladies, the throwing-off young gentlemen are often swindlers, and
always fools.  So pray you avoid them.



THE YOUNG LADIES’ YOUNG GENTLEMAN


This young gentleman has several titles.  Some young ladies consider him
‘a nice young man,’ others ‘a fine young man,’ others ‘quite a lady’s
man,’ others ‘a handsome man,’ others ‘a remarkably good-looking young
man.’  With some young ladies he is ‘a perfect angel,’ and with others
‘quite a love.’  He is likewise a charming creature, a duck, and a dear.

The young ladies’ young gentleman has usually a fresh colour and very
white teeth, which latter articles, of course, he displays on every
possible opportunity.  He has brown or black hair, and whiskers of the
same, if possible; but a slight tinge of red, or the hue which is
vulgarly known as _sandy_, is not considered an objection.  If his head
and face be large, his nose prominent, and his figure square, he is an
uncommonly fine young man, and worshipped accordingly.  Should his
whiskers meet beneath his chin, so much the better, though this is not
absolutely insisted on; but he must wear an under-waistcoat, and smile
constantly.

There was a great party got up by some party-loving friends of ours last
summer, to go and dine in Epping Forest.  As we hold that such wild
expeditions should never be indulged in, save by people of the smallest
means, who have no dinner at home, we should indubitably have excused
ourself from attending, if we had not recollected that the projectors of
the excursion were always accompanied on such occasions by a choice
sample of the young ladies’ young gentleman, whom we were very anxious to
have an opportunity of meeting.  This determined us, and we went.

We were to make for Chigwell in four glass coaches, each with a trifling
company of six or eight inside, and a little boy belonging to the
projectors on the box—and to start from the residence of the projectors,
Woburn-place, Russell-square, at half-past ten precisely.  We arrived at
the place of rendezvous at the appointed time, and found the glass
coaches and the little boys quite ready, and divers young ladies and
young gentlemen looking anxiously over the breakfast-parlour blinds, who
appeared by no means so much gratified by our approach as we might have
expected, but evidently wished we had been somebody else.  Observing that
our arrival in lieu of the unknown occasioned some disappointment, we
ventured to inquire who was yet to come, when we found from the hasty
reply of a dozen voices, that it was no other than the young ladies’
young gentleman.

‘I cannot imagine,’ said the mamma, ‘what has become of Mr. Balim—always
so punctual, always so pleasant and agreeable.  I am sure I can-_not_
think.’  As these last words were uttered in that measured, emphatic
manner which painfully announces that the speaker has not quite made up
his or her mind what to say, but is determined to talk on nevertheless,
the eldest daughter took up the subject, and hoped no accident had
happened to Mr. Balim, upon which there was a general chorus of ‘Dear Mr.
Balim!’ and one young lady, more adventurous than the rest, proposed that
an express should be straightway sent to dear Mr. Balim’s lodgings.
This, however, the papa resolutely opposed, observing, in what a short
young lady behind us termed ‘quite a bearish way,’ that if Mr. Balim
didn’t choose to come, he might stop at home.  At this all the daughters
raised a murmur of ‘Oh pa!’ except one sprightly little girl of eight or
ten years old, who, taking advantage of a pause in the discourse,
remarked, that perhaps Mr. Balim might have been married that morning—for
which impertinent suggestion she was summarily ejected from the room by
her eldest sister.

We were all in a state of great mortification and uneasiness, when one of
the little boys, running into the room as airily as little boys usually
run who have an unlimited allowance of animal food in the holidays, and
keep their hands constantly forced down to the bottoms of very deep
trouser-pockets when they take exercise, joyfully announced that Mr.
Balim was at that moment coming up the street in a hackney-cab; and the
intelligence was confirmed beyond all doubt a minute afterwards by the
entry of Mr. Balim himself, who was received with repeated cries of
‘Where have you been, you naughty creature?’ whereunto the naughty
creature replied, that he had been in bed, in consequence of a late party
the night before, and had only just risen.  The acknowledgment awakened a
variety of agonizing fears that he had taken no breakfast; which
appearing after a slight cross-examination to be the real state of the
case, breakfast for one was immediately ordered, notwithstanding Mr.
Balim’s repeated protestations that he couldn’t think of it.  He did
think of it though, and thought better of it too, for he made a
remarkably good meal when it came, and was assiduously served by a select
knot of young ladies.  It was quite delightful to see how he ate and
drank, while one pair of fair hands poured out his coffee, and another
put in the sugar, and another the milk; the rest of the company ever and
anon casting angry glances at their watches, and the glass coaches,—and
the little boys looking on in an agony of apprehension lest it should
begin to rain before we set out; it might have rained all day, after we
were once too far to turn back again, and welcome, for aught they cared.

However, the cavalcade moved at length, every coachman being accommodated
with a hamper between his legs something larger than a wheelbarrow; and
the company being packed as closely as they possibly could in the
carriages, ‘according,’ as one married lady observed, ‘to the immemorial
custom, which was half the diversion of gipsy parties.’  Thinking it very
likely it might be (we have never been able to discover the other half),
we submitted to be stowed away with a cheerful aspect, and were fortunate
enough to occupy one corner of a coach in which were one old lady, four
young ladies, and the renowned Mr. Balim the young ladies’ young
gentleman.

We were no sooner fairly off, than the young ladies’ young gentleman
hummed a fragment of an air, which induced a young lady to inquire
whether he had danced to that the night before.  ‘By Heaven, then, I
did,’ replied the young gentleman, ‘and with a lovely heiress; a superb
creature, with twenty thousand pounds.’  ‘You seem rather struck,’
observed another young lady.  ‘’Gad she was a sweet creature,’ returned
the young gentleman, arranging his hair.  ‘Of course _she_ was struck
too?’ inquired the first young lady.  ‘How can you ask, love?’ interposed
the second; ‘could she fail to be?’  ‘Well, honestly I think she was,’
observed the young gentleman.  At this point of the dialogue, the young
lady who had spoken first, and who sat on the young gentleman’s right,
struck him a severe blow on the arm with a rosebud, and said he was a
vain man—whereupon the young gentleman insisted on having the rosebud,
and the young lady appealing for help to the other young ladies, a
charming struggle ensued, terminating in the victory of the young
gentleman, and the capture of the rosebud.  This little skirmish over,
the married lady, who was the mother of the rosebud, smiled sweetly upon
the young gentleman, and accused him of being a flirt; the young
gentleman pleading not guilty, a most interesting discussion took place
upon the important point whether the young gentleman was a flirt or not,
which being an agreeable conversation of a light kind, lasted a
considerable time.  At length, a short silence occurring, the young
ladies on either side of the young gentleman fell suddenly fast asleep;
and the young gentleman, winking upon us to preserve silence, won a pair
of gloves from each, thereby causing them to wake with equal suddenness
and to scream very loud.  The lively conversation to which this
pleasantry gave rise, lasted for the remainder of the ride, and would
have eked out a much longer one.

We dined rather more comfortably than people usually do under such
circumstances, nothing having been left behind but the cork-screw and the
bread.  The married gentlemen were unusually thirsty, which they
attributed to the heat of the weather; the little boys ate to
inconvenience; mammas were very jovial, and their daughters very
fascinating; and the attendants being well-behaved men, got exceedingly
drunk at a respectful distance.

We had our eye on Mr. Balim at dinner-time, and perceived that he
flourished wonderfully, being still surrounded by a little group of young
ladies, who listened to him as an oracle, while he ate from their plates
and drank from their glasses in a manner truly captivating from its
excessive playfulness.  His conversation, too, was exceedingly brilliant.
In fact, one elderly lady assured us, that in the course of a little
lively _badinage_ on the subject of ladies’ dresses, he had evinced as
much knowledge as if he had been born and bred a milliner.

As such of the fat people who did not happen to fall asleep after dinner
entered upon a most vigorous game at ball, we slipped away alone into a
thicker part of the wood, hoping to fall in with Mr. Balim, the greater
part of the young people having dropped off in twos and threes and the
young ladies’ young gentleman among them.  Nor were we disappointed, for
we had not walked far, when, peeping through the trees, we discovered him
before us, and truly it was a pleasant thing to contemplate his
greatness.

The young ladies’ young gentleman was seated upon the ground, at the feet
of a few young ladies who were reclining on a bank; he was so profusely
decked with scarfs, ribands, flowers, and other pretty spoils, that he
looked like a lamb—or perhaps a calf would be a better simile—adorned for
the sacrifice.  One young lady supported a parasol over his interesting
head, another held his hat, and a third his neck-cloth, which in romantic
fashion he had thrown off; the young gentleman himself, with his hand
upon his breast, and his face moulded into an expression of the most
honeyed sweetness, was warbling forth some choice specimens of vocal
music in praise of female loveliness, in a style so exquisitely perfect,
that we burst into an involuntary shout of laughter, and made a hasty
retreat.

What charming fellows these young ladies’ young gentlemen are!  Ducks,
dears, loves, angels, are all terms inadequate to express their merit.
They are such amazingly, uncommonly, wonderfully, nice men.



CONCLUSION


As we have placed before the young ladies so many specimens of young
gentlemen, and have also in the dedication of this volume given them to
understand how much we reverence and admire their numerous virtues and
perfections; as we have given them such strong reasons to treat us with
confidence, and to banish, in our case, all that reserve and distrust of
the male sex which, as a point of general behaviour, they cannot do
better than preserve and maintain—we say, as we have done all this, we
feel that now, when we have arrived at the close of our task, they may
naturally press upon us the inquiry, what particular description of young
gentlemen we can conscientiously recommend.

Here we are at a loss.  We look over our list, and can neither recommend
the bashful young gentleman, nor the out-and-out young gentleman, nor the
very friendly young gentleman, nor the military young gentleman, nor the
political young gentleman, nor the domestic young gentleman, nor the
censorious young gentleman, nor the funny young gentleman, nor the
theatrical young gentleman, nor the poetical young gentleman, nor the
throwing-off young gentleman, nor the young ladies’ young gentleman.

As there are some good points about many of them, which still are not
sufficiently numerous to render any one among them eligible, as a whole,
our respectful advice to the young ladies is, to seek for a young
gentleman who unites in himself the best qualities of all, and the worst
weaknesses of none, and to lead him forthwith to the hymeneal altar,
whether he will or no.  And to the young lady who secures him, we beg to
tender one short fragment of matrimonial advice, selected from many sound
passages of a similar tendency, to be found in a letter written by Dean
Swift to a young lady on her marriage.

‘The grand affair of your life will be, to gain and preserve the esteem
of your husband.  Neither good-nature nor virtue will suffer him to
_esteem_ you against his judgment; and although he is not capable of
using you ill, yet you will in time grow a thing indifferent and perhaps
contemptible; unless you can supply the loss of youth and beauty with
more durable qualities.  You have but a very few years to be young and
handsome in the eyes of the world; and as few months to be so in the eyes
of a husband who is not a fool; for I hope you do not still dream of
charms and raptures, which marriage ever did, and ever will, put a sudden
end to.’

From the anxiety we express for the proper behaviour of the fortunate
lady after marriage, it may possibly be inferred that the young gentleman
to whom we have so delicately alluded, is no other than ourself.  Without
in any way committing ourself upon this point, we have merely to observe,
that we are ready to receive sealed offers containing a full
specification of age, temper, appearance, and condition; but we beg it to
be distinctly understood that we do not pledge ourself to accept the
highest bidder.

These offers may be forwarded to the Publishers, Messrs. Chapman and
Hall, London; to whom all pieces of plate and other testimonials of
approbation from the young ladies generally, are respectfully requested
to be addressed.




SKETCHES OF YOUNG COUPLES


AN URGENT REMONSTRANCE, &c.


                       TO THE GENTLEMEN OF ENGLAND,
                      (BEING BACHELORS OR WIDOWERS,)
            THE REMONSTRANCE OF THEIR FAITHFUL FELLOW-SUBJECT,

SHEWETH,—

THAT Her Most Gracious Majesty, Victoria, by the Grace of God of the
United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland Queen, Defender of the Faith,
did, on the 23rd day of November last past, declare and pronounce to Her
Most Honourable Privy Council, Her Majesty’s Most Gracious intention of
entering into the bonds of wedlock.

THAT Her Most Gracious Majesty, in so making known Her Most Gracious
intention to Her Most Honourable Privy Council as aforesaid, did use and
employ the words—‘It is my intention to ally myself in marriage with
Prince Albert of Saxe Coburg and Gotha.’

THAT the present is Bissextile, or Leap Year, in which it is held and
considered lawful for any lady to offer and submit proposals of marriage
to any gentleman, and to enforce and insist upon acceptance of the same,
under pain of a certain fine or penalty; to wit, one silk or satin dress
of the first quality, to be chosen by the lady and paid (or owed) for, by
the gentleman.

THAT these and other the horrors and dangers with which the said
Bissextile, or Leap Year, threatens the gentlemen of England on every
occasion of its periodical return, have been greatly aggravated and
augmented by the terms of Her Majesty’s said Most Gracious communication,
which have filled the heads of divers young ladies in this Realm with
certain new ideas destructive to the peace of mankind, that never entered
their imagination before.

THAT a case has occurred in Camberwell, in which a young lady informed
her Papa that ‘she intended to ally herself in marriage’ with Mr. Smith
of Stepney; and that another, and a very distressing case, has occurred
at Tottenham, in which a young lady not only stated her intention of
allying herself in marriage with her cousin John, but, taking violent
possession of her said cousin, actually married him.

THAT similar outrages are of constant occurrence, not only in the capital
and its neighbourhood, but throughout the kingdom, and that unless the
excited female populace be speedily checked and restrained in their
lawless proceedings, most deplorable results must ensue therefrom; among
which may be anticipated a most alarming increase in the population of
the country, with which no efforts of the agricultural or manufacturing
interest can possibly keep pace.

THAT there is strong reason to suspect the existence of a most extensive
plot, conspiracy, or design, secretly contrived by vast numbers of single
ladies in the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, and now
extending its ramifications in every quarter of the land; the object and
intent of which plainly appears to be the holding and solemnising of an
enormous and unprecedented number of marriages, on the day on which the
nuptials of Her said Most Gracious Majesty are performed.

THAT such plot, conspiracy, or design, strongly savours of Popery, as
tending to the discomfiture of the Clergy of the Established Church, by
entailing upon them great mental and physical exhaustion; and that such
Popish plots are fomented and encouraged by Her Majesty’s Ministers,
which clearly appears—not only from Her Majesty’s principal Secretary of
State for Foreign Affairs traitorously getting married while holding
office under the Crown; but from Mr. O’Connell having been heard to
declare and avow that, if he had a daughter to marry, she should be
married on the same day as Her said Most Gracious Majesty.

THAT such arch plots, conspiracies, and designs, besides being fraught
with danger to the Established Church, and (consequently) to the State,
cannot fail to bring ruin and bankruptcy upon a large class of Her
Majesty’s subjects; as a great and sudden increase in the number of
married men occasioning the comparative desertion (for a time) of
Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and Gaming-Houses, will deprive the
Proprietors of their accustomed profits and returns.  And in further
proof of the depth and baseness of such designs, it may be here observed,
that all proprietors of Taverns, Hotels, Billiard-rooms, and
Gaming-Houses, are (especially the last) solemnly devoted to the
Protestant religion.

FOR all these reasons, and many others of no less gravity and import, an
urgent appeal is made to the gentlemen of England (being bachelors or
widowers) to take immediate steps for convening a Public meeting; To
consider of the best and surest means of averting the dangers with which
they are threatened by the recurrence of Bissextile, or Leap Year, and
the additional sensation created among single ladies by the terms of Her
Majesty’s Most Gracious Declaration; To take measures, without delay, for
resisting the said single Ladies, and counteracting their evil designs;
And to pray Her Majesty to dismiss her present Ministers, and to summon
to her Councils those distinguished Gentlemen in various Honourable
Professions who, by insulting on all occasions the only Lady in England
who can be insulted with safety, have given a sufficient guarantee to Her
Majesty’s Loving Subjects that they, at least, are qualified to make war
with women, and are already expert in the use of those weapons which are
common to the lowest and most abandoned of the sex.



THE YOUNG COUPLE


There is to be a wedding this morning at the corner house in the terrace.
The pastry-cook’s people have been there half-a-dozen times already; all
day yesterday there was a great stir and bustle, and they were up this
morning as soon as it was light.  Miss Emma Fielding is going to be
married to young Mr. Harvey.

Heaven alone can tell in what bright colours this marriage is painted
upon the mind of the little housemaid at number six, who has hardly slept
a wink all night with thinking of it, and now stands on the unswept
door-steps leaning upon her broom, and looking wistfully towards the
enchanted house.  Nothing short of omniscience can divine what visions of
the baker, or the green-grocer, or the smart and most insinuating
butterman, are flitting across her mind—what thoughts of how she would
dress on such an occasion, if she were a lady—of how she would dress, if
she were only a bride—of how cook would dress, being bridesmaid,
conjointly with her sister ‘in place’ at Fulham, and how the clergyman,
deeming them so many ladies, would be quite humbled and respectful.  What
day-dreams of hope and happiness—of life being one perpetual holiday,
with no master and no mistress to grant or withhold it—of every Sunday
being a Sunday out—of pure freedom as to curls and ringlets, and no
obligation to hide fine heads of hair in caps—what pictures of happiness,
vast and immense to her, but utterly ridiculous to us, bewilder the brain
of the little housemaid at number six, all called into existence by the
wedding at the corner!

We smile at such things, and so we should, though perhaps for a better
reason than commonly presents itself.  It should be pleasant to us to
know that there are notions of happiness so moderate and limited, since
upon those who entertain them, happiness and lightness of heart are very
easily bestowed.

But the little housemaid is awakened from her reverie, for forth from the
door of the magical corner house there runs towards her, all fluttering
in smart new dress and streaming ribands, her friend Jane Adams, who
comes all out of breath to redeem a solemn promise of taking her in,
under cover of the confusion, to see the breakfast table spread forth in
state, and—sight of sights!—her young mistress ready dressed for church.

And there, in good truth, when they have stolen up-stairs on tip-toe and
edged themselves in at the chamber-door—there is Miss Emma ‘looking like
the sweetest picter,’ in a white chip bonnet and orange flowers, and all
other elegancies becoming a bride, (with the make, shape, and quality of
every article of which the girl is perfectly familiar in one moment, and
never forgets to her dying day)—and there is Miss Emma’s mamma in tears,
and Miss Emma’s papa comforting her, and saying how that of course she
has been long looking forward to this, and how happy she ought to be—and
there too is Miss Emma’s sister with her arms round her neck, and the
other bridesmaid all smiles and tears, quieting the children, who would
cry more but that they are so finely dressed, and yet sob for fear sister
Emma should be taken away—and it is all so affecting, that the two
servant-girls cry more than anybody; and Jane Adams, sitting down upon
the stairs, when they have crept away, declares that her legs tremble so
that she don’t know what to do, and that she will say for Miss Emma, that
she never had a hasty word from her, and that she does hope and pray she
may be happy.

But Jane soon comes round again, and then surely there never was anything
like the breakfast table, glittering with plate and china, and set out
with flowers and sweets, and long-necked bottles, in the most sumptuous
and dazzling manner.  In the centre, too, is the mighty charm, the cake,
glistening with frosted sugar, and garnished beautifully.  They agree
that there ought to be a little Cupid under one of the barley-sugar
temples, or at least two hearts and an arrow; but, with this exception,
there is nothing to wish for, and a table could not be handsomer.  As
they arrive at this conclusion, who should come in but Mr. John! to whom
Jane says that its only Anne from number six; and John says _he_ knows,
for he’s often winked his eye down the area, which causes Anne to blush
and look confused.  She is going away, indeed; when Mr. John will have it
that she must drink a glass of wine, and he says never mind it’s being
early in the morning, it won’t hurt her: so they shut the door and pour
out the wine; and Anne drinking lane’s health, and adding, ‘and here’s
wishing you yours, Mr. John,’ drinks it in a great many sips,—Mr. John
all the time making jokes appropriate to the occasion.  At last Mr. John,
who has waxed bolder by degrees, pleads the usage at weddings, and claims
the privilege of a kiss, which he obtains after a great scuffle; and
footsteps being now heard on the stairs, they disperse suddenly.

By this time a carriage has driven up to convey the bride to church, and
Anne of number six prolonging the process of ‘cleaning her door,’ has the
satisfaction of beholding the bride and bridesmaids, and the papa and
mamma, hurry into the same and drive rapidly off.  Nor is this all, for
soon other carriages begin to arrive with a posse of company all
beautifully dressed, at whom she could stand and gaze for ever; but
having something else to do, is compelled to take one last long look and
shut the street-door.

And now the company have gone down to breakfast, and tears have given
place to smiles, for all the corks are out of the long-necked bottles,
and their contents are disappearing rapidly.  Miss Emma’s papa is at the
top of the table; Miss Emma’s mamma at the bottom; and beside the latter
are Miss Emma herself and her husband,—admitted on all hands to be the
handsomest and most interesting young couple ever known.  All down both
sides of the table, too, are various young ladies, beautiful to see, and
various young gentlemen who seem to think so; and there, in a post of
honour, is an unmarried aunt of Miss Emma’s, reported to possess
unheard-of riches, and to have expressed vast testamentary intentions
respecting her favourite niece and new nephew.  This lady has been very
liberal and generous already, as the jewels worn by the bride abundantly
testify, but that is nothing to what she means to do, or even to what she
has done, for she put herself in close communication with the dressmaker
three months ago, and prepared a wardrobe (with some articles worked by
her own hands) fit for a Princess.  People may call her an old maid, and
so she may be, but she is neither cross nor ugly for all that; on the
contrary, she is very cheerful and pleasant-looking, and very kind and
tender-hearted: which is no matter of surprise except to those who yield
to popular prejudices without thinking why, and will never grow wiser and
never know better.

Of all the company though, none are more pleasant to behold or better
pleased with themselves than two young children, who, in honour of the
day, have seats among the guests.  Of these, one is a little fellow of
six or eight years old, brother to the bride,—and the other a girl of the
same age, or something younger, whom he calls ‘his wife.’  The real bride
and bridegroom are not more devoted than they: he all love and attention,
and she all blushes and fondness, toying with a little bouquet which he
gave her this morning, and placing the scattered rose-leaves in her bosom
with nature’s own coquettishness.  They have dreamt of each other in
their quiet dreams, these children, and their little hearts have been
nearly broken when the absent one has been dispraised in jest.  When will
there come in after-life a passion so earnest, generous, and true as
theirs; what, even in its gentlest realities, can have the grace and
charm that hover round such fairy lovers!

By this time the merriment and happiness of the feast have gained their
height; certain ominous looks begin to be exchanged between the
bridesmaids, and somehow it gets whispered about that the carriage which
is to take the young couple into the country has arrived.  Such members
of the party as are most disposed to prolong its enjoyments, affect to
consider this a false alarm, but it turns out too true, being speedily
confirmed, first by the retirement of the bride and a select file of
intimates who are to prepare her for the journey, and secondly by the
withdrawal of the ladies generally.  To this there ensues a particularly
awkward pause, in which everybody essays to be facetious, and nobody
succeeds; at length the bridegroom makes a mysterious disappearance in
obedience to some equally mysterious signal; and the table is deserted.

Now, for at least six weeks last past it has been solemnly devised and
settled that the young couple should go away in secret; but they no
sooner appear without the door than the drawing-room windows are blocked
up with ladies waving their handkerchiefs and kissing their hands, and
the dining-room panes with gentlemen’s faces beaming farewell in every
queer variety of its expression.  The hall and steps are crowded with
servants in white favours, mixed up with particular friends and relations
who have darted out to say good-bye; and foremost in the group are the
tiny lovers arm in arm, thinking, with fluttering hearts, what happiness
it would be to dash away together in that gallant coach, and never part
again.

The bride has barely time for one hurried glance at her old home, when
the steps rattle, the door slams, the horses clatter on the pavement, and
they have left it far away.

A knot of women servants still remain clustered in the hall, whispering
among themselves, and there of course is Anne from number six, who has
made another escape on some plea or other, and been an admiring witness
of the departure.  There are two points on which Anne expatiates over and
over again, without the smallest appearance of fatigue or intending to
leave off; one is, that she ‘never see in all her life such a—oh such a
angel of a gentleman as Mr. Harvey’—and the other, that she ‘can’t tell
how it is, but it don’t seem a bit like a work-a-day, or a Sunday
neither—it’s all so unsettled and unregular.’



THE FORMAL COUPLE


The formal couple are the most prim, cold, immovable, and unsatisfactory
people on the face of the earth.  Their faces, voices, dress, house,
furniture, walk, and manner, are all the essence of formality, unrelieved
by one redeeming touch of frankness, heartiness, or nature.

Everything with the formal couple resolves itself into a matter of form.
They don’t call upon you on your account, but their own; not to see how
you are, but to show how they are: it is not a ceremony to do honour to
you, but to themselves,—not due to your position, but to theirs.  If one
of a friend’s children die, the formal couple are as sure and punctual in
sending to the house as the undertaker; if a friend’s family be
increased, the monthly nurse is not more attentive than they.  The formal
couple, in fact, joyfully seize all occasions of testifying their
good-breeding and precise observance of the little usages of society; and
for you, who are the means to this end, they care as much as a man does
for the tailor who has enabled him to cut a figure, or a woman for the
milliner who has assisted her to a conquest.

Having an extensive connexion among that kind of people who make
acquaintances and eschew friends, the formal gentleman attends from time
to time a great many funerals, to which he is formally invited, and to
which he formally goes, as returning a call for the last time.  Here his
deportment is of the most faultless description; he knows the exact pitch
of voice it is proper to assume, the sombre look he ought to wear, the
melancholy tread which should be his gait for the day.  He is perfectly
acquainted with all the dreary courtesies to be observed in a
mourning-coach; knows when to sigh, and when to hide his nose in the
white handkerchief; and looks into the grave and shakes his head when the
ceremony is concluded, with the sad formality of a mute.

‘What kind of funeral was it?’ says the formal lady, when he returns
home.  ‘Oh!’ replies the formal gentleman, ‘there never was such a gross
and disgusting impropriety; there were no feathers.’  ‘No feathers!’
cries the lady, as if on wings of black feathers dead people fly to
Heaven, and, lacking them, they must of necessity go elsewhere.  Her
husband shakes his head; and further adds, that they had seed-cake
instead of plum-cake, and that it was all white wine.  ‘All white wine!’
exclaims his wife.  ‘Nothing but sherry and madeira,’ says the husband.
‘What! no port?’  ‘Not a drop.’  No port, no plums, and no feathers!
‘You will recollect, my dear,’ says the formal lady, in a voice of
stately reproof, ‘that when we first met this poor man who is now dead
and gone, and he took that very strange course of addressing me at dinner
without being previously introduced, I ventured to express my opinion
that the family were quite ignorant of etiquette, and very imperfectly
acquainted with the decencies of life.  You have now had a good
opportunity of judging for yourself, and all I have to say is, that I
trust you will never go to a funeral _there_ again.’  ‘My dear,’ replies
the formal gentleman, ‘I never will.’  So the informal deceased is cut in
his grave; and the formal couple, when they tell the story of the
funeral, shake their heads, and wonder what some people’s feelings _are_
made of, and what their notions of propriety _can_ be!

If the formal couple have a family (which they sometimes have), they are
not children, but little, pale, sour, sharp-nosed men and women; and so
exquisitely brought up, that they might be very old dwarfs for anything
that appeareth to the contrary.  Indeed, they are so acquainted with
forms and conventionalities, and conduct themselves with such strict
decorum, that to see the little girl break a looking-glass in some wild
outbreak, or the little boy kick his parents, would be to any visitor an
unspeakable relief and consolation.

The formal couple are always sticklers for what is rigidly proper, and
have a great readiness in detecting hidden impropriety of speech or
thought, which by less scrupulous people would be wholly unsuspected.
Thus, if they pay a visit to the theatre, they sit all night in a perfect
agony lest anything improper or immoral should proceed from the stage;
and if anything should happen to be said which admits of a double
construction, they never fail to take it up directly, and to express by
their looks the great outrage which their feelings have sustained.
Perhaps this is their chief reason for absenting themselves almost
entirely from places of public amusement.  They go sometimes to the
Exhibition of the Royal Academy;—but that is often more shocking than the
stage itself, and the formal lady thinks that it really is high time Mr.
Etty was prosecuted and made a public example of.

We made one at a christening party not long since, where there were
amongst the guests a formal couple, who suffered the acutest torture from
certain jokes, incidental to such an occasion, cut—and very likely dried
also—by one of the godfathers; a red-faced elderly gentleman, who, being
highly popular with the rest of the company, had it all his own way, and
was in great spirits.  It was at supper-time that this gentleman came out
in full force.  We—being of a grave and quiet demeanour—had been chosen
to escort the formal lady down-stairs, and, sitting beside her, had a
favourable opportunity of observing her emotions.

We have a shrewd suspicion that, in the very beginning, and in the first
blush—literally the first blush—of the matter, the formal lady had not
felt quite certain whether the being present at such a ceremony, and
encouraging, as it were, the public exhibition of a baby, was not an act
involving some degree of indelicacy and impropriety; but certain we are
that when that baby’s health was drunk, and allusions were made, by a
grey-headed gentleman proposing it, to the time when he had dandled in
his arms the young Christian’s mother,—certain we are that then the
formal lady took the alarm, and recoiled from the old gentleman as from a
hoary profligate.  Still she bore it; she fanned herself with an
indignant air, but still she bore it.  A comic song was sung, involving a
confession from some imaginary gentleman that he had kissed a female, and
yet the formal lady bore it.  But when at last, the health of the
godfather before-mentioned being drunk, the godfather rose to return
thanks, and in the course of his observations darkly hinted at babies yet
unborn, and even contemplated the possibility of the subject of that
festival having brothers and sisters, the formal lady could endure no
more, but, bowing slightly round, and sweeping haughtily past the
offender, left the room in tears, under the protection of the formal
gentleman.



THE LOVING COUPLE


There cannot be a better practical illustration of the wise saw and
ancient instance, that there may be too much of a good thing, than is
presented by a loving couple.  Undoubtedly it is meet and proper that two
persons joined together in holy matrimony should be loving, and
unquestionably it is pleasant to know and see that they are so; but there
is a time for all things, and the couple who happen to be always in a
loving state before company, are well-nigh intolerable.

And in taking up this position we would have it distinctly understood
that we do not seek alone the sympathy of bachelors, in whose objection
to loving couples we recognise interested motives and personal
considerations.  We grant that to that unfortunate class of society there
may be something very irritating, tantalising, and provoking, in being
compelled to witness those gentle endearments and chaste interchanges
which to loving couples are quite the ordinary business of life.  But
while we recognise the natural character of the prejudice to which these
unhappy men are subject, we can neither receive their biassed evidence,
nor address ourself to their inflamed and angered minds.  Dispassionate
experience is our only guide; and in these moral essays we seek no less
to reform hymeneal offenders than to hold out a timely warning to all
rising couples, and even to those who have not yet set forth upon their
pilgrimage towards the matrimonial market.

Let all couples, present or to come, therefore profit by the example of
Mr. and Mrs. Leaver, themselves a loving couple in the first degree.

Mr. and Mrs. Leaver are pronounced by Mrs. Starling, a widow lady who
lost her husband when she was young, and lost herself about the
same-time—for by her own count she has never since grown five years
older—to be a perfect model of wedded felicity.  ‘You would suppose,’
says the romantic lady, ‘that they were lovers only just now engaged.
Never was such happiness!  They are so tender, so affectionate, so
attached to each other, so enamoured, that positively nothing can be more
charming!’

‘Augusta, my soul,’ says Mr. Leaver.  ‘Augustus, my life,’ replies Mrs.
Leaver.  ‘Sing some little ballad, darling,’ quoth Mr. Leaver.  ‘I
couldn’t, indeed, dearest,’ returns Mrs. Leaver.  ‘Do, my dove,’ says Mr.
Leaver.  ‘I couldn’t possibly, my love,’ replies Mrs. Leaver; ‘and it’s
very naughty of you to ask me.’  ‘Naughty, darling!’ cries Mr. Leaver.
‘Yes, very naughty, and very cruel,’ returns Mrs. Leaver, ‘for you know I
have a sore throat, and that to sing would give me great pain.  You’re a
monster, and I hate you.  Go away!’  Mrs. Leaver has said ‘go away,’
because Mr. Leaver has tapped her under the chin: Mr. Leaver not doing as
he is bid, but on the contrary, sitting down beside her, Mrs. Leaver
slaps Mr. Leaver; and Mr. Leaver in return slaps Mrs. Leaver, and it
being now time for all persons present to look the other way, they look
the other way, and hear a still small sound as of kissing, at which Mrs.
Starling is thoroughly enraptured, and whispers her neighbour that if all
married couples were like that, what a heaven this earth would be!

The loving couple are at home when this occurs, and maybe only three or
four friends are present, but, unaccustomed to reserve upon this
interesting point, they are pretty much the same abroad.  Indeed upon
some occasions, such as a pic-nic or a water-party, their lovingness is
even more developed, as we had an opportunity last summer of observing in
person.

There was a great water-party made up to go to Twickenham and dine, and
afterwards dance in an empty villa by the river-side, hired expressly for
the purpose.  Mr. and Mrs. Leaver were of the company; and it was our
fortune to have a seat in the same boat, which was an eight-oared galley,
manned by amateurs, with a blue striped awning of the same pattern as
their Guernsey shirts, and a dingy red flag of the same shade as the
whiskers of the stroke oar.  A coxswain being appointed, and all other
matters adjusted, the eight gentlemen threw themselves into strong
paroxysms, and pulled up with the tide, stimulated by the compassionate
remarks of the ladies, who one and all exclaimed, that it seemed an
immense exertion—as indeed it did.  At first we raced the other boat,
which came alongside in gallant style; but this being found an unpleasant
amusement, as giving rise to a great quantity of splashing, and rendering
the cold pies and other viands very moist, it was unanimously voted down,
and we were suffered to shoot a-head, while the second boat followed
ingloriously in our wake.

It was at this time that we first recognised Mr. Leaver.  There were two
firemen-watermen in the boat, lying by until somebody was exhausted; and
one of them, who had taken upon himself the direction of affairs, was
heard to cry in a gruff voice, ‘Pull away, number two—give it her, number
two—take a longer reach, number two—now, number two, sir, think you’re
winning a boat.’  The greater part of the company had no doubt begun to
wonder which of the striped Guernseys it might be that stood in need of
such encouragement, when a stifled shriek from Mrs. Leaver confirmed the
doubtful and informed the ignorant; and Mr. Leaver, still further
disguised in a straw hat and no neckcloth, was observed to be in a
fearful perspiration, and failing visibly.  Nor was the general
consternation diminished at this instant by the same gentleman (in the
performance of an accidental aquatic feat, termed ‘catching a crab’)
plunging suddenly backward, and displaying nothing of himself to the
company, but two violently struggling legs.  Mrs. Leaver shrieked again
several times, and cried piteously—‘Is he dead?  Tell me the worst.  Is
he dead?’

Now, a moment’s reflection might have convinced the loving wife, that
unless her husband were endowed with some most surprising powers of
muscular action, he never could be dead while he kicked so hard; but
still Mrs. Leaver cried, ‘Is he dead? is he dead?’ and still everybody
else cried—‘No, no, no,’ until such time as Mr. Leaver was replaced in a
sitting posture, and his oar (which had been going through all kinds of
wrong-headed performances on its own account) was once more put in his
hand, by the exertions of the two firemen-watermen.  Mr. Leaver then
exclaimed, ‘Augustus, my child, come to me;’ and Mr. Leaver said,
‘Augusta, my love, compose yourself, I am not injured.’  But Mrs. Leaver
cried again more piteously than before, ‘Augustus, my child, come to me;’
and now the company generally, who seemed to be apprehensive that if Mr.
Leaver remained where he was, he might contribute more than his proper
share towards the drowning of the party, disinterestedly took part with
Mrs. Leaver, and said he really ought to go, and that he was not strong
enough for such violent exercise, and ought never to have undertaken it.
Reluctantly, Mr. Leaver went, and laid himself down at Mrs. Leaver’s
feet, and Mrs. Leaver stooping over him, said, ‘Oh Augustus, how could
you terrify me so?’ and Mr. Leaver said, ‘Augusta, my sweet, I never
meant to terrify you;’ and Mrs. Leaver said, ‘You are faint, my dear;’
and Mr. Leaver said, ‘I am rather so, my love;’ and they were very loving
indeed under Mrs. Leaver’s veil, until at length Mr. Leaver came forth
again, and pleasantly asked if he had not heard something said about
bottled stout and sandwiches.

Mrs. Starling, who was one of the party, was perfectly delighted with
this scene, and frequently murmured half-aside, ‘What a loving couple you
are!’ or ‘How delightful it is to see man and wife so happy together!’
To us she was quite poetical, (for we are a kind of cousins,) observing
that hearts beating in unison like that made life a paradise of sweets;
and that when kindred creatures were drawn together by sympathies so fine
and delicate, what more than mortal happiness did not our souls partake!
To all this we answered ‘Certainly,’ or ‘Very true,’ or merely sighed, as
the case might be.  At every new act of the loving couple, the widow’s
admiration broke out afresh; and when Mrs. Leaver would not permit Mr.
Leaver to keep his hat off, lest the sun should strike to his head, and
give him a brain fever, Mrs. Starling actually shed tears, and said it
reminded her of Adam and Eve.

The loving couple were thus loving all the way to Twickenham, but when we
arrived there (by which time the amateur crew looked very thirsty and
vicious) they were more playful than ever, for Mrs. Leaver threw stones
at Mr. Leaver, and Mr. Leaver ran after Mrs. Leaver on the grass, in a
most innocent and enchanting manner.  At dinner, too, Mr. Leaver _would_
steal Mrs. Leaver’s tongue, and Mrs. Leaver _would_ retaliate upon Mr.
Leaver’s fowl; and when Mrs. Leaver was going to take some lobster salad,
Mr. Leaver wouldn’t let her have any, saying that it made her ill, and
she was always sorry for it afterwards, which afforded Mrs. Leaver an
opportunity of pretending to be cross, and showing many other
prettinesses.  But this was merely the smiling surface of their loves,
not the mighty depths of the stream, down to which the company, to say
the truth, dived rather unexpectedly, from the following accident.  It
chanced that Mr. Leaver took upon himself to propose the bachelors who
had first originated the notion of that entertainment, in doing which, he
affected to regret that he was no longer of their body himself, and
pretended grievously to lament his fallen state.  This Mrs. Leaver’s
feelings could not brook, even in jest, and consequently, exclaiming
aloud, ‘He loves me not, he loves me not!’ she fell in a very pitiable
state into the arms of Mrs. Starling, and, directly becoming insensible,
was conveyed by that lady and her husband into another room.  Presently
Mr. Leaver came running back to know if there was a medical gentleman in
company, and as there was, (in what company is there not?) both Mr.
Leaver and the medical gentleman hurried away together.

The medical gentleman was the first who returned, and among his intimate
friends he was observed to laugh and wink, and look as unmedical as might
be; but when Mr. Leaver came back he was very solemn, and in answer to
all inquiries, shook his head, and remarked that Augusta was far too
sensitive to be trifled with—an opinion which the widow subsequently
confirmed.  Finding that she was in no imminent peril, however, the rest
of the party betook themselves to dancing on the green, and very merry
and happy they were, and a vast quantity of flirtation there was; the
last circumstance being no doubt attributable, partly to the fineness of
the weather, and partly to the locality, which is well known to be
favourable to all harmless recreations.

In the bustle of the scene, Mr. and Mrs. Leaver stole down to the boat,
and disposed themselves under the awning, Mrs. Leaver reclining her head
upon Mr. Leaver’s shoulder, and Mr. Leaver grasping her hand with great
fervour, and looking in her face from time to time with a melancholy and
sympathetic aspect.  The widow sat apart, feigning to be occupied with a
book, but stealthily observing them from behind her fan; and the two
firemen-watermen, smoking their pipes on the bank hard by, nudged each
other, and grinned in enjoyment of the joke.  Very few of the party
missed the loving couple; and the few who did, heartily congratulated
each other on their disappearance.



THE CONTRADICTORY COUPLE


One would suppose that two people who are to pass their whole lives
together, and must necessarily be very often alone with each other, could
find little pleasure in mutual contradiction; and yet what is more common
than a contradictory couple?

The contradictory couple agree in nothing but contradiction.  They return
home from Mrs. Bluebottle’s dinner-party, each in an opposite corner of
the coach, and do not exchange a syllable until they have been seated for
at least twenty minutes by the fireside at home, when the gentleman,
raising his eyes from the stove, all at once breaks silence:

‘What a very extraordinary thing it is,’ says he, ‘that you _will_
contradict, Charlotte!’  ‘_I_ contradict!’ cries the lady, ‘but that’s
just like you.’  ‘What’s like me?’ says the gentleman sharply.  ‘Saying
that I contradict you,’ replies the lady.  ‘Do you mean to say that you
do _not_ contradict me?’ retorts the gentleman; ‘do you mean to say that
you have not been contradicting me the whole of this day?’  ‘Do you mean
to tell me now, that you have not?  I mean to tell you nothing of the
kind,’ replies the lady quietly; ‘when you are wrong, of course I shall
contradict you.’

During this dialogue the gentleman has been taking his brandy-and-water
on one side of the fire, and the lady, with her dressing-case on the
table, has been curling her hair on the other.  She now lets down her
back hair, and proceeds to brush it; preserving at the same time an air
of conscious rectitude and suffering virtue, which is intended to
exasperate the gentleman—and does so.

‘I do believe,’ he says, taking the spoon out of his glass, and tossing
it on the table, ‘that of all the obstinate, positive, wrong-headed
creatures that were ever born, you are the most so, Charlotte.’
‘Certainly, certainly, have it your own way, pray.  You see how much _I_
contradict you,’ rejoins the lady.  ‘Of course, you didn’t contradict me
at dinner-time—oh no, not you!’ says the gentleman.  ‘Yes, I did,’ says
the lady.  ‘Oh, you did,’ cries the gentleman ‘you admit that?’  ‘If you
call that contradiction, I do,’ the lady answers; ‘and I say again,
Edward, that when I know you are wrong, I will contradict you.  I am not
your slave.’  ‘Not my slave!’ repeats the gentleman bitterly; ‘and you
still mean to say that in the Blackburns’ new house there are not more
than fourteen doors, including the door of the wine-cellar!’  ‘I mean to
say,’ retorts the lady, beating time with her hair-brush on the palm of
her hand, ‘that in that house there are fourteen doors and no more.’
‘Well then—’ cries the gentleman, rising in despair, and pacing the room
with rapid strides.  ‘By G-, this is enough to destroy a man’s intellect,
and drive him mad!’

By and by the gentleman comes-to a little, and passing his hand gloomily
across his forehead, reseats himself in his former chair.  There is a
long silence, and this time the lady begins.  ‘I appealed to Mr. Jenkins,
who sat next to me on the sofa in the drawing-room during tea—’  ‘Morgan,
you mean,’ interrupts the gentleman.  ‘I do not mean anything of the
kind,’ answers the lady.  ‘Now, by all that is aggravating and impossible
to bear,’ cries the gentleman, clenching his hands and looking upwards in
agony, ‘she is going to insist upon it that Morgan is Jenkins!’  ‘Do you
take me for a perfect fool?’ exclaims the lady; ‘do you suppose I don’t
know the one from the other?  Do you suppose I don’t know that the man in
the blue coat was Mr. Jenkins?’  ‘Jenkins in a blue coat!’ cries the
gentleman with a groan; ‘Jenkins in a blue coat! a man who would suffer
death rather than wear anything but brown!’  ‘Do you dare to charge me
with telling an untruth?’ demands the lady, bursting into tears.  ‘I
charge you, ma’am,’ retorts the gentleman, starting up, ‘with being a
monster of contradiction, a monster of aggravation, a—a—a—Jenkins in a
blue coat!—what have I done that I should be doomed to hear such
statements!’

Expressing himself with great scorn and anguish, the gentleman takes up
his candle and stalks off to bed, where feigning to be fast asleep when
the lady comes up-stairs drowned in tears, murmuring lamentations over
her hard fate and indistinct intentions of consulting her brothers, he
undergoes the secret torture of hearing her exclaim between whiles, ‘I
know there are only fourteen doors in the house, I know it was Mr.
Jenkins, I know he had a blue coat on, and I would say it as positively
as I do now, if they were the last words I had to speak!’

If the contradictory couple are blessed with children, they are not the
less contradictory on that account.  Master James and Miss Charlotte
present themselves after dinner, and being in perfect good humour, and
finding their parents in the same amiable state, augur from these
appearances half a glass of wine a-piece and other extraordinary
indulgences.  But unfortunately Master James, growing talkative upon such
prospects, asks his mamma how tall Mrs. Parsons is, and whether she is
not six feet high; to which his mamma replies, ‘Yes, she should think she
was, for Mrs. Parsons is a very tall lady indeed; quite a giantess.’
‘For Heaven’s sake, Charlotte,’ cries her husband, ‘do not tell the child
such preposterous nonsense.  Six feet high!’  ‘Well,’ replies the lady,
‘surely I may be permitted to have an opinion; my opinion is, that she is
six feet high—at least six feet.’  ‘Now you know, Charlotte,’ retorts the
gentleman sternly, ‘that that is _not_ your opinion—that you have no such
idea—and that you only say this for the sake of contradiction.’  ‘You are
exceedingly polite,’ his wife replies; ‘to be wrong about such a paltry
question as anybody’s height, would be no great crime; but I say again,
that I believe Mrs. Parsons to be six feet—more than six feet; nay, I
believe you know her to be full six feet, and only say she is not,
because I say she is.’  This taunt disposes the gentleman to become
violent, but he cheeks himself, and is content to mutter, in a haughty
tone, ‘Six feet—ha! ha!  Mrs. Parsons six feet!’ and the lady answers,
‘Yes, six feet.  I am sure I am glad you are amused, and I’ll say it
again—six feet.’  Thus the subject gradually drops off, and the
contradiction begins to be forgotten, when Master James, with some
undefined notion of making himself agreeable, and putting things to
rights again, unfortunately asks his mamma what the moon’s made of; which
gives her occasion to say that he had better not ask her, for she is
always wrong and never can be right; that he only exposes her to
contradiction by asking any question of her; and that he had better ask
his papa, who is infallible, and never can be wrong.  Papa, smarting
under this attack, gives a terrible pull at the bell, and says, that if
the conversation is to proceed in this way, the children had better be
removed.  Removed they are, after a few tears and many struggles; and Pa
having looked at Ma sideways for a minute or two, with a baleful eye,
draws his pocket-handkerchief over his face, and composes himself for his
after-dinner nap.

The friends of the contradictory couple often deplore their frequent
disputes, though they rather make light of them at the same time:
observing, that there is no doubt they are very much attached to each
other, and that they never quarrel except about trifles.  But neither the
friends of the contradictory couple, nor the contradictory couple
themselves, reflect, that as the most stupendous objects in nature are
but vast collections of minute particles, so the slightest and least
considered trifles make up the sum of human happiness or misery.



THE COUPLE WHO DOTE UPON THEIR CHILDREN


The couple who dote upon their children have usually a great many of
them: six or eight at least.  The children are either the healthiest in
all the world, or the most unfortunate in existence.  In either case,
they are equally the theme of their doting parents, and equally a source
of mental anguish and irritation to their doting parents’ friends.

The couple who dote upon their children recognise no dates but those
connected with their births, accidents, illnesses, or remarkable deeds.
They keep a mental almanack with a vast number of Innocents’-days, all in
red letters.  They recollect the last coronation, because on that day
little Tom fell down the kitchen stairs; the anniversary of the Gunpowder
Plot, because it was on the fifth of November that Ned asked whether
wooden legs were made in heaven and cocked hats grew in gardens.  Mrs.
Whiffler will never cease to recollect the last day of the old year as
long as she lives, for it was on that day that the baby had the four red
spots on its nose which they took for measles: nor Christmas-day, for
twenty-one days after Christmas-day the twins were born; nor Good Friday,
for it was on a Good Friday that she was frightened by the donkey-cart
when she was in the family way with Georgiana.  The movable feasts have
no motion for Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler, but remain pinned down tight and
fast to the shoulders of some small child, from whom they can never be
separated any more.  Time was made, according to their creed, not for
slaves but for girls and boys; the restless sands in his glass are but
little children at play.

As we have already intimated, the children of this couple can know no
medium.  They are either prodigies of good health or prodigies of bad
health; whatever they are, they must be prodigies.  Mr. Whiffler must
have to describe at his office such excruciating agonies constantly
undergone by his eldest boy, as nobody else’s eldest boy ever underwent;
or he must be able to declare that there never was a child endowed with
such amazing health, such an indomitable constitution, and such a
cast-iron frame, as his child.  His children must be, in some respect or
other, above and beyond the children of all other people.  To such an
extent is this feeling pushed, that we were once slightly acquainted with
a lady and gentleman who carried their heads so high and became so proud
after their youngest child fell out of a two-pair-of-stairs window
without hurting himself much, that the greater part of their friends were
obliged to forego their acquaintance.  But perhaps this may be an extreme
case, and one not justly entitled to be considered as a precedent of
general application.

If a friend happen to dine in a friendly way with one of these couples
who dote upon their children, it is nearly impossible for him to divert
the conversation from their favourite topic.  Everything reminds Mr.
Whiffler of Ned, or Mrs. Whiffler of Mary Anne, or of the time before Ned
was born, or the time before Mary Anne was thought of.  The slightest
remark, however harmless in itself, will awaken slumbering recollections
of the twins.  It is impossible to steer clear of them.  They will come
uppermost, let the poor man do what he may.  Ned has been known to be
lost sight of for half an hour, Dick has been forgotten, the name of Mary
Anne has not been mentioned, but the twins will out.  Nothing can keep
down the twins.

‘It’s a very extraordinary thing, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler to the
visitor, ‘but—you have seen our little babies, the—the—twins?’  The
friend’s heart sinks within him as he answers, ‘Oh, yes—often.’  ‘Your
talking of the Pyramids,’ says Mr. Whiffler, quite as a matter of course,
‘reminds me of the twins.  It’s a very extraordinary thing about those
babies—what colour should you say their eyes were?’  ‘Upon my word,’ the
friend stammers, ‘I hardly know how to answer’—the fact being, that
except as the friend does not remember to have heard of any departure
from the ordinary course of nature in the instance of these twins, they
might have no eyes at all for aught he has observed to the contrary.
‘You wouldn’t say they were red, I suppose?’ says Mr. Whiffler.  The
friend hesitates, and rather thinks they are; but inferring from the
expression of Mr. Whiffler’s face that red is not the colour, smiles with
some confidence, and says, ‘No, no! very different from that.’  ‘What
should you say to blue?’ says Mr. Whiffler.  The friend glances at him,
and observing a different expression in his face, ventures to say, ‘I
should say they _were_ blue—a decided blue.’  ‘To be sure!’ cries Mr.
Whiffler, triumphantly, ‘I knew you would!  But what should you say if I
was to tell you that the boy’s eyes are blue and the girl’s hazel, eh?’
‘Impossible!’ exclaims the friend, not at all knowing why it should be
impossible.  ‘A fact, notwithstanding,’ cries Mr. Whiffler; ‘and let me
tell you, Saunders, _that’s_ not a common thing in twins, or a
circumstance that’ll happen every day.’

In this dialogue Mrs. Whiffler, as being deeply responsible for the
twins, their charms and singularities, has taken no share; but she now
relates, in broken English, a witticism of little Dick’s bearing upon the
subject just discussed, which delights Mr. Whiffler beyond measure, and
causes him to declare that he would have sworn that was Dick’s if he had
heard it anywhere.  Then he requests that Mrs. Whiffler will tell
Saunders what Tom said about mad bulls; and Mrs. Whiffler relating the
anecdote, a discussion ensues upon the different character of Tom’s wit
and Dick’s wit, from which it appears that Dick’s humour is of a lively
turn, while Tom’s style is the dry and caustic.  This discussion being
enlivened by various illustrations, lasts a long time, and is only
stopped by Mrs. Whiffler instructing the footman to ring the nursery
bell, as the children were promised that they should come down and taste
the pudding.

The friend turns pale when this order is given, and paler still when it
is followed up by a great pattering on the staircase, (not unlike the
sound of rain upon a skylight,) a violent bursting open of the
dining-room door, and the tumultuous appearance of six small children,
closely succeeded by a strong nursery-maid with a twin in each arm.  As
the whole eight are screaming, shouting, or kicking—some influenced by a
ravenous appetite, some by a horror of the stranger, and some by a
conflict of the two feelings—a pretty long space elapses before all their
heads can be ranged round the table and anything like order restored; in
bringing about which happy state of things both the nurse and footman are
severely scratched.  At length Mrs. Whiffler is heard to say, ‘Mr.
Saunders, shall I give you some pudding?’  A breathless silence ensues,
and sixteen small eyes are fixed upon the guest in expectation of his
reply.  A wild shout of joy proclaims that he has said ‘No, thank you.’
Spoons are waved in the air, legs appear above the table-cloth in
uncontrollable ecstasy, and eighty short fingers dabble in damson syrup.

While the pudding is being disposed of, Mr. and Mrs. Whiffler look on
with beaming countenances, and Mr. Whiffler nudging his friend Saunders,
begs him to take notice of Tom’s eyes, or Dick’s chin, or Ned’s nose, or
Mary Anne’s hair, or Emily’s figure, or little Bob’s calves, or Fanny’s
mouth, or Carry’s head, as the case may be.  Whatever the attention of
Mr. Saunders is called to, Mr. Saunders admires of course; though he is
rather confused about the sex of the youngest branches and looks at the
wrong children, turning to a girl when Mr. Whiffler directs his attention
to a boy, and falling into raptures with a boy when he ought to be
enchanted with a girl.  Then the dessert comes, and there is a vast deal
of scrambling after fruit, and sudden spirting forth of juice out of
tight oranges into infant eyes, and much screeching and wailing in
consequence.  At length it becomes time for Mrs. Whiffler to retire, and
all the children are by force of arms compelled to kiss and love Mr.
Saunders before going up-stairs, except Tom, who, lying on his back in
the hall, proclaims that Mr. Saunders ‘is a naughty beast;’ and Dick, who
having drunk his father’s wine when he was looking another way, is found
to be intoxicated and is carried out, very limp and helpless.

Mr. Whiffler and his friend are left alone together, but Mr. Whiffler’s
thoughts are still with his family, if his family are not with him.
‘Saunders,’ says he, after a short silence, ‘if you please, we’ll drink
Mrs. Whiffler and the children.’  Mr. Saunders feels this to be a
reproach against himself for not proposing the same sentiment, and drinks
it in some confusion.  ‘Ah!’ Mr. Whiffler sighs, ‘these children,
Saunders, make one quite an old man.’  Mr. Saunders thinks that if they
were his, they would make him a very old man; but he says nothing.  ‘And
yet,’ pursues Mr. Whiffler, ‘what can equal domestic happiness? what can
equal the engaging ways of children!  Saunders, why don’t you get
married?’  Now, this is an embarrassing question, because Mr. Saunders
has been thinking that if he had at any time entertained matrimonial
designs, the revelation of that day would surely have routed them for
ever.  ‘I am glad, however,’ says Mr. Whiffler, ‘that you _are_ a
bachelor,—glad on one account, Saunders; a selfish one, I admit.  Will
you do Mrs. Whiffler and myself a favour?’  Mr. Saunders is
surprised—evidently surprised; but he replies, ‘with the greatest
pleasure.’  ‘Then, will you, Saunders,’ says Mr. Whiffler, in an
impressive manner, ‘will you cement and consolidate our friendship by
coming into the family (so to speak) as a godfather?’  ‘I shall be proud
and delighted,’ replies Mr. Saunders: ‘which of the children is it?
really, I thought they were all christened; or—’  ‘Saunders,’ Mr.
Whiffler interposes, ‘they _are_ all christened; you are right.  The fact
is, that Mrs. Whiffler is—in short, we expect another.’  ‘Not a ninth!’
cries the friend, all aghast at the idea.  ‘Yes, Saunders,’ rejoins Mr.
Whiffler, solemnly, ‘a ninth.  Did we drink Mrs. Whiffler’s health?  Let
us drink it again, Saunders, and wish her well over it!’

Doctor Johnson used to tell a story of a man who had but one idea, which
was a wrong one.  The couple who dote upon their children are in the same
predicament: at home or abroad, at all times, and in all places, their
thoughts are bound up in this one subject, and have no sphere beyond.
They relate the clever things their offspring say or do, and weary every
company with their prolixity and absurdity.  Mr. Whiffler takes a friend
by the button at a street corner on a windy day to tell him a _bon mot_
of his youngest boy’s; and Mrs. Whiffler, calling to see a sick
acquaintance, entertains her with a cheerful account of all her own past
sufferings and present expectations.  In such cases the sins of the
fathers indeed descend upon the children; for people soon come to regard
them as predestined little bores.  The couple who dote upon their
children cannot be said to be actuated by a general love for these
engaging little people (which would be a great excuse); for they are apt
to underrate and entertain a jealousy of any children but their own.  If
they examined their own hearts, they would, perhaps, find at the bottom
of all this, more self-love and egotism than they think of.  Self-love
and egotism are bad qualities, of which the unrestrained exhibition,
though it may be sometimes amusing, never fails to be wearisome and
unpleasant.  Couples who dote upon their children, therefore, are best
avoided.



THE COOL COUPLE


There is an old-fashioned weather-glass representing a house with two
doorways, in one of which is the figure of a gentleman, in the other the
figure of a lady.  When the weather is to be fine the lady comes out and
the gentleman goes in; when wet, the gentleman comes out and the lady
goes in.  They never seek each other’s society, are never elevated and
depressed by the same cause, and have nothing in common.  They are the
model of a cool couple, except that there is something of politeness and
consideration about the behaviour of the gentleman in the weather-glass,
in which, neither of the cool couple can be said to participate.

The cool couple are seldom alone together, and when they are, nothing can
exceed their apathy and dulness: the gentleman being for the most part
drowsy, and the lady silent.  If they enter into conversation, it is
usually of an ironical or recriminatory nature.  Thus, when the gentleman
has indulged in a very long yawn and settled himself more snugly in his
easy-chair, the lady will perhaps remark, ‘Well, I am sure, Charles!  I
hope you’re comfortable.’  To which the gentleman replies, ‘Oh yes, he’s
quite comfortable quite.’  ‘There are not many married men, I hope,’
returns the lady, ‘who seek comfort in such selfish gratifications as you
do.’  ‘Nor many wives who seek comfort in such selfish gratifications as
_you_ do, I hope,’ retorts the gentleman.  ‘Whose fault is that?’ demands
the lady.  The gentleman becoming more sleepy, returns no answer.  ‘Whose
fault is that?’ the lady repeats.  The gentleman still returning no
answer, she goes on to say that she believes there never was in all this
world anybody so attached to her home, so thoroughly domestic, so
unwilling to seek a moment’s gratification or pleasure beyond her own
fireside as she.  God knows that before she was married she never thought
or dreamt of such a thing; and she remembers that her poor papa used to
say again and again, almost every day of his life, ‘Oh, my dear Louisa,
if you only marry a man who understands you, and takes the trouble to
consider your happiness and accommodate himself a very little to your
disposition, what a treasure he will find in you!’  She supposes her papa
knew what her disposition was—he had known her long enough—he ought to
have been acquainted with it, but what can she do?  If her home is always
dull and lonely, and her husband is always absent and finds no pleasure
in her society, she is naturally sometimes driven (seldom enough, she is
sure) to seek a little recreation elsewhere; she is not expected to pine
and mope to death, she hopes.  ‘Then come, Louisa,’ says the gentleman,
waking up as suddenly as he fell asleep, ‘stop at home this evening, and
so will I.’  ‘I should be sorry to suppose, Charles, that you took a
pleasure in aggravating me,’ replies the lady; ‘but you know as well as I
do that I am particularly engaged to Mrs. Mortimer, and that it would be
an act of the grossest rudeness and ill-breeding, after accepting a seat
in her box and preventing her from inviting anybody else, not to go.’
‘Ah! there it is!’ says the gentleman, shrugging his shoulders, ‘I knew
that perfectly well.  I knew you couldn’t devote an evening to your own
home.  Now all I have to say, Louisa, is this—recollect that _I_ was
quite willing to stay at home, and that it’s no fault of _mine_ we are
not oftener together.’

With that the gentleman goes away to keep an old appointment at his club,
and the lady hurries off to dress for Mrs. Mortimer’s; and neither thinks
of the other until by some odd chance they find themselves alone again.

But it must not be supposed that the cool couple are habitually a
quarrelsome one.  Quite the contrary.  These differences are only
occasions for a little self-excuse,—nothing more.  In general they are as
easy and careless, and dispute as seldom, as any common acquaintances
may; for it is neither worth their while to put each other out of the
way, nor to ruffle themselves.

When they meet in society, the cool couple are the best-bred people in
existence.  The lady is seated in a corner among a little knot of lady
friends, one of whom exclaims, ‘Why, I vow and declare there is your
husband, my dear!’  ‘Whose?—mine?’ she says, carelessly.  ‘Ay, yours, and
coming this way too.’  ‘How very odd!’ says the lady, in a languid tone,
‘I thought he had been at Dover.’  The gentleman coming up, and speaking
to all the other ladies and nodding slightly to his wife, it turns out
that he has been at Dover, and has just now returned.  ‘What a strange
creature you are!’ cries his wife; ‘and what on earth brought you here, I
wonder?’  ‘I came to look after you, _of course_,’ rejoins her husband.
This is so pleasant a jest that the lady is mightily amused, as are all
the other ladies similarly situated who are within hearing; and while
they are enjoying it to the full, the gentleman nods again, turns upon
his heel, and saunters away.

There are times, however, when his company is not so agreeable, though
equally unexpected; such as when the lady has invited one or two
particular friends to tea and scandal, and he happens to come home in the
very midst of their diversion.  It is a hundred chances to one that he
remains in the house half an hour, but the lady is rather disturbed by
the intrusion, notwithstanding, and reasons within herself,—‘I am sure I
never interfere with him, and why should he interfere with me?  It can
scarcely be accidental; it never happens that I have a particular reason
for not wishing him to come home, but he always comes.  It’s very
provoking and tiresome; and I am sure when he leaves me so much alone for
his own pleasure, the least he could do would be to do as much for mine.’
Observing what passes in her mind, the gentleman, who has come home for
his own accommodation, makes a merit of it with himself; arrives at the
conclusion that it is the very last place in which he can hope to be
comfortable; and determines, as he takes up his hat and cane, never to be
so virtuous again.

Thus a great many cool couples go on until they are cold couples, and the
grave has closed over their folly and indifference.  Loss of name,
station, character, life itself, has ensued from causes as slight as
these, before now; and when gossips tell such tales, and aggravate their
deformities, they elevate their hands and eyebrows, and call each other
to witness what a cool couple Mr. and Mrs. So-and-so always were, even in
the best of times.



THE PLAUSIBLE COUPLE


The plausible couple have many titles.  They are ‘a delightful couple,’
an ‘affectionate couple,’ ‘a most agreeable couple, ‘a good-hearted
couple,’ and ‘the best-natured couple in existence.’  The truth is, that
the plausible couple are people of the world; and either the way of
pleasing the world has grown much easier than it was in the days of the
old man and his ass, or the old man was but a bad hand at it, and knew
very little of the trade.

‘But is it really possible to please the world!’ says some doubting
reader.  It is indeed.  Nay, it is not only very possible, but very easy.
The ways are crooked, and sometimes foul and low.  What then?  A man need
but crawl upon his hands and knees, know when to close his eyes and when
his ears, when to stoop and when to stand upright; and if by the world is
meant that atom of it in which he moves himself, he shall please it,
never fear.

Now, it will be readily seen, that if a plausible man or woman have an
easy means of pleasing the world by an adaptation of self to all its
twistings and twinings, a plausible man _and_ woman, or, in other words,
a plausible couple, playing into each other’s hands, and acting in
concert, have a manifest advantage.  Hence it is that plausible couples
scarcely ever fail of success on a pretty large scale; and hence it is
that if the reader, laying down this unwieldy volume at the next full
stop, will have the goodness to review his or her circle of acquaintance,
and to search particularly for some man and wife with a large connexion
and a good name, not easily referable to their abilities or their wealth,
he or she (that is, the male or female reader) will certainly find that
gentleman or lady, on a very short reflection, to be a plausible couple.

The plausible couple are the most ecstatic people living: the most
sensitive people—to merit—on the face of the earth.  Nothing clever or
virtuous escapes them.  They have microscopic eyes for such endowments,
and can find them anywhere.  The plausible couple never fawn—oh no!  They
don’t even scruple to tell their friends of their faults.  One is too
generous, another too candid; a third has a tendency to think all people
like himself, and to regard mankind as a company of angels; a fourth is
kind-hearted to a fault.  ‘We never flatter, my dear Mrs. Jackson,’ say
the plausible couple; ‘we speak our minds.  Neither you nor Mr. Jackson
have faults enough.  It may sound strangely, but it is true.  You have
not faults enough.  You know our way,—we must speak out, and always do.
Quarrel with us for saying so, if you will; but we repeat it,—you have
not faults enough!’

The plausible couple are no less plausible to each other than to third
parties.  They are always loving and harmonious.  The plausible gentleman
calls his wife ‘darling,’ and the plausible lady addresses him as
‘dearest.’  If it be Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger, Mrs. Widger is
‘Lavinia, darling,’ and Mr. Widger is ‘Bobtail, dearest.’  Speaking of
each other, they observe the same tender form.  Mrs. Widger relates what
‘Bobtail’ said, and Mr. Widger recounts what ‘darling’ thought and did.

If you sit next to the plausible lady at a dinner-table, she takes the
earliest opportunity of expressing her belief that you are acquainted
with the Clickits; she is sure she has heard the Clickits speak of
you—she must not tell you in what terms, or you will take her for a
flatterer.  You admit a knowledge of the Clickits; the plausible lady
immediately launches out in their praise.  She quite loves the Clickits.
Were there ever such true-hearted, hospitable, excellent people—such a
gentle, interesting little woman as Mrs. Clickit, or such a frank,
unaffected creature as Mr. Clickit? were there ever two people, in short,
so little spoiled by the world as they are?  ‘As who, darling?’ cries Mr.
Widger, from the opposite side of the table.  ‘The Clickits, dearest,’
replies Mrs. Widger.  ‘Indeed you are right, darling,’ Mr. Widger
rejoins; ‘the Clickits are a very high-minded, worthy, estimable couple.’
Mrs. Widger remarking that Bobtail always grows quite eloquent upon this
subject, Mr. Widger admits that he feels very strongly whenever such
people as the Clickits and some other friends of his (here he glances at
the host and hostess) are mentioned; for they are an honour to human
nature, and do one good to think of.  ‘_You_ know the Clickits, Mrs.
Jackson?’ he says, addressing the lady of the house.  ‘No, indeed; we
have not that pleasure,’ she replies.  ‘You astonish me!’ exclaims Mr.
Widger: ‘not know the Clickits! why, you are the very people of all
others who ought to be their bosom friends.  You are kindred beings; you
are one and the same thing:—not know the Clickits!  Now _will_ you know
the Clickits?  Will you make a point of knowing them?  Will you meet them
in a friendly way at our house one evening, and be acquainted with them?’
Mrs. Jackson will be quite delighted; nothing would give her more
pleasure.  ‘Then, Lavinia, my darling,’ says Mr. Widger, ‘mind you don’t
lose sight of that; now, pray take care that Mr. and Mrs. Jackson know
the Clickits without loss of time.  Such people ought not to be strangers
to each other.’  Mrs. Widger books both families as the centre of
attraction for her next party; and Mr. Widger, going on to expatiate upon
the virtues of the Clickits, adds to their other moral qualities, that
they keep one of the neatest phaetons in town, and have two thousand a
year.

As the plausible couple never laud the merits of any absent person,
without dexterously contriving that their praises shall reflect upon
somebody who is present, so they never depreciate anything or anybody,
without turning their depreciation to the same account.  Their friend,
Mr. Slummery, say they, is unquestionably a clever painter, and would no
doubt be very popular, and sell his pictures at a very high price, if
that cruel Mr. Fithers had not forestalled him in his department of art,
and made it thoroughly and completely his own;—Fithers, it is to be
observed, being present and within hearing, and Slummery elsewhere.  Is
Mrs. Tabblewick really as beautiful as people say?  Why, there indeed you
ask them a very puzzling question, because there is no doubt that she is
a very charming woman, and they have long known her intimately.  She is
no doubt beautiful, very beautiful; they once thought her the most
beautiful woman ever seen; still if you press them for an honest answer,
they are bound to say that this was before they had ever seen our lovely
friend on the sofa, (the sofa is hard by, and our lovely friend can’t
help hearing the whispers in which this is said;) since that time,
perhaps, they have been hardly fair judges; Mrs. Tabblewick is no doubt
extremely handsome,—very like our friend, in fact, in the form of the
features,—but in point of expression, and soul, and figure, and air
altogether—oh dear!

But while the plausible couple depreciate, they are still careful to
preserve their character for amiability and kind feeling; indeed the
depreciation itself is often made to grow out of their excessive sympathy
and good will.  The plausible lady calls on a lady who dotes upon her
children, and is sitting with a little girl upon her knee, enraptured by
her artless replies, and protesting that there is nothing she delights in
so much as conversing with these fairies; when the other lady inquires if
she has seen young Mrs. Finching lately, and whether the baby has turned
out a finer one than it promised to be.  ‘Oh dear!’ cries the plausible
lady, ‘you cannot think how often Bobtail and I have talked about poor
Mrs. Finching—she is such a dear soul, and was so anxious that the baby
should be a fine child—and very naturally, because she was very much here
at one time, and there is, you know, a natural emulation among
mothers—that it is impossible to tell you how much we have felt for her.’
‘Is it weak or plain, or what?’ inquires the other.  ‘Weak or plain, my
love,’ returns the plausible lady, ‘it’s a fright—a perfect little
fright; you never saw such a miserable creature in all your days.
Positively you must not let her see one of these beautiful dears again,
or you’ll break her heart, you will indeed.—Heaven bless this child, see
how she is looking in my face! can you conceive anything prettier than
that?  If poor Mrs. Finching could only hope—but that’s impossible—and
the gifts of Providence, you know—What _did_ I do with my
pocket-handkerchief!’

What prompts the mother, who dotes upon her children, to comment to her
lord that evening on the plausible lady’s engaging qualities and feeling
heart, and what is it that procures Mr. and Mrs. Bobtail Widger an
immediate invitation to dinner?



THE NICE LITTLE COUPLE


A custom once prevailed in old-fashioned circles, that when a lady or
gentleman was unable to sing a song, he or she should enliven the company
with a story.  As we find ourself in the predicament of not being able to
describe (to our own satisfaction) nice little couples in the abstract,
we purpose telling in this place a little story about a nice little
couple of our acquaintance.

Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup are the nice little couple in question.  Mr. Chirrup
has the smartness, and something of the brisk, quick manner of a small
bird.  Mrs. Chirrup is the prettiest of all little women, and has the
prettiest little figure conceivable.  She has the neatest little foot,
and the softest little voice, and the pleasantest little smile, and the
tidiest little curls, and the brightest little eyes, and the quietest
little manner, and is, in short, altogether one of the most engaging of
all little women, dead or alive.  She is a condensation of all the
domestic virtues,—a pocket edition of the young man’s best companion,—a
little woman at a very high pressure, with an amazing quantity of
goodness and usefulness in an exceedingly small space.  Little as she is,
Mrs. Chirrup might furnish forth matter for the moral equipment of a
score of housewives, six feet high in their stockings—if, in the presence
of ladies, we may be allowed the expression—and of corresponding
robustness.

Nobody knows all this better than Mr. Chirrup, though he rather takes on
that he don’t.  Accordingly he is very proud of his better-half, and
evidently considers himself, as all other people consider him, rather
fortunate in having her to wife.  We say evidently, because Mr. Chirrup
is a warm-hearted little fellow; and if you catch his eye when he has
been slyly glancing at Mrs. Chirrup in company, there is a certain
complacent twinkle in it, accompanied, perhaps, by a half-expressed toss
of the head, which as clearly indicates what has been passing in his mind
as if he had put it into words, and shouted it out through a
speaking-trumpet.  Moreover, Mr. Chirrup has a particularly mild and
bird-like manner of calling Mrs. Chirrup ‘my dear;’ and—for he is of a
jocose turn—of cutting little witticisms upon her, and making her the
subject of various harmless pleasantries, which nobody enjoys more
thoroughly than Mrs. Chirrup herself.  Mr. Chirrup, too, now and then
affects to deplore his bachelor-days, and to bemoan (with a marvellously
contented and smirking face) the loss of his freedom, and the sorrow of
his heart at having been taken captive by Mrs. Chirrup—all of which
circumstances combine to show the secret triumph and satisfaction of Mr.
Chirrup’s soul.

We have already had occasion to observe that Mrs. Chirrup is an
incomparable housewife.  In all the arts of domestic arrangement and
management, in all the mysteries of confectionery-making, pickling, and
preserving, never was such a thorough adept as that nice little body.
She is, besides, a cunning worker in muslin and fine linen, and a special
hand at marketing to the very best advantage.  But if there be one branch
of housekeeping in which she excels to an utterly unparalleled and
unprecedented extent, it is in the important one of carving.  A roast
goose is universally allowed to be the great stumbling-block in the way
of young aspirants to perfection in this department of science; many
promising carvers, beginning with legs of mutton, and preserving a good
reputation through fillets of veal, sirloins of beef, quarters of lamb,
fowls, and even ducks, have sunk before a roast goose, and lost caste and
character for ever.  To Mrs. Chirrup the resolving a goose into its
smallest component parts is a pleasant pastime—a practical joke—a thing
to be done in a minute or so, without the smallest interruption to the
conversation of the time.  No handing the dish over to an unfortunate man
upon her right or left, no wild sharpening of the knife, no hacking and
sawing at an unruly joint, no noise, no splash, no heat, no leaving off
in despair; all is confidence and cheerfulness.  The dish is set upon the
table, the cover is removed; for an instant, and only an instant, you
observe that Mrs. Chirrup’s attention is distracted; she smiles, but
heareth not.  You proceed with your story; meanwhile the glittering knife
is slowly upraised, both Mrs. Chirrup’s wrists are slightly but not
ungracefully agitated, she compresses her lips for an instant, then
breaks into a smile, and all is over.  The legs of the bird slide gently
down into a pool of gravy, the wings seem to melt from the body, the
breast separates into a row of juicy slices, the smaller and more
complicated parts of his anatomy are perfectly developed, a cavern of
stuffing is revealed, and the goose is gone!

To dine with Mr. and Mrs. Chirrup is one of the pleasantest things in the
world.  Mr. Chirrup has a bachelor friend, who lived with him in his own
days of single blessedness, and to whom he is mightily attached.
Contrary to the usual custom, this bachelor friend is no less a friend of
Mrs. Chirrup’s, and, consequently, whenever you dine with Mr. and Mrs.
Chirrup, you meet the bachelor friend.  It would put any
reasonably-conditioned mortal into good-humour to observe the entire
unanimity which subsists between these three; but there is a quiet
welcome dimpling in Mrs. Chirrup’s face, a bustling hospitality oozing as
it were out of the waistcoat-pockets of Mr. Chirrup, and a patronising
enjoyment of their cordiality and satisfaction on the part of the
bachelor friend, which is quite delightful.  On these occasions Mr.
Chirrup usually takes an opportunity of rallying the friend on being
single, and the friend retorts on Mr. Chirrup for being married, at which
moments some single young ladies present are like to die of laughter; and
we have more than once observed them bestow looks upon the friend, which
convinces us that his position is by no means a safe one, as, indeed, we
hold no bachelor’s to be who visits married friends and cracks jokes on
wedlock, for certain it is that such men walk among traps and nets and
pitfalls innumerable, and often find themselves down upon their knees at
the altar rails, taking M. or N. for their wedded wives, before they know
anything about the matter.

However, this is no business of Mr. Chirrup’s, who talks, and laughs, and
drinks his wine, and laughs again, and talks more, until it is time to
repair to the drawing-room, where, coffee served and over, Mrs. Chirrup
prepares for a round game, by sorting the nicest possible little fish
into the nicest possible little pools, and calling Mr. Chirrup to assist
her, which Mr. Chirrup does.  As they stand side by side, you find that
Mr. Chirrup is the least possible shadow of a shade taller than Mrs.
Chirrup, and that they are the neatest and best-matched little couple
that can be, which the chances are ten to one against your observing with
such effect at any other time, unless you see them in the street
arm-in-arm, or meet them some rainy day trotting along under a very small
umbrella.  The round game (at which Mr. Chirrup is the merriest of the
party) being done and over, in course of time a nice little tray appears,
on which is a nice little supper; and when that is finished likewise, and
you have said ‘Good night,’ you find yourself repeating a dozen times, as
you ride home, that there never was such a nice little couple as Mr. and
Mrs. Chirrup.

Whether it is that pleasant qualities, being packed more closely in small
bodies than in large, come more readily to hand than when they are
diffused over a wider space, and have to be gathered together for use, we
don’t know, but as a general rule,—strengthened like all other rules by
its exceptions,—we hold that little people are sprightly and
good-natured.  The more sprightly and good-natured people we have, the
better; therefore, let us wish well to all nice little couples, and hope
that they may increase and multiply.



THE EGOTISTICAL COUPLE


Egotism in couples is of two kinds.—It is our purpose to show this by two
examples.

The egotistical couple may be young, old, middle-aged, well to do, or ill
to do; they may have a small family, a large family, or no family at all.
There is no outward sign by which an egotistical couple may be known and
avoided.  They come upon you unawares; there is no guarding against them.
No man can of himself be forewarned or forearmed against an egotistical
couple.

The egotistical couple have undergone every calamity, and experienced
every pleasurable and painful sensation of which our nature is
susceptible.  You cannot by possibility tell the egotistical couple
anything they don’t know, or describe to them anything they have not
felt.  They have been everything but dead.  Sometimes we are tempted to
wish they had been even that, but only in our uncharitable moments, which
are few and far between.

We happened the other day, in the course of a morning call, to encounter
an egotistical couple, nor were we suffered to remain long in ignorance
of the fact, for our very first inquiry of the lady of the house brought
them into active and vigorous operation.  The inquiry was of course
touching the lady’s health, and the answer happened to be, that she had
not been very well.  ‘Oh, my dear!’ said the egotistical lady, ‘don’t
talk of not being well.  We have been in _such_ a state since we saw you
last!’—The lady of the house happening to remark that her lord had not
been well either, the egotistical gentleman struck in: ‘Never let Briggs
complain of not being well—never let Briggs complain, my dear Mrs.
Briggs, after what I have undergone within these six weeks.  He doesn’t
know what it is to be ill, he hasn’t the least idea of it; not the
faintest conception.’—‘My dear,’ interposed his wife smiling, ‘you talk
as if it were almost a crime in Mr. Briggs not to have been as ill as we
have been, instead of feeling thankful to Providence that both he and our
dear Mrs. Briggs are in such blissful ignorance of real suffering.’—‘My
love,’ returned the egotistical gentleman, in a low and pious voice, ‘you
mistake me;—I feel grateful—very grateful.  I trust our friends may never
purchase their experience as dearly as we have bought ours; I hope they
never may!’

Having put down Mrs. Briggs upon this theme, and settled the question
thus, the egotistical gentleman turned to us, and, after a few
preliminary remarks, all tending towards and leading up to the point he
had in his mind, inquired if we happened to be acquainted with the
Dowager Lady Snorflerer.  On our replying in the negative, he presumed we
had often met Lord Slang, or beyond all doubt, that we were on intimate
terms with Sir Chipkins Glogwog.  Finding that we were equally unable to
lay claim to either of these distinctions, he expressed great
astonishment, and turning to his wife with a retrospective smile,
inquired who it was that had told that capital story about the mashed
potatoes.  ‘Who, my dear?’ returned the egotistical lady, ‘why Sir
Chipkins, of course; how can you ask!  Don’t you remember his applying it
to our cook, and saying that you and I were so like the Prince and
Princess, that he could almost have sworn we were they?’  ‘To be sure, I
remember that,’ said the egotistical gentleman, ‘but are you quite
certain that didn’t apply to the other anecdote about the Emperor of
Austria and the pump?’  ‘Upon my word then, I think it did,’ replied his
wife.  ‘To be sure it did,’ said the egotistical gentleman, ‘it was
Slang’s story, I remember now, perfectly.’  However, it turned out, a few
seconds afterwards, that the egotistical gentleman’s memory was rather
treacherous, as he began to have a misgiving that the story had been told
by the Dowager Lady Snorflerer the very last time they dined there; but
there appearing, on further consideration, strong circumstantial evidence
tending to show that this couldn’t be, inasmuch as the Dowager Lady
Snorflerer had been, on the occasion in question, wholly engrossed by the
egotistical lady, the egotistical gentleman recanted this opinion; and
after laying the story at the doors of a great many great people, happily
left it at last with the Duke of Scuttlewig:—observing that it was not
extraordinary he had forgotten his Grace hitherto, as it often happened
that the names of those with whom we were upon the most familiar footing
were the very last to present themselves to our thoughts.

It not only appeared that the egotistical couple knew everybody, but that
scarcely any event of importance or notoriety had occurred for many years
with which they had not been in some way or other connected.  Thus we
learned that when the well-known attempt upon the life of George the
Third was made by Hatfield in Drury Lane theatre, the egotistical
gentleman’s grandfather sat upon his right hand and was the first man who
collared him; and that the egotistical lady’s aunt, sitting within a few
boxes of the royal party, was the only person in the audience who heard
his Majesty exclaim, ‘Charlotte, Charlotte, don’t be frightened, don’t be
frightened; they’re letting off squibs, they’re letting off squibs.’
When the fire broke out, which ended in the destruction of the two Houses
of Parliament, the egotistical couple, being at the time at a
drawing-room window on Blackheath, then and there simultaneously
exclaimed, to the astonishment of a whole party—‘It’s the House of
Lords!’  Nor was this a solitary instance of their peculiar discernment,
for chancing to be (as by a comparison of dates and circumstances they
afterwards found) in the same omnibus with Mr. Greenacre, when he carried
his victim’s head about town in a blue bag, they both remarked a singular
twitching in the muscles of his countenance; and walking down Fish Street
Hill, a few weeks since, the egotistical gentleman said to his
lady—slightly casting up his eyes to the top of the Monument—‘There’s a
boy up there, my dear, reading a Bible.  It’s very strange.  I don’t like
it.—In five seconds afterwards, Sir,’ says the egotistical gentleman,
bringing his hands together with one violent clap—‘the lad was over!’

Diversifying these topics by the introduction of many others of the same
kind, and entertaining us between whiles with a minute account of what
weather and diet agreed with them, and what weather and diet disagreed
with them, and at what time they usually got up, and at what time went to
bed, with many other particulars of their domestic economy too numerous
to mention; the egotistical couple at length took their leave, and
afforded us an opportunity of doing the same.

Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone are an egotistical couple of another class, for
all the lady’s egotism is about her husband, and all the gentleman’s
about his wife.  For example:—Mr. Sliverstone is a clerical gentleman,
and occasionally writes sermons, as clerical gentlemen do.  If you happen
to obtain admission at the street-door while he is so engaged, Mrs.
Sliverstone appears on tip-toe, and speaking in a solemn whisper, as if
there were at least three or four particular friends up-stairs, all upon
the point of death, implores you to be very silent, for Mr. Sliverstone
is composing, and she need not say how very important it is that he
should not be disturbed.  Unwilling to interrupt anything so serious, you
hasten to withdraw, with many apologies; but this Mrs. Sliverstone will
by no means allow, observing, that she knows you would like to see him,
as it is very natural you should, and that she is determined to make a
trial for you, as you are a great favourite.  So you are led
up-stairs—still on tip-toe—to the door of a little back room, in which,
as the lady informs you in a whisper, Mr. Sliverstone always writes.  No
answer being returned to a couple of soft taps, the lady opens the door,
and there, sure enough, is Mr. Sliverstone, with dishevelled hair,
powdering away with pen, ink, and paper, at a rate which, if he has any
power of sustaining it, would settle the longest sermon in no time.  At
first he is too much absorbed to be roused by this intrusion; but
presently looking up, says faintly, ‘Ah!’ and pointing to his desk with a
weary and languid smile, extends his hand, and hopes you’ll forgive him.
Then Mrs. Sliverstone sits down beside him, and taking his hand in hers,
tells you how that Mr. Sliverstone has been shut up there ever since nine
o’clock in the morning, (it is by this time twelve at noon,) and how she
knows it cannot be good for his health, and is very uneasy about it.
Unto this Mr. Sliverstone replies firmly, that ‘It must be done;’ which
agonizes Mrs. Sliverstone still more, and she goes on to tell you that
such were Mr. Sliverstone’s labours last week—what with the buryings,
marryings, churchings, christenings, and all together,—that when he was
going up the pulpit stairs on Sunday evening, he was obliged to hold on
by the rails, or he would certainly have fallen over into his own pew.
Mr. Sliverstone, who has been listening and smiling meekly, says, ‘Not
quite so bad as that, not quite so bad!’ he admits though, on
cross-examination, that he _was_ very near falling upon the verger who
was following him up to bolt the door; but adds, that it was his duty as
a Christian to fall upon him, if need were, and that he, Mr. Sliverstone,
and (possibly the verger too) ought to glory in it.

This sentiment communicates new impulse to Mrs. Sliverstone, who launches
into new praises of Mr. Sliverstone’s worth and excellence, to which he
listens in the same meek silence, save when he puts in a word of
self-denial relative to some question of fact, as—‘Not seventy-two
christenings that week, my dear.  Only seventy-one, only seventy-one.’
At length his lady has quite concluded, and then he says, Why should he
repine, why should he give way, why should he suffer his heart to sink
within him?  Is it he alone who toils and suffers?  What has she gone
through, he should like to know?  What does she go through every day for
him and for society?

With such an exordium Mr. Sliverstone launches out into glowing praises
of the conduct of Mrs. Sliverstone in the production of eight young
children, and the subsequent rearing and fostering of the same; and thus
the husband magnifies the wife, and the wife the husband.

This would be well enough if Mr. and Mrs. Sliverstone kept it to
themselves, or even to themselves and a friend or two; but they do not.
The more hearers they have, the more egotistical the couple become, and
the more anxious they are to make believers in their merits.  Perhaps
this is the worst kind of egotism.  It has not even the poor excuse of
being spontaneous, but is the result of a deliberate system and malice
aforethought.  Mere empty-headed conceit excites our pity, but
ostentatious hypocrisy awakens our disgust.



THE COUPLE WHO CODDLE THEMSELVES


Mrs. Merrywinkle’s maiden name was Chopper.  She was the only child of
Mr. and Mrs. Chopper.  Her father died when she was, as the play-books
express it, ‘yet an infant;’ and so old Mrs. Chopper, when her daughter
married, made the house of her son-in-law her home from that time
henceforth, and set up her staff of rest with Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle.

Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle are a couple who coddle themselves; and the
venerable Mrs. Chopper is an aider and abettor in the same.

Mr. Merrywinkle is a rather lean and long-necked gentleman, middle-aged
and middle-sized, and usually troubled with a cold in the head.  Mrs.
Merrywinkle is a delicate-looking lady, with very light hair, and is
exceedingly subject to the same unpleasant disorder.  The venerable Mrs.
Chopper—who is strictly entitled to the appellation, her daughter not
being very young, otherwise than by courtesy, at the time of her
marriage, which was some years ago—is a mysterious old lady who lurks
behind a pair of spectacles, and is afflicted with a chronic disease,
respecting which she has taken a vast deal of medical advice, and
referred to a vast number of medical books, without meeting any
definition of symptoms that at all suits her, or enables her to say,
‘That’s my complaint.’  Indeed, the absence of authentic information upon
the subject of this complaint would seem to be Mrs. Chopper’s greatest
ill, as in all other respects she is an uncommonly hale and hearty
gentlewoman.

Both Mr. and Mrs. Chopper wear an extraordinary quantity of flannel, and
have a habit of putting their feet in hot water to an unnatural extent.
They likewise indulge in chamomile tea and such-like compounds, and rub
themselves on the slightest provocation with camphorated spirits and
other lotions applicable to mumps, sore-throat, rheumatism, or lumbago.

Mr. Merrywinkle’s leaving home to go to business on a damp or wet morning
is a very elaborate affair.  He puts on wash-leather socks over his
stockings, and India-rubber shoes above his boots, and wears under his
waistcoat a cuirass of hare-skin.  Besides these precautions, he winds a
thick shawl round his throat, and blocks up his mouth with a large silk
handkerchief.  Thus accoutred, and furnished besides with a great-coat
and umbrella, he braves the dangers of the streets; travelling in severe
weather at a gentle trot, the better to preserve the circulation, and
bringing his mouth to the surface to take breath, but very seldom, and
with the utmost caution.  His office-door opened, he shoots past his
clerk at the same pace, and diving into his own private room, closes the
door, examines the window-fastenings, and gradually unrobes himself:
hanging his pocket-handkerchief on the fender to air, and determining to
write to the newspapers about the fog, which, he says, ‘has really got to
that pitch that it is quite unbearable.’

In this last opinion Mrs. Merrywinkle and her respected mother fully
concur; for though not present, their thoughts and tongues are occupied
with the same subject, which is their constant theme all day.  If anybody
happens to call, Mrs. Merrywinkle opines that they must assuredly be mad,
and her first salutation is, ‘Why, what in the name of goodness can bring
you out in such weather?  You know you _must_ catch your death.’  This
assurance is corroborated by Mrs. Chopper, who adds, in further
confirmation, a dismal legend concerning an individual of her
acquaintance who, making a call under precisely parallel circumstances,
and being then in the best health and spirits, expired in forty-eight
hours afterwards, of a complication of inflammatory disorders.  The
visitor, rendered not altogether comfortable perhaps by this and other
precedents, inquires very affectionately after Mr. Merrywinkle, but by so
doing brings about no change of the subject; for Mr. Merrywinkle’s name
is inseparably connected with his complaints, and his complaints are
inseparably connected with Mrs. Merrywinkle’s; and when these are done
with, Mrs. Chopper, who has been biding her time, cuts in with the
chronic disorder—a subject upon which the amiable old lady never leaves
off speaking until she is left alone, and very often not then.

But Mr. Merrywinkle comes home to dinner.  He is received by Mrs.
Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper, who, on his remarking that he thinks his
feet are damp, turn pale as ashes and drag him up-stairs, imploring him
to have them rubbed directly with a dry coarse towel.  Rubbed they are,
one by Mrs. Merrywinkle and one by Mrs. Chopper, until the friction
causes Mr. Merrywinkle to make horrible faces, and look as if he had been
smelling very powerful onions; when they desist, and the patient,
provided for his better security with thick worsted stockings and list
slippers, is borne down-stairs to dinner.  Now, the dinner is always a
good one, the appetites of the diners being delicate, and requiring a
little of what Mrs. Merrywinkle calls ‘tittivation;’ the secret of which
is understood to lie in good cookery and tasteful spices, and which
process is so successfully performed in the present instance, that both
Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle eat a remarkably good dinner, and even the
afflicted Mrs. Chopper wields her knife and fork with much of the spirit
and elasticity of youth.  But Mr. Merrywinkle, in his desire to gratify
his appetite, is not unmindful of his health, for he has a bottle of
carbonate of soda with which to qualify his porter, and a little pair of
scales in which to weigh it out.  Neither in his anxiety to take care of
his body is he unmindful of the welfare of his immortal part, as he
always prays that for what he is going to receive he may be made truly
thankful; and in order that he may be as thankful as possible, eats and
drinks to the utmost.

Either from eating and drinking so much, or from being the victim of this
constitutional infirmity, among others, Mr. Merrywinkle, after two or
three glasses of wine, falls fast asleep; and he has scarcely closed his
eyes, when Mrs. Merrywinkle and Mrs. Chopper fall asleep likewise.  It is
on awakening at tea-time that their most alarming symptoms prevail; for
then Mr. Merrywinkle feels as if his temples were tightly bound round
with the chain of the street-door, and Mrs. Merrywinkle as if she had
made a hearty dinner of half-hundredweights, and Mrs. Chopper as if cold
water were running down her back, and oyster-knives with sharp points
were plunging of their own accord into her ribs.  Symptoms like these are
enough to make people peevish, and no wonder that they remain so until
supper-time, doing little more than doze and complain, unless Mr.
Merrywinkle calls out very loudly to a servant ‘to keep that draught
out,’ or rushes into the passage to flourish his fist in the countenance
of the twopenny-postman, for daring to give such a knock as he had just
performed at the door of a private gentleman with nerves.

Supper, coming after dinner, should consist of some gentle provocative;
and therefore the tittivating art is again in requisition, and again—done
honour to by Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, still comforted and abetted by
Mrs. Chopper.  After supper, it is ten to one but the last-named old lady
becomes worse, and is led off to bed with the chronic complaint in full
vigour.  Mr. and Mrs. Merrywinkle, having administered to her a warm
cordial, which is something of the strongest, then repair to their own
room, where Mr. Merrywinkle, with his legs and feet in hot water,
superintends the mulling of some wine which he is to drink at the very
moment he plunges into bed, while Mrs. Merrywinkle, in garments whose
nature is unknown to and unimagined by all but married men, takes four
small pills with a spasmodic look between each, and finally comes to
something hot and fragrant out of another little saucepan, which serves
as her composing-draught for the night.

There is another kind of couple who coddle themselves, and who do so at a
cheaper rate and on more spare diet, because they are niggardly and
parsimonious; for which reason they are kind enough to coddle their
visitors too.  It is unnecessary to describe them, for our readers may
rest assured of the accuracy of these general principles:—that all
couples who coddle themselves are selfish and slothful,—that they charge
upon every wind that blows, every rain that falls, and every vapour that
hangs in the air, the evils which arise from their own imprudence or the
gloom which is engendered in their own tempers,—and that all men and
women, in couples or otherwise, who fall into exclusive habits of
self-indulgence, and forget their natural sympathy and close connexion
with everybody and everything in the world around them, not only neglect
the first duty of life, but, by a happy retributive justice, deprive
themselves of its truest and best enjoyment.



THE OLD COUPLE


They are grandfather and grandmother to a dozen grown people and have
great-grandchildren besides; their bodies are bent, their hair is grey,
their step tottering and infirm.  Is this the lightsome pair whose
wedding was so merry, and have the young couple indeed grown old so soon!

It seems but yesterday—and yet what a host of cares and griefs are
crowded into the intervening time which, reckoned by them, lengthens out
into a century!  How many new associations have wreathed themselves about
their hearts since then!  The old time is gone, and a new time has come
for others—not for them.  They are but the rusting link that feebly joins
the two, and is silently loosening its hold and dropping asunder.

It seems but yesterday—and yet three of their children have sunk into the
grave, and the tree that shades it has grown quite old.  One was an
infant—they wept for him; the next a girl, a slight young thing too
delicate for earth—her loss was hard indeed to bear.  The third, a man.
That was the worst of all, but even that grief is softened now.

It seems but yesterday—and yet how the gay and laughing faces of that
bright morning have changed and vanished from above ground!  Faint
likenesses of some remain about them yet, but they are very faint and
scarcely to be traced.  The rest are only seen in dreams, and even they
are unlike what they were, in eyes so old and dim.

One or two dresses from the bridal wardrobe are yet preserved.  They are
of a quaint and antique fashion, and seldom seen except in pictures.
White has turned yellow, and brighter hues have faded.  Do you wonder,
child?  The wrinkled face was once as smooth as yours, the eyes as
bright, the shrivelled skin as fair and delicate.  It is the work of
hands that have been dust these many years.

Where are the fairy lovers of that happy day whose annual return comes
upon the old man and his wife, like the echo of some village bell which
has long been silent?  Let yonder peevish bachelor, racked by rheumatic
pains, and quarrelling with the world, let him answer to the question.
He recollects something of a favourite playmate; her name was Lucy—so
they tell him.  He is not sure whether she was married, or went abroad,
or died.  It is a long while ago, and he don’t remember.

Is nothing as it used to be; does no one feel, or think, or act, as in
days of yore?  Yes.  There is an aged woman who once lived servant with
the old lady’s father, and is sheltered in an alms-house not far off.
She is still attached to the family, and loves them all; she nursed the
children in her lap, and tended in their sickness those who are no more.
Her old mistress has still something of youth in her eyes; the young
ladies are like what she was but not quite so handsome, nor are the
gentlemen as stately as Mr. Harvey used to be.  She has seen a great deal
of trouble; her husband and her son died long ago; but she has got over
that, and is happy now—quite happy.

If ever her attachment to her old protectors were disturbed by fresher
cares and hopes, it has long since resumed its former current.  It has
filled the void in the poor creature’s heart, and replaced the love of
kindred.  Death has not left her alone, and this, with a roof above her
head, and a warm hearth to sit by, makes her cheerful and contented.
Does she remember the marriage of great-grandmamma?  Ay, that she does,
as well—as if it was only yesterday.  You wouldn’t think it to look at
her now, and perhaps she ought not to say so of herself, but she was as
smart a young girl then as you’d wish to see.  She recollects she took a
friend of hers up-stairs to see Miss Emma dressed for church; her name
was—ah! she forgets the name, but she remembers that she was a very
pretty girl, and that she married not long afterwards, and lived—it has
quite passed out of her mind where she lived, but she knows she had a bad
husband who used her ill, and that she died in Lambeth work-house.  Dear,
dear, in Lambeth workhouse!

And the old couple—have they no comfort or enjoyment of existence?  See
them among their grandchildren and great-grandchildren; how garrulous
they are, how they compare one with another, and insist on likenesses
which no one else can see; how gently the old lady lectures the girls on
points of breeding and decorum, and points the moral by anecdotes of
herself in her young days—how the old gentleman chuckles over boyish
feats and roguish tricks, and tells long stories of a ‘barring-out’
achieved at the school he went to: which was very wrong, he tells the
boys, and never to be imitated of course, but which he cannot help
letting them know was very pleasant too—especially when he kissed the
master’s niece.  This last, however, is a point on which the old lady is
very tender, for she considers it a shocking and indelicate thing to talk
about, and always says so whenever it is mentioned, never failing to
observe that he ought to be very penitent for having been so sinful.  So
the old gentleman gets no further, and what the schoolmaster’s niece said
afterwards (which he is always going to tell) is lost to posterity.

The old gentleman is eighty years old, to-day—‘Eighty years old, Crofts,
and never had a headache,’ he tells the barber who shaves him (the barber
being a young fellow, and very subject to that complaint).  ‘That’s a
great age, Crofts,’ says the old gentleman.  ‘I don’t think it’s sich a
wery great age, Sir,’ replied the barber.  ‘Crofts,’ rejoins the old
gentleman, ‘you’re talking nonsense to me.  Eighty not a great age?’
‘It’s a wery great age, Sir, for a gentleman to be as healthy and active
as you are,’ returns the barber; ‘but my grandfather, Sir, he was
ninety-four.’  ‘You don’t mean that, Crofts?’ says the old gentleman.  ‘I
do indeed, Sir,’ retorts the barber, ‘and as wiggerous as Julius Caesar,
my grandfather was.’  The old gentleman muses a little time, and then
says, ‘What did he die of, Crofts?’  ‘He died accidentally, Sir,’ returns
the barber; ‘he didn’t mean to do it.  He always would go a running about
the streets—walking never satisfied _his_ spirit—and he run against a
post and died of a hurt in his chest.’  The old gentleman says no more
until the shaving is concluded, and then he gives Crofts half-a-crown to
drink his health.  He is a little doubtful of the barber’s veracity
afterwards, and telling the anecdote to the old lady, affects to make
very light of it—though to be sure (he adds) there was old Parr, and in
some parts of England, ninety-five or so is a common age, quite a common
age.

This morning the old couple are cheerful but serious, recalling old times
as well as they can remember them, and dwelling upon many passages in
their past lives which the day brings to mind.  The old lady reads aloud,
in a tremulous voice, out of a great Bible, and the old gentleman with
his hand to his ear, listens with profound respect.  When the book is
closed, they sit silent for a short space, and afterwards resume their
conversation, with a reference perhaps to their dead children, as a
subject not unsuited to that they have just left.  By degrees they are
led to consider which of those who survive are the most like those
dearly-remembered objects, and so they fall into a less solemn strain,
and become cheerful again.

How many people in all, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, and one or
two intimate friends of the family, dine together to-day at the eldest
son’s to congratulate the old couple, and wish them many happy returns,
is a calculation beyond our powers; but this we know, that the old couple
no sooner present themselves, very sprucely and carefully attired, than
there is a violent shouting and rushing forward of the younger branches
with all manner of presents, such as pocket-books, pencil-cases,
pen-wipers, watch-papers, pin-cushions, sleeve-buckles, worked-slippers,
watch-guards, and even a nutmeg-grater: the latter article being
presented by a very chubby and very little boy, who exhibits it in great
triumph as an extraordinary variety.  The old couple’s emotion at these
tokens of remembrance occasions quite a pathetic scene, of which the
chief ingredients are a vast quantity of kissing and hugging, and
repeated wipings of small eyes and noses with small square
pocket-handkerchiefs, which don’t come at all easily out of small
pockets.  Even the peevish bachelor is moved, and he says, as he presents
the old gentleman with a queer sort of antique ring from his own finger,
that he’ll be de’ed if he doesn’t think he looks younger than he did ten
years ago.

But the great time is after dinner, when the dessert and wine are on the
table, which is pushed back to make plenty of room, and they are all
gathered in a large circle round the fire, for it is then—the glasses
being filled, and everybody ready to drink the toast—that two
great-grandchildren rush out at a given signal, and presently return,
dragging in old Jane Adams leaning upon her crutched stick, and trembling
with age and pleasure.  Who so popular as poor old Jane, nurse and
story-teller in ordinary to two generations; and who so happy as she,
striving to bend her stiff limbs into a curtsey, while tears of pleasure
steal down her withered cheeks!

The old couple sit side by side, and the old time seems like yesterday
indeed.  Looking back upon the path they have travelled, its dust and
ashes disappear; the flowers that withered long ago, show brightly again
upon its borders, and they grow young once more in the youth of those
about them.



CONCLUSION


We have taken for the subjects of the foregoing moral essays, twelve
samples of married couples, carefully selected from a large stock on
hand, open to the inspection of all comers.  These samples are intended
for the benefit of the rising generation of both sexes, and, for their
more easy and pleasant information, have been separately ticketed and
labelled in the manner they have seen.

We have purposely excluded from consideration the couple in which the
lady reigns paramount and supreme, holding such cases to be of a very
unnatural kind, and like hideous births and other monstrous deformities,
only to be discreetly and sparingly exhibited.

And here our self-imposed task would have ended, but that to those young
ladies and gentlemen who are yet revolving singly round the church,
awaiting the advent of that time when the mysterious laws of attraction
shall draw them towards it in couples, we are desirous of addressing a
few last words.

Before marriage and afterwards, let them learn to centre all their hopes
of real and lasting happiness in their own fireside; let them cherish the
faith that in home, and all the English virtues which the love of home
engenders, lies the only true source of domestic felicity; let them
believe that round the household gods, contentment and tranquillity
cluster in their gentlest and most graceful forms; and that many weary
hunters of happiness through the noisy world, have learnt this truth too
late, and found a cheerful spirit and a quiet mind only at home at last.

How much may depend on the education of daughters and the conduct of
mothers; how much of the brightest part of our old national character may
be perpetuated by their wisdom or frittered away by their folly—how much
of it may have been lost already, and how much more in danger of
vanishing every day—are questions too weighty for discussion here, but
well deserving a little serious consideration from all young couples
nevertheless.

To that one young couple on whose bright destiny the thoughts of nations
are fixed, may the youth of England look, and not in vain, for an
example.  From that one young couple, blessed and favoured as they are,
may they learn that even the glare and glitter of a court, the splendour
of a palace, and the pomp and glory of a throne, yield in their power of
conferring happiness, to domestic worth and virtue.  From that one young
couple may they learn that the crown of a great empire, costly and
jewelled though it be, gives place in the estimation of a Queen to the
plain gold ring that links her woman’s nature to that of tens of
thousands of her humble subjects, and guards in her woman’s heart one
secret store of tenderness, whose proudest boast shall be that it knows
no Royalty save Nature’s own, and no pride of birth but being the child
of heaven!

So shall the highest young couple in the land for once hear the truth,
when men throw up their caps, and cry with loving shouts—

                               GOD BLESS THEM.




THE MUDFOG AND OTHER SKETCHES


PUBLIC LIFE OF MR. TULRUMBLE—ONCE MAYOR OF MUDFOG


Mudfog is a pleasant town—a remarkably pleasant town—situated in a
charming hollow by the side of a river, from which river, Mudfog derives
an agreeable scent of pitch, tar, coals, and rope-yarn, a roving
population in oilskin hats, a pretty steady influx of drunken bargemen,
and a great many other maritime advantages.  There is a good deal of
water about Mudfog, and yet it is not exactly the sort of town for a
watering-place, either.  Water is a perverse sort of element at the best
of times, and in Mudfog it is particularly so.  In winter, it comes
oozing down the streets and tumbling over the fields,—nay, rushes into
the very cellars and kitchens of the houses, with a lavish prodigality
that might well be dispensed with; but in the hot summer weather it
_will_ dry up, and turn green: and, although green is a very good colour
in its way, especially in grass, still it certainly is not becoming to
water; and it cannot be denied that the beauty of Mudfog is rather
impaired, even by this trifling circumstance.  Mudfog is a healthy
place—very healthy;—damp, perhaps, but none the worse for that.  It’s
quite a mistake to suppose that damp is unwholesome: plants thrive best
in damp situations, and why shouldn’t men?  The inhabitants of Mudfog are
unanimous in asserting that there exists not a finer race of people on
the face of the earth; here we have an indisputable and veracious
contradiction of the vulgar error at once.  So, admitting Mudfog to be
damp, we distinctly state that it is salubrious.

The town of Mudfog is extremely picturesque.  Limehouse and Ratcliff
Highway are both something like it, but they give you a very faint idea
of Mudfog.  There are a great many more public-houses in Mudfog—more than
in Ratcliff Highway and Limehouse put together.  The public buildings,
too, are very imposing.  We consider the town-hall one of the finest
specimens of shed architecture, extant: it is a combination of the
pig-sty and tea-garden-box orders; and the simplicity of its design is of
surpassing beauty.  The idea of placing a large window on one side of the
door, and a small one on the other, is particularly happy.  There is a
fine old Doric beauty, too, about the padlock and scraper, which is
strictly in keeping with the general effect.

In this room do the mayor and corporation of Mudfog assemble together in
solemn council for the public weal.  Seated on the massive wooden
benches, which, with the table in the centre, form the only furniture of
the whitewashed apartment, the sage men of Mudfog spend hour after hour
in grave deliberation.  Here they settle at what hour of the night the
public-houses shall be closed, at what hour of the morning they shall be
permitted to open, how soon it shall be lawful for people to eat their
dinner on church-days, and other great political questions; and
sometimes, long after silence has fallen on the town, and the distant
lights from the shops and houses have ceased to twinkle, like far-off
stars, to the sight of the boatmen on the river, the illumination in the
two unequal-sized windows of the town-hall, warns the inhabitants of
Mudfog that its little body of legislators, like a larger and
better-known body of the same genus, a great deal more noisy, and not a
whit more profound, are patriotically dozing away in company, far into
the night, for their country’s good.

Among this knot of sage and learned men, no one was so eminently
distinguished, during many years, for the quiet modesty of his appearance
and demeanour, as Nicholas Tulrumble, the well-known coal-dealer.
However exciting the subject of discussion, however animated the tone of
the debate, or however warm the personalities exchanged, (and even in
Mudfog we get personal sometimes,) Nicholas Tulrumble was always the
same.  To say truth, Nicholas, being an industrious man, and always up
betimes, was apt to fall asleep when a debate began, and to remain asleep
till it was over, when he would wake up very much refreshed, and give his
vote with the greatest complacency.  The fact was, that Nicholas
Tulrumble, knowing that everybody there had made up his mind beforehand,
considered the talking as just a long botheration about nothing at all;
and to the present hour it remains a question, whether, on this point at
all events, Nicholas Tulrumble was not pretty near right.

Time, which strews a man’s head with silver, sometimes fills his pockets
with gold.  As he gradually performed one good office for Nicholas
Tulrumble, he was obliging enough, not to omit the other.  Nicholas began
life in a wooden tenement of four feet square, with a capital of two and
ninepence, and a stock in trade of three bushels and a-half of coals,
exclusive of the large lump which hung, by way of sign-board, outside.
Then he enlarged the shed, and kept a truck; then he left the shed, and
the truck too, and started a donkey and a Mrs. Tulrumble; then he moved
again and set up a cart; the cart was soon afterwards exchanged for a
waggon; and so he went on like his great predecessor Whittington—only
without a cat for a partner—increasing in wealth and fame, until at last
he gave up business altogether, and retired with Mrs. Tulrumble and
family to Mudfog Hall, which he had himself erected, on something which
he attempted to delude himself into the belief was a hill, about a
quarter of a mile distant from the town of Mudfog.

About this time, it began to be murmured in Mudfog that Nicholas
Tulrumble was growing vain and haughty; that prosperity and success had
corrupted the simplicity of his manners, and tainted the natural goodness
of his heart; in short, that he was setting up for a public character,
and a great gentleman, and affected to look down upon his old companions
with compassion and contempt.  Whether these reports were at the time
well-founded, or not, certain it is that Mrs. Tulrumble very shortly
afterwards started a four-wheel chaise, driven by a tall postilion in a
yellow cap,—that Mr. Tulrumble junior took to smoking cigars, and calling
the footman a ‘feller,’—and that Mr. Tulrumble from that time forth, was
no more seen in his old seat in the chimney-corner of the Lighterman’s
Arms at night.  This looked bad; but, more than this, it began to be
observed that Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble attended the corporation meetings
more frequently than heretofore; and he no longer went to sleep as he had
done for so many years, but propped his eyelids open with his two
forefingers; that he read the newspapers by himself at home; and that he
was in the habit of indulging abroad in distant and mysterious allusions
to ‘masses of people,’ and ‘the property of the country,’ and ‘productive
power,’ and ‘the monied interest:’ all of which denoted and proved that
Nicholas Tulrumble was either mad, or worse; and it puzzled the good
people of Mudfog amazingly.

At length, about the middle of the month of October, Mr. Tulrumble and
family went up to London; the middle of October being, as Mrs. Tulrumble
informed her acquaintance in Mudfog, the very height of the fashionable
season.

Somehow or other, just about this time, despite the health-preserving air
of Mudfog, the Mayor died.  It was a most extraordinary circumstance; he
had lived in Mudfog for eighty-five years.  The corporation didn’t
understand it at all; indeed it was with great difficulty that one old
gentleman, who was a great stickler for forms, was dissuaded from
proposing a vote of censure on such unaccountable conduct.  Strange as it
was, however, die he did, without taking the slightest notice of the
corporation; and the corporation were imperatively called upon to elect
his successor.  So, they met for the purpose; and being very full of
Nicholas Tulrumble just then, and Nicholas Tulrumble being a very
important man, they elected him, and wrote off to London by the very next
post to acquaint Nicholas Tulrumble with his new elevation.

Now, it being November time, and Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble being in the
capital, it fell out that he was present at the Lord Mayor’s show and
dinner, at sight of the glory and splendour whereof, he, Mr. Tulrumble,
was greatly mortified, inasmuch as the reflection would force itself on
his mind, that, had he been born in London instead of in Mudfog, he might
have been a Lord Mayor too, and have patronized the judges, and been
affable to the Lord Chancellor, and friendly with the Premier, and coldly
condescending to the Secretary to the Treasury, and have dined with a
flag behind his back, and done a great many other acts and deeds which
unto Lord Mayors of London peculiarly appertain.  The more he thought of
the Lord Mayor, the more enviable a personage he seemed.  To be a King
was all very well; but what was the King to the Lord Mayor!  When the
King made a speech, everybody knew it was somebody else’s writing;
whereas here was the Lord Mayor, talking away for half an hour-all out of
his own head—amidst the enthusiastic applause of the whole company, while
it was notorious that the King might talk to his parliament till he was
black in the face without getting so much as a single cheer.  As all
these reflections passed through the mind of Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble, the
Lord Mayor of London appeared to him the greatest sovereign on the face
of the earth, beating the Emperor of Russia all to nothing, and leaving
the Great Mogul immeasurably behind.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was pondering over these things, and inwardly
cursing the fate which had pitched his coal-shed in Mudfog, when the
letter of the corporation was put into his hand.  A crimson flush mantled
over his face as he read it, for visions of brightness were already
dancing before his imagination.

‘My dear,’ said Mr. Tulrumble to his wife, ‘they have elected me, Mayor
of Mudfog.’

‘Lor-a-mussy!’ said Mrs. Tulrumble: ‘why what’s become of old Sniggs?’

‘The late Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble,’ said Mr. Tulrumble sharply, for he
by no means approved of the notion of unceremoniously designating a
gentleman who filled the high office of Mayor, as ‘Old Sniggs,’—‘The late
Mr. Sniggs, Mrs. Tulrumble, is dead.’

The communication was very unexpected; but Mrs. Tulrumble only ejaculated
‘Lor-a-mussy!’ once again, as if a Mayor were a mere ordinary Christian,
at which Mr. Tulrumble frowned gloomily.

‘What a pity ’tan’t in London, ain’t it?’ said Mrs. Tulrumble, after a
short pause; ‘what a pity ’tan’t in London, where you might have had a
show.’

‘I _might_ have a show in Mudfog, if I thought proper, I apprehend,’ said
Mr. Tulrumble mysteriously.

‘Lor! so you might, I declare,’ replied Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘And a good one too,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘Delightful!’ exclaimed Mrs. Tulrumble.

‘One which would rather astonish the ignorant people down there,’ said
Mr. Tulrumble.

‘It would kill them with envy,’ said Mrs. Tulrumble.

So it was agreed that his Majesty’s lieges in Mudfog should be astonished
with splendour, and slaughtered with envy, and that such a show should
take place as had never been seen in that town, or in any other town
before,—no, not even in London itself.

On the very next day after the receipt of the letter, down came the tall
postilion in a post-chaise,—not upon one of the horses, but
inside—actually inside the chaise,—and, driving up to the very door of
the town-hall, where the corporation were assembled, delivered a letter,
written by the Lord knows who, and signed by Nicholas Tulrumble, in which
Nicholas said, all through four sides of closely-written, gilt-edged,
hot-pressed, Bath post letter paper, that he responded to the call of his
fellow-townsmen with feelings of heartfelt delight; that he accepted the
arduous office which their confidence had imposed upon him; that they
would never find him shrinking from the discharge of his duty; that he
would endeavour to execute his functions with all that dignity which
their magnitude and importance demanded; and a great deal more to the
same effect.  But even this was not all.  The tall postilion produced
from his right-hand top-boot, a damp copy of that afternoon’s number of
the county paper; and there, in large type, running the whole length of
the very first column, was a long address from Nicholas Tulrumble to the
inhabitants of Mudfog, in which he said that he cheerfully complied with
their requisition, and, in short, as if to prevent any mistake about the
matter, told them over again what a grand fellow he meant to be, in very
much the same terms as those in which he had already told them all about
the matter in his letter.

The corporation stared at one another very hard at all this, and then
looked as if for explanation to the tall postilion, but as the tall
postilion was intently contemplating the gold tassel on the top of his
yellow cap, and could have afforded no explanation whatever, even if his
thoughts had been entirely disengaged, they contented themselves with
coughing very dubiously, and looking very grave.  The tall postilion then
delivered another letter, in which Nicholas Tulrumble informed the
corporation, that he intended repairing to the town-hall, in grand state
and gorgeous procession, on the Monday afternoon next ensuing.  At this
the corporation looked still more solemn; but, as the epistle wound up
with a formal invitation to the whole body to dine with the Mayor on that
day, at Mudfog Hall, Mudfog Hill, Mudfog, they began to see the fun of
the thing directly, and sent back their compliments, and they’d be sure
to come.

Now there happened to be in Mudfog, as somehow or other there does happen
to be, in almost every town in the British dominions, and perhaps in
foreign dominions too—we think it very likely, but, being no great
traveller, cannot distinctly say—there happened to be, in Mudfog, a
merry-tempered, pleasant-faced, good-for-nothing sort of vagabond, with
an invincible dislike to manual labour, and an unconquerable attachment
to strong beer and spirits, whom everybody knew, and nobody, except his
wife, took the trouble to quarrel with, who inherited from his ancestors
the appellation of Edward Twigger, and rejoiced in the _sobriquet_ of
Bottle-nosed Ned.  He was drunk upon the average once a day, and penitent
upon an equally fair calculation once a month; and when he was penitent,
he was invariably in the very last stage of maudlin intoxication.  He was
a ragged, roving, roaring kind of fellow, with a burly form, a sharp wit,
and a ready head, and could turn his hand to anything when he chose to do
it.  He was by no means opposed to hard labour on principle, for he would
work away at a cricket-match by the day together,—running, and catching,
and batting, and bowling, and revelling in toil which would exhaust a
galley-slave.  He would have been invaluable to a fire-office; never was
a man with such a natural taste for pumping engines, running up ladders,
and throwing furniture out of two-pair-of-stairs’ windows: nor was this
the only element in which he was at home; he was a humane society in
himself, a portable drag, an animated life-preserver, and had saved more
people, in his time, from drowning, than the Plymouth life-boat, or
Captain Manby’s apparatus.  With all these qualifications,
notwithstanding his dissipation, Bottle-nosed Ned was a general
favourite; and the authorities of Mudfog, remembering his numerous
services to the population, allowed him in return to get drunk in his own
way, without the fear of stocks, fine, or imprisonment.  He had a general
licence, and he showed his sense of the compliment by making the most of
it.

We have been thus particular in describing the character and avocations
of Bottle-nosed Ned, because it enables us to introduce a fact politely,
without hauling it into the reader’s presence with indecent haste by the
head and shoulders, and brings us very naturally to relate, that on the
very same evening on which Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble and family returned to
Mudfog, Mr. Tulrumble’s new secretary, just imported from London, with a
pale face and light whiskers, thrust his head down to the very bottom of
his neckcloth-tie, in at the tap-room door of the Lighterman’s Arms, and
inquiring whether one Ned Twigger was luxuriating within, announced
himself as the bearer of a message from Nicholas Tulrumble, Esquire,
requiring Mr. Twigger’s immediate attendance at the hall, on private and
particular business.  It being by no means Mr. Twigger’s interest to
affront the Mayor, he rose from the fireplace with a slight sigh, and
followed the light-whiskered secretary through the dirt and wet of Mudfog
streets, up to Mudfog Hall, without further ado.

Mr. Nicholas Tulrumble was seated in a small cavern with a skylight,
which he called his library, sketching out a plan of the procession on a
large sheet of paper; and into the cavern the secretary ushered Ned
Twigger.

‘Well, Twigger!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, condescendingly.

There was a time when Twigger would have replied, ‘Well, Nick!’ but that
was in the days of the truck, and a couple of years before the donkey;
so, he only bowed.

‘I want you to go into training, Twigger,’ said Mr. Tulrumble.

‘What for, sir?’ inquired Ned, with a stare.

‘Hush, hush, Twigger!’ said the Mayor.  ‘Shut the door, Mr. Jennings.
Look here, Twigger.’

As the Mayor said this, he unlocked a high closet, and disclosed a
complete suit of brass armour, of gigantic dimensions.

‘I want you to wear this next Monday, Twigger,’ said the Mayor.

‘Bless your heart and soul, sir!’ replied Ned, ‘you might as well ask me
to wear a seventy-four pounder, or a cast-iron boiler.’

‘Nonsense, Twigger, nonsense!’ said the Mayor.

‘I couldn’t stand under it, sir,’ said Twigger; ‘it would make mashed
potatoes of me, if I attempted it.’

‘Pooh, pooh, Twigger!’ returned the Mayor.  ‘I tell you I have seen it
done with my own eyes, in London, and the man wasn’t half such a man as
you are, either.’

‘I should as soon have thought of a man’s wearing the case of an
eight-day clock to save his linen,’ said Twigger, casting a look of
apprehension at the brass suit.

‘It’s the easiest thing in the world,’ rejoined the Mayor.

‘It’s nothing,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘When you’re used to it,’ added Ned.

‘You do it by degrees,’ said the Mayor.  ‘You would begin with one piece
to-morrow, and two the next day, and so on, till you had got it all on.
Mr. Jennings, give Twigger a glass of rum.  Just try the breast-plate,
Twigger.  Stay; take another glass of rum first.  Help me to lift it, Mr.
Jennings.  Stand firm, Twigger!  There!—it isn’t half as heavy as it
looks, is it?’

Twigger was a good strong, stout fellow; so, after a great deal of
staggering, he managed to keep himself up, under the breastplate, and
even contrived, with the aid of another glass of rum, to walk about in
it, and the gauntlets into the bargain.  He made a trial of the helmet,
but was not equally successful, inasmuch as he tipped over instantly,—an
accident which Mr. Tulrumble clearly demonstrated to be occasioned by his
not having a counteracting weight of brass on his legs.

‘Now, wear that with grace and propriety on Monday next,’ said Tulrumble,
‘and I’ll make your fortune.’

‘I’ll try what I can do, sir,’ said Twigger.

‘It must be kept a profound secret,’ said Tulrumble.

‘Of course, sir,’ replied Twigger.

‘And you must be sober,’ said Tulrumble; ‘perfectly sober.’  Mr. Twigger
at once solemnly pledged himself to be as sober as a judge, and Nicholas
Tulrumble was satisfied, although, had we been Nicholas, we should
certainly have exacted some promise of a more specific nature; inasmuch
as, having attended the Mudfog assizes in the evening more than once, we
can solemnly testify to having seen judges with very strong symptoms of
dinner under their wigs.  However, that’s neither here nor there.

The next day, and the day following, and the day after that, Ned Twigger
was securely locked up in the small cavern with the sky-light, hard at
work at the armour.  With every additional piece he could manage to stand
upright in, he had an additional glass of rum; and at last, after many
partial suffocations, he contrived to get on the whole suit, and to
stagger up and down the room in it, like an intoxicated effigy from
Westminster Abbey.

Never was man so delighted as Nicholas Tulrumble; never was woman so
charmed as Nicholas Tulrumble’s wife.  Here was a sight for the common
people of Mudfog!  A live man in brass armour!  Why, they would go wild
with wonder!

The day—_the_ Monday—arrived.

If the morning had been made to order, it couldn’t have been better
adapted to the purpose.  They never showed a better fog in London on Lord
Mayor’s day, than enwrapped the town of Mudfog on that eventful occasion.
It had risen slowly and surely from the green and stagnant water with the
first light of morning, until it reached a little above the lamp-post
tops; and there it had stopped, with a sleepy, sluggish obstinacy, which
bade defiance to the sun, who had got up very blood-shot about the eyes,
as if he had been at a drinking-party over-night, and was doing his day’s
work with the worst possible grace.  The thick damp mist hung over the
town like a huge gauze curtain.  All was dim and dismal.  The church
steeples had bidden a temporary adieu to the world below; and every
object of lesser importance—houses, barns, hedges, trees, and barges—had
all taken the veil.

The church-clock struck one.  A cracked trumpet from the front garden of
Mudfog Hall produced a feeble flourish, as if some asthmatic person had
coughed into it accidentally; the gate flew open, and out came a
gentleman, on a moist-sugar coloured charger, intended to represent a
herald, but bearing a much stronger resemblance to a court-card on
horseback.  This was one of the Circus people, who always came down to
Mudfog at that time of the year, and who had been engaged by Nicholas
Tulrumble expressly for the occasion.  There was the horse, whisking his
tail about, balancing himself on his hind-legs, and flourishing away with
his fore-feet, in a manner which would have gone to the hearts and souls
of any reasonable crowd.  But a Mudfog crowd never was a reasonable one,
and in all probability never will be.  Instead of scattering the very fog
with their shouts, as they ought most indubitably to have done, and were
fully intended to do, by Nicholas Tulrumble, they no sooner recognized
the herald, than they began to growl forth the most unqualified
disapprobation at the bare notion of his riding like any other man.  If
he had come out on his head indeed, or jumping through a hoop, or flying
through a red-hot drum, or even standing on one leg with his other foot
in his mouth, they might have had something to say to him; but for a
professional gentleman to sit astride in the saddle, with his feet in the
stirrups, was rather too good a joke.  So, the herald was a decided
failure, and the crowd hooted with great energy, as he pranced
ingloriously away.

On the procession came.  We are afraid to say how many supernumeraries
there were, in striped shirts and black velvet caps, to imitate the
London watermen, or how many base imitations of running-footmen, or how
many banners, which, owing to the heaviness of the atmosphere, could by
no means be prevailed on to display their inscriptions: still less do we
feel disposed to relate how the men who played the wind instruments,
looking up into the sky (we mean the fog) with musical fervour, walked
through pools of water and hillocks of mud, till they covered the
powdered heads of the running-footmen aforesaid with splashes, that
looked curious, but not ornamental; or how the barrel-organ performer put
on the wrong stop, and played one tune while the band played another; or
how the horses, being used to the arena, and not to the streets, would
stand still and dance, instead of going on and prancing;—all of which are
matters which might be dilated upon to great advantage, but which we have
not the least intention of dilating upon, notwithstanding.

Oh! it was a grand and beautiful sight to behold a corporation in glass
coaches, provided at the sole cost and charge of Nicholas Tulrumble,
coming rolling along, like a funeral out of mourning, and to watch the
attempts the corporation made to look great and solemn, when Nicholas
Tulrumble himself, in the four-wheel chaise, with the tall postilion,
rolled out after them, with Mr. Jennings on one side to look like a
chaplain, and a supernumerary on the other, with an old life-guardsman’s
sabre, to imitate the sword-bearer; and to see the tears rolling down the
faces of the mob as they screamed with merriment.  This was beautiful!
and so was the appearance of Mrs. Tulrumble and son, as they bowed with
grave dignity out of their coach-window to all the dirty faces that were
laughing around them: but it is not even with this that we have to do,
but with the sudden stopping of the procession at another blast of the
trumpet, whereat, and whereupon, a profound silence ensued, and all eyes
were turned towards Mudfog Hall, in the confident anticipation of some
new wonder.

‘They won’t laugh now, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble.

‘I think not, sir,’ said Mr. Jennings.

‘See how eager they look,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble.  ‘Aha! the laugh will
be on our side now; eh, Mr. Jennings?’

‘No doubt of that, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; and Nicholas Tulrumble, in
a state of pleasurable excitement, stood up in the four-wheel chaise, and
telegraphed gratification to the Mayoress behind.

While all this was going forward, Ned Twigger had descended into the
kitchen of Mudfog Hall for the purpose of indulging the servants with a
private view of the curiosity that was to burst upon the town; and,
somehow or other, the footman was so companionable, and the housemaid so
kind, and the cook so friendly, that he could not resist the offer of the
first-mentioned to sit down and take something—just to drink success to
master in.

So, down Ned Twigger sat himself in his brass livery on the top of the
kitchen-table; and in a mug of something strong, paid for by the
unconscious Nicholas Tulrumble, and provided by the companionable
footman, drank success to the Mayor and his procession; and, as Ned laid
by his helmet to imbibe the something strong, the companionable footman
put it on his own head, to the immeasurable and unrecordable delight of
the cook and housemaid.  The companionable footman was very facetious to
Ned, and Ned was very gallant to the cook and housemaid by turns.  They
were all very cosy and comfortable; and the something strong went briskly
round.

At last Ned Twigger was loudly called for, by the procession people: and,
having had his helmet fixed on, in a very complicated manner, by the
companionable footman, and the kind housemaid, and the friendly cook, he
walked gravely forth, and appeared before the multitude.

The crowd roared—it was not with wonder, it was not with surprise; it was
most decidedly and unquestionably with laughter.

‘What!’ said Mr. Tulrumble, starting up in the four-wheel chaise.
‘Laughing?  If they laugh at a man in real brass armour, they’d laugh
when their own fathers were dying.  Why doesn’t he go into his place, Mr.
Jennings?  What’s he rolling down towards us for? he has no business
here!’

‘I am afraid, sir—’ faltered Mr. Jennings.

‘Afraid of what, sir?’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, looking up into the
secretary’s face.

‘I am afraid he’s drunk, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings.

Nicholas Tulrumble took one look at the extraordinary figure that was
bearing down upon them; and then, clasping his secretary by the arm,
uttered an audible groan in anguish of spirit.

It is a melancholy fact that Mr. Twigger having full licence to demand a
single glass of rum on the putting on of every piece of the armour, got,
by some means or other, rather out of his calculation in the hurry and
confusion of preparation, and drank about four glasses to a piece instead
of one, not to mention the something strong which went on the top of it.
Whether the brass armour checked the natural flow of perspiration, and
thus prevented the spirit from evaporating, we are not scientific enough
to know; but, whatever the cause was, Mr. Twigger no sooner found himself
outside the gate of Mudfog Hall, than he also found himself in a very
considerable state of intoxication; and hence his extraordinary style of
progressing.  This was bad enough, but, as if fate and fortune had
conspired against Nicholas Tulrumble, Mr. Twigger, not having been
penitent for a good calendar month, took it into his head to be most
especially and particularly sentimental, just when his repentance could
have been most conveniently dispensed with.  Immense tears were rolling
down his cheeks, and he was vainly endeavouring to conceal his grief by
applying to his eyes a blue cotton pocket-handkerchief with white
spots,—an article not strictly in keeping with a suit of armour some
three hundred years old, or thereabouts.

‘Twigger, you villain!’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, quite forgetting his
dignity, ‘go back.’

‘Never,’ said Ned.  ‘I’m a miserable wretch.  I’ll never leave you.’

The by-standers of course received this declaration with acclamations of
‘That’s right, Ned; don’t!’

‘I don’t intend it,’ said Ned, with all the obstinacy of a very tipsy
man.  ‘I’m very unhappy.  I’m the wretched father of an unfortunate
family; but I am very faithful, sir.  I’ll never leave you.’  Having
reiterated this obliging promise, Ned proceeded in broken words to
harangue the crowd upon the number of years he had lived in Mudfog, the
excessive respectability of his character, and other topics of the like
nature.

‘Here! will anybody lead him away?’ said Nicholas: ‘if they’ll call on me
afterwards, I’ll reward them well.’

Two or three men stepped forward, with the view of bearing Ned off, when
the secretary interposed.

‘Take care! take care!’ said Mr. Jennings.  ‘I beg your pardon, sir; but
they’d better not go too near him, because, if he falls over, he’ll
certainly crush somebody.’

At this hint the crowd retired on all sides to a very respectful
distance, and left Ned, like the Duke of Devonshire, in a little circle
of his own.

‘But, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas Tulrumble, ‘he’ll be suffocated.’

‘I’m very sorry for it, sir,’ replied Mr. Jennings; ‘but nobody can get
that armour off, without his own assistance.  I’m quite certain of it
from the way he put it on.’

Here Ned wept dolefully, and shook his helmeted head, in a manner that
might have touched a heart of stone; but the crowd had not hearts of
stone, and they laughed heartily.

‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings,’ said Nicholas, turning pale at the possibility
of Ned’s being smothered in his antique costume—‘Dear me, Mr. Jennings,
can nothing be done with him?’

‘Nothing at all,’ replied Ned, ‘nothing at all.  Gentlemen, I’m an
unhappy wretch.  I’m a body, gentlemen, in a brass coffin.’  At this
poetical idea of his own conjuring up, Ned cried so much that the people
began to get sympathetic, and to ask what Nicholas Tulrumble meant by
putting a man into such a machine as that; and one individual in a hairy
waistcoat like the top of a trunk, who had previously expressed his
opinion that if Ned hadn’t been a poor man, Nicholas wouldn’t have dared
do it, hinted at the propriety of breaking the four-wheel chaise, or
Nicholas’s head, or both, which last compound proposition the crowd
seemed to consider a very good notion.

It was not acted upon, however, for it had hardly been broached, when Ned
Twigger’s wife made her appearance abruptly in the little circle before
noticed, and Ned no sooner caught a glimpse of her face and form, than
from the mere force of habit he set off towards his home just as fast as
his legs could carry him; and that was not very quick in the present
instance either, for, however ready they might have been to carry _him_,
they couldn’t get on very well under the brass armour.  So, Mrs. Twigger
had plenty of time to denounce Nicholas Tulrumble to his face: to express
her opinion that he was a decided monster; and to intimate that, if her
ill-used husband sustained any personal damage from the brass armour, she
would have the law of Nicholas Tulrumble for manslaughter.  When she had
said all this with due vehemence, she posted after Ned, who was dragging
himself along as best he could, and deploring his unhappiness in most
dismal tones.

What a wailing and screaming Ned’s children raised when he got home at
last!  Mrs. Twigger tried to undo the armour, first in one place, and
then in another, but she couldn’t manage it; so she tumbled Ned into bed,
helmet, armour, gauntlets, and all.  Such a creaking as the bedstead
made, under Ned’s weight in his new suit!  It didn’t break down though;
and there Ned lay, like the anonymous vessel in the Bay of Biscay, till
next day, drinking barley-water, and looking miserable: and every time he
groaned, his good lady said it served him right, which was all the
consolation Ned Twigger got.

Nicholas Tulrumble and the gorgeous procession went on together to the
town-hall, amid the hisses and groans of all the spectators, who had
suddenly taken it into their heads to consider poor Ned a martyr.
Nicholas was formally installed in his new office, in acknowledgment of
which ceremony he delivered himself of a speech, composed by the
secretary, which was very long, and no doubt very good, only the noise of
the people outside prevented anybody from hearing it, but Nicholas
Tulrumble himself.  After which, the procession got back to Mudfog Hall
any how it could; and Nicholas and the corporation sat down to dinner.

But the dinner was flat, and Nicholas was disappointed.  They were such
dull sleepy old fellows, that corporation.  Nicholas made quite as long
speeches as the Lord Mayor of London had done, nay, he said the very same
things that the Lord Mayor of London had said, and the deuce a cheer the
corporation gave him.  There was only one man in the party who was
thoroughly awake; and he was insolent, and called him Nick.  Nick!  What
would be the consequence, thought Nicholas, of anybody presuming to call
the Lord Mayor of London ‘Nick!’  He should like to know what the
sword-bearer would say to that; or the recorder, or the toast-master, or
any other of the great officers of the city.  They’d nick him.

But these were not the worst of Nicholas Tulrumble’s doings.  If they had
been, he might have remained a Mayor to this day, and have talked till he
lost his voice.  He contracted a relish for statistics, and got
philosophical; and the statistics and the philosophy together, led him
into an act which increased his unpopularity and hastened his downfall.

At the very end of the Mudfog High-street, and abutting on the
river-side, stands the Jolly Boatmen, an old-fashioned low-roofed,
bay-windowed house, with a bar, kitchen, and tap-room all in one, and a
large fireplace with a kettle to correspond, round which the working men
have congregated time out of mind on a winter’s night, refreshed by
draughts of good strong beer, and cheered by the sounds of a fiddle and
tambourine: the Jolly Boatmen having been duly licensed by the Mayor and
corporation, to scrape the fiddle and thumb the tambourine from time,
whereof the memory of the oldest inhabitants goeth not to the contrary.
Now Nicholas Tulrumble had been reading pamphlets on crime, and
parliamentary reports,—or had made the secretary read them to him, which
is the same thing in effect,—and he at once perceived that this fiddle
and tambourine must have done more to demoralize Mudfog, than any other
operating causes that ingenuity could imagine.  So he read up for the
subject, and determined to come out on the corporation with a burst, the
very next time the licence was applied for.

The licensing day came, and the red-faced landlord of the Jolly Boatmen
walked into the town-hall, looking as jolly as need be, having actually
put on an extra fiddle for that night, to commemorate the anniversary of
the Jolly Boatmen’s music licence.  It was applied for in due form, and
was just about to be granted as a matter of course, when up rose Nicholas
Tulrumble, and drowned the astonished corporation in a torrent of
eloquence.  He descanted in glowing terms upon the increasing depravity
of his native town of Mudfog, and the excesses committed by its
population.  Then, he related how shocked he had been, to see barrels of
beer sliding down into the cellar of the Jolly Boatmen week after week;
and how he had sat at a window opposite the Jolly Boatmen for two days
together, to count the people who went in for beer between the hours of
twelve and one o’clock alone—which, by-the-bye, was the time at which the
great majority of the Mudfog people dined.  Then, he went on to state,
how the number of people who came out with beer-jugs, averaged twenty-one
in five minutes, which, being multiplied by twelve, gave two hundred and
fifty-two people with beer-jugs in an hour, and multiplied again by
fifteen (the number of hours during which the house was open daily)
yielded three thousand seven hundred and eighty people with beer-jugs per
day, or twenty-six thousand four hundred and sixty people with beer-jugs,
per week.  Then he proceeded to show that a tambourine and moral
degradation were synonymous terms, and a fiddle and vicious propensities
wholly inseparable.  All these arguments he strengthened and demonstrated
by frequent references to a large book with a blue cover, and sundry
quotations from the Middlesex magistrates; and in the end, the
corporation, who were posed with the figures, and sleepy with the speech,
and sadly in want of dinner into the bargain, yielded the palm to
Nicholas Tulrumble, and refused the music licence to the Jolly Boatmen.

But although Nicholas triumphed, his triumph was short.  He carried on
the war against beer-jugs and fiddles, forgetting the time when he was
glad to drink out of the one, and to dance to the other, till the people
hated, and his old friends shunned him.  He grew tired of the lonely
magnificence of Mudfog Hall, and his heart yearned towards the
Lighterman’s Arms.  He wished he had never set up as a public man, and
sighed for the good old times of the coal-shop, and the chimney corner.

At length old Nicholas, being thoroughly miserable, took heart of grace,
paid the secretary a quarter’s wages in advance, and packed him off to
London by the next coach.  Having taken this step, he put his hat on his
head, and his pride in his pocket, and walked down to the old room at the
Lighterman’s Arms.  There were only two of the old fellows there, and
they looked coldly on Nicholas as he proffered his hand.

‘Are you going to put down pipes, Mr. Tulrumble?’ said one.

‘Or trace the progress of crime to ‘bacca?’ growled another.

‘Neither,’ replied Nicholas Tulrumble, shaking hands with them both,
whether they would or not.  ‘I’ve come down to say that I’m very sorry
for having made a fool of myself, and that I hope you’ll give me up the
old chair, again.’

The old fellows opened their eyes, and three or four more old fellows
opened the door, to whom Nicholas, with tears in his eyes, thrust out his
hand too, and told the same story.  They raised a shout of joy, that made
the bells in the ancient church-tower vibrate again, and wheeling the old
chair into the warm corner, thrust old Nicholas down into it, and ordered
in the very largest-sized bowl of hot punch, with an unlimited number of
pipes, directly.

The next day, the Jolly Boatmen got the licence, and the next night, old
Nicholas and Ned Twigger’s wife led off a dance to the music of the
fiddle and tambourine, the tone of which seemed mightily improved by a
little rest, for they never had played so merrily before.  Ned Twigger
was in the very height of his glory, and he danced hornpipes, and
balanced chairs on his chin, and straws on his nose, till the whole
company, including the corporation, were in raptures of admiration at the
brilliancy of his acquirements.

Mr. Tulrumble, junior, couldn’t make up his mind to be anything but
magnificent, so he went up to London and drew bills on his father; and
when he had overdrawn, and got into debt, he grew penitent, and came home
again.

As to old Nicholas, he kept his word, and having had six weeks of public
life, never tried it any more.  He went to sleep in the town-hall at the
very next meeting; and, in full proof of his sincerity, has requested us
to write this faithful narrative.  We wish it could have the effect of
reminding the Tulrumbles of another sphere, that puffed-up conceit is not
dignity, and that snarling at the little pleasures they were once glad to
enjoy, because they would rather forget the times when they were of lower
station, renders them objects of contempt and ridicule.

This is the first time we have published any of our gleanings from this
particular source.  Perhaps, at some future period, we may venture to
open the chronicles of Mudfog.



FULL REPORT OF THE FIRST MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION
FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF EVERYTHING


We have made the most unparalleled and extraordinary exertions to place
before our readers a complete and accurate account of the proceedings at
the late grand meeting of the Mudfog Association, holden in the town of
Mudfog; it affords us great happiness to lay the result before them, in
the shape of various communications received from our able, talented, and
graphic correspondent, expressly sent down for the purpose, who has
immortalized us, himself, Mudfog, and the association, all at one and the
same time.  We have been, indeed, for some days unable to determine who
will transmit the greatest name to posterity; ourselves, who sent our
correspondent down; our correspondent, who wrote an account of the
matter; or the association, who gave our correspondent something to write
about.  We rather incline to the opinion that we are the greatest man of
the party, inasmuch as the notion of an exclusive and authentic report
originated with us; this may be prejudice: it may arise from a
prepossession on our part in our own favour.  Be it so.  We have no doubt
that every gentleman concerned in this mighty assemblage is troubled with
the same complaint in a greater or less degree; and it is a consolation
to us to know that we have at least this feeling in common with the great
scientific stars, the brilliant and extraordinary luminaries, whose
speculations we record.

We give our correspondent’s letters in the order in which they reached
us.  Any attempt at amalgamating them into one beautiful whole, would
only destroy that glowing tone, that dash of wildness, and rich vein of
picturesque interest, which pervade them throughout.

                               ‘_Mudfog_, _Monday night_, _seven o’clock_.

‘We are in a state of great excitement here.  Nothing is spoken of, but
the approaching meeting of the association.  The inn-doors are thronged
with waiters anxiously looking for the expected arrivals; and the
numerous bills which are wafered up in the windows of private houses,
intimating that there are beds to let within, give the streets a very
animated and cheerful appearance, the wafers being of a great variety of
colours, and the monotony of printed inscriptions being relieved by every
possible size and style of hand-writing.  It is confidently rumoured that
Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy have engaged three beds and a
sitting-room at the Pig and Tinder-box.  I give you the rumour as it has
reached me; but I cannot, as yet, vouch for its accuracy.  The moment I
have been enabled to obtain any certain information upon this interesting
point, you may depend upon receiving it.’

                                                       ‘_Half-past seven_.

I have just returned from a personal interview with the landlord of the
Pig and Tinder-box.  He speaks confidently of the probability of
Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy taking up their residence at his house
during the sitting of the association, but denies that the beds have been
yet engaged; in which representation he is confirmed by the chambermaid—a
girl of artless manners, and interesting appearance.  The boots denies
that it is at all likely that Professors Snore, Doze, and Wheezy will put
up here; but I have reason to believe that this man has been suborned by
the proprietor of the Original Pig, which is the opposition hotel.
Amidst such conflicting testimony it is difficult to arrive at the real
truth; but you may depend upon receiving authentic information upon this
point the moment the fact is ascertained.  The excitement still
continues.  A boy fell through the window of the pastrycook’s shop at the
corner of the High-street about half an hour ago, which has occasioned
much confusion.  The general impression is, that it was an accident.
Pray heaven it may prove so!’

                                                       ‘_Tuesday_, _noon_.

‘At an early hour this morning the bells of all the churches struck seven
o’clock; the effect of which, in the present lively state of the town,
was extremely singular.  While I was at breakfast, a yellow gig, drawn by
a dark grey horse, with a patch of white over his right eyelid, proceeded
at a rapid pace in the direction of the Original Pig stables; it is
currently reported that this gentleman has arrived here for the purpose
of attending the association, and, from what I have heard, I consider it
extremely probable, although nothing decisive is yet known regarding him.
You may conceive the anxiety with which we are all looking forward to the
arrival of the four o’clock coach this afternoon.

‘Notwithstanding the excited state of the populace, no outrage has yet
been committed, owing to the admirable discipline and discretion of the
police, who are nowhere to be seen.  A barrel-organ is playing opposite
my window, and groups of people, offering fish and vegetables for sale,
parade the streets.  With these exceptions everything is quiet, and I
trust will continue so.’

                                                          ‘_Five o’clock_.

‘It is now ascertained, beyond all doubt, that Professors Snore, Doze,
and Wheezy will _not_ repair to the Pig and Tinder-box, but have actually
engaged apartments at the Original Pig.  This intelligence is
_exclusive_; and I leave you and your readers to draw their own
inferences from it.  Why Professor Wheezy, of all people in the world,
should repair to the Original Pig in preference to the Pig and
Tinder-box, it is not easy to conceive.  The professor is a man who
should be above all such petty feelings.  Some people here openly impute
treachery, and a distinct breach of faith to Professors Snore and Doze;
while others, again, are disposed to acquit them of any culpability in
the transaction, and to insinuate that the blame rests solely with
Professor Wheezy.  I own that I incline to the latter opinion; and
although it gives me great pain to speak in terms of censure or
disapprobation of a man of such transcendent genius and acquirements,
still I am bound to say that, if my suspicions be well founded, and if
all the reports which have reached my ears be true, I really do not well
know what to make of the matter.

‘Mr. Slug, so celebrated for his statistical researches, arrived this
afternoon by the four o’clock stage.  His complexion is a dark purple,
and he has a habit of sighing constantly.  He looked extremely well, and
appeared in high health and spirits.  Mr. Woodensconce also came down in
the same conveyance.  The distinguished gentleman was fast asleep on his
arrival, and I am informed by the guard that he had been so the whole
way.  He was, no doubt, preparing for his approaching fatigues; but what
gigantic visions must those be that flit through the brain of such a man
when his body is in a state of torpidity!

‘The influx of visitors increases every moment.  I am told (I know not
how truly) that two post-chaises have arrived at the Original Pig within
the last half-hour, and I myself observed a wheelbarrow, containing three
carpet bags and a bundle, entering the yard of the Pig and Tinder-box no
longer ago than five minutes since.  The people are still quietly
pursuing their ordinary occupations; but there is a wildness in their
eyes, and an unwonted rigidity in the muscles of their countenances,
which shows to the observant spectator that their expectations are
strained to the very utmost pitch.  I fear, unless some very
extraordinary arrivals take place to-night, that consequences may arise
from this popular ferment, which every man of sense and feeling would
deplore.’

                                               ‘_Twenty minutes past six_.

‘I have just heard that the boy who fell through the pastrycook’s window
last night has died of the fright.  He was suddenly called upon to pay
three and sixpence for the damage done, and his constitution, it seems,
was not strong enough to bear up against the shock.  The inquest, it is
said, will be held to-morrow.’

                                             ‘_Three-quarters part seven_.

‘Professors Muff and Nogo have just driven up to the hotel door; they at
once ordered dinner with great condescension.  We are all very much
delighted with the urbanity of their manners, and the ease with which
they adapt themselves to the forms and ceremonies of ordinary life.
Immediately on their arrival they sent for the head waiter, and privately
requested him to purchase a live dog,—as cheap a one as he could meet
with,—and to send him up after dinner, with a pie-board, a knife and
fork, and a clean plate.  It is conjectured that some experiments will be
tried upon the dog to-night; if any particulars should transpire, I will
forward them by express.’

                                                       ‘_Half-past eight_.

‘The animal has been procured.  He is a pug-dog, of rather intelligent
appearance, in good condition, and with very short legs.  He has been
tied to a curtain-peg in a dark room, and is howling dreadfully.’

                                                   ‘_Ten minutes to nine_.

‘The dog has just been rung for.  With an instinct which would appear
almost the result of reason, the sagacious animal seized the waiter by
the calf of the leg when he approached to take him, and made a desperate,
though ineffectual resistance.  I have not been able to procure admission
to the apartment occupied by the scientific gentlemen; but, judging from
the sounds which reached my ears when I stood upon the landing-place
outside the door, just now, I should be disposed to say that the dog had
retreated growling beneath some article of furniture, and was keeping the
professors at bay.  This conjecture is confirmed by the testimony of the
ostler, who, after peeping through the keyhole, assures me that he
distinctly saw Professor Nogo on his knees, holding forth a small bottle
of prussic acid, to which the animal, who was crouched beneath an
arm-chair, obstinately declined to smell.  You cannot imagine the
feverish state of irritation we are in, lest the interests of science
should be sacrificed to the prejudices of a brute creature, who is not
endowed with sufficient sense to foresee the incalculable benefits which
the whole human race may derive from so very slight a concession on his
part.’

                                                          ‘_Nine o’clock_.

‘The dog’s tail and ears have been sent down-stairs to be washed; from
which circumstance we infer that the animal is no more.  His forelegs
have been delivered to the boots to be brushed, which strengthens the
supposition.’

                                                        ‘_Half after ten_.

‘My feelings are so overpowered by what has taken place in the course of
the last hour and a half, that I have scarcely strength to detail the
rapid succession of events which have quite bewildered all those who are
cognizant of their occurrence.  It appears that the pug-dog mentioned in
my last was surreptitiously obtained,—stolen, in fact,—by some person
attached to the stable department, from an unmarried lady resident in
this town.  Frantic on discovering the loss of her favourite, the lady
rushed distractedly into the street, calling in the most heart-rending
and pathetic manner upon the passengers to restore her, her Augustus,—for
so the deceased was named, in affectionate remembrance of a former lover
of his mistress, to whom he bore a striking personal resemblance, which
renders the circumstances additionally affecting.  I am not yet in a
condition to inform you what circumstance induced the bereaved lady to
direct her steps to the hotel which had witnessed the last struggles of
her _protégé_.  I can only state that she arrived there, at the very
instant when his detached members were passing through the passage on a
small tray.  Her shrieks still reverberate in my ears!  I grieve to say
that the expressive features of Professor Muff were much scratched and
lacerated by the injured lady; and that Professor Nogo, besides
sustaining several severe bites, has lost some handfuls of hair from the
same cause.  It must be some consolation to these gentlemen to know that
their ardent attachment to scientific pursuits has alone occasioned these
unpleasant consequences; for which the sympathy of a grateful country
will sufficiently reward them.  The unfortunate lady remains at the Pig
and Tinder-box, and up to this time is reported in a very precarious
state.

‘I need scarcely tell you that this unlooked-for catastrophe has cast a
damp and gloom upon us in the midst of our exhilaration; natural in any
case, but greatly enhanced in this, by the amiable qualities of the
deceased animal, who appears to have been much and deservedly respected
by the whole of his acquaintance.’

                                                        ‘_Twelve o’clock_.

‘I take the last opportunity before sealing my parcel to inform you that
the boy who fell through the pastrycook’s window is not dead, as was
universally believed, but alive and well.  The report appears to have had
its origin in his mysterious disappearance.  He was found half an hour
since on the premises of a sweet-stuff maker, where a raffle had been
announced for a second-hand seal-skin cap and a tambourine; and where—a
sufficient number of members not having been obtained at first—he had
patiently waited until the list was completed.  This fortunate discovery
has in some degree restored our gaiety and cheerfulness.  It is proposed
to get up a subscription for him without delay.

‘Everybody is nervously anxious to see what to-morrow will bring forth.
If any one should arrive in the course of the night, I have left strict
directions to be called immediately.  I should have sat up, indeed, but
the agitating events of this day have been too much for me.

‘No news yet of either of the Professors Snore, Doze, or Wheezy.  It is
very strange!’

                                                   ‘_Wednesday afternoon_.

‘All is now over; and, upon one point at least, I am at length enabled to
set the minds of your readers at rest.  The three professors arrived at
ten minutes after two o’clock, and, instead of taking up their quarters
at the Original Pig, as it was universally understood in the course of
yesterday that they would assuredly have done, drove straight to the Pig
and Tinder-box, where they threw off the mask at once, and openly
announced their intention of remaining.  Professor Wheezy may reconcile
this very extraordinary conduct with _his_ notions of fair and equitable
dealing, but I would recommend Professor Wheezy to be cautious how he
presumes too far upon his well-earned reputation.  How such a man as
Professor Snore, or, which is still more extraordinary, such an
individual as Professor Doze, can quietly allow himself to be mixed up
with such proceedings as these, you will naturally inquire.  Upon this
head, rumour is silent; I have my speculations, but forbear to give
utterance to them just now.’

                                                          ‘_Four o’clock_.

‘The town is filling fast; eighteenpence has been offered for a bed and
refused.  Several gentlemen were under the necessity last night of
sleeping in the brick fields, and on the steps of doors, for which they
were taken before the magistrates in a body this morning, and committed
to prison as vagrants for various terms.  One of these persons I
understand to be a highly-respectable tinker, of great practical skill,
who had forwarded a paper to the President of Section D. Mechanical
Science, on the construction of pipkins with copper bottoms and
safety-values, of which report speaks highly.  The incarceration of this
gentleman is greatly to be regretted, as his absence will preclude any
discussion on the subject.

‘The bills are being taken down in all directions, and lodgings are being
secured on almost any terms.  I have heard of fifteen shillings a week
for two rooms, exclusive of coals and attendance, but I can scarcely
believe it.  The excitement is dreadful.  I was informed this morning
that the civil authorities, apprehensive of some outbreak of popular
feeling, had commanded a recruiting sergeant and two corporals to be
under arms; and that, with the view of not irritating the people
unnecessarily by their presence, they had been requested to take up their
position before daybreak in a turnpike, distant about a quarter of a mile
from the town.  The vigour and promptness of these measures cannot be too
highly extolled.

‘Intelligence has just been brought me, that an elderly female, in a
state of inebriety, has declared in the open street her intention to “do”
for Mr. Slug.  Some statistical returns compiled by that gentleman,
relative to the consumption of raw spirituous liquors in this place, are
supposed to be the cause of the wretch’s animosity.  It is added that
this declaration was loudly cheered by a crowd of persons who had
assembled on the spot; and that one man had the boldness to designate Mr.
Slug aloud by the opprobrious epithet of “Stick-in-the-mud!”  It is
earnestly to be hoped that now, when the moment has arrived for their
interference, the magistrates will not shrink from the exercise of that
power which is vested in them by the constitution of our common country.’

                                                         ‘_Half-past ten_.

‘The disturbance, I am happy to inform you, has been completely quelled,
and the ringleader taken into custody.  She had a pail of cold water
thrown over her, previous to being locked up, and expresses great
contrition and uneasiness.  We are all in a fever of anticipation about
to-morrow; but, now that we are within a few hours of the meeting of the
association, and at last enjoy the proud consciousness of having its
illustrious members amongst us, I trust and hope everything may go off
peaceably.  I shall send you a full report of to-morrow’s proceedings by
the night coach.’

                                                        ‘_Eleven o’clock_.

‘I open my letter to say that nothing whatever has occurred since I
folded it up.’

                                                              ‘_Thursday_.

‘The sun rose this morning at the usual hour.  I did not observe anything
particular in the aspect of the glorious planet, except that he appeared
to me (it might have been a delusion of my heightened fancy) to shine
with more than common brilliancy, and to shed a refulgent lustre upon the
town, such as I had never observed before.  This is the more
extraordinary, as the sky was perfectly cloudless, and the atmosphere
peculiarly fine.  At half-past nine o’clock the general committee
assembled, with the last year’s president in the chair.  The report of
the council was read; and one passage, which stated that the council had
corresponded with no less than three thousand five hundred and
seventy-one persons, (all of whom paid their own postage,) on no fewer
than seven thousand two hundred and forty-three topics, was received with
a degree of enthusiasm which no efforts could suppress.  The various
committees and sections having been appointed, and the more formal
business transacted, the great proceedings of the meeting commenced at
eleven o’clock precisely.  I had the happiness of occupying a most
eligible position at that time, in


‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY.
GREAT ROOM, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.


_President_—Professor Snore.  _Vice-Presidents_—Professors Doze and
Wheezy.

‘The scene at this moment was particularly striking.  The sun streamed
through the windows of the apartments, and tinted the whole scene with
its brilliant rays, bringing out in strong relief the noble visages of
the professors and scientific gentlemen, who, some with bald heads, some
with red heads, some with brown heads, some with grey heads, some with
black heads, some with block heads, presented a _coup d’oeil_ which no
eye-witness will readily forget.  In front of these gentlemen were papers
and inkstands; and round the room, on elevated benches extending as far
as the forms could reach, were assembled a brilliant concourse of those
lovely and elegant women for which Mudfog is justly acknowledged to be
without a rival in the whole world.  The contrast between their fair
faces and the dark coats and trousers of the scientific gentlemen I shall
never cease to remember while Memory holds her seat.

‘Time having been allowed for a slight confusion, occasioned by the
falling down of the greater part of the platforms, to subside, the
president called on one of the secretaries to read a communication
entitled, “Some remarks on the industrious fleas, with considerations on
the importance of establishing infant-schools among that numerous class
of society; of directing their industry to useful and practical ends; and
of applying the surplus fruits thereof, towards providing for them a
comfortable and respectable maintenance in their old age.”

‘The author stated, that, having long turned his attention to the moral
and social condition of these interesting animals, he had been induced to
visit an exhibition in Regent-street, London, commonly known by the
designation of “The Industrious Fleas.”  He had there seen many fleas,
occupied certainly in various pursuits and avocations, but occupied, he
was bound to add, in a manner which no man of well-regulated mind could
fail to regard with sorrow and regret.  One flea, reduced to the level of
a beast of burden, was drawing about a miniature gig, containing a
particularly small effigy of His Grace the Duke of Wellington; while
another was staggering beneath the weight of a golden model of his great
adversary Napoleon Bonaparte.  Some, brought up as mountebanks and
ballet-dancers, were performing a figure-dance (he regretted to observe,
that, of the fleas so employed, several were females); others were in
training, in a small card-board box, for pedestrians,—mere sporting
characters—and two were actually engaged in the cold-blooded and
barbarous occupation of duelling; a pursuit from which humanity recoiled
with horror and disgust.  He suggested that measures should be
immediately taken to employ the labour of these fleas as part and parcel
of the productive power of the country, which might easily be done by the
establishment among them of infant schools and houses of industry, in
which a system of virtuous education, based upon sound principles, should
be observed, and moral precepts strictly inculcated.  He proposed that
every flea who presumed to exhibit, for hire, music, or dancing, or any
species of theatrical entertainment, without a licence, should be
considered a vagabond, and treated accordingly; in which respect he only
placed him upon a level with the rest of mankind.  He would further
suggest that their labour should be placed under the control and
regulation of the state, who should set apart from the profits, a fund
for the support of superannuated or disabled fleas, their widows and
orphans.  With this view, he proposed that liberal premiums should be
offered for the three best designs for a general almshouse; from which—as
insect architecture was well known to be in a very advanced and perfect
state—we might possibly derive many valuable hints for the improvement of
our metropolitan universities, national galleries, and other public
edifices.

‘THE PRESIDENT wished to be informed how the ingenious gentleman proposed
to open a communication with fleas generally, in the first instance, so
that they might be thoroughly imbued with a sense of the advantages they
must necessarily derive from changing their mode of life, and applying
themselves to honest labour.  This appeared to him, the only difficulty.

‘THE AUTHOR submitted that this difficulty was easily overcome, or rather
that there was no difficulty at all in the case.  Obviously the course to
be pursued, if Her Majesty’s government could be prevailed upon to take
up the plan, would be, to secure at a remunerative salary the individual
to whom he had alluded as presiding over the exhibition in Regent-street
at the period of his visit.  That gentleman would at once be able to put
himself in communication with the mass of the fleas, and to instruct them
in pursuance of some general plan of education, to be sanctioned by
Parliament, until such time as the more intelligent among them were
advanced enough to officiate as teachers to the rest.

‘The President and several members of the section highly complimented the
author of the paper last read, on his most ingenious and important
treatise.  It was determined that the subject should be recommended to
the immediate consideration of the council.

‘MR. WIGSBY produced a cauliflower somewhat larger than a
chaise-umbrella, which had been raised by no other artificial means than
the simple application of highly carbonated soda-water as manure.  He
explained that by scooping out the head, which would afford a new and
delicious species of nourishment for the poor, a parachute, in principle
something similar to that constructed by M. Garnerin, was at once
obtained; the stalk of course being kept downwards.  He added that he was
perfectly willing to make a descent from a height of not less than three
miles and a quarter; and had in fact already proposed the same to the
proprietors of Vauxhall Gardens, who in the handsomest manner at once
consented to his wishes, and appointed an early day next summer for the
undertaking; merely stipulating that the rim of the cauliflower should be
previously broken in three or four places to ensure the safety of the
descent.

‘THE PRESIDENT congratulated the public on the _grand gala_ in store for
them, and warmly eulogised the proprietors of the establishment alluded
to, for their love of science, and regard for the safety of human life,
both of which did them the highest honour.

‘A Member wished to know how many thousand additional lamps the royal
property would be illuminated with, on the night after the descent.

‘MR. WIGSBY replied that the point was not yet finally decided; but he
believed it was proposed, over and above the ordinary illuminations, to
exhibit in various devices eight millions and a-half of additional lamps.

‘The Member expressed himself much gratified with this announcement.

‘MR. BLUNDERUM delighted the section with a most interesting and valuable
paper “on the last moments of the learned pig,” which produced a very
strong impression on the assembly, the account being compiled from the
personal recollections of his favourite attendant.  The account stated in
the most emphatic terms that the animal’s name was not Toby, but Solomon;
and distinctly proved that he could have no near relatives in the
profession, as many designing persons had falsely stated, inasmuch as his
father, mother, brothers and sisters, had all fallen victims to the
butcher at different times.  An uncle of his indeed, had with very great
labour been traced to a sty in Somers Town; but as he was in a very
infirm state at the time, being afflicted with measles, and shortly
afterwards disappeared, there appeared too much reason to conjecture that
he had been converted into sausages.  The disorder of the learned pig was
originally a severe cold, which, being aggravated by excessive trough
indulgence, finally settled upon the lungs, and terminated in a general
decay of the constitution.  A melancholy instance of a presentiment
entertained by the animal of his approaching dissolution, was recorded.
After gratifying a numerous and fashionable company with his
performances, in which no falling off whatever was visible, he fixed his
eyes on the biographer, and, turning to the watch which lay on the floor,
and on which he was accustomed to point out the hour, deliberately passed
his snout twice round the dial.  In precisely four-and-twenty hours from
that time he had ceased to exist!

‘PROFESSOR WHEEZY inquired whether, previous to his demise, the animal
had expressed, by signs or otherwise, any wishes regarding the disposal
of his little property.

‘MR. BLUNDERUM replied, that, when the biographer took up the pack of
cards at the conclusion of the performance, the animal grunted several
times in a significant manner, and nodding his head as he was accustomed
to do, when gratified.  From these gestures it was understood that he
wished the attendant to keep the cards, which he had ever since done.  He
had not expressed any wish relative to his watch, which had accordingly
been pawned by the same individual.

‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know whether any Member of the section had ever
seen or conversed with the pig-faced lady, who was reported to have worn
a black velvet mask, and to have taken her meals from a golden trough.

‘After some hesitation a Member replied that the pig-faced lady was his
mother-in-law, and that he trusted the President would not violate the
sanctity of private life.

‘THE PRESIDENT begged pardon.  He had considered the pig-faced lady a
public character.  Would the honourable member object to state, with a
view to the advancement of science, whether she was in any way connected
with the learned pig?

‘The Member replied in the same low tone, that, as the question appeared
to involve a suspicion that the learned pig might be his half-brother, he
must decline answering it.


‘SECTION B.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.
COACH-HOUSE, PIG AND TINDER-BOX.


_President_—Dr. Toorell.  _Vice-Presidents_—Professors Muff and Nogo.

DR. KUTANKUMAGEN (of Moscow) read to the section a report of a case which
had occurred within his own practice, strikingly illustrative of the
power of medicine, as exemplified in his successful treatment of a
virulent disorder.  He had been called in to visit the patient on the 1st
of April, 1837.  He was then labouring under symptoms peculiarly alarming
to any medical man.  His frame was stout and muscular, his step firm and
elastic, his cheeks plump and red, his voice loud, his appetite good, his
pulse full and round.  He was in the constant habit of eating three meals
_per diem_, and of drinking at least one bottle of wine, and one glass of
spirituous liquors diluted with water, in the course of the
four-and-twenty hours.  He laughed constantly, and in so hearty a manner
that it was terrible to hear him.  By dint of powerful medicine, low
diet, and bleeding, the symptoms in the course of three days perceptibly
decreased.  A rigid perseverance in the same course of treatment for only
one week, accompanied with small doses of water-gruel, weak broth, and
barley-water, led to their entire disappearance.  In the course of a
month he was sufficiently recovered to be carried down-stairs by two
nurses, and to enjoy an airing in a close carriage, supported by soft
pillows.  At the present moment he was restored so far as to walk about,
with the slight assistance of a crutch and a boy.  It would perhaps be
gratifying to the section to learn that he ate little, drank little,
slept little, and was never heard to laugh by any accident whatever.

‘DR. W. R. FEE, in complimenting the honourable member upon the
triumphant cure he had effected, begged to ask whether the patient still
bled freely?

‘DR. KUTANKUMAGEN replied in the affirmative.

‘DR. W. R. FEE.—And you found that he bled freely during the whole course
of the disorder?

‘DR. KUTANKUMAGEN.—Oh dear, yes; most freely.

‘DR. NEESHAWTS supposed, that if the patient had not submitted to be bled
with great readiness and perseverance, so extraordinary a cure could
never, in fact, have been accomplished.  Dr. Kutankumagen rejoined,
certainly not.

‘MR. KNIGHT BELL (M.R.C.S.) exhibited a wax preparation of the interior
of a gentleman who in early life had inadvertently swallowed a door-key.
It was a curious fact that a medical student of dissipated habits, being
present at the _post mortem_ examination, found means to escape
unobserved from the room, with that portion of the coats of the stomach
upon which an exact model of the instrument was distinctly impressed,
with which he hastened to a locksmith of doubtful character, who made a
new key from the pattern so shown to him.  With this key the medical
student entered the house of the deceased gentleman, and committed a
burglary to a large amount, for which he was subsequently tried and
executed.

‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know what became of the original key after the
lapse of years.  Mr. Knight Bell replied that the gentleman was always
much accustomed to punch, and it was supposed the acid had gradually
devoured it.

‘DR. NEESHAWTS and several of the members were of opinion that the key
must have lain very cold and heavy upon the gentleman’s stomach.

‘MR. KNIGHT BELL believed it did at first.  It was worthy of remark,
perhaps, that for some years the gentleman was troubled with a
night-mare, under the influence of which he always imagined himself a
wine-cellar door.

‘PROFESSOR MUFF related a very extraordinary and convincing proof of the
wonderful efficacy of the system of infinitesimal doses, which the
section were doubtless aware was based upon the theory that the very
minutest amount of any given drug, properly dispersed through the human
frame, would be productive of precisely the same result as a very large
dose administered in the usual manner.  Thus, the fortieth part of a
grain of calomel was supposed to be equal to a five-grain calomel pill,
and so on in proportion throughout the whole range of medicine.  He had
tried the experiment in a curious manner upon a publican who had been
brought into the hospital with a broken head, and was cured upon the
infinitesimal system in the incredibly short space of three months.  This
man was a hard drinker.  He (Professor Muff) had dispersed three drops of
rum through a bucket of water, and requested the man to drink the whole.
What was the result?  Before he had drunk a quart, he was in a state of
beastly intoxication; and five other men were made dead drunk with the
remainder.

‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know whether an infinitesimal dose of soda-water
would have recovered them?  Professor Muff replied that the twenty-fifth
part of a teaspoonful, properly administered to each patient, would have
sobered him immediately.  The President remarked that this was a most
important discovery, and he hoped the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen
would patronize it immediately.

‘A Member begged to be informed whether it would be possible to
administer—say, the twentieth part of a grain of bread and cheese to all
grown-up paupers, and the fortieth part to children, with the same
satisfying effect as their present allowance.

‘PROFESSOR MUFF was willing to stake his professional reputation on the
perfect adequacy of such a quantity of food to the support of human
life—in workhouses; the addition of the fifteenth part of a grain of
pudding twice a week would render it a high diet.

‘PROFESSOR NOGO called the attention of the section to a very
extraordinary case of animal magnetism.  A private watchman, being merely
looked at by the operator from the opposite side of a wide street, was at
once observed to be in a very drowsy and languid state.  He was followed
to his box, and being once slightly rubbed on the palms of the hands,
fell into a sound sleep, in which he continued without intermission for
ten hours.


‘SECTION C.—STATISTICS.
HAY-LOFT, ORIGINAL PIG.


_President_—Mr. Woodensconce.  _Vice-Presidents_—Mr. Ledbrain and Mr.
Timbered.

‘MR. SLUG stated to the section the result of some calculations he had
made with great difficulty and labour, regarding the state of infant
education among the middle classes of London.  He found that, within a
circle of three miles from the Elephant and Castle, the following were
the names and numbers of children’s books principally in circulation:—

‘Jack the Giant-killer                7,943
Ditto and Bean-stalk                  8,621
Ditto and Eleven Brothers             2,845
Ditto and Jill                        1,998
                         Total       21,407

‘He found that the proportion of Robinson Crusoes to Philip Quarlls was
as four and a half to one; and that the preponderance of Valentine and
Orsons over Goody Two Shoeses was as three and an eighth of the former to
half a one of the latter; a comparison of Seven Champions with Simple
Simons gave the same result.  The ignorance that prevailed, was
lamentable.  One child, on being asked whether he would rather be Saint
George of England or a respectable tallow-chandler, instantly replied,
“Taint George of Ingling.”  Another, a little boy of eight years old, was
found to be firmly impressed with a belief in the existence of dragons,
and openly stated that it was his intention when he grew up, to rush
forth sword in hand for the deliverance of captive princesses, and the
promiscuous slaughter of giants.  Not one child among the number
interrogated had ever heard of Mungo Park,—some inquiring whether he was
at all connected with the black man that swept the crossing; and others
whether he was in any way related to the Regent’s Park.  They had not the
slightest conception of the commonest principles of mathematics, and
considered Sindbad the Sailor the most enterprising voyager that the
world had ever produced.

‘A Member strongly deprecating the use of all the other books mentioned,
suggested that Jack and Jill might perhaps be exempted from the general
censure, inasmuch as the hero and heroine, in the very outset of the
tale, were depicted as going _up_ a hill to fetch a pail of water, which
was a laborious and useful occupation,—supposing the family linen was
being washed, for instance.

‘MR. SLUG feared that the moral effect of this passage was more than
counterbalanced by another in a subsequent part of the poem, in which
very gross allusion was made to the mode in which the heroine was
personally chastised by her mother

    “‘For laughing at Jack’s disaster;”

besides, the whole work had this one great fault, _it was not true_.

‘THE PRESIDENT complimented the honourable member on the excellent
distinction he had drawn.  Several other Members, too, dwelt upon the
immense and urgent necessity of storing the minds of children with
nothing but facts and figures; which process the President very forcibly
remarked, had made them (the section) the men they were.

‘MR. SLUG then stated some curious calculations respecting the dogs’-meat
barrows of London.  He found that the total number of small carts and
barrows engaged in dispensing provision to the cats and dogs of the
metropolis was, one thousand seven hundred and forty-three.  The average
number of skewers delivered daily with the provender, by each dogs’-meat
cart or barrow, was thirty-six.  Now, multiplying the number of skewers
so delivered by the number of barrows, a total of sixty-two thousand
seven hundred and forty-eight skewers daily would be obtained.  Allowing
that, of these sixty-two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight skewers,
the odd two thousand seven hundred and forty-eight were accidentally
devoured with the meat, by the most voracious of the animals supplied, it
followed that sixty thousand skewers per day, or the enormous number of
twenty-one millions nine hundred thousand skewers annually, were wasted
in the kennels and dustholes of London; which, if collected and
warehoused, would in ten years’ time afford a mass of timber more than
sufficient for the construction of a first-rate vessel of war for the use
of her Majesty’s navy, to be called “The Royal Skewer,” and to become
under that name the terror of all the enemies of this island.

‘MR. X. LEDBRAIN read a very ingenious communication, from which it
appeared that the total number of legs belonging to the manufacturing
population of one great town in Yorkshire was, in round numbers, forty
thousand, while the total number of chair and stool legs in their houses
was only thirty thousand, which, upon the very favourable average of
three legs to a seat, yielded only ten thousand seats in all.  From this
calculation it would appear,—not taking wooden or cork legs into the
account, but allowing two legs to every person,—that ten thousand
individuals (one-half of the whole population) were either destitute of
any rest for their legs at all, or passed the whole of their leisure time
in sitting upon boxes.


‘SECTION D.—MECHANICAL SCIENCE.
COACH-HOUSE, ORIGINAL PIG.


_President_—Mr. Carter.  _Vice-Presidents_—Mr. Truck and Mr. Waghorn.

‘PROFESSOR QUEERSPECK exhibited an elegant model of a portable railway,
neatly mounted in a green case, for the waistcoat pocket.  By attaching
this beautiful instrument to his boots, any Bank or public-office clerk
could transport himself from his place of residence to his place of
business, at the easy rate of sixty-five miles an hour, which, to
gentlemen of sedentary pursuits, would be an incalculable advantage.

‘THE PRESIDENT was desirous of knowing whether it was necessary to have a
level surface on which the gentleman was to run.

‘PROFESSOR QUEERSPECK explained that City gentlemen would run in trains,
being handcuffed together to prevent confusion or unpleasantness.  For
instance, trains would start every morning at eight, nine, and ten
o’clock, from Camden Town, Islington, Camberwell, Hackney, and various
other places in which City gentlemen are accustomed to reside.  It would
be necessary to have a level, but he had provided for this difficulty by
proposing that the best line that the circumstances would admit of,
should be taken through the sewers which undermine the streets of the
metropolis, and which, well lighted by jets from the gas pipes which run
immediately above them, would form a pleasant and commodious arcade,
especially in winter-time, when the inconvenient custom of carrying
umbrellas, now so general, could be wholly dispensed with.  In reply to
another question, Professor Queerspeck stated that no substitute for the
purposes to which these arcades were at present devoted had yet occurred
to him, but that he hoped no fanciful objection on this head would be
allowed to interfere with so great an undertaking.

‘MR. JOBBA produced a forcing-machine on a novel plan, for bringing
joint-stock railway shares prematurely to a premium.  The instrument was
in the form of an elegant gilt weather-glass, of most dazzling
appearance, and was worked behind, by strings, after the manner of a
pantomime trick, the strings being always pulled by the directors of the
company to which the machine belonged.  The quicksilver was so
ingeniously placed, that when the acting directors held shares in their
pockets, figures denoting very small expenses and very large returns
appeared upon the glass; but the moment the directors parted with these
pieces of paper, the estimate of needful expenditure suddenly increased
itself to an immense extent, while the statements of certain profits
became reduced in the same proportion.  Mr. Jobba stated that the machine
had been in constant requisition for some months past, and he had never
once known it to fail.

‘A Member expressed his opinion that it was extremely neat and pretty.
He wished to know whether it was not liable to accidental derangement?
Mr. Jobba said that the whole machine was undoubtedly liable to be blown
up, but that was the only objection to it.

‘PROFESSOR NOGO arrived from the anatomical section to exhibit a model of
a safety fire-escape, which could be fixed at any time, in less than half
an hour, and by means of which, the youngest or most infirm persons
(successfully resisting the progress of the flames until it was quite
ready) could be preserved if they merely balanced themselves for a few
minutes on the sill of their bedroom window, and got into the escape
without falling into the street.  The Professor stated that the number of
boys who had been rescued in the daytime by this machine from houses
which were not on fire, was almost incredible.  Not a conflagration had
occurred in the whole of London for many months past to which the escape
had not been carried on the very next day, and put in action before a
concourse of persons.

‘THE PRESIDENT inquired whether there was not some difficulty in
ascertaining which was the top of the machine, and which the bottom, in
cases of pressing emergency.

‘PROFESSOR NOGO explained that of course it could not be expected to act
quite as well when there was a fire, as when there was not a fire; but in
the former case he thought it would be of equal service whether the top
were up or down.’

                                * * * * *

With the last section our correspondent concludes his most able and
faithful Report, which will never cease to reflect credit upon him for
his scientific attainments, and upon us for our enterprising spirit.  It
is needless to take a review of the subjects which have been discussed;
of the mode in which they have been examined; of the great truths which
they have elicited.  They are now before the world, and we leave them to
read, to consider, and to profit.

The place of meeting for next year has undergone discussion, and has at
length been decided, regard being had to, and evidence being taken upon,
the goodness of its wines, the supply of its markets, the hospitality of
its inhabitants, and the quality of its hotels.  We hope at this next
meeting our correspondent may again be present, and that we may be once
more the means of placing his communications before the world.  Until
that period we have been prevailed upon to allow this number of our
Miscellany to be retailed to the public, or wholesaled to the trade,
without any advance upon our usual price.

We have only to add, that the committees are now broken up, and that
Mudfog is once again restored to its accustomed tranquillity,—that
Professors and Members have had balls, and _soirées_, and suppers, and
great mutual complimentations, and have at length dispersed to their
several homes,—whither all good wishes and joys attend them, until next
year!

                                                               Signed BOZ.



FULL REPORT OF THE SECOND MEETING OF THE MUDFOG ASSOCIATION
FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF EVERYTHING


In October last, we did ourselves the immortal credit of recording, at an
enormous expense, and by dint of exertions unnpralleled in the history of
periodical publication, the proceedings of the Mudfog Association for the
Advancement of Everything, which in that month held its first great
half-yearly meeting, to the wonder and delight of the whole empire.  We
announced at the conclusion of that extraordinary and most remarkable
Report, that when the Second Meeting of the Society should take place, we
should be found again at our post, renewing our gigantic and spirited
endeavours, and once more making the world ring with the accuracy,
authenticity, immeasurable superiority, and intense remarkability of our
account of its proceedings.  In redemption of this pledge, we caused to
be despatched per steam to Oldcastle (at which place this second meeting
of the Society was held on the 20th instant), the same
superhumanly-endowed gentleman who furnished the former report, and
who,—gifted by nature with transcendent abilities, and furnished by us
with a body of assistants scarcely inferior to himself,—has forwarded a
series of letters, which, for faithfulness of description, power of
language, fervour of thought, happiness of expression, and importance of
subject-matter, have no equal in the epistolary literature of any age or
country.  We give this gentleman’s correspondence entire, and in the
order in which it reached our office.

                ‘_Saloon of Steamer_, _Thursday night_, _half-past eight_.

‘When I left New Burlington Street this evening in the hackney cabriolet,
number four thousand two hundred and eighty-five, I experienced
sensations as novel as they were oppressive.  A sense of the importance
of the task I had undertaken, a consciousness that I was leaving London,
and, stranger still, going somewhere else, a feeling of loneliness and a
sensation of jolting, quite bewildered my thoughts, and for a time
rendered me even insensible to the presence of my carpet-bag and hat-box.
I shall ever feel grateful to the driver of a Blackwall omnibus who, by
thrusting the pole of his vehicle through the small door of the
cabriolet, awakened me from a tumult of imaginings that are wholly
indescribable.  But of such materials is our imperfect nature composed!

‘I am happy to say that I am the first passenger on board, and shall thus
be enabled to give you an account of all that happens in the order of its
occurrence.  The chimney is smoking a good deal, and so are the crew; and
the captain, I am informed, is very drunk in a little house upon deck,
something like a black turnpike.  I should infer from all I hear that he
has got the steam up.

‘You will readily guess with what feelings I have just made the discovery
that my berth is in the same closet with those engaged by Professor
Woodensconce, Mr. Slug, and Professor Grime.  Professor Woodensconce has
taken the shelf above me, and Mr. Slug and Professor Grime the two
shelves opposite.  Their luggage has already arrived.  On Mr. Slug’s bed
is a long tin tube of about three inches in diameter, carefully closed at
both ends.  What can this contain?  Some powerful instrument of a new
construction, doubtless.’

                                                 ‘_Ten minutes past nine_.

‘Nobody has yet arrived, nor has anything fresh come in my way except
several joints of beef and mutton, from which I conclude that a good
plain dinner has been provided for to-morrow.  There is a singular smell
below, which gave me some uneasiness at first; but as the steward says it
is always there, and never goes away, I am quite comfortable again.  I
learn from this man that the different sections will be distributed at
the Black Boy and Stomach-ache, and the Boot-jack and Countenance.  If
this intelligence be true (and I have no reason to doubt it), your
readers will draw such conclusions as their different opinions may
suggest.

‘I write down these remarks as they occur to me, or as the facts come to
my knowledge, in order that my first impressions may lose nothing of
their original vividness.  I shall despatch them in small packets as
opportunities arise.’

                                                        ‘_Half past nine_.

‘Some dark object has just appeared upon the wharf.  I think it is a
travelling carriage.’

                                                      ‘_A quarter to ten_.

‘No, it isn’t.’

                                                         ‘_Half-past ten_.

The passengers are pouring in every instant.  Four omnibuses full have
just arrived upon the wharf, and all is bustle and activity.  The noise
and confusion are very great.  Cloths are laid in the cabins, and the
steward is placing blue plates—full of knobs of cheese at equal distances
down the centre of the tables.  He drops a great many knobs; but, being
used to it, picks them up again with great dexterity, and, after wiping
them on his sleeve, throws them back into the plates.  He is a young man
of exceedingly prepossessing appearance—either dirty or a mulatto, but I
think the former.

‘An interesting old gentleman, who came to the wharf in an omnibus, has
just quarrelled violently with the porters, and is staggering towards the
vessel with a large trunk in his arms.  I trust and hope that he may
reach it in safety; but the board he has to cross is narrow and slippery.
Was that a splash?  Gracious powers!

‘I have just returned from the deck.  The trunk is standing upon the
extreme brink of the wharf, but the old gentleman is nowhere to be seen.
The watchman is not sure whether he went down or not, but promises to
drag for him the first thing to-morrow morning.  May his humane efforts
prove successful!

‘Professor Nogo has this moment arrived with his nightcap on under his
hat.  He has ordered a glass of cold brandy and water, with a hard
biscuit and a basin, and has gone straight to bed.  What can this mean?

‘The three other scientific gentlemen to whom I have already alluded have
come on board, and have all tried their beds, with the exception of
Professor Woodensconce, who sleeps in one of the top ones, and can’t get
into it.  Mr. Slug, who sleeps in the other top one, is unable to get out
of his, and is to have his supper handed up by a boy.  I have had the
honour to introduce myself to these gentlemen, and we have amicably
arranged the order in which we shall retire to rest; which it is
necessary to agree upon, because, although the cabin is very comfortable,
there is not room for more than one gentleman to be out of bed at a time,
and even he must take his boots off in the passage.

‘As I anticipated, the knobs of cheese were provided for the passengers’
supper, and are now in course of consumption.  Your readers will be
surprised to hear that Professor Woodensconce has abstained from cheese
for eight years, although he takes butter in considerable quantities.
Professor Grime having lost several teeth, is unable, I observe, to eat
his crusts without previously soaking them in his bottled porter.  How
interesting are these peculiarities!’

                                                      ‘_Half-past eleven_.

‘Professors Woodensconce and Grime, with a degree of good humour that
delights us all, have just arranged to toss for a bottle of mulled port.
There has been some discussion whether the payment should be decided by
the first toss or the best out of three.  Eventually the latter course
has been determined on.  Deeply do I wish that both gentlemen could win;
but that being impossible, I own that my personal aspirations (I speak as
an individual, and do not compromise either you or your readers by this
expression of feeling) are with Professor Woodensconce.  I have backed
that gentleman to the amount of eighteenpence.’

                                              ‘_Twenty minutes to twelve_.

‘Professor Grime has inadvertently tossed his half-crown out of one of
the cabin-windows, and it has been arranged that the steward shall toss
for him.  Bets are offered on any side to any amount, but there are no
takers.

‘Professor Woodensconce has just called “woman;” but the coin having
lodged in a beam, is a long time coming down again.  The interest and
suspense of this one moment are beyond anything that can be imagined.’

                                                        ‘_Twelve o’clock_.

‘The mulled port is smoking on the table before me, and Professor Grime
has won.  Tossing is a game of chance; but on every ground, whether of
public or private character, intellectual endowments, or scientific
attainments, I cannot help expressing my opinion that Professor
Woodensconce _ought_ to have come off victorious.  There is an exultation
about Professor Grime incompatible, I fear, with true greatness.’

                                                 ‘_A quarter past twelve_.

‘Professor Grime continues to exult, and to boast of his victory in no
very measured terms, observing that he always does win, and that he knew
it would be a “head” beforehand, with many other remarks of a similar
nature.  Surely this gentleman is not so lost to every feeling of decency
and propriety as not to feel and know the superiority of Professor
Woodensconce?  Is Professor Grime insane? or does he wish to be reminded
in plain language of his true position in society, and the precise level
of his acquirements and abilities?  Professor Grime will do well to look
to this.’

                                                           ‘_One o’clock_.

‘I am writing in bed.  The small cabin is illuminated by the feeble light
of a flickering lamp suspended from the ceiling; Professor Grime is lying
on the opposite shelf on the broad of his back, with his mouth wide open.
The scene is indescribably solemn.  The rippling of the tide, the noise
of the sailors’ feet overhead, the gruff voices on the river, the dogs on
the shore, the snoring of the passengers, and a constant creaking of
every plank in the vessel, are the only sounds that meet the ear.  With
these exceptions, all is profound silence.

‘My curiosity has been within the last moment very much excited.  Mr.
Slug, who lies above Professor Grime, has cautiously withdrawn the
curtains of his berth, and, after looking anxiously out, as if to satisfy
himself that his companions are asleep, has taken up the tin tube of
which I have before spoken, and is regarding it with great interest.
What rare mechanical combination can be contained in that mysterious
case?  It is evidently a profound secret to all.’

                                                    ‘_A quarter past one_.

‘The behaviour of Mr. Slug grows more and more mysterious.  He has
unscrewed the top of the tube, and now renews his observations upon his
companions, evidently to make sure that he is wholly unobserved.  He is
clearly on the eve of some great experiment.  Pray heaven that it be not
a dangerous one; but the interests of science must be promoted, and I am
prepared for the worst.’

                                                    ‘_Five minutes later_.

‘He has produced a large pair of scissors, and drawn a roll of some
substance, not unlike parchment in appearance, from the tin case.  The
experiment is about to begin.  I must strain my eyes to the utmost, in
the attempt to follow its minutest operation.’

                                             ‘_Twenty minutes before two_.

‘I have at length been enabled to ascertain that the tin tube contains a
few yards of some celebrated plaster, recommended—as I discover on
regarding the label attentively through my eye-glass—as a preservative
against sea-sickness.  Mr. Slug has cut it up into small portions, and is
now sticking it over himself in every direction.’

                                                         ‘_Three o’clock_.

‘Precisely a quarter of an hour ago we weighed anchor, and the machinery
was suddenly put in motion with a noise so appalling, that Professor
Woodensconce (who had ascended to his berth by means of a platform of
carpet-bags arranged by himself on geometrical principals) darted from
his shelf head foremost, and, gaining his feet with all the rapidity of
extreme terror, ran wildly into the ladies’ cabin, under the impression
that we were sinking, and uttering loud cries for aid.  I am assured that
the scene which ensued baffles all description.  There were one hundred
and forty-seven ladies in their respective berths at the time.

‘Mr. Slug has remarked, as an additional instance of the extreme
ingenuity of the steam-engine as applied to purposes of navigation, that
in whatever part of the vessel a passenger’s berth may be situated, the
machinery always appears to be exactly under his pillow.  He intends
stating this very beautiful, though simple discovery, to the
association.’

                                                         ‘_Half-past ten_.

‘We are still in smooth water; that is to say, in as smooth water as a
steam-vessel ever can be, for, as Professor Woodensconce (who has just
woke up) learnedly remarks, another great point of ingenuity about a
steamer is, that it always carries a little storm with it.  You can
scarcely conceive how exciting the jerking pulsation of the ship becomes.
It is a matter of positive difficulty to get to sleep.’

                                       ‘_Friday afternoon_, _six o’clock_.

‘I regret to inform you that Mr. Slug’s plaster has proved of no avail.
He is in great agony, but has applied several large, additional pieces
notwithstanding.  How affecting is this extreme devotion to science and
pursuit of knowledge under the most trying circumstances!

‘We were extremely happy this morning, and the breakfast was one of the
most animated description.  Nothing unpleasant occurred until noon, with
the exception of Doctor Foxey’s brown silk umbrella and white hat
becoming entangled in the machinery while he was explaining to a knot of
ladies the construction of the steam-engine.  I fear the gravy soup for
lunch was injudicious.  We lost a great many passengers almost
immediately afterwards.’

                                                         ‘_Half-past six_.

‘I am again in bed.  Anything so heart-rending as Mr. Slug’s sufferings
it has never yet been my lot to witness.’

                                                         ‘_Seven o’clock_.

‘A messenger has just come down for a clean pocket-handkerchief from
Professor Woodensconce’s bag, that unfortunate gentleman being quite
unable to leave the deck, and imploring constantly to be thrown
overboard.  From this man I understand that Professor Nogo, though in a
state of utter exhaustion, clings feebly to the hard biscuit and cold
brandy and water, under the impression that they will yet restore him.
Such is the triumph of mind over matter.

‘Professor Grime is in bed, to all appearance quite well; but he _will_
eat, and it is disagreeable to see him.  Has this gentleman no sympathy
with the sufferings of his fellow-creatures?  If he has, on what
principle can he call for mutton-chops—and smile?’

                                            ‘_Black Boy and Stomach-ache_,
                                             _Oldcastle_, _Saturday noon_.

‘You will be happy to learn that I have at length arrived here in safety.
The town is excessively crowded, and all the private lodgings and hotels
are filled with _savans_ of both sexes.  The tremendous assemblage of
intellect that one encounters in every street is in the last degree
overwhelming.

‘Notwithstanding the throng of people here, I have been fortunate enough
to meet with very comfortable accommodation on very reasonable terms,
having secured a sofa in the first-floor passage at one guinea per night,
which includes permission to take my meals in the bar, on condition that
I walk about the streets at all other times, to make room for other
gentlemen similarly situated.  I have been over the outhouses intended to
be devoted to the reception of the various sections, both here and at the
Boot-jack and Countenance, and am much delighted with the arrangements.
Nothing can exceed the fresh appearance of the saw-dust with which the
floors are sprinkled.  The forms are of unplaned deal, and the general
effect, as you can well imagine, is extremely beautiful.’

                                                        ‘_Half-past nine_.

‘The number and rapidity of the arrivals are quite bewildering.  Within
the last ten minutes a stage-coach has driven up to the door, filled
inside and out with distinguished characters, comprising Mr.
Muddlebranes, Mr. Drawley, Professor Muff, Mr. X. Misty, Mr. X. X. Misty,
Mr. Purblind, Professor Rummun, The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long
Eers, Professor John Ketch, Sir William Joltered, Doctor Buffer, Mr.
Smith (of London), Mr. Brown (of Edinburgh), Sir Hookham Snivey, and
Professor Pumpkinskull.  The ten last-named gentlemen were wet through,
and looked extremely intelligent.’

                                          ‘_Sunday_, _two o’clock_, _p.m._

‘The Honourable and Reverend Mr. Long Eers, accompanied by Sir William
Joltered, walked and drove this morning.  They accomplished the former
feat in boots, and the latter in a hired fly.  This has naturally given
rise to much discussion.

‘I have just learnt that an interview has taken place at the Boot-jack
and Countenance between Sowster, the active and intelligent beadle of
this place, and Professor Pumpkinskull, who, as your readers are
doubtless aware, is an influential member of the council.  I forbear to
communicate any of the rumours to which this very extraordinary
proceeding has given rise until I have seen Sowster, and endeavoured to
ascertain the truth from him.’

                                                         ‘_Half-past six_.

‘I engaged a donkey-chaise shortly after writing the above, and proceeded
at a brisk trot in the direction of Sowster’s residence, passing through
a beautiful expanse of country, with red brick buildings on either side,
and stopping in the marketplace to observe the spot where Mr. Kwakley’s
hat was blown off yesterday.  It is an uneven piece of paving, but has
certainly no appearance which would lead one to suppose that any such
event had recently occurred there.  From this point I proceeded—passing
the gas-works and tallow-melter’s—to a lane which had been pointed out to
me as the beadle’s place of residence; and before I had driven a dozen
yards further, I had the good fortune to meet Sowster himself advancing
towards me.

‘Sowster is a fat man, with a more enlarged development of that peculiar
conformation of countenance which is vulgarly termed a double chin than I
remember to have ever seen before.  He has also a very red nose, which he
attributes to a habit of early rising—so red, indeed, that but for this
explanation I should have supposed it to proceed from occasional
inebriety.  He informed me that he did not feel himself at liberty to
relate what had passed between himself and Professor Pumpkinskull, but
had no objection to state that it was connected with a matter of police
regulation, and added with peculiar significance “Never wos sitch times!”

‘You will easily believe that this intelligence gave me considerable
surprise, not wholly unmixed with anxiety, and that I lost no time in
waiting on Professor Pumpkinskull, and stating the object of my visit.
After a few moments’ reflection, the Professor, who, I am bound to say,
behaved with the utmost politeness, openly avowed (I mark the passage in
italics) _that he had requested Sowster to attend on the Monday morning
at the Boot-jack and Countenance_, _to keep off the boys_; _and that he
had further desired that the under-beadle might be stationed_, _with the
same object_, _at the Black Boy and Stomach-ache_!

‘Now I leave this unconstitutional proceeding to your comments and the
consideration of your readers.  I have yet to learn that a beadle,
without the precincts of a church, churchyard, or work-house, and acting
otherwise than under the express orders of churchwardens and overseers in
council assembled, to enforce the law against people who come upon the
parish, and other offenders, has any lawful authority whatever over the
rising youth of this country.  I have yet to learn that a beadle can be
called out by any civilian to exercise a domination and despotism over
the boys of Britain.  I have yet to learn that a beadle will be permitted
by the commissioners of poor law regulation to wear out the soles and
heels of his boots in illegal interference with the liberties of people
not proved poor or otherwise criminal.  I have yet to learn that a beadle
has power to stop up the Queen’s highway at his will and pleasure, or
that the whole width of the street is not free and open to any man, boy,
or woman in existence, up to the very walls of the houses—ay, be they
Black Boys and Stomach-aches, or Boot-jacks and Countenances, I care
not.’

                                                          ‘_Nine o’clock_.

‘I have procured a local artist to make a faithful sketch of the tyrant
Sowster, which, as he has acquired this infamous celebrity, you will no
doubt wish to have engraved for the purpose of presenting a copy with
every copy of your next number.  I enclose it.

[Picture which cannot be reproduced]

The under-beadle has consented to write his life, but it is to be
strictly anonymous.

‘The accompanying likeness is of course from the life, and complete in
every respect.  Even if I had been totally ignorant of the man’s real
character, and it had been placed before me without remark, I should have
shuddered involuntarily.  There is an intense malignity of expression in
the features, and a baleful ferocity of purpose in the ruffian’s eye,
which appals and sickens.  His whole air is rampant with cruelty, nor is
the stomach less characteristic of his demoniac propensities.’

                                                                ‘_Monday_.

‘The great day has at length arrived.  I have neither eyes, nor ears, nor
pens, nor ink, nor paper, for anything but the wonderful proceedings that
have astounded my senses.  Let me collect my energies and proceed to the
account.


‘SECTION A.—ZOOLOGY AND BOTANY.
FRONT PARLOUR, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.


_President_—Sir William Joltered.  _Vice-Presidents_—Mr. Muddlebranes and
Mr. Drawley.

‘MR. X. X. MISTY communicated some remarks on the disappearance of
dancing-bears from the streets of London, with observations on the
exhibition of monkeys as connected with barrel-organs.  The writer had
observed, with feelings of the utmost pain and regret, that some years
ago a sudden and unaccountable change in the public taste took place with
reference to itinerant bears, who, being discountenanced by the populace,
gradually fell off one by one from the streets of the metropolis, until
not one remained to create a taste for natural history in the breasts of
the poor and uninstructed.  One bear, indeed,—a brown and ragged
animal,—had lingered about the haunts of his former triumphs, with a worn
and dejected visage and feeble limbs, and had essayed to wield his
quarter-staff for the amusement of the multitude; but hunger, and an
utter want of any due recompense for his abilities, had at length driven
him from the field, and it was only too probable that he had fallen a
sacrifice to the rising taste for grease.  He regretted to add that a
similar, and no less lamentable, change had taken place with reference to
monkeys.  These delightful animals had formerly been almost as plentiful
as the organs on the tops of which they were accustomed to sit; the
proportion in the year 1829 (it appeared by the parliamentary return)
being as one monkey to three organs.  Owing, however, to an altered taste
in musical instruments, and the substitution, in a great measure, of
narrow boxes of music for organs, which left the monkeys nothing to sit
upon, this source of public amusement was wholly dried up.  Considering
it a matter of the deepest importance, in connection with national
education, that the people should not lose such opportunities of making
themselves acquainted with the manners and customs of two most
interesting species of animals, the author submitted that some measures
should be immediately taken for the restoration of these pleasing and
truly intellectual amusements.

‘THE PRESIDENT inquired by what means the honourable member proposed to
attain this most desirable end?

‘THE AUTHOR submitted that it could be most fully and satisfactorily
accomplished, if Her Majesty’s Government would cause to be brought over
to England, and maintained at the public expense, and for the public
amusement, such a number of bears as would enable every quarter of the
town to be visited—say at least by three bears a week.  No difficulty
whatever need be experienced in providing a fitting place for the
reception of these animals, as a commodious bear-garden could be erected
in the immediate neighbourhood of both Houses of Parliament; obviously
the most proper and eligible spot for such an establishment.

‘PROFESSOR MULL doubted very much whether any correct ideas of natural
history were propagated by the means to which the honourable member had
so ably adverted.  On the contrary, he believed that they had been the
means of diffusing very incorrect and imperfect notions on the subject.
He spoke from personal observation and personal experience, when he said
that many children of great abilities had been induced to believe, from
what they had observed in the streets, at and before the period to which
the honourable gentleman had referred, that all monkeys were born in red
coats and spangles, and that their hats and feathers also came by nature.
He wished to know distinctly whether the honourable gentleman attributed
the want of encouragement the bears had met with to the decline of public
taste in that respect, or to a want of ability on the part of the bears
themselves?

‘MR. X. X. MISTY replied, that he could not bring himself to believe but
that there must be a great deal of floating talent among the bears and
monkeys generally; which, in the absence of any proper encouragement, was
dispersed in other directions.

‘PROFESSOR PUMPKINSKULL wished to take that opportunity of calling the
attention of the section to a most important and serious point.  The
author of the treatise just read had alluded to the prevalent taste for
bears’-grease as a means of promoting the growth of hair, which
undoubtedly was diffused to a very great and (as it appeared to him) very
alarming extent.  No gentleman attending that section could fail to be
aware of the fact that the youth of the present age evinced, by their
behaviour in the streets, and at all places of public resort, a
considerable lack of that gallantry and gentlemanly feeling which, in
more ignorant times, had been thought becoming.  He wished to know
whether it were possible that a constant outward application of
bears’-grease by the young gentlemen about town had imperceptibly infused
into those unhappy persons something of the nature and quality of the
bear.  He shuddered as he threw out the remark; but if this theory, on
inquiry, should prove to be well founded, it would at once explain a
great deal of unpleasant eccentricity of behaviour, which, without some
such discovery, was wholly unaccountable.

‘THE PRESIDENT highly complimented the learned gentleman on his most
valuable suggestion, which produced the greatest effect upon the
assembly; and remarked that only a week previous he had seen some young
gentlemen at a theatre eyeing a box of ladies with a fierce intensity,
which nothing but the influence of some brutish appetite could possibly
explain.  It was dreadful to reflect that our youth were so rapidly
verging into a generation of bears.

‘After a scene of scientific enthusiasm it was resolved that this
important question should be immediately submitted to the consideration
of the council.

‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know whether any gentleman could inform the
section what had become of the dancing-dogs?

‘A MEMBER replied, after some hesitation, that on the day after three
glee-singers had been committed to prison as criminals by a late most
zealous police-magistrate of the metropolis, the dogs had abandoned their
professional duties, and dispersed themselves in different quarters of
the town to gain a livelihood by less dangerous means.  He was given to
understand that since that period they had supported themselves by lying
in wait for and robbing blind men’s poodles.

‘MR. FLUMMERY exhibited a twig, claiming to be a veritable branch of that
noble tree known to naturalists as the SHAKSPEARE, which has taken root
in every land and climate, and gathered under the shade of its broad
green boughs the great family of mankind.  The learned gentleman remarked
that the twig had been undoubtedly called by other names in its time; but
that it had been pointed out to him by an old lady in Warwickshire, where
the great tree had grown, as a shoot of the genuine SHAKSPEARE, by which
name he begged to introduce it to his countrymen.

‘THE PRESIDENT wished to know what botanical definition the honourable
gentleman could afford of the curiosity.

‘MR. FLUMMERY expressed his opinion that it was A DECIDED PLANT.


‘SECTION B.—DISPLAY OF MODELS AND MECHANICAL SCIENCE.
LARGE ROOM, BOOT-JACK AND COUNTENANCE.


_President_—Mr. Mallett.  _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Leaver and Scroo.

‘MR. CRINKLES exhibited a most beautiful and delicate machine, of little
larger size than an ordinary snuff-box, manufactured entirely by himself,
and composed exclusively of steel, by the aid of which more pockets could
be picked in one hour than by the present slow and tedious process in
four-and-twenty.  The inventor remarked that it had been put into active
operation in Fleet Street, the Strand, and other thoroughfares, and had
never been once known to fail.

‘After some slight delay, occasioned by the various members of the
section buttoning their pockets,

‘THE PRESIDENT narrowly inspected the invention, and declared that he had
never seen a machine of more beautiful or exquisite construction.  Would
the inventor be good enough to inform the section whether he had taken
any and what means for bringing it into general operation?

‘MR. CRINKLES stated that, after encountering some preliminary
difficulties, he had succeeded in putting himself in communication with
Mr. Fogle Hunter, and other gentlemen connected with the swell mob, who
had awarded the invention the very highest and most unqualified
approbation.  He regretted to say, however, that these distinguished
practitioners, in common with a gentleman of the name of Gimlet-eyed
Tommy, and other members of a secondary grade of the profession whom he
was understood to represent, entertained an insuperable objection to its
being brought into general use, on the ground that it would have the
inevitable effect of almost entirely superseding manual labour, and
throwing a great number of highly-deserving persons out of employment.

‘THE PRESIDENT hoped that no such fanciful objections would be allowed to
stand in the way of such a great public improvement.

‘MR. CRINKLES hoped so too; but he feared that if the gentlemen of the
swell mob persevered in their objection, nothing could be done.

‘PROFESSOR GRIME suggested, that surely, in that case, Her Majesty’s
Government might be prevailed upon to take it up.

‘MR. CRINKLES said, that if the objection were found to be insuperable he
should apply to Parliament, which he thought could not fail to recognise
the utility of the invention.

‘THE PRESIDENT observed that, up to this time Parliament had certainly
got on very well without it; but, as they did their business on a very
large scale, he had no doubt they would gladly adopt the improvement.
His only fear was that the machine might be worn out by constant working.

‘MR. COPPERNOSE called the attention of the section to a proposition of
great magnitude and interest, illustrated by a vast number of models, and
stated with much clearness and perspicuity in a treatise entitled
“Practical Suggestions on the necessity of providing some harmless and
wholesome relaxation for the young noblemen of England.”  His proposition
was, that a space of ground of not less than ten miles in length and four
in breadth should be purchased by a new company, to be incorporated by
Act of Parliament, and inclosed by a brick wall of not less than twelve
feet in height.  He proposed that it should be laid out with highway
roads, turnpikes, bridges, miniature villages, and every object that
could conduce to the comfort and glory of Four-in-hand Clubs, so that
they might be fairly presumed to require no drive beyond it.  This
delightful retreat would be fitted up with most commodious and extensive
stables, for the convenience of such of the nobility and gentry as had a
taste for ostlering, and with houses of entertainment furnished in the
most expensive and handsome style.  It would be further provided with
whole streets of door-knockers and bell-handles of extra size, so
constructed that they could be easily wrenched off at night, and
regularly screwed on again, by attendants provided for the purpose, every
day.  There would also be gas lamps of real glass, which could be broken
at a comparatively small expense per dozen, and a broad and handsome foot
pavement for gentlemen to drive their cabriolets upon when they were
humorously disposed—for the full enjoyment of which feat live pedestrians
would be procured from the workhouse at a very small charge per head.
The place being inclosed, and carefully screened from the intrusion of
the public, there would be no objection to gentlemen laying aside any
article of their costume that was considered to interfere with a pleasant
frolic, or, indeed, to their walking about without any costume at all, if
they liked that better.  In short, every facility of enjoyment would be
afforded that the most gentlemanly person could possibly desire.  But as
even these advantages would be incomplete unless there were some means
provided of enabling the nobility and gentry to display their prowess
when they sallied forth after dinner, and as some inconvenience might be
experienced in the event of their being reduced to the necessity of
pummelling each other, the inventor had turned his attention to the
construction of an entirely new police force, composed exclusively of
automaton figures, which, with the assistance of the ingenious Signor
Gagliardi, of Windmill-street, in the Haymarket, he had succeeded in
making with such nicety, that a policeman, cab-driver, or old woman, made
upon the principle of the models exhibited, would walk about until
knocked down like any real man; nay, more, if set upon and beaten by six
or eight noblemen or gentlemen, after it was down, the figure would utter
divers groans, mingled with entreaties for mercy, thus rendering the
illusion complete, and the enjoyment perfect.  But the invention did not
stop even here; for station-houses would be built, containing good beds
for noblemen and gentlemen during the night, and in the morning they
would repair to a commodious police office, where a pantomimic
investigation would take place before the automaton magistrates,—quite
equal to life,—who would fine them in so many counters, with which they
would be previously provided for the purpose.  This office would be
furnished with an inclined plane, for the convenience of any nobleman or
gentleman who might wish to bring in his horse as a witness; and the
prisoners would be at perfect liberty, as they were now, to interrupt the
complainants as much as they pleased, and to make any remarks that they
thought proper.  The charge for these amusements would amount to very
little more than they already cost, and the inventor submitted that the
public would be much benefited and comforted by the proposed arrangement.

‘PROFESSOR NOGO wished to be informed what amount of automaton police
force it was proposed to raise in the first instance.

‘MR. COPPERNOSE replied, that it was proposed to begin with seven
divisions of police of a score each, lettered from A to G inclusive.  It
was proposed that not more than half this number should be placed on
active duty, and that the remainder should be kept on shelves in the
police office ready to be called out at a moment’s notice.

‘THE PRESIDENT, awarding the utmost merit to the ingenious gentleman who
had originated the idea, doubted whether the automaton police would quite
answer the purpose.  He feared that noblemen and gentlemen would perhaps
require the excitement of thrashing living subjects.

‘MR. COPPERNOSE submitted, that as the usual odds in such cases were ten
noblemen or gentlemen to one policeman or cab-driver, it could make very
little difference in point of excitement whether the policeman or
cab-driver were a man or a block.  The great advantage would be, that a
policeman’s limbs might be all knocked off, and yet he would be in a
condition to do duty next day.  He might even give his evidence next
morning with his head in his hand, and give it equally well.

‘PROFESSOR MUFF.—Will you allow me to ask you, sir, of what materials it
is intended that the magistrates’ heads shall be composed?

‘MR. COPPERNOSE.—The magistrates will have wooden heads of course, and
they will be made of the toughest and thickest materials that can
possibly be obtained.

‘PROFESSOR MUFF.—I am quite satisfied.  This is a great invention.

‘PROFESSOR NOGO.—I see but one objection to it.  It appears to me that
the magistrates ought to talk.

‘MR. COPPERNOSE no sooner heard this suggestion than he touched a small
spring in each of the two models of magistrates which were placed upon
the table; one of the figures immediately began to exclaim with great
volubility that he was sorry to see gentlemen in such a situation, and
the other to express a fear that the policeman was intoxicated.

‘The section, as with one accord, declared with a shout of applause that
the invention was complete; and the President, much excited, retired with
Mr. Coppernose to lay it before the council.  On his return,

‘MR. TICKLE displayed his newly-invented spectacles, which enabled the
wearer to discern, in very bright colours, objects at a great distance,
and rendered him wholly blind to those immediately before him.  It was,
he said, a most valuable and useful invention, based strictly upon the
principle of the human eye.

‘THE PRESIDENT required some information upon this point.  He had yet to
learn that the human eye was remarkable for the peculiarities of which
the honourable gentleman had spoken.

‘MR. TICKLE was rather astonished to hear this, when the President could
not fail to be aware that a large number of most excellent persons and
great statesmen could see, with the naked eye, most marvellous horrors on
West India plantations, while they could discern nothing whatever in the
interior of Manchester cotton mills.  He must know, too, with what
quickness of perception most people could discover their neighbour’s
faults, and how very blind they were to their own.  If the President
differed from the great majority of men in this respect, his eye was a
defective one, and it was to assist his vision that these glasses were
made.

‘MR. BLANK exhibited a model of a fashionable annual, composed of
copper-plates, gold leaf, and silk boards, and worked entirely by milk
and water.

‘MR. PROSEE, after examining the machine, declared it to be so
ingeniously composed, that he was wholly unable to discover how it went
on at all.

‘MR. BLANK.—Nobody can, and that is the beauty of it.


‘SECTION C.—ANATOMY AND MEDICINE.
BAR ROOM, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.


_President_—Dr. Soemup.  _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Pessell and Mortair.

‘DR. GRUMMIDGE stated to the section a most interesting case of
monomania, and described the course of treatment he had pursued with
perfect success.  The patient was a married lady in the middle rank of
life, who, having seen another lady at an evening party in a full suit of
pearls, was suddenly seized with a desire to possess a similar equipment,
although her husband’s finances were by no means equal to the necessary
outlay.  Finding her wish ungratified, she fell sick, and the symptoms
soon became so alarming, that he (Dr. Grummidge) was called in.  At this
period the prominent tokens of the disorder were sullenness, a total
indisposition to perform domestic duties, great peevishness, and extreme
languor, except when pearls were mentioned, at which times the pulse
quickened, the eyes grew brighter, the pupils dilated, and the patient,
after various incoherent exclamations, burst into a passion of tears, and
exclaimed that nobody cared for her, and that she wished herself dead.
Finding that the patient’s appetite was affected in the presence of
company, he began by ordering a total abstinence from all stimulants, and
forbidding any sustenance but weak gruel; he then took twenty ounces of
blood, applied a blister under each ear, one upon the chest, and another
on the back; having done which, and administered five grains of calomel,
he left the patient to her repose.  The next day she was somewhat low,
but decidedly better, and all appearances of irritation were removed.
The next day she improved still further, and on the next again.  On the
fourth there was some appearance of a return of the old symptoms, which
no sooner developed themselves, than he administered another dose of
calomel, and left strict orders that, unless a decidedly favourable
change occurred within two hours, the patient’s head should be
immediately shaved to the very last curl.  From that moment she began to
mend, and, in less than four-and-twenty hours was perfectly restored.
She did not now betray the least emotion at the sight or mention of
pearls or any other ornaments.  She was cheerful and good-humoured, and a
most beneficial change had been effected in her whole temperament and
condition.

‘MR. PIPKIN (M.R.C.S.) read a short but most interesting communication in
which he sought to prove the complete belief of Sir William Courtenay,
otherwise Thorn, recently shot at Canterbury, in the Homoeopathic system.
The section would bear in mind that one of the Homoeopathic doctrines
was, that infinitesimal doses of any medicine which would occasion the
disease under which the patient laboured, supposing him to be in a
healthy state, would cure it.  Now, it was a remarkable
circumstance—proved in the evidence—that the deceased Thorn employed a
woman to follow him about all day with a pail of water, assuring her that
one drop (a purely homoeopathic remedy, the section would observe),
placed upon his tongue, after death, would restore him.  What was the
obvious inference?  That Thorn, who was marching and countermarching in
osier beds, and other swampy places, was impressed with a presentiment
that he should be drowned; in which case, had his instructions been
complied with, he could not fail to have been brought to life again
instantly by his own prescription.  As it was, if this woman, or any
other person, had administered an infinitesimal dose of lead and
gunpowder immediately after he fell, he would have recovered forthwith.
But unhappily the woman concerned did not possess the power of reasoning
by analogy, or carrying out a principle, and thus the unfortunate
gentleman had been sacrificed to the ignorance of the peasantry.


‘SECTION D.—STATISTICS.
OUT-HOUSE, BLACK BOY AND STOMACH-ACHE.


_President_—Mr. Slug.  _Vice-Presidents_—Messrs. Noakes and Styles.

‘MR. KWAKLEY stated the result of some most ingenious statistical
inquiries relative to the difference between the value of the
qualification of several members of Parliament as published to the world,
and its real nature and amount.  After reminding the section that every
member of Parliament for a town or borough was supposed to possess a
clear freehold estate of three hundred pounds per annum, the honourable
gentleman excited great amusement and laughter by stating the exact
amount of freehold property possessed by a column of legislators, in
which he had included himself.  It appeared from this table, that the
amount of such income possessed by each was 0 pounds, 0 shillings, and 0
pence, yielding an average of the same. (Great laughter.)  It was pretty
well known that there were accommodating gentlemen in the habit of
furnishing new members with temporary qualifications, to the ownership of
which they swore solemnly—of course as a mere matter of form.  He argued
from these _data_ that it was wholly unnecessary for members of
Parliament to possess any property at all, especially as when they had
none the public could get them so much cheaper.


‘SUPPLEMENTARY SECTION, E.—UMBUGOLOGY AND DITCHWATERISICS.


_President_—Mr. Grub.  _Vice Presidents_—Messrs. Dull and Dummy.

‘A paper was read by the secretary descriptive of a bay pony with one
eye, which had been seen by the author standing in a butcher’s cart at
the corner of Newgate Market.  The communication described the author of
the paper as having, in the prosecution of a mercantile pursuit, betaken
himself one Saturday morning last summer from Somers Town to Cheapside;
in the course of which expedition he had beheld the extraordinary
appearance above described.  The pony had one distinct eye, and it had
been pointed out to him by his friend Captain Blunderbore, of the Horse
Marines, who assisted the author in his search, that whenever he winked
this eye he whisked his tail (possibly to drive the flies off), but that
he always winked and whisked at the same time.  The animal was lean,
spavined, and tottering; and the author proposed to constitute it of the
family of _Fitfordogsmeataurious_.  It certainly did occur to him that
there was no case on record of a pony with one clearly-defined and
distinct organ of vision, winking and whisking at the same moment.

‘MR. Q. J. SNUFFLETOFFLE had heard of a pony winking his eye, and
likewise of a pony whisking his tail, but whether they were two ponies or
the same pony he could not undertake positively to say.  At all events,
he was acquainted with no authenticated instance of a simultaneous
winking and whisking, and he really could not but doubt the existence of
such a marvellous pony in opposition to all those natural laws by which
ponies were governed.  Referring, however, to the mere question of his
one organ of vision, might he suggest the possibility of this pony having
been literally half asleep at the time he was seen, and having closed
only one eye.

‘THE PRESIDENT observed that, whether the pony was half asleep or fast
asleep, there could be no doubt that the association was wide awake, and
therefore that they had better get the business over, and go to dinner.
He had certainly never seen anything analogous to this pony, but he was
not prepared to doubt its existence; for he had seen many queerer ponies
in his time, though he did not pretend to have seen any more remarkable
donkeys than the other gentlemen around him.

‘PROFESSOR JOHN KETCH was then called upon to exhibit the skull of the
late Mr. Greenacre, which he produced from a blue bag, remarking, on
being invited to make any observations that occurred to him, “that he’d
pound it as that ’ere ’spectable section had never seed a more gamerer
cove nor he vos.”

‘A most animated discussion upon this interesting relic ensued; and, some
difference of opinion arising respecting the real character of the
deceased gentleman, Mr. Blubb delivered a lecture upon the cranium before
him, clearly showing that Mr. Greenacre possessed the organ of
destructiveness to a most unusual extent, with a most remarkable
development of the organ of carveativeness.  Sir Hookham Snivey was
proceeding to combat this opinion, when Professor Ketch suddenly
interrupted the proceedings by exclaiming, with great excitement of
manner, “Walker!”

‘THE PRESIDENT begged to call the learned gentleman to order.

‘PROFESSOR KETCH.—“Order be blowed! you’ve got the wrong un, I tell you.
It ain’t no ’ed at all; it’s a coker-nut as my brother-in-law has been
a-carvin’, to hornament his new baked tatur-stall wots a-comin’ down ’ere
vile the ’sociation’s in the town.  Hand over, vill you?”

‘With these words, Professor Ketch hastily repossessed himself of the
cocoa-nut, and drew forth the skull, in mistake for which he had
exhibited it.  A most interesting conversation ensued; but as there
appeared some doubt ultimately whether the skull was Mr. Greenacre’s, or
a hospital patient’s, or a pauper’s, or a man’s, or a woman’s, or a
monkey’s, no particular result was obtained.’

                                * * * * *

‘I cannot,’ says our talented correspondent in conclusion, ‘I cannot
close my account of these gigantic researches and sublime and noble
triumphs without repeating a _bon mot_ of Professor Woodensconce’s, which
shows how the greatest minds may occasionally unbend when truth can be
presented to listening ears, clothed in an attractive and playful form.
I was standing by, when, after a week of feasting and feeding, that
learned gentleman, accompanied by the whole body of wonderful men,
entered the hall yesterday, where a sumptuous dinner was prepared; where
the richest wines sparkled on the board, and fat bucks—propitiatory
sacrifices to learning—sent forth their savoury odours.  “Ah!” said
Professor Woodensconce, rubbing his hands, “this is what we meet for;
this is what inspires us; this is what keeps us together, and beckons us
onward; this is the _spread_ of science, and a glorious spread it is.”’



THE PANTOMIME OF LIFE


Before we plunge headlong into this paper, let us at once confess to a
fondness for pantomimes—to a gentle sympathy with clowns and
pantaloons—to an unqualified admiration of harlequins and columbines—to a
chaste delight in every action of their brief existence, varied and
many-coloured as those actions are, and inconsistent though they
occasionally be with those rigid and formal rules of propriety which
regulate the proceedings of meaner and less comprehensive minds.  We
revel in pantomimes—not because they dazzle one’s eyes with tinsel and
gold leaf; not because they present to us, once again, the well-beloved
chalked faces, and goggle eyes of our childhood; not even because, like
Christmas-day, and Twelfth-night, and Shrove-Tuesday, and one’s own
birthday, they come to us but once a year;—our attachment is founded on a
graver and a very different reason.  A pantomime is to us, a mirror of
life; nay, more, we maintain that it is so to audiences generally,
although they are not aware of it, and that this very circumstance is the
secret cause of their amusement and delight.

Let us take a slight example.  The scene is a street: an elderly
gentleman, with a large face and strongly marked features, appears.  His
countenance beams with a sunny smile, and a perpetual dimple is on his
broad, red cheek.  He is evidently an opulent elderly gentleman,
comfortable in circumstances, and well-to-do in the world.  He is not
unmindful of the adornment of his person, for he is richly, not to say
gaudily, dressed; and that he indulges to a reasonable extent in the
pleasures of the table may be inferred from the joyous and oily manner in
which he rubs his stomach, by way of informing the audience that he is
going home to dinner.  In the fulness of his heart, in the fancied
security of wealth, in the possession and enjoyment of all the good
things of life, the elderly gentleman suddenly loses his footing, and
stumbles.  How the audience roar!  He is set upon by a noisy and
officious crowd, who buffet and cuff him unmercifully.  They scream with
delight!  Every time the elderly gentleman struggles to get up, his
relentless persecutors knock him down again.  The spectators are
convulsed with merriment!  And when at last the elderly gentleman does
get up, and staggers away, despoiled of hat, wig, and clothing, himself
battered to pieces, and his watch and money gone, they are exhausted with
laughter, and express their merriment and admiration in rounds of
applause.

Is this like life?  Change the scene to any real street;—to the Stock
Exchange, or the City banker’s; the merchant’s counting-house, or even
the tradesman’s shop.  See any one of these men fall,—the more suddenly,
and the nearer the zenith of his pride and riches, the better.  What a
wild hallo is raised over his prostrate carcase by the shouting mob; how
they whoop and yell as he lies humbled beneath them!  Mark how eagerly
they set upon him when he is down; and how they mock and deride him as he
slinks away.  Why, it is the pantomime to the very letter.

Of all the pantomimic _dramatis personae_, we consider the pantaloon the
most worthless and debauched.  Independent of the dislike one naturally
feels at seeing a gentleman of his years engaged in pursuits highly
unbecoming his gravity and time of life, we cannot conceal from ourselves
the fact that he is a treacherous, worldly-minded old villain, constantly
enticing his younger companion, the clown, into acts of fraud or petty
larceny, and generally standing aside to watch the result of the
enterprise.  If it be successful, he never forgets to return for his
share of the spoil; but if it turn out a failure, he generally retires
with remarkable caution and expedition, and keeps carefully aloof until
the affair has blown over.  His amorous propensities, too, are eminently
disagreeable; and his mode of addressing ladies in the open street at
noon-day is down-right improper, being usually neither more nor less than
a perceptible tickling of the aforesaid ladies in the waist, after
committing which, he starts back, manifestly ashamed (as well he may be)
of his own indecorum and temerity; continuing, nevertheless, to ogle and
beckon to them from a distance in a very unpleasant and immoral manner.

Is there any man who cannot count a dozen pantaloons in his own social
circle?  Is there any man who has not seen them swarming at the west end
of the town on a sunshiny day or a summer’s evening, going through the
last-named pantomimic feats with as much liquorish energy, and as total
an absence of reserve, as if they were on the very stage itself?  We can
tell upon our fingers a dozen pantaloons of our acquaintance at this
moment—capital pantaloons, who have been performing all kinds of strange
freaks, to the great amusement of their friends and acquaintance, for
years past; and who to this day are making such comical and ineffectual
attempts to be young and dissolute, that all beholders are like to die
with laughter.

Take that old gentleman who has just emerged from the _Café de l’Europe_
in the Haymarket, where he has been dining at the expense of the young
man upon town with whom he shakes hands as they part at the door of the
tavern.  The affected warmth of that shake of the hand, the courteous
nod, the obvious recollection of the dinner, the savoury flavour of which
still hangs upon his lips, are all characteristics of his great
prototype.  He hobbles away humming an opera tune, and twirling his cane
to and fro, with affected carelessness.  Suddenly he stops—’tis at the
milliner’s window.  He peeps through one of the large panes of glass;
and, his view of the ladies within being obstructed by the India shawls,
directs his attentions to the young girl with the band-box in her hand,
who is gazing in at the window also.  See! he draws beside her.  He
coughs; she turns away from him.  He draws near her again; she disregards
him.  He gleefully chucks her under the chin, and, retreating a few
steps, nods and beckons with fantastic grimaces, while the girl bestows a
contemptuous and supercilious look upon his wrinkled visage.  She turns
away with a flounce, and the old gentleman trots after her with a
toothless chuckle. The pantaloon to the life!

But the close resemblance which the clowns of the stage bear to those of
every-day life is perfectly extraordinary.  Some people talk with a sigh
of the decline of pantomime, and murmur in low and dismal tones the name
of Grimaldi.  We mean no disparagement to the worthy and excellent old
man when we say that this is downright nonsense.  Clowns that beat
Grimaldi all to nothing turn up every day, and nobody patronizes
them—more’s the pity!

‘I know who you mean,’ says some dirty-faced patron of Mr.
Osbaldistone’s, laying down the Miscellany when he has got thus far, and
bestowing upon vacancy a most knowing glance; ‘you mean C. J. Smith as
did Guy Fawkes, and George Barnwell at the Garden.’  The dirty-faced
gentleman has hardly uttered the words, when he is interrupted by a young
gentleman in no shirt-collar and a Petersham coat.  ‘No, no,’ says the
young gentleman; ‘he means Brown, King, and Gibson, at the ‘Delphi.’
Now, with great deference both to the first-named gentleman with the
dirty face, and the last-named gentleman in the non-existing
shirt-collar, we do _not_ mean either the performer who so grotesquely
burlesqued the Popish conspirator, or the three unchangeables who have
been dancing the same dance under different imposing titles, and doing
the same thing under various high-sounding names for some five or six
years last past.  We have no sooner made this avowal, than the public,
who have hitherto been silent witnesses of the dispute, inquire what on
earth it is we _do_ mean; and, with becoming respect, we proceed to tell
them.

It is very well known to all playgoers and pantomime-seers, that the
scenes in which a theatrical clown is at the very height of his glory are
those which are described in the play-bills as ‘Cheesemonger’s shop and
Crockery warehouse,’ or ‘Tailor’s shop, and Mrs. Queertable’s
boarding-house,’ or places bearing some such title, where the great fun
of the thing consists in the hero’s taking lodgings which he has not the
slightest intention of paying for, or obtaining goods under false
pretences, or abstracting the stock-in-trade of the respectable
shopkeeper next door, or robbing warehouse porters as they pass under his
window, or, to shorten the catalogue, in his swindling everybody he
possibly can, it only remaining to be observed that, the more extensive
the swindling is, and the more barefaced the impudence of the swindler,
the greater the rapture and ecstasy of the audience.  Now it is a most
remarkable fact that precisely this sort of thing occurs in real life day
after day, and nobody sees the humour of it.  Let us illustrate our
position by detailing the plot of this portion of the pantomime—not of
the theatre, but of life.

The Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, attended by his livery
servant Do’em—a most respectable servant to look at, who has grown grey
in the service of the captain’s family—views, treats for, and ultimately
obtains possession of, the unfurnished house, such a number, such a
street.  All the tradesmen in the neighbourhood are in agonies of
competition for the captain’s custom; the captain is a good-natured,
kind-hearted, easy man, and, to avoid being the cause of disappointment
to any, he most handsomely gives orders to all.  Hampers of wine, baskets
of provisions, cart-loads of furniture, boxes of jewellery, supplies of
luxuries of the costliest description, flock to the house of the
Honourable Captain Fitz-Whisker Fiercy, where they are received with the
utmost readiness by the highly respectable Do’em; while the captain
himself struts and swaggers about with that compound air of conscious
superiority and general blood-thirstiness which a military captain should
always, and does most times, wear, to the admiration and terror of
plebeian men.  But the tradesmen’s backs are no sooner turned, than the
captain, with all the eccentricity of a mighty mind, and assisted by the
faithful Do’em, whose devoted fidelity is not the least touching part of
his character, disposes of everything to great advantage; for, although
the articles fetch small sums, still they are sold considerably above
cost price, the cost to the captain having been nothing at all.  After
various manoeuvres, the imposture is discovered, Fitz-Fiercy and Do’em
are recognized as confederates, and the police office to which they are
both taken is thronged with their dupes.

Who can fail to recognize in this, the exact counterpart of the best
portion of a theatrical pantomime—Fitz-Whisker Fiercy by the clown; Do’em
by the pantaloon; and supernumeraries by the tradesmen?  The best of the
joke, too, is, that the very coal-merchant who is loudest in his
complaints against the person who defrauded him, is the identical man who
sat in the centre of the very front row of the pit last night and laughed
the most boisterously at this very same thing,—and not so well done
either.  Talk of Grimaldi, we say again!  Did Grimaldi, in his best days,
ever do anything in this way equal to Da Costa?

The mention of this latter justly celebrated clown reminds us of his last
piece of humour, the fraudulently obtaining certain stamped acceptances
from a young gentleman in the army.  We had scarcely laid down our pen to
contemplate for a few moments this admirable actor’s performance of that
exquisite practical joke, than a new branch of our subject flashed
suddenly upon us.  So we take it up again at once.

All people who have been behind the scenes, and most people who have been
before them, know, that in the representation of a pantomime, a good many
men are sent upon the stage for the express purpose of being cheated, or
knocked down, or both.  Now, down to a moment ago, we had never been able
to understand for what possible purpose a great number of odd, lazy,
large-headed men, whom one is in the habit of meeting here, and there,
and everywhere, could ever have been created.  We see it all, now.  They
are the supernumeraries in the pantomime of life; the men who have been
thrust into it, with no other view than to be constantly tumbling over
each other, and running their heads against all sorts of strange things.
We sat opposite to one of these men at a supper-table, only last week.
Now we think of it, he was exactly like the gentlemen with the pasteboard
heads and faces, who do the corresponding business in the theatrical
pantomimes; there was the same broad stolid simper—the same dull leaden
eye—the same unmeaning, vacant stare; and whatever was said, or whatever
was done, he always came in at precisely the wrong place, or jostled
against something that he had not the slightest business with.  We looked
at the man across the table again and again; and could not satisfy
ourselves what race of beings to class him with.  How very odd that this
never occurred to us before!

We will frankly own that we have been much troubled with the harlequin.
We see harlequins of so many kinds in the real living pantomime, that we
hardly know which to select as the proper fellow of him of the theatres.
At one time we were disposed to think that the harlequin was neither more
nor less than a young man of family and independent property, who had run
away with an opera-dancer, and was fooling his life and his means away in
light and trivial amusements.  On reflection, however, we remembered that
harlequins are occasionally guilty of witty, and even clever acts, and we
are rather disposed to acquit our young men of family and independent
property, generally speaking, of any such misdemeanours.  On a more
mature consideration of the subject, we have arrived at the conclusion
that the harlequins of life are just ordinary men, to be found in no
particular walk or degree, on whom a certain station, or particular
conjunction of circumstances, confers the magic wand.  And this brings us
to a few words on the pantomime of public and political life, which we
shall say at once, and then conclude—merely premising in this place that
we decline any reference whatever to the columbine, being in no wise
satisfied of the nature of her connection with her parti-coloured lover,
and not feeling by any means clear that we should be justified in
introducing her to the virtuous and respectable ladies who peruse our
lucubrations.

We take it that the commencement of a Session of Parliament is neither
more nor less than the drawing up of the curtain for a grand comic
pantomime, and that his Majesty’s most gracious speech on the opening
thereof may be not inaptly compared to the clown’s opening speech of
‘Here we are!’  ‘My lords and gentlemen, here we are!’ appears, to our
mind at least, to be a very good abstract of the point and meaning of the
propitiatory address of the ministry.  When we remember how frequently
this speech is made, immediately after _the change_ too, the parallel is
quite perfect, and still more singular.

Perhaps the cast of our political pantomime never was richer than at this
day.  We are particularly strong in clowns.  At no former time, we should
say, have we had such astonishing tumblers, or performers so ready to go
through the whole of their feats for the amusement of an admiring throng.
Their extreme readiness to exhibit, indeed, has given rise to some
ill-natured reflections; it having been objected that by exhibiting
gratuitously through the country when the theatre is closed, they reduce
themselves to the level of mountebanks, and thereby tend to degrade the
respectability of the profession.  Certainly Grimaldi never did this sort
of thing; and though Brown, King, and Gibson have gone to the Surrey in
vacation time, and Mr. C. J. Smith has ruralised at Sadler’s Wells, we
find no theatrical precedent for a general tumbling through the country,
except in the gentleman, name unknown, who threw summersets on behalf of
the late Mr. Richardson, and who is no authority either, because he had
never been on the regular boards.

But, laying aside this question, which after all is a mere matter of
taste, we may reflect with pride and gratification of heart on the
proficiency of our clowns as exhibited in the season.  Night after night
will they twist and tumble about, till two, three, and four o’clock in
the morning; playing the strangest antics, and giving each other the
funniest slaps on the face that can possibly be imagined, without
evincing the smallest tokens of fatigue.  The strange noises, the
confusion, the shouting and roaring, amid which all this is done, too,
would put to shame the most turbulent sixpenny gallery that ever yelled
through a boxing-night.

It is especially curious to behold one of these clowns compelled to go
through the most surprising contortions by the irresistible influence of
the wand of office, which his leader or harlequin holds above his head.
Acted upon by this wonderful charm he will become perfectly motionless,
moving neither hand, foot, nor finger, and will even lose the faculty of
speech at an instant’s notice; or on the other hand, he will become all
life and animation if required, pouring forth a torrent of words without
sense or meaning, throwing himself into the wildest and most fantastic
contortions, and even grovelling on the earth and licking up the dust.
These exhibitions are more curious than pleasing; indeed, they are rather
disgusting than otherwise, except to the admirers of such things, with
whom we confess we have no fellow-feeling.

Strange tricks—very strange tricks—are also performed by the harlequin
who holds for the time being the magic wand which we have just mentioned.
The mere waving it before a man’s eyes will dispossess his brains of all
the notions previously stored there, and fill it with an entirely new set
of ideas; one gentle tap on the back will alter the colour of a man’s
coat completely; and there are some expert performers, who, having this
wand held first on one side and then on the other, will change from side
to side, turning their coats at every evolution, with so much rapidity
and dexterity, that the quickest eye can scarcely detect their motions.
Occasionally, the genius who confers the wand, wrests it from the hand of
the temporary possessor, and consigns it to some new performer; on which
occasions all the characters change sides, and then the race and the hard
knocks begin anew.

We might have extended this chapter to a much greater length—we might
have carried the comparison into the liberal professions—we might have
shown, as was in fact our original purpose, that each is in itself a
little pantomime with scenes and characters of its own, complete; but, as
we fear we have been quite lengthy enough already, we shall leave this
chapter just where it is.  A gentleman, not altogether unknown as a
dramatic poet, wrote thus a year or two ago—

                ‘All the world’s a stage,
    And all the men and women merely players:’

and we, tracking out his footsteps at the scarcely-worth-mentioning
little distance of a few millions of leagues behind, venture to add, by
way of new reading, that he meant a Pantomime, and that we are all actors
in The Pantomime of Life.



SOME PARTICULARS CONCERNING A LION


We have a great respect for lions in the abstract.  In common with most
other people, we have heard and read of many instances of their bravery
and generosity.  We have duly admired that heroic self-denial and
charming philanthropy which prompts them never to eat people except when
they are hungry, and we have been deeply impressed with a becoming sense
of the politeness they are said to display towards unmarried ladies of a
certain state.  All natural histories teem with anecdotes illustrative of
their excellent qualities; and one old spelling-book in particular
recounts a touching instance of an old lion, of high moral dignity and
stern principle, who felt it his imperative duty to devour a young man
who had contracted a habit of swearing, as a striking example to the
rising generation.

All this is extremely pleasant to reflect upon, and, indeed, says a very
great deal in favour of lions as a mass.  We are bound to state, however,
that such individual lions as we have happened to fall in with have not
put forth any very striking characteristics, and have not acted up to the
chivalrous character assigned them by their chroniclers.  We never saw a
lion in what is called his natural state, certainly; that is to say, we
have never met a lion out walking in a forest, or crouching in his lair
under a tropical sun, waiting till his dinner should happen to come by,
hot from the baker’s.  But we have seen some under the influence of
captivity, and the pressure of misfortune; and we must say that they
appeared to us very apathetic, heavy-headed fellows.

The lion at the Zoological Gardens, for instance.  He is all very well;
he has an undeniable mane, and looks very fierce; but, Lord bless us!
what of that?  The lions of the fashionable world look just as ferocious,
and are the most harmless creatures breathing.  A box-lobby lion or a
Regent-street animal will put on a most terrible aspect, and roar,
fearfully, if you affront him; but he will never bite, and, if you offer
to attack him manfully, will fairly turn tail and sneak off.  Doubtless
these creatures roam about sometimes in herds, and, if they meet any
especially meek-looking and peaceably-disposed fellow, will endeavour to
frighten him; but the faintest show of a vigorous resistance is
sufficient to scare them even then.  These are pleasant characteristics,
whereas we make it matter of distinct charge against the Zoological lion
and his brethren at the fairs, that they are sleepy, dreamy, sluggish
quadrupeds.

We do not remember to have ever seen one of them perfectly awake, except
at feeding-time.  In every respect we uphold the biped lions against
their four-footed namesakes, and we boldly challenge controversy upon the
subject.

With these opinions it may be easily imagined that our curiosity and
interest were very much excited the other day, when a lady of our
acquaintance called on us and resolutely declined to accept our refusal
of her invitation to an evening party; ‘for,’ said she, ‘I have got a
lion coming.’  We at once retracted our plea of a prior engagement, and
became as anxious to go, as we had previously been to stay away.

We went early, and posted ourselves in an eligible part of the
drawing-room, from whence we could hope to obtain a full view of the
interesting animal.  Two or three hours passed, the quadrilles began, the
room filled; but no lion appeared.  The lady of the house became
inconsolable,—for it is one of the peculiar privileges of these lions to
make solemn appointments and never keep them,—when all of a sudden there
came a tremendous double rap at the street-door, and the master of the
house, after gliding out (unobserved as he flattered himself) to peep
over the banisters, came into the room, rubbing his hands together with
great glee, and cried out in a very important voice, ‘My dear,
Mr.—(naming the lion) has this moment arrived.’

Upon this, all eyes were turned towards the door, and we observed several
young ladies, who had been laughing and conversing previously with great
gaiety and good humour, grow extremely quiet and sentimental; while some
young gentlemen, who had been cutting great figures in the facetious and
small-talk way, suddenly sank very obviously in the estimation of the
company, and were looked upon with great coldness and indifference.  Even
the young man who had been ordered from the music shop to play the
pianoforte was visibly affected, and struck several false notes in the
excess of his excitement.

All this time there was a great talking outside, more than once
accompanied by a loud laugh, and a cry of ‘Oh! capital! excellent!’ from
which we inferred that the lion was jocose, and that these exclamations
were occasioned by the transports of his keeper and our host.  Nor were
we deceived; for when the lion at last appeared, we overheard his keeper,
who was a little prim man, whisper to several gentlemen of his
acquaintance, with uplifted hands, and every expression of
half-suppressed admiration, that—(naming the lion again) was in _such_
cue to-night!

The lion was a literary one.  Of course, there were a vast number of
people present who had admired his roarings, and were anxious to be
introduced to him; and very pleasant it was to see them brought up for
the purpose, and to observe the patient dignity with which he received
all their patting and caressing.  This brought forcibly to our mind what
we had so often witnessed at country fairs, where the other lions are
compelled to go through as many forms of courtesy as they chance to be
acquainted with, just as often as admiring parties happen to drop in upon
them.

While the lion was exhibiting in this way, his keeper was not idle, for
he mingled among the crowd, and spread his praises most industriously.
To one gentleman he whispered some very choice thing that the noble
animal had said in the very act of coming up-stairs, which, of course,
rendered the mental effort still more astonishing; to another he murmured
a hasty account of a grand dinner that had taken place the day before,
where twenty-seven gentlemen had got up all at once to demand an extra
cheer for the lion; and to the ladies he made sundry promises of
interceding to procure the majestic brute’s sign-manual for their albums.
Then, there were little private consultations in different corners,
relative to the personal appearance and stature of the lion; whether he
was shorter than they had expected to see him, or taller, or thinner, or
fatter, or younger, or older; whether he was like his portrait, or unlike
it; and whether the particular shade of his eyes was black, or blue, or
hazel, or green, or yellow, or mixture.  At all these consultations the
keeper assisted; and, in short, the lion was the sole and single subject
of discussion till they sat him down to whist, and then the people
relapsed into their old topics of conversation—themselves and each other.

We must confess that we looked forward with no slight impatience to the
announcement of supper; for if you wish to see a tame lion under
particularly favourable circumstances, feeding-time is the period of all
others to pitch upon.  We were therefore very much delighted to observe a
sensation among the guests, which we well knew how to interpret, and
immediately afterwards to behold the lion escorting the lady of the house
down-stairs.  We offered our arm to an elderly female of our
acquaintance, who—dear old soul!—is the very best person that ever lived,
to lead down to any meal; for, be the room ever so small, or the party
ever so large, she is sure, by some intuitive perception of the eligible,
to push and pull herself and conductor close to the best dishes on the
table;—we say we offered our arm to this elderly female, and, descending
the stairs shortly after the lion, were fortunate enough to obtain a seat
nearly opposite him.

Of course the keeper was there already.  He had planted himself at
precisely that distance from his charge which afforded him a decent
pretext for raising his voice, when he addressed him, to so loud a key,
as could not fail to attract the attention of the whole company, and
immediately began to apply himself seriously to the task of bringing the
lion out, and putting him through the whole of his manoeuvres.  Such
flashes of wit as he elicited from the lion!  First of all, they began to
make puns upon a salt-cellar, and then upon the breast of a fowl, and
then upon the trifle; but the best jokes of all were decidedly on the
lobster salad, upon which latter subject the lion came out most
vigorously, and, in the opinion of the most competent authorities, quite
outshone himself.  This is a very excellent mode of shining in society,
and is founded, we humbly conceive, upon the classic model of the
dialogues between Mr. Punch and his friend the proprietor, wherein the
latter takes all the up-hill work, and is content to pioneer to the jokes
and repartees of Mr. P. himself, who never fails to gain great credit and
excite much laughter thereby.  Whatever it be founded on, however, we
recommend it to all lions, present and to come; for in this instance it
succeeded to admiration, and perfectly dazzled the whole body of hearers.

When the salt-cellar, and the fowl’s breast, and the trifle, and the
lobster salad were all exhausted, and could not afford standing-room for
another solitary witticism, the keeper performed that very dangerous feat
which is still done with some of the caravan lions, although in one
instance it terminated fatally, of putting his head in the animal’s
mouth, and placing himself entirely at its mercy.  Boswell frequently
presents a melancholy instance of the lamentable results of this
achievement, and other keepers and jackals have been terribly lacerated
for their daring.  It is due to our lion to state, that he condescended
to be trifled with, in the most gentle manner, and finally went home with
the showman in a hack cab: perfectly peaceable, but slightly fuddled.

Being in a contemplative mood, we were led to make some reflections upon
the character and conduct of this genus of lions as we walked homewards,
and we were not long in arriving at the conclusion that our former
impression in their favour was very much strengthened and confirmed by
what we had recently seen.  While the other lions receive company and
compliments in a sullen, moody, not to say snarling manner, these appear
flattered by the attentions that are paid them; while those conceal
themselves to the utmost of their power from the vulgar gaze, these court
the popular eye, and, unlike their brethren, whom nothing short of
compulsion will move to exertion, are ever ready to display their
acquirements to the wondering throng.  We have known bears of undoubted
ability who, when the expectations of a large audience have been wound up
to the utmost pitch, have peremptorily refused to dance; well-taught
monkeys, who have unaccountably objected to exhibit on the slack wire;
and elephants of unquestioned genius, who have suddenly declined to turn
the barrel-organ; but we never once knew or heard of a biped lion,
literary or otherwise,—and we state it as a fact which is highly
creditable to the whole species,—who, occasion offering, did not seize
with avidity on any opportunity which was afforded him, of performing to
his heart’s content on the first violin.



MR. ROBERT BOLTON: THE ‘GENTLEMAN CONNECTED WITH THE PRESS’


In the parlour of the Green Dragon, a public-house in the immediate
neighbourhood of Westminster Bridge, everybody talks politics, every
evening, the great political authority being Mr. Robert Bolton, an
individual who defines himself as ‘a gentleman connected with the press,’
which is a definition of peculiar indefiniteness.  Mr. Robert Bolton’s
regular circle of admirers and listeners are an undertaker, a
greengrocer, a hairdresser, a baker, a large stomach surmounted by a
man’s head, and placed on the top of two particularly short legs, and a
thin man in black, name, profession, and pursuit unknown, who always sits
in the same position, always displays the same long, vacant face, and
never opens his lips, surrounded as he is by most enthusiastic
conversation, except to puff forth a volume of tobacco smoke, or give
vent to a very snappy, loud, and shrill _hem_!  The conversation
sometimes turns upon literature, Mr. Bolton being a literary character,
and always upon such news of the day as is exclusively possessed by that
talented individual.  I found myself (of course, accidentally) in the
Green Dragon the other evening, and, being somewhat amused by the
following conversation, preserved it.

‘Can you lend me a ten-pound note till Christmas?’ inquired the
hairdresser of the stomach.

‘Where’s your security, Mr. Clip?’

‘My stock in trade,—there’s enough of it, I’m thinking, Mr. Thicknesse.
Some fifty wigs, two poles, half-a-dozen head blocks, and a dead Bruin.’

‘No, I won’t, then,’ growled out Thicknesse.  ‘I lends nothing on the
security of the whigs or the Poles either.  As for whigs, they’re cheats;
as for the Poles, they’ve got no cash.  I never have nothing to do with
blockheads, unless I can’t awoid it (ironically), and a dead bear’s about
as much use to me as I could be to a dead bear.’

‘Well, then,’ urged the other, ‘there’s a book as belonged to Pope,
Byron’s Poems, valued at forty pounds, because it’s got Pope’s identical
scratch on the back; what do you think of that for security?’

‘Well, to be sure!’ cried the baker.  ‘But how d’ye mean, Mr. Clip?’

‘Mean! why, that it’s got the _hottergruff_ of Pope.

    “Steal not this book, for fear of hangman’s rope;
    For it belongs to Alexander Pope.”

All that’s written on the inside of the binding of the book; so, as my
son says, we’re _bound_ to believe it.’

‘Well, sir,’ observed the undertaker, deferentially, and in a
half-whisper, leaning over the table, and knocking over the hairdresser’s
grog as he spoke, ‘that argument’s very easy upset.’

‘Perhaps, sir,’ said Clip, a little flurried, ‘you’ll pay for the first
upset afore you thinks of another.’

‘Now,’ said the undertaker, bowing amicably to the hairdresser, ‘I
_think_, I says I _think_—you’ll excuse me, Mr. Clip, I _think_, you see,
that won’t go down with the present company—unfortunately, my master had
the honour of making the coffin of that ere Lord’s housemaid, not no more
nor twenty year ago.  Don’t think I’m proud on it, gentlemen; others
might be; but I hate rank of any sort.  I’ve no more respect for a Lord’s
footman than I have for any respectable tradesman in this room.  I may
say no more nor I have for Mr. Clip! (bowing).  Therefore, that ere Lord
must have been born long after Pope died.  And it’s a logical
interference to defer, that they neither of them lived at the same time.
So what I mean is this here, that Pope never had no book, never seed,
felt, never smelt no book (triumphantly) as belonged to that ere Lord.
And, gentlemen, when I consider how patiently you have ’eared the ideas
what I have expressed, I feel bound, as the best way to reward you for
the kindness you have exhibited, to sit down without saying anything
more—partickler as I perceive a worthier visitor nor myself is just
entered.  I am not in the habit of paying compliments, gentlemen; when I
do, therefore, I hope I strikes with double force.’

‘Ah, Mr. Murgatroyd! what’s all this about striking with double force?’
said the object of the above remark, as he entered.  ‘I never excuse a
man’s getting into a rage during winter, even when he’s seated so close
to the fire as you are.  It is very injudicious to put yourself into such
a perspiration.  What is the cause of this extreme physical and mental
excitement, sir?’

Such was the very philosophical address of Mr. Robert Bolton, a
shorthand-writer, as he termed himself—a bit of equivoque passing current
among his fraternity, which must give the uninitiated a vast idea of the
establishment of the ministerial organ, while to the initiated it
signifies that no one paper can lay claim to the enjoyment of their
services.  Mr. Bolton was a young man, with a somewhat sickly and very
dissipated expression of countenance.  His habiliments were composed of
an exquisite union of gentility, slovenliness, assumption, simplicity,
_newness_, and old age.  Half of him was dressed for the winter, the
other half for the summer.  His hat was of the newest cut, the D’Orsay;
his trousers had been white, but the inroads of mud and ink, etc., had
given them a pie-bald appearance; round his throat he wore a very high
black cravat, of the most tyrannical stiffness; while his _tout ensemble_
was hidden beneath the enormous folds of an old brown poodle-collared
great-coat, which was closely buttoned up to the aforesaid cravat.  His
fingers peeped through the ends of his black kid gloves, and two of the
toes of each foot took a similar view of society through the extremities
of his high-lows.  Sacred to the bare walls of his garret be the
mysteries of his interior dress!  He was a short, spare man, of a
somewhat inferior deportment.  Everybody seemed influenced by his entry
into the room, and his salutation of each member partook of the
patronizing.  The hairdresser made way for him between himself and the
stomach.  A minute afterwards he had taken possession of his pint and
pipe.  A pause in the conversation took place.  Everybody was waiting,
anxious for his first observation.

‘Horrid murder in Westminster this morning,’ observed Mr. Bolton.

Everybody changed their positions.  All eyes were fixed upon the man of
paragraphs.

‘A baker murdered his son by boiling him in a copper,’ said Mr. Bolton.

‘Good heavens!’ exclaimed everybody, in simultaneous horror.

‘Boiled him, gentlemen!’ added Mr. Bolton, with the most effective
emphasis; ‘_boiled_ him!’

‘And the particulars, Mr. B.,’ inquired the hairdresser, ‘the
particulars?’

Mr. Bolton took a very long draught of porter, and some two or three
dozen whiffs of tobacco, doubtless to instil into the commercial
capacities of the company the superiority of a gentlemen connected with
the press, and then said—

‘The man was a baker, gentlemen.’  (Every one looked at the baker
present, who stared at Bolton.)  ‘His victim, being his son, also was
necessarily the son of a baker.  The wretched murderer had a wife, whom
he was frequently in the habit, while in an intoxicated state, of
kicking, pummelling, flinging mugs at, knocking down, and half-killing
while in bed, by inserting in her mouth a considerable portion of a sheet
or blanket.’

The speaker took another draught, everybody looked at everybody else, and
exclaimed, ‘Horrid!’

‘It appears in evidence, gentlemen,’ continued Mr. Bolton, ‘that, on the
evening of yesterday, Sawyer the baker came home in a reprehensible state
of beer.  Mrs. S., connubially considerate, carried him in that condition
up-stairs into his chamber, and consigned him to their mutual couch.  In
a minute or two she lay sleeping beside the man whom the morrow’s dawn
beheld a murderer!’  (Entire silence informed the reporter that his
picture had attained the awful effect he desired.)  ‘The son came home
about an hour afterwards, opened the door, and went up to bed.  Scarcely
(gentlemen, conceive his feelings of alarm), scarcely had he taken off
his indescribables, when shrieks (to his experienced ear _maternal_
shrieks) scared the silence of surrounding night.  He put his
indescribables on again, and ran down-stairs.  He opened the door of the
parental bed-chamber.  His father was dancing upon his mother.  What must
have been his feelings!  In the agony of the minute he rushed at his male
parent as he was about to plunge a knife into the side of his female.
The mother shrieked.  The father caught the son (who had wrested the
knife from the paternal grasp) up in his arms, carried him down-stairs,
shoved him into a copper of boiling water among some linen, closed the
lid, and jumped upon the top of it, in which position he was found with a
ferocious countenance by the mother, who arrived in the melancholy
wash-house just as he had so settled himself.

‘“Where’s my boy?” shrieked the mother.

‘“In that copper, boiling,” coolly replied the benign father.

‘Struck by the awful intelligence, the mother rushed from the house, and
alarmed the neighbourhood.  The police entered a minute afterwards.  The
father, having bolted the wash-house door, had bolted himself.  They
dragged the lifeless body of the boiled baker from the cauldron, and,
with a promptitude commendable in men of their station, they immediately
carried it to the station-house.  Subsequently, the baker was apprehended
while seated on the top of a lamp-post in Parliament Street, lighting his
pipe.’

The whole horrible ideality of the Mysteries of Udolpho, condensed into
the pithy effect of a ten-line paragraph, could not possibly have so
affected the narrator’s auditory.  Silence, the purest and most noble of
all kinds of applause, bore ample testimony to the barbarity of the
baker, as well as to Bolton’s knack of narration; and it was only broken
after some minutes had elapsed by interjectional expressions of the
intense indignation of every man present.  The baker wondered how a
British baker could so disgrace himself and the highly honourable calling
to which he belonged; and the others indulged in a variety of wonderments
connected with the subject; among which not the least wonderment was that
which was awakened by the genius and information of Mr. Robert Bolton,
who, after a glowing eulogium on himself, and his unspeakable influence
with the daily press, was proceeding, with a most solemn countenance, to
hear the pros and cons of the Pope autograph question, when I took up my
hat, and left.



FAMILIAR EPISTLE FROM A PARENT TO A CHILD
AGED TWO YEARS AND TWO MONTHS


MY CHILD,

To recount with what trouble I have brought you up—with what an anxious
eye I have regarded your progress,—how late and how often I have sat up
at night working for you,—and how many thousand letters I have received
from, and written to your various relations and friends, many of whom
have been of a querulous and irritable turn,—to dwell on the anxiety and
tenderness with which I have (as far as I possessed the power) inspected
and chosen your food; rejecting the indigestible and heavy matter which
some injudicious but well-meaning old ladies would have had you swallow,
and retaining only those light and pleasant articles which I deemed
calculated to keep you free from all gross humours, and to render you an
agreeable child, and one who might be popular with society in general,—to
dilate on the steadiness with which I have prevented your annoying any
company by talking politics—always assuring you that you would thank me
for it yourself some day when you grew older,—to expatiate, in short,
upon my own assiduity as a parent, is beside my present purpose, though I
cannot but contemplate your fair appearance—your robust health, and
unimpeded circulation (which I take to be the great secret of your good
looks) without the liveliest satisfaction and delight.

It is a trite observation, and one which, young as you are, I have no
doubt you have often heard repeated, that we have fallen upon strange
times, and live in days of constant shiftings and changes.  I had a
melancholy instance of this only a week or two since.  I was returning
from Manchester to London by the Mail Train, when I suddenly fell into
another train—a mixed train—of reflection, occasioned by the dejected and
disconsolate demeanour of the Post-Office Guard.  We were stopping at
some station where they take in water, when he dismounted slowly from the
little box in which he sits in ghastly mockery of his old condition with
pistol and blunderbuss beside him, ready to shoot the first highwayman
(or railwayman) who shall attempt to stop the horses, which now travel
(when they travel at all) _inside_ and in a portable stable invented for
the purpose,—he dismounted, I say, slowly and sadly, from his post, and
looking mournfully about him as if in dismal recollection of the old
roadside public-house the blazing fire—the glass of foaming ale—the buxom
handmaid and admiring hangers-on of tap-room and stable, all honoured by
his notice; and, retiring a little apart, stood leaning against a
signal-post, surveying the engine with a look of combined affliction and
disgust which no words can describe.  His scarlet coat and golden lace
were tarnished with ignoble smoke; flakes of soot had fallen on his
bright green shawl—his pride in days of yore—the steam condensed in the
tunnel from which we had just emerged, shone upon his hat like rain.  His
eye betokened that he was thinking of the coachman; and as it wandered to
his own seat and his own fast-fading garb, it was plain to see that he
felt his office and himself had alike no business there, and were nothing
but an elaborate practical joke.

As we whirled away, I was led insensibly into an anticipation of those
days to come, when mail-coach guards shall no longer be judges of
horse-flesh—when a mail-coach guard shall never even have seen a
horse—when stations shall have superseded stables, and corn shall have
given place to coke.  ‘In those dawning times,’ thought I,
‘exhibition-rooms shall teem with portraits of Her Majesty’s favourite
engine, with boilers after Nature by future Landseers.  Some Amburgh, yet
unborn, shall break wild horses by his magic power; and in the dress of a
mail-coach guard exhibit his TRAINED ANIMALS in a mock mail-coach.  Then,
shall wondering crowds observe how that, with the exception of his whip,
it is all his eye; and crowned heads shall see them fed on oats, and
stand alone unmoved and undismayed, while counters flee affrighted when
the coursers neigh!’

Such, my child, were the reflections from which I was only awakened then,
as I am now, by the necessity of attending to matters of present though
minor importance.  I offer no apology to you for the digression, for it
brings me very naturally to the subject of change, which is the very
subject of which I desire to treat.

In fact, my child, you have changed hands.  Henceforth I resign you to
the guardianship and protection of one of my most intimate and valued
friends, Mr. Ainsworth, with whom, and with you, my best wishes and
warmest feelings will ever remain.  I reap no gain or profit by parting
from you, nor will any conveyance of your property be required, for, in
this respect, you have always been literally ‘Bentley’s’ Miscellany, and
never mine.

Unlike the driver of the old Manchester mail, I regard this altered state
of things with feelings of unmingled pleasure and satisfaction.

Unlike the guard of the new Manchester mail, _your_ guard is at home in
his new place, and has roystering highwaymen and gallant desperadoes ever
within call.  And if I might compare you, my child, to an engine; (not a
Tory engine, nor a Whig engine, but a brisk and rapid locomotive;) your
friends and patrons to passengers; and he who now stands towards you _in
loco parentis_ as the skilful engineer and supervisor of the whole, I
would humbly crave leave to postpone the departure of the train on its
new and auspicious course for one brief instant, while, with hat in hand,
I approach side by side with the friend who travelled with me on the old
road, and presume to solicit favour and kindness in behalf of him and his
new charge, both for their sakes and that of the old coachman,

                                                                      BOZ.
Sketches by BOZ - Part 2
