UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES WORKS OF CHARLES DICKENS. NEW ILLUSTRATED LIBRARY EDITION. VOLUME VII. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP AND REPRINTED PIECES. VOL. IL STSTE NORMAL SCHOOL. LOS ANGELES. -- 6 4 3 8 o ■tyw ti. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP AND REPRINTED PIECES BY CHARLES DICKENS WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY EDWIN PERCY WHIPPLE ILLUSTRATED WITH ENGRAVINGS ON STEEL IN TWO VOLUMES VOL. IL C/2 o o o BOSTON HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY ©lie BiijerfitJe Prtgc, C'SmbriU^t :' i\i '. Th£ Riverside Press, Cambrir/ge, Misf., U. S. A. Printed by H. 0. Uoughton & Company. / V, 3. COKTEKTS. — »-~ PACT THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 1 150 RHPRDsTED PIECES:— The Loko Votagb ....«•••• 168 The Begging-Lt^tter Writer , . , . , , .163 A Child's Dream op a Stab ...«••• 171 Our English Waterikg-placb ....... 175 Our FRENcn "\Vaterino-placb 184 BlLL-SllCaiNQ ..... t ••• • IPS "Births. Mrs. Meek, op a Sou" ...... 211 Lying Awake 216 Thk Poor Relation's Stor? . 223 The Child's Stort 234 Thb Schoolboy's Stori .....*>. 239 Nobody's Story 249 The Ghost of Art . . • 255 Out of Town 262 Out of the Season . . 269 A Poor Man's Tale of a Patbnt 278 The Noble Savage ........ 284 A Flight 291 The Detectite Police 302 Three "Detective" Anecdotes ...... 321 ¥l CONTENTS. REPRINTED PIECES, continued— PAOI On Duty with Inspector Field 330 Down with the Tide 344 A Walk in a Workicouse 354 Prince Bull. A Fairy Tale 362 A Plated Article 368 Our Honorable Friend 378 Our School 384 Our Vestry 392 Our Bore 399 A Monument of French Follt 407 A Christmas Tbss . . 490 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. VOLUME II. — *— Mk. Swivellek empties TiTE Taxkard Frontispiect Kit's Sudden Appearakce 4 Mr. Swiveller and the Marchioness ' 16 Poor Kit in Trouble 44 The Marchioness in the Sick-room ....... G4 Restoratives 83 Enter Mr. Brass 86 Whisker and Barbara 106 Mr. Chuckster strikes an Attitcde 114 The Long Voyage . ICO THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. CHAPTER I. A DAY or two after tlie Quilp tea-party at the Wilderness, Mr. Swiveller walked into Sampson Brass's office at tlie usuaJ hour, and being alone in that Temple of Probity, placed his hat upon the desk, and taking from his pocket a small parcel of black crape, applied himself to folding and pinning the eame upon it, after the manner of a hatband. Having completed the construction of this appendage, he surveyed his work with gi-eat complacency, and put liis hat on again — very much over one eye ti) increase the mournfidness of the effect. These arrangements perfected to his entire satisfaction, tie thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked up and down the office with measured steps. " It has always been the same with me," said Mr, Smveller, " always. 'Twas ever thus, fi-om childliood's hour I 've seen my fondest hopes decay, I never loved a tree or flower but 'twas the fii'st to fade away ; I never nursed a dear Gazelle, to glad me with its soft black eye, but when it came to know me well, and love me, it was sure to . marry a market-gardener.' ' Overpowered by these reflections, Mr, Swiveller stopped short at the clients' chair, and flung himself into its open arms. " And this," said Mr. Swiveller, with a kind of bantering composure, " is life, I believe. Oh, certainly. Why not ! I 'm quite satisfied. I shall wear," added llichard, taking off his hat again and looking hard at it, as if he wore only deterred by pecuniary cimsidcrations from spiirning it -witli his foot, " T sliall wear this emblem of woman's perfidy, in VOL. II. B 2 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. rememlDrauce of her with whom I sliall never again threaci the windings of the maz}'- ; whom I shall never more pledge in the rosy ; who, diu-ing the short remainder of my existence, wUl miu-der the halmy. Ha, ha. ha ! " It may be necessary to observe, lest there should appear any incongruity in the close of this soliloquy, that Mr. Swivellcr did not wind up with a cheerful hilarious laugh, which would have been undoubtedly at variance with his solemn reflections, but that, being in a theatrical mood, he merely achieved that performance which is designated in melo-dramas "laughing like a fiend," — for it seems that your fiends always laugh in syllables, and always in three syllables, never more nor less, which is a remarkable property La such gentry, and one worthy of remembrance. The balefid sounds had hardly died away, and Mr. Swiveller was still sitting in a very grim state in the clients' chair, when there came a ring — or, if we may adapt the sound to his then humoiu-, a knell — at the ofiice bell. Opening the door with all speed, he beheld the expressive countenance of Mr. Chuckster, between whom and himself a fraternal greeting ensued. " You 're devilish early at this pestiferous old slaughter- house," said that gentleman, poising himself on one leg, and shaking the other in an easy manner. " Rather," returned Dick. " Rather!" retorted Mr. Chuckster, with that air of graceful trifling which so well became liim. "7 should think so. ^VTiy, my good feller, do you know what o'clock it is — half-past nine a.m. in the morning ? " " Won't you come in ? " said Dick. "All alone. SwiveUei solus. ' 'Tis now the witching — ' " " ' Horn- of night ! ' " " ' "\Mien chiu'chyards yawTi,' " " ' And graves give up their dead.' " At the end of this qiiotation in dialogue, each gentleman struck an attitude, and immediately subsiding into prose, walked into the office. Such morsels of enthusiasm were common aniong the Glorious Apollos, and were indeed the links that bound them together, and raised them above the cold dull earth. ""Well, and how are you my buck?" said Mr. Chuckster taking a stool. "I was forced to come into the city upou THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 3 Borne little private matters of my own, and couldn't pass the comer of tlie street -svithout looking in, but upon my soul I didn't expect to find you. It is so everlastingly early." Mr. SwiveUer expressed Ms acknowledgments; and it appearing on further conversation that he was in good health, and that !Mr. Chuckster was in the like enviable condition, botii gentlemen, in compliance with a solemr custom of the ancient Brotherhood to which they belonged joined in a fragment of the popular duet of " All 's Well ' with a long shake at the end. " And what 's the news ? " said Richard. "The town 's as flat, my dear feUer," replied Mr. Chuckster, " as the surfiice of a Dutch oven. There 's no news. By-the- bye, that lodger of yours is a most extraordinary person. He quite eludes the most vigorous comprehension, you know Never was such a feller ! " "What has he been doing now ? " said Dick. " By Jove, sir," retui-ned Mr. Chuckster, taking out an oblong snuff-box, the lid whereof was ornamented with a fox's head curiously carved in brass, "that man is an unfa thorn able. Sir, that man has made friends with our articled clerk. There 's no harm in liim, but he is so amazingly slow and soft. Now, if he wanted a friend, why couldn't he have one that knew a thing or two, and could do liim some good by his manners and conversation. I have my faidts, 6ir," said Mr. Chuckster. — " No, no," interposed Mr. SwiveUer. " Oh yes I have, I have my faults, no man knows his faidts better than I know mine. But," said Mr. Chuckster, " I 'm not meek. My worst enemies — every man has his enemies, sir, and I have mine — never accused me of being meek. And I teU you what, sir, if T hadn't more of these qualities that commonly endear man to man, than our articled clerk has, I 'd steal a Cheshire cheese, tie it roimd my neck, and droMTi myself. I 'd die dcgi-aded, as I had lived. I woidd upon my honour." Mr. Chuckster paused, rapped the fox's head exactly on the lose with the knuckle of liie fore-finger, took a pinch ol snuff, and looked steadily at Mr. Swiveller, as much as to say that if he thought he was going to sneeze, he would find himself mistaken. "Not contented, sir, ' said IMr. Cliuckster, '• with making b2 4 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. fi-ieucis with Abel, he has cultivated the acquaiataiice of hia father and mother. Since he came home from that wild-iroose chase, he has been there — actually been there. He patronisea young Snobby besides ; you '11 find, sir, that he '11 be con- stantly coming backwards and forwards to tliis place : yet I don't suppose that be^-ond the common forms of civiKty, he has ever exchanged half-a-dozen words with ot«. Now, upon my soul, yoa know," said Mr. Chuckster, shaking liis head gravety, as men are wont to do when they consider tilings are goinsr a little too far, " this is altogether such a low-minded affair, that if I didn't feel for the governor, and know that he could never get on without me, I should be obliged to cut the connexion. I should have no alternative." Mr. Swiveller, who sat on another stool opposite to his &'iend, stirred the fire in an excess of sjTiipathy, but said Qothing. "As to young Snob, sir," pursued Mr. Chuckster with a prophetic look, "you'll find he'll tui-n out bad. In our profession we know something of human natui'e, and take my word for it, that the feller that came back to work out that shilling, will show himself one of these days in his true coloui'S. He 's a low tliief, su\ He must be." Mr. Chuckster being roused, wovdd probably have piu'sued this subject fiu-ther, and in more emphatic language, but for a tap at the door, Avhich seeming to annoimce the arrival of somebody on business, caused him to assume a greater ajipear- ance of meekness than was perhaps C[uite consistent with his late declaration. Mr. Swiveller, hearing the same sound, caused his stool to revolve rapidly on one leg ivntH it brought liim to his desk, into which, having forgotten in the sudden fliuTy of his spirits to part with the poker, he thi-ust it as ho cried " Come in ! " "SMio should present liimseK bxit that very Kit Avho had been the theme of Mr. Chuckster' s wrath ! Never did man pluck up ^his courage so quickly, or look so fierce, as Mr. Chiickster when he found it Avas he. Mr. Swiveller stared at him for a moment, and then leaping from his stool, and drawing out the poker from ite place of concealm.ent, per- formed the broad-sword exercise with all the cuts and guarda romjilete, in a species of frenzy. '• Is the gentleman at home ?" said Kit, rather astonishecJ l)y this uncommon reception. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 5 Before Mr. Swiveller coidd make any reply, ]Mr. Cliuckstor took occasiou to enter liis indignant protest against tins form of inqiiir}^; -whicli lie held to be of a disrespectfid and snobbish tendency, inasmuch as the inquirer, seeing two gentlemen then and there present, shoidd have spoken of the other gentleman ; or rather (for it was not impossible that the object of his search might be of inferior qualitj') shoidd have mentioned his name, leaving it to his hearers to deter- mine his degi-ee as they thought proper. Mv. Chuckster likewise remarked, that he had some reason to believe this form of address was personal to himself, and that he was not a man to be triiled -with — as certain snobs (whom he did not more particidarly mention or describe) might find to their cost. "I mean the gentleman up-stairs," said Kit, tiu-ning to Richard Swiveller. " Is he at home ? " " Why ?" rejoined Dick. " Because if he is, I have a letter for him." " From whom ? " said Dick. "From Mr. Garland." "Oh!" said Dick, with extreme politeness. "Then you may hand it over, sir. And if jou 're to wait for an answer, sir, you ma}- wait in the passage, sir, which is an airy and well- ventilated apartment, sir." "Thank you," returned Kit. "But I am to give it to himself, if you please." The excessive audacity of this retort so overpowered !Mr. Chuckster, and so moved liis tender regard for Ids friend's honour, that he declared, if he were not restrained by official considerations, he must certainly have annihilated Kit upon the spot ; a resentment of the affront which he did consider, under the extraordinary circumstances of aggravation at- tending it, could not but have met with the proper sanction and approval of a jury of Englishmen, who, he had no doubt, would have retui-ned a verdict of Justifiable Homicide, coupled with a high testimony to the morals and character of the A-venger. JNIr. Swiveller, without being quite so hot upon the matter, was rather shamed by his friend's excitement, and not a little puzzled how to act (Kit being qiutc cool and good humoiu-ed), when the single gentleman -nas heard to cal- nolently dowoi the stau's. " Didn't I see somebody for me, come in ?" ciied the lodgeK "Yes, sir," repHed Dick. " Certainly, sir." 6 THE OLD CORIOSITY SHOP. " Then where is he ? " roared the single gentleman. "He's here, sir," rejoined Mr. Smveller. "Now young man, don't you hear you 're to go iip-stairs ? Are you deaf? '' Kit did not appear to think it worth his while to enter into any altercation, but hurried off and left the Glorious A polios gazing at each other in silence. " Didn't I teU you so ?" said Mr. Chuckster. " What do you think of that ? " ]VIr. SwiveUer being in the main a good-natiu-ed feUow, and not perceiving in the conduct of Kit any villany of enonnous magnitude, scarcely knew Avliat answer to return. He was relieved from his perplexity, however, by the entrance of Mr. Sampson and his sister, Sally, at sight of whom Mr. Chuckster precipitately retired. Mr. Brass and his lovely companion appeared to have been holding a consultation over their temperate breakfast, upon some matter of great interest and importance. On the occa- sion of such conferences, they generally appeared in the office some half an hour after their usual time, and in a very smiling state, as though their late plots and designs had tranquillised their minds and shed a light upon their toilsome way. In the present instance, they seemed pai'ticularly gay; Miss Sally's aspect being of a most oily kind, and ]\lr. Brass rubbing his hands in an exceedingly jocose and light-hearted manner. "WeU, Mr. llichard," said Brass. "How are we this morning? Are ^^■e pretty fresh and cheerful sir — eh, Mr. Richard ? " " Pretty vreU sir," replied Dick. " That 's weU," said Brass. " Ha ha ! We should be aa gay as larks Mr. Eichard — why not ? It 's a pleasant Avorld we live in sir, a very pleasant Avorld. There are bad people in it Mr. Richard ; but if there were no bad people, tliere would be no good lawyers. Ha ha ! Any letters by the post this morning, Mr. Richard ? " Mr. SwiveUer answered in the negative. " Ha ! " said Brass, " no matter. If there 's little business to-day, there '11 be more to-morrow. A contented spirit, Mi\ llichard, is the sweetness of existence. Anybody been here, Bii- ? " "Only my friend" — rephed Dick. "'May we ne'er want a — ' " "'Friend,'" Brass chimed iii quickly, 'or a bottle to THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 7 give lum.' Ha lia ! That's tlie Tray the song rxuis, isn't it ? A very good song, Mr. Richard, very good. I like the Bentiment of it. Ha ha ! Your friend 's the young man from Witherden's office I think — yes — ' May we ne'er want a — ' Nobody else at all, been, ]Mr. Richard ? " " Only somebody to the lodger," repHed Mr. SwiveUer. " Oh indeed ! " ci'ied Brass. " Somebody to the lodger, eh ? Ha ha ! ' May we ne'er want a fr-iend, or a — ' Somebody to the lodger, eh Mr. Richard ? " " Yes," said Dick, a little disconcerted by the excessive buoyancy of spiiits which his employer displayed. "With him now." " With him now ! " cried Brass ; " Ha ha ! There let 'em be, merry and fr-ee, toor rid lol le. Eh, Mr. Richard ? Ha ha ! " " Oh certainly," repHed Dick. " And who/' said Brass, shuffling among liis papers, " whc is the lodger's visitor — not a lady visitor I hope, eh Mr. Richard ? The morals of the Marks you know sir — ' when lovely woman stoops to foILv ' — and all that — eh Mr Richard?" "Another young man, who belongs to Witherden's too, or half belongs there," retiu-ned Richard. " Kit, they call him." " Kit, eh ! " said Brass. " Strange name — name of a dancing-master's fiddle, eh Mr. Richard ? Ha ha ! Kit 's there, is he ? Oh ! " Dick looked at Miss SaUy, wondering that she didn't check this uncommon exuberance on the part of Mr. Sampson ; but as she made no attempt to do so, and rather appeared to exhibit a tacit acquiescence in it, he concluded that they had just been cheating somebody, and receiving the bill. "WiU you have the goodness, Mr. Richard," said Brass, taking a letter from his desk, "just to step over to Peckham Rye with that ? There 's no answer, but it 's rather particular and should go by hand. Charge the office with your coach- hire back, 3'ou know ; don't spare the office ; get as much out of it as you can — clerk's motto — Eli Mr. Richard ? Ha ha ! " Mr. SwiveUer solemnly defied the acjuatic jacket, put on hia coat, toolv down his hat from its peg, pocketed the letter, and departed. As soon as he was gone, uprose Miss SaUy Brass, and smiling sweetly at her brother (who nodded and smote his nose in retui-n) M'ithdrew also. Sampson Brass was no sooner left alone, than he set tlia « THE OLD CDRIOSITY SHOP. office-door wide open, and establishing' liimself at his desk directly opposite, so that he could not fail to see anybody -who came down-stairs and passed out at the street door, began to write with extreme cheerfulness and assiduitj'' ; humming aa he did so, in a voice that was anything but musical, certain vocal snatches which appeared to have reference to the union between Chiu-ch and State, inasmuch as they were compounded of the Evening HjTun and God save the King. Tlius, the attoi-ney of Bevis Marks sat, and wrote, and hummed, for a long time, except when he stopped to listen with a very cimoing face, and hearing nothing, went on hTimming louder, and vmting slower than ever. At length, in one of these pauses, he heard his lodger's door opened and shut, and footsteps coming down the staii's. Then, JNIr. Brasa left off wi'iting entirely, and, with his pen in liis hand, hiimmed his very loudest ; shaking liis head meanwhile from side to side, like a man whose whole soul was in the music, and smiling in a manner quite seraphic. It was towards this moving spectacle that the staircase and the sweet sounds guided Kit : on whose arrival before hia door, Mr. Brass stopped his singing, but not his smiling, and nodded affably : at the same time beckoning to him with liis pen. '• Kit," said Mr. Brass, in the pleasantest way imaginable, "how do you do ?" Kit, being rather shy of his friend, made a suitable reply, and had his hand upon the lock of the street door when Mr Brass called liim softly back. " You are not to go, if you please. Kit," said the attorney in a mysterious and j'et business-Hke way. " You are to step in here, if you please. Dear me, dear me ! When I look at you," said tlie law\'er, qiutting his stool, and standing before the fire A^-ith bis back towards it, "I am reminded of the sweetest little face that ever my eyes beheld. I remember vour coming there, twice or thrice, when we were in possession. Ah Kit, my dear fellow, gentlemen in my pro- fession have such painful dutif:S to perform sometimes, that you needn't envy us — you needn't indeed ! " " I don't sir," said Kit, " though it isn't for the like of me to judge." " Our only consolation, Kit," pursued the lawyer, looking It him in a sort of pensive abstraction, " is, that although w« THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 9 cannot tiuTi away the Avind, we can soften it ; we can tempei it, if I may say so, to the shorn laml)S." " Shorn indeed !" thought Kit. " Pretty close ! " But he didn't say so. " On that occasion, Kit," So-i^^ Mr. Brass, " on that occasion that I have just alkided to, I had a hard battle -with Mr. QuiJp (for Mr. Quilp is a very hard man) to obta'n tl'.cni the indulgence tlic}' had. It might have cost me a client. But suilering virtue inspired me, and I prevailed." " He 's not so bad after all," thought honest Kit, as tlie attorney puised up his lips and looked like a man who was struggling with his better feelings. " 1 respect yo7i, Kit," said Brass -o-ith emotion. " I saw enough of j-our conduct, at that time, to respect you, though your station is humble, and 3-our fortune lowlj\ It isn't the waistcoat that I look at. It is the heart. The checks in tlie waistcoat are but the wires of the cage. But the heart is the bird. Ah ! How many sich birds are perpetually moulting, and putting their beaks through the wires to peck at all mankind!" This poetic figure, which Kit took to be in special allusion to his own checked waistcoat, quite overcame him ; Mr. Brass's voice and manner added not a little to its effect, for he discoursed with all the mild austerity of a hermit, and wanted but a cord roimd the waist of his rustA' surtout, and a skiUl on the chimney-piece, to be completely set up in that Ime ol business. "Well, well." said Sampson, smiling as good men smile when they compassionate their own weakness or that of theii fellow-creatures, "this is wide of the bull's-eye. You're tc take that, if you please." As he spoke, he pointed to a couplf of half-croA\Tis on the desk. Kit looked at the coins, and then at Sampson, and hesitated. " For yourself," said Brass. "From " " No matter about the person they caine from," replied the lawAxr. " Say mo, if you like. We have eccentric friends overhead, Kit, and we musn't ask questions or talk too much — you imderstand? You're to take them, that's all; and between you and me, I don't think they 'U be the last you 'll have to take from the same place. I hope not. Good bye, Kit. Goodbye!" 10 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. Witli many thanks, and many more self-reproaclies foi having on such slight gi'ounds suspected one who in their very first conversation turned out such a different man from what he had supposed, Kit took the money and made the best of his way home. Mr. Brass remained airing himself at the fire, and resumed his vocal exercise, and his seraphic smile, simultaneously . " May I come in?" said Miss Sally, peeping. " Oh yes, you may come in," returned her brothei " Ahem?" coughed Miss Brass interrogatively. " Why, yes," returned Sampson, " I should say aa good ac done." THfi OLD CURIOSITY SEOP. U CHAPTER n. Me. Chuckster's indignant apprehensions were not with- out foundation. Certainly the friendship between the single gentleman and Mr. Garland was not suffered to cool, but had a rapid growth and flourished exceedingly. They were soon in habits of constant intercoiu-se and communication ; and the single gentleman labouring at this time under a slight attack of illness — -tlie consequence most probably of his late excited feelings and subsequent disappointment — ^fttmishod a reason for their holding yet more frequent correspondence ; so, that some one of the inmates of Abel Cottage, Fincliley, came backwards and forwards between that place and Bevis Marks, almost every day. As the pony had now thrown off all disguise, and without any mincing of the matter or beating about the bush, sturdily refused to be di-iven by anybody but Kit, it generally happened that whether old ]\Ir. Garland came, or Mr. Abel, Kit was of the party. Of all messages and inquiries, Kit was, in right of his position, the bearer ; thus it came about that, while the single gentleman remained indisposed. Kit turned into Bevis Marks every morning with nearly as much regularity as the General Postman. ^Ir. Sampson Brass, who - no doubt had his reasons for looking sharply about him, soon learnt to distinguish the pony's ti'ot and the clatter of the little chaise at the corner of the street. AVlienever this sound reached his ears, he would immediately lay down his pen and fall to rubbing Ids hands and exliibiting the greatest glee. " Ha ha !" he would cry. " Here 's the pony again ! Most remarkable pony, extremely docile, eh Mr. llichard, eh sir?" Dick would retm-n some matter-of-course reply, and Mr. Brass, standing on the bottom rail of his stool, so as to get a view of the sti'eet over the top of the window-blind, would take an observation of the vLsitors. la THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. " The old gentleman again!" lie would exclaim, " a very prepossessing old gentleman, Mr. Ricliard — charming countd- nance, sir — extremel}' calm — ^benevolence in every featiu-e, sir. He quite realises my idea of King Lear, as he appeared when in possession of his kingdom, Mr. Richard — the saine good*^ humoiu', the same •white hair and partial baldness, the same liability to be imposed upon. Ah ! A sweet subject for contemplation sir, very sweet!" Then, Mr. Garland having alighted and gone up-stairs^ Sampson would nod and smile to Kit from the window, and presently walk out into the street to greet him, when some such conversation as the following would ensue. "Admirably groomed, Kit" — Mr. Brass is patting the pony — " does you great credit — amazingly sleek and bright to be siu-e. He literally looks as if he had been varnished all over." Kit touches his hat, smiles, pats the pony himself, and expresses his conviction, " that Mr. Brass will not find many like him." "A beautiful animal indeed!" cries Brass. "Sagacious too?" "Bless you!" replies Kit, "he knows what you say to him as well as a Christian does." " Does he indeed!" cries Brass, who has heard the same thing in the same place from the same person in the same words a dozen times, but is paralysed with astonishment not- withstanding. " Dear me !" " I little thought the fii'st time I saw him sir," says Kit, pleased with the attorney's strong interest in his favourite, " that I should come to be as intimate with him as I am now." "Ah!" rejoins Mr. Brass, brim-fiJl of moral precepts and love of virtue. " A charming subject of reflection for you, yQjj charming. A subject of proper pride and congratidaticn, Christopher. Honesty is the best policy. — I always find it so myself. I lost forty-seven poimd ten by being honest this morning. But it's all gain, it's gaiii !" Mr. Brass slyly tickles liis nose with his pen, and looks at Kit with the water standing in Ids eyes. Kit thinks that il ever there was a good man who belied his appearance, that man is Sampson Brass. " A man," says Sampson, " who loses forty-seven pound TUE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 13 ten in one morning by his honesty, is a man to be envied. If it had been eighty pound, the Inxuriousness of feeling would have been increased. Every pound lost, woidd have been a hundredweight of happiness gained. The still small voice, Christopher," cries Brass, smiling, and tapping himself on the bosom, "is a singing comic songs within me, and all is happiness and joy ! " Kit is so improved by the conversation, and finds it go so completely home to his feelings, that he is considering what he shall say, when Mr. Garland appears. The old gentleman IS helped into the chaise with great obsequiousness by Mr. Sampson Brass ; and the pony, after shaking his head several times, and standing for thi'ee or four minutes with all his four tegs planted firmly on the ground, as if he had made up his mind never to stir from that spot, but there to Kve and die suddenly darts off, -wdthout the smallest notice, at the rate of bwelve English miles an hour. Then, Mr. Brass and his sister (who has joined him at the door) exchange an odd kind of smile — not at all a pleasant one in its expression — and retiuTi to the society of Mr. Richard Swiveller, who, dimng their absence, has been regaling himself with various feats of pantomime, and is discovered at his desk, in a very fiushed and heated condition, violently scratching out nothing with half a penknife. Whenever Kit came alone, and without the chaise, it always happened that Sampson Brass was reminded of some mission, calling Mr. Swiveller, if not to Peckham Rye again, at all events to some pretty distant place from which he could not be expected to return for two or thi-ee hours, or in all pro- bability a much longer period, as that gentleman was not, to say the truth, reno^Tied for using great expedition on such occasions, but rather for protracting and spinning out the time to the very utmost limit of possibility. Mr. Swiveller out of sight, Miss Sally immediately withdrew. Mr. Brass would then set the office-door wide open, hum his old tune with great gaiet}' of heart, and smile seraphicaUy as before. Kit coming down-stairs woiJd be called in ; entertained vrith. some moral and agreeable conversation ; perhaps entreated to mind the office for an instant while Mr. Brass stepped over the way; and afterwards presented with one or two half crowns as tlie case might be. This occurred so often, that Kit, nothing doubting but that they came from the single gentleman whc U THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. had already rewarded his mother with, great liberality, coiild not enough admire his generosity ; and bought so many cheap presents for her, and for little Jacob, and for the baby, and for Barbara to boot, that one or other of them was having some new trifle every day of their lives. WTiile these acts and deeds were in progref^s in and out of the office of Sampson Brass, Richard Swiveller, being often left alone therein, began to find the time hang heavy on his hands. For the better preservation of his cheerfidness, there- fore, and to prevent his facidties from rusting, he provided himself with a cribbage-board and pack of cards, and accus- tomed himself to play at cribbage with a dummy, for twenty, thirty, or sometimes even fifty thousand pounds a side, besides many hazardous bets to a considerable amount. As these games were very silently conducted, notwithstand- ing the magnitude of the interests involved, Mr. Swivellor began to think that on those evenings when Mr. and ISIisa Brass were out (and they often went out now) he heard a kind of snorting or hard-breathing sound in the direction of the door, which it occurred to him, after some reflection, must proceed from the small servant, who always had a cold from damp living. Looking intently that way one night, he plainly distingiiished an eye gleaming and glistening at the keyhole; and having now no doubt that his suspicions were correct, he stole softly to the door, and pounced upon her before she was aware of his approach. "Oh! I didn't mean any harm indeed, upon my word I didn't," cried the small servant, struggling like a much larger one. " It 's so very dull, down stairs. Please don't you tell upon me, please don't." " TeU upon you !" said Dick. " Do you mean to say you were looking through the keyhole for company?" " Yes, upon my word I was," replied the small servant. " How long have you been cooling your eye there?" said Dick. " Oh ever since you first began to play them cards, and long before." Vague recollections of several fantastic exercises with which he had refreshed himself after the fatigues of business, and to all of which, no doubt, the small servant was a i)arty, rathet disconcerted Mr. Swiveller ; but he was not very sensitive on Buch points, and recovered himself speedily. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 15 "Well, — come in" — he said, after a little consideration. " Here — sit do-mi, and I '11 teach you how to play." " Oh ! I durstn't do it" rejoined the small servant; " Miss Sally 'ud kill me, if she know'd I come up here." " Have you got a fire down stairs ?" said Dick. *' A very little one," replied the small servant. " Miss Sally couldn't kill me if she know'd I went down there, so I '11 come," said Richard, putting the cards into his pocket. " Why, how thin you are ! What do j-ou mean by it?" " It an't my fault." " Could you eat any bread and meat?" said Dick, taking down his hat. "Yes? Ah I I thought so. Did you ever taste beer?" " I had a sip of it once," said the small Tervant. "Here's a state of things!" cried Mr. Swiveller, raising his eyes to the ceiling. " Slie never tasted it — it can't be tasted in a sip ! A^Tiy, how old are you ?" " I don't know." Mr. Swiveller opened his eyes very wide, and appeared thoughtful for a moment ; then, bidding the child mind th« do('r imtil he came back, vanished straightway. Presently, he retui-ned, followed by the boy from the public- house, T\-ho bore in one hand a plate of bread and beef, and in the other a great pot, filled with some very fragrant com- pound, which sent forth a gratefiJ steam, and was indeed choice purl, made after a particular recipe wliich Mr. Swiveller had imparted to the landlord, at a period when he was deep in his books and desirous to conciliate his friendship. Relieving the boy of his burden at the door, and charging his little companion to fasten it to prevent siu'prise, Mr. Swiveller followed her into the kitchen. "There!" said Richard, putting the plate before her " First of all, clear that off, and tlien you '11 see what's next." The small servant needed no second bidding, and the plate was soon empty. " Next," said Dick, handing the pvirl, " take a pull at that; but moderate your transports, you know, for you 're not used to it. Well, is it good?" " Oh ! isn't it?" said the small servant. Mr. Swiveller i:ppeared gratified beyond all expression by this reply, and took a long draught himself: steadfastly l« THE OLD CURlCilTY SHOP. regarding liis companion tvhile he did so. Tliese pre- liminaries disposed of, he' applied himsell' to teaching her tlie game, which she soon learnt tolerably well, being both sharp- witted and cunning. " Now," said Mr. Swiveller, putting two sixpences into a saucer, and trimming the wretched candle, when the cards had been cut and dealt, " those are the stakes. If you win. you get 'em all. If I win, I get 'em. To make it seem more real and pleasant, I shall caU you the Marchioness, do vou hear?" '' The small servant nodded. "Then, Marchioness," said Mr. SwiveUer, "fire away!" The Marchioness, holding her cards very tight in both hands, considered which to play, and Mr. SwiveUer, assuming the gay and fashionable air which such society required, too* fmoliier piill at the tankard, and waited for her lead. STATE NORMAL SCHuui., ' '3 ANGELES, -:- CAL. SHE OLD CnRlOSITY -IHOP 1? CHAPTER III. Mh. Switeli.er and his partner played several rubbers irith varying success, until the loss of three sixpences, the gradual sinking of the purl, and the striking of ten o'clock, combined to render that gentleman mindful of the flight of Time, and the expediency of withdrawing before Mr. Sampson and Miss Sally Brass returned. " With which object in view, Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller gravely, " I shall ask your ladyship's permission to put the board in my pocket, and to retire from the presence when I have finished this tankard; merely observing, Marcliioness, that since life like a river is flowing, I care not how fast it rolls on, ma'am, on, while such pmi on the bank still is groM'ing, and such eyes light the waves as they run. Marchioness, your health. You will excuse my wearing my hat, but the palace is damp, and the marble floor, is — if I may be allowed the expression — sloppy." As a precaution against this latter inconvenience, Mr. Swiveller had been sitting for some time with his feet on the hob, in which attitude he now gave utterance to these apologetic observations, and slowly sipped the last choice drops of nectar. " The Baron Sampsono Brasso and his fair sister are (you tell me) at the Play?" said Mr. Smveller, leaning his left arm heavily upon the table, and raising his voice and his right leg after the manner of a theatrical bandit. The Marchioness nodded. •' Ha !" said Mr. Swivelle'*, with a portentous £ro^\Ti. " 'T is well. Marchioness ! — but no matter. Some wine there. Ho ! " He illustrated these melo-dramatic morsels, by handing the tankard to himself with great humility, receiving it haughtily, drinking from it thirstily, and smacking his lips fiercely. The small servant who was not so well acquainted with theatrical conventionalities as Mr. Swiveller (having indeed TOt. II, c 18 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. never seen a play, or heard one spoken of, except by chanoe through chinks of doors and in other forbidden places) wae rather alarmed by demonstrations so novel in their nature, and showed her concern so plainly in her looks, that Mr Swiveller felt it necessary to discharge his brigand manner for one more suitable to private life, as he asked, " Do thev often go -where glory waits 'em and leave you here?" " Oh, yes ; I believe you they do," returned the small servant. " Miss Sally 's such a 07ie-er for that, she is." " Such a what? " said Dick. " Such a one-er," returned the Marchioness. After a moment's reflection, Mr. Swiveller determined to forego his responsible duty of setting her right, and to suffer her to talk on ; us it was eWdent that her tongue was loosened by the purl, and her opportamities for conversation were not so frequent as to render a momentary check of little C()iisp(|uence. " 'I'lioy sometimes go to see Mr. Quilp," said the small servant with a shrewd look; "they go to a many places, bless you! " " Is Mr. Brass a wuuner?" said Dick. " Not half vv'hat Miss Sally is, he isn't," replied the small servant, sliaking her head. " Ble&s you, he'd never do anything without her." "Oh; He wouldn't, woiddn't he?" said Dick. " Miss Sally keeps him in such order," said the small servant; " he always asks her ad^dce, he does ; and he catches it sometimes. Bless you, you wouldn't believe how much he catches it." "I suppose," said Dick, "that they consult together, u arood deal and talk about a great many people — about me for iustance, sometimes, eh. Marchioness ? " The Marchioness nodded amazingly. " Complimentary ? " said Mr. SwiveUer. Tlie Marchioness changed the motion of her head, which liad not yet left off nodding, and suddenly began to shake it from side to side, with a vehemence which threatened to dislocate her neck. " Humph ! " Dick muttered. " Would it be any breach of confidence. Marchioness, to relate what they say of the humblfl individual who has now the honom' to — ?" THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. IS " Miss Sally says you 're a funny chap," replied hie friend. " WeU, Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, " that 's not uncomplimentary. Merriment, Marchioness, is not a bad or a degrading quality. Old King Cole was himself a merry old Boul, if we may put any faith in the pages of history." " But she says," pursued his companion, " that you an't to be trusted." " Why, really IMarcliioness," said Mr. Swiveller, thought- fully; "several ladies and gentlemen — not exactly professional persons, but tradespeople, ma'am, tradespeoj)le — have made the same remark. The obscui-e citizen who keeps the hotel over the way, inclined strongly to that opinion to-night when I ordered him to prepare the banquet. It 's a popular prejudice, Marchioness ; and yet I am sure I don't know why, for I liave been trusted in my time to a considerable amount, auil I can safely say that I never forsook my trust until it deserted me — never. Mr. Brass is of the same opinion, I suppose ! " His friend nodded again, vdth. a cunning look whicli seemed to hint that Mr. Brass held stronger opinions on the subject than his sister ; and seeming to recollect herself, added imploringly, '^But don't you ever teU upon me, or I shall be beat to death." " Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, rising, ** the word of a gentleman is as good as his bond — snmf^tiinos better, as in the present case, where his bond might nn.vc but a doubtful sort of security. I am your friend, and 1 iidpc we shall play many more rubbers together in this same saluuii. But, Marchioness," added Richard, stopping in his way to the door, and wheeling slowly round upon the small servant, who was following with the candle ; " it occurs to me that you must be in the constant tabit of airing your eye at keyholes, to Ivuow all this." " I only wanted," replied the trembling INIarchioness, " to knoAv where the key of the safe was hid ; that was aU ; and I wouldn't have taken much, if I had found it — only enough to squench my hunger." " You didn't find it, then?" said Dick. " But of course you didn't, or you 'd be plumper. Good niglit. Marchioness. Fare thee well, and if for ever, then for ever fare thee well - -and put up the chain, Marchioness, in case of accidents." With this parting injunction, Mr. Swiveller emerged from o2 20 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP the he use ; and feeling that he had by this time taken quite ae much to drink as promised to be good for his constitutior (purl being a rather strong and heady compound), wiselj resolved to betake himself to his lodgings, and to bed at once. Homeward lie went therefore ; and his apartments (for he still retaiupil the plural fiction) being at no great distance from tlie otiiit'. he was «oon seated in his own bed-chamber, where, having- pMlh- 1 off one boot and forgotten the other, ho fell into deep co^italion. " This Marfliioness," said Mr. Swiveller, folding his arms, "is a very extra<»int sir. I believe the name of one of these gentlemen ia Garland." " Of both," said the notary. " In-deed ! " rejoined Brass, cringing excessively. " But I might have known that, from, the uncommon likeness. lOxtremelv happy, I am sure, to have the honour of an intro- :lii(;tion to two such gentlemen, although the occasion is a most painful one. One of you gentlemen has a servant called Kit?" " Both," replied the notary. " Two Kits ? " said Brass, smiling. " Dear me ! " "One Kit, sir," retiiiTied Mr. Witherden angrily, " who ifi vii'lHdjed by l)()th gentlemen. Wlint of him ? " 88 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. " Tliis of him sir," rejoined Brass, dropping his voice impressivL'ly. " That young man, sir, that I have felt unbounded and unlimited confidence in, and always behaved to as if he was my equal — that young man has this morning committed a robbery in my office, and been taken almost in the fact." " This must be some falsehood ! " cried the notary. " It is not possible," said Mr. Abel. " I '11 not believe one word of it," exclaimed the old gentleman. Mr. Brass looked mildly round upon them, and rejoined. " Mr. Witherden sir, your words are actionable, and if I was a man of low and mean standing, who couldn't afford to be slandered, I shoidd proceed for damages. HoAvs'ever sir, being what I am, I merely scorn such expressions. The honest warmth of the other gentleman I respect, and I 'm tridy sorry to be the messenger of such unpleasant news. I shouldn't have put myself in this painfid position, I assure you, but that the lad himself desired to be brought here in the first instance, and I jdelded to his prayers. Mr. Chuckster sir, will you have the goodness to tap at the window for the constable that 's waiting in the coach ? " The three gentlemen looked at each other with blank faces when these words were uttered, and Mr. Chuckster, doing as he was desired, and leaping off his stool with something of the excitement of an inspired prophet whose foretelliugs had in the fulness of time been realised, held the door open for the entrance of the wretched captive. Such a scene as there was, when Kit came in, and bursting into the rude eloquence ^\dth which Truth at leng-th inspired him, called Heaven to witness that he was innocent, and tliat how the property came to be found tipon him he knew not I Such a confusion' of tongues, before the circimi- stances were related, and t le proofs disclosed ! Such a dead silence when all was tola, and his three friends exchanged looks of doubt and amazement ! "Is it not possible," said Mr. Witherden, after a long pause, " that this note may have found its way into the hat by some accident, — such as the removal of papers on the desk, for instance ? " But, this was clearly sho-wn to be quite impossible. Mr SwiveUer, though ac unwilling m itness, could not help proving THK OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. SS to demonstration, from the position in which it was lound, that it must have been designedly secreted. " It 's very distressing," said Brass, " immensely distressing, I am sure. When he comes to be tried, I shall be very happy to recommend him to mercy on account of his previous good character. I did lose money before certainly, but it doesn't quite follow that he took it. The presumption 's against him — strongly against him — but we 're Christians, I hope ? " " I suppose," said the constable, looking round, " that no gentleman here, can give evidence as to whether he 's been flush of money of late. Do you happen to know sir ? " " lie lias had money fi'om time to time, certainly," returned Mr. Garland, to whom the man had put the question. " But that, as he always told me, was given iiim by Mr. Brass himself." " Yes to be sure," said Kit eagerly. " You can bear me out in that sir ? " " Eh ? " cried Brass, looking from face to face with an expression of stupid amazement. " The money you know, the half-crowns that you gave me — from the lodger," said Kit. " Oh dear me ! " cried Brass, shaking his head and froAvn- ing heavily. " This is a bad ease, I find ! a very bad case indeed." " What I Did you give him no money on account of any- body, sir ? " asked Mr. Garland, with great anxiety. **/ give him money, sir!" returned Sampson. "Oh, come you know, this is too barefaced. Constable, my good fellow, we had better be going." "What!" shrieked Kit. "Does he deny that he did? ask him, somebody, pray. Ask him to teU. you whether he did or not ! " " Did you, sir ? " asked the notary. ** I tell 3'ou what, gentlemen," replied Brass, in a very grave manner, " he 'U not serve his case this way, and really, if you feel any interest in him, you had better advise him to go upon some other tack. Did I, sir ? Of course I never did." " Gentlemen," cried Kit, on whom a light broke suddenly, " Master, Mr. Abel, Mr. Witherden, every one of you — he did 1 ! \Vhat I have done to offend him, I don't know, but thio le a plot to ruin mo. Mind, gentlemen, it 's a plot, and what- W THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. ever tomes of it, I will say with my dying breath that he put that note in my hat liimself I Look at him, gentlemen ! See how he changes colour. Which of us looks the guilty person —lie or I ? " "You hear him, gentlemen?" said Brass, smiling, "you hear him. Now, does tliis case strike you as assuming rather a black complexion, or does it not ? Is it at aU a treacherous case, do you think, or is it one of mere ordinary guilt ? Perhaps, gentlemen, if he had not said this in your presence and I had reported it, you 'd have held this to be impossible likewise, eh? " With such pacific and bantering remarks did Mr. Brass refute the foid aspersion on his character ; but the virtuous Sarah, moved by stronger feelings, and having at heart, perhaps, a more jealous regard for the honour of her family, flew from her brother's side, without any previous intimation of her design, and darted at the prisoner with the utmost fury. It would undoubtedly have gone hard with Kit's face, but that the wary constable, foreseeing her design, drew him aside at the critical moment, and thus placed Mr. Chuckster in circumstances of some jeopardy ; for that gentleman happening to be next the object of Miss Brass's wrath ; and rage being, like love and fortune, blind ; was pounced upou by the fair enslaver, and had a false collar plucked up by the roots, and his hair very mucli dishevelled, before the exertions of the coinpan}' could make her sensible of hsi mistake. The constable, taking warning by this desperate attack, and thinking perhaps that it would be more satisfactory to the ends of j ustice if the prisoner were taken before a magistrate, whole, rather than in small pieces, led him back to the hackney-coach without more ado, and moreover insisted on Miss Brass becoming an outside passenger ; to which proposal the charming creature, after a little angry discussion, jdelded her consent; and so took her brother Sampson's place upon the box : Mr. Brass with some reluctance agreeing to occupy her seat inside. These arrangements perfected, they drove to the justice-room with all speed, followed by the notary and his two friends in another coach. Mr. Chuckster alone was left behind — greatly to his indignation; for he held the evidence he could have given, relative to Kit's returning to work out the shilling, to be so very material as bearing upon TEE OLD CITRIOSITY SHOP. 41 his hypocritical and designing character, that he considered its suppression little better than a compromise of felony. At the justice-room they found tlie single gentleman, who had gone straight there, and was expecting them with desperate impatience. But, not fifty single gentlemen rolled into one could have helped poor Kit, who in half an hour afterwards was committed for trial, and was assured by a friendly officer on his way to prison that there was no occasion to be cast down, for the sessions would soon be on, and he would, in all likelihood, get his little affair disposed of, and be comfortably transported, in less than a fortnight. 4A IKE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. CHAPTER VI. Let moralists and philosophers say what they may, it is rery questionable whether a giiilty man would have felt hull as much misery that night, as Kit did, being innocent. The world, being in the constant commission of vast quantities ol injustice, is a little too apt to comfort itself with the idea that if the victim of its falsehood and malice have a clear con- science, he cannot fail to be sustained under his trials, and somehow or other to come right at last ; "in which case " say they who have hunted him down, " — though we certainly don't expect it — ^nobody will be better pleased than we." ^Vhereas, the world woxdd do well to reflect, that injustice ia in itself, tO every generous and properly constituted mind, an injury, of all others the most insufferable, the most torturing, and the most hard to bear ; and that many clear consciences lave gone to their account elsewhere, and many sound hearts have broken, because of this very reason ; the knowledge of their own deserts only aggravating their sufferings, and rendering them the less endurable. The world, hoAvever, was not in faidt in Kit's case. But, Kit was innocent ; and knowing this, and feeling that his best friends deemed him guilty — that Mr. and Mrs. Garland would look upon him as a monster of ingratitude — that Barbara woidd associate him with all that was bad and criminal— that the pony would consider himself forsaken — and that even his own mother might perhaps yield to the strong appearances against him, and believe him to be the wretch he seemed — knowing and feeling all this, he expe- rienced, at first, an agony of mind which no words can describe, and walked up and down the little cell in which he was locked Tip for the night, almost beside himself with grief. Even when the violence of these emotions had in some degree subsided, and he was beginning to grow more calm, tliero came into his mind a new thought, the anguish of THE OLD ODRIOSITY SHOP. H tvhich was scarcely less. The cMld — the bright star of the simple fellow's life — she, who always came back upon him like a beautiful dream, — who had made the poorest part of his existence the happiest and best, — who had ever been so gentle, and considerate, and good — if she were ever to hear of this, what would she think ! As this idea occm-red to him, the -walls of the prison seemed to melt away, and the old phice to reveal itself in their stead, as it was wont to be on winter nights — the fireside, the little supper-table, the old man's hat, and coat, and stick — the half-opened door, leading to lier little room. — they were all there. And Nell herself was there, and he — both laughing heartily as they had often done— and when he had got as far as tliis. Kit could go no farther, but flung himself upon his poor bedstead and wept. It was a long night, which seemed as though it would have no end ; but he slept too, and dreamed — always of being at liberty, and roving about, now with one person and now with another, but ever with a vague di-ead of being recalled to prison ; not that prison, but one which was in itself a dim idea — not of a place, but of a care and sorrow : of sometliing oppressive and always present, and yet impossible to define. At last, the morning da-\vned, and there was the jail itself — cold, black, and drear}', and very real indeed. He was left to himself, however, and there was comfort in that. He had liberty to walk in a small paved yard at a r-ertain hour, and learnt li'om the tiu-nkev, Avho came to unlock his cell and show him where to wash, that there was a regular time for visiting, every day, and that if any of hia friends came to see him, he would be fetched do^vn to the grate. When he had given him this information, and a tin poiTinger containing "his breakfast, the man locked hiui up ugain ; and went clattering along the stone passage, opening and shutting a great many other doors, and raising number- less loud echoes which resounded through the building for a long time, as if they were in prison too, and unable to get out. This tui-nkey had given him to understand that he was lodged, like some few others in the jail, apart from the mass of prisoners ; because he was not supposed to be utterly depraved and irreclaimable, and had never occupied apart- monts in that mansion before. Kit was thankful for this indulgence, and sat reading the church catechism very atten (ivoly (thougli he liad known it >)y heart fi-om a little child), i4 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. ontil he heard the key in the lock, and the man entered ngain. " Now then," he said, " corae on ! " " WHiere to, sir ? " asked Kit. The man contented himself by briefly repljdng " Wisitore;*' and taking him by the arm in exactly the same manner as the constable had done the day before, led him, through . several winding ways and strong gates, into a passage, wliere he placed him at a grating and turned upon his heel. Beyond this grating, at the distance of about four or five feet, was another, exactly like it. In the space between, sat a tiirnkey reading a newspaper ; and outside the fui-ther railing, Kit saw, with a palpitating heart, his mother with the baby in her arms ; Barbara's mother with her never- failing umbrella ; and poor little Jacob, staring in with all his might, as though he were looking for the bird, or the wild beast, and thought the men were mere accidents with whom the bars could have no possible concern. But, when little Jacob saw his brother, and, thrusting his arms between the rails to hiig him, found that he came no nearer, but still stood afar off with his head resting on the arm by which he held to one of the bars, he began to cry most piteously ; whereupon. Kit's mother and Barbara's mother, who had restrained themselves as much as possible, bxu-st out sobbing and weeping afresh. Poor Kit coidd not help joining them, and not one of them could speak a word. During this melancholy pause, the turnkey read his news- paper with a waggish look (he had evidently got among the facetious paragraphs) until, happening to take his eyes off it for an instant, as if to get by dint of contemplation at the very marrow of some joke of a deeper sort than the rest, it appeared to occur to him, for the first time, that somebody was crying. " Now, ladies, ladies," he said, looking roimd with sui'prise, " I 'd advise you not to waste time like this. It 's allowanced here, 3'ou know. You mustn't let that child make that noise either. It 's against all riiles." " I 'm liis poor mother, sir," sobbed Mrs. Nubbles, curtsey- ing humbly, "and this is his brother, sir. Oh dear rnc, dear me ! " " WeU ! " replied the turnkey, folding his paper on hits knee, so as to get with greater convenience at the top of tbe THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 46 next column. " It can't be helped, you know. He an't the only one in the same fix. You mustn't make a noise about it ! " With that, he went on reading. Tlie man was not naturally cruel or hard-hearted. He had come to look upon felony as a kind of disorder, like the scarlet fever or erysipelas : some people had it — some hadn't — just as it might be. " Oh ! my darling Kit," said his mother, whom Barbara's mother had charitably relieved of the baby, " that I should Bee my poor boy here ! " " You don't believe I did what they accuse me of, mother dear ? " cried Kit, in a choking voice. " I believe it ! " exclaimed the poor woman, " I, that never knew you tell a He, or do a bad action from your cradle — that have never had a moment's sorrow on your account, except it wan for the poor meals that you have taken with such good- humour and content, that I forgot how little there was, when I thought how kind and thoughtful you were, though you ff'ere but a child ! — I believe it of the son that 's been a comfort to me from the hour of his birth to this time, and that I never laid do"«Ti one night in anger with ! I believe it of you, Kit !— " " WTiy then, thank God ! " said Kit, clutching the bars with an earnestness that shook them, " and I can bear it, mother ! Come what may, I shall alwaj's have one drop oi happiness in my heart when I think that you said that." At this, the poor woman fell a crying again, and Barbara's mother too. And little Jacob, whose disjointed thoughts had by this time I'esolved themselves into a pretty distinct impression that Kit couldn't go out for a walk if he wanted, and that there were no birds, lions, tigers, or other nat\iral curiosities behind those bars — nothing indeed, but a caged brother — added his tears to theirs M'ith as little noise as possible. Kit's mother, dr3'ing her eyes (and moistening them, poor soul, more than she dried them), now took from the ground a small basket, and submissively addressed herself to the turn- key, saj-ing, would he please to listen to her for a minute ? The turnkey, being in tlie very crisis and passion of a joke, motioned to her with his hand to keep silent one minute longer, for her life. Nor did he remove his hand into ita former posture, but kept it in tlie same warning attitude uctil 46 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. he had finislied the paragraph, when he paused for a few seconds, with a smile upon his face, as who should say, " this editor is a comical hlade — a funny dog," and then asked hei what she wanted. " I have brought him a little something to eat," said the good woman. " If 3-ou please, sir, might he have it ? " " Yes, — he may have it. There 's no rule against that Give it to me when you go, and I '11 take care he has it." " No, but if you please sir — don't be angry with me, sir — I am his mother, and you had a mother once — if I might only see him eat a little bit, I should go away, so much more satisfied that he was all comfortable." And again the tears of Kit's mother burst forth, and of Barbara's mother, and of little Jacob. As to the baby, it was crowing and laughing -ndth all its might — luider the idea, apparently, that the whole scene had been invented and got up for its particular satisfaction. The tumkej' looked as if he thought the request a strange one and rather out of the common way, but nevertheless he laid dovra his paper, and coming round to where Kit's mother stood, took the basket from her, and after inspecting its content.*, handed it to Kit, and went back to his place. It may be easily conceived that the prisoner had no great appetite, but he sat do^\^l on the ground, and ate as hard as he could, while, at every morsel he put into his mouth, hia mother sobbed and wept afresh, though with a softened grief that bespoke the satisfaction the sight afforded her. "\\Tiile he was thus engaged. Kit made some anxious inquiries about his employers, and whether they had ex- pressed any opinion concerning him ; but all he could learn was, that Mr. Abel had himself broken the intelligence to hia mother, with great kindness and delicacy, late on the previous night, but had himself expressed no opinion of his innocence or guilt. Kit was on the point of mustering courage to ask Barbara's mother about Barbara, when the turnkey who had jonducted him re-appeared, a second turnkey appeared behind his visitors, and the third turnkey with the newspaper cried " Time 's uj) ! " — adding in the same breath " Now for the next party ! " and then plunging deep into his newspapei again Kit was taken off in an instant, with a blessing from his mother, and a scream from little Jacob, ringing in his ears. As he was crossing the next yard with the basket iE THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 47 hie hand, under the guidance of his former conductor, anothei officer called to them to stop, and came up with a pint-pot oi porter in his hand. " 'I'his is Christopher Nubbles isn't it, that come in last night for felony ? " said the man. His comrade replied that this was the chicken m question. "Then here's your beer," said the other man to Chris- topher. " AVTiat are you looking at? There an't a discharge in it." " I beg your pardon," said Kit. " Who sent it me ? " "Why, your friend," replied the man. "You're to have it every day, he says. And so you will, if he pays for it.*" " My friend ! " repeated Kit. " You 're all abroad, seemingly," returned the other roan. " There 's his letter. Take hold ! " Kit took it, and when he was locked up again, read as follows. " Drink of this cup, you '11 find there 's a spell in its every drop 'gainst the ills of mortality. Talk of the cordial that sparlded for Helen ! Her cup waft a' fiction, but this is reality (Barclay and Co.'s). If they ever send it in a flat state, complain to the Governor. Yours R. S." " R. S. ! " said Kit, after some consideration, " It must be Mr. Richard Swiveller. Well, it 's very kind of him, aad [ thauk him heartily ! " 48 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, CHAPTER VII. A FAXNT light, twinkling from the window of the coimting- house on Quilp's wharf, and looking inflamed and red through the night-fog, as though it suffered from it like an eye, fore- warned Mr. Sampson Brass, as he approached the wooden cabin with a cautious step, that the excellent proprietor, his esteemed client, was inside, and probably waiting with hia accustomed patience and sweetness of temper the fulfilmont of the appointment which now brought ]Mr. Brass within his fair domain. " A treacherous place to pick one's steps in, of a dark night," muttered Sampson, as he stumbled for the twentieth time over some stray lumber, and limped in pain. " I believe that boy strews the ground differently every day, on purpose to bruise and maim one ; imless his master does it with his own hands, which is more than likely. I hate to come to this place without Sally. She 's more protection than a dozen men." As he paid this compliment to the merit of the absent charmer, Mr. Brass came to a halt; looking doubtfully towards the light, and over his shoulder. "What's he about, I wonder?" murmured the lawyer, standing on tiptoe and endeavouring to obtain a glimpse of what was passing inside, which at that distance Avas impos- sible — " drinking, I suppose, — making himself more fiery and furious, and heating his malice and mischievousness tiU they boil. I 'm always afraid to come here by myself, when his account 's a pretty large one. I don't believe he 'd mind throttling me, and dropping me softly into the river, when the tide was at its strongest, any more than he 'd mind killing a rat — indeed I dt)u't know whether he wouldn't consider it a pleasant joke. Hark 1 Now he 's singing !" Mr. Quilp was certainly entertaining himself with vocal exercise, but it was rather a kind of chant than a song ; being THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 49 % monotonous repetition of one sentence in a reiy rapid manner, -with, a long stress upon the last word, which he BwoUed into a dismal roar. Nor did the burden of this per- formance bear any reference to love, or war. or wine, or loyalty, or any other, the standard topics of song, but to a subject not often set to music or generally known in ballads ; the words being these : — " The worthy magistrate, after remarking that the prisoner would find some difficulty in persuading a jury to believe his tale, committed him to take his trial at the approaching sessions ; and direcited the customary recognizances to be entered into for the pros-e-cu- tion." Every time he came to this concluding word, and liad exhausted all possible stress upon it, Quilp biu-st into a shriek of laughter, and began again. " He 's dreadfully imprudent," muttered Brass, after he had listened to two or three repetitions of the chant. " Horribly imprudent. I wish he was dumb. I wish he was deaf. I wish he was blind. Hang him," cried Brass, as the chant began again. " I wish he was dead !" Giving utterance to these friendly aspirations in behalf of his client, Mr. Sampson composed liis face into its usual state of smoothness, and waiting imtil the shriek came again and was dying away, went up to the wooden house, and knocked at the door. " Come in !" cried the dwarf. " How do you do to-night sir?" said Sampson, peeping in. * Ha ha ha ! Plow do you do sir ? Oh dear me, how very whimsical! Amazingly whimsical to be sure !" "Come in, you fool!" returned the dwarf, "and don't stand there shalcing your head and showing your teeth. Come in, you false witness, you perjurer, you suborner of evidence, come in!" "He has the richest humour!" cried Brass, shutting the door behind him; "the most amazing vein of comicality' But isn't it rather injudicious sir — ?" "What?" demanded Quilp, " What, Judas?" "Judas!" cried Brass. "Ho has such extraordinary spirits! His himiour is so extremely playful ! Judas! Oh yes — dear me, how very good ! Ha ha ha !" All this time, Sampson was rubbing Ids hands, and staring with ludicrous surprise and dismay, at a great, goggle-eyed, VOL. 'I 60 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. blunt-nosed figiu'e-head of some old ship, wliicli was reared up against the wall in a comer near the stove, looking like a goblin or hideous idol whom the dwarf worshipped. A mass of timber on its head, carved into the dim and distant semblance of a cocked hat, together with a representation of a star on the left breast and epaidettes on tlie shoxildeis. denoted that it was intended for tlie effigy of some famous admiral ; but, without those lielps, any oliserver might have supposed it the authentic portrait of a distinguished merman, or great sea-monster. Being originally much too large for the apart- ment which it was now employed to decorate, it had been sawn short off at the waist. Everi in this state it reached from floor to ceiling ; and tlirusting itself forward, with that excessively wide-awake aspect, and air of somewhat obtrusive politeness, by wliich figure-heads are usually characterised, seemed to reduce everything else to mere pigmy proportions. "Do you know it?" said the dwarf, watching Sampson's eyes. " Do you see the likeness ?" "Eh?" said Brass, holding his head on one side, and throwing it a little back, as connoisseurs do. " Now I look at it again, I fancy I see a — yes, tliere certainly is something in the smUe that reminds me of — and yet upon my word I — " Now, the fact was, that Sampson, having never seen any- thing in the smallest degree resembling this substantial phan- tom, was mucli perplexed ; being uncertain whether Mr. Quilp considered it like himself, and had therefore bought it for a family portrait ; or whether he was pleased to consider it as the likeness of some enemy. He was not very long in doubt ; for, while he was surveying it with that knowing look which people assume when they are contemplating for the first time portraits ^^•hieh they ought to recognise but don't, the dwarf threw dowai the newspaper from which he had been chanting jhe words aheady quoted, and seizing a rusty iron bar, which lie used in lieu of poker, dealt the figure such a stroke on the uose that it rocked again. " Is it Hke Kit — is it his picture, his image, his very self?" cried the dwarf, aiming a shower of blows at the insensible countenance, and covering it with deep dimples. " Is it the exact model and counterpart of the dog — is it — is it — is it?" And with every repetition of the question, he battered the great image, until the perspiration streamed down his face with the violence of the exerciat.. THE OLD CDRIOSITY SHOP. 61 Although this mig-ht have been a very comical thing to look at fi-om a secure giillery, as a buU-fight is found to he. a com- fortable spectacle by those who are not in the arena, and a house on fire is better than a play to people who don't live near it, there was something in the earnestness of Mr. Quilji's manner which made his legal adviser fee^ that the coiinting house was a bttle too small, and a deal too lonely, for tho complete enjoyment of these humours. Therefore, he stood as far off as he could, while the dwarf was thus engaged ; whimpering out but feeble applause ; and when Quilp left off and sat down again from pure exliaustion, ajiproached with more obsequiousness than ever. "Excellent indeed!" cried Brass. "He he! Oh, very good sir. You know," said Sampson, looking round as if in appeal to the bruised admiral, " he 's quite a remarkable man — quite!" " Sit down," said the dwarf. " I bought the dog yester- day. I 've been screwing gimlets into him, and sticking forks in his eyes, and cutting my name on him. I mean to bum him at last." "Ha ha!" cried Brass. "Extremely entertaining, in- deed!" "Come here!" said Quilp, beckoning him to draw near. "Wliat's injudicious, hey?" "Nothing sir — nothing. Scarcely worth mentioning sir; but I thouglit that song— admirably humorous in itself you know — was perhaps rather — " " Yes," said Quilp, " rather what?" " Just bordering, or as one may say remotely verging, upon the con£nes of injudiciousness perhaps sir," returned Brass, looking timidly at the d'n-arf's cunning ej'es, which were turned towards the fire and reflected its red light. " AMiy?" inquired Quilp, without looking up. " Why, 5'ou know sir," returned Brass, venturing to lie more familiar: " — the fact is sir, that any allusion to these little combiuings together, of friends, for objects in themselves extremely laudable, but which the law terms conspiracies, are — you take me sir ? — best kept snug and among friends, you know." "Eh I" said Quilp, looking up -vrth a perfectly vacani countenance. " What do you mean?" si "Cautious, exceedingly cautious, verv right and proper!" SL THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. ci'ied Brass, nodding his head. " Mum sir, even, here — ^my meaning su', exactly." "Your meaning exactly, you hrazen scarecrow, — what'.*; your meaning?" retorted Quilp. " Why do you talk to me of combining together ? Do / combine ? Do I know any- thing about your combinings?" "No no, sir — certainly not; not by any means," returned Brass. " If you so wink and nod at me," said the dwarf, looking about him as if for his poker, " 1 'U spoil the expression of your monkey's face, I \dU." " Don't put yourself out of the way I beg sir," rejoined Brass, checking himself with gi-eat alacrity. " You 're quite right sir, quite right. I shouldn't have mentioned the subject sir. It 's much better not to. You 're quite right sir. Let us change it, if you please. You were asking, sir, Sally told me, about our lodger. He has not returned sir." * " No ?" said Q,uilp, heating some rum in a little saurepau, and watcliing it to prevent its ])oiling over. * ' Why not ? ' ' " Why sii'," retui'ned Brass, " he — ^dear me, Mr. Quilp sir"— " "What's the matter?" said the dwarf, stopping lii? hand in the act of carrying the saucepan to his mouth. "You have forgotten the water, sir," said Brass. '' 'ind — excuse me sir — but it's biu-ning hot." Deigning no other than a practical answer to this remon- strance, Mr. Quilp raised the hot saucepan to liis lips, ard deliberately drank off all the spirit it contained, M-hich migh^ have been in quantity about half a pint, and had been but a moment before, when he tooli it off the fire, bubbling and hissing fiercely. Having swallowed this gentle stimulant and shaken liis fist at the admiral, he bade Mr. Brass proceed. " But fu'st," said Quilp, with his accustomed grin, " have a drop yoiu'self — a nice drop — a good, warm, fiery di'op." " Why sir," replied Brass, " if there was such a thing i»8 a moutliful of water that could be got -without trouble — " " There's no such thing to be had here," cried tlie dwarf. ■' Water for lawyers ! Melted lead and brimstone, you mean, aice hot blistering pitch and tar — that 's the thing for them — eh Brass, eh?" " Ha ha ha !" laughed Mr. Brass. " Oh very biting! and yet it's like being tickled— there 's a pleasure in it too, sir!"'* THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 58 " Drink that," said the dwarf, wno had by this time heated Bome more. " Toss it ofT, don't leave any heeltap, scorch your throat and be happy ! " The wi'etclied Sampson took a few short sips of the liquor, which immediately distilled itself into burning tears, and iu that form came rolling down his cheeks into the pipkin again, turning the colour of his face and eyelids to a deep red, aud gi^dng rise to a violent fit of coughing, in the midst of which ho was still heard to declare, -with the constancy of a martjT, that it was "beautiful indeed!" WTiile he was yet in un- speakable agonies, the dwarf renewed then- conversation. " The lodger," said Quilp, — " what about him?" " He is still sir," retui-ned Brass, with intervals of coughing, " stopping wdth the Garland family. He has only been home once, sir, since the day of the examination of that culprit. He informed Mr. Richard sir, that he couldn't bear the house after what had taken place ; that he was wretched in it ; and that he looked upon himself as being in a certain kind of way the cause of the occurrence. — A very excellent lodger sir. I hope we may not lose him." "Yah!" cried the dwarf. "Never thinking of anybody but yourself — Avhy don't you retrench then — scrape up, hocird, economise, eh?" " Why sir," replied Brass, " upon my word I think Sarah's as good an economiser as any going. I do indeed, Mr. Quilp." " Moisten your clay, wet the other eye, diink man !" cried the dwarf " You took a clerk to oblige me." " Delighted sir, I am sure, at any time," replied Sampson. " Yes sir, I did." " Then, now you may discharge him," said Quilp. '* There 's a means of retrenchment for you at once." " Discharge Mr. Richard su'?" cried Brass. " Have you more than one clerk, you parrot, that you ask the question? Yes." " Upon my word sir," said Brass. " I wasn't prepared for this—" " How could you be ?" sneered the dwarf, " when / wasn't? How often am I to tell you that I brought him to you that I might always have my eye on him and know where he was — md that 1 had a plot, a scheme, a httle quiet piece of enjoy- paent afoot, of which the very cream and essence was, that \h.\B old man and grandchild (who have sunk underground I 54 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. think) should be, while he and his precious friend believed them rich, in reahty as poor as frozen rats ?" " I quite understood that sir," rejoined Brass. " Thoroughly." " WeU sir," retorted Quilp, " and do you understand now, ihat they 're 7iot poor — that they can't be, if they have such men as your lodger searching for them, and scouring the country far and wide." " Of course I do sir," said Sampson. " Of course you do," retorted the dwarf, viciously snapping at his words. " Of course do you understand then, that it's QO matter what comes of this fellow ? of course do you under- stand that for any other pui'pose he 's no man for me, nor for you ? " " I have frequently said to Sarah sir," returned Brass, " that he was of no use at all in the business. You can't put any confidence in liim sir. If you '11 believe me I 've found that fellow, in the commonest little matters of the office that have been trusted to him, blurting out the truth, though expressly cautioned. The aggravation of that chap sir, has exceeded anything you can imagine, it has indeed. Nothing but the respect and obligation I owe to you sir — " As it was plain that Sampson was bent on a complimentary harangue, unless he received a timely interruption, Mr. Quilp politely tapped liim on the crown of his head with the little saucepan, and requested that he would be so obliging as to hold his peace. " Practical, sir, practical," said Brass, rubbing the place and smiling ; " but still extremely pleasant — immensely so ! " " Hearken to me, will you ? " returned Quilp, " or I 'U be a little more pleasant, presently. There 's no chance of his comrade and friend returning. The scamp has been obliged to fly, as I learn, for some knavery, and has found his way abroad. Let him rot there." " Certainly sir. Quite proper. — Forcible ! " cried Brass, glancing at the admiral again, as if he made a third in com- pany. " Extremely forcible ! " " I hate him," said Quilp between his teeth, "and have always hated him, for family reasons. Besides, he was an intractable ruffian ; otherwise he would have been of use. This fellow is pigeon-hearted, and light-headed. I don't want him any longer Let him hang or drown — starve — go to thfl devil." THE OLD CORIOSITY SHOP. ' 55 " By all means, sir," returned Brass. '* Wiiea. vould yoa winh. him sir, to — lia, ha I — to make that littlo excursion ? '" " When this trial 's over," said Qiiilp. " As soon as that 'a ended, send him about his business." " It shall be done, sir," returned Brass; " by all means, Ti will be rather a blow to Sarah, sir, but she has all her feelings under control. Ah, Mr. Quilp, I often think sir, if it had only pleased Providence to bring you and Sarah together, in earlier life, what blessed results would have flowed from such a union ! You never saw our dear father, sir ? — A charming gentleman. Sarah was his pride and joy, sir. He would have closed his eyes in bliss, would Foxey, Mr. Quilp, if he could have found her such a partner. You esteem her, sir ? " " I love her," croaked the dwarf. " You 're very good, sir," returned Brass, " I am sure. Is there any other order, sir, that I can take a note of, besides this little matter of Mr. Richard ? " " None," replied the dwarf, seizing the saucepan. '•' Let us drink the lovely Sarah." " If we could do it in something, sir, that wasn't quite boiling," suggested Brass humbly, " perhaps it would be better. I think it will be more agreeable to Sarah's fetHngs, when she comes to hear from me of the honour you have done her, if she learns it was in liquor rather cooler than the last, sir." But to these remonstrances, Mr. Quilp turned a deaf ear Sampson Brass, who was, by this time, anything but sober, being compelled to take further draughts of tlie same strong bowl, found that, instead of at all contributing to his recovery, they had the novel effect of making the counting-house spin round and round with extreme velocity, and causing the floor and ceiling to heave in a very distressing manner. Afte?' a brief stupor, he awoke to a consciousness of being partly imder the table and partly under the grate. This positioa fiot being the most comfortable one he could have chosen for himself, he managed to stagger to his feet, and, holding on by tlie admiral, looked round for his host. Mr. Brass's fii-st impression was, that his host was gone and had left him there alone — perhaps locked him in for the aight. A strong smell of tobacco, however, suggesting a new train of ideas, he looked upward, and saw that the dwarf was Imoking in his hammock 56 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. " Good bye, sir," cried Brass faintly. " Good bye, sir." " Wou't you stop all night ? " said the dwarf, peeping out. •' Do stop all night ! " " I couldn't indeed, sir," replied Brass, who was almost dead from nausea and the closeness of the room. " If you 'd have the goodness to show me a light, so that I may see ii»J way across the yard, sir — " Quilp was out in an instant ; not with his legs first, or his head first, or his arms first, but bodily — altogether. "To be sure," he said, taking up a lantern, which was now the only light in the place. " Be careful how you go, my dear friend. Bo sure to pick your way among the timber, for all the rusty nails are upwards. There 's a dog in the lane. He bit a man last night, and a woman the night before, and last Tuesday he killed a child — but that was in play. Don't go too near him." " Which side of the road is he, sir ? " asked Brass, in great dismay. " He lives on the right hand," said Quilp, " but sometimes he hides on the left, ready for a spring. He 's uncertain in that respect. Mind you take care of yourself. I '11 never forgive yoii if you don't. There 's the light out — never mind — ^you know the way — straight on !." Quilp had slyly shaded the light by holding it against hia breast, and now stood chuckling and shaking fi-om head to foot in a rapture of delight, as he heard the law^'er stumbling up the yard, and now and then falling heavily down. At length, however, he got quit of the place, and was c\ic of hearing. Tlie dwarf shut himself up again, and sprang once more into his hammock. THE OLD CUEIOSITY SHOI. 57 CHAPTER YIII. The professional gentleman ■vrlio liad given Xit that con- Bolatory piece of information relative to the settlement of his trifle of business at the Old Bailey, and the probability of its being very soon disposed of, turned out to be quite correct in his prognostications. In eight days' time, the sessions com- menced. In one day after\\-ards, the Grand Jury found a True Bill against Christopher NiiKbles for felony; and in two days from that finding, the aforesaid Christopher Nubbles was called upon to plead Guilty or Not Guiltj' to an Indictment for that he the said Chi-istopher did feloniously abstract and steal from the dwelling-house and office of one Sampson Brass, gentle- man, one Banlv Note for Five Pounds issued by the Governor and Company of the Bank of England ; in contravention of the Statutes in that case made and provided, and against the peace of our Sovereign Lord the King, his crown, and dignity. To tliis indictment, Christopher Nubbles, in a low and trembling voice, pleaded Not Guilty : and here, let those who are in the habit of forming hasty judgments from appearances, and who would have had Christopher, if innocent, speak out very sti'ong and loud, observe, that confinement and anxiety will subdue the stoutest hearts ; and that to one who has been close shut up, though it be onl}' for ten or eleven days, seeing but stone walls and a very few stony faces, the sudden entrance into a great hall filled with life, is a rather discon- certing and startling circumstance. To this, it must be added, that life in a wig, is, to a large class of people, much more terrif}-ing and impressive than life with its ovm head of hair; and if, in addition to these considerations, there be taken into rtccmmt Kit's natural emotion on seeing the two Mr. Garlanda and tke Httle Notary looking on with pale and anxious faces, it will perhaps seem matter of no very great wonder that he fchould have been rather out of sorts, and unable to make himself quite at home 68 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. Although he Jiad never seen either of the Mr. Garlands, or Mr. Witherden, since the time of his arrest, he had been given to understand that they had employed eovinsel for him. Therefore, when one of the gentlemen in wigs got up ard said " I am for the prisoner my Lord," Kit made him a bow; and when another gentleman in a wig got up and said " And I 'm against him my Lord," Kit trembled very much, and bowed to him too. And didn't he hope in hio own heart that his gentleman was a match for the other gentleman, and woidd make him ashamed of himself in no time ! The gentleman who was against him had to speak first, and being in dreadfully good spirits (for he had, in the last trial, very nearly procured the acquittal of a young gentleman who had had the misfortune to mui'der his father) he spoke up, you may be sui'e ; telHng the Jury that if they acquitted this prisoner they must expect to suffer no less pangs and agonies than he had told the other Jury they would certainly undergo if they convicted that prisoner. And when he had told them all about the case, and that he had never kno\\Ti a worse case, he stopped a little while, like a man who had something terrible to tell them, and then said that he understood an attempt woidd be made by his learned friend (and here he looked sideways at Kit's gentleman) to impeach the testimony of those immaculate witnesses whom he should call bcjfore them ; but he did hope and trust that his learned friend \fould have a greater respect and veneration for the character of the prosecutor ; than whom, as he well knew, there did not exist, and never had existed, a more honoui-able member of that most honourable profession to which he was attached. And then he said, did the Jury know Bevis Marks ? And if they did know Bevis Marks (as he trusted, for their own characters, they did) did they know the historical and elevating associations connected -with that most remarkable spot ? Did they believe that a man like Brass could reside In a place lilie Bevis Marks, and not be a virtuous and most upright character ? And when he had said a great deal to them on this point, he remembered that it was an insiJt to tlieir understandings to make any remarks on what they must have felt so strongly -nithout him, and therefore called Sampson Brass into the witness-box, straightway. Then up comes Mr. Brass, very brisk and fresh ; and, having bowed to the judge, like a man who has had the THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 59 pleasure of seeing him before, and who hopes he has been prettj' well since their last meeting-, folds his arms, and looks at his gentleman as much as to say " Here I am — full of evidence — Tap me ! " And the gentleman does tap him presently, and with great discretion too ; drawing off the evidence by little and little, and making it run quite clear and bright in the eyes of all present. Then, Kit's gentleman takes him in hand, but can make nothing of him ; and after a great many very long questions and very short answers, Mr. Sampson Brass goes down in glory. To him succeeds Sarah, who in like manner is easy to be managed by Mr. Brass's gentleman, but very obdurate to Kit's. In short, Kit's gentleman can get nothing out of her but a repetition of what she has said before (only a little stronger this time, as against his client), and therefore lets her go, in some confusion. Then, Mr. Brass's gentleman calls Richard Swiveller, and Richard SwiveUer appears accordingly. Now, Mr. Brass's gentleman has it whispered in his ear that this witness is disposed to be friendly to the prisoner — which, to say the truth, he is rather glad to hear, as hia strength is considered to lie in what is familiarly termed badgering. \\Tierefore, he begins by requesting the officer to be quite sure that this witness kisses the book, and then goes to work at him, tooth and nail. " Mr. SwiveUer/' says this gentleman to Dick, when he has told his tale with evident reluctance and a desii-e to make the best of it: "Pray sir, where did you dine j'esterday?" — "^\^lere did I dine yesterday?" — "Ave sii-, where did you dine yesterday — was it near here sir?" — "Oh to be sure — yes — just over the way" — "To be sure. Yes. Just over the way," repeats Mr. Brass's gentleman, with a glance at the court — "Alone sir?" — "I beg your pardon," says Mr. Swiveller, who has not caught the question — "Alone sir?" repeats Mr. Brass's gentleman in a voice of thunder, " did you dine alone? Did j^ou treat anybody sii-? Come!" — "Oh yes to be sm-e — yes, I did," says Mr. SwiveUer wdth a smile. " Have the goodness to banish a levity, sir-, wliich is very ill-suited to the place in which you stand (though per- haps you have reason to be thankful that it's only that place)," says Mr. Brass's gentleman, with a nod of the head, msinnating that the dock is Mr. SwiveUer s legitimate sphere of action ; ' ' and attend to me. You were waiting about here, 60 lUE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. yesterday, in expectation that this trial -vras coining on. You dined over the way. You treated somebody. Now, was thai Homebody brother to the prisoner at the bar ? " — Mr. Swivellef is proceeding to explain—" Yes or No sir," cries Mr. Brass's gentleman — "But will you allow me — " — "Yes or No sir" — "Yes it was, but—" — "Yes it was," cries the gentleman, taking him up short — " And a very pretty witness you are ! " Down sits Mr. Brass's gentleman. Kit's gentleman, not knowing how the matter really stands, is afraid to piirsue the subject. Richard Swiveller retires abashed. Judge, jiuy, and spectators, have visions of his lounging about, with an ill-looking, large-whiskered, dissolute young fellow of six feet high. The reality is, little Jacob, with the calves of his legs exposed to the open air, and himself tied up in a shawl. Nobody knows the tinith ; everybody beHeves a falsehood ; and all because of the ingenuity of Mr. Brass's gentleman. Then, come the witnesses to character, and here Mr. Brass's gentleman shines again. It txu-ns out that Mr. Garland has had no character with Kit, no recommendation of him but from his own mother, and that he was suddenly dismissed by his former master for unknown reasons. " Really Mr. Garland " says Mr. Brass's gentleman, "for a person who has arrived at your time of life, you are, to say the least of it, Bingularly inrliscreet, I think." The Jury think so too, and find Kit guilty. He is taken off, humbly protesting his innocence. The spectators settle themselves in their places with renewed attention, for there are several female witnesses to be examined in the next case, snd it has been rumoured that Mr. Brass's gentleman will make great fun in cross- examining them for the prisoner. Kit's mother, poor woman, is waiting at the grate below stairs, accompanied by Barbara's mother (who, honest soul ! never does anything but cry and hold the baby), and a sad interview ensues. The newspaper-reading-tumkey has told them all. He don't think it will be transportation for life, because there ''s time to prove the good character yet, and that is sure to serve him. He wonders what he did it for. " He never did it ! " cries Kit's mother. " Well," says the turnkey, "I won't contradict you. It's aU one now. whether he did it or not." Kit's mother can reach his hand through the bars, and she clasps it- God, and those to whom He has given sucli THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. fil tenderness, only know in how mucli agony. Kit bids iier keoji a good heart, and, under pretence of having the children lifted lip to kiss hiin, prays Barbara's mother in a whisper to take her home. " Some Mend will rise up for us, mother," cries Kit, " I am sure. If not now, before long. My innocence wiU come out, mother, and I shall be brought back again ; I feel a confidence in that. You must teach little Jacob and the baby how all this was, for if they thought I had ever been dishonest, Avhen they grew old enough to understand, it would break my heart to know it, if I was thousands of miles away. — Oh ! is there no good gentleman here, who will take care of her ! " The hand slips out of his, for the poor creature sinks down upon the earth, insensible. Richard Swiveller comes hastily up, elbows the bystanders out of the way, takes her (after some trouble) in one arm after the manner of theatrical ravishers, and, nodding to Kit, and commanding Barbara's mother to follow, for he has a coach waiting, bears her swiftly off. Well ; Richard took her home. And what astonisliing absurdities in the way of quotation from song and poem, he perpetrated on the road, no man knows. He took her homo, and stayed tiU she was recovered; and, ha-saug no money to pay the coach, went back in state to Bevis Marks, bidding the driver (for it was Satm-day night) wait at the door while he went in for " change." " Mr. Richard sir," said Brass cheerfully, " Good evening ! " Monstrous as Kit's tale had appeared, at first, Mr. Richard did, that night, half suspect his affable employer of some deep villany. Perhaps it was but the misery he had just witnessed which gave his careless natiu-e this impulse ; but, be that as it may, it was very strong upon him, and he said in as few words as possible, what he wanted. "Money?" cried Brass, taking out his purse. "Ha ha! To be siu'e Mr. Richard, to be sure sir. All men must live. You haven't change for a five pound note, have you sir ? " " No," returned Dick, shortly. " Oh ! " said Brass, " here 's the veiy sum. That saves trouble. You 're very welcome I 'm sure. — Mr. Richard sir — " Dick, who had by this time reached the door, turned round. " You needn't," said Brass, " trouble yourself to come back any more sir." S3 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. "Eh?" " You see, Mr. Richard," said Brass, thrusting his hands in his pockets, and rocking himself to and fro on his stool, " the fact is, that a man of your abilities is lost sir, quite lost, in our dry and mouldy line. It 's terrible drudgery — shocking. I should say, now, that the stage, or the — or the army Mr. Richard — or something very superior in the licensed victualling way — was the kind of thing that would call out the genius of such a man as you. I hope you '11 look in to see us now and then. Sally, sir, will be delighted I 'm sure. She 's extremely sorry to lose you Mr. Richard, but a sense of her duty to society reconciles her. An amazing creature that, sir ! You '11 find the money quite correct, I think. There 's a cracked window sir, but I 've not made any deduction on that account. Whenever we part with friends, Mr. Richard, let us part liberally. A delightful sentiment sir ! " To all these rambling observations, Mr. Swiveller answered not one word, but, returning for the aquatic jacket, rolled it into a tight round ball : looking steadily at Brass meanwhile as if he had some intention of bowling him down with it He only took it under his arm, however, and marched out of the office in profound silence. "When he had closed the door, he re-opened it, stared in again for a few moments with the same portentous gravity, and nodding his head once, in a slow and ghost-like manner, vanished. He paid the coachman, and tiu-ned his back on Bevis Marks, big with great designs for the comforting of Kit's mother and the aid of Kit himself. But, the lives of gentlemen devoted to such pleasures as Richard Swiveller, are extremely precarious. The spiritual excitement of the last fortnight, working upon a system afiected in no slight degree by the spirituous excitement of some years, proved a little too much for him. That very night, Mr. Richard was seized with an alarming illnesR, and in twenty-four hours was stricken with a raging fever. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 68 CHAPTER IX. TossiNS to and fro upon his hot, uneasy bed; tormented ■by a fierce tliirst which notliing could appease; unable to find, in any change of posture, a moment's peace or ease ; and rambling, ever, through deserts of thought where there was no resting-place, no sight or sound suggestive of refreshment or repose, nothing but a duU eternal weariness, with no change but the restlest shiftings of his miserable body, and the weary wanderings of his mind, constant still to one ever- present anxiety — to a sense of something left undone, of some fearful obstacle, to be surmounted, of some carking care that would not be driven away, and which haunted the distempered brain, now in this form, now in that^ always shadowy and dim, but recognisable for the same phantom in every shape it took : darkening every vision like an evil conscience, and making slumber horrible — in tliese slow tortui-es of his dread disease, the unfortunate Richard lay wasting and consuming inch by inch, imtil, at last, when he seemed to fight and struggle to rise up, and to be held down by de\als, he sank into a deep sleep, and di-eamed no more. lie awoke. With a sensation of most blissful rest, better than sleep itself, he began gradually to remember something of these sufferings, and to think what a long night it ha(? been, and whether he had not been delirious tM'ice or thi'ice. Happening, in the midst of these cogitations, to raise his hand, he was astonished to find how heavy it seemed, and yet how thin and hght it really was. Still, he felt indifferent and happy; and having no curiosity to pui'sue the subject, re- mained in the same waking slumber until his attention was attracted by a cough. This made him doubt, whether he had locked his door last night, and feel a little surprised at having a companion in the room. StiU lie lacked energy to follow up this train of thought; and unconsciously fell, in a iuxuiy of repose, to staring at some green stripes on tlie bed- ti THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. firniiture, and associatiiig them strangely witli patches of fresh turf, while the yellow ground between, made gravel -walks, and so helped out a long perspective of trim gardens. He was rambling in imagination on these terraces, and had quite lost himself among them indeed, when he heard the cough once more. The walks shrunk into stripes again at the sound ; and raising himself a little in the bed, and holding the curtain open with one hand, he looked out. The same room certainly, and still by candle-light; but with what unboimded astonishment did he see all those bottles, and basins, and articles of linen airing by the fire, and such- like furniture of a sick chamber — all very clean and neat, but all quite different from anj-thing he had left there, when he went to bed ! The atmosphere, too, filled with a cool smell of herbs and vinegar ; the floor newly sprinkled ; the — the what? The Marchioness ? Yes ; playing cribbage with herself at the table. There she sat, intent Hpon her game, coughing now and then in a subdued manner as if she feared to disturb him — shuffling the cards, cutting, dealing, playing, counting, pegging — going through aU the mj^steries of cribbage as if she had been in full practice from her cradle ! Mr. SwiveUer contemplated these things for a short time, and suffering the curtain to fall into its former position, laid his head on the pillow again. " I 'm dreaming," thouglit Richard, " that's clear. "When I went to bed, my hands were not made of egg-shells ; an;? now I can almost see tlu-ough 'em. If this is not a dream, I have woke up, by mistake, in an Arabian Night, instead of a London one. But I have no doubt I 'm asleep. Not the least." Here the small servant had another cough. , "Yqjj remarkable ! " thought Mr. Swiveller, '' I never dreamt such a real cough as that, before. I don't Icnow, indeed, that I ever dreamt either a cough or a sneeze. Perhaps it's part of the philosophy of dreams that one never does. There 's another — and another — I say ' — 1 'm dreaming rather fiist!" For the purpose of testing his real condition, Mr. SwiveUer, after some reflection, pinched himself in the arm. " Queerer stiU. ! " he thought. " I came to bed rathca plump than otherwise, and now there's nothing to lay hold of. I '11 take another stu'vey." THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 05 The result of this additional inspection was, to convince Mr. Swiveller that the objects by wliieh he was surrouud(;d were real, and that he saw them, beyond all question, with his waking eyes. " It 's an Arabian Night ; that's what it is," said Richard. " I 'm in Damascus or Grand Cairo. The Marchioness is a Genie, and having had a wager with another Genie about who is the handsomest young man alive, and the worthiest to >je the husband of the Princess of China, has brought me away, room and aU, to compare us together. Perhaps," said Mr. SwiveUer, tm-ning languidly round on his pillow, and looking on that side of his bed which was next the wall, " the Princesa may be still — No, she 's gone." Not feeHng quite satisfied with this explanation, as, even taking it to be the correct one, it still involved a little mystery and doubt, Mr. Swiveller raised the curtain again, determined to take the fii-st favourable opportunity of addressing his companion. An occasion soon presented itself. The Mar- chioness dealt, turned up a knave, and omitted to take the usual advantage; upon which, Mr. SwiveUer called out aa loud as he could — " Two for his heels ! " The Marchioness jumped up quickly, and clapped her hands. " Arabian Night, certainly," thought Mr. Swiveller ; " they always clap their hands instead of ringing the bell. Now for the two thousand black slaves, with jars of jewels on their heads ! " It appeared, however, that she had only clapped her hands for joy ; as, directly afterwards she began to laugh, and then to cry ; declaring, not in choice Arabic but in familiar EngHsh, that she was " so glad, she didn't know what to do." " Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, thoughtfully, " be pleased to draw nearer. First of all, wi4i you have the good- ness to inform me where I shall find my voice ; and secondly, what has become of my flesh ? " The Marchioness only shook her head moiu-nfuUy, and cried again ; whereupon Mr. SwiveUer (being very weak) felt his OMTi eyes affected Ukewise. " I begin to infer, from your manner, and these appear- ances, Marchioness," said Richard after a paiiso, and smUing jdth a trembling lip, " that I have been iU." "You just have!" replied the smaU seiwant, v iping hei 3yes. " And haven't you been a talking nonsense ! " VOL. II ' 38 THE OLD (^CRIOSITY SnOP. " Oh ! " said Dick " Very ill, I^Iarchioness, have T beeu ? '' "Dead, all but," replied the small servant. "I neveJ thought you'd get better. Thank Heaven you have !" Mr. Swiveller was silent for a long while. Bye and bye, ne began to talk again : inquiring how long he had been there. " Three weeks to-morrow," replied the small servant. " Three what?" said Dick. " Weeks," returned the Marchioness emphatically; " three long, slow, weeks." The bare thought of having been in such extremitj^, caused Richard to fall into another silence, and to lie flat down again, at his full length. The Marchioness, having arranged the bedclothes more comfortably, and felt that his hands and fore- head were quite cool — a discovery that filled her with delight — cried a little more, and then applied herself to getting tea ready, and making some thin dry toast. While she was thus engaged, Mr. Swiveller looked on with a grateful heart, very much astonished to see how thorouglily at home she made herself, and attributing this attention, in its origin, to Sally Brass, whom, in his own mind, he could not thank enough. When the Marchioness had finished her toasting, she spread a clean cloth on a tray, and brought him some crisp shces and a great basin of weak tea, vrlth. wliich (she said) the doctor had left word he might refi-esh himself when he awoke. She propped him up with pillows, if not as skilfully as if she had been a professional nurse all her life, at least as tenderly ; and looked on with nnutterable satisfac- tion while the patient — stopping every now and then to shake her by the hand— took his poor meal with an appetite and relish, which the gteatest dainties of the earth, under any other circumstances, would have failed to provoke. Having cleared away, and disposed everj'thing comfortably about him again, she sat down at the table to take her own tea. " Marchioness," said Mr. Swiveller, "how 's Sally? " The small servant screwed her face into an expression of the very uttermost entanglement of slyness, and shook hei head. " What, haven't you seen her lately ? " said Dick. "Seen her!" cried the small servant " Bkee you, I've run awa}' ! " THE OLD JURIOSITY SHOP. 69 Mr. Swiveller immediately laid himself down again quite flat, and so reinayied for about five minutes. By slow degrees he resumed his sitting posture after that lapse of time, and inquired : " And where do you live, Marchioness ? " " Live ! " cried the small servant. " Here ! " "Oh!" said Mr. SwiveUer. And with that he fell down flat again, as suddenly as if he had been shot. Thus he remained, motionless and bereft of speech, until she had finished her meal, put ever^iiliing in its place, and swept the hearth ; when he motioned her to bring a chair to the bedside, and, being propped up again, opened a farther conversation. " And so," said Dick, " you have run away ? " " Yes," said the Marchioness, " and they 've been a tizing of me." " Been — I beg your pardon," said Dick — " what have they been doing ? " "Been a tizing of me — tizing you kaow — in the news- papers," rejoined the Marchioness. " Aye, aye," said Dick, " advertising?" The small sen'ant nodded, and winked. Her eyes were so red with waking and crying, that the Tragic !Muse might have winked -^dth greater consistency. And so Dick felt. "Tell me," said he, "how it was that you thought of coming here." "Why, you see," returned the Marchioness; "when you was gone, I hadn't any friend at all, because the lodger he never come back, and I didn't know where either him or you was to be found, you know. But one morning, when 1 was — " " Was near a keyhole ? " suggested Mr. Swiveller, observing that she faltered. " Well then," said the small servant, nodding ; " when I was near the office keyhole — as you see me through, you know— I heard somebody saying that she Hved here, and was the lady whose house you lodged at, and that you was took very bad, and woiddn't nobody come and take care of you. Mr. Brass, he says, ' It 's no business of mine,' he says; and Miss Sally, she says, ' He's a fimny chap, but it's no businesa of mine ; ' and the lady went away, and slammed the door to, when she went out, I can teU you. So I ran away that night, r2 58 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, and come here, and told 'em you was my brotlier, and they believed me, and I 've been liere ever since." " This poor little Marchioness has been wearing herself to death!" cried Dick. "No I haven't," she returned, "not a bit of it. Don't you mind about me. I like sitting up, and I 've often had a sleep, bless you, in one of them chairs. But if you could have eeen how j-ou tried to jump out o' winder, and if you could have heard liow you used to keep on singing and making speeches, you wouldn't have believed it — I 'm so glad you 're better, Mr. Liverer." " Li verer indeed ! " said Dick though tf idly. "It's well I am a liverer. I strongly suspect I should have died, Mar- chioness, but for you." At this point, Mr. Sniveller took the small servant's hand in his, again, and being, as we have seen, but poorly, might in struggling to express his thanks have made his eyes as red as hers, but that she quickly changed the theme by making him lie down, and urging him to keep very quiet. " The doctor," she told him, " said you was to be kept quite still, and there was to be no noise nor nothing. Now, take a rest, and then we 'R talk again. I '11 sit by you, you know. If you shut your eyes, perhaps you '11 go to sleep. You 'U be all the better for it, if you do." The Marchioness, in saying these words, brought a little table to the bedside, took her seat at it, and began to Work away at the .concoction of some cooling diink, with the addrass of a score of chemists. Richard SwiveUer, being indeed fatigued, fell into a slumber, and waking in about half an hour, inquired what time it v/aa. " Just gone half after six," replied his small fiiend, helping Lim to sit up again. " Marcliioness," said Richard, passing his hand over his foi'chead and turning suddenly round, as tliough the subject but that moment flashed upon him, " what has become of Kit?" He had been sentenced to transportation for a great many fears, she said. " Has he gone ? " asked Dick — " his mother — how is she, N. — what has become of her ? " His nurse shook her head, and answered that she knew nothbig about them. " But, if I thought," said she, very THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 69 slowly, " tliat you 'd keep quiet, and not put yourself Into auother fevei, I could tell you — but I won't now." " Yes, do," said Dick. " It will amuse me." " Oh ! would it though ! " rejoined the small servant, with a horrified look. " I know better than that. Wait till you 're better, and then I '11 tell you." Dick looked very earnestly at his little friend : and hia eyes, being large and hollow from illness, assisted the ex- pression so much, that she was quite frightened, and besought him not to think am- more about it. What had already fallen from her, however, had not oidy piqued his curiosity, but seriously alanned him, wherefore he urged her to tell him the worst at once. " Oh ! there 's no worst in it," said th* email servant. " It hasn't anjihing to do Avith you." " Has it anji;hing to do with — is it anytlimg you heard through chinks or keyholes — and that you wexe not intended to hear ? " asked Dick, in a breathless state, " Yes," replied the small servant. " In — in Bevis Marks ? " pursued Dick hastily. " Con- versations between Brass and Sally? " " Yes," cried the small servant again. Richard Swiveller thrust his lank arm out of bed, and, griping her by the wrist and drawing her close to him, bade her out with it, and freely too, or he would not answer for the consequences ; being -nhoUy unable to endure that state of excitement and expectation. She, seeing that he was greatly agitated, and that the effects of postponing her revelation might be much more iujui-ious than any that Avere likely to ensue from its being made at once, promised compliance, on condition that the patient kept himself perfectly quiet, and abstained fi-om starting up or tossing about. "But if you begin to do that," said the small servant, «' I 'U leave off. And so I tell you." " You can't leave off, tiU you have gone on," said Dick. '* And do go on, there 's a darling. Speak, sister, speak. Pretty Polly say. Oh tell me when, and teU me where, pray Marchioness, I beseech you ! " Unable to resist these fervent adjurations, which Richard Swiveller poured out as passionately as if tliey had l)een ol the most solemn and tremendous natiu-e, his companion spoke thus: to THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOr. (< Wei] ! Before 1 nin away, I used to sleep in the kitclien • — where we played cai-ds, you know. Miss Sally used to keep the key of the kitchen door in her pocket, and she always come down at night to take away the candle and rake out the fire. When she had done that, she left me to go to bed Id the dark, locked the door on the outside, put the key in hei pocket again, and kept me locked up till she come down in the morning — very early I can teU you — and let me out. I was terrible afraid of being kept like this, because if there was a fire, I thought they might forget me and only take care of themselves you know. So, whenever I see an old rusty key anywhere, I picked it up, and tried if it would fit the door, and at last I found in the dust cellar, a key that did fit it." Here, Mr. Swiveller made a violent demonstration with hia legs. But the small servant immediately pausing in her talk, he subsided again, and pleading a momentary forgetfulness of their compact, entreated her to proceed. " They kept me very short," said the small servant. " Oh ! you can't think how short they kept me ! So I used to come out at night after they 'd gone to bed, and feel about in the dark for bits of biscuit, or sangwitches that 3-011 'd left in the office, or even pieces of orange peel to put into cold water and make believe it was wine. Did 3'ou ever taste orange peel and water ? " Mr. Swiveller replied that he had never tasted that ardent liquor ; and once more ui-ged his friend to resume the thread of hor narrative. " If you make believe very much, it 's quite nice," said the small servant ; " but if you don't, you know, it seems as if it would bear a little more seasoning, certainly. Well, some- times I used to come out after they 'd gone to bed, and sometimes before, you know ; and one or two nights before there was all that precious noise in the office — when the young man was took, I mean — I come up stairs while Mr. Brass and Miss Sallv was a sittin' at the office fire ; and I '11 tell you the truth, that I come to listen again, about the key of the safe." Mr. Swiveller gathered up his knees so as to make a great cone of the bed clothes, and conveyed into his countenance an expression of the utmost concern. But, the small servant pausing, and holding up her finger, the cone gently dis- appeared, though the lotik of concern did not. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 71 "There was him and her," said the small servant, "a sittin by the fire, and talking softly together. Mr. Brass says tc Miss Sally. ' Upon my Trord,' he says, ' it 's a dangerous thing, and it might get us into a world of trouble, and I don't half like it.' She says — you know her way — she says, * You 're the chickenest-hearted, feeblest, faintest man I evei Bee, and I tliink,' she says, 'that I ought to have been the brother, and you the sister. Isn't Quilp,' she says, * our principal support ? ' ' He certainly is,' says Mr. Brass. 'And an't we,' she says, 'constantly ruining somebody or other in the way of business ? ' ' We certainly are,* says Mr. Brass. ' Then does it signify.' she saj'S, ' about ruining this Kit when Quilp desires it ? ' ' It certainly does not signify,' says Mr. Brass. Then, they whispered and laughed for a long time about there being no danger if it was well done, and then ^Ir. Brass pulls out his pocket-book, and says, 'Well,' he says, 'here it is — Quilp's o^vn five-pound note. We '11 agree that way, then,' he says. ' Kit 's coming to- morrow morning, I know. WHiile he 's up-stairs, you '11 get out of the way, and I '11 clear off Mr. Richard. Having Kit alone, I '11 hold him in conversation, and put this property in his hat. I '11 manage so, besides,' he says, ' that Mr. Richard shall find it there, and be the evidence. And if that don't get Christopher out of Mr. Quilp's way, and satisfy Mr. Quilp's grudges,' he says, ' the Devil 's in it.' Miss Sally laughed, and said that was the plan, and as they, seemed to be moving away, and I was afraid to stop any longer, I went down stairs again. — There ! " The small servant had gradually worked herself into as much agitation as Mr. Swiveller, aud therefore made no effort to restrain him when he sat up in bed and hastily demanded whether this story had been told to anybody. " How could it be?" replied his nurse. "I was almost afraid to thiuk about it, and hoped the j'ouug man would be let off. ^^1len I heard 'em say they had found him guilty of what he didn't do, you was gone, and so was the lodger — though I think I should have been frightened to tell him, even if he 'd been there. Ever since I come here, jou 've been out of your senses, and Avhat would have been the good i)f telling you tlien ? " " Marchioness." said Mr. Swiveller, plucking oti" his niglit- Sap and flinging it to the other end of the room ; 'if you 'U 72 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. do me the favour to retire for a few minutes and see whal sort of a night it is, 1 '11 get up." *' You mustn't tliink of such a thing," cried his nurse. " I must indeed," said the patient, looking round the room ** Whereabouts are my clothes ? " "Oil I'm so glad — you haven't got any," replied the Marchioness. " .Ma'am ! " said Mr. SwiveUer, in great astonishment. " I 've been obliged to sell them, every one, to get the things that was ordered for you. But don't take on about that," urged the Marchioness, as Dick fell back upon his pillow. " You 're too weak to stand, indeed." " I am afraid," said Richard dolefully, "that you're right. \Miat ought I to do ! what is to be done ! " It naturally occurred to him on very little reflection, that the first step to take woidd be to communicate with one of the Mr. Garlands instantly. It was very possible that Mr. Abel had not yet left the oiRce. In as little time as it takes to tell it, the small servant had the address in pencil on a piece of paper ; a verbal description of father and son, which would enable her to recognise either without difiiculty ; and a special caution to be shy of Mr. Chuckster, in consequence of that gentleman's known antipathy to Kit. Armed with these slender powers, she hurried away, commissioned to bring either old Mr. Garland or Mr. Abel, bodily, to that apartment. " I suppose," said Dick, as she closed the door slowly, and peeped into the room again, to make sure that he was com- fortable, " I suppose there's nothing left — not so much as a waistcoat even ? " " No, nothing." •' It 's embarrassing," said Mr. SwiveUer, " in case of firfl ■ — even an umbrella woidd be something — but you did quite right, dear Marchioness. I should have died without you ! '* THE OLD CU£1US1TY SHOF. 73 CHAPTER X. It was vrell for the small servant that she vras of a sharp, quick nature, or the conseqiience of sending her out alone, from the very neighboui'hood in wliich it Avas most dangerous for her to appear, would probably have been the restoration of INIiss Sally Brass to the supreme authority over her person. Not unmindful of the risk she ran, however, the JMaruhioness no sooner left the house than she dived into the first dark by-way that presented itself, and, without any present reference to the point to which her journey tended, made t her first business to put two good miles of brick and mortar between herself and Bevis Marks. "N^Hien she had accomplished this object, she began to shape her course for the notary's ofiice, to wliich — shrewdly in- quiring of apple- women and oyster-sellers at street corners, rather than in lighted shops or of well-dressed people, at the hazard of attracting notice — she easily prociu-ed a direction. As carrier-pigeons, on being first let loose in a strange j)lace, beat the air at random for a short time, before darting ofl towards the spot for which they are designed, so did the MsLrchioness flutter round and round untU. she believed herself in safety, and then bear swiftly down uj)on the port for which she was bound. She had no bonnet — nothing on her head but a great cap wJiicli, in some old time, had been worn by Sally Brass, whose taste in head-dresses was, as we have seen, peculiar — and her speed was rather retarded than assisted by her shoes, which, being extremely large and slipshod, flew off every now and then, and were difficult to find again, among the crowd of passengers. Indeed, the poor little creature experienced so much trouble and delay from having to grope for these articles of diess in mud and kennel, and suffered in these researches BO much jostling, pushing, squeezing, and bandyiug fi-om hand to hand, that by the time she reached the street in wliich the M THE OLD CUKIOSITY SHCP. notary lived, slie Tvas fairly ^vom out and exhausted, and could not refrain from tears. But to have got there at last was a great comfort, especially as there were lights still burning in the office window, and therefore some hope that she was not too late. So, the Mar- chioness dried her eyes with the backs of her liands, and, stealing softly up the steps, peeped in through the gliisa door. Mr. Chuckster was standing behind the lid of liis desk, making such preparations tOM^ards finisliing off for the night, as pulling down his wristbands and pulling up his shirt-collar, settling his neck more gracefully in his stock, and secretly arranging his whiskers by the aid of a little triangular bit of looking-glass. Before -the ashes of the fire, stood two gentle- men, one of whom she rightly judged to be the notary, and the other (who was buttoning his great-coat, and was evidently aboiit to dej)art immediately) JNIr. Abel Garland. Having made these observations, the small spy took counsel with herself, and resolved to wait in the street until Mr, Abel came out, as there would be then no fear of having to speak before Mr. Chuckster, and less difficulty in delivering her message. With this purpose she slipped out again, and, crossing the road, sat down upon a door-step just opposite. She had hardly taken this position, when there came dancing up the street, with his legs all wrong, and his head everywhere by turns, a pony. This pony had a little phaeton behind him, and a man in it ; but, neither man nor phaeton seemed to embarrass him in the least, as he reared up on his hind legs, or stopped, or went on, or stood still again, or backed, or went sideways, without the smallest reference to them, — just as the fancy seized him, and as if he were the freest animal in creation. When they came to the notary's door, the man called out in a very resjDcctfid manner, " Woa then," — intimating that if he might venture to express a wish, it would be that they stopped there. The pony made a moment's pause ; but, as if it occurred to him that to stop when he was required might be to establish an inconvenient and dangerous precedent, he immediately started off again, rattled at a fast trot to the street-comer, wheeled round, came back, and then stopped of his own accord. "Oh! you're a precious cr^atur!" said the man — who didn't venture by the bve to come out in his true coloiu's until THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 75 he was safe on the payement. " I wish I had the rewardiog of yoii, — I do." *' "\^liat has he been doing? " said Mr. Abel, tj'ing a shawl round his neck as he came down the steps. " He 's enough to fret a man's heart out," replied the hostler. " He is the moat wicious rascal — woa then, will you?" " He '11 never stand still, if you call him names," said Mr Abel, getting in, and taking the reins. " He 's a very good fellow if you know how to manage him. This is the first time he has been out, this long while, for he has lost ln'o old driver and woiildn't stir for anybody else, till this morning. The lamps are right, are they ? That 's weU. Be here to take him to-morrow, if you please. Good night ! " And, after one or two strange plunges, quite of his o^m invention, the pony yielded to Mr. Abel's rnddness, and trotted gently off. All this time Mr. Chuckster had been standing at the dooB>, and the small servant had been afraid to approach. She had nothing for it now, therefore, but to run after the chaise, and to caU to Mr. Abel to stop. Being out of breath when she came up with it, she was unable to make him hear. The case was desperate ; for the pony was quickening his pace. The Marchioness ]iung on behind for a few moments, and, feeling that she could go no farther, and must soon yield, ciambererl by a vigorous efi'ort into the hinder seat, and in so doing lost one of the shoes for ever. Mr. Abel being in a thoughtful frame of mind, and having quite enough to do to keep the pony going, went jogging on without looking round : little dreaming of the strange figure that was close behind him, until the Marchioness, having in Bome degree recovered her breath, and the loss of her shoe, and the novelty of her position, uttered close into his ear, the iN^ords — " I say, sir " — He turned his head quickly enough then, and stopping the pony, cried, with some trepidation, " God bless me, what ia this! ' "Don't be frightened, sir," replied the still panting messenger. " Oh I 've run such a way after you ! " " What do you want with me ? " said Mr. Abel. " How iid you come here ? " 96 THE OLD CDRIOSITY SHOP. " 1 got in beliind," replied the Marchioness. " Oh please drive on, sir — don't stop — and go towards the city, wiU you ? And oh do please make haste, because it 's of consequence. There 's somebody wants to see you there. He sent me to say would you come directty, and that he knowed all about Kit, and could save him jet, and prove his innocence." " Wliat do you tell me, child ? " " The truth, upon my word and honour I do. But please to drive on — quick, please ! I 've been such a time gone, he 'U think I 'm lost." Mr. Abel involuntarily urged the pony forward. The pony, impelled by some secret sjnnpathy or some new caprice, burst into a great pace, and neither slackened it, nor indulged in any eccentric performances, until they arrived at the door of Mr. Swiveller's lodging, where, marvellous to relate, he con- Bented to stop when Mr. Abel checked him. "See! It's that room up there," said the Marchioness, pointing to one where tliere was a faint light. " Come ! " Mr. Abel, who was one of the simplest and most retiring creatures in existence, and naturally timid withal, hesitated ; for he had heard of people being decoyed into strange places to be robbed and mvu-dered, under circumstances very J.ike the present, and, for anji;hing he knew to the contrary, by guides very like the Marchioness. His regard for Kit, however, overcame every other consideration. So, entrusting Whisker to the charge of a man who was lingering hard by in expecta- tion of the job, he suffered his companion to take his hand, and to lead him up the dark and narrow stairs. He was not a little surprised to find himself conducted into a dimly-lighted sick chamber, where a man was sleeping tranquilly in bed. " An't it nice to see him Iving there so quiet? " said his guide, in an earnest whisper. " Oh ! you 'd say it was, if ^•ou had only seen him two or three days ago." Mr. Abel made no answer, and, to say the truth, kept a long way from the bed and very near the door. His guide, who appeared to understand his reluctance, trimmed the candle, and taking it in her hand, approached the bed. As Bhe did so, the sleeper started up, and he recognised in the wasted face the features of Richard Swiveller. " Wliy, how is this ? " said Mr. Abel kindly, as he hurried towards him. "You have been ill? " THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 77 "Very," replied Dick. "Nearly dead. Ycu might Lave chanced to hear of your Richard on his bier, but for the friend I sent to fetch you. Another shake of the hand, Marchioness, if you please. Sit down, sir." Mr. Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his guide, and took a chair by the bedside. "I have sent for you, sir," said Dick — "but she told you on what account ? " " She did. I am quite bewildered by all this. I really don't know what to say or think," replied Mr. Abel. " You'll say that, presently," retorted Dick. "Marchioness, take a seat on the bed, will you? Now, tell this gentleman all that you told me ; and be particular. Don't you speak another word, sir." The stoiy was repeated; it was, in effect, exactly the same as before, without any deviation or omission. Richarel Swiveller kept his eyes fixed on his visitor during its narra- tion, and directly it was concluded, took the word again. " You have heard it aU, and you 'U not forget it. I'm too giddy and too queer to suggest anything ; but you and your friends will know what to do. After this long delay, every minute is an age. If ever you went home fast in your life, go home fast to-night. Don't stop to say one word to me, but go. She will be foimd here, whenever she 's wanted ; and as to me, 3^ou 're pretty sure to find me at home, for a week or two. There are more reasons than one for that. Marchioness, a light ! If you lose another minute in looking at me, sir, I '11 never forgive you ! " Mr. Abel needed no more remonstrance or persuasion. He was gone in an instant ; and the Marchioness, returning from lighting him do^vn stairs, reported that the pony, "ndthout any preliminary objection whatever, had dashed away at full gallop. "That's right!" said Dick; "and hearty of him; and I honour him from this time. But get some supper and a mug of beer, for I ana siu-e you must be tired. Do have a mug oi beer. It will do me as much good to see you take it as if I might drink it myself." Nothing but this assurance could have prevailed upon the small nurse to indulge in sucli a luxury. Having eaten and ilrunk to Mr. Swiveller's extreme contentment, given hini Uis drink, and put everything in neat order, she wrapped rs THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. i herself in an old coverlet and lay do^vn upon tlie rug before ! the fire. : Mr. Swiveller was by that time murmuring in his sl^p, ) " Strew then, oh strew, a bed of rushes. Here will we at&y, till znomiug blushes. Good night, Marchioness ! '* IBS OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 79 CHAPTER XI. On awaking in the morning, Richard Swiveller became conscious, by slow degrees, of whispering voices in his room. Looking out between the curtains, he espied Mr. Garland, Mr. Abel, the notary and the single gentleman, gathered round the Marchioness, and talking to her with great earnest- ness but in very subdued tones — fearing, no doubt, to disturb him. He lost no time in letting them know that this precau- tion was unnecessary, and all four gentlemen directly approached his bedside. Old Mr. Garland was the first to stretch out his hand and inquire how he felt. Dick was about to answer that he felt much better, though still as weak as need be, when his little nurse, pusliing the visitors aside and pressing up to his pillow as if in jealousy of their interference, set his brealsfast before him, and insisted on his taking it before he underwent the fatigue of speaking or of being spoken to. !Mr. Swiveller who was perfectly ravenous, and had had, all night, amazingly distinct and consistent dreams of mutton chops, double stout, and similar delicacies, felt even the weak tea and di-y toast such irresistible tempta- tions, that he consented to eat and drink on one condition. " And that is," said Dick, returning the pressure of ]\Ir. Garland's hand, " that you answer me this question ti'uly, before I take a bit or drop. Is it too late ? " " For completing the work jou began so well last night ? " returned the old gentleman. " No. Set your mind at rest on that point. It is not, I assure you." Comforted by this intelligence, the patient applied himself to his food with a keen appetite, though evidently not with a greater zest in the eatiag than liis niu-se appeared to have ia Bfieing him eat. The manner of his meal was this : — Mr, Swiveller, holding the slice of toast or cup of tea in liis left hand, and taking a bite or drink^. ae the case might be^ conBcantly kept, in his right, one palm of the ^larchioness 80 THE OLD CUllIOSITY SHOP. tight locked ; and to shake or even to kiss this imprisoned hand, he would stop every now and then, in the very act of swallowing, with perfect seriousness of intention, and the utmost gravity. As often as he put anything into his moutli, whether for eating or drinking, the face of the Marchioness, lighted up beyond all description ; but, whenever he gave her one or other of these tokens of recognition, her coimtenanca became overshadowed, and she began to sob. Now, whether she was in her laughing joy, or in her crying one, the Marchioness could not help turning to the visitors with aa appealing look, which seemed to say, " You see this fellow — • can I help this ? " — and they, being thus made, as it were, parties to the scene, as regularly answered by another look, " No. Certainly not." This dumb-show, taking place during the whole time of the invalid's breald'ast, and the invalid him- self, pale and emaciated, performing no small part in the same, it may be fairly questioned whether at any meal, where no word, good or bad, was spoken from beginning to end, so much was expressed by gestures in themselves so slight and unimportant. At length — and to say the truth before very long — Mr. Swiveller had despatched as much toast and tea as in that stage of his recovery it was discreet to let him have. But, the cares of the Marchioness did not stop here ; for, disappear- ing for an instant and presently returning with a basin of fair water, she laved his face and hands, brushed his hair, and in short made liim as spruce and smart as anybody under such circumstances coidd be made ; and all this, in as brisk and business-like a manner, as if he were a very little boy, and she his grown-up nirrse. To these various attentions, Mr. Swiveller submitted in a kind of grateful astonishment beyond the reach of language. "WHien they were at last brought to an end, and tlie Marchioness had withdraviii into a distant corner to take her otvti poor breakfast (cold enough by that time), he turned his f\ic»! away for some few moments, and shook hands heartily with the air. "Gentlemen," said Dick, rousing himself from this paiuse, and turning roimd again, " you '11 excuse me. Men who have been brought so low as I have been, are easily fatigued. I am fresh again now, and fit for talking. We 're short of chairs here, among othear trifles, but if you '11 do me the favotit *» sit upon the bed " THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 81 ** AVhat can we do for you ? " said Mr. Garland kindly. " If )''ou c'oidd make the Marchioness yonder, a Marchioness, In real, sober earnest," retiu'ned Dick, " I 'd thank you to get it done off-hand. But as you can't, and as the question is not what you will do for me, but what you will do for some- body else, who has a better claim upon you, pray sir let me know what you intend doing." " It 's chiefly on that account that we have come just now," said the single gentleman, "for you will have another visitoi presently. We feared you would be anxious unless you knew from ourselves what steps we intended to take, and therefore came to you before we stirred in the matter." " Gentlemen," returned Dick, " I thank yoti. Anybody in the helpless state that you see me in, is naturally anxious. Don't let me interrupt you, sir." " Then, you see, my good fellow," said the single gentle- man, " that while we have no doubt whatever of the truth of this disclosure, which has so providentially come to light — " " — Meaning hers?" said Dick, pointing towards the Marchioness. " Meaning hers, of course. While we have no doubt of that, or that a proper use of it would procure the poor lad's immediate pardon and liberation, we have a great doubt whether it would, by itself, enable us to roach Quilp, the chief agent in this villany. I should tell you that this doubt has been confirmed into something very nearly approaching cer- tainty by the best opinions we have been enabled, in this short space of time, to take ui:)on the subject. You '11 agree with us, that to give him even the most distant chance of escape, if *ve could help it, would be monstrous. You say with us, no doubt, if somebody must escape, let it be any one but he." "Yes," returned Dick, "certainly. That is, if somebody ffiust — but upon my word, I 'm unwilling that anybody should. Since laws were made for every degree, to curb vice in others as well as in me — and so forth you know — doesn't it strike you in that light ? " The single gentleman smiled as if the light in which Mr. Smveller had put the question were not the clearest in the world, and proceeded to explain that they contemplated proceeding by stratagem in the first instance ; and tliat theit design was, to endeavour to extort a confijssioti from the gentle Sai-ah, VOL. II. O 82 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. " ^VTien slie finds how much we know, and how we gnow it," he said, " and that she is clearly compromised already, we are not without strong hopes that we may be enabled through her means to punish the other two effectually. If we could do that, she might go scot-free for aught I cared." Dick received this project in an}i;hing but a gracious manner, representing with as much warmth as he was then capable of showing, that ihey would find the old buck (mean- ing Sarah) more difiicult to manage than Uuilp himself — that, for any tampering, terrifydng, or cajolery, she was a very unpromising and unyielding subject — that she was of a kind of brass not easily melted or moulded into shape — in short, that they were no match for her, and would be signaUy defeated. But, it was in vain to urge them to adopt some other coiu-se. The single gentleman has been described as explaining their joint intentions, but it should have been written that they aU spoke together ; that if any one of them by chance held his peace for a moment, he stood gasping and panting for an opportunity to strike in again ; in a word, that they had reached that pitch of impatience and anxiety where men can neither be persuaded nor reasoned with; and that it would have been as easy to turn the most impetuous ^ond that ever blew, as to prevail on them to reconsider their determination. So, after telling Mr. Swivellor how they had not lost sight of Kit's mother and the children; how they had never once even lost sight of Kit himself, but had been unremitting in their endeavours to procure a mitigation of his sentence ; how they had been perfectly distracted between the strong proofs of his guilt, and their own fading hopes of his innocence ; and how he, Richard Swiveller, might keep his mind at rest, for every- thing should be happily adjusted between that time and night ; — after telling him all this, and adding a great many kind and cordial expressions, personal to liimself, which it is unnecessary to recite, Mr. Garland, the notary, and the single gentleman, took their leaves at a very critical time, or llichard SwiveUer must assuredly have been driven into another fever, whereof the resiJts might have been fatal. Mr. Abel remained behind, very often looking at his watch and at the room door, until Mr. Swiveller was roused from a short nap, by the setting-down on the landing-place outside, as from the shoulders of a porter, of some giant load, which seemed to shake the house, and make tlie Little physic bottles ^~-£-L£;s THK OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 83 OD the mantel-shelf ring again. Directly this sound reached his ears, Mr. Abel started up, and hobbled to the door, and opened it ; and behold ! there stood a strong man, with a mighty hamper, which, being hauled into the room and presently unpacked, disgorged such treasures of tea, and coffee, and wine, and rusks, and oranges, and grapes, and fowls ready trussed for boiling, and calves' -foot jelly, and arrow-root, and sago, and other delicate restoratives, that the small servant who had never thought it possible that such things could be, except in shops, stood rooted to the spot in her one shoe, with her mouth and eyes watering in unison, and her power of speech quite gone. But, not so Mr. Abel; or the strong man who emptied the hamper, big as it was, in a twinkling ; and not so the nice old lady, who appeared so suddenly that she might have come out of the hamper too (it was quite large enough), and who bustling about on tiptoe and without noise — now here, now there, now everywhere at once — began to fill out the jelly in teacups, and to make chicken broth in small saucepans, and to peel oranges for the sick man and to cut them up in little pieces, and to ply the small servant with glasses of wine and choice bits of everything until more substantial meat could be prepared for her refresh- ment. The whole of which appearances were so unexpected and bewildering, that ]\Ir. Swiveller when he had taken two oranges and a little jelly, and had seen the strong man walk off with the empty basket, plainly leaving all that abundance for his use and benefit, was fain to lie down and fall asleep again, from sheer inability to entertain such wonders in his mind Meanwhile the single gentleman, the Notary, and Mr. Garland, repaired to a certain coffee house, and fcom that f' place indited and sent a letter to Miss Sally Brass, requesting ' her, in terms mysterious and brief, to favoui' an unkno-«Ti friend who wished to consult her, with her company there, as speedily as possible. The communication performed its errand so well, that within ten minutes of the messenger's return and report of its delivery. Miss Brass herself was announced. "Pray ma'am," said the single gentleman, whom she found alone in the room, " take a chair." Miss Brass sat herself down in a very stiff and frigid state, and seemed — as indeed she was — not a little astonished to find that the lodger and her mysterious correspondent wore one and the same person. q8 84 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. "You did not expect to see me?" said tlie single gentleman. •' I didn't tliink much about it," returned the beauty. " I supposed it was business of some kind or other. If it 'a about the apartments, of course you '11 give my brother regular notice, you know — or money. That 's very easily settled. You 're a responsible party, and in such a case la^vful money and lawful notice are pretty much the same." " I am obliged to you for your good opinion," retorted the single gentleman, "and quite concur in those sentiments. But, that is not the subject on which I wish to speak with you." " Oh ! " said Sally. " Then just state the particulars, will you ? I suppose it 's professional business ? " " Why it is connected with the law, certainly." "Very well," returned Miss Brass. " My brother and I are just the same. I can take any instructions or give you any advice." " As there are other parties interested besides myself," said the single gentleman, rising and opening the door of an inner room, " we had better confer together. Miss Brass is here, gentlemen ! " Mr. Garland and the Notary walked in, looking very grave : and, drawing up two chairs, one on each side of the single gentleman, formed a kind of fence roimd the gentle Sai-ah, and penned her into a comer. Her brother Sampson under such circumstances would certainly have evinced some confu- sion or anxiety, but she — all composure — pulled out the tin box and calmly took a pinch of snuff. " Miss Brass," said the Notary, taking the word at this crisis, " we professional people imderstand each other, and, when we choose, can say what we have to say, in very few words. You advertised a runaway servant, the other day? " "Well," returned Miss SaUy, with a sudden flush over- spreading her featui-es, " what of that ? " " She is found, ma'am," said the Notary, pulling out his pocket-handlcerchief with a flourish. " She is found." ■ Wbio found her?" demanded Sarah hastily. " We did ma'am — we three. Only last night, or you would have heard from us before." " And now I have heard from you," said Miss Brass, folding her arms as though she were about 4o deny something THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 85 to the death, " what have you got to say ? Something you have got into your heads about her, of course. Prove it, will you — that's all. Prove it. You have found her, you say. I can tell you (if you don't know it) that you have found the most artful, lying, pilfering, devilish little minx that was ever born. — Have you got her here?" she added, looking sharply round. " No, she is not here at present," returned the Notary. " But she is quite safe." " Ha ! " cried Sally, twitching a pinch of snuff out of her box, as spitefully as if she were in the very act of wi-enchiug off the small servant's nose ; " she shall be safe enough from this time, I warrant you." " I hope so," replied the Notary. — " Did it occur to you for the first time, when you found she had run away, that there were two keys to your kitchen door ? " Miss Sally took another pinch, and, putting her head on one side, looked at her questioner, with a ciu'ious kind of spasm about her mouth, but vsdth a cunning aspect of immense exj^ression . "Two keys," repeated the Notary; "one of which gave her the opportunities of roaming through the house at nights when you supposed her fast locked up, and of overhearing confidential consultations — among others, that particular con- ference, to be described to-day before a justice, which you "wtII have an opportunity of hearing her relate ; that conference which 3^ou and Mr. Brass held together, on the night before that most unfortxmate and innocent young man was accused of robbery, by a horrible de^dce of which I will only say that it may be characterised by the epithets you have applied to this wretched little ■o'itness, and by a few stronger ones besides." Sally took another pinch. Although her face was wonder- fully composed, it was apparent that she was wholly taken, by surprise, and that what she had expected to be taxed with, in connection with her small servant, was sometliing very different from this. " Come, come. Miss Brass," said the Notary, " you have great command of featvire, but you feel, I see, that by a chance which never entered your imagination, this base design :s revealed, and two of its plotters must be broiight to jutrice. Now, you know the pains and penalties you are liable to, and so I need not dilate upon them, but I have a 86 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. proposal to make to you. You have the honour of being sister to one of the greatest scoundrels unhung ; and, if I may venture to say so to a lady, you are in every respect quite worthy of him. But, connected with you two is a third party, a villain of the name of Quilp, the prime mover of the whole diabolical device, who I believe to be worse than either. For his sake, Miss Brass, do us the favour to reveal the whole history of this affair. Let me remind you that your doing so, at our instance, will place you in a safe and comfortable position — yovir present one is not desirable — and cannot injiu-e your brother ; for against him and you we have quite sufficient evidence (as you hear) already. I will not say to you that we suggest this course in mercy (for, to tell you the truth, we do not entertain any regard for 3'ou), but it is a necessity to which we are reduced, and I recommend it to you as a matter of the very best policy. Time," said Mr. Witherden, pulling out his watch, "in a business like this, is exceedingly precious. Favour us with your decision aa speedily as possible, ma'am." With a smile upon her face, and looking at each of the three by turns. Miss Brass took two or three more pinches of snuff, and having by this time very little left, travelled round and round the box with her forefinger and thumb, scraping up another. Having disposed of this likewise and put the box carefully in her pocket, she said, — " I am to accept or reject at once, am I ? " "Yes," said Mr. Witherden. Tiie charming creatiu-e was opening her lips to speak in reply, when the door was hastily opened too, and the head of Sampson Brass was thrust into the room. ./' Excuse me," said that gentleman, hastily. "Wait a bit !" ' So saying, and quite indifferent to the astonishment his presence occasioned, he crept in, shut the door, kissed his greasy glove as servilely as if it were the dust, and made a n ost abject bow. " Sarah," said Brass, "hold your tongue if you please, and let me speak. Gentlemen, if I could express the pleasure it gives me to see three such men in a happy unity of feeling and concord of sentiment, I think you would hardly believe me. But though I am unfortunate — nay, gentlemen, criminal, if we are to use hiirsh expressions in a company like this — still, I have my feelings like other men. I have heard of a THE OLD CURTOSlTr SHOP, 87 poet, who remarked tliat feelings were the common lot of all If he could have been a pig, gentlemen, and have uttered that sentiment, he would still have been immortal." "If you're not an idiot," said Miss Brass harshly, "hold your peace." " Sarah, my dear," returned her brother, " thank you. But I know what I am about, my love, and vrill take the liberty of expressing myself accordingly. Mr. Witherden, sir, your handlierchief is hanging out of your pocket — would you allow me to — " As Mr. Brass advanced to remedy this accident, the Notary shrimk from him with an air of disgust. Brass, who over and above his usual prepossessing qualities, had a scratched face, a green shade over one eye, and a hat grievously crushed, stopped short, and looked roimd ■«'ith a pitiful smile. " He shuns me," said Sampson, " even when I woiJd, as I may say, heap coals of fii-e upon his head. Well ! Ah ! But I am a falling house, and the rats (if I may be allowed the expression in reference to a gentleman I respect and love bej'ond ever}'thing) fly from me ! Gentlemen — regarding your conversation just now, I happened to see my sister on her Avay here, and, wondering where she could be going to, and being — may I venture to say ? — naturally of a suspicious turn, followed her. Since then, I have been listening." " If you 're not mad," interposed Miss Sally, "stop there, and say no more." "Sarah, my dear," rejoined Brass with iindiminished politeness, " I thank you kindly, but will still proceed. ^Ir. Witherden, sir, as we have the honour to be members of tlie same profession — to say nothing of that other gentleman having been my lodger, and having partaken, as one may say, of the hospitality of my roof — I think you miglit have given mo the refusal of this offer in the first instance. I do indeed. Now, my dear sir," cried Brass, seeing that the Notary was about to interrupt him, "suffer me to speak, I beg." Mr. Witherden was silent, and Brass went on. " If you will do me the favour," he said, holding up the green shade, and revealing an eye most horribly discoloured, " to look at this, you ss'ill naturally inquire, in your owTi minds, how did I get it. If you look from that, to my face, you will wonder what could have been the cause of siU theae 88 THK OLD CUKIOSITY SHOP. scratches. And if from them to my hat, how it came into the Btate in which you see it. Gentlemen," said Brass, strildng tlie hat fiercely with his clenched hand, " to all these questions I answer — Qnilp ! " The thi'ee gentlemen looked at each other, but said nothing. "I say," pursued Brass, glancing aside at his sister, as tJiough he were taBcing for her information, and speaking with a snarling malignity, in violent contrast to his usual smoothness, *' that I answer to all these questions, — Quilp — Quilp, who deludes me into his infernal den, and takes a delight in looking on and chuckling while I scorch, and bum, and bruise, and maim myself — Quilp, who never once, no never once, in all our communications together, has treated me otherwise than as a dog — Quilp, whom I have always hated with my whole heart, but never so much as lately. He gives me the cold shoulder on this very matter as if he had had nothing to do with it, instead of being the first to propose it. I can't trust him. In one of his howling, raving, blazing humours, I believe he 'd let it out, if it was murder, and never think of himself so long as he could terrify me. Now," isaid Brass, picking up his hat again, replacing the shade over his eye, and actually crouching down, in the exqess of his servility, "what does all this lead me to? — what should you say. it led me to, gentlemen ?—coidd you guess at all near the mark ? " Nobody spoke. Brass stood smirking for a little while, as if he had propounded some choice conundi-um ; and then said : " To be short with you, then, it leads me to this. If the truth has come out, as it plainly has in a manner that there 'a no standing up against — and a very sublime and grand thing is Truth, gentlemen in its way, though like other sublime and grand things, such as thunder-storms and that, we 're not always over and above glad to see it — I had better turn upon this man than let this man turn upon me. It 's clear to me that I am done for. Therefore, if anybody is to split, I had better be the person and have the advantage of it. Sarah, my dear, comparatively speaking you 're safe. I relate these circumstances for my o^\ti profit." "With that, Mr. Brass, in a great hurry, revealed the whole Btory; bearing as heavily as possible on his amiable employer, and making himself out to be rather a saint-like and holj THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 86 character, though subject — he acknowledged — to human weaknesses. lie concluded thiis : " Now, gentlemen, I am not a man who does things by halves. Being in for a penny, I am ready, as the saying is, to bo in for a pound. You must do with me what you please, and take me where you please. If you wish to have this in ^cTiting, we '11 reduce it into manuscript immediately. You M ill be tender with me, I am sure. I am quite confident you will be tender with me. You are men of honoiu', and have feeling hearts. I j-ielded from necessity to Quilp, for tliough necessity has no law, she has her lawj'ers. I yield to you from necessity too ; from policy besides ; and because of feelings that have; been a pretty long time working within me. Punish Quilp, gentlemen. Weigh heavily upon him. Grind him down. Tread him under foot. He has done as much by me, for many and many a day." Having no'v arrived at the eonchision of his discourse, Sampson checked the current of his wrath, kissed his glove again, and smiled as only parasites and cowards can. " And this," said Miss Brass, raising her head, with wliich she had hitherto sat resting on her hands, and surveying liim from head to foot with a bitter sneer, "this is mj brother, ia it ! This is my brother, that I have worked and toUed for, and believed to have had something of the man in him ! " " Sarah, my dear," returned Sampson, rubbing his hands feebl}' ; "3'ou disturb our friends. Besides you — you're dis- appointed, Sarah, and, not knowing what you say, expose yourself." "Yes, you pitiful dastard," retorted the lovely damsel, " I imderstand j-ou. You feared that I should be beforehand with you. But do you think that I would have been enticed to say a word I I 'd have scorned it, if ihcy had tried and tempted me for twenty years." " He he i " simj^x-red Brass, who, in his deep debasement, really seemed to have changed sexes with his sister, and to have made over to her any spark of manhness he might have possessed. "You think so, Sarah, you think so perhaps; but you would have acted quite diffierent, my good fellow. You will not have forgotten that it -ft'as a maxim with Foxey —our revered father, gentlemen— ' Always suspect every- body.' That 's the maxim to go tlirough life witli ! If you were not actually about to piu-chase your OAATi sai'oty when I 90 THE OLD CLUIIOSITY SHOP. showed myself, I suspect you 'd liave done it bj tliis time And therefore I 've done it myself, and spared you the trouble as well as tlie shame. The shame, gentlemen," added Brass, allowing himself to be slightly overcome, "if there is any, is mine. It's better that a female should be spared it." With deference to the better opinion of Mr. Brass, and more particularly to the authority of his Great Ancestor, it may be doubted, with humility, whether the elevating prin- ciple laid do-^vTi by the latter gentleman, and acted upon by his descendant, is always a prudent one, or attended in practice with the desired results. This is, beyond question, a bold and presumptuous doubt, inasmuch as many dis- tinguished characters, called men of the world, long-headed customers, knowing dogs, shi'ewd fellows, capital hands at business, and the like, have made, and do daily make, this axiom their polar star and compass. Still, the doubt may be gently insinuated. And in illustration it may be observed that if Mr. Brass, not being over-suspicious, had, without prying and listening, left his sister to manage the conference on their joint behalf, or, prjang and listening, had not been m such a mighty hiu-ry to anticipate her (which he woidd not have been, but for his distrust and jealous}'), he would pro- bably have found himself much better off in the end. Thus, it will always happen that these men of the world, who go through it in armour, defend themselves from quite as much good as evil ; to say nothing of the inconvenience and absurdity of mounting guard with a microscope at all times, and of wearing a coat of mail on the most innocent occasions. The thi'ee gentlemen spoke together apart, for a few moments. At the end of their considtation, which was very brief, the Notary pointed to the wi'iting materials on the table, and informed Mr. Brass that if he wished to make anv statement in writing, he had the opportunity of doing so. At the same time he felt bound to tell him that they woxdd require his attendance, presently, before a justice of the peace, and tliat iu what he did or said, he was guided entirely by liis own discretion. " Gentlemen," said Brass, drawing off his gloves, and crawling in spirit upon the ground before them, " I will justify the tenderness with which I know I shall be treated; and as, without tenderness, I should, now that this discovery has been made, stand in the worst position ctf the tliree, you 1> THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 91 may depend upon it I will make a clean breast. Mr. Wither- den, sir, a kind of faintness is upon my spirits — if yon would do me the favour to ring the bell and order up a glass of something -warm and spicy, I shall, notwithstanding "«'hat has passed, have a melancholy pleasure in drinking j^our good health. I had hoped," said Brass, looking round with a mournful smile, " to have seen you three gentlemen, one day or another, with your legs under the mahogany in my humble parlour in the Marks. But hopes are fleeting. Dear me I " Mr. Brass found himself so exceedingly affected, at this point, that he could say or do nothing more until some refreshment arrived. Having partaken of it, pretty freely for one in his agitated state, he sat down to write. The lovely Sarah, now with her arms folded, and now with her hands clasped behind her, paced the room with many strides, while her brother was thus employed, and sometimes stopped to pull out her snuff-box and bite the lid. Slie con- tinued to pace up and down until she was quite tired, and then fell asleep on a chair near the door. It has been since supposed, with some reason, that this slumber was a sham or feint, as she contrived to slip away unobserved in the dusk of the afternoon. Whether this was an intentional and waking departure, or a somnambulistic leave-taking and walking in her sleep, may remain a subject of contention ; but, on one point (and indeed the main one) all parties are agreed. In whatever state she Avallced away, she certainly did not walk back again. Mention having been made of the dusk of the afternoon, it will be inferred that Mr. Brass's task occupied some time in the completion. It was not finished until evening ; but, being done at last, that worthy person and the thi-ce friends adjourned in a haclaiey-coach to the private office of a Justice, who, giving Mr. Brass a wann reception and detaining liim in a secm-e place that he might insui-e to himself the pleasure of weeing him on the morrow, dismissed the others with the cheering assurance that a warrant could not fail to be granted next day for the apprehension of Mr. Quilp, and that a proper application and statement of all the circumstances to the secretary of state \^who was fortunately in town), would no doubt procure Kit's free pardon and liberation without delay. And now, indeed, it seemed that Quilp' s malignant career 9S THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOF. was dramug to a close, and that retribution, which often travels slowly — especially when heaviest — had tracked hia footsteps with a sure and certain scent, and was gaining on him fast. Unmindful of her stealthy tread, lier victim holda his course in fancied triumph. Still at his heels she comes, and once afoot, is never turned aside ! Their business ended, the three gentlemen hastened back to the lodgings of Mr. Swiveller, whom they found progressing BO favourably in his recovery as to have been able to sit up for half an hour, and to have conversed with cheerfulness. Mrs. Garland had gone home some time since, but Mr. Abel was still sitting with him. After telling him all they had done, the two Mr. Garlands and the single gentleman, as if by some previous understanding, took their leaves for the night, leaving the invalid alone with the Notary and the BmaU servant. " As you are so much better," said Mr. Witherden, sitting doAvn at the bedside, " I may venture to communicate to you a piece of news which has come to me professionally." The idea of any professional intelligence from a gentleman connected with legal matters, appeared to afford Ilichard any- thing but a pleasing anticipation. Perhaps he connected it in his own mind with one or two outstanding accounts, in reference to which he had ah'cady received divers threatening letters. His coimtenance fell as he replied, "Certainly, sir. I hope it's not anj-thing of a very dis- agreeable nature, though ? " " If I thought it so, I should choose some bettor time for communicating it," replied the Notar}'. " Let me teU you, first, that my friends who have been here to-day know nothing of it, and that their kindness to you has been quite spon- taneous and with no hope of return. It may do a thoughtless, •jareless man, good, to know that." Dick thanked him, and said he hoped it woidd. " I have been making some inquiries about you," said Mr. Witherden, " little thinking that I should find you under such circiim stances as those which have brought us together. You are the nephew of Rebecca Swiveller, spinster, deceased, of Cheselbourne in Dorse tsliire." " Deceased ! " cried Dick. " Deceased. If you had been another sort of nephew, you would have come into possession (so says the will, and I soc THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 93 no reason to doubt it) of five-and-twenty tliousand pounds. As it is, you have fallen into an annuity of one hundred and iifty pounds a year ; but I think I raay congratulate j-ou even upon that." " Sir," said Dick, sobbing and laughing together, " you may. For, please God, we 'II make a scholar of the poor Marchioness yet ! And she shall walk in silk attire, and eiller have to spare, or may I never rise from this bed again \" 94 THE OLD CUBIOSITY SHOP. CHAPTER XIT. UNCONSCIOUS of the proceedings faithfully narrated in the last chapter, and little dreaming' of the mine which had been sprxing beneath him (for, to the end that lie should have no warning of the business a-foot, the profoundest secrecy was observed in the whole transaction), Mr. Quilp remained shut up in his hermitage, imdistiirbed by any suspicion, and ex- tremely well satisfied with the result of his machinations. Being engaged in the adjustment of some accounts — an occupation to which the silence and solitude of his retreat U'ere very favourable — he had not strayed from his den for two whole days. The thu'd day of his devotion to this pur- suit found him still hard at work, and little disposed to stir abroad. It was the day next after Mr. Brass's confession, and, con- sequently, that which threatened the restriction of Mr. Qiiilp's liberty, and the abrupt communication to him of some very unpleasant and unwelcome facts. Having no intuitive per- ception of the cloud which lowered upon his house, the dwarf was in his ordinary state of cheerfulness ; and, when he found he was becoming too much engrossed by business with a due regard to his health and spii'its, he varied its monotonous routine vnth. a little screeching, or howling, or some other innocent relaxation of that nature. He was attended, as usual, by Tom Scott, who sat crouching over the fii-e after the manner of a toad, and, fi'om time to time, when his master's back was turned, imitated his grimaces with a fearful exactness. The figiu*e-head had not yet disappeared, but remained in its old place. The face, horribly seared by the frequent application of the red-hot poker, and further ornamented by the insertion, in the tip of the nose, of a tenpenny nail, yet smiled blandly in its less I'lcorated parts, and seemed, like a sturdy martyr, to provoke its tornaentor to the commission of new outrages and insults. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 9b Tne day, in the liigliest and brightest quarters of the town, was dam";), dark, cold, and gloomy. In that low and marshy spot, th(_ hg filled every nook and corner with a thick dense cloud. Every object was obscured at one or two yards' dis- tance. T»tO waming lights and fires upon the river were powerless ' -?neath this pall, and, but for a raw and piercing chUness in the air, and now and then the cry of some bewildered bo>i'-'s great delight. But, just as he was i;onteiiiplating ter, aud chuelding excessively, he happened to observe that Tom Scott was deliglited too ; Avherefore, tliat he might have no presumptuous partner in liis glee, tlie dwarf instantly collared Mm, cbagged him to the door, and after a short scuffle, kicked him into the yard. In return for this mark of attention, Tom immediately walked upon his hands to the window, and — if the expression be allowable — looked in with his shoes : besides rattling his feet upon tlie glass like a Banshee upside down. As a matter of course, Mr. Quilp lost no time in resorting to the infallible poker, with which, after some dodging and lying in ambush, he paid his young friend one or two such imequivocal compliments that he vanished precipitately, and left liim in quiet possession of the field. " So ! That little job being disposed of," said the dwarf, cooUy, "I'll read my letter. Humi^h !" he muttered, looking at the direction. " I ought to know this writing. Beautiful SaUy ! " Opening it, he read, in a foir, round, legal hand, as follows : "Sammy has been practised upon, and has broken confi- dence. It has all come out. You had better not be in the way, for strangers are going to caU upon you. They have been veiy quiet as yet, because they mean to siu'prise you. Don't lose time. I didn't. I am not to be foimd anj-where. If I was you, I wouldn't be, either. S. B., late of B. M." To describe the changes that passed over Quilp's face, as he read this letter half-a-dozen times, woidd require some new langimge: such, for power of expression, as was never written, read, or spoken For a long time he did not utter one word: but, after a considerable interval, dm-ing which Mrs. Quilp was almost paralysed with the alarm his looks engendered, he contrived to gas^) out, " — If I had him here. If I only had him here " "Oh Quilp!" said his wife, "what's the matter? Who are you angi-y with ? " " I should drown him," said the dwarf, not heeding her. " Too easy a death, too siiort, too quick — but the river rima dose at hand. Oh ! If I had him here ! Just to take him to Jhe brink, coaxingly and pleasantly, — holdirg him by the button-hole — joking with him, — and, with a sudden push^ to send him splashing doAvn ! Dro^miug men come to the stirface three times they say . Ah ! To see liim those three VOL. II B 98 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. times, and mock him as his face came boboing up,— -oh, what a rich treat that woiild be ! " " Quilp ! " stammered his wife, venturing at the same time to touch him on the shoulder : " what has gone wi'ong ? " She was* so terrified by the relish with which he pictured this pleasure to himself, that she could scarcely make herseK intelligible. " Such a bloodless ciu' ! " said Quilp, rubbing his hands very slowly, and pressing them tight together. " I thought his cowardice and serviKty were the best guarantee for his keeping silence. Oh Brass, Brass — ray dear, good, affection- ate, faithfid, complimentary, charming friend — if I only had you here ! " His wife, who had retreated lest she should seem to listen to these mutterings, ventured to approach him again, and was about to speak, when he hurried to the door and called Tom Scott, who, remembering his late gentle admonition, deemed it prudent to appear immediately. "There!" said the dwarf, pulling him in. "Take her home. Don't come here to-morrow, for this place will be Bhut up. Come back no more till j'ou hear from me or see me. Do you mind ? " Tom nodded sidkily, and beckoned Mrs. Quilp to lead the way. "As for .you," said the dwarf, addi'essing himself to her, " ask no questions about me, make no seai'ch for me, say nothing concerning me. I shall not be dead, mistress, and that '11 comfort you. He *11 take care of you." " But Quilp ? What is the matter ? ^Vhere are you going ? Do say something more." " I '11 say that," said the dwarf, seizing her by the arm, " and do that too, which undone and unsaid would be best for you, unless you go directly." " Has an}-thing happened ? " cried his wife. " Oh ! Dc tell me that." "Yes," snarled the dwarf "No. Wliat matter which? I have told you what to do. Woe betide you if you fail to do it, or disobey me by a hair's breadth. WiU you go ! " "1 am going, I 'U go du-ectly; but," faltered his vnfe, "answer me one question first. Has this letter any connexion v^ith dear little Nell ? I must ask you that— I must indeed, Quilp. You cannot think what days and niglits of sorrow I THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. W) hare had tlirou^li having once deceived that child. I don't know what harm I may have brought about, but, groat or little, I did it for you, Quilp. My conscience misgave me when I did it. Do answer me this question, if you please." The exasperated dwarf retiu-ned no answer, but turned round and caught up his usual weapon with such vehemence, that Tom. Scott dragged his charge away, by main force, and as swiftly as he could. It was well he did so, for Quilp, who was nearly mad with rage, pursued them to the neighbouring lane, and might have prolonged the chase but for the dense mist which obscured them from his view, and appeared to thicken every moment, " It wiU be a good night for travelling anonymously," he said, as he returned slowly : being pretty well breathed with his run. " Stay. We may look better hero. This is too hospitable and free." By a great exertion of strength he closed the two old gates, which were deeply sunken in tlie mud, and barred them with a heavj' beam. That done, he shook his matted hair from about his eyes, and tried them. — Strong and fast. "The fence between this wharf and the next is easily climbed," said the dwarf, when he had taken these precau- tions. "There's a back lane, too, from there. That shall be my way out. A man need know his road weU, to find it in this lovely place to-night. I need fear no unwelcome visitors while this lasts, I think." Almost reduced to the necessity of groping his way with his hands (it had grown so dark and the fog had so much increased), he returned to his lair ; and, after musing for Bome time over the fije, buisied himself in preparations for a Bpeedy departure. While he was collecting a few necessaries and cramming them into his pockets, lie never once ceased communing with himself in a low voice, or unclenched his teeth : which he had ground together on finishing Miss Brass's note. " Oh Sampson I " he muttered, " good, worthy creature — if I could but hug you ! If I could only fold you in my arms, and squeeze ^-our ribs, as I could squeeze thom if I once had you tight — what a meeting there would be between us ! II we ever do cross each other again, Sampson, we '11 have a jj^eeting not easily to be forgotten, trust me. This time, Sampson, this moment when all had gone on so weU, was so b2 100 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. nicely (-liosen ! It was so thoughtful of you, so penitent, ao good. Oil, if we were face to face in tliis room again, my white-livered man of law, how well contented one of us would be ! " 'J'liere he stopped; and raising the bowl of punch to hia lips, di'ank a long deep draught, as if it were fair water and cooling to his parched mouth. Setting it do^vn abruptly, and resuming his preparations, he went on with his soliloquy. "There's Sally," lie said, wdth flashing eyes; "the Avomaa has spirit, determination, purpose — was she asleep, or petri- fied ? Slie could have stabbed him — poisoned him safely. Slio might have seen this, coming on. Why does she give me notice when it 's too late ? When he sat there, — yondei there, over there,— with his white face, and red head, and fiickly smile, why didn't I know what was passing in his heart ? It shoidd have stopped beating, that night, if I had been in his secret, or there are no drugs to lull, a man to sleep, and no fire to burn him ! " Another draught from the bowl; and, cowering over the fire with a ferocious aspect, he muttered to himself again. " And this, like every other trouble and anxiety I have had of late times, springs from that old dotard and his darling child — two wretched feeble Avanderers I I '11 be their evil genius yet. And you, sweet Kit, honest Kit, virtuous, innocent Kit, look to yourself. Where I hate, I bite. I hate you, my darling fellow, with good cause, and proud as yo;i are to night, I '11 have my turn. — What 's that! " ^ i - ' A knocking at the gate he had closed. A loud and violent knocking. Then, a pause; as if those who knocked, had stopped to listen. Tlien, the noise again, more clamorous and importunate than before. " So soon ! " said the dwarf. " And do eager 1 I am afraid I shall disappoint you. It 's well I 'm quite prepared. Sally, I thank you ! " As he spoke, he extinguished tlie candle. In his im- petuous attempts to subdue the brightness of the fire, he overset the stove, which came tumbling forward, and fell with a crash upon the biu'ning embers it had shot forth in its descent, leaving the room in pitch}^ darkness. The noise at the gate still continuing, lie felt his way to the door, and Btepped into the open air. At that moment the knot^king ceased. It was about eight THE Olil) CUIIIOSITY SHOP. 101 o'clock ; but the dead of tlie darkest night woidd have been as noon-day, in comparison with tlie thick cloud which then rested upon the earth, and shrouded everything from view. He darted forward for a few paces, as if into the mouth of Bome dim, ^-a-miing cavern; then, thinking he had gone wrong, changed the direction of his steps j then, stood slill, not knowing where to turn. " If they v»-ould knock again," said Quilp, trying to peer into the gloom by which he was sm-rounded, "the sound might guide me ! Come ! Batter the gate once more ! " He stood listening intently, but the noise was not renewed. Nothing was to be heard in that deserted place, but, at intervals, the distant barkings of dogs. The sound was far awa}- — now in one quarter, now answered in another — nor was it any guide, for it often came from shipboard, as he knew. " If I coidd find a wall or fence," said the dwarf, stretching out Ills arms, and walking slowly on, "I should know wliich way to turn. A good, black, devil's night this, to have mj dear friend here ! If I had but that wish, it might, for any- thing I cared, never be day again." As the word passed his lips, he staggered and fell — and next moment was fighting with the cold dark water ! For aU its bubbling up and rushing in his ears, he could liear the knocking at the gate again— coidd hear a shout that followed it — could recogniise tlie voice. For all his struggling and plashing, he could understand that they had lost their way, and had wandered back to the point from which they started; that they were all but looking on, while he was ch-o'mied ; that they were close at hand, but coidd not make an effort to save him ; that he himself had shut and barred them out. He answered the shout — with a yell, which seemed to make the hundred fires that danced before his eyes, tremble and flicker as if a gust of wind had stirred them. It was of no avail. The strong tide filled his throat, and bore him on, upon its rapid cm-rent. Anotlier mortal sti-ugglo, and he was up again, beating the water \\ith liis hands, and looking out, witli wild and glaring eyes that sliowed him some black object he vras drifting close upon. The hull of a ship ! He could touch its smooth and slippery sui'face with his hand. One loud cry now — but the resistless water bore him down before he coidd give it utter* ance, and, di-iving him under, it carried awa}- a corpse. 102 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, It toyed and sported with its ghastly freight, now bruising it against the slimy piles, now hiding it in mud or long rank grass, now dragging it heavily over rough stones and gravel, now feigning to yield it to its o\vti element, and in the same action luring it away, until, tired of the ugly plaything, it flung it on a swamp — a dismal place where pirates had swung in chains, through many a wintry night — and left it there to bleach. And there it lay, alone. The sky was red with flame, and the water that bore it there had been tinged with the sullen light as it flowed along. The place, the deserted carcass had left so recently, a living man, was now a blazing ruin. There was something of the glare upon its face. The hair, stirred by the damp breeze, played in a kind of mockery of death — ■ such a mockery as the dead man himself would have delighted in when alive — about its head, and its dress fluttered idly in the night wind. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 103 CHAPTER XIII Lighted rooms, bright fires, cheerful faces, the mxisic of glad voices, words of lore and welcome, warm hearts, and tears of happiness — what a change is this ! But it is to such delights that Kit is hastening. They are awaiting him, ha knows. He fears he will die of joy, before he gets among them. They have prepared him for this, all day. He is not to be carried off to-morrow with the rest, they tell him first. By degrees they let him know that doubts have arisen, that inquiries are to be made, and perhaps he may be pardoned after all. At last, the evening being come, they bring him to a room where some gentlemen are assembled. Foremost among them is his good old master, who comes and takes him by the hand. He hears that his innocence is established, and that he is pardoned. He cannot see the speaker, but he turns towards the voice, and in trjang to answer, falls doAvoi insensible. They recover him again, and teU him he must be composed, and bear this Hke a man. Somebody says he must think of his poor mother. It is because he does think of her so much, that the happy news has overpowered him. They crowd about him, and teU him that the truth has gone abroad, and that all the town and coimtry ring with s}Tnpathy for his misfortunes. He has no ears for this. His thoughts, as yet, have no wider range than home. Does she know it ? what did sho say ? who told her ? He can speak of nothing else. They make him drink a little wine, and talk kindly to him for a while, until he is more collected, and can listen, and thank them. He is free to go. INIr. Garland thinks, if he feels better, it is time they went away. The gentlemen cluster roimd him, and shake hands with him. He feels very gratefiJ to them for the interest they have in him, and for the kind promises they make ; but the power of speech is gone o-^ain, 104 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. and lie has much ado to keep his feet, even though leaning on his master's arm. As they come through the dismal passages, some officers of the jail who are in -waiting there, congratulate him, in tlieir rough ^^■ay, on his release. The newsmonger is of the number, but his manner is not quite hearty — there is something of surliness in his compliments. He looks upon Kit as an intruder, as one who has obtained admission to that place on false pretences, who has enjoyed a pri^^lege without being duly qualified. He may be a very good sort of young man, he thinks, but he has no business there, and the sooner he ia gone the better. The last door shuts behind them. They have passed the outer wall, and stand in the open air— in the street he has so often pictm-ed to himself -when hemmed in by the gloomy stones, and which has been in all his di-eams. It seems wider and more busy than it used to be. The night is bad, and j-et how cheerful and gay in his eyes ! One of the gentlemen, in taking leave of him, 2:)ressed some money into his hand. He has not counted it ; but w'hen they have gone a few paces beyond the box for poor Piisoners, he hastily returns and di-ops it in. Mr. Garland has a coach waiting in a neighbouring street, and, taking Kit inside with him, bids the man drive home. At fii'st, they can only travel at a foot pace, and then with torches going on befoi-e, because of the heavy fog. But, as they get farther from the river, and leave the closer portions of the town beliind, they are able to dispense with this pre- caution and to proceed at a brisker rate. On the road, hard galloping would be too slow for Kit; but, A\'hen they are drawing near tlieir journey's end, he begs they may go more slowdy, and, when the house appears in sight, that they may stop — only for a minute or two, to give him time to breathe. But there is no stopping then, for the old gentleman speaks stoutly to him, the horses mend their pace, and they are already at the garden-gate. Next minute, they are at the door. There is a noise of tongues, and tread of feet, inside. It opens. Kit rushes in, and finds his mother clinging round his neck. And there, too, is the ever faithful Barbara's mother, stiU holding the baby as if she had never put it down since tha< THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. lOfi sad day when they little hoped to have such joy as this — there she is, Heaven bless her, crying her eyes out, and sobbing as never woman sobbed before; and there is little Barbara — poor little Barbara, so much thinner and so much paler, and yet so very pretty — trembling like a leaf and supporting herself against the wall ; and there is Mrs. Garland, neater and nicer than ever, fainting away stone dead with nobody to help her; and there is Mr. Abel, violently blowing his nose, and wanting to embrace everybody ; and there is the single gentleman hovering round them all, and constant tc nothing for an instant; and there is that good, dear, thoughtful little Jacob, sitting all alone by himself on the bottom stair, with his hands on his knees like an old man, roaring fearfully without giving any trouble to anybody ; and each and all of them are for the time clean out of their wits, and do jointly and severally commit all manner of follies. And even when the rest have in some measure come to themselves again, and can find words and smiles, Barbara — that soft-hearted, gentle, foolish little Barbara — is suddenly missed, and found to be in a swoon by herself in the back parlour, from which swoon she falls into hysterics, and from which hysterics into a swoon iigain, and is, indeed, so bad, that despite a mortal quantity of vinegar and cold water she is hardly a bit better at last than she was at first. Then, Kit's mother comes in and says, will he come and speak to her; and Kit says " Yes," and goes; and he says in a kind voice " Barbara ! " and Barbara's mother tells her that " it 's only Kit ; " and Barbara says (-wdth her eyes closed all the time) "Oh! but is it him indeed?" and Barbai-a's mother says "To be sure it is, my dear; there 's nothing the matter now." And in fui'ther assurance that he's safe and soimd, Kit speaks to her again ; and then Barbara goes off into another fit of laughter, and then into another fit of crying ; and then Barbara's mother and Kit's mother nod to each other and pretend to scold her — but only to bring her to lierseK the faster, bless you ! — and being experienced matrons^ and acute at perceiving the first da^NTiing symptoms oi recovery, they comfort Kit with the assurance that " she '11 do now," and so dismiss him to the place from whence he came. Well ! In that place (which is the next room) there are decanters of wine, and all that sort of thing, set out as grand 106 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. Bs if Kit and his friends were first-rate company ; and there is little Jacob, walking, as the popular phrase is, into a home-made plum-cake, at a most surprising pace, and keei')ing his eye on the figs and oranges which are to follow, and making the best use of his time, you may believe. Kit no sooner comes in, than that single gentleman (never was such a busy gentleman) charges all the glasses — bumpers — and drinlvs his health, and tells him he shall never want a friend while he lives ; and so does Mr. Garland, and so does Mrs. Garland, and so does Mr. Abel. But, even tliis honour and distinction is not all, for the single gentleman forthwith pulls out of his pocket, a massive silver watch — going hard, and right to lialf a second — and upon the back of this watch is engraved Kit's name, with flourishes all over ; and in short it is Kit's watch, bought expressly for him, and presented to him on the spot. You may rest assiu-ed that Mr. and Mrs. Garland can't help hinting about their present in store, and that Mr. Abel tells outright that he has his ; and that Kit is the happiest of the happy. There is one friend he has not seen yet, and as he cannot be conveniently introduced into the family circle, by reason of his being an iron-shod quadiniped. Kit takes the first opportu- nity of slipping away and huri-ying to the stable. The moment he lays his hand upon the latch, the pony neighs the loudest pony's greeting; before he has crossed the threshold, the pony is capering about his loose box (for he brooks not the indignity of a halter), mad to give him welcome ; and when Kit goes up to caress and j)at him, the pony rubs his nose against his coat, and fondles him more lovingly than ever pony fondled man. It is the croAvning circumstance of his earnest, heartfelt reception ; and Kit fairly puts his ai*m round Wliisker's neck and hugs him. But how comes Barbara to trip in there ? and how smart she is again ! she has been at her glass since she recovered. How comes Barbara in tlie stable, of all places in the world ? Why, since Kit has been away, the pony woidd take his food from nobody but her, and Barbara, you sec, not di-eamiug Christopher was there, and just looking in, to see that every- thing was right, has come upon him imawares. Blushing little Bai-bara ! It may be that Kit has caressed the pony enough ; it may be that there are even better things to caress than ponies ^-r(fi«i THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 107 He leaves liiin fox' Barbara at any rate, and hopes she is better. Yes. Barbara is a great deal better. She is afraid — and here Barbara looks do^n-u and blushes more— that he must have thought her very fooKsh. "Not at all," says Kit. Barbara is glad of that, and coughs — Heiu I — just the feiightest cough possible — not more than that. "What a discreet pony, when he chooses I He is as quiet now, as if he were of marble. He has a very knowing look, but that he alwayt, has. " We have hardly had time to shake hands, Barbara," says Kit. Barbara gives him hers. Why, she is trembling now ! Foolish, fluttering Barbara I Ann's length ? The length of an arm is not much. Barbara's was not a long arm, by any means, and besides, she difln't hold it out straight, but bent a little. Kit was so near her when they shook hands, that ho could see a small tiny tear, yet trembling on an eyelash. It was natural that he should look at it, unknown to Barbara. It was natural that Barbara should raise her eyes imconsciousl}', and find him out. Was it natural that at that instant, without any previous impulse or design. Kit should Idss Barbara? He did it, whether or no. Barbara said "for shame," but let him do it too — t\\ice. He might have done it thrice, but the pony kicked up his heels and shook his head, as if he were suddenly taken with convulsions of delight, and Barbara being frightened, ran away — not straight to -nhere her mother and Kit's mother -were, though, lest they shoidd see how red her cheeks were, and shoiild ask her why. Sly little Bai-bara I When the fii-st transports of the whole party had subsided, and Kit and his mother, and Barbara and her mother, with little Jacob and the baby to boot, had had their suppers together — which there was no hui'rying over, for they were going to stop there all night — Mr. Garland called Kit to him, and taking Lira into a room where they could be alone, told him that he had something yet to say, which would surprise him greatlj'. Kit looked so anxious and turned so pale on hearing tliis, that the old gentleman hastened to add, he woidd be agreeably surprised ; and asked him if he would 1)€ ready next morning for a joiu-ney. "' For a joiu-ney, sir I " ciied Kit. " In coinpanj' Avith me and my friend in the next room. Can you guess its purpose ? " Kit turned paler j-et, and shook kis head. .08 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. " Oh yes. 1 tliinlc you do already,'" said liis master "Try." Kit murmured something rather rambling and unintelligible^ Imt he plainly pronounced the words " Miss NeU," three ol four times — shaking his head wliile he did so, as if he would add that there Avas no hope of that. But INIr. Garland, instead of saying " Try again," as Kit had made sure he ■«'ould, told liim, very seriously, that he had guessed right. " The place of their retreat is indeed discovered," he said, * at last. And that is oiu' journey's end." Kit faltered out such questions as, Avhere was it, and how had it been found, and how long since, and was she well, and happy ? " Happy she is, beyond all doubt," said Mr. Garland. "And well, I — I trust she wiU be soon. She has been weak and ailing, as I learn, but she was better when I heard this morning, and they were fidl of hope. Sit jovl down, and you shall hear the rest." Scarcely venturing to draw his breath, Kit did as he was told. Mr. Garland then related to him, how he had a brother (of whom he would remember to have heard him speak, and whose picture, taken when he was a young man, himg in the best room), and how this brother lived a long way off, in a country-place, with an old clergyman who liad been his early fr-iend. IIoav, although they loved each other as brothers shoiild, they had not met for many j^ears, but had communicated by letter from time to time, always looking forward to some period Avhen they would take each other by the hand once more, and still letting the Present time steal on, as it was the habit of men to do, and suffering the Future to melt into the Past. How this brother, whose temper was very mild and quiet and retiring — such as ^Ir. Abel's — was greatly beloved by the simple people among whom he dwelt, who quite revered the Bachelor (for so they called him), and had eveiy one experienced his charity and benevolenca How, even those slight circumstances had come to his knowledge, very slowly and in course of years, for tho Bachelor was one of those whose goodness shuns the light, and who have more pleasure in discovering and extolling the good deeds of others, than in trumpeting their own, be they never so commendable. How, for that reason, he seldom told THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP lOJ tliem of his village friends ; but how, for all that, nis mind had become so full of two among them — a child and an old man, to whom he had been very kind — that, in a letter received a few days before, he had dwelt upon them fi'om iirst to last, and had told such a tale of their wandering, and mutual love, that few could read it without being moved to tears. How he, the recipient of that letter, was directly led to the behef that these must be the very wanderers for whom 60 much search had been m.ade, and whom Heaven had directed to liis brother's care. How he had written for such farther information as would put the fact beyond all doubt ; how it had that morning arrived; had confirmed his first impression into a certainty ; and was the immediate cause of that journey being planned, which they were to take to- morrow. " In the mean time," said the old gentleman rising, and laj'ing his hand on Kit's shoulder, " you have great need of rest; for such a day as this, would wear out the strongest man. Good night, and Heaven send cur journey may have a |jrosperous ending I ' 110 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOi'. CHAPTER XIV. Kit "was no sluggard next morning, but, springing from his bed some time before day, began to prepare for Hi welcome expedition. The hurry of spirits conseqiient upon the events of yesterday, and the vmexpected intelligence he had heard at night, had troubled his sleep tlirough the long dark hours, and summoned such iineasy dreams about his pillow that it was rest to rise. But had it been the beginning of some gi-eat labour -with the same end in view — had it been the commencement of a long journey, to be performed on foot in that inclement season of the year, to be pursued under every privation aud difficulty, and to be achieved only with great distress, fatigue, and suffering — had it been the daiwn of some painful enter- prise, certain to task his utmost powers of resolution and endurance, and to need his utmost fortitude, but only likely to end, if ha2)pily achieved, in good fortune and delight to Nell — Kit's cheerful zeal would have been as highly roused : Kit's ardour and impatience would have been, at least, the same. Nor was he alone excited and eager. Before he had been up a quarter of an hour the whole house were astir and bu.sy. Ever3^body hurried to do something towards facilitating the preparations. The single gentleman, it is true, could do nothing himself, but he overlooked everybody else and was more locomotive than anybody. The work of packing and making ready went briskly on, and by daybreak every pre- paration for the journey was completed. Then, Kit began to wish they had not been quite so nimble ; for the travelling-carriage which had been hired for the occasion was not to arrive until nine o'clock, and there was nothing but breakfast to fill up the inten'ening blank of one hour Vid a half. Yes there was, though. There was Barbara. Barbara t;ii^ old curiosity shop. hi was busy, lo be sure, but so much tbe better — Kit could help her, and that would pass away the time better than any means that could be devised. Barbara had no objection to this arrangement, and Kit, tracking out the idea which had come upon him so suddenly overnight, began to think that surely Barbara was fond of him, and surely he was fond of Barbara. Now, Barbara, if the truth must bo told — as it must and ought to be — Barbara seemed, of all the Httle household, to take least pleasure in the bustle of the occasion ; and when Kit, in the openness of his heart, told her how glad and oveijoyed it made him, Barbara became more downcast still, and seemed to have even less pleasui-e in it than before ! " You have not been home so long, Christopher," said Barbara- — and it is impossible to tell Iiow carelessly she said it — " You have not been home so long, that you need be glad to go away again, I should think." " But for such a purpose," i-eturned Kit. " To bring back Miss Nell ! To see her again ! Only think of that ! I am 80 pleased too, to think that you will see her, Barbara, at last." Barbara did not absolutely say that she felt no great gratification on this point, but she expressed the sentiment so plainly by one Kttle toss of her head, that Kit ■^\'as quite disconcerted, and wondered, in his simplicity, why she was so cool about it. "You'll say she has the sweetest and beautif idlest face j-ou ever saw, I know," said Kit, rubbing his hands. " I 'm sure you 'U say that ! " Barbara tossed her head again. " AVhat 's the matter, Barbara ? " said Kit. "Nothing," cried Barbara. And Barbara pouted— -not Bulkily, or in an ugly manner, but just enough to malce her look more cherry-lipped than ever. There is no school in which a pupil gets on so fast, as that in which Kit became a scholar when he gave Barbara the kiss. He saw what Barbara meant now — he had his lesson by heart all at once — she was the book — there it was before him, as plain as print. " Barbara," said Kit, " you 're not cross with me ? ' Oh dear no I Wh}' shoidd Barbara be cross ? And what 112 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. right liad she to l)e cross ? And what did it matter whether she was cross or no? Who minded her! " Why, I do," said Kit. " Of course I do." Barbara di(hi't see why it was of coiirse, at all. Kit was sure she must. Would she think again ? Certainly, Barbara would think again. No, she didn't see why it was of course. She didn't understand what Christophei meant. And besides she was sure they wanted her iip-stairs by this time, and she must go, indeed "No, but Barbara," said Kit, detaining her gently, "let us part friends. I was always thinking of you, in my troubles. I should have been a great deal more miserable than I was, if it hadn't been for you." Goodness gracious, how pretty Barbara was when she colora-ed — and when she trembled, like a little shrinking bird! " I am telling you the truth, Barbara, upon my Avord, but not half so strong as I could wish," said PCit. " When I want you to be pleased to see Miss Nell, it 's only because I shoidd like you to be pleaeed, with what pleases me — that 's all. As to her, Barbara, I think I coidd almost die to do her service, but you woidd think so too, if you knew her as I do. I am sure you woidd." Barbara was touched, and sorry to have appeared indifferent. " I have been used, you see," said Kit, " to talk and think of her, almost as if she was an angel. When I look forward to meeting her again, I think of her smiling as she used to do, and being glad to see me, and putting out her hand and saying, ' It 's my o\ati old Kit,' or some such words as those — like what she used to say. I think of seeing her happy, and with friends about her, and brought up as she deserves, ani? as she ought to be. \yhen I thiulc of mj'self, it 's as her old servant, and one that loved her dearly, as liis kind, good, gentle mistress; and who would have gone — yes, and still woidd go — through any harm to serve her. Once, I couldn't help being afraid that if she came back with friends about her she might forget, or be ashamed of having knoAvn, a humble lad like me, and so might speak coldly, -u'hich would have cut me, Barbai'a, deeper than I can tell. But when I came to think again, I felt sure that I Avas doing her Avi'ong in this ; and so I went on, as I did at fost, hoping to see hei Mxco moi'e, just as she used to be. Hoping this, and remom- % THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. Ill beriug wliat she was, lias made me feel as if 1 ^vould always tiy to please lier, and ahvays 1 e what I should like to seem to her if I was still her servant. If I 'm the better for that — and I don't think I 'm tlie wor-se — I am gi-ateful to her for it, and love .and honour her the more. That 's the plain honest truth, dear Barbara, upon mj' word it is I " Little Barbara \\ as not of a waj'Avard or capricious nature, and, being fidl of remorse, melted into tears. To what more conversation this might have led, we need not stop to inquire ; for the wheels of the carriage were heard at that moment, and, being followed by a smait ring at the garden gate, caused the bustle in the house, w hich liad lain dormant for a short time, to biu-st again into tenfold life and vigour. Simultaneously with the travelling equipage, arrived Mr. Chuclcster in a hackney cab, with certain papers and supplies of money for the single gentleman, into whose hands he delivered them. This duty discliarged, he subsided into the bosom of the family ; and, entertaining himself with a sti'oUing or peripatetic breakfast, watched with a genteel indifference, the process of loading the carriage. " Snobby 's in this I see, sir?" he said to Mr. Abel Garland. " I thought he wasn't in the last trip because it was expected that his presence ^^•ouldn't be acceptable to the ancient buffalo." "To whom, sir," demanded Mr. Abel. "To the old gentleman," retiu^ned Mr. Chuckster, slightly abashed. " Our client prefers to take him now," said Mr. Abel, drily. " There is no longer any need for that precaution, as my father's relationship to a gentleman in whom the objects of his search have fidi confidence, will be a suflB.cient guarantee for the friendly nature of their errand." "Ah!" thought Mr. Chuckster, looking out of window, " anybody but me ! Snobby before me, of course. He didn't happen to take that particular five-poimd note, but I have not the smallest doubt that he 's always up to something of that sort. I always said it, long before this came out. Devilish pretty girl that ! 'Pon my sou!, an amazing little creature ! " Barbara was the subject of Mr. Chuckster's commendations; and as she was lingering near the carriage (all being now ready for its departure), that gentleman was suddenly seized TOL. If I 114 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. with a strong' interest in tlie proceedings, which, impelled him to swagger do^^^l the garden, and take up his positioa at a convejiient ogling distance. Having had great experience of the sex, and being perfectly acquainted with all those little artifices v.diich find tlie readiest road to their hearts, Mr. Chuckster, on taking his ground, planted one hand on liia hip, and with tlie other adjusted his flowing hair. This is a favourite attitude in the polite circles, and, accompanied with a graceful whistling, has been known to do immense execution. Such, however, is the difference between town and coimtrv, that nobody took the smallest notice of this insinuating figure ; the wTt-etches being wholly engaged in bidding the travellers fai'ewell, in kissing hands to each other, waving handkerchiefs, and the like tame and vulgar practices. For, now, the single gentleman and Mr. Garland were in the carriage, and the post- boy was in the saddle, and Kit, well wrapped and muffled up, was in the rumble behind ; and Mrs. Garland was there, and Mr. Abel was there, and Kit's mother was there, and little Jacob was there, and Barbara's mother was visible in remote perspective, nui'sing the ever- wakeful bab}'; and aU were nodding, beckoning, cui'tsejdng, or crying out " Good-bye I " with all the energy they coidd express. In another minute, the carriage was out of sight ; and INIr. Chuckster remained alone on the spot where it had lately been, with a vision of Kit standing up in the rumble waving his hand to Barbara, and of Barbara in the fiJl light and lustre of his eyes — his eyes— Chuckster' s — Chuckster the successful — on whom ladies of quahty had looked with favour from phaetons in the pai'ks on Sundays — waving hers to Kit ! How Mr. Chuckster, entranced by this monstrous fact, stood for some time rooted to the earth, protesting within himself that Kit was the Prince of felonious characters, and very Emperor or Great Mogul of Snobs, and how he clearly traced this revolting circumstance back to that old viUany of the shilling, are matters foreign to our purpose ; which is to track the rolling wheels, and bear the fjavellers company on their cold, bleak journey. It was a bitter day. A keen wind was ©lowing, and rushed against them fiercely : bleaching the hard ground, shaking the wliite frost from the trees and hedges, and wlu'rling it away like dust. But, little cared Kit for weather. There was a freedom aud freslmess in the wind, as it came hovling THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 115 by, wLicli, let it cut never so sharp, was welcome. Aa ii swept on with its cloud of frost, bearing down the dry twiga and boughs and withered leaves, and carrying them away peU-niell, it seemed as though some general spnpathy liad got abroad, and everything was in a hurry, like themselves. The harder the gusts, the better progi'ess they appeared to make. It was a good tiling to go struggling and fighting forward, vanquishing them one by one ; to watch them driving up, gathering strength and fury as they came along ; to bend for a moment, as they whistled past ; and then, to look back and see them speed awa}', their hoarse noise dpng in the distance, and the stout trees cowering down before them. All day long, it blew without cessation. The night waa clear and starlight, but the wind had not fallen, and the cold was piercing. Sometimes — towards the end of a long stage — Kit coidd not help wishing it were a little warmer : but Avhen they stopped to change horses, and he had had a go'od run, and what with that, and the bustle of paj-ing the old postilion, and rousing the new one, and running to and fro again untd the horses were put to, he was so warm that the blood tingled aud smarted in liis fingers' ends — then, he felt as if to have it one degree less cold would be to lose half the delight and glory of the joiu-ney: and up he jumped again, right cheerily, singing to the merry music of the wheels as they rolled away, and, leaving the to'RTispeople in their warm beds, pursued their course along the lonely road. INIeantime the two gentlemen inside, who were little dis- posed to sleep, beguiled the time with conversation. As both were anxious and expectant, it naturally turned upon the subject of their expedition, on the manner in which it had been brought about, and on the hopes and fears they enter- tained respecting it. Of the former they had many, of the latter few — none perhaps beyond that indefinable imeasiness iphich is inseparable from suddenly awakened hope, and protracted expectation. In one of the pauses of their discourse, and when half the night had worn away, the single gentleman, who had gradually become more and more silent and thoughtfid, turned to hie sompanion and said abruptly : " Are you a good listener ? " ** Lito most other men, I suppose," returned Mr. Garland, i2 116 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. Biaiiing-. ' ' I can be, if I am interested ; and if not interested, I should still try to appear so. "Why do yon ask ? " " I have a short narrative on my lips," rejoined his friend, " and will try 3-011 with it. It is very brief.'' Pausing for no reply, he laid his hand on the old gentle- man's sleeve, and proceeded thus : " There were once two brothers, who loved each other dearly. There was a disparity in their ages — some twelve years. I am not sure but they may insensibly have loved each other the better for that reason. Wide as the interval between them was, however, they became rivals too soon. The deepest and strongest Jiiiection of both their hearts settled upon one object. " The youngest — there were reasons for his being sensitive and watchfid — was the fu-st to find this out. I will not tell 70U what misery he underwent, what agony of soid he knew, how great his mental struggle was. lie had been a sickly child. His brother, patient and considerate in the midst of his own high health and strength, had many and many a day denied himself the sports he loved, to sit beside his couch, telling him old stories till his pale face lighted up with an unwonted glow ; to carry him in liis arms to some green spot, where he could tend the poor pensive boy as he looked upon the bright summer day, and sa-^' all natiu'e healthy but him self; to be, in anyway, his fond and faithfid nurse. I may rtot dwell on all he did, to make the poor, weak creature love him, or my tale woidd have no end. But when the time of trial came, the younger brother's heart was fidl of those old days. Heaven strengthened it to repay the sacrifices of in- considerate youth by one of thoughtful manhood. He left his brother to be happy. The truth never passed his lips, and he quitted the country, hoping to die abroad. "The elder brother married her. She was in Heaven Defore long, and left him with an infant daughter. " If you have seen the picture-gallery of any one old family, you will remember how the same face and figm-e — often the fairest and slightest of them aU — come upon you in difierent generations ; and how you trace the same sweet girl through a long line of portraits— never growing old or changing — the Good Angel of the race — abiding b}^ them in all reversal ■ — redeeming all their sins — " In this daughter, the mother lived again. You maj THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP 117 judge with what devotion he who lost that mother almost in the winning, clung to this girl, her breathing imago. She gi'ew to womanhood, and gave her heart to one who conld not know its Avorth. Well I Ilor fond father could not see her pine and droop. He might be more deserving than he thought him. He siu-ely might become bo, with a wife like her. Ho joined their hands, and they were married. "Through all the misery that followed this union; thi'ough all the cold neglect and undeserved reproach ; througli all the poverty he brought upon her ; through all the struggles ol their daily life, too mean and pitiful to tell, but dreadful to endure ; she toiled on, in the deep devotion of her spirit, and in her better nature, as only women can. Her means anfl substance wasted ; lier father nearly beggared by her hus- band's hand, and the hourly witness (for they lived now imdei one roof) of her ill-usage and unhappiness, — she never, but for him, bewailed her fate. Patient, and upheld by strong affection to the last, she died a wido^v of some three weeks' date, leaving to her father's care two orphans ; on-e a son ol ten or twelve years old ; the other a girl — such another infant child — the same in helplessness, in age, in form, in feature — as she had been herself when her young mother died. " The elder brother, grandfather to these two children, was now a broken man ; crushed and borne down, less by the weight of 5'ears than by the heavy hand of sorrow. With the wreck of his possessions, he began to trade — in pictures fii'st, aud then in curious ancient things. He had entertained a fondness for such matters fi'om a boy, and the tastes he had cultivated were now to yield him an anxious and precarious subsistence. " The boy grew like his father in mind and person ; the ^irl so like her mother, that when the old man had her on his knee, and looked into her mild blue eyes, he felt as ii awakening from a -oTctched dream, and his daughter were a little child again. The wayward boy soon spiu'ned tlie shelter of his roof, and sought associates more congenial to his taste The old man and the child dwelt alone together. " It was then, when the love of two dead people who had been nearest and dearest to his heart, was all transferred to this slight creature ; when her face, constantly before him, reminded him, from hour to hour, of the too early change he had seen in such another — of all the sufferings he had watched 118 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. and known, and all liis child had undergone : when the young man's profligate and hardened coui-se di-ained him of monej as his father's had, and even sometimes occasioned them temporary privation and distress ; it was then that there began to beset him, and to be ever in his mind, a gloomy dread of poverty and want. He had no thought for himself in this. His fear was for the child. It was a spectre in his Louse, and haunted him night and day. " The 3^ounger brother had been a traveller in many couU' tries, and had made his pilgi-image tlirough life alone. His voluntary banishment had been misconstrued, and he had borne (not without pain) reproir:!! and slight, for doing that which had wrung his heart, and cast a moiu-nful shadow on his path. Apart from this, communication between him and the elder was difficiilt, and uncertain, and often failed ; still, it was not so whoUy broken off but that he learnt — with long blanks and gaps between each iaterval of information — all that I have told you now. " Then, dreams of their young, happy life — happy to him though laden with pain and early care — visited his piUow 3'et oftener than before ; and every night, a boy again, he was at his brother's side. With the utmost speed he could exert, he settled his affairs ; converted into money all the goods he had , and, with honourable wealth enough for both, with open heart and hand, with limbs that trembled as they bore him on, with emotion such as men can hardly bear and live, arrived one evening at his brother's door! " The narrator, whose voice had faltered lately, stopped. "The rest," said Mr. Garland, pressing his hand after a pause, " I know." '' Yes," rejoined his friend, " we may spare ourselves the Bequel. You know the poor result of all my search. Even when, by dint of such inquiries as the utmost vigilance and sagacity could set on foot, we found they had been seen with two poor travelling showTnen — and in time discovered the men themselves — and in time, tlie actual place of their ireti'eat ; even then, we were too late. Pray God we are not too late again ! " " We cannot be," said Mr. Garland. " This time we miiat succeed." " I have believed and hoped so," returned the other. '* I try to boh'eve and hope so still. But a heay^' weight has THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. tlb ] I fallen Dn my spirits, my good friend, and the sadness that j gathers over me, will peld to neither hope nor reason." j " That does not surprise me," said Mr. Garland ; " it is a j natural consequence of the events jou have recalled ; of this i dreary time and place ; and above all, of this wild and dismal nigbt, A dismjil night, indeed ! Hark ! how the wind is ho^'ing ! " IM THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. •IHAPTER XV. Day Droke, and found tliem still upon their way. Sinue leaving' home, they had halted here and there for necessary refreshment, and had frequently been delayed, especially in the night time, by waiting for fresh horses. They had made no other stoppages, but the weather continued rough and the roads were often steep and heav5\ It would be night again before they reached their place of destination. Kit, all bluff and hardened with the cold, went on man- fully ; and, having enough to do to keep his blood circulating, to picture to himself the happy end of this adventurous journey, and to look about him and be amazed at everytliing, had little spare time for thinking of discomforts. Though his impatience, and that of his fellow-travellers, rapidly increased as the day waned, the hours did not stand s^.ill. ^he shori daylight of winter soon faded away, and it was dark again when they had yet many miles to travel. CAs it grew dusk ; the wind fell ; its distant moanings were ore low and mournful ; and, as it came creeping up the road, and rattling covertly among the dry brambles on either hand, it seemed like some great phantom for -.vhom the way was narrow, whose garments rustled as it stalked along. By degi-ces it luUed and died away, and then it came on to snow. The flakes fell fast and .thick, soon covering the ground Bome inches deep, and spreading abroad a solemn stillness. The rolling wheels were noiseless, and the sharp ring and slatter of the horses' hoofs, became a dull, muffled tramp. The life of their progress seemed to be slowly hushed, and something death-like to usurp its place, j^ Shading his eyes from the falling snenv, which froze upon their lashes, and obscured his sight. Kit often tried to catch the earliest glimpse of twinkling lights denoting their approach to some not distant town. He could descry objects ©iii>iigh at such times, but none correctly. ^ Now, a taU churob THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 121 Spire appeared in. view, which, presently became a tree, a barn, a sliadow on the ground, thrown on it by their own bright lamps. Now, there were horsemen, foot-passengers, carriages going on before, or meeting them in narrow ways , which, when they -s^'ere close upon them, turned to shadows too. A wall, a ruin, a stiu'dy gable end, woiJd rise up in the road ; and, when they were j^lunging headlong at it, woidd be the road itself. Strange tui-nings too, bridges, and sheets of water, appeai'ed to start up hej-e and there, making the way doubtfid and uncertain ; and yet they were on the same bare road, and these things, like tlie others, as they were passed, tiu-ned into dim illusions. \ He descended slowly from his' seat — for his limbs were numbed — when they arrived at a lone posting-house, and in- quired how far they had to go to reach their journey's end. It was a late hour in such bj'-places, and the people were abed ; but a voice answered from an upper \\'iudow, Ten miles. The ten minutes that ensued appeared an hour ; but at the end of that time, a shivering figure led out the horses they required, and after another brief delay they Avere again in motion. It was a cross-country road, full, after the first three or four miles, of holes and cart-ruts, which, being covered by the sno^\•, were so many pitfaUs to the trembling horses, and obliged them to keep a footpace. As it was next to impos- sible for men so much agitated as they were by this time, to sit stiU and move so slowly, all thi'ee got out and plodded on behind the carriage. The distance seemed interminable, and the walk was most laborious. As eacli was thinking within himself that the ch-iver must have lost his way, a chui'ch bell, close at hand, struck the horn' of midnight, and the carriage stopped. It had moved softly enough, but when it ceased to crunch the snow, the silence was as startling as if some great noise had been replaced by perfect stillness. "This is the'^place, gentlemen," said the driver, dismount- ing from his horse, and kno- 'kiug at the door of a little inn. " Halloa ! Past twelve o'clocli is the dead of night here." The knocking was loud and long, but it failed to rouse the drowsy inmates. All continued dark and silent as before. They fell back a little, and looked iqi at the windows, which Tvere mere black patches in the whitened hoifee fi-ont. No light appeared. Ihe house might have been deserted, or the sleepers dead, for any air of life it had about it. I'iS THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. They spoke together with a strange inconsisteucy, in whispers; unwilling to disturb again, the dreary eclioes tliey had just now raised. " Let us go on," said the younger brother, " and leave this good fellow to wake them, if he can. I cannot rest untU. T know that wo are not too late. Let us go on, in the name of ll«aven ! " The}'' did so, leaving the postilion to order siich accommo- dation as the house afforded, and to renew his Imocking. Kit accompanied them -n^th a little bundle, whicli he had hung in the carriage Avhen they left home, and had noc forgotten since — the bird in his old cage — just as she had left him. She would be glad to see her bird, he knew. Tlie road wound gently do\vTiward. As they proceeded, they lost sight of the church whose clock they had heard, and of tlie small village clustering round it. The knocking, which ■was now renewed, and which in that stillness they could plainly hear, troubled them. They -wished the man would forbear, or tliat they had told him not to break the silence until they returned. The old church tower, clad in a ghostly garb of piu-e cold white again rose up before them, and a few moments brought them close beside it. A venerable building — grey, even in the midst of the hoary landscape. An ancient sun-dial on the belfry wall was nearly hidden by the snow-drift, and scarcely to be kno-mi for what it was. Time itself seemed to have gro^vn dull and old, as if no day were ever to displace the melancholy night. A wicket gate Avas close at hand, but there was more than one path across the church-yaixl to which it led, and, uncertain which to take, they came to a stand again. The village street — if street that could be called which was an irregidar cluster of poor cottages of many heights and ages, some with their fronts, some with their backs, and some ■n'ith gable ends towards the road, ^dth here and there a signpost, •"•r a shed encroaching on the path — was close at hand, Tliere was a faint light in a chamber window not far off, and .*vit ran towards that house to ask their way. His first shout was answered by an old man within, who presently appeared at the casement, wrapping some garment roimd his throat as a protection from the cold, and demanded who Avas abroad at that unseasonable hour wanting him. Tllli OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 128 " 'Tis hard weather this," he griunhled, " a.ad not a night to call me up iu. My trade is not of that kind that I need be roused from bed. The business on which folks want me, will keep cold, especially at this season. What do you want ? " " T would not have roused you, if I had known you wero old and ill," said Kit. "Old!" repeated the other peevishly. "How do you know I am old ? Not so old as you think, friend, perliaps. As to being ill, you will find many yoimg people in worse case than I am. JNIore 's the pity that it should be so — not that I should be strong and hearty for my years, I mean, but that they should be weak and tender. I ask yoiu' pardon though," said the old man, " if I spoke rather rough at first My eyes are not good at night — that 's neither age nor illness ; they never were — and I didn t see you were a stranger." "I am sorry to call you from your bed," said Kit, "but those gentlemen you may see by the ch'orchyard gate, are strangers too, who have just arrived from a long jooi-ney, and seek the parsonage-house. You can direct us? " " I should be able to," answered the old man, in a trembling voice, " for, come nest summer, I have been sexton here, good fifty years. The right-hand path, fi-iend, is the road. — There is no ill news for oiu' good gentleman, I hope ? " Kit thanked him, and made him a hasty ans^\er in the negative ; he was tui-ning back, when his attention was caugnt by the voice of a child. Looking up he saw a very little creature at a neighbouring window. "'^^^lat is that?" cried the child, earnestly. "Has my di-eam come true ? Pray speak to me, whoever that is, awake and up." " Poor boy ! " said the sexton, before Kit could answer, '■' how goes it, darling ? " "Has my di'eam come true?" exclaimed the child again, >-ii a voice so fervent that it might have thrilled to the heart of iny listener. " But no, that can never be ! How could it be — Oh! how could it!" " I guess liis meaning," said the sexton. " To bed again, ^oor boy ! " "Ay!" cried the child, m a burst of despair. "I knew it could never be, I felt too sure of that, before I asked! Cut, all to-night, and last night too, it was the same. ] never fall asleep but that cruel dream comes bauk." 184 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. " Try to sleep again," aaid tlie old man, soothingly, "It will go, in time." "No no, I would rather that it staid — cruel as it is, I would rather that it staid," rejoined the child. "I am not afraid to have it in my sleep, but I am so sad — so very, very Bad." The old man blessed him, the child in tears replied Good night, and Kit "was again alone. He hurried back, moved by what he had heard, though more by the child's manner than by anything he had said, as nis meaning was hidden from him. They took the path indicated by the sexton, and soon arrived before the parsonage wall. Turning round to look about them when they had got thus far, they saw, among some ruined buildings at a distance, one single solitary light. It shone fi-om what appeared to be an old oriel window, and being surrounded by the deep shadows of overhanging walls, sparkled like a star. Bright and glimmering as the stars above their heads, lonely and motionless as they, it seemed to claim some kindred with the eternal lamps of Heaven, and to burn in fellowship with them. " What light is that ! " said the younger brother. "It is surely," said Mr. Garland, " in the ruin where they live. I see no other ruin hereabouts." " They cannot," returned the brother hastily, " be waking at this late hour- — " Kit interposed directly, and begged that, while they rang and Avaited at the gate, they would let him make his way to where this light Avas shining, and try to ascertain if any people Avere about. Obtaining the permission he desri'ed, he darted off Avith breatliless eagerness, and, still carrying the birdcage in his hand, made straight towards the spot. It was not easy to hold that pace among the graves, and at another time he might hav(; gone more slowly, or round by Hie path. Unmindfid of all obstacles, hoAVCA'er, ho pressed forAvard without slackening his speed, and soon arrived within », few yards of the window. lie approaclied as softly as he covJd, and advancing so near the wall as to brush the Avhitened ivy witli his dress, listened Ttere was no sound inside. The church itself was not more quiet. Touching the glass with his cheek, he listened again. No. iVnd }et there was such a sHeneo all around that he felt THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP, 126 sure he could have heard even the breathing of a sleeper, if tnere had Leen one there. A strange circumstance, a light in such a place at that time of night, with no one near it. A ciu'tain was drawn across the lower portion of the window, and he could not see into the room. But there was no shadow thro-mi upon it from within. To have gained a footing on the wall and tried to look in from above, woidd have been attended with some danger — certainly with some noise, and tlie chance of terrifying the child, if that really were her habitation, \gain and again he listened j again and again the same wearisome blank. Leaving the spot Avith slow and cautious steps, and skii-ting the ruin for a few paces, he came at length to a door. He knocked. No answer. But there was a ciu'ious noise inside. It was difficidt to determine what it was. It bore a resem- blance to the low moaning of one in pain, but it was not that, being far too regular and constant. Now it seemed a kind of song, now a wail — seemed, that is, to his changing fanc}% for the sound itself was never changed or checked. It was unlike anything he had ever heard ; and in its tone there was some- thing fearful, chilling, and uneartlily. The listener's blood ran colder now, than ever it had done in frost and snow, but he knocked again. There was no answer, and the sound went on without any interruption. He laid his hand softly upon the latch, and put his knee against the door. It was secured on the inside, bxit yielded to the pressure, and turned upon its hinges. He saw the glimmering of a fire upon the old walls, and entered. X20 THE OLD CUKIOSITY SHOP. A CHAPTER XYI. The dull^ red glow of a "wood fire — for no lamp or catifUe burnt -vvitliin the room — showed him a figure, seated on the hearth with its back towards him, bending over the fitfiJ light. The attitude was that of one who sought the heat. It was, and j'et was not. The stooping postiu-e and the cowering form were there, but no hands •were stretched out to meet the grateful warmth, no shrug or shiver compared its luxury with the piercing cold outside. With limbs huddled together, head bowed down, arms crossed upon the breast, and fingers tightly clenched, it rocked to and fi-o upon its Beat without a moment's pause, accompanpng the action with the mournfid. sound he had heard. The heavy door had closed behind him on his entrance, with a crash that made him start. The figiu-e neither spoke, nor turned to look, nor gave in any other way the faintest sign of having heard the noise. The form was that of an old man, his white head akin in colour to the mouldering embers upon which he gazed. He, and the failing light and dying fire, the time-worn room, the solitude, the wasted life, and gloom, were all in fellowship. Ashes, and dust, and ruin ! Kit tried to speak, and did pronoimce some words, though what they were he scarcely knew. StiU the same terrible low cry went on — stiU the same rocking in the chair — the same stricken figure ^vas there, unchanged and heedless of his presence. He had liis hand upon the latch, when something in the form — distinctly seen as one log broke and fell, and, as it foil, blazed up — arrested it. He returned to Avhere he had stood before — advanced a pace — another — another still. Another, and he saw tlie face. Yes i Changed as it was, he knew it well. " Master ! " he cried, stooping on one knee and catching at his hand. " Dear master. Speak to me , ( THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 127 Tlio old man turned slowly towards him ; and muttered in a hollow voice, " This is another ! — How many of these spirits there havti been to-night ! " " No spirit, master. No one but your old servant. You know me now, I am sure ? Miss Nell — where is she — where is she ! " " Tliey all say that ! " cried the old man. " They all ask the same question. A spirit ! " " ^^^lere is she ? " demanded Kit. " Oh tell me but that — but that, dear master ! " " She is asleep — yonder — in there." " Thank God I " " Aye ! Thank God 1 " retui-ned the old man. " I have prayed to Him, many, and many, and many a livelong night, when she has been asleep, He knows. Hark! Did she caU?'" " I heard no voice." " You did. You hear her now. Do you teU me that you don't hear that? " He started up, and listened again. "Nor that?" he cried, with a triumphant smile. "Can any body know that voice so well as I ! Hush ! hush ! " Motioning to him to be silent, he stole away into another chamber. Aftsr a short absence (during which he could be heard to speak in a softened soothing tone) he returned, bearing in his hand a lamp. " She is stiU asleep," he whispered. " You Avere right. She did not call — unless she did so in her slumber. She has called to me in her sleep before now, sir ; as I have sal by, watching, I have seen her lips move, and have knowTi, though no sound came from them, that she spoke of me. I feared the light might dazzle her eyes and wake her, so I brought it here." He spoke rather to himself than to the visitor, but wlien he had put the lamp upon the table, he took it up, as if impelled by some momentary recollection or curiosity, and held it near his face. Then, as if forgetting his motive in the rery action, he tui-ned away and put it down again. "She is sleeping soimdly," ho said; "but no wonder. Angel hands have strewn the ground deep with snow, that jho lightest footstep may be lighter yet; and the very birda 128 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. bre dead, that tlicy may not wake lier. Slie used to feed them, sir. Thoug-]i never so cold and hungry, the timid things ^"ould fly from us. They never flew from her ! " Again he stopped to listen, and scarcely di'awing breath, listened for a long, long time. Tliat fancy past, he opened an old cliest, took out some clothes as fondly as if they had l)een living things, and began to smooth and brush them Avith his hand. " "WTiy dost thou lie so idle there, dear Nell," he murmured, " when there are bright red berries out of doors waiting for thee to pluck them I Why dost thou lie so idle there, when thy little friends come creeping to the door, crying ' where is Nell — sweet Nell? ' — and sob, and weep, because they do not see thee. She was always gentle with children. The wildest would do her bidding — she had a tender way with them, indeed she had ! " Kit had no power to speak. His eyes Avere filled Avith tears. "Her little homely dress, — her favourite ! " cried the old man, pressing it to his breast, and patting it with his shrivelled hand. " She will miss it when she A\'akes. They have hid it here in sport, but she shall have it— she shall have it. I Avould not vex my darling, for the AAide Avorld's riches. See here — these shoes — how Avorn they are — she kept them to remind her of our last long journey. You see Avhere the little feet Avcnt bare upon the ground. They told me, afterwards, that the stones had cut and bruised them. She never told me that. Nc», no, God bless her ! and, I have remembered since, she walked behind me, sir,^that I might not see how lame she was — but yet she had my hand in hers, and seemed to lead mo stiU." He pressed them to his lips, and having carefully put them back again, went on communing with himself — looking Avistfully from time to time tOAvards the chamber he had lately visited. " She was not wont to be a lie-abed; but she was well then. We must have patience. When she is well again, she Avill rise early, as she used to do, and ramble abroad in the healthy morning time. I often tried to track the way she had gone, but her small footstep left no print upon the deAvy ground, to guide me. ^\'^ho is that ? Shut the door. Quick ! — Have Ave not enough to do to diive away that fnarbla cold, and keep her warm ' '" THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 129 The door was indeed opeued, for the entrance of Mr. Garland and his friend, accompanied by two other persons. These were the schoolmaster, and the bachelor. The formei held a light in his hand. He had, it seemed, but gone to his ovra cottage to replenish the exhausted lamp, at the moment when Kit came up and found the old man alone. He softened again at sight of these t-\ro friends, and, laying aside the angiy manner — if to anything so feeble and so sad the term can be applied — in which he had spoken when the door opened, resumed his former seat, and subsided, by little and little, into the old action, and the old, dull, wanderins: soimd. Of the strangers, he took no heed whatever. He had seen them, but appeared quite incapable of interest or ciu-iosity. The yoimger brother stood apart. The bachelor drew a chair towards the old man, and sat down close beside him. After a long silence, he ventured to speak. "Another night, and not in bed!" he said softly; "I hoped you would be more mindful of your promise to nie. ^Vhy do you not take some rest ? " " Sleep has left me," returned the old man. "It is all with her ! " " It woxild pain her very much to know that you Avore watching thus," said the bachelor. " You woidd not give her pain?" " I am not so sure of that, if it woidd only rouse her. She has slept so very long. And yet I am rash to say so. It is a good and happy sleep — eh? " " Indeed it is," returned the bachelor. " Indeed, indeed, it is ! " " That 's well ! — and the waking" — faltered the old man. " Happy too. Happier than tongxie can tell, or heart of man conceive." They watched him as he rose and stole on tiptoe to the other chamber where the lamp had been replaced. Tliey Hstencd as he spoke again wdthin its silent walls. They looked into the faces of each other, and no man's clieek waa free fr-om tears. He came back, whispering that she was Btill asleep, but that he thouglit she had moved. It was her 'land, he said — a little — a very, very little — but he was pretty sure she had moved it — perhaps in seeking his. He had known lier do that, before now, though in the deepest sleep VOL. 11. K 130 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. the while, aud when he had said this, he dropped into hi3 chair again, and cUisping his hands above his head, uttered a cry never to be forgotten. Tiie poor schoolmaster motioned to the bachelor that he would come on the other side, and speak to him. They gently unlocked his fingers, which he had twisted in his grey hair, and pressed them in their own. " He will hear me," said the schoolmaster, " I am sure. He will hear either me or you if we beseech him. She would, at all times." " I will hear any voice she liked to hear," cried the old man. " I love all she loved ! " "I know you do," returned the schoolmaster. "I am certain of it. Think of her ; think of all the sorrows and afflictions you have shared together ; of all the trials, and all the peaceful pleasures, you have jointly known." '■ I do. I do. I think of nothing else." " I would have you think of nothing else to-night — of nothing but those things which will soften your heart, dear friend, and open it to old affections and old times. It is so that she would speak to you herself, and in her name it is that I speak now." " You do well to speak softly," said the old man. " We wiU not wake her. I shoid.d be glad to see her e^^es again, and to see her smile. There is a smile upon lier yoimg face now, but it is fixed and changeless. I Avoiud have it come and go. That shall be in Heaven's good time. "We will not wake her." " Let us not talk of her in her sleep, but as sh.e used to be when you were joiu-neying together, far away — as she was al aome, in the old house from which you fled together — as she was, in the old cheerful time," said the schoolmtister. " She was always cheerful — very cheerful," cried the old man, looking stedfastly at him. " There was ever something mild and quiet about lier, I remember, from the fii'st ; but she was of a happj' nature." '* We have heard j'ou sar," pursued tlie schoolmaster, " that in this, and in aU goodness, she was Hke lier mother. Vou can think of, and remember her?" He maintained his stedfast look, but gave no answer. " Or even one before her," said the bachelor. " It is many years ago, and affliction makes tlie time longer, but you have THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 131 not forgottcu her whose death ccmtribiited to make this cJiild BO dear to yoii, even before you Imew her worth or coiild read her heart ? Sa}', that 3-011 coiild carry back your thoughts to very distant days — to the time of your eai-ly life — when, unlike tuis fair flower, you did not pass your youtl). alone. Say, that you could remembrr, long' ago, another child who loved you dearly, yc* being but a child yourself. Say, that you had a brother, long forgotten, long- unseen, long separated from you, who now, at last, in your utmost need came back to comfort and console j'ou " — "To be to you what jou were once to him," cried tlie younger, falling on his knee before him ; " to repay \o\vc old affection, brother dear, by constant care, solicitude, and love ; to be, at 3'our right hand, what he has never ceased to be when oceans rolled between us; to caU to Avitness his imchanging truth and mindfulness of by-gone days, whole years of desolation. Give me but one word of recognition, brother — and nevei' — no never, in the brightest moment ol our yoxmgest daj-s, when, poor silly boys, we thought to pass our lives together — have we been half as dear and precious to each other as we shall be from this time hence ! " The old man looked from face to face, and his Kps moved , but no sound came from them in reply. " If we were knit together then," pursued the younger brotlier, " what wiU be the bond between us now ! Our love f.nd fellowship began in childhood, when life was all before us, and wiU be resumed when wo have proved it, and are but ehilchen at the last. As many restless spirits, who have hunted fortime, fame, or pleasure through the world, retire in their decline to where they first drew breath, vainly seeking to be childi-en once again before they die, so we, less fortunate than they in early life, but happier in its closing scenes, wiU set up our rest again among our boyish haimts, and going home with no liope realised, that had its growtli in manliood — carr3'ing back nothing that we brought away, but our old yearnings to each other — saving no fragnnent from the A\Teck of life, but that whicli first endeared it — may be, indeed, but childi-en as at first. And even," he added in an altered voice, " even if what I dread to name has come tc T)ass — even if that be so, or is to be (which Heaven forbid r.nd .spare us!) — stiU, dear brother, we are not apart, and oave tliat cojnfort in our great aflliction.'' k2 182 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. By little and little, the old man had di'awTx back towards the inner chamber, wliile these words were spoken. He pointed there, as he replied, with trembling lips. " You plot among you to wean my heart £i*om her. You never will do that — never while I liave life. I have no relative or friend but her — I never had — I never Avill have. She is all in all to me. It is too late to iKirt us now." "Waving them off with his hand, and calling softly to hex as he went, he stole into the room. Tiiey Avho Avere left behind, drew close together, and after a few whispered words — not unbroken by emotion, or easily uttered — foRowed him. They moved so gently, that their footsteps made no noise ; but there were sobs from among tlie group, and sounds of grief and moiu-ning. For she was dead. There, upon her little bed, .she lay at rest. The solemn stillness was no marvel now. She was dead. No sleep so beautiful and calm, so free from trace of pain, so fair to look upon. She seemed a creature fresh from the hand of God, and waiting for the breath of life ; not one who had lived and suffered death. Her couch was dressed with liere and there some winter berries and green leaves, gathered in a spot she had been used to favour. " When I die, put near me something that has loved the light, and had the sky above it always." Those were her words. She was dead. Dear, gentle, patient, noble Nell, was dead Her little bird — a poor slight thing the pressui-e of a finger U'Oidd have crushed — was stirring nimbly in its cage ; and the strong heart of its child- mistress was mute and motionless for ever. Where were the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues ? All gone. Sorrow was dead indeed in her, but peace and jierfect happiness were born; imaged in her tranquil beauty and profovmd repose. And still her former self lay there, unaltered in this change. Yes. Tlie old fireside had smiled upon that same sweet face ; it had passed, like a dream, through haunts of misery and care: at the door of the poor schoolmaster on the summer evening before the furnace fire upon the cold wet night, at the stilj bedside of the dying boy, there had been the same mild lovely look. So slifdl we know the angels in their majesty, after death. THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 183 The old man held one languid arm in his, and had the small liand tiglit fdlded to his breast, for -warmth. It "was the hand she liad stretched out to him with hev last smile — the hand that had led him on, through all tlioir Avanderings. Ever and anon he pressed it to his lips ; then hugged it to his breast again, miu'muring that it was warmer now ; and, as he said it, he looked, in agony, to those who stood aroun.d, as if imploring them to help her. She was dead, and past all help, or need of it. The ancient rooms she had seemed to fill with life, even while her own was waning fast — the garden she had tended — the eyes she had gladdened — the noiseless haunts of many a thoughtful hour — the paths she had trodden as it were but j-esterday — c v<, 186 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. " Windows are closed that never used to be by day. What does this mean? " Again the woman said she could not tell. " We must go back," said the old man, hurrie^Uy. " We must see what this is." " No, no," cried the child, detaining him. " Remember what you promised. Our way is to the old gi*een lane, where slie and I so often were, and where you found us, more than once, making those garlands for her garden. Do not turn back ! " " Wliere is she now ? " said the old man. " Tell me that." " Do you not know ? " returned the cliild. " Did we not leave her, but just now?" " True. True. It was her we left — was it ! " He pressed his baud upon his brow, looked vacantly round, and as if impelled by a sudden thought, crossed the road, and entered the sexton's house. He and his deaf assistant were sitting before the lire. Both rose uji, on seeing who it was. The child made a hasty sign to them with his hand. It M-as the action of an instant, but that, and the old man's look, were quite enough. " Do you — do you bury any one to-day?" ho said, eagerly. •' Xo, no I Who should wo bmy, sir?" retui-ned the sexton. " Aye, who indeed ! I say with you, who indeed ? " "It is a holiday Avith us, s^'ood sir?" returned the sexton mildly. " ^^ e liave no work to do to-day." " Why tlien, I '11 go where you will," said the old man, turning to the child. " You're sure of what you tell me? You would not deceive me? I am changed, even in the little time since you last saw me." " Go thy ways with him, sir," cried the sexton, " and Heaven be with ye both ! " " I am quite ready," said the old man, meekly. "Come, boy, come — " and so submitted to be led away. And now the beU — the beU she had so often heard, by night and day, and listened to with solemn pleasure almost as a living voice — rung its remorseless toll, for her, so young, 6*3 beautiful, so good. Decrepit age, and vigorous life, and blooming youth, and helpless infancy, poured forth — on crutclies, in the pride of strength and health, in the full blush of promise, in the mere dawn of life — to gather round her THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 137 toml). Old men. were there, wliose eyes were diia and senses failing — graudmotliers, who might have died ten years ago, £»nd still been old — the deaf, the blind, the lame, the palsied th^ living dead in many snapes and forms, to see the closing of that early grave. "WTiat was the death it would shut in, to that which still coidd crawl and creep above it ! Along the crowded path they bore her now ; pure as the newly fallen snow that covered it ; whose day on earth had been as fleeting. Under the porch, where she had sat when Heaven in its mercy brought her to that peaceful spot, she passed again; and the old church received her in its quiet shade. They carried her to one old nook, where she had many and many a time sat musing, and laid their biu'den softly on the [)avement. The light sti'eamed on it through the coloured vrindow — a window, where the boughs of trees were ever rustling in the summer, and where the birds sang sweetly all day long. With every breath of air that stirred among those branches in the sunshine, some trembling, changing light, ft'oidd fall upon her grave. Earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust ! !Many a young hand dropped in its little wreath, many a stifled sob waa heard. Some — and they were not a few — knelt down. All •were sincere and trutliful in their sorrow. The service done, the mom-ners stood apart, and the villagers closed round to look into the grave before the pavement -stone should be replaced. One, called to mind how he had seen her fitting on that very spot, and how her book had fallen on her lap, and she was gazing with a pensive face upon the sky. ./Luother, told how he had wondered much that one so delicate as she, should be so bold ; how she had never feared to enter the church alone at night, but had loved to linger there when aU was quiet, and even to climb the tower stair, \A-ith no more light than that of the moon rays stealing thi-ough the loopholes in the thick old wall. A whisper went about among the oldest, that she had seen and talked with angels; and w hen they called to mind how she had looked, and spoken, and her early death, some thought it might be so, indeed. Thus, coming to the grave in little knots, and glancing down, and giving place to others, and falling off in wliispering groups of thi-ee or foiu', the chiu-ch was cleared in time, of aU but the sexton and the mourning friends. 188 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. They saw the vaiilt covered, and the stone fixed down, ■fhen, v,']ien the dusk of evening had come on, and not a sound disturbed the sacred stilhiess of the place — when the bright moon poured in her light on tomb and monument, on pillar, wall, and arch, and most of all (it seemed to them) upon her quiet grave — in that calm time, when outward things and inward thoughts teem -ndth assurances of immortalitj', and worldly hopes and fears are humbled iu the dust before them — then, with tranquil and submissive hearts they turned awav, and left the child with God. Oh ! it is hard to take to heart the lesson that such deaths will teach, but let no man reject it, for it is one that all must learn, and is a mighty, universal Truth. ^Vhen Death strikes doAvn the innocent and young, for every fragile form from which he lets the panting spirit fr-ee, a hundred vii'tues rise, in shapes of mercy, charity, and love, to walk the world, and bless it. Of every tear that sorrowing mortals shed on such green gTaves, some good is born, some gentler natui'e comes. In the Destroyer's steps there spring up bright creations that defy his power, and his dark path becomes a way of light to Heaven. It was late when the old man came home. The boy had led him to his own dwelling, under some pretence, on their way back ; and, rendered drowsy by his long ramble and late want of rest, he had sunk into a deep sleep b}^ the fireside. He was perfectly exliausted, and they were careful not to rouse him. The slumber held him a long time, and when he at length awoke the moon was shining. The younger brother, imeasy at his protracted absence, waa watching at the door for his coming, when he appeared in the pathway Avith his little guide. He advanced to meet them^ and tenderly obliging the old man to lean upon his arm, con- ducted him with slow and trembling steps towards the house. He lepaired to her chamber, straight. Not finrling what he liad left tliere, he returned with distracted looks to the room in which they were assembled. From that, he rushed into the schoolmaster's cottage, calling her name. They fol- lowed close upon him, and when he had vainly searched it, brought him home. With such persuasive words as pity and affection could suggest, thoy prevailed upon him to sit among them and lieai THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 139 *ehat they should tell him. Then, endeavouring^ by everv little jirtifice to prepare his mind for ■ss'hat must come, and dwelling- with many fervent words upon tlie happy lot to which she had been removed, they told liim, at last, the truth. The moment it had passed their lips, he feU down among them like a murdered man. For many hours, they had little hope of his surviving ; but g^ief is strong, and he recovered. If there be any wlio have never known the blank that follows death — the weary void — the sense of desolation that vriR come upon the strongest minds, when something familifj? and beloved is missed at every turn — the connexion between inanimate and senseless things, and the object of recollection, when every household god becomes a monument and every room a grave — if there be any who have not known this, and proved it by their own experience, they can never faintlj' guess, liow, for many days, the old man pined and moped away the time, and wandered here and there as seeking som3- thing, and had no comfort. ^Vhatever power of thought or memory he retained, was all bound up in her. He never understood, or seemed to care to understand, about his brother. To every endearment and attention ho continued listless. If they spoke to liim on this, or any other theme — save one — he would hear them patiently for a while, then turn away, and go on seeking as before. On that one theme, which was in his and aU their minds, it was impossible to touch. Dead ! He could not hear or bear the word. The slightest hint of it would throw liim into a paroxysm, like that he had had when it was first spoken. In what hope he lived, no man coidd tell ; but, that he had some hope of finding her again — some faint and shado-wj' hope, deferred from day to day, and making him from day to day more sick and sore at heart — was plain to all. They bethought them of a removal from the scene of this last sorrow ; of tiying Avhether change of place woidd rouse or cheer him. His brother sought the advice of those Avho wore accounted skilfid in such matters, and they came and saw him Some of the number stayed upon tlie spot, conversed -nith him when he would converse, and watched him as he wandered up nnd down, alone and silent. Move him wliero they nught, they said, he would ever seek to get back there. His mind vrouJd run upon that spot. If they confined him closely, and 140 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. kept a strict guard upon him, they might hold him. prisoner but if he could by any means escape, he would surely wander back to that place, or die upon the road. The boy to whom he had submitted at first, had no longer any influence Avith him. At times he would suffer the child to walk by his side, or would even take such notice of liis presence as giving him his hand, or would stop to kiss his cheek, or pat him on the head. At other times, he would entreat him — not unkindly — to be gone, and woTild not brook him near. But, whether alone, or with this pliant friend, or with those who would have given him, at any cost or sacrifice, some consolation or some peace of mind, if happily the means could have been devised ; he was at aU times the same — ^with no love or care for anything in life — a broken-hearted man. At length, they found, one day, that he had risen early, and, with his knapsack on his back, his staff in hand, her own straw hat, and little basket full of such things as she had been used to carry, was gone. As they were making ready to pursue him far and wide, a frightened schoolboy came who had seen him, but a moment before, sitting in the chvirch — upon her grave, he said. They hastened there, and going softly to the door, espied iiiin in the attitude of one who waited patiently. They did not disturb him then, but kept a watch upon him all that day. When it gi-ew quite dark, he rose and returned home, and went to bed, murmuring to himself, " She will come to- morrow ! " Upon the morrow he was there again from sunrise until jight; and still at night ho laid him down to rest, and miu-- mured, " She will come to-morrow ! " And thenceforth, every day, and all day long, he waited at her grave, fur her. How man}' pictures of new journeys over pleasant coimtry, of resting-places under the fi'ee broad sky, of rambles in the fields and woods, and paths not often trodden — how many tones of that one weU-remembered voice — how many glimpses of the foi-m, the fluttering dress, the hair that waved so gaily in the wind — how many visions of what had been, and what he hoped was yet to be — rose up before him, in the old, dull, silent church ! He never told them what lie thought, or where he went. He would sit with them at night, pondering with a secret satisfaction, they could •ee, upon the flight that he and she would take before night THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. HI ;ame again ; and still they would hear him whisper iu his prayers, " Lord ! Let her come to-morrow ! " The last time was on a genial day in spi'ing. lie did not return at the usual hour, and they went to seek him. lie was lying dead upon the stone. They laid him by the side of her whom he had loved so well ; and, in the church where they had often prayed, and mused, and lingered hand in hand, the child and tho o^d man slept together. 142 TEE OLD CUUIOSITY SEOP. CHAPTER THE LAST. The magic reel, wMch, rolling on before, hris led the clironicler tlius far, now slackens in its pace, and stops. It lies l:)efore the goal ; the pursuit is at an end. It remains but to dismiss the leaders of the little crowd who have borne tis company upon the road, and so to close the journey. Foremost among them, smooth Sampson Brass and Sally, arm in arm, claim our polite attention. Mr. Sampson, then, being detained, as ali-eady has been shown, by the justice upon whom he called, and being so strongly pressed to protract his stay that he could by no means . refuse, remained under his protection for a considerable time, diu-ing which the great attention of his entertainer kept him so extremely close, that he was quite lost to society, and never even went abroad for exercise saving into a small paved yard. So well, indeed, was his modest and retiring temper imder- stood by those with whom he had to deal, and so jealous were they of liis absence, that they required a kind of friendly bond to be entered into by t^vo substantial housekeepers, in the sum of fifte:,n lumdred pounds a-piece, before they would suffer him to quit their hospitable roof — doubting it appeared, that he woxdd retiu-n, if once let loose, on any other terms. Mr. Brass, struck with the liumour of this jest, and carrying oui lis spirit to the utmost, sought from his wide connexion „a pair of friends whoso joint possessions fell some halfpence bhort of fifteen pence, and projffered them as bail — for that was the merry word agreed upon on botli sides. These gentle- men being rejected after twenty-four hours' pleasantry, Mr. Brass consented to remain, and did remain, until a cluTj of choice spirits called a Grand Jury (who were in the joke) fummoned liim to a trial before twelve other wags for perjury and fraud, who in their turn foimd him guilty with a most facetious joy, — nay, the very popxdace entered into the whim THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 143 and when Mr. Brass "was moving in a hackney-coacli towards tlie building where these wags assembled, saluted him with rotten eggs and carcases of kittens, and feigned to wish to tear him into shi-eds, which greatly increased the comicality of the thing, and made him rehsh it the more, no doubt. To work this sportive vein still further, Mr. Brass, by his counsel, moved in arrest of judgment that he had been led to criminate himself, by assurances of safety and promises of pardon, and claimed the leniency which the law extends to such confiding natures as are thus deluded. After solemn argument, this i)oint (with others of a technical nature, whose humorous extravagance it would be difficult to exaggerate) was referred to the jiidges for their decision, Sampson being meantime removed to his former quarters. Finally some of the points were given in Sampson's favour, and some against him; and the upshot was, that, instead of being desii-ed to travel for a time in foreign parts, he was permitted to grace the mother countrj^ under certain insignificant restrictions. These were, that he should, for a term of years, reside in a spacious mansion where several other gentlemen were lodged and boarded at the pul ilic charge, who went clad in a sober uniform of grey tm-ned up with yellow, had their hair cut extremely short, and chiefly lived on gi-uel and light soup. It was also requu-ed of him that he shotdd partake of their exercise of constantly ascending an endless flight of stairs ; and, lest his legs, imused to such exertion, shoidd be weakened by it, that he should wear upon one ancle an amidet or charm of iron. These conditions being arranged, he was removed one evening to his new abode, and enjoyed, in common with nine other gentlemen, and two ladies, the privilege of ]:)eing taken to his place of retirement in one of Royaltj^'s ovrn carriages. Over and above these trifling penalties, his name av.is erased and blotted out from the roll of attorneys ; which erasiu'e has been always held in these latter times to be a great degradation and reproach, and to imply the commission of some amazing viUany — as indeed woidd seem to be the case, when so manj' worthless names remain among its bettor records, unmolested. Of Sally Brass, conflicting rumours went abroad. Some Kiid with confidence that she had gone down to the docks in male attire, and had become a female sailor ; others dturkly 144 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. whispered that she had enlisted as a private in the second regiment of Foot Guards, and had been seen in uniform, and on duty, to wit, leaning on her musket and looking out of a Bentry-box in St. James's Park, one evening. There were many such whispers as these in circidation ; but the truth appears to be that, after a lapse of some five years (diu'ing which there is no direct evidence of her having been seen at all), two wretched people were more than once observed to crawl at dusk from the inmost recesses of St. Giles's, and to take their way along the streets, with shuffling steps and cowering shivering forms, looking into the roads and kennela as they went in search of refuse food or disregarded offal. These forms were never beheld but in those nights of cold and gloom, when the terrible spectres, who lie at all other times in the obscene hiding-places of London, in archways, dark vaults and cellars, venture to creep into the streets ; the em- bodied spirits of Disease, and Vice, and Famine. It was whispered by those who should have knovtTi, that these were Samjjson and his sister Sally ; and to this day, it is said, they sometimes pass, on bad nights, in the same loathsome guise, close at the elbow of the slirinldng passenger. The body of Quilp being foimd — though not imtil some days had elapsed — an inquest was held on it near the spot where it had been washed ashore. The general supposition was that he had committed suicide, and, this appearing to be favoured by all the circumstances of liis death, the verdict was to that effect. He was left to be buried with a stake through his heart in the centre of four lonely roads. It was rumoured afterwards that this horrible and barbaruus ceremony had been dispensed with, and that the remains had been secretly given up to Tom Scott. But even here, opinion was divided ; for some said Tom had dug them up at mid- uight, and carried them to a place indicated to him by the widow. It is probable that both these stories may have had their origin in the simple fact of Tom's shedding tears upon the inquest — which he certainly did, extraordinary as it may appear. Ho manifested, besides, a strong desire to assault the jury ; and being restrained and conducted out of court, darkened its only window by standing on his head upon the sill, until he* was dexterously tilted upon his feet again by a cautious beadle. Being cast upon the world by his master's death, he deter THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 145 tnined to go tkroiigh. it upon liis head and hands, and accord- ingly began to tumble for his bread . Finding, however, his Enfflish birth an insurmountable obstacle to his adyancement in this pursvxit (notwithstanding that his art was in high repute and favour), he assumed the name of an Italian image lad, with whom he had become acquainted; and afterwards tumbled ^vith extraordinary success, and to overflowing audiences. Little Mrs. Quilp never quite forgave herself the one deceit that lay so heavv' on her conscience, and never spoke or thought of it but with bitter tears. Her husband had no relations, and she was rich. He had made no will, or she would probably have been poor. Ha\'ing married the first time at her mother's instigation, she consulted in her second choice nobody but herself. It fell upon a smart young fellow enough ; and as he made it a preliminary condition that Mrs. Jiniwin shovild be thenceforth an out-pensioner, they lived together after marriage with no more than the average amount of quarrelling, and led a meriy life upon the dead dwarf's money. Mr. and Mrs. Garland, and l\lr. Abel, went out as usual (except that there was a change in their household, as will be seen presently), and in due time the latter went into partner- ship with his friend the notary, or. which occasion there was a dinner, and a ball, and great extent of dissipation. Unto this ball there happened to be invited the most bashful young lady that was ever seen, with whom Mr. Abel happened to fall in love. FIo^v it happened, or how they found it out, or which of them first communicated the discovery to the other, nobody knows. But, certain it is that in course of time they were married ; and equally certain it is that they were the happiest of the happy; and no less certain it is that they deserved to be so. And it is pleasant to ^Yrite doA^Ti that they reared a family ; because any propagation of goodness and benevolence is no small addition to the aristocracy of nature, and no small subject of rejoicing for mankind at large. The pony preserved his character for independence and principle down to the last moment of his life ; which was an imusually long one, and caused hini to be looked upon, indeed, as the very Old Parr of ponies. He often went to and fro with the little phaeton between Mr. Garland's and his pen's, and, as the old people and tlie young were frequently together, had a stable of liis owti at tlie new establishment VOL. u. h (46 THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. into wliicli lie would walk of himself "witli surprising dignity, lie condescended to play witli the children, as they grew old enough to cultivate his friendship, and would run up and down the little paddock with them like a dog ; but though he relaxed so far, and allowed *Qiem such small freedoms as caresses, or even to look at his shoes or hang on by his tail, he never permitted any one among them to moimt his back or drive him ; thus showing that even tlieir familiarity must have its limits, and that there Avere points between them far too serious for trifling. He was not unsusceptible of warm attachments iu his later life, for when the good bachelor came to live with ]\Ir. Garland upon the clergyman's decease, he conceived a great friendship for him, and amiably submitted to be driven by liis hands without the least resistance. He did no work for two or three years before he died, but lived in clover ; and his last act (like a choleric old gentleman) was to kick his doctor. Mr. Swiveller, recovering very slowly from his illness, and entering into the receipt of his annuity,', bought for the Marchioness a handsome stock of clothes, and put her to school forth^ndtli, in redemption of the vow Jie had made upon his fevered bed. After casting about for some time for a name whicli shoidd be worthy of her, he decided in favour of Sophronia SphjTrs, as being euphonious and genteel, and furthermore indicative of mystery. Under tliis title the Marchioness repau-ed, in tears, to the school of his selection, fi'om which, as she soon distanced all competitors, she was removed before the lapse of many quarters to one of a liigher grade. It is but bare justice to Mr. Swiveller to say, that, although the expenses of her education kept him in straitened circumstances for half a dozen years, he never slackened in his zeal, and alwaj^s held himself sufficiently repaid by the accounts he heard (with great gravity) of her advancement, ;)n his monthly visits to the governess, who looked vipon him as a litei-ar}^ gentleman of eccentric habits, and of a most prodigious talent in quotation. In a word, Mr. Swiveller kept the Marchioness at thia establisihment until she was, at a moderate guess, fidl nine- teen years of age — good-looking, clever, and good-humoured ; when ho began to consider seriously what was to be done Dext. On one of liis periodical visits, while he was revolving this question in his mind, the Marchioness came down to him THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 14 J alone, looking- more sTnilIng and more fresh than ever. Then, it occm-red to him, but not for the first time, that if she Tvould marry him, how comfortable they might be ! So Richard asked her; whatever she said, it wasn't No; and they were married in good earnest that day week, which gave Mr. Swiveller frequent occasion to remark at divers subsequent periods that there had been a young lady saving up for him after all. A little cottage at Hampstead being to let, which had in its garden a smoking-box, the envy of the civilised world, they agi-eeed to become its tenants ; and, when the honejnnoon was over, entered upon its occupation. To this retreat Mr. Chuckster repaired regularly every Simday to spend the day — usually beginning with breakfast — and here he was the great piuweyor of general news and fashionable intelligence. For some years he continued a deadly foe to Kit, protesting that he had a better opinion of him when he was supposed to have stolen the five-pound note, than when he was sho-mi to be perfectly free of the crime ; inasmuch as his guilt woidd have had in it something daring and bold, whereas his innocence was but another proof of a sneaking and crafty disposition. By slow degrees, however, he was reconciled to him in the cud ; and even went so far as to honour him with his patronage, as one who had in some measm-e reformed, and Avas therefore to be forgiven. But he never forgot or pardoned that circumstance of the shilling ; holding that if he had come back to get another he woidd have done well enough, but that his returning to work out the foraier gift was a stain upon his moral character which no penitence or contrition coidd ever wash away. Mr. Swiveller, having always been in some measure of a pliilosoi^liic and reflective tui-n, grew immensely contemplative, at times, iii the smoking-box, and was accustomed at sucli periods to debate in his own mind the mysterious question of Sophronia's parentage. Sophronia herself supposed she was an orphan ; but Mr. Swiveller, putting various slight circum- stances together, often thought Miss Brass must know better than that ; and, liaving heard from his wife of her strange interview with Qudp, entertained simdry :nisgivings whetlier that person, in his lifetime, might not also have been able to Bolve the riddle, had lie chosen. These specidations, however, }^ve him no uneasiness • for Sophronia was ever a aiost l2 148 THE OLD CUllIOSITY SHOP. cheerful, affectionate, and provident wife to h.im. ; and Dich (excepting- for an occasional outbreak with ]\Ir. Chuckster, which she had the good sense rather to encourage than oppose) was to her an attached and domesticated husband. And they played many hundred tliousand games of cribbag6 together. And let it be added, to Dick's honour, that, though we have called her Sophronia, he called her the ^Marchioness from first to last ; and that upon every anniversary of tlie day on which he found her in his sick room, Mr. Chuckster came to dinner, and there was great glorification. The gamblers, Isaac List and Jowl, with their trusty confederate Mr. James Groves of unimpeachable memory, pursued their course with varying success, until the failure of a spirited enterprise in the way of their profession, dispersed tbem in different directions, and caused their career to receive a sudden check from the long and strong arm of the law. This defeat had its origin in the untoward detection of a new associate — young Frederick Trent — who thus became the unconscious instrument of their punishment and his own. For the young man himself, he rioted abroad for a brief term, living by his wits- -wliich means by the abuse of every faculty that worthily employed raises man above the beasts, and so degraded, sinks him far below them. It was not long before his body was recognised by a stranger, who chanced to visit that hospital in Paris where the drowned are laid out to be owned ; despite the bruises and disfigurements which were said to have been occasioned by some previous scuffle. But the stranger kept his own counsel until he retm*ned liome, and it was never claimed or cared for. The young brother, or the single gentleman, for that designation is more familiar, would liave dra^vn the poor schoolmaster from his lone retreat, and made hin\ his coui- panion and friend. But the humble village teacher was timid of venturing into the noisy world, and had become fond of hip dwelling in the old chnrchyard. Calmly happy in his school aud in the spot, and in the attachment of Her little moiu'iier, ho pursued his quiet course in peace ; and was, through the righteous gratitude of liis friend — let this brief mention Buffice for that — a poor schoolmaster no more. I'hat friend — single gentleman, or younger brother, which you will — had at his heart a heavy sorrow ; but it bred in Iiim no misanthropy or monastic gloom. He went forth into THE OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. 149 the world, a lover of his kind. For a long, long time, it waa his chief delight to travel in the steps of the old man and the child (so far as he could trace them from her last narrative), to halt where they had halted, sympathise where they had Buffered, and rejoice where they had been made glad. Those who had been kind to them, did not escape his search. The sisters at the school — they who were her friends, because themselves so friendless — Mrs. Jarley of the wax-work, Codlin, Short — he found them all ; and trust me, the man who fed the furnace fire was not forgotten. Kit's story having got abroad, raised him up a host of friends, and many offers of provision for his future life. He had no idea at first of ever quitting jNIr. Garland's service ; but, after serious remonstrance and advice from that gentle- man, began to contemplate the possibility of such a change being brought about in time. A good post was procured for him, with a rapidity which took away his breath, by some of tlie gentlemen who had believed him guilty of the offence laid to his charge, and who had acted upon that belief. Through the same kind agency, his mother was secured fi-om want, and made quite happy. Thus, as Kit often said, his great mis- fortune turned out to be the source of all his subsequent prosi^erity. Did Kit live a single man all liis days, or did he marry ? Of course he married, and who should be his wife, but Barbara ? And the best of it was, he married so soon that little Jacob Avas an uncle, before the calves of his legs, already mentioned in this history, had ever been encased in broadcloth pantaloons, — though that was not quite the best either, for of necessity the baby was an uncle too. The dehght of Kit's mother and of Barbara's mother upon the great occasion is past all telling ; finding they agreed so well on that, and on all other subjects, they took up tlieir abode together, and were a most harmonious pair of friends from that time forth. And hadn't Astley's cause to bless itself for their all going together once a qixarter — to the pit — and didn't Kit's mother always say, when they painted the outside, that Kit's last treat had helped to that, and wonder what the manager would feel if he but knew it as they passed his house ! Wlien Kit had children six and seven years old, there was SI Barbara among them, and a pretty Barbara she was. Nor was tliere want'ng an exact fac-simile and copy of little Jacob 150 'iim OLD CURIOSITY SHOP. aa Le appeared iu those remote times when tliey tauglit him what oysters meant. Of course there was an Abel, o\nx godson to the Mr. Garland of that name ; and there was a Dick, whom Mr. Swiveller did especially favoiu-. The littlo group would often gather round him of a night and beg him to tell again that story of good Miss Nell who died. This, Kit would do ; and when they cried to hear it, wishing it longer too, he woidd teach them how she had gone to Heaven, as all good people did ; and how, if they were good like her, they might hope to be there too, one day, and to see and know her as he had done when he was quite a boy. ITien, he would relate to them liow needy he used to be, and how she had taught him what he was otherwise too poor to learn, and how the old man had been used to say "she always laughs at Kit; " at which they woidd brush away their tears, and laugh themselves to think that she had done so, and be again quite merr^'. He sometimes took them to the street where she had lived ; but new improvements had altered it so much, it was not like the same. The old house had been long ago pidled do^Ti, and a fine broad road was in its place. At fii'st, he would draw with his stick a square upon the ground to show them where it used to stand. But, he soon became uncertain of the spot and coiJd only say it was thereabouts, he thought, and that these alterations were confusing. Such are the changes which a few years bring about, and 80 do things pass away, like a tale that is told ! REPRINTED PIECES. REPRINTED PIECES. THE LONG VOYAGE. When the -m'nd is blowing and the sleet or rain is driving against the dark windows, I love to sit by the fire, thinking of what I have road in books of voyage and travel. Such books have had a strong fascination for my mind from my earliest childhood ; and I wonder it should have come to pasa that I never have been round the world, never have been sloip wrecked, ice-environed, tomahawked, or eaten. Sitting on my ruddy hearth in the twilight of New Year's Eve, I find incidents of travel rise around me from all the latitudes and longitudes of the globe. They observe no order or sequence, but appear and vanish as they will — " come like shadows, so depart." Columbus, alone upon the sea with his disaffected crew, looks over the waste of waters from his high station on the poop of his ship, and sees the fii'st uncertain glimmer of the light, "rising and falling with the waves, like a torch in the bark of some fisherman," which is the shining star of a new world. Bruce is caged in Abyssinia, surrounded by the gory horrors which shall often startle him out of his sleep at home when years have passed away. Franklin, come to the end of his unhappy overland journey — would that it had been his last ! — lie~ perishing of hunger with his brave companions": each emaciated figure stretched upon its miserable bed without the power to rise : all, dividing the weary days between their prayers, their remembrances of the dear ones at home, and conversation on the pleasures of eating; the last-named topic being ever pi-esent to them, likewise, in their dreams. All the African travellers, way- trom, solitary and sad, submit tliemselvcs again to drunken. 154 THE LONG VOYAGE. murderous, man -selling despots, of tlie lowest order ol humanity ; and ilungo Park, fainting under a tree and eiiccoiu-ed by a ■woman, gratefully remembers how his Good Samaritan lias always come to him in woman's shape, the wide world over. A shadow on the wall in which my mind's eye can discern «ome traces of a rocky sea-coast, recalls to me a fearfid story of travel derived from that unpromising narrator of such stories, a parliamentary blue-book. A convict is its chief figure, and this man escapes with other prisoners from a penal settlement. It is an island, and they seize a boat, and get to the main land. Their way is by a rugged and pre- cipitous soa-shore, and they have no earthly hope of ultimate escaj^e, for tlie party of soldiers despatched by an easier course to cut them off, must inevitably arrive at their distant bourne long before them, and retake them if by any hazard they survive the horrors of the way. Famine, as they all must have foreseen, besets them early in their course. Some of the part}' die and are eaten; some are murdered by the rest and eaten. This one awfid creature eats his fill, and sustains his strength, and lives on to be recaptured and taken back. The unrelateable experiences through which he has passed have been so tremendous, that he is not hanged as he might be, but goes bacli to his old cliained gang-work. A little time, and he tempts one other prisoner away, seizes another boat, and flies once more — necessarily in the old hopeless direction, for he can take no other. He is soon cut off, and met by the j)iu-suing i)art)', face to face, upon tlie beach. He is alone. In his former joiu-ney he accj^uired an inappeasable reKsh for his dreadful food. He urged the new man f.way, expressly to kill him and eat him. In the pockets on one side of his coarse con\dct-di-ess, are jortions of the man's bod}'-, on which he is regaling ; in the pockets on tho other side is an untouched store of salted pork (stolen before he left the island) for wliich he has no appetite. He is taken back, and he is hamred. But I shall never see that sea-beach on the waU or in the fh-e, without him, solitary monster, eating as he prowls along, ^\-llilG the sea rages and rises 9.t liim. Captain Bligli (a worse man to be entrusted with arbitrary ix)wer there could scarcely be) is handed over tlie side of the Bounty, and turned adrift on the wide ocean in an open boat, THE LONG VOYAGB. 16* by order of Fletcher Christian one of his officers, at this very minute. Another flash of my fire, and " Thursday October Chi-istian," five-and-twenty years of age, son of the dead and gone Fletcher by a savage mother, leaps aboard His Majesty's ship Briton, hove to off Pitcairn's Island; says his simple gi-ace before eating, in good English ; and knows that a pretty little animal on board is called a dog, because in his childhood he had heard of such strange creatui'es from his father and the other mutineers, gi-own gray under the shade of the Bread-fruit trees, speaking of their lost coimtry far awa^'. See the IIalsev\-ell, East Indiaman outTvard bound, di-iving madly on a Januaiy night towards the rocks near Seacombc^, on the island of Pm-beck ! The captain's two dear daughters are aboard, and five other ladies. The ship has been driving many hours, lias seven feet water in her hold, and her main- mast has been cut away. The description of her loss, familiar to me from my early boyhood, seems to be read alotid as she rushes to her destiny. m " About two in the morning of Friday the sixth of January, the ship still driving, and approaching very fast to the shore, Mr. Henry Meriton, the second mate, went again into the cuddy, where the captain then was. Another con- versation taking place, Captain Pierce expressed extreme anxiety for the preservation of his beloved daughters, and earnestly asked the officer if he could devise any method oi ea^'ing them. On his answering with great concern, that he feared it would be impossible, but that their only chance would be to wait for morning, the captain lifted up his hands in silent and distressfid. ejacidation. " At this dreadfid moment, the ship struck, with such violence as to dash the heads of those standing in the cuddy against the deck above them, and the shock was accompaniad by a shriek of horror that btirst at one instant from every quarter of the ship. *• ^Nlany of the seamen, Avho had been remarkably in- attentive and remiss in tlieir duty during great pai*t of the etorm, now poured upon deck, wliere no exertions of the officers could keep them^ while their assistance might have been useful. They had actually skulked in their liammocks, leaving the working of the pumps and otlier necessary labours to the officers of the ship, and the soldiers, who luul made 156 THE LONG VOYAGE, oncommou exertions. Roused by a sense of their danger the same seamen, at this moment, in frantiu exclamations, demanded of lieayen and tlieir fellow- sufferers that succour which their own efforts timely made, might possibly have procTU'ed. " The ship continued to beat on the rocks ; and sood bilging, fell with her broadside towards the shore. When she struck, a number of the men climbed up the ensign-staff, under an apprehension of her immediately going to pieces. " Mr. Merit on, at this crisis, offered to these unhappy beings the best advice which coidd be given ; he recommendeil that all should come to the side of the sliip h'ing lowest on the rocks, and singly to take the opportunities which might then offer, of escaping to the shore. " Having thus provided, to the utmost of his power, for the safet}' of the desponding crew, he returned to the round-house, where, b}'- this time, all the passengers, and most of the officers had assembled. The latter were employed in offering consolation to the unfortunate ladies ; and, Avjth unparalleled magnanimity, suffering their compassion for the fair and amiable companions of their misfortames to prevail over the sense of their own danger. " In this charitable work of comfort, Mr. Meriton now joined, by assurances of his opinion, that the ship would liold together till the morning, when all would be safe. Captain Pierce, obser\'in2: one of the vouns: gentlemen loud in his exclamations of terror, and frequently cry tliat the ship vraa parting, cheerfully bid him be cpiiet, remarking that though the sliip should go to pieces, he woidd not, but would be safe enough. " It is difficult to convey a correct idea of the scene of this deplorable catastrophe, without describing the place Avhere it happened. The Halsewell struck on the rocks at a part ci the shore where the cliff is of vast height, and rises almost perpendicular from its base. But at this particidar .'^pot, the foot of the cliff is excavated into a cavern of ten c.-; tvrelve yards in depth, and of breadth equal to the length of a largf ship. The sides of the cavern are so nearly upright, as to !•« of extremely difficult access ; and the bottom is strewed with eharp and uneven rocks, which spfm, by some couAiilsion o/ the earth, to have been detached from its roof. " The ship lay with her broadside opposite to the mouth o THE LONG VOYAGE. 157 this cavern, with, her whole length stretched almost frcin side to side of it. But when she struck, it was too dark fur the unfortunate persons on board to discover the real magnitude cf their danger, and the extreme horror of such a situation. " In addition to the company already in the roundhouse, they had admitted thi-ee hiack women and two soldiers' wives; who, with the hushand of one of them, had been allowed to come in, though the seamen, who had tunudtuously demanded entrance to get the lights, had been opposed and kept out by Mr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer, tlie third and fifth mates. The numbers there were, therefore, now increased to near fifty. Captain Pierce sat on a chair, a cot, or some other moveable, with a daughter on each side, whom he alternately pressed to liis affectionate breast. The rest of the melanchoh^ assembly wore seated on the deck, which was strewed witli musical instruments, and the wreck of furniture and other articles. " Here also Mv. Meriton, after having cut several wax- candles in pieces, and stuck them up in various parts of the round-house, and lighted up all the glass lauthorns he coidd find, took his se-ut, intending to wait the approach of da-\vn ; and then assist the jiarfners of his dangers to escape. But, obser\'ing that the poor ladies appeared parched and ex- hausted, he brought a basket of oranges and prevailed on some of them to refresh themselves by sucking a little of the juice. At tliis time they were all tolerably composed, cxcejit !Miss Mansel, who was in hysteric fits on the floor of the deck of the roimd-house. " But on Mr. ]\Ieri ton's return to the comjiany, he perceived a considerable alteration in tlie appearance of the ship ; the sides were visibly giving waj ; the deck seemed to be lifting, and he iliscovered other strong indications that she could not hold much longer together. On this accoimt, he attempted to go forward to look out, but iriimediately saw that the shij) had separated in the middle, and that the forepart having changed its position, lay rather further out tov.-ards tlie sea In such an emergency, when the next moment might plunge l;im into eternity, he determined to seize the present opjior- timity, and i"ollow the example of the crew and the soldiers, who were now quitting the ship in numbers, and making their way to the shore, though qiute ignorant of its nature and description. " Among other expedients, the ensign-staff had been un- 158 THE LONG VOYAGE. shipped, and attempted to be laid between the ship's side anJ some of the rocks, but without success, for it snapped asunder before it reached them. However, by the light of a lanthorn, which a seaman handed through the sky-light of the round- house to the deck, INIr. Meriton discovered a spar which appeared to be laid from the sliip's side to the rocks, and en this spar he resolved to attempt his escape. " Accordingly, lying doAvn. upon it, he thrust himself forward; however, he coon found that it had no communi- cation with the rock ; he reached the end of it and then sli]5ped off, receiving a very violent bruise in his fall, and before he could recover his legs, he was washed off by the surge. He now supported himself by swimming, until a returning wave dashed him against the back part of the cavern. Here ho laid hold of a small projection in the rock, but was so much benumbed that he was on the point of quitting it, when a seaman, who had already gained a footing, extended his hand, and assisted him until ho could secure liimself a little on the rock ; from which he clambered on a shelf still higher, and out of the reach of the surf. "Mr. Ilogers, the tliii'd mate, remained with the captain and the unfortunate ladies and their companions nearly twenty minutes after Mr. Meriton had quitted the ship. Soon after the latter left the round-house, the captain asked what was become of him, to which Mr. Rogers replied, that he was gone on deck to see what could be done. After this. a heavy sea breaking over the ship, the ladies exclaimed, ' Olj. poor INIeriton ! he is drowned ! had he stayed with us he. would have been safe I ' and they all, particularly INIiss Mary Pierce, expressed great concern at the apprehension of Jiis loss. " The sea was now breaking in at the fore-part of the ship, and reached as far as the mainmast. Captain Pierce gave TNIr. Ilogers a nod, and they took a lamp and went together into the stern-gallery, where, after viewing the rocks for some time. Captain Pierce asked Mr. Rogers if he thought there was any possibility of saving the girls ; to which he replied- he feared there was none ; for they could only discover tho black face of the perpendiciJar rock, and not the cavern which afforded shelter to those who escaped. They then returned to the round-house, where Mr. Rogers hung up the lamp, and Captain Pierce sat down between Lis two daughters THE LONG VOYAGE. 159 " Tlie soa continuing to break in very fast, Mr. ]Macmanu», R midshipman, and Mr. Schutz, a passenger, asked Mr. Rogers what they could do to escape. ' Follow me,' he replied, and they all went into the stern-gallery, and from thence to the upper-quarter-gallery on the poop. ^Vhile there, a very heavy sea fell on board, and the round-house gave way; Mr. Rogers heard the ladies shriek at intervals, as if the watdr readied them; the noise of tlie sea at other timea d^o^vning their voices. " ]Mr. Brimer had followed him to the poop, where they remained together about five minutes, when on the breaking of this heavj' sea, they jointly seized a hen-coop. The same wave which proved fatal to some of those below, carried him and his companion to the rock, on which they were violently dashed and miserably bruised. "Here on the rock were twenty-seven men; but it now being low water, and as they were con\'inced that on the flowing of the tide all must be washed off, many attempted tc get to the back or the sides of the cavern, beyond the reach of the returning sea. Scarcely more than six, besides jNIr. Rogers and Mr. Brimer, succeeded. " j\Ir. P.ogers, on gaining tliis station, was so nearly ex- hausted, that had his exertions been protracted only a few minutes longer, he must have sunk under them. He was now prevented from joining ]Mr. Meriton, by at least twenty men between them, none of whom could move, without tha imminent peril of his life. "They foimd that a very considerable number of the crew, seamen_, and soldiers, and some petty officers, were in the same situation as themselves, though many who had reached the rocks below, perished in attempting to ascend. They could yet discern some part of the ship, and in their dreaiy station solaced themselves with the hopes of its remaining entire until day-break ; for, in the midst of their own distress, the sufferings of the females on board affected them with the most poignant anguish ; and every sea that broke inspired them with teri-or for their safety. " But, alas, their apprehensions were too soon realised ' Within a very few minutes of the time that Mr. Rogen gained the rock, an universal shriek, which long \ibrated in their ears, in which the voice of female disti*ess was lameut- ibly distinguished, announced tho dreadful catastrophe. In a MO THE LONG VOYAGE. few moments cill waa huslied, except the roaring of tlie winds and the dashing of the -waves ; the -wreck was buried in the deep, and not an atom of it was ever afterAA^ards seen." The most beautiful and affecting incident I know, associated with a shipAYi-oek, succeeds this dismal stor^i' for a winter night. The Grosvenor, East Indiaman homeward boiuid, goes ashore on the coast of Caffraria. It is resolved that the officers, passengers, and crew, in number one hundred and thirtj'-five souls, shall endeavour to penetrate on foot, across trackless deserts, infested by wild beasts and cruel savages, to the Dutch settlements at the Cape of Good Hope. With tbis forlorn object before them, they finfilly separate into two parties — never more to meet on earth. There is a solitary child among the passengers — a little boy of seven years old who has no relation there ; and Avhen tlie first party is moving away he cries after some member of it who has been kind to him. Tlie crying of a child might bo supposed to be a little thing to men in such great extremity ; but it touches them, and he is immediately taken into that detachment. From which time forth, this child is sublimely made a sacred charge. lie is pushed, on a little raft, across broad rivers, by the swimming sailors ; they carry him by turns through the deep sand and long gi-ass (he patiently AvaUdng at all other times) ; they share witli him such putrid fish as they find to cat ; they lie down and wait for him when the rough carj)enter, who becomes his esjjecial friend, lags behind. Beset by lions and tigers, by savages, by thirst, by hunger, by death in a crovrd of ghastly shapes, they never — O Father of all mankind, tliy name be blessed for it ! — forget this child The captain stojis exhausted, and his faithful coxswain goes back and is seen to sit down by his side, and neither of the two shall Ijo any more beheld xmtil the great last chn- ; but, as the rest go on for their lives, they take the child with them. The carpenter dies of poisonous berries eaten in star- vation ; and the steward, succeeding to the command of the party, succeeds to the sacred guardianshij) of the child. God knows all he does for the poor baby ; how he cheer- fully carries liim in his arms when he himself is weak and ill ; how ho feeds him when he himself is griped with want ; how he folds his ragged jaclcet roimd him, laj-s his little worn fac€ THE LO]Sa VOYAGE. 1«1 with a ■\\oman's tenderuess upon his sunbui'iit breast, soothes him in his sufferings, sings to him as lie limps along, nn- mindful of his own parched and bleeding feet. Divided foi a few days from the rest, they dig a grave in the sand and bury their good friend the cooper — these two companionf^ alone in the wilderness — and then the time comes when the\ both are ill and beg theii- u'retched partners in despair reduced and few in number now, to wait by them one day rhc}' wait by them one day, they wait by them two days On the morning of the third, they move very softly about, iu making their preparations for the resumption of their journey; for, the child is sleeping by the fire, and it is agreed with one consent that he shall not be disturbed vmtil the last moment. The moment comes, the tire is dying — and the child is dead. His faithful friend, the steward, lingers but a little while behind hini. His grief is great, he staggers on for a few da^'s, lies down in the desert, and dies. But he shall be re-united in his immortal spirit — who can doubt it ! — with the child, where he and the poor carpenter shall be I'aised up with the words, " Inasmuch as ye have dojie it unto the least of these, ye have done it unto Me." As I recall the dispersal and disappearance of nearly all the participators in this once famous shipwreck (a mere handfid being recovered at last), and the legends that were long after- wards revived from time to time among the English officers at the Cape, of a white woman with an infant, said to have been seen weeping outside a savage hut far in the interior, A\ho ■was whisjDcringly associated with the remembrance of the missing ladies saved from the \^Tecked vessel, and who was often sought but never found, thoughts of another kind ui travel come into my mind. Thoughts of a voyager unexpectedly summoned from hoT:i.>, who travelled a Vcisfc distance, and coidd never return. Thoughts of this unliappy wayfarer in the depths of iiis sorrow, in the bitterness of his anguish, in the helj^lessncss of his self-reproach, in the desperation of his desire to set i-ight what he had loft wrong, and do what he had left undone. For, there were many many things he had neglected. Little matters \Ahile he was at home and siui'ounded by them, but things of mighty moment when he was at an immeastirable distaiice. There were many many blessings that be had VOL. II. M 1(52 THE LONG VOYAGE. inadequatelj" Iblt, there v/ere many ti'ivial injuries that he hatl not forgiven, there was love that he had but poorly returned, there was friendship that he had too lightly prized ; there were a million kind M'ords that he might have spoken, a million kind looks that he might have given, iincountable slight easy deeds in which he might have been most triJy great and good. O for a day (he Avoidd exclaim), for but one day to make amends ! But the sun never shone upon that hajipy day, and out of his remote captivity he never came. Why does this traveller's fate obscure, on New Year's Eve, the other histories of travellers with which my mind was filled but now, and cast a solemn shadow over me ! Must I one day make his journey ? Even so Who shall say, that I may not then be tortured by such hxte regrets : that I may not then look from my exile on my empty place and undone work ■? I stand upon a sea shore, where the waves are years. They break and faU, and I may little heed them : but, with every wave the sea is rising, and I know that it will float me on this traveller's voyage at last. THE BEGGING-LETTEK WRITER. The amount of money he annually diverts from whole- some and useful pm-poses in the United Kingdom, Avould be a set-off against the Vvlndow Tax. He is one of tlie most shamo less frauds and impositions of this time. In his idleness, lii? mendacity, and the immeasurable harm he does to the deserving, — dirt\-ing the stream of true benevolence, and muddling the brains of foolish justices, with inabihty to distinguish between the base coin of distress, and the ti'ue currency we have always among us, — he is more worthy of Norfolk Island than tlu-ee-fourths of the worst characters Mho are sent there. Under any rational system, he would have been sent there long ago. I, the writer of this paper, have been, for some time, a chosen receiver of Begging Letters. For fourteen years, my house has been made as remdar a Receivine: House for such communications as any one of the gi-eat branch Post-Ofhces is for general correspondence. I ought to know something of the Begging -Letter Writer. He has besieged my door, at all houi'S of the day and night ; he has fought my servant ; he has lain in ambush for me, going out and coming in ; lie has followed me out of town into the countiy ; he has appeared at provincial hotels, where I have been staying for only a few hours ; he has written to me from immense distances, when 1 have been out of England. He has fallen sick ; he has died, and been buried ; he has come to life again, and again departed from this transitory scene ; he has been his own son, his o-rni mother, his own bab}', his idiot brother, his uncle, his axmt, his aged grandfather. He has wanted a great coat, to go to India in ; a pound to set him up in life for ever ; a pair of boots, to take him to the coast of China ; a hat, to get him into a permanent situation imder Government. He lias frequently been exactly seven and- sixpence short of indepen- ^ 2 164 THE BEGGING-LETTKR WRITER. deuce. He lias had such openings at Liverpool — ^posts of great trust and confidence in merchants' houses, which nothing but seven-and -sixpence was wanting to him to secure — that I wonder he is not Mayor of that fioiu-ishing town at the present moment. Tlie natural phenomena of which he has been the victim, are of a most astounding nature. He has had two children, wlio have never grown up ; who have never had anj'thing to cover them at night ; who have been continually driving him mad, by asking in vain for food ; who have never come out oi fevers and measles (which, I suppose, has accoimted for his fuming his letters "ndth tobacco smoke, as a disinfectant) ; who have never changed in the least degree, through fourteen long revolving years. As to liis wife, what that suffering woman has undergone, nobody knows. She has always been in an interesting situation through the same long period, and has never been confined yet. His devotion to her has been unceasing. He has never cared for himself; he could have perished — he would rather, in short— but was it not his Christian duty as a man, a husband, and a father, to write begging letters when he looked at her ? (He has usually remarked that he would call in the evening for an answer to tliis Cj[uestion.) He has been the sport of the strangest misfortunes. What his brother has done to him would have broken anybody else's heart. His brother went into business with him, and ran away with the money ; his brother got him to be seciu-ity for an immense sum, and left him to pay it; his brother would have given him emploj-ment to tlie tune of hundreds a-j'ear, if he would have consented to \vi'ite letters on a Sunda}' ; his brother enunciated principles incompatible with his religious views, and he could not (in consequence) permit his brotlicr to provide for him. His landlord has never shown a spark of human feeling. When he j)ut in that execution I don't know, but he has never taken it out. The brokex''s m^an has grown grey in possession. They will have to bui-y him some day. He has been attached to every conceivable pursuit. He lias been in the army, in the nav}', in the chiu-ch, in the law ; connected with the pi-ess, the fine arts, public institutions, every description and grade of business. He has been brought up as a gentleman : he has been at every college in Oxford THE BEQGING-LETTEK WRITER. 168 fcnd Ciimbridge , he can quote Latin in his letters (but generally mis-spells some minor English word) ; he can tell you what Shakespeare says about begging, better than you know it. It is to be observed, that in the midst of his afflictions he always reads the newspapers ; and rounds off his appeals Avith some allusion, that may be supposed to be In my way, to the pojndar subject of the hour. His life presents a series of inconsistencies. Sometimes he has never written such a letter before. He blushes with shame. That is the first time ; that shall be the last. Don't answer it, and let it be understood that, then, he will kill himself quietly. Sometimes (and more frequently) he has \vritten a few such letters. Then he encloses the answers, with an intimation that they are of inestimable value to him, and a request that «they may be carefully retiu-ned. He is fond of enclosing something — verses, letters, pawnbrokers' duplicates, anjihiug to necessitate an answer. He is very severe upon 'the pampered minion of fortime,' who refused him the half-sovereign referred to in the enclosure number two — but he knows me better. He writes in a variety of styles ; sometimes in low spirits ; sometimes cpiite jocosely. When he is in low spirits, he writes down-hiU, and repeats words — these little indications being expressive of the pertui-bation of his mind. When he is more vivacious, he is frank with me ; he is quite the agreeable rattle. I know AA'hat human nature is, — who better ? Well ! He had a little money once, and he ran through it — as man}- men have done before him. He finds liis old friends turn away from him now — many men have done that before him, too I Shall ho teU me Avhy he writes to me ? Because he has no kind of claim upon me. He puts it on that ground, plainly ; and begs to ask for the loan (as I know human nature) of two sovereigns, to be repaid next Tuesday six weeks, I'efore twelve at noou. Sometimes, when he is sure that I have found him out. and that there is no chance of money, he wi-ites to inform me that I have got rid of him at last. He has enlisted into tho Company's service, and is off directly — but he wants a ch(>oso. He is informed by the serjeant that it is essential to Ills prospects in the regiment that he should take out a single- Gloucester cheese, weighing from twelve to fifteen pounds. Eight or nine shillings M'ould buy it. He does not ask for 1(56 THK BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. money, after what has passed; but if he calls at nine to- morrow morning, may he hope to find a cheese ? And is there anything lie can do to show his gratitude in Bengal ? Once, he wrote me rather a special letter proposing relief in kind. He had got into a little trouble by lea'v-ing parcels of mud done up in broAvn paper, at people's houses, on pretence of being a Railway-Porter, in which character he received carriage money. This sportive fancy he expiated in the House of Correction. Not long after his release, and on a Sunday morning, he called with a letter (having first dusted himself all over), in which he gave me to imderstand that, being resolved to earn an honest livelihood, he had been travelling about the country ■with a cart of crockery. That he had been doing pretty well, until the day before, when his horse had dropped down dead near Chatli^m, in Kent. That this had reduced him to the unpleasant necessity of getting into the shafts himself, and drawing the cart of crockery to London — a somewhat exhausting pull of thirty miles. That he did not venture to ask again for money ; but that if I woidd have the goodness to leave him out a donkey, he woidd call fjr the animal before breakfast ! At another time, my friend (I am describing actual (ex- periences) introduced himself as a literary gentleman in the last extremity of distress. He had had a play accepted at a certain Theatre — which was really open ; its representation was delayed by the indisposition of a leading actor — who waa really ill ; and he and his v.^ere in a state of absolute starva- tion. If he made his necessities known to the Manager of the Theatre, he put it to me to say what kind of treatment he might expect '? Well I we got over that difficulty to uui mutual satisfaction. A little wliile afterwards he was in some other strait — I think Mrs. Southcote, his wife, was in ex- tremity — and we adjusted that point too. A little while after- wards, he had taken a new house, and was going headlong to ruin for want ©f a water-butt. I had my misgivings about the water-butt, and did not reply to that epistle. But, a little vyliile afterv/ards, I had reason to feel penitent for my neglect. He wrote me a few broken-hearted lines, informing me that the dear partner of his sorrows died in his arms last night at nine o'clock I I dispatched a trusty messenger to comfort the bereaved mourner and his poor children : but the messenger went sa THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. 167 Boou, that the pLay was not ready to bo played out ; my friend was not at home, and his \vi£e was in a most delightful state of health. He was taken up by the INIendicity Society (in- formally it afterwards appeared), and I presented myself at a London PoHce-Office Avith my testimony against him. The Magistrate was wonderfully struck by hh educational acquire- ments, deeply impressed by the excellence of his letters exceedingly sorry to see a man of his attainments there, complimented him highly on his powers of composition, and was quite charmed to have the agreeable duty of discharging him. A collection was made for the ' poor fellow,' as he was called in the rej)orts, and I left the coiu-t with a comfortable sense of being universally regarded as a sort of monster. Next day, comes to me a friend of mine, the governor of a large prison, ' Why did you ever go to the Police-Office against that man,' says he, ' without coming to me first ? I know all about him and his frauds. He lodged in the house of one of my warders, at the very time when he first wrote to you ; and then he was eating spring-lamb at eighteen-pence a poimd, and early asjiaragus at I don't know how much a bundle ! ' On that very same day, and in that very same houf, my injm-ed gentleman -^Tote a solemn address to me, demanding to know Avhat compensation I proposed to make him for his having passed the night in a 'loathsome dungeon.' And next morning, an Irish gentleman, a member of the same fraternity, who had read the case, and wan very v/ell persuaded I should be chary of going to that Folice-Office again, positively refused to leave my door for less than a sovereign, and, resolved to besiege me into compliance, literally ' sat doA\ai ' before it for ten mortal hours. The garrison being well provisioned, I remained within the walls ; and he raised the siege at midnight, witii a prodigious alarum on the beU. The Begging-Letter Writer often has an extensive circle of acquaintance. Wliole pages of the Court Guide are ready to lie references for him. Noblemen and gentlemen write to say there never was such a man for probity and virtue. They have known him, time out of mind, and there is nothing tliey nouldu't do for him.. Somehow, they don't give him that one pound ten he stands in need of; but perhaps it is not enough — they want to do more, and his modestj' will not allow it. It is to be remarked of his trade that it is a very 168 THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. fascinating one. He never leaves it ; and those who are near to him Leeome smitten with a love of it, too, and sooner or later set up for themselves. He employs a messenger— man, woman, or cliild. That messenger is certain, ultimately tc become an independent Begging-Letter Writer. His sons and daughters succeed to his calling, and write begging-letters when he is no more. He throws off the infection of begging- letter writing, like the contagion of disease. What Sydney Smith so happily called ' the dangerous luxury of dishonesty ' is more tempting, and more catching, it would seem, in thia instance than in any other. He always belongs to a CorresjDonding- Society of Begging« Letter Writers. Any one who will, may ascertain this fact. Give money to day, in recognition of a begging-letter, — no matter how unlike a common begging-letter, — and for the next fortnight you will have a rush of such communications. Steadily refuse to give ; and the begging-letters become Angels' visits, until the Society is from some cause or other in a dull way of business, and may as well try you as anybody else. It is of little use inquiring into the Begging- Letter Writer's circumstances. He may be sometimes accidentally found out, as in the case already mentioned (though that was not the first inquiry made) ; but apparent misery is always a part of his trade, and real misery very often is, in the intervals of spring-lamb and early asparagus. It is naturally an incident of his dissipated and dishonest life. . That the calling is a successful one, and that large sums of money are gained by it, must be evident to anybody who I'eads the Police Reports of such cases. But, prosecutions are of rare occurrence, relatively to the extent to which the trade is carried on. Tlie cause of this, is to be found (as no one knows better than the Begging- Letter Writer, for it is a pait of his speculation) in the aversion people feel to exliibit them- selves as having been imposed upon, or as ha\'ing weakly gratified their consciences ^vith a lazy, flimsy substitute for tlie noblest of all virtues. There is a man at large, at the moment when this paper is preparing for the press (on tlio 29th of April, 1850), and never once taken up yet, who, within these twelvemonths, has been probably the most audacious and the most successful s^^'indler that even this trade has ever known. There has been something singidarly base in thia fellow's proceedings : it has been his business to wi'ite to all THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. 169 sorts and conditions of people, in the names of persons of Uigli reputation and unblemished honour, professing to be in distress — the general admiration and respect for whom^ has ensured a ready and generous reply. Now, in the hope that tlie results of the real experience of a real person may do something more to induce reflection on this subject than any abstract treatise — and with a personal knowledge of the extent to which the Begging-Letter Trade has been carried on for some time, and has been for some time constantly increasing — the writer of this paj^er entreats the attention of his readers to a few concluding ■\\ords. His experience is a type of the experience of many ; some on a smaller ; some on an infinitely larger scale. All may judge of the soundness or luisoundness of his conclusions from it. Long doubtful of the efficacy of such assistance in any case whatever, and able to recall but one, within his whole individual knowledge, in which he had the least after-reason to suppose that any good Avas done by it, he M-as led, last autumn, into some serious considerations. The begging-letters il^dng about by every post, made it perfectly manifest. That a set of lazy vagabonds were interposed between the general desire to do something to relieve the sickness and misery under which the poor were suffering, and the suffering poor themselves. That many who sought to do some little to repair the social wrongs, inflicted in the way of preventible sickness and death upon the poor, were strengthening those wrongs, however innocently, by wasting money on pestilent knaves cumbering society. That imagination, — soberly following one of these knaves into his life of punishment in jail, and comparing it with the life of one of these poor in a cholera-stricken alley, or one of the childi-en of one of these poor, soothed in its dying hour by tne late lamented Mr. Drouet, — contemplated a grim farce, impossible to be presented very much longer before God or man. That the croAniing miracle of all the miracles summed up in the New Testament, after the miracle of the blind seeing, and the lame walking, and the restoration of the dead to life, was the miracle that the poor had the Gospel preached to them. That while the poor were unnatiu-ally and unnecessarily cut off by the thousand, in the prematmity of their age, or in tlie rottenness of their youth — for of flower or blossom such j-outh has none —the Gospel was "sot preached to them, sa\dng in hollow 170 ■ THE BEGGING-LETTER WRITER. and unmeaning- voices. That of all wrongs, this was the first mighty ■wTong' the Pestilence warned us to set right. And that no Post-OfRce Order to any amount, given to a Begging- Letter Writer for the quieting of an uneasy breast, would be presentable on the Last Great Day as anything towards it. The poor never write these letters. Nothing could be more unlike their habits. The wi'iters are public robbers ; and we who support them are parties to their depredations. They trade upon every circiunstance within their knowledge that affects us, public or private, joyful or sorrowful ; the}'' pervert the lessons of our lives ; they change what ought to be our strength and virtue, into weakness, and encouragement of vice. There is a plain remedy, and it is in our own hands. We must resolve, at any sacrifice of feeling, to be deaf to such appeals, and crush the trade. There are degrees in murder. Life must be held sacred among us in more Avays than one — sacred, not merely from the murderous weapon, or the subtle poison, or the cruel blow, but sacred from preventible diseases, distortions, and pains. That is the first great end we have to set against this miserable rmposition. Physical life respected, moral life comes next. What will not content a Begging-Letter Writer for a week, would educate a score of children for a jedv. Let us give all we can ; let us give more than ever. Let us do all we can ; let U3 do more than ever. But let ua give, and do, with a high purpose; not to endow the scum of the earth, to its own greater corruption; with the offals of our duty. A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAE. There was once a child, and he strolled about a good deal, and thought of a number of things. He had a sister, who was a cliild too, and his constant companion. These two used to wonder all day long. They wondered at the beauty of the flowers ; they wondered at the height and blueness of the sky; they wondered at the depth of the bright water; they wondered at the goodness and the power of God who made the lovely world. They used to say to one another, sometimes, Supposing all the children upon earth were to die, woidd the flowers, and the water, and tlie sky, be sorry ? They believed they woidd be sorry. For, said they, the buds are the children of the Servers, and the little playful sti-eams that gambol down the hill-sides are the childi'en of the water; and the smallest bright specks playing at hide and seek in the sky all night, must surely be the childi-en of the stars ; and they would all be grieved to see theii* playmates, the children of men, no more. "d^ Tliere was one clear shining star that used to come out in the sky before the rest, near the church spire, above the graves. It was larger and more beautiful, they thought, than all the others, and every night they watched for it, standing hand in hand at a window. Whoever saw it first. cried out, " I see the star ! " And often they cried out both together, knowing so well when it would rise, and where. So they gi-ew to be such friends with it, that, before lying down in their beds, they always looked out once again, to bid it good night ; and when they were txu-ning round to sleep, they used to say, " God bless the star ! " But while she was stiU very young, oh very very j-oung, the sister drooped, and came to be so weak that she could no loLger stand in the ^-indow at night; and then the child 172 A CHILD'S DREAM OF A STAR. looked sadly out "by liimself, and when lie saw the star, turned round and said to the patient pale face on the bed, " 1 see the star ! " and then a smile would come upon the face, and a little weak voice used to say, " God bless my brother and the star ! " And so the time came all too soon ! when the child looked out alone, and when there was no face on the bed ; and when there was a little grave among the graves, not there before ; and when the star made long rays down towards him, as he saw it through his tears. Now, these rays were so bright, and they seemed to make such a shining way from earth to Heaven, that when the child went to liis solitary bed, he dreamed about the star; and dreamed that, lying where he v^s, he saw a train of people taken up that spai'kling road by angels. And the star, opening, showed him a great world of light, where many more such angels waited to receive them. All these angels, who were Avaiting, tui'ned their beaming eyes upon the people who were carried up into the star ; and some came out from the long rows in wliich they stood, and fell upon the people's necks, and kissed them tenderly, and went away with them down avenues of light, and were so happy in their company, that lying in his bed he wept for joy. But, there were many angels who did not go with them, and among them one he knew. The patient face that once had lain upon the bed was glorified and radiant, but his heart found out his sister among all the host. His sister's angel lingered near the entrance of the star, and said to the leader among those who had brought the people thither : " Is my brother come ? " And he said ^' No." She was turning hopefully away, when the child stretched out his arms, and cried " 0, sister, I am here ! Take me ! " and then she turned her beaming eyes upon him, and it was night ; and the star was shining into the room, making long rays doAvn towards him as he saw it tlirough his tears From that hour forth, the child looked out upon the star as on tlie home ho was to go to, when his time shoidd come , and he tliought that he did not belong to the earth alone, but to t]jo star too, because of his sister's angel gone before. A CHILD'S DREAii OF A STAR. 17» There was a baby born to be a brother to the child ; and while he was so little tliat he never yet had spoken word, he stretched his tiny form out on his bed, and died. Again the child dreamed of the opened star, and of the company of angels, and tlie train of people, and the •■-> of angels with their beaming eyes all tui-ned upon those people's faces. Said his sister's angel to the leader : " Is my brother come ? " And he said " Not that one, but another " As the child beheld his brother's angel in her arms, he cried, " 0, sister, I am here ! Take me ! " And she turned and smiled upon him, and the star was shining. He grew to be a young man, and was busy at his books when an old servant came to him and said : " Thy mother is no more. I bring her blessing on her darling son ! ' ' Again at night he saw the star, and all that former com- pany. Said his sister's angel to the leader • " Is my brother come ? " And he said, " Thy mother ! " A mighty cry of joy went forth through all the star, because the mother was re-united to her two childi-en. And he stretched out his" arms and cried, " O, mother, sister, and brother, I am here ! Take me ! " And they answered him "Not yet," and the star was shining. He grew to be a man, whose hair was turning gi'ey, and he was sitting in his chair by the fh-eside, heavj- with giief, and with his face bedewed with tears, when the star opened once again. Said his sister's angel to the leader, "Is my brother come? " And he said, " Nay, but his maiden daughter." And the man who had been the child saw his daughter, Qewly lost to him, a celestial creature among those tlu-ee, and lie said " My daughter's head is on my sister's bosom, and her arm is roimd my mother's neck, and at her feet there is the baby of old time, and I can bear the parting from her, GrOD be praised I " And the star was shining. llius the child cama to be an old man, and his once smooth face was -wrinkled, and his steps were slow and feeble, and 1^4 A CUILuS DREAM OF A STAR. Lis Lack waa bent. And one night as he lay upon his bed, his children standing round, he cried, as he had cried so long ago : " I see the star ! " They whispered one another " He is dying." And he said, "I am. My age is falling from me like a garment, and I move towards the star as a child And O, my Father, now I thank thee that it has so often opened, to receive those dear ones who await me ! " And the stax waa shining ; and it shines upon his gravOi uUPt ENGLISH WATEEING-PLACE. Ix the Aiitumn-tiine of the year, when the great metropolis is so much hotter, so much noisier, so m.uch more dusty or so much more %vatcr-carted, so much more crowded, so much more disturbing and distracting in all resi^ects, tlian it usually is, a quiet sea-beach becomes : indeed a blessed spot. Half awake and half asleep, this idle morning in our sunny window on the edge of a chalk cliff in the old-fashioned watering-place to which we are a faithfid resorter, we feel a lazy incliuution to sketch its picture. The place seems to respond. Sky, sea, beach, and village, lie as still before us as if they were sitting for the pictiu-e. It is dead low-water. A ripple plays among the ripening com upon the cliff, as if it were faintly trying from recollection to imitate the sea ; and the world of butterflies hovering over the crop of radish-seed are as restless in their little way as the gulls are in their larger manner when the wind blows But the ocean lies winking in the sunlight like a drowsy lion — its glassy waters scarcely curve upon the shore — the fishing- boats in the tiny harbour are all stranded in the mud— our two coUiers (our watering-place has a maritime trade employ- ing that amoimt of shipping) have not an inch of water within a quarter of a mile of them, and tiu-n, exhausted, on their sides, like faint fish of an antediluvian species. Rusty cables and chains, ropes and rings, undermost parts of posts and piles and confused timber-defences against the waves, lie strewn about, in a brown litter of tangled sea- weed and fallen cliff which looks as if a family of giants had been making tea here for ages, and had observed au untidy custom of throwing their tea-leaves on the shore. In truth our watering-ploce itself has been left somewhat high and dry by llio tide of years. Concerned as we are for it* honor, we must reluctantly admit that the time ■«-hen thia 176 OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE. pretty little semi-circular sweep of houses tapering off at the end of tlie wooden pier into a point in the sea, was a j^ay place, and when the lighthouse oveiiooking it shone at day- hreak on company dispersing from public balls, is but dimly traditional now. There is a bleak chamber in our watering- place Avhich is 3^et called the Assembly " Rooms,'' and under- stood to be available on hire for balls or concerts ; and, some few seasons since, an ancient little gentleman came down and stayed at the hotel, who said he had danced there, in byegone ages, with the Honorable Miss Peepy, well knoAvn to have been the Beauty of her day and the cruel occasion of innumer- able duels. But he was so old and shi'ivelled, and so very rheumatic in the legs, that it demanded more imagination than our watering-place can usually muster, to believe him ; therefore, except the Master of the " Booms " (who to this hoiu- wears knee-breeches, and who confirmed the statement with tears in his eyes), nobody did believe in the little lame old gentleman, or even in the Honorable ISIiss Peepy, long deceased. As to subscription balls in the Assembly Rooms of our watering-place now red-hot cannon balls are less improbable. Sometimes, a misguided wanderer of a Ventriloquist, or an Infant Phenomenon, or a Juggler, or somebody with an Orrery that is several stars behind the time, takes the place for a night, and issues bills with the name of his last town lined out, and the name of ours ignominiously ■\^Titten in, but yoii may be siu'e this never happens twice to the same unfor- tunate person. On such occasions the discolored old Billiard Table that is seldom played at, (unless the ghost of the Honor- able Miss Peepy plays at pool with other ghosts) is pushed into a corner, and benches are solemnly constituted into front seats, back seats, and reserved seats — which are much the same after you have paid — and a few duU candles are lighted — wind permitting — and the performer and the scanty au- dience play out a short match which shall make the other most low-spu-ited — which is usually a drawn game. After that, the performer instantly departs with maledictory' expressions, and is never heard of more. But the most wonderful feature of our Assembly Rooms, is, that an annual sale of "Fancy and other China," is announced here with mysterious constancy and perseverance, "^^'^lere the cliina comes from, where it goes to, why it is annually OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE. 171 put lip to auction when noLody ever thinks of bidding- for it, how it comes to pass that it is always the same cliiua, M'hether it would not have been cheaper, with the sea at hand, to have thrown it away, say in eighteen hundi-ed and thirty, are stand- iiig enigmas. Every year the bills come out, every year the Master of tlie Rooms gets into a little pulpit on a table, and offers it for sale, every year nobody buys it, every year it is put away somewhere imtil next year Asdien it appears again as if the whole thing were a new idea. We have a faint remem- brance of an unearthly collection of clocks, purporting to be the work of Parisian and Genevese artists — chiefly bilious- faced clocks, supported on sickly white crutches, with their pendulums dangling like lame legs — to wliich a similar coiu'se of events occurred for several years, imtil they seemed to lapse away, of mere imbecility. Attached to our Assembly Rooms is a library. There is a wheel of fortune in it, but it is rusty and dusty, and never turns. A large doU, with moveable eyes, was put up to be raffled for, by five-and-twenty members at two shillings, seven years ago this autumn, and the list is not full yet. We are rather sanguine, now, that the raffle wiU come off next year. We think so, because we only want nine members, and should only want eight, but for number two having gro\\Ti up since her name was entered, and withdra-mi it when she was married. Down the street, there is a toj'-ship of considerable bm-den, in the same condition. Two of the boys who were entered for that raffle have gone to India in real ships, since ; and one was shot, and died in the arms of his sister's lover, by whom he sent his last words home. This is the library for the Minerva Press. If you want that kind of reading, come to our watering-place. The leaves of the romances, reduced to a condition ver}^ like curl-paper, are thickly studded with notes in pencil : sometimes comi^li- mentary, sometimes jocose. Some of these commentators, like commentators in a more extensive way, quarrel with one another. One j'oung gentleman who sarcastically wi'ites " O ! ! ! " after every sentimental passage, is piu-sued tnrough his literary career by another, who writes " Insulting Beast !" Miss Julia Mills has read the whole collection of these books. She has left marginal notes on the pages, as "Is not thie iruly touching? J. M." 'How thrilling! J. M." "En- tranced here by the Magician's potent spell. J. M." She kas VOL. II. ■ o 178 OTTR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE. also italicised her favorite traits in llie description of tlie hero, as "Ids hair, -u'liicli was dark and wavy, clustered in rich profusion around a marble hroiv, -whose lofty paleness bespoke the intellect within." It reminds her of another hero. She adds, " How like B. L ! Can this be mere coincidence i J. M." You would hardly oness which is the main street of our «'atering-place, but you may know it by its being always stopped up Tvath donkey-chaises. Whenever you come here, and see harnessed donkeys eating clover out of barrows dra-\vn completely across a narrow thoroughfare, you may be quite sure you are in our High Street. Our Police you may know- by his uniform, likewise by his never on any account inter- fering with anybody — especially the tramps and vagabonds. In our fancy shops we have a capital collection of damaged goods, among which the flies of countless summers "have been roaming." We are great in obsolete seals, and in faded pin- cushions, and in rickety camp-stools, and in exploded cutlery, and in miniatui-e vessels, and in stunted little telescopes, and in objects made of shells that pretend not to be shells. Dimi- nutive spades, barrows, and baskets, are oxrr principal articles of ocmmerce ; but even they don't look quite new somehow. They always seem to have been offered and refused somewhere else, before they came down to our watering-place. Yet, it must not be supposed that our watering-place is an empty place, deserted by all %'isitors except a few staunch persons of approved fidelitj-. On the contrary, the chances are that if you came do-mi here in Augiist or September, you wouldn't find a house to lay your head in. As to finding either house or lodging of which you could reduce the teiTQS, you could scarcely engage in a more hopeless pi:rsuit. For aU this, you are to observe that every season is the worst season ever known, and that the householding population of our watering-place are ruined regidarly every autumn. They are like the farmers, in regard that it is surprising how mucli ruin they will bear. We have an excellent hotel — capital baths, warm, cold, and shower — first-rate bathing-mach'nes — and as good butchers, bakers, and grocers, as heart could desire. They all do business, it is to be presumed, from motives of j^hilanthropy — but it is quite certain that they are all being ruined. Their interest in strangers, and their polite- ness under ruin, bespeak theii* amiable nature. You would OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE. 179 8ay so, if you only saw tlie baker lielping a new- comer to find suitaLle apartments. So far from being at a discount as to company, we are in fact what would be popularly called rather a nobby place. Some tip-top " Xobbs " come down occasionally— even Dukes and Duchesses. We have kno"\vn such carriages to blaze among the doukey-chaises, as made beholders wink. Attend ant on these equipages come resplendent creatures in plush and powder, who are sure to be stricken disgusted with tlie indifferent accommodation of our watering-place, and who, of an evening (particularly when it rains), may be seen very much out of di-awing, in rooms far too small for their fine figures, looking discontentedly out of little back windows into bve-streets. The lords and ladies cet on well enough and qiiite good-humoredly : but if you want to see the gorgeous phenomena who wait upon them, at a perfect non-plus, you should come and look at the resplendent creatures with little back parlors for servants' hails, and turn-up bedsteads to sleep in, at our watering-place. You have no idea how they take it to heart. We have a pier — a queer old wooden pier, fortiraately Avithout the slightest pretensions to architecture, and very picturesque in consequence. Boats are hauled up upon it, ropes are coiled all over it; lobster-pots, nets, masts, oars, spars, sails, ballast, and rickety capstans, make a perfect labyrinth of it. For ever hovering about this pier, with their hands in their pockets, or leaning over the rough bulwark it opposes to the sea, gazing through telescopes which they carry about in the same profoiind receptacles, are the Boatmen of our watering-place. Looking at them, you would say that surely these must be the laziest boatmen in the world. They loimge about, in obstiaate and inflexible pantaloons that are apparently made of wood, the whole season through. "\Miether talking together about the shipping in the Channel, or gi'uffly unbending over mugs of beer at the public-house, you would consider them the slowest of men. Tlie chances are a thousand to one that you might stay here for ten seasons, and never see a bjatman in a hiu-ry. A certain expression about his loose hands, when they are not in his pockets, as if he were carrying a considerable lump of iron in each, without any inconvo- nience, suggests strength, but he never seems to use it. He ha« the appearance of perpetually strolling — running is toa N 2 ISO OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLACE. inappropriate u. word to be tliouglit of — to seed. The oitly subject on which he seems to feel any approach to enthusiasm, is pitch. He pitches everything he can lay hold of, — the pier, the palings, his boat, his house, — ^when there is nothing else left he turns to and even pitches his hat, or Ids rough- weather clothing. Do not judge him by deceitful appearance;i. These are among the bravest and most skilfid mariners that exist. I^et a gale arise and s^vell into a storm, let a sea run that might appal the stoutest heart that ever beat, let the Light-boat on these dangerous sands tlu-ow up a rocket in the night, or let them hear through the angry roar tlie signal- guns of a ship in distress, and these men spring up into activity so dauntlos?, so valiant, and heroic, that the Avorld cannot SJirpass it. Cavillers may object that they chiefly Kve upon the salvage of valuable cargoes. So they do, and God knc'ws it is no great living that they get out of the deadly risks they run. But put that hope of gain aside. Let these rough fellows be asked, in any stoi-m, who volunteers for the life- boat to save some perishing souls, as poor and empty-handed as themselves, whose lives the perfection of human reason docs not rate at the value of a farthing each ; and that boat will be manned, as surely and as cheerfully, as if a thousand poxmds were told down on the weather-beaten pier. For this, and for the recollection of theu- comrades whom we have knowm, whom the raging sea has engulfed before their children's e3'es iu such brave eiforts, whom the secret sand lias bui-ied, we hold the boatmen of our watering-place in oiu* love and honor, and are tender of the fame tliey well deserve. So many chiklren are brought down to oui* watering-place that, when they are not out of doors, as they usually are in fine weather, it is wondei'ful where they are put : the whole village seeming much too small to hold them under cover. In the afternoons, you see no end of salt and sandy little boots drying on upper window-sdls. At bathing-time in the morn- ing, the little bay re-echoes with every shriU. variety of shiiek and splash — after which, if the weather be at all fresh, the Bands teem with small blue mottled legs. The sands are the children's great resort. They cluster there, like ants : so busy buiying their particular friends, and making castles with infinite labor -wliich the next tide overthrows, that it is curious f;o consider how theii' play, to the music of the sea, foreshadow* the realities of their after lives. OUR ENGLISH WAI'BRINQ-PLACE. ISl It is curious, too, to observe a natural ease of approach thai tliere soomg to be letween the children and tlie boatmen. They mutually make acquaintance, and take individual likings, without any help. You will come upon one of those sIoav heavy fellows sitting do-mi patiently mending a little ship for a mite of a boy, whom he could crush to death by throwing his lightest pair of trousers on him. You will be sensible of the oddest contrast between the smooth little creature, and the rough man who seems to bo carved out of hard-grained wood — between the delicate hand expectantly held out, and the immense thumb and finger that can hardly feel the rigging- of thread they mend — between the small voice and the gruff growl — and yet there is a natural propriety in the companion- ship : always to be noted in confidence between a child and a person who has any merit of realitj' and genuineness : which is admirably pleasant. We have a preventive station at our watering-place, and much the same thing may be observed — in a lesser degree, because of their official character — of the coast blockade j a steady, trusty, well-contlitioned, well-conducted set of men, with no misgiving about looking you full in the face, and witk a quiet thorough-going ivay of passing along to their duty at night, carrj'iug huge sou-wester clothing in reserve, that is fraught with all good prepossession. They are handy fellows — neat about their houses — industrious at gardening — would get on with theu' wives, one thinks, in a desert island — and people it, too, soon. As to the naval officer of the station, with his hearty fresh face, and his blue eye that has pierced all kinds of weather, it ■warms our hearts when he comes into church on a Simday with that bright mixtiu'e of blue coat, buff waistcoat, black neck-kerchief, and gold epaulette, that is associated in the minds of all Englishmen with brave, unpretending, cordial, national service. We like to look at him in his Simday state ; and if we were First Lord (really possessing the indispensable qualification for the office of knoving nothing whatever about the sea), we Avoidd give him a ship to-morrow. We have a church, by the bye, of course — a hideous temple of flint, like a great petrified haystack. Our chief clerical dignitary, who, to his honor, has done much for education both in time and money, and has established excellent schools, UB a sound, slirewd, healthy gentleman, who has got into Uttl« 182 OUR ENGLISH WATERING-PLAGS, occasioaal difEciilties -svitli the neiglibouring fanners, Lut liaa had a pestilent trick of being right. Under a new regulation, he has yielded the church of oiu' watering-place to another clergyman. Upon the whole we get on in church well. We are a little bilious sometimes, about these days of fraternisa- tion, and about nations arriving at a new and more unpreju- diced knowledge of each other (which our Clmstianifcy don't quite approve), but it soon goes off, and then we get on very weU. . There are two dissenting chapels, besides, in our small watering-place ; being in about the proportion of a hundred and twenty guns to a yacht. But the dissension that has torn us lately, has not been a reKgious one. It has arisen on the novel question of Gas. Oiu' watering-place has been con- vulsed by the agitation. Gas or No Gas. It was never reasoned why No Gas, but there was a great No Gas parly. Broadsides were printed and stuck about — a startling circumstance in our watering-place. The No Gas jiarty rested content with chalking " No Gas I" and " Dov,ti with Gas !" and other such angry war-whoops, on the few back gates and scraps of wall which the limits of our watering-place afford; but the Gas party printed and posted bills, \\herein the}' took the high ground of proclaiming against the No Gas party, that it was said Let there be light and there was light ; and that not to Lave light (tliat is gas lightj in our watering-place, was to contravene the great decree, "\\niether b}' these thimderbolts or not, the No Gas party were defeated ; and in this present season we have had our handful of shops illuminated ior the first time. Such of the No Gas party, however, as have got shops, remain in opposition and burn taUow — exhibiting in their windows the very jiieture of the sulkiness that punishes itself, and a new illustration of the old adage about cutting off your nose to be revenged on your face, in cutting off their gas to be revenged on their business. Other population than we have indicated, our watering- place has none. There are a £ew old-used up boatmen who creep about in the sunlight with the help of sticks, and there is a poor imbecile shoemaker who wanders his lonely life away among the rocks, as if he were looking for his reason — • whicli he will never find. Sojoui-ncrs in neighbouring water- ing-places come occasionally in fiys to stare at us, and drive BMay again as if they thouglit us very dull ; Italian boys OUR KNULISH WATERING-PLACE. 183 N>me, Puncli comes, the Fantoccini come, the I'umblers tome, the Ethiopians come ; Glee-singers come at night, and hum and vibrate (not always melodiously) under our windows. But they all go soon, and leave us to ourselves again. We once had a travelling Circus and Womb well's ]Menagerie at the same time. They both know better than ever to try it again ; and the ]Menagerie had nearly razed us from the face of the earth in getting the elephant away — his caravan was so large, and the watering-place so small. We have a fine sea, wholesome for all people ; profitable for the body, profit- able for the mind. The poet's words are sometimes on its awful lips : And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill ; But lor the touch of a vanish'd hand, And the sound of a voice that is still ! Break, break, break, At the foot of thy crags, sea ! But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me. Yet it is not always so, for the speech of the sea is various, and wants not abundant resoiuxe of cheerfulness, hope, and lusty encouragement. And since I have been idling at the window here, the tide has risen. The boats are dancing on the bubbling water ; the colliers are afloat again ; the wliite- bordered waves msh in ; the cliildren Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him When he comes back ; the radiant sails are gKding past the shore, and shining ou the far horizon ; all the sea is sparkling, heaving, swelling up with life and beauty, this bright morning. OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. — I — Having earned, by many years of fidelity, the riglit to be 6Ciu<3timos inconstaut to oui English -svatering-pkice, we have dallied for two or three seasons with a French watering- place : once solely kno\^^l to us as a town Avith a very long street, beginning with an abattoir and ending with a steam- boat, which it seemed our fate to behold only at daybreak on winter mornings, when (in the days before continental rail- roadsV iust siifficientlv awake to know that we were most uncomfortably asleep, it Avas oirr destiny always to clatter through it, in the coupe of the diligence from Paris, with a eea of mud behind us, and a sea of tumbhng waves before. Iji relation to which latter monster, our mind's eye now recals a worthy Frenchman in a seal-skin cap -nith a braided hood over it, once our travelling companion in the coupe afore- said, who waking up with a pale and crumpled visage, and looking ruefuUy out at the grim row of breakers enjoying themselves fanatically on an instrument of torture called "the Bar," inquired of us whether we were ever sick at sea ? EorJi to prepare his mind for the abject creature we were presently to become, and also to afibrd him consolation, we replied, " Su", your servant is ah\-ays side when it is pos- sible to be so." He returned, altogether uncheered by the bright example, " Ah, Heaven, but I am alwajs sick, eyei: when it is mpossible to be so." 'J'iie means of communication between the French capital and our French watering-place are wholly changed since those days ; but, the Chaimel remains unbridged as yet, and the old floundering and knocking about go on there. It must be confessed that saving in reasonable (and therefore rare) sea- weather, the act of arrival at our French watering-place from England is difficult to be achieved with dignity. Several little circumstances combine to reader the visitor an object oi OUR FKBNCH WATERING-PLACE. 18S humiliation. In the first pluce, the steamer no sooner touches the port, than all the passengers fall into captivity : being boarded by an overpo-^-ering force of Custom-house officers. and marched into a gloomy dungeon. In the second place^ the road to this dimgeon is fenced off with ropes breast-high, and outside those ropes all the English in the place who have lately been sea-sick and arc now well, assemble in their best clothes to enjoy the degradation of their dilapidated fellow- creatures. " Oh, my gracious ! how ill this one has been ! " " Here 's a damp one coming next ! " " Here 's a pale on'e ! " " Oh ! Ain't he green in the face, this next one ! " Even we ourself (not deficient in natui-al dignity) have a lively remem- brance of staggering up this detested lane one September day in a gale of wind, when we were received lilvo an irresistible comic actor, with a burst of laughter and applause, occasioned by the extreme imbecility of our legs. We were coming to the third place. In the third place, the captives, being shut up in the gloomy dungeon, are strained, two or tliree at a time, into an inner cell, to be examined as to passports ; and across the doorway of commu- nication, stands a military creatura making a bar of his arm. Two ideas are generally present to the British, mind duiing these ceremonies ; first, that it is necessary to make for the cell with violent struggles, as if it were a life-boat and the dungeon a ship going down ; secondly, that the mHitaiy creatiu-e's arm is a national affi'ont, A^hich the government at home ought instantly to "take up." The British mind and body becoming heated by these fantasies, delirious answers are made to inquiries, and extravagant actions performed Thus, Johnson persists in giA'ing Johnson as his baptismal name, and substituting for his ancestral designation the national " Dam ! " Neither can he by any means be brought to recognise the distinction between a portmanteau-key and :i passport, but will obstinately persevere in tendering the one when asked for the other. This brings him to the fourth place, in a state of mere idiotcy ; and Avhen he is, in the fourth place, cast out at a little door into a howling wilderness of touters, he becomes a lunatic witli wild ej-es and floating hair until rescued and soothed. If friendless and imrescued, he is generally put into a railway omnibus and taken to Paris. But, our French w atenng-place, when it is once got into, ia 186 OUR FRENCH WATERINa-PLACE. a very enjoyable lAace. It lias a varied and beautLTuJ counti-y around it, and many characteristic and agreeable things within it. To be sure, it might have fewer bad smells and loss decaying refuse, and it might be better drained, and much cleaner in many parts, and therefore iniinitely more healthy. StiU, it is a bright, airy, pleasant, cheerful town ; and if you were to walk down either of its three well-paved main streets, towards five o'clock in the afternoon, when deKcate odours of cookery fill the air, and its hotel windows (it is full of hotels) give glimpses of long tables set out for dinner, and made to look sumptuous by the aid of napkins folded fan- wise, you woidd rightly judge it to be an imcommonly good tooTi to eat and. di-ink in. We have an old walled town, rich in cool public wells of water, on the top of a hill within and above the present business-town ; and if it were some hundreds of miles farther from England, instead of being, on a clear day, within sight of the grass growing in the crevices of the chalk-clifis of Dover, you would long ago have been bored to death about that town. It is more pictui-esque and quaint than half the innocent places which tourists, following their leader like sheep, have made impostors of To say nothing of its houses with grave coui'tyards, its queer by-corners, and its many- windowed streets white and quiet in the simlight, there is an ancient belfry in it that woidd have been in all the Annuals and Albums, going and gone, these hundred years, if it had but been more expensive to get at. Happily it has escaped so well, being only in our French watering-place, that you may like it of yoiu- owti accord in a natui'al manner, without being required to go into conwdsions about it. We regard it as one of the later blessings of our life, that Bilkins, the only authority on Taste, never took any notice that we can find out, af our French watering-place. Bilkins never WTote about it, never pointed out anj'thing to be seen in it, never measured anything in it, always left it alone. For which relief, Heaven bless the to^A^l and the memory of the immortal Bilking likewise ! There is a charming wallr, arched and shaded by trees, on the old walls that form the four sides of this High Town, whence you get glimpses of the streets below, and changing views of the other town and of the river, and of the hiUs and of the sea. It is made more agi-eeable and peculiar by sonie OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 187 »f the solemn houses that are rooted in the deep streets below, bursting into a fresher existence a-top, and having doors and windows, and even gardens, on these ramparts. A child going in at the courtyard gate of one of these houses, climbing lip the many stairs, and coming out at the fourth-floor window, might conceive himself another Jack, alighting on enchanted ground from another bean-stalk. It is a place wonderfully populous in childicn ; English children, Avith governesses reading novels as they walk do-wn the shady lanes of trees, or nursemaids interchanging gossip on the seats ; French children with their smiling bonnes in snow-white caps, and themselves — if little boys— in straw head-gear like bee-hives, work- baskets and chiu'ch hassocks. Thi-ee j-ears ago, there were three weazen old men, one bearing a frayed red ribbon in his threadbare button-hole, always to be fouad walking together among these children, before dinner-time. If they walked for an appetite, they doubtless lived en pension — were contracted for — otherwise their poverty would have made it a rash action. They were stooping, blear-eyed, dull old men, slip-shod and shabby, in long-skii-ted short- waisted coats and meagre trou- sers, and yet with a ghost of gentility hovering in their company. They spoke little to each other, and looked as if they might have been poKtically discontented if they had had vitality enough. Once, we overheard red-ribbon feebly complain to the other two that somebody, or something, 'n as "a Robber"; and then they all three set their mouths so that they would have ground their teeth if they had had any. The ensuing winter gathered red-ribbon unto the great company of faded ribbons, and next year the remaining two were there — getting themselves entangled with hoops and dolls — familiar mysteries to the children — probably in the eyes of most of them, harmless creatui-es who had never been like children, and whom children could never be like. Another winter came, and another old man went, and so, this present year, the last of the triumvirate left off walking — it was no good, now — and sat by himself on a little solitary bench, with the hoops and the dolls as lively as ever all abo\it him. In the Place d'Ai-mes of this town, a little decayed market is held, which seems to slip through the old gateway, like water, and go rippling do-svn the hill, to mingle with the murmuring market in the lower town, and get lost in its 188 OUU FRENCH WATERINQ-PLAOE. movemant and bustle. It is very agreeable on an idle summer morning to pursue this market-stream from tbe hill-top, It beg-Ins dozingly and dully, with a few sacks of corn ; starts into a surprising collection of boots and shoes ; goes brawling down the hiU in a diversified channel of old cordage, old iron, old crockery, old clothes civil aud military, old rags, new cotton goods, flaming prints of saints, little looking-glasses, nnd incalculable lengths of tape ; dives into a backway, keeping out of sight for a little while, as streams will, or only sparlding for a moment in the shape of a market di-inking- shop ; and suddenly re-appears behind the great church, .^nooting itself into a bright confusion of Avhite-capped women and blue-bloused men, poultry, vegetables, fruits, flowers, pots, pans, praying-chairs, soldiers, country butter, umbrellas and other sun-shades, girl-porters waiting to be hii'ed with baskets at their backs, and one weazen little old man in a cocked hot, wearing a cuirass of drinking-glasses and carrying on his shoulder a crimson temple fluttering with flags, like a glorified pavior's rammer without the handle, -nho rings a little /jeU in all parts of the scene, and cries his cooling drink Ilola, Ilola, IIo-o-o ! in a shrill cracked voice that somehow makes itself heard, above all the chaffering and vending hum. Early in the afternoon, the whole course of the stream is dry. The praj'ing chairs are put back in the church, the umbrellas are folded up, the unsold goods are carried away, the stalls and stands disappear, the square is swept, the hackney coaches lounge there to be hired, and on all the country roads (if jou walk about, as much as we do) you will see the peasant women, always neatly and comfortably dressed, riding home, with the pleasantest saddle-furniture of clean miilc-pails, bright butter-kegs, and the like, on the jolliest little donke}'S in the world. "We have another market in oxw French watering-place — that is to say, a few wooden hutches in the open street, down bv the Port— devoted to fish. Our fishinsr-boats are famous overj^Avhere ; and our fishing people, tliough they love lively colours and taste is neutral (see BiEcins), are among the most picturesque people we ever encountered. They have not only a Quarter of their own in the town itself, but they occupy whole villages of their own on the neighbouring cliffs. Theil ohurches and chapels are their o^ti; they consort with one another, they intermarry among themselves, their customa OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 180 ire their OAvn, and their costume is their own and neveJ changes. As soon as one of their hoys can walk, he is provided with a long hright red nightcap ; and one of their men would as soon think of going afloat without his head, as vrithout that indispensahle appendage to it. Then, they wear the nohlest boots, Avith the hugest tops — flapping and bidging over anyhow; above which, they encase themselves in such wonderful overalls and petticoat trousers, made to all appear- ance of tarry old sails, so additionally stifl'cned -with pitch and salt, that the wearers have a walk of their o-mi, and go straddling and swinging about, among the boats and barrels and nets and rigging, a sight to see. Then, their younger women, by dint of going down to the sea barefoot, to fling their baskets into the boats as they come in with the tide, and bespeak the first fi-uits of the haid with propitiatory promises to love and marry that dear fisherman who shall fill that basket like an Angel, have the finest legs ever carved by Natiu-e in the brightest maliogany, and they walk hke Juno. Then- eyes, too, are so lusti'ous that theu- long gold ear-rings turn dull beside those brilliant neighbours ; and when they are dressed, what \\iil\ these beauties, and their fine fresh faces, and their many petticoats — striped petticoats, rod petticoats, blue petticoats, always clean and smart, and never too long — and their home-made stockings, mulberry-coloui'ed, blue, broAA-n, • purple, lilac — which the older women, taking care of the Dutch-looking childi*en, sit in all sorts of places knitting, knitting, Icnitting, from morning to night — and what with their little saucy bright blue jackets, knitted too, and fitting close to their handsome figures ; and what with the natural grace with which the}' wear the commonest cap, or fold the commonest handkerchief roimd their luxuriant hair — -we say, in a word and out of breath, that taking all these premises into our consideration, it has never been a matter of the least siu-prise to us that we have never once met, in the coi-nfields, on the dusty roads, by the breezy windmills, on the plots of short sweet grass overhanging the sea — anywhere — a 3'oung fisherman and fisherwoman of om French watering-place together, but the arm of that fisher- man has invariably been, as a matter of course and without any absurd attempt to disguise so plain a necessity, round the neck or waist of that fisherwoman. And we have had {10 doubt whatever, standing looking at their uphill streets. 190 OUll FRENCH WATERING-PLAOE. house rising above house, and terrace above terrace, and bright garments here and there lying simning on rough stone parapets, that the pleasant mist on all such ohjects, caused by their being seen through the brown nets hung across on poles to dry, is, in the eyes of every true young fisherman, a mist of love and beauty, setting off the goddess of his heart. Moreover it is to be observed that these are an industrious people, and a domestic people, and an honest people. And though we are aware that at the bidding of Bilkins it is our duty to fall down and worship the Neapolitans, we make bold very much to prefer the fishing people of our French watering-place — especially since our last visit to Naples within these twelvemonths, when we foimd only four con- ditions of men remaining in the whole city : to wit, lazzaroni, priests, spies, and soldiers, and all of them beggars; the paternal government having banished all its subjects except the rascals. But we can never henceforth separate our French watering- place from our own landloid of two summers, M. Loyal Devasseur, citizen and town-coimcillor. Permit us to have the ])leasure of presenting M. Loyal Devasseur. His own family name is simply Loyal ; but, as he is married, and as in that part of France a husband always adds to his own name the family name of his wife, he whites' himself Loyal Devasseur. He owns a compact little estate of some twenty or thirty acres on a lofty hill-side, and on it he has built two country houses which he lets furnished. They are by many degrees the best houses that are so let near our French watering-place ; we have had the honour of living in both, and can testify. The entrance-hall of the fii-st we inhabited, was ornamented with a plan of the estate, representing it as about twice the size of Ireland ; insomuch that when we were yet new to the Property (M. Loyal always speaks of it as " la propriete") we went tlu-ee miles straight on end, in search of fche bridge of Austerlitz — which ^^■e afterwards found to be immediately outside the window. The Chateau of the Old Guard, in another part of the grounds, and, according to the plan, about two leagues from the little dining room, we sought in vain for a week, until, happening one evening to sit upon a bench in tlie forest (forest in the plan), a few yards from the house-door, we observed at our feet, in the ignominious circum- OUR FRENCH WATERING-FLAOE. 191 stances of being upside do\m and greenly rotten, the Old Guard liimself : that is to say, tJie painted effigy of a member of that distinguislied corps, seven feet high, and in the act of carrying arms, who liad had the misfortune to be blown down in the previous winter. It will be perceived that M. Loyal is a staunch admirer of the great Napoleon. He is an old soldier himself — captain of the National Guard, with a handsome gold vase on his chimney-piece, presented to him by his com- pany — and his respect for the memory of the illustrious general is enthusiastic. Medallions of him, portraits of him, busts of him, pictures of him, ar3 thicldy sprinkled all over the property. During the fii-st month of our occupation, it was our affliction to be constantly Icnocking down Napoleon : if we touched a slielf in a dark corner, he toppled over with a crash ; and every door we opened, shook him to the soid. Yet M. Loyal is not a man of mere castles in the air, or, as he would say, in Spain. He has a specially practical, contriving, clever, skilful eye and hand. His houses are delightful. lie unites French elegance and English comfort, in a happy manner quite his ov,ti. He has an extraordinary genius for making tasteful little bedrooms in ans-les of his roofs, which an Englishman would as soon think of turning to any account, as he would think of cultivating the Desert. We have ourself reposed deliciously in an elegant chamber of M. Loyal's con- struction, with our head as nearly in the Icitchen cliimney-pot as we can conceive it likely for the head of any gentleman, not by profession a Sweep, to be. And, into whatsoever strange nook M. Loyal's genius penetrates, it, in that nook, infallibly constructs a cupboard and a row of jjegs. In either of our houses, we could have put away the knapsacks and hung up the hats of the whole regiment of Guides. Aforetime, M. Loyal was a tradesman in the town. You can transact business witli no present tradesman in the town, and give your card " chez ]M. Loyal," but a brighter face shines upon you directly. We dovibt if there is, ever was, or ever will be, a man so universally pleasant in the minds of people as M. Loj'al is ia the minds of the citizens of our French watering-place. They rub their hands and laugh when they speak of him. Ah, but he is such a good child, euch a brave boy, such a generous sjiirit, that Monsieui Loyal ! It is the honest truth. M. Lo3'ars nature is the nature of a gentleman. He cultivates his ground with his 192 OUll FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. own hands (assisted Ly one little iaboiur^r, who lulls into a fit now and then) ; and he digs and delves from morn to eve in prodigious perspirations — " works always," as ho says — ])ut, cover him with dust, mud, weeds, water, any stains you will, you never can cover the gentlcTnan in M. Loj^al. A portly, upright, broad-shouldered, bro\vn-faced man, whose soldierly bearing gives him the appearance of being taller than he is, look into the bright eye of M. Loyal, standing before you in his A^'orking blouse and cap, not particularly well shaved, and, it may bo, very earthy, and you shall discern in M. Loyal a gentleman whose true politeness is in grain, and confu-mation of M'hose word by his bond you would blush to think of. Not without reason is M. Loyal when he tells tliat story, in his own vivacious way, of his travelling to Fulliam, near London, to buy all these hundreds and hundreds of trees you now see upon the Property, then a bare, bleak hill ; and of his sojourning in Fulliam tlu'ee months ; and of his jovial evenings with the market-gardeners ; and of the crowning banquet before his departure, when the market-gardeners rose as one man, cKnked tlieir glasses all together (as the custom at Fulliam is), and cried, " Vive Loyal ! " j\I. Loyal has an agreeable wife, but no family ; and he loves to drill the children of his tenants, or run races with them, or do anything xAth them, or for tham, that is good- natured, lie is of a highly convivial temperament, and his hospitality is unbounded. Billet a soldier on him, and he is delighted. Five-and-thirty soldiers had M. Loyal billeted on him this present summer, and tliey all got fat and red-faced in two days. It became a legend among the troops that whosoever got billeted on M. hoyal rolled in clover ; and so it felt out that the fortunate man viho drew the billet " M. Lo^'al Dbvasseur" always leaped into the air, though in lieaA-y tnarching order. M. Loyal cannot bear to admit an}i;hing that anight seem by any implication to disparage the military profes- sion. We hinted to him once, that we were conscious of a remote doubt arising in our mind, whether a sou a day for pocket- money, tobacco, stockings, drinlv, washing, and social pleasures in general, left a very large margin for a soldier's enjojTnent. Pardon ! said Monsieur Loyal, rather wincing. It was not a fortime, but — a la bonne heure — it was better than it used to be ! What, we asked him on another occasion, were all those neighbouring peasants, each living with his family in one OUR PfvlilXCH WATERING-PLACE. 193 room, aud each having a soldier (perhaps two) billeted ou him every other night, rsquii'cd to pro\'ide for those soldiers ? " Faith ! " said M. Loyal, reluctantly ; "a bed, monsieur, and fire to cook with, and a candle. And they share their supper with those soldiers. It is not possible that they could eat alone." — " And what allowance do they get for tliis ? " said we. INIonsieur Loj-al drew himself up taller, took a step back, laid his hand upon his breast, and said, with majesty, as speaking for himself and all France, " Monsieur, it is a contribution to the State ! " It is never going to rain, according to M. Lo3-al. "Wlien it is impossible to deny that it is now raining in torrents, he says it will be jBne — charming — magnificent — to-morrow. It is never hot on the Property, he contends. Likewise it is never cold. The flowers, he says, come out, delighting to grow there ; it is like Paradise this morning ; it is like the Garden of Eden. He is a little fmcifid in his language : smilingly observing of Madame Loyai, when she is absent at vespers, that she is "gone to her salvation" — allee a son salut. He has a great enjoyment of tobacco, but nothing woidd induce liim to continue smoking face to face with a lady. His short black pipe immediately goes into his breast pocket, scorches his blouse, and nearly sets him on fii-e. In the To\\ai Council and on occasions of ceremony, he appears in a full suit of black, with a waistcoat of magnificent breadth across the chest, and a shirt-collar of fabidous proportions. Good M. Loyal ! Under blouse or waistcoat, he carries one of the gentlest hearts that beat in a nation teeming with gentle people. He has had losses, and has been at his best imder them. Not only the loss of his way by night in the Fidliam times — when a bad subject of an EngKshman, imder pretence of seeing him home, took him into all the night jmblic- fiouses, dranlc "arfanarf" in every one at his expense, and fiuall}' fled, leaA-ing him shipwrecked at Cleefeeway, which we apprehend to be llatclifie Highwaj^ — but heavier losses than hat. Long: a2:o, a familv of children and a mother wore left in one of liis houses, without money, a whole year. M. Loyal —anything but as rich as we wish he had been — had not tho heai't to say "you must go;" so they stayed on and stayed on, and paying-tenants Avho would have come in couldn't some in, aud at last they managed to get helped home across che water, and M. Loyal kissed tho whole group, and said VOU u. f 194 OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. "Adieu, my poor infants!" and sat do-svn in their deserted BaJon and smoked his pipe of peace. — "The vent, M. Loyal?" " Eh ! well ! The rent ! " M. Loyal shakes his head. " Lo bon Dieu," says M. Loyal presently, " wiU recompense me," and he laughs and smokes his pipe of peace. May he smoke it on the Property, and not be recompensed, these fifty years I niere are public amusements in oui- French watering-place, cr it woidd not be French. They are very popidar, and very cheap. The sea-bathing — wliich may rank as the most favoured daylight entertainment, inasmuch as the French visitors bathe all day long, and seldom appear to thinlc of remaining loss than an hour at a time iji the water — is astoundingly cheap. Omnibuses convey you, if you please, from a convenient part of the town to the beach and back again ; j'ou have a clean and comfortable bathing-machine, di'ess, linen, and aU appliances ; and the charge for the whole is half-a-franc, or fivepence. On tbe pier, there is usually a guitar, which seems presumptuously enough to set its tinkling against the deep hoarseness of the sea, and there is always some boy or woman who sings, •\\dthout any voice, little songs without any tune : the strain we have most frequently heard being an appeal to " the sportsman " not to bag that choicest of game, the swallow. For bathiug purposes, we have also a subscription establishment with an esplanade, where people lounge about with telescopes, and seem to get a good deal of weariness for their monej' ; and we have also an association of individual machine-proprietors combined against this for- midable rival. ^L Feroce, our o-mi particular fi-iend in the bathing line, is one of these. How he ever came by his name, we cannot imagine. He is as gentle and polite a man as ^L Loyal Devasseiu: himself; immensely stout witlial. and of a beaming aspect. M. Feroce has saved so many people from drowning, and has been decorated with so man}' medals in consequence, that his stoutness seems a special dispensation of Providence to enable him to wear them; if h's girth were the girth of an ordinary man, he coidd never hang them on, all at once. It is only on very great occasions that M. Feroce displays his shining honours. At other times they lie by, with rolls of manuscript testifying to the causes of their presentation, in a huge glass case in the red-sofa'd salon of hie private residence on the beach, where M. Feroce also keeps OTJIl FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 195 his family pictm-es, his portraits of himself as he appears both in oathing life and iu private life, his little boats that rock by cloekAvork, and his other ornamental possessions. Then, we have a commodious and gay Theatre — or had, for it is burned down now — where the opera was always pre- ceded by a vaudeville, iu which (as usual) everybody, down to the little old man with the large hat and the little cane and tassel, wlio always i)layed either my Uncle or my Papa, suddenly broke out of the dialogue into the mildest vocal snatches, to the great perplexity of unaccustomed strangers from Great Britain, wlio never could make out when they were singing and when they were talking — and indeed it was pretty much the same. But, the caterers in the way of entertainment to whom we are most beholden, are the Society of AVelldoing, who are active aU the summer, and give the proceeds of tlieir good works to the poor. Some of the most agreeable fetes thev contrive, are announced as " Dedicated to the cliildren ; " and the taste with which they tm-n a small public enclosui-e into an elegant garden beautifully illumi- nated; and the thorough-going heartiness and energy with which they personally direct the childish pleasiu'es ; are supremely delightful. For fivepence a head, we have on these occasions donkey races with English " Jokeis," and other rustic sports; lotteries for toys; roimdabouts, dancing on the gi-ass to the music of an admirable band, fu-e-balloons, and fireworks. Further, almost every week all through the summer — never mind, now, on what day of the week — there is a fete in some adjoining village (called in that part of tlie country a Ducasse), where the people — really the people — dance on the gi-een turf in the open air, roimd a little ordiestra, that seems itself to dance, there is such an airy motion of flags and streamers all about it. And we do not suppose that oetween the Torrid Zone and the North Pole there are to be found male dancers with such astonisliingly loose legs, furnished with so many joints in ^vl•ong places, utterly un- known to Professor Owen, as those who here disport them- selves. Sometimes, the fete appertains to a particular trade ; you will see among the cheerful yOimg women at the joint Pucasse of the milliners and tailors, a wholesome knowledge of the art of making common and cheap things uncommon and pretty, by good sense and good taste, that is a practical lesson to any rank of society in a whole island we could o2 19(5 OUK FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. mention. Tlie oddest feature of these agreeable scenes is the everlasting Roundabout (we preserve an English word wherever Ave can, as we are writing the English language), on the wooden horses of which machine grown-up people of all a^es are wound round and round with the utmost solera- nit J, wliile the proprietor's Avife grinds an organ, capable of only one tune, in the centre. As to the boarding-houses of our French watering-place, they are Legion, and would require a distinct treatise. It is not without a sentiment of national pride that we believe them to contain more bores from the shores of Albion than all the clubs in London. As you walk timidly in their neighbour- hood, the very neckcloths and hats of your elderly compatriots cry to you from the stones of the streets, "We are Bores — avoid us ! " We have never overheard at street corners such lunatic scraps of political and social discussion as among these dear coimtrjonen of ours. They believe everything that is impossible and nothing that is true. They carry rumours, and ask questions, and make corrections and improvements tn one another, staggering to the human intellect. And they are for ever rushing into the English library, propounding s-uch incomprehensible paradoxes to the fair mistress of that establishment, that we beg to recommend her to her Majesty's gracious consideration as a fit object for a pension. The English form a considerable part of the population of our French watering-place, and are deservedly addi'ossed and respected in many ways. Some of the surface-addresses to them are odd enougli, as when a laundi-ess puts a placard outside her house announcing her possession of that curious lii-itish instrument, a "Mingle;" or when a tavern-keeper provides accommodation for the celebrated English game of "Nokemdon." But, to us, it is not the least pleasant feature of our French M'atering-place that a long and constant fusion of the two groat nations there, has taught each to like the other, and to learn from tlie other, and to rise superior to the absurd prejudices that have lingered among* the weak and ignorant in both countries equally. Drumming and trumpeting of coiu-se go on for ever in our F'rench watering-place. Flag-flying is at a premium, too ; but, we cb.ecrfully avow that we consider a flag a very pretty object, and that Ave take such outward signs of innocent Uveliness to our heart of hearts. The people, in tbe toAvn and OUR FRENCH WATERING-PLACE. 197 in the countiy, are a busy people Vi-ho work liard ; tliej* are sober, temperate, good-humoxu-ed, light-hearted, and generally remarkable for their engaging manners. Few just men, not immoderately bilious, could see them in their recreations without veiy much respecting the character that is so easily BO hannlossly, and so simply, pleased. BILLSTICKING. If I liad an enemy ■wliom I hated — which. Heaven forbid — and if I knew of something that sat hear}' on his conscience, I think I would introduce that something into a Posting-Bill, and place a large impression in the hands of an active sticker. I can scarcely imagine a more terrible revenge. I should haunt him, by this means, night and day. I do not mean to say that I would publish his secret, in red letters two feet high, for all the town to read: I would darkly refer to it. It should be bet'^eeu him, and me, and the Posting-BUl. Say, for example, that, at a certain period of his life, my enemy had siu-reptitiously possessed himself of a key. I would then embark my capital in the lock business, and conduct that business on the advertising principle. In all my placards and adft^ertisements, I would throw up tlie line Secret Keys. Thus, if my enemy passed an iminhabited house, he woidd see his conscience glaring down on him from the parapets, and peeping up at him from the cellars. If he took a dead wall in his walk, it woidd be alive with rejjroaches. If he sought refuge in an omnibus, the panels thereof would become Belshazzar's palace to him. If he took boat, in a Avild endeavour to escape, he woidd see the fatal words liu-king under the arclies of the bridges over the Thames. If he Talked the streets with do-^iicast eyes, he would recoil fi'om ihe very stones of tlie pavement, made eloquent by lamp- black lithogi'a2)h. If he drove or rode, his way woidd be blocked up, by enormous vans, each proclaiming the same words over and over again from its whole extent of surface. Until, having gradually grown thinner and paler, and having at last totally rejected food, he would miserably perish, and I should be revenged. Tliis conchision I should, no doubt, celebrate by laughing a hoarse laugh in three syllables, and folding my arms tight upon my chest agreeably U BILL-STICKING. 199 most of tlie exaiaples of glutted animosity tliat I have had an oj)portuiiity of observing in connexion •\vitli the Drama — which, by the bye, as involving a good deal of noise, appeara to me to be occasionall}' confounded -n-ith the Drummer. The foregoing reflections presented themselves to my mind, the other day, as I contemplated (being newly come to London from the East Riding of Yorkshire, on a house-hunting 3xpedition for next May), an old Avarehovise wliich rotting paste and rotting paper had brought dovra. to the condition of an old cheese. It would have been impossible to say, on the most conscientious survey, how much of its front was bvick and mortar, and how much decajdng and decayed plaster. It was so thickly encrusted with fragments of bills, that no Bhip's keel after a long voyage could be half so foul. AU traces of the broken windows were billed out, the doors were biUed across, the Avater-spout was billed over. The building was shored up to prevent its tumbling into the sti-eet; and the very beams erected against it, were less wood than paste and paper, they had been so continually posted and reposted. The forlorn cbegs of old posters so encumbered this wreck, that there was no hold for new posters, and the stickers had abandoned the place in despair, except one enterprising man who had hoisted the last masquerade to a clear spot near the level of the stack of chimneys where it waved and di'ooped like a shattered flag. Below the rusty cellar-grating, crumpled remnants of old bills torn down, rotted away in wasting heaps of fallen leaves. Here and there, some of the thick rind of the house had peeled off in strips, and fluttered heavily down, littering the street ; but, stiU, below these rents and gashes, layers of decomposing posters showed themselves, as if they were interminable. I thought the building could never even be pulled down, 'but in one adhesive heap of rottenness and poster. As to getting in — I don't believe that if the Sleeping Beauty and her Coiu-t had been so billed up, the young Priace coidd have done it. Knowing all the posters that were yet legible, intimately, and pondering on their ubiquitous nature, I was led into the reflections with which I began this paper, by considering what an awful thing it woidd be, ever to have MTonged — say M. Jui.LiEN for example — and to have his avenging name in characters of the incessantly before my eyes. Or to have injured Madame Tussaud, and undergo a similar retribution. 200 BILL-STICKING. Has any man a seli'-reproaclifiil tliouglit associated witli pills or ointment ? What an avenging spirit to that man ig Pkofessok HoLxowAY ! Have I sinned in oil? Cabburn pursues me. Have I a dark remembrance associated with any gentlemanly garments, bespoke or ready made ? Moses and Son are on my track. Did I ever aim a blow at a defenceless fellow-creatm-e's head ? That head eternally being measured for a wig, or that worse head which was bald before it used the balsam, and hirsute afterwards — enforcing the benevolent moral, "Better to be bald as a Dutch-cheese than come to this," — undoes me. Have I no sore places in. my mind which Mechi touches — wliich Nicot-L probes — which no registered article whatever lacerates ? Does no discordant note witliin me thrill responsive to mysterious watchwords, aa " Revalenta Arabica," or " Number One St. Paul's Church- yard " ? Then m.ay I enjoy life, and be happy. Lifting up my eyes, as I was musing to this effect, I beheld advancing towards me (I was then on Cornhill near to the Royal Exchange), a solemn procession of three advertising vans, of first-class dimensions, each drawn by a very little horse. As the cavalcade approached, I was at a loss to reconcile the careless deportment of the drivers of these vehicles, with the terrific announcements they conducted through the city, which, being a summary of the contents of a Sunday newspaper, ■v^ere of the most tlirilling kind. Robbery, fire, murder, and the ruin of the united kingdom — each discharged in a line by itself, like a separate broad- side of red-hot shot — were among the least of the warnings addressed to an unthinking people. Yet, the INIinisters of Fate who di'ove the awful cai's, leaned forward with their arms upon their knees in a state of extreme lassitude, foi waTit of any subject of interest. The first man, whose hair I might natui-ally have exjiected to see standing on end, scratched his head — one of the smoothest I ever beheld — with profound indifference. The second whistled. The thii'd yawned. Pausing to dwell upon this apathy, it appeared to me, aa the fatal cars came by me, that I descried in the second car, through the portal in which the charioteer was seated, a figure stretched uj^xjn the floor. At the same time, I thought I smelt tobacco. The latter impression passed quickly from me; the former remained. Curious to know whether this prostrate BILL-STICKING. 201 figure M';is the one impressiLle man of tlie whole capital who had been stricken insensible by the terrors revealed to him, and whose form had been placed in the car by the charioteer, from motives of humanity, I followed the procession. It turned into Leadenhall-maiket, and halted at a public-house. Each driver disnioimted. I then distinctly heard, proceeding from the second car, where I had dimly seen the prostrate form, the words : " And a pipe ! " Tho driver entering tlie public-house with his fellows, apparently for piu'poses of i-efreshment, I could not refrain from mounting on the shaft of the second veliicle, and looking in at the portal. I then beheld, reclining on his back upca the floor, on a kind of mattress or divan, a little man in a shooting-coat. The exclamation "Dear me!" which irre- sistibly escaped my lips, caused him to sit upright, and survey me. I found him to be a good-looking little man of about fift}^, with a shiniug face, a tight head, a bright eye, a moist wink, a quick speech, and a ready air. He had something oi a sporting wa}^ with him. He looked at me, and 1 looked at him, imtil the di-iver displaced me by handing in a pint of beer, a pipe, and what I understand is called "a screw" of tobacco — an object which has the appearance of a curl-paper taken off the barmaid's head, Avith the ciud in it. " I beg your pardon," said I, when the removed person of the di'iver again admitted of my presenting my face at the portal. " But — excuse my curiosity, which I inherit from my mother — do }ou Kve here ? " "That's good, too!" returned the little man, composedly laying aside a pipe he had smoked out, and filling the pipe just brought to him. " Oh, you don't live here then?" said I. He shook his head, as he calmly lighted his pipe by means of a German tinder-box, and replied, " This is my carriage. When things are flat, I take a ride sometimes, and enjoy myself. I am the inventor of these wans." His pipe was now alight. He ch-ank his beer all at onc«, and he sm )h«u and he smiled at me. " It was a great idea ! " said I. " Not sc liiad," returned the little man, M'ith the modesty t>/ merit. 202 BILL-STICKING. "Might I be pennitted to inscribe your name upon the tablets of my memory ? " I asked. " There 's not much odds in the name," returned the little man, " — no naiiie particular — I am the King of the Bill- Stickers." *'' Good gracious ! " said I. The monarch informed me, with a smile, tliat he had nevei been crowned or installed with any public ceremonies, but, that he was peaceably acknowledged as King of the Bill- Stickers in right of being the oldest and most respected member of "the old school of bill- sticking." He likewise gave me to imderstand that there was a Lord Mayor of the Bill- Stickers, whose genius was chiefly exercised within the limits of the city. He made some allusion, also, to an inferior potentate, called " Tui'koy-legs ; " but, I did not understo.nd that this gentleman was invested with much power. I ratiier inferred that he derived his title from some pecidiarity of gait, and that it was of an honorar}^ character. "My father," pursued the King of the Bill- Stickers, "was Engineer, Beadle, and Bill-Sticker to the parish of St. Andrew's, Holbom, in the year one thousand seven hundi'ed and eighty. My father stuck bills at the time of the riots of London." " You must be acquainted with the whole subject of bill- sticking, from that time to the present ! " said I. " Pretty well so," was the answer. " Excuse me," said I ; " but I am a sort of collector " "Not Income-tax ?" cried His Majestj', hastily removing his pipe from his lijjs. " No, no," said I. "Water-rate?" said His Majestj'. " No, no," I returned. "Gas? Assessed? Sewers ?" said His Majesty. "You misunderstand me," I replied soothingly, "Not that .sort of collector at all: a collector of facts." '' Oh! if it's only facts," cried the King of the Bill-Stickera, recovering his good-humour, and banishing the great mistrust that had suddenly fallen upon him, " come in and welcome ! If it had been income, or winders, I thinlc I should have pitched you out of the wan, upon my soul ! " Readily complying with the invitation, I squeezed mysell in at the small aperture. His Majesty, graciously handing BILL-STICKING. 201 me a litlle tliree-legged stool on whicli I took iny seat in a corner, inquired if I smoked. " I do ; — tliat is, I can," I answered. "Pipe and a screw!" said His Majestj' to the attendant charioteer. "Do vou prefer a drv smoke, or do you moisten it ? " As unmitigated tobacco produces most disturbing effects upon my system (indeed, if I had perfect moral courage, I doubt if I should smoke at all, under any circumstances), I advocated moisture, and begged the Sovereign of the Bill- Stickers to name his usual liquor, and to concede to me tho privilege of paying for it. After some delicate reluctance on his part, we were provided, through the instrumentab'ty of tho attendant charioteer, with a can of cold rum-and-water, flavoiu-ed with sugar and lemon. We were also furnished with a tumbler, and I was provided with a pipe. His ^lajesty, then, observing that we might combine business with conversation, gave the word for the car to proceed ; and, to my great delight, we jogged away at a foot pace. I say to my great delight, because I am very fond of novelty, and it was a new sensation to be jolting through the tumult of the cit\' in that secluded Temple, partly open to the sk^-, surrounded by the roar without, and seeing notliing but the clouds. OccasiouaUy, blows from whijjs fell lieavily on the Temple's walls, -oheu liy stopping up the road longer than usual, we irritated carters and coachmen to madness ; but, they fell harmless upon us M"ithin and disturbed not the serenity of oiu- peaceful retreat. As I looked upward, I felt, I should imagine, like the Astronomer Royal. I was enchanted by the contrast betweeu the freezing nature of oiu* external mission on the blood of the populace, and the perfect com- posure reigning within those sacred precincts : where His Majesty, reclining easily on his left ai'm, smoked his pipe and drank his rum-and-water fi-om his OAvn side of the tumbler, which stood impartially between us. As I looked do-^ni from the cloxids and caught his roytJ eye, he understood my re- flections. " I have an idea," he observed, with an upward glance, "of training scarlet rimners across in tho season, — niaking a arbor of it, — and sometimes taking tea in the same according to the song." I nodded approval. " And here you repose and think ? ' said I. S«M BILL-STICKING. "And tliiuk/' said he, "of posters — walls — and hoardings.*' We were both silent, contemplating the vastness of the subject. I remembered a surprising fancy of dear Thomas Hood's, and wondered whether this monarch ever sighed to repair to the gi-eat wall of China, and otick bills aU over it. "And so," said he, rousing himself, "it's facts as you coUect ? " " Facts," said I. " The facts of bill-sticking," pursued His Majesty, in a benignant manner, " as known to myself, air as following. When my father was Engineer, Beadle, and Bill- Sticker to the parish of St. Andrew's, Holborn, he employed women to post bills for him. He employed women to post bills at the time of the riots of London. He died at the age of seventy- five year, and was buried by the murdered Eliza Grimwood, over in the Waterloo-road." As this was somewhat in the nature of a royal speech, I listened with deference and silently. His Majesty, taking a scroll from his pocket, proceeded, with great distinctness, to pour out the following flood of information : — • " ' The bills being at that period mostly proclamations and declarations, and which were only a demy size, the manner t/f posting the bills (as they did not use brushes) was by meaos of a piece of wood which they called a 'dabber.' Thus things continued till such time as the State Lottery was passed, and then the printers began to print larger bills, and 'men were employed instead of women, as the State Lottery Commis- sioners then began to send men all over England to post bills, and would keep them out for six or eight months at a time, and they were called by the London bill-stickers ' trampers,^ their wages at the time being ten shillings per day, besides expenses. They used sometimes to be stationed in large towns for five or six months together, distributing the schemes to all the houses in the to-^-n. And then there were more caricature wood-block engravings for posting-bills than there are at the present time, the principal printers, at that time, of posting-bills being Messrs. Evans and RniTy, of Budge-row ; Thoroughgood and Wliiting, of tlie present day ; and Messrs, Gye and Bulne, Gracechurch Street, City. The largest IsiUs printed at that period were a two-sheet double crown ; and Wiien they commenced printing four-sheet bills, two bill stickers would work together. They had no settled wages BILL-STICKING. 208 per week, li\it had a fixed price for tlieir work, and the London bill-stickers, diuiug a lottery week, have been known to earn, each eight or nine pounds per week, tiU the day oi drawing ; likewise the men who carried boards in the street used to have one pound per week, and the bill-stickers at that time would not aRow any one to wilfully cover or destroy their bills, as they had a society amongst themselves, and very frequently dined together at some public-house where they used to go of an evening to have their work delivered out untoe 'em.' " All this His Majesty delivered in a gallant manner; posting it, as it were, before me, in a great proclamation. I took advantage of the pause he now made, to inquire what a " two- sheet double crown " might express ? "A two-sheet double crown," ixiplied the King, " is a bill thirty-nine inches vride by thirty inches high." "Is it possible," said I, my mind reverting to the gigantic admonitions we were then displaying to the multitude — which were as infants to some of the posting-bills on the rotten old waTchouse — " that some few years ago the largest bill was no larger than that ? " " The fact," returned the King, " is undoubtedly so." Here he instantly rushed again into the scroll. " ' Since the abolishing of the State Lottery all that good feeling has gone, and nothing but jealousy exists, through the rivalry of each other. Several billsticlcing companies have started, but have failed. The first party that started a com- pany was twelve year ago ; but what was left of the old school and their dependants joined together and opposed them And for some time we were quiet again, till a printer of Hatton Garden formed a company by hiring the sides of houses ; but he was not supported by the public, and he left his wooden frames fixed up for rent. The last company that started, took advantage of the New Police Act, and hired ol Messrs. GriseU and Peto the hoarding of Trafalgar Square, find established a bill-sticking office in Cursitor-street, Chan- cery-lane, and engaged some of tlio new bill-stickers to dc their work, and for a time got. the half of all our work, and with such spirit did thej^ carry on thoir opposition towards us, that they used to give us in charge before the magistrate, and get us fined ; but they found it so expensive, that they could not keep it up, for they were always employing a lot ol we BILL-STICKINO, ruflfians from the Seven Dials to come and fight us ; and or one occasion the old bill-sticlcers went to Trafalgar Square to attempt to post bills, when they were given in custody by the watchman in their employ, and fined at Queen Square five pounds, as they woiJd not allow any of us to speak in the ofiice ; but when they were gone, we had an interview with the magistrate, who mitigated the fine to fifteen shillings. During the time the men were waiting for the fine, thia company started off to a public-house that we were in the habit of using, and waited for us coining back, where a fight- ing scene took place that beggars description. Shortly after this, the principal one day came and shook hands with us and acknowledged that he had broken up the company, and that he himself had lost five hundi-ed pound in trying to over- throw us. We then took possession of the hoarding iu Trafalgar Square ; but Messrs. Grisell and Peto would not allow us to post our biUs on the said hoarding without paying them — and from first to last Ave paid upwards of two hundred pounds for that hoarding, and likewise the hoarding of the Reform Club-house, PaU MaU.' " His Majesty, being now completely out of breath, laid do-^-n his scroll (which he appeared to have finished), pufTed at his pipe, and took some rum-and- water. I embraced the oppor- tunity of asking how many divisions the art and mystery ol bill-sticking comprised ? He replied, three — auctioneers bill-sticking, theatrical bill-sticldng, general bill-sticking. " The auctioneers' porters," said the King, " who do theii bill-sticking, are mostly respectable and intelligent, and gene- rally well paid for their work, Avhether in town or country. The price paid by the principal auctioneers for country work is nine shillings per day ; that is, seven sliillings for day's work, one shilling for lodging, and one for paste. Town work is five shillings a day, including paste." " Town work must be rather hot- work," said I, "if there be many of those fighting scenes that beggar description, among the bill-stickers ? " " Well," replied the King, "I an't a stranger, I assure you, to black eyes ; a bill-sticker ought to knoAV how to handle his fists a bit. As to that row I have mentioned, that grew out of competition, conducted in an uncompromising spirit Besides a man in a horse- and-shay continually follow- ing us about, the company had a watchman on duty, nighl BILL-STICKlXa. 207 and day, to prevent us sticking bills npon the hoarding in Trafalgar Square. We -went there, early one morning, to Btick bills and to black- -wash theii' bills it' ^(e were interfered with. We were interfered with, and I gave the word for laying on the wash. It was laid on — pretty brisk — and wo were all taken to Queen Square : but they couldn't fine 7ne. I knew that," — with a bright smile — " I 'd only given direc- tions — I was only the General." Charmed with this monarch's affability, I inquired if he had ever hii-ed a hoarding himself. "Hired a large one," he replied, "opposite the Lyceum Theatre, when the buildings was there. Paid thirty pound for it ; let out places on it, and called it ' The External Paper- Ilanging Station.' But it didn't answer. Ah ! " said His !Majesty thoughtfully, as he filled the glass, " Bill-stickers have a deal to contend Avith. The bill-sticldng clause was got into the PoKce Act by a member of jjarliament that employed me at his election. The clause is pretty stifi" respecting where bills go ; but he didn't mind where his bills went. It was all right enough, so long as they was his bills ! " Fearful that I observed a shadow of misanthropy on the King's cheerful face, I asked whoso ingenious invention that was, Mdiich I greatly admired, of sticking bills under the arches of the bridges. " Mine ! " said His Majest}', " I was the first that ever stuck a bill imder a bridge ! Imitators soon rose up, of eoxirse. — AVhen don't they ? But they stuck 'cm at low-water, and the tide came and swept the bills clean away. / knew that!" The King laughed. " ^^^lat may be the name of that instrument, like an immense fishing-rod," I inquired, "witliAvluch bills are posted on high places ? " " The joints," returned His Majesty. " Nou-, we use the joints where formerly we used ladders — as they do stiU in country places. Once, when INIadame " (Vestris, understood) " Avas playing in Liverpool, another bUl-sticker and me were at it together on the wall outside the Clarence Dock — me with the joints— him on a ladder. Lord ! I had my bill up, right over his head, yards above him, ladder and all, while he was crawling to his work. The people going in and out of the docks, stood and laughed ! — It 's about tliii-ty years sincfi the jeiatA come in." 208 BILL-STICKING. " Are tliere any bill-stickers who can't read ? " I took the liberty of inquiring-. "Some," said the King. "But they know which is the right side up'ards of their work. They keep it as it's given out to 'em. I have seen a bill or so stuck wrong side up'ards. But it's very rare." Our discoiu'se sustained some interruption at this point, by the procession of cars occasioning a stoppage of about three quarters of a mile in length, as nearly as I could judge. His Majesty, however, entreating nie not to be discomposed by tlie contingent uproar, smoked with great placidity, and surveyed the firmament. When we were again in motion, 1 begged to be inform eu what was the largest poster His Majesty had ever seen. The King replied, " A thirty-six sheet poster." I gathered, also, that there were about a hundred and fifty bill-stickers in London, and that His Majesty considered an average hand equal to the posting of one hundred bills (single sheets) in a day. The King was of opinion, that, although posters had •much increased in size, they had not increased in number ; as the abolition of the State Lotteries had occasioned a great falling off, especially in the country. Over and above which change, I bethought myself that the custom of advertising in newpapers had greatly increased. The completion of many London improvements, as Trafalgar-square (I particularly observed the singidarity of His Majesty's calling that an improvement), the Royal Exchange, &c., had of late years reduced the number of advantageous posting-places. Bill- stickers at present rather confine themselves to districts, than to particular descriptions of Avork. One man would strike over Whitechapel, another would take round Houndsditch, Shorediteh, and the City Road ; one (the King said) would stick to the Surrey side ; another would make a beat of the West-end. His ]\Iajesty remarked, with some approach to severity, op the neglect of delicacy and taste, gradually introduced into the trade by the new school : a profligate and inferior race of impostors who took jobs at almost any price, to the detriment of the old school, and the confusion of their ot\ti misguided employers. He considered that the trade was overdone with competition, and observed, speaking of liis subjects, " There are too many of 'em." He believed, still, that things were a BILL-STICKING. 200 little better than they had been ; adducing, as a proof, the fact that particular posting places Avere now reserved, by common consent, for particular posters ; those places, however, must be regularly occiipied by those posters, or, they lapsed and fell into other hands. It was of no use gi^ang a man a Drury Lane bill thi" week and not next. Where was it to go ? He was of opinion that going to the expense of putting up your own board on which youi' sticker could display youi own bills, was the only complete way of posting yom-self at the present time ; but, even to effect this, on payment of a shilling a week to the keepers of steamboat piers and other such places, you must be able, besides, to give orders for theatres and public exhibitions, or you would be sure to bo cut out by somebody. His Majesty regarded the passion for orders, as one of the most inappeasable appetites of humar. nature. If there were a building, or if there were repairs, going on, anywhere, you could generally stand something and make it right with the foreman of the works; but, orders woidd be expected fi-om you, and the man who could give the most orders was the man who Avoidd come off best. There Avas tliis other objectionable point, in orders, that workmen (5old them for drink, and often sold them to persons who were likewise troubled Avith the weakness of thirst : which led (His Majesty said) to the presentation of j^our orders at Theatre doors, by individuals who Avere "too shakery" to deriA'e intellectual profit from the entertainments, and who brought a scandal on you. Finally, His Majesty said that j-ou could hardly put too little in a poster ; what you wanted, was, two or three good catch-lines for the eye to rest on — then, leave it alone — and there you were I These are the minutes of my conversation with His Majesty, as I noted them down shortly afterwards. I am not aware that I have been betrayed into any alteration or suppression. The manner of the King was frank in the exti-eme ; and he seemed to me to aA'oid, at once that slight tendency to lepetition wliieh may have been observed in the conversation of His INIajesty King George the Third, and that slight under- current of egotism which the curious observer may perhaps detect in the conversation of Napoleon Bonaparte. I must do the King the justice to say that it Avas I, and not he, Avho closed the dialogue. At this juncture, I became the subject of a remarkable optical delusion ; the legs of my etooJ VOL. II. ^ m BILL-STICKINO. appeared to me to double up ; the car to spin round and round with great violence ; and a mist to arise between mj'sell and His Majesty. In addition to these sensations, I felt extremely unwell. I refer these unpleasant effects, either to the paste with which the posters were affixed to the ran : which may have contained some small portion of arsenic ; or, . to the printer's inlc, which may have contained some equally deleterious ingi-edient. Of this, I cannot be sure. I am onl;^ Gui-e that I was not affected, either by the smoke, or the run, and- water. I was assisted out of the veliicle, in a state ol | mind v/hich I have only experienced in two other places — I i allude to the Pier at Dover, and to the corresponding portion of the to^vQ of Calais — and sat upon a door-step until I recovered. The procession had then disappeared. I have ! since looked anxiously for the King in several other cars, but j I have not yet had the happiness of seeing His Majesty. j "BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON." Mr uame is Meek. I am, in fact, Mr. Meek. That son is mine and Mrs. Meek's. "\Mien I saw tlie announcement in the Times, I dropped the paper. I had put it in, myself, and paid for it, but it looked so noble that it overpowered mo. As soon as I could compose my feelings, I took the paper up to ^Irs. Meek's bedside. " IMaria Jane," said I (I aUude to Mrs. Meek), " you are now a public character." We read the review of our child, several times, with feelings of the strongest emotion ; and I sent the boy who cleans the boots and shoes, to the office for fifteen copies. No reduction was made on taking that quantity. It is scarcely necessary for me to say, that our child had been expected. In fact, it had been expected, with compara- tive confidence, for some months. Mrs. Meek's mother, who resides with us — of the name of Bigby — had made every preparation for its admission to our circle. I hope and beKeve I am a quiet man. I will go farther. I know I am a quiet man. My constitution is tremulous, my voice was never loud, and, in point of stature, I have been from infancy, small. I have the greatest respect for !Maria Jane's ISIama. She is a most remarkable woman. I honour Maria Jane's ^lama. In my opinion she would storm a town, single-handed, with a hearth-broom, and carry it. I have never known her to yield anj' point whatever, to mortal man. She is calcidated to terrify the stoutest heart. Still — but I wiU not anticipate. The fii'st intimation I had, of any preparations being in progress, on the part of Maria Jane's Mama, was one after- noon, several months ago. I came home earlier than usual from the ofiice, and, proceeding into the diniug-room, found an obstruction behind tlio door, which prevented it from 81-2 "BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON.' opening freely. It was an obstruction of a soft nature. On looking in, I found it to be a female. The female in qiiestion stood in the corner behind tne door^ consuming Sherry Wine. From the nutty smell of thai beverage pervading the apartment, I have no doubt she was consuming a second glassful. She wore a black bonnet of large dimensions, and was copious in figure. The expression of her countenance was severe and discontented. The words to which she gave utterance on seeing me, were these, "Oh git along Avith j-ou. Sir, if you please; me and Mrs. Bigby don't want no male parties here ; " That female was Mrs. Prodjjit. I immediately withdrew, of course. I was rather hm-t, but I made no remark. 'Whether it was that I showed a lowness of spirits after dinner, in consequence of feeling that I seemed to intrude, I cannot say. But, Maria Jane's Mama said to me on her retiring for the night : in a low distinct voice, and with a look of reproach that completely subdued me : " George ^leek, Mrs. Prodgit is yoiu' wife's nurse ! " I bear no ill-wiU towards Mrs. Prodgit. Is it Likely that I, writing this with tears in my eyes, should be capable of deliberate animosity towards a female, so essential to the welfare of Maria Jane ? I am willing to admit that Fate may have been to blame, and not Mrs. Prodgit ; but, it is undeni- ably true, that the latter female brought desolation and devastation into my lowly dwelling. We were happy after her first appearance : we were s»me- times exceedingly so. But, whenever the parlor door waa opened, and " Mrs. Prodgit ! " announced (and she was very often annotmced), misery ensued. I could not bear Mrs. Prodgit' s look. I felt that I was far from wanted, and had no business to exist in Mrs. Prodgit' s presence. Between ilaria Jane's Mama, and Mrs. Prodgit, chere was a di-cadful, scK^ret, understanding — a dark mystery and conspiracy, point- ing me out as a being to be shunned. I ajipeared to have done something that Avas evil. Whenever Mrs. Prodgit called, after dinner, I retired to my dressing-room — where the tern- peratm-o is very low, indeed, in the wintry time of the year— and sat looking at my frostj' breath as it rose before me, and at my rack of boots : a serviceable article of furniture, but never, in my opinion, an exhilarating object. The length ol the councils that were held with Mrs. Prodgit, under these «« BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON." 213 Dircumstanees, I will not attempt to describe. I ^viU merely remark, tliat Mrs. Prodgit always consumed Slierr}' Wine Nvliile the deliberations were in progress ; tbat they always ended in 3Iaria Jane's being in "wretched spirits on the sofa ; and that Maria Jane's Mama always received me, when I was recalled, with a look of desolate triumph that too plainly said, " Now, George Meek ! You see my child, Maria Jane, a ruin, and I hope you are satisfied I " I pass, generally, over the period that intervened between the day when ]Mrs. Prodgit entered her protest against male parties, and tlie ever-memorable midnight when I brotight her to my unobtrusive home in a cab, with an extremely large box on tlie roof, and a bundle, a bandbox, and a basket, between the driver's legs. I have no objection to Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby, who I never can forget is the parent of Maria Jane) taking entire possession of my unasstuning establishment. In the recesses of my own breast, the thought may Knger that a man in possession cannot be so dreadful as a woman, and that woman Mrs. Prodgit ; but, 1 Dught to bear a good deal, and I hope I can, and do. luiffing and snubbing, prey upon my feelings ; but, I can bear them without complaint. They may tell in the long run ; I may be hustled about, from post to pillar, beyond my strength ; nevertheless, I Avish to avoid giving rise to words in the familv. The voice of Nature, however, cries aloud in behalt' of Augustus George, my infant son. It is for him that I wish to utter a few plaintive household words. I am not at all angry ; I am mild — but miserable. I Avish to know why, when my child, Augustus George, was expected in our circle, a provision of pins was made, as if the little stranger were a criminal who was to be put to the torture immediatel}' on his arrival, instead of a holy babe ? I wish to know why haste was made to stick those pins all over his innocent form, in every direction ? I A^sh to be informed why light and air are excluded from Augustus George, like poisons ? ^Miy, I ask, is my unoffending infant so hedged into a basket-bedstead, with dimity and calico, with miniature sheets and blankets, that I can only hear him snuffle (and no wonder!) deep down imder the pink liood of a little bathing-machine, and can never peruse even so much of hi« lineaments as his nose. 214 "BIRTHS. MRS. MEEK, OF A SON." Was I expected to be tlie father of a French Roll, that thf brushes of All Nations were laid in, to rasp Augustus George ? Am I to be told that his sensitive skin was ever intended by Nature to have rashes brought out upon it, by the prematui'e and incessant use of those formidable little instruments ? Is my son a Nutmeg, that he is to be grated on the stiff edges of sharp frills ? Am I tlie parent of a Muslin boy, that his jdelding surface is to be crimped and small-plaited ? Or is my child composed of Paper or of Linen, that impressions of the finer getting-up art, practised by the laundress, are to be printed off, all over his soft arms and legs, as I constantly observe them ? The starch enters his soul ; who can wonder that he cries ? Was Augustus George intended to have limbs, or to be bom a Torso ? I presume tliat limbs were the intention, as they are the usual practice. Then, why are my poor child's limbs fettered and tied up ? Am I to be told that there is any analogy between Augustus George Meek and Jack Sheppard ? Analj'se Castor Oil at any Institution of Chemistry that may be agreed upon, and inform me wliat resemblance, in taste, it bears to that natural provision which it is at once the pride and dutj' of Maria Jane, to administer to Augustus George ! Yet, I charge Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by Mrs. Bigby) with sj'stematicall}^ forcing Castor Oil on my innocent son, from the first hour of his birth. When that ©edicine, in its efficient action, causes internal disturbance to A.ugustus George, I charge Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted by INIrs. Bigby) with insanely and inconsistently administering opium to allay the storm she has raised ! What is the meaning of this ? If the days of Eg}iitian Mummies are past, how dare ]Mrs. Prodgit require, for the use of my son, an amount of flannel and linen that would cai-pet my humble roof? Do I wonder that she requires it ? No ! This morning, within an hour, I beheld this agonising sight. I belield my son — Augustxis George — in Mrs. Prodgit's hands, and on Mrs. Prodgit's knee, being di-essed. He was at the moment, comparatively speak- ing, in a state of nature ; having nothing on, but an extremely short shirt, remarkably disproportionate to the length of his usual outer garments. Trailing from Mrs. Prodgit's lap, on the floor, was a long narrow roller or bandage — I should say of several yards in extent. In this, I saw Mrs. Prodgit "BIRTHS, MRS. MEEK, OF A SON.' 215 tightly roll the bod}' of my iin off ending infant, turning him over and over, now presenting his unconscious face upwards, now the hack of his bald head, until the unnatural feat was accomplished, and the bandage secui-ed by a pin, which I have every i-eason to believe entered the body of my only child. In this toiu-niquet, he passes the present phase of his existence. Can I know it, and smile ! I fear I have been betrayed into expressing myself svarmlj^ but I feel deepl}'. Not for myself; for Augustus George. I dare not interfere. Will any one? Will any publication? Any doctor ? Any parent ? Any body ? I do not complaiij that Mrs. Prodgit (aided and abetted Ijy Mrs. Bigby) entirely alienates Maria Jane's affections from me, and intei-poses an impassable barrier between us. I do not complain of being made of no account. I do not M'ant to she of any account. But, Augustus George is a production of Nature (I cannot think otherwise), and I claim that he should he treated with some remote reference to Nature. In my opinion, Mrs. Prodgit is, from fii'st to last, a convention and a superstition. Are all the faculty afi-aid of Mrs. Prodgit? If not, why don't they take her in hand and improve her ? P.S. Maria Jane's Mama boasts of her C\\ti knowledge of the subject, and says she hrought up seven children besides Maria Jane. But how do I know that she might not have hrought them up much better? Maria Jane herself is far fi-om strong, and is subject to headaches, and nervous indiges- tion. Besides which, I learn from the statistical tables that one child in five dies within the fii-st j-ear of its Kfe ; and one child in three, within the fifth. That don't look as if we could never improve in these particulars, I think ! P. P.S. Augustus George is in convulsions. LYING AWAKE. "Ml uncle lay with his eyes half closed, and his nightcap drawn almost down to his nose. His fancy was abeady wandering, and began to mingle up the present scene with the crater of Vesuvius, the French Opera, the Coliseum at Rome, Dolly's Chop-house in London, and all the farrago of noted places with which the brain of a traveller is crammed ; in a word, he was just falling asleep." Thus, that dehghtful writer, Washington Ieving, in his Tales of a Traveller. But, it happened to me the other night to be lying : not with my eyes half closed, but with my eyes wide open ; not with my nightcap drawn almost down to my nose, for on sanitary principles I never wear a nightcap : but with my hair pitchforked and touzled all over the pillow ; not just falling asleep by any means, but glaringly, persistently, and obstinately, broad awake. Perhaps, with no scientific intention or invention, I was illustrating the theory of the Duality of the Brain ; perhaps one part of my brain, being wakeful, sat up to watch the other part which was sleepy. Be that as it may, something in me was as desirous to go to sleep as it possibly could be, but something else in me would not go to sleep, and was as obstinate as George the Third. Thinking of George the Third — for I devote this paper to my train of thoughts as I lay awake: most people Ipng awake sometimes, and having some interest in the subject — ■ put me in mind of Benjamin Franklin, and so Benjamin Franklin's paper on the art of procuring pleasant di-eams, which would seem necessarily to include the art of going tc Bleep, came into my head. Now, as I often used to read that paper ^hen I was a veiy small boy, and as I recollect every- thing I read then, as perfectly as I forget everything I read now, I quoted " Get out of bed, beat up and turn your pillow,. LYING AWAKE. 217 Bhake tlie I'ed-clothes "well "with, at least tweuty skakes, tlien tkrow the Led open and leave it. to cool; in the meanwhile, continuing- imdrest, walk about youi' chaiiibei'. When you begin to feel the cold air unpleasant, then return to your bed, and you will soon fall asleep, and your sleep will be sweet and pleasant." Not a bit of it ! I performed the whole cere- mony, and if it were possible for lue to be more saucer-eyed tJian I was before, that was the only result that came of it. Except Niagara. The two quotations from Washington Irving and Benjamin Franklin may have put it in my head by an American association of ideas ; but there I was, and tlie Horse-shoe Fall was thundering and tumbling in my eyes and ears, and the very rainbows that I left upon the spray when I really did last look upon it, were beautiful to see. The night- light being quite as plain, however, and sleep seeming to be many thousand miles fiu'ther off than Niagara, I made up my mind to think a little about Sleep ; which I no sooner did than I whirled off in spite of myself to Drury Lane Theatre, and there saw a great actor and dear friend of mine (whom I had been thinking of in the day) playing Macbeth, and heard him aposti'ophising " the death of each day's life," as I have hoard him many a time, in the days that are gone. But, Sleep. I will think about Sleej). I am determined to think (this is the way I went on) about Sleep. I must hold the word Sleep, tight and fast, or I shall be off at a tangent in half a second. I feel myself unaccountably straying, already, into Clare Market. Sleep. It would be curious, as Ulustrating the equality of sleep, to inquire how many of its phenomena are common to all classes, to all degrees of wealth and poverty, to every grade of education and ignorance. Here, for example, is her Majesty Queen Victoria in her palace, this present blessed night, and here is Winking Charley, a sturdy vagrant, in one of her Majesty's jails. Her Majesty has tallen, many thousands of times, from that same Tower, which I claim a right to tumble off now and then. So ha^ Winking Charley. Her IMajesty in her sleep has opened or prorogued Parliament, or has held a Drawing Room, attired in some very scanty dress, the deficiencies and improprieties of which have caused her great uneasiness. I, in my degree, have suffered unspeakable agitation of mind from taking the jhair at a public dinner at the liOndon Tuvern in n\y niglit- i'lothes, which not all the courtesy of my kind friend and ho8( 21S LYING AWAKR. Mn. Bathe coiJd persuade me "were quite adapted to tlie occa- siou. Winking Charley has been repeatedly tried in a worse condition. Her Majest}^ is no stranger to a vault or firmament, of a sort of floorcloth, -^-ith an indistinct pattern distantly resembKng eyes, wliich occasionally obtrudes itself on her repose. Neither am I. Neither is Winking Charley. It is quite common to all three of us to skim along with airy strides a little above the ground : also to hold, with the deepest interest^ dialogues with various people, all represented by ourselves ; and to be at our wit's end to know what they are going to tell us ; and to be indescribably astonished by the secrets they disclose. It is probable that we have all three committed murders and hidden bodies. Tt is pretty certain that we have all desperately wanted to cry out, and have had no voice ; tliat we have all gone to the play and not been able to get in ; that we have all di-eamed much more of oxir youth than of our later lives ; that 1 have lost it ! The thread's broken. And up I go. I, lying here with the night-light before me, up I go, for no reason on earth that I can find out, and drawTi by no links that are visible to me, up the Great Saint Bernard ! I have lived in Switzerland, and rambled among the moimtains; but, why I shoidd go there now, and why up the Great Saint Bernard in preference to any other mountain, I have no idea. As I lie liere broad awake, and with every sense so sharpened that I can distinctly hear distant noises inaudible to me at another time, I make that journey, as I really did, on the same summer day, with the same happy party — ah ! two since dead, I grieve to think — and there is the same track, with the same black wooden arms to point the way, and there are the same storm-refuges here and there ; and there is the same snow falling at the top, and there are the same frosty mists, and there is the same intensely cold convent with its menagerie smell, and the same breed of dogs fast dying out, and the same breed of jolly young monks whom I mourn to know as humbugs, and the same convent parlour with its piano and the sitting round the fii-e, and the same supper, and the same lone night in a cell, and the same bright fresh morning when going out into the highly rarefied dir was like a plunge into an icy bath. Now, see here what Liomes along ; and why does this thing stalk into my mind on the top of a Swiss mountain I LTINQ AWAKE. 219 It is a figure that I once saw, just after dark, clialked upon a door in a little back lane near a country cliurch — my first cjhurcli. How young a cliild I may have been at the time I dou't know, but it horrified me so intensely — in connexion with the churcliyard, I suppose, for it smokes a pipe, and has a big hat with each of its ears sticking out in a horizontal line under the brim, and is not in itself more oppressive than a mouth from ear to ear, a pair of goggle eyes, and hands like two bimches of carrots, five in each, can make it — that it is still vaguely alarming to me to recall (as I have often done before, lying awake) the running home, the looking behind, the horror, of its following me ; though whether disconnected from the door, or door and all, I can't say, and perhaps never coidd. It lays a disagreeable train. I must resolve to think of something on the voluntary principle. Tlie balloon ascents of this last season. They will do to think about, while I lie awake, as well as anj^thing else. I must hold them tight though, for I feel them sliding away, and in their stead are the ^Mannings, husband and wife, hanging on the top of Horsemonger Lane Jail. In connexion with which dismal spectacle, I recall this curious fantasy of the mind. That, ha-vdng beheld that execution, and having left those tvro forms dangling on tlie top of the entrance gate- way — the man's, a limp, loose suit of clothes as if the man had gone out of them ; the woman's, a fine shape, so elabo- rately corseted and artfully chessed, that it was quite imchanged in its trim appearance as it slowly swimg fi-om side to side — I never coxild, by my utmost efibrts, for some weeks, present the outside of tliat prison to myself (which the terrible impression I had received continually obliged me to do) without presenting it with the two figures still hanging ia the morning air. Until, strolling past the gloomy place ona night, when the street was deserted and quiet, and actually seeing that the bodies were not there, my fancy was j)ersuaded, as it were, to take them do-mi and bury them within the precincts of the jail, where tliey have lain ever since. The balloon ascents of last season. Let me reckon them up. There were the horse, the bull, the paracliute, and the tumbler hanging on — chiefly by liis toes, I believe — below the car. Very wrong, indeed, and decidedly to be stopped. 3ut, in connexion with these and similar dangerous exhibitions, it strikes me that t]?at portion of the public whom they enter- J80 LYING AWAKE. tain, is unjustly reproaclied. Tlieir pleasure is in tlie difficulty overcome. They are a public of great faith, and are quite confident that the gentleman will not fall off the horse, or the lady off the bidl or out of the parachute, and that the tumbler has a firm hold with his toes. They do not go to see the adventurer vanquished, but triumphant. There is no parallel in public combats between men and beasts, because nobody can answer for the particular beast— unless it were always the same beast, in wliich case it would be a mere stage-show, which the same pubKc woidd go in the same state of mind to see, entirely beheving in the brute being beforehand safely subdued by the man. That they are not accustomed to cal- cidate hazards and dangers with any nicety, we may know from their rash exposure of themselves in overcrowded steam- boats, and unsafe conveyances and jilaces of all kinds. And I cannot help thinking that instead of railing, and attributing savage motives to a people naturally well disposed and liumane, it is better to teach them, and lead them arguraen- tatively and reasonably— for they are very reasouablo, if you \vill discuss a matter with them — to more covxiderato and wise conclusions. This is a disagreeable intrusion ! Here is a inan with hia throat cut, dashing towards me as I lie awake ! A recollec- tion of an old story of a kinsman of mine, wlw, going home ©ne foggy winter night to Hamptead, when London was much smaller and the road lonesome, suddenly encoiintered such a figure rushing past him, and presently two keepers from a madhouse in pursuit. A very unpleasant ere iture indeed, to come into my mind unbidden, as I lie awake. — The balloon ascents of last season. I mu st return to the balloons. Why did the bleeding man star! out of them ? Never mind ; if I inquire, he wiU be back again. Tho balloons. This particidar public have inherently a great pleasiu^e in the contemplation of physical difficulties over- come; mainly, as I take it, because the lives of a large majority of them are exceedingly monotonous and real, and further, are a struggle against continual difficiUties, and furtlier stiU, because anything in the form of accidental injury, or any kind of illness or disability is so very seriouf in their own sphere. I will explain this seeming paradox of mine. Take the case of a Christmas Pantomime. Suiely aobody supposes that the young mother in the pit wJui LYING AWAKE. ISI falls into fits of laughter when the baby is boiled or sat upon, would be at all diverted by such an occurrence off the stage. Nor is the decent workman in the gallery, who is transported beyond the ignorant i:)resent by the delight A^'ith which he sees a stout gentleman pushed out of a two pair of stairs window, to be slandered by the suspicion that he woidd be in the least entertained by such a spectacle in any street in London, Paris, or New York. It always ajipears to me that the secret of this enjo}Tnent lies in the temporary superiority to the common hazards and mischances of life ; in seeing casualties, attended -when they really occur with bodily and mental suflering, tears, and poverty, happen through a very rough sort of poetry without the least harm being done to any one — the pretence of distress in a pantomime being so broadly humorous as to be no pretence at all. Much as in the comic fiction I can understand the mother with a very vulnerable baby at home, greatly relisliing the invulnerable baby on the stage, so in the Cremorne reality I can under- stand the mason who is always liable to fall off a scaffold in his working jacket and to be carried to the hospital, having an infinite admiration of the radiant personage in spangiea who goes into the clouds upon a bull, or upside down, and who, he takes it for granted — not reflecting upon the thing — lias, by uncommon skill and dexterity, conquered such mis- chances as those to which he and his acquaintance are con- tinually exposed. I wish the Morgue in Paris would not come here as I lie awake, with its ghastly beds, and the swollen saturated clothes hanging up, and the water dripping, dripping all day long, upon that other swollen saturated something in the corner, like a heap of crushed over-ripe figs that I have seen in Italy ! And this detestable Morgue comes back again at the head of a procession of forgotten ghost stories. This will never do. I must thinlc of something else as I lie awake ; or, like that sagacious animal in the United States who' recognised the colonel who was such a dead shot, I am a gone 'Coon. What shall I think of? The late brutal assaults. Very good subject. The late brutal assaults. (Though whether, supposing I shoidd see, here before me as I lie awaliie, the awful phantom described in one of those ghost stories, who, with a head-dress of shroud, was always leen looking in through a certain glass door at a certain dead 222 LYING AWAKE, hour — Vv'lietlier, in such, a case it -would be the least consola- tion to me to know on philosophical grounds that it "was merely my imagination, is a question I can't help asking mj'self by the way.) The late brutal assaults. I strongly question the expediency of advocating the revival of wliiioping for those crimes. It is a natural and generous impulse to be indignant at the perpetration of inconceivable brutality, but I doubt the whipping panacea gravely. Not in the least regard or pity for the criminal, whom I hold in far lower estimation than a mad wolf, but in consideration for the general tone and feeling, which is very much improved since the wliipping times. It is bad for a people to be familiarised with such punishments. When the whip went out of Bridewell, and ceased to be flourished at the cart's tail and at the whipping-post, it began to fade out of madhouses, and Avork- houses, and schools, and families, and to give place to a better system everywhere, than cruel di-iving. It would be hasty, because a few brutes may be inadequately pimished, to revive, in any aspect, what, in so many aspects, society is hardly yet happily rid of. The whip is a very con- tagious kind of thing, and difficult to confine within one set of bounds. Utterly abolish piuiishmeut by fine — a bar- barous device, quite as much out of date as wager by battle, but particidarly coimected in the vulgar mind with tliis class of offence — at least quadruple the term of imprisonment for aggravated assaults — and above all let us, in such cases, have no Pet Prisoning, vain-glorifying, strong soup, and roasted meats, but hard work, and one unchanging and imcorapro- mising dietary of bread and water, well or ill ; and we shall do much better than by going down into the dark to grope for the whip among the rusty fragments of the rac;k, and the branding iron, and the chains and gibbet from the public roads, and the weights that pressed men to death in the cella *of Newgate. I had proceeded thus far, when I found I had been lying awake so long that the very dead began to wake too, and to crowd into my thoughts most sorrowfully. Therefore, I resolved to lie awake no more, but to get up and go out for a tiight walk — which resolution was an acceptable relief to mo, as I dare say it may prove now to a great many more. THE POOR RELATION'S STORY. He Avas very reluctant to take precedence of so many respected, members of the family, by beginning the round oi fitories they were to relate as they sat in a goodly circle by the Chi'istmas fire ; and he modestly suggested that it would be more coi'rect if " John our esteemed host" (whose health he begged to drink) woidd have the kindness to begin. For as to himself, he said, he was so little used to lead the way that really But as they all cried out here, that he must begin, and agreed with one voice that he might, could, would, and should begin, he left off rubbing Iiis hands, and took his legs out from under his arm-chair, and did begin. I have no doubt (said the poor relation) that I shall surprise the assembled members of oiu" family, and particularly John our esteemed host to whom we are so much indebted for the great hospitality with which he has this day entertained us, by the confession I am going to make. But, if you do me the honor to be sui'prised at an}i;hing that falls from a person so unimportant in the family as I am, I can only say that I shall be scrupidously accurate in all I relate. I am not what I am supposed to be. I am quite another thing. Perhaps before I go further, I had better glance at what I am supposed to be. It is supposed, unless I mistake — the assembled member?, of our family will correct me if I do, whitli is very likeh' (here the poor relation looked mildly about him for contra diction) ; that I am nobody's enemj' but my ov.ti. That 1 never met viith any particular success in am"thing. That i failed in business because I was unbusiness-like and credidoua — in not being prepared for the interested designs of my partner. That I failed in love, because I was ridiculously tnistfid — in thinlcing it impossible that Christiana could 224 THE POOR RELATION'S STORY.. deceive me. That I failed in my expectations from my uncle Chill, on account of not being- as sharp as he could have wished in worldly matters. Tliat, through life, I have been rather put U]X)n and disappointed, in a general way. That I am at present a bachelor of between fifty-nine and sixty years of age, living on a limited income in the form of a quarterly allowance, to which I see that John our esteemed host washes me to make no further allusion. The supposition as to my present pursuits and habits is to the following effect. I live in a lodging in the Clapham Road — a very clean back room, in a very respectable house — where I am expected not to be at home in the day-time, uidess poorly ; and which I usually leave in the morning at nine o'clock, on pretence of going to business. I take my breakfast — my roll and butter, and my half-pint of coffee — at the old established coffee-shop near Westminster Bridge ; and then I go into the City — I don't know why — and sit in Garraway's Coffee House, and on 'Change, and walk about, and look into a few offices and counting-houses where some of my relations or acquaintancf are so good as to tolerate me, and where I stand by the fire if the weather happens to be cold. I get through the day in tJiis way until five o'clock, and then I dine : at a cost, on the average, of one and threepence. Having still a little money to spend on my evening's entertainment, I look into the old- established coffee-shop as I go home, and take my cup of tea, and perhaps my bit of toast. So, as the large hand of tlie clock makes its way roimd to the morning hour again, I make my'way round to the Clapham Road again, and go to bed when I get to my lodging — fire being expensive, and being objected to by the family on account of its giving trouble and making a dirt. Sometimes, one of my relations or acquaintances is so obliging as to ask me to dinner. Those are holiday occasions, and then I generally wallc in the Park. I am a solitary man, and seldom walk with anybody. Not that I am avoided because I am shabby ; for I am not at all shabby, having always a very good suit of black on (or rather Oxford mixture, which has the appearance of black and wears much better) ; but I have got into a habit of speaking low, and being rather silent, and my spirits are not high, and I am sensible tliat I am net an attractive comnanion. THE POOR RELATION'S STORY. 225 TliG oidy exception to this general rule is the child of mj first cousin. Little Frank. I have a particular affection foi that child, and he takes very kindly to me. He is a diffident boy by natiu-e ; and in a crowd he is soon run over, as I may say, and forg-otten. He and I, however, get on exceedingly well. 1 have a fancy that the poor cliild will in time succeed to my peculiar position in the family. We talk but little ; still, we understand each other. We walk about, hand in hand ; and without much speaking he knows what I mean, and I know what he means. When he was very little indeed, I used to take him to the windows of the toy-shops, and show him the toys inside. It is surprising how soon he found out that I woidd have made him a great many presents if 1 had been in circumstances to do it. Little Frank and I go and look at the outside of the Monu- ment — he is very fond of the Monument — and at the Bridges, and at all the sights that are free. On two of my birthdays, we have dined on a-la-mode beef, and gone at half-price to the play, and been deeply interested. I was once walking with him in Lombard Street, which we often \'isit on accoimt ol my having mentioned to him that there are great riches there — he is very fond of Lombard Street — when a gentleman said to me as he passed by, " Sir, your little son has dj-opped his glove." I assure you, if you will excuse my remarking on so trivial a circumstance, this accidental mention of the child as mine, quite touched my heart and brought the foolish tears into m}^ eyes. When little Frank is sent to school in the coimtry, I shall be very much at a loss what to do with myself, but I havt the intention of walking down there once a month and seeing liim on a haK holiday. I am told he will then be at play upon the Heath ; and if my visits should be objected to, as unsettling the child, I can see him from a distance without liis seeing me, and walk back again. His mother comes of a highly genteel family, and rather disapproves, I am aware, of our being too much together. I know that I am not calculated i\j improve his retiring disposition ; but I think he woidd miss me beyond the feeling of the moment, if we were \\ holly veparated. When I die in the Clapham lload, 1 shall not leave much more in this world than I shall take out of it; but, I happen tohave a miniature of a bright-faced Loy, with a cui'ling head, VOL. If. Q 226 THE POOR RELATION'S STORY. and an open shirt-frill waving down his bosom (my mother had it taken for me, but I can't believe that it was ever like), which will be worth nothing to sell, and which I shaU. beg may be gfven to Frank. I have written my dear boy a little letter with it, in which I have told him that I felt very sorry to part from him, though bound to confess that I knew no reason why I shovdd remain here. I have given him some short advice, the best in my power, to take warning of the consequences of being nobody's enemy but his own; and I have endeavoured to comfort him for what I fear he will consider a bereavement, by pointing out to him, that I was only a superfluous something to every one but him ; and that having by some means failed to find a place in this great assembly, I am better out of it. Such (said the poor relation, clearing his tliroat and beginning to speak a little louder) is the general impression about me. Now, it is a remarkable circumstance which forms the aim and purpose of my story, that this is all wrong. This is not mv life, and these are not mv habits. I do not even live in the Clapham Road. Comparatively speaking, I am very seldom there. I reside, mostly, in a — I am almost ashamed to say the word, it BOimds so full of pretension — in a Castle. I do not mean that it is an old baronial habitation, but still it is a building always known to every one by the name of a Castle. In it, I preserve the particulars of my history ; they run thus : It was when I first took John Spatter (who had been my clerk) into partnership, and Mlien I was still a young man of not more than five-and-twenty, residing in the house of my uncle Chill from whom I had considerable expectations, that I ventured to propose to Clu-istiana. I had loved Christiana, a long time. She was very beautiful, and very winning in all respects. I rather mistrusted her widowed mother, who I feared was of a plotting and mercenaiy turn of mind ; but, I thoughl as well of her as I could, for Christiana's sake. I never had loved any one but Cliristiana, and she had been all the world, and O far more than aU the world, to me, from our childliood ' Christiana accepted me with her mother's consent, and I was rendered very happy indeed. My life at my Uncle Cliill's was of a spare didl kind, and my garret chamber was as dull, and liare, and told, as an upper prieon room in some stern northern fortress. But, li.iving Christiana's love, I wanted nothing THE POOR RELATION'S STORY. 227 upon eartli. I ^A'ould not have changed my lot with iinj human being. Avarice was, unhappily, my Uncle Chill's master -vice. Though he A^-as rich, he pinched, and scraped, and clutched, and lived miserably. As .Chiistiana had no fortune, I was for Bome time a little fearful of confessing our engagement to him ; but, at length I wrote him a letter, sajdng how it all ti'uly was. I put it into his hand one night, on going to bed. As I came down stairs next morning, shivering in the cold December air ; colder in my uncle's un warmed house than in the street, where the winter sun did sometimes shine, and which was at all events enlivened by cheerfid feces and voices passing along ; I carried a heavy heart towards the long, low breakfast-room in which my uncle sat. ' It was a large room with a small fii-e, and there was a great bay window in it which the rain had marked in the night as if with the tears of houseless people. It stared upon a raw yard, with a cracked stone pavement, and some rusted iron railings half uprooted, whence an ugly out-building that had once been a dissecting-room (in the time of the great surgeon who had mortgaged the house to my uncle), stared at it. We rose so early always, that at that time of the year we breakfasted by candle-light. ^Yllen I went into the room, my uncle was so contracted by the cold, and so huddled together in his chair behind the one dim candle, that I did not sec him until I was close to the table. As I held out my hand to liinv, he caught up his stick (being infirm, he always waUced about the house with a stick) and made a blow at me, and said, " You fool ! '' "Uncle," I returned, " I didn't expect you to be so angry as tliis." Nor had I expected it, thougli he w'as a hard and Eingry old man. "You didn't expect!" said he; "when did you ever expect? When did you ever cnlcixlate, or look forward, jon contemptible dog ? " " Tliese are hard words, uncle ! " '•' Hard words ? Feathers, to pelt such an idiot as you \vith," said he. " Here ! Betsy Snap ! Look at liim ! " Betsy Snap was a withered, hard-favored, yellow old womau — om* only domestic — always employed, at this time of the morning, in rubbing my uncle's legs. As my uncle adjured her to look at me, he put hvs lean grip on the crown of hei 828 THE POOR RELATION'S STORY. head, she kueeling beside him, and turned her lace towarda me. An involuntary thought connecting them both with the Dissecting Room, as it mu&t often liave been in the surgeon's time, passed across my mind in the midst of my anxiety. " Look at the snivelling milksop ! " said my uncle. " Look at the baby! This is the gentleman who, people say, is nobody's enemy but his own. This is the gentleman wlio can't say no. This is the gentleman who was making such large profits in his business that he must needs take a partner, t'other day. This is the gentleman who is going to marry a wife without a penny, and who falls into the hands of Jezabels who are speculating on my death ! " I knew, now, how great my uncle's rage was ; for nothing Bhort of his being almost beside himself Avould have induced him to utter that concluding word, Mhich he held in such repugnance that it was never spoken or hinted at before him on any account. " On my death," he repeated, as if he were defying me by defying his own abhorrence of the word. " On my death — death — Death ! But I '11 spoil the speculation. Eat your last vmder this roof, you feeble wretch, and may it choke you ! " You may suppose that I had not much appetite for the breakfast to which I was bidden in these terms ; but, I took my accustomed seat. I saw that I was repudiated henceforth by my uncle ; still I could bear that very well, possessing Christiana's heart. He emptied his basin of bread and milk as usual, only that he took it on his knees with his chair turned away from the table where I sat. When he had done, he carefully snuffed cut the candle; and the cold, slate-coloured, miserable day looked in upon us. "Now, Mr. Michael," said he, "before we part, I should like to have a word with these ladies in your presence." " As you will, sir," I returned ; " but you deceive yourself, and wrong us, cruelly, if you suppose that there is any feeling at stake in this contract but pure, disinterested, faithful love." To this, he only replied, " You lie ! " and not one other word- We went, through half-thawed snow and half-frozen rain, to the house where Chi-istiana and her mother lived. My uncle knew them very well. They were sitting at their break- fast, and were surprised to see us at that hour. "Your servant, ma'am." said my iinclo to the mother. THE POOR RELATIOFS STOUY. 229 " You divine the purpose of my visit, I dare sa)', ma'am. 1 understand tliere is a world of pure, disinterested, faitliful love cooped up here. I am happy to bring it all it wants, to make it complete. I bring you your son-iu-law, ma'am — and you. your husband, miss. The gentleman is a perfect stranger to me, but I wish him joy of his wise bargain." lie snarled at me as he Avent out, and I never saw him again. It is altogether a mistake (continued the poor relation) to suppose that my dear Christiana, over-persuaded and influenced by her mother, married a rich man, the dirt from whose carriage wheels is often, in these changed times, thrown upon me as she rides by. No, no. She married me. The way we came to be married rather sooner than wo intended, was this. I took a frugal lodging and was saving and planning for her sake, when, one day, she spoke to me with great earnestness, and said : " My dear Michael, I have given you my heart. I have said that I loved you, and I have pledged myself to be your wife. I am as much yours tlu-ough all changes of good and evil as if we had been married on the day when such words passed between us. I know you well, and know that if we shoidd be separated and our union broken off, your whole life would be shadowed, and all that miglit, even now, be stronger in your character for the conflict with the world would then be weakened to the shadow of what it is ! " "God help me, Christiana!" said I. "You sjieak the truth." " Michael ! " said she, putting- her hand in mine, in all maidenly devotion, "let us keep apart no longer. It is but for me to say that I can live contented upon such means as you have, and I weU know you are happy. I say so from my heart. Strive no more alone ; let us strive together. My dear Michael, it is not right that I shoidd keep secret from you what you do not suspect, but what distresses my whole life. My mother : without considering that what you have lost, you have lost for me, and on the assurance of my faith ; sets her heart on riches, and urges another suit upon me, to my misery. I cannot bear this, for to bear it is to be untrue to you. I would lather share j'our struggles tliau look on. I want no better home than you can. give me. I know tJiat 280 THE POOR RELATION'S STORY. you will aspire and labor with a liiglier coiu-age if I am vriiolly yours, and let it be so when you will ! " I was blest indeed, that day, and a new world opened to me. We were married in a very little while, and I took my wife to our happy home. That was the beginning of the residence I have spoken of; the Castle we have ever since 'nhabited togethei, dates fi-om that time. All our children tiave been bom in it. Our fii'st cliild — now married — was a little girl, whom we called Christiana. Her son is so like Little Frank, that I hardly Icnow which is which. The ciirrent impression as to my partner's dealings with me is also quite erroneous. He did not begin to treat me coldly, as a poor simpleton, when my uncle and I so fatally quarrelled; nor did he afterwards gradually possess himself of our business and edge me out. On the contrary, he behaved to me with the utmost good faith and honor. Matters between us, took this turn : — On the day of my separation from my uncle, and even before the arrival at our counting-house of my trunks (which he sent after me, not carriage paid), I went down to our room of business, en our little wharf, overlooking the river ; and there I told John Spatter what had happened. John did not say, in reply, that rich old relatives were palpable facts, and that love and senti- ment were moonshine and fiction. He addressed me thus : "Michael," said John. "We were at school together, and I generally had the knack of getting on better than you, and making a higher reputation." "You had, John," I returned. "Although," said John, •" I borrowed youi' books and lost them ; borrowed your pocket-money, and never repaid it ; got you to buy my damaged knives at a higher price than I had given for them new ; and to own to the windows that I .ad broken." "All not worth mentioning, John Spatter," said I, "but certainly true." "When you were first established in this infant business, n'hieh promises to thrive so well," pursued John, " I came to you, in my search for almost any employment, and you made me your clerk." " StiU not worth mentioning, my dear John Spatter," said I; "still, equally true." THE POOR RELATION'S bTORT. 2S1 " And finding tliat I had a good head for business, and that I was really usefid to the business, you did not like to retain me in that capacity, and thought it an act of justice Boon to make me your partner." " Still less -worth mentioning than any of those other Httle circiimstances you have recalled, John Spatter," said I ; "for I was, and am, sensible of your merits and my deficiencies." "Now my good friend," said John, drawing my ai-m through his, as he had had a habit of doing at school ; while two vessels outside the windows of our counting-house — which were shaped like the stem windows of a ship — Avent lightly down the river with the tide, as John and I might then be sailing away in company, and in trust and confidence, on our voyage of life; "let there, under these friendly circumstances, be a right understanding between us. You are too eaSy, Michael. You are nobody's enemy but your own. If I were to give you that damaging character among our connexion, with a shrug, and a shake of the head, and a sigh ; and if I were further to abuse the trust you place in me " " But you never will abuse it at all, John," I observed. " Never! " said he, " but I am putting a case — I say, and if I were fui-ther to abuse that trust by keeping this piece of our common affairs in the dark, and this other piece in the Light, and again this other piece in the twilight, and so on, I should strengthen my strength, and weaken yoiu* weakness, day by day, imtil at last I found myself on the high road to fortune, and you left behind on some bare common, a hopeless number of miles out of the way." " Exactly so," said I. "To prevent this, Michael," said John Spatter, "or the remotest chance of this, there must be perfect openness between us. Nothing must be concealed, and we must have but one interest." " My dear John Spatter," I assured him, " that is precisely what I mean." " And when you are too easy," pursued John, his face flowing with friendship, " you must allow me to prevent that imperfection in your nature from being taken advantage of, by any one ; you must not expect me to humour it " " My dear John Spatter," I interrupted, " I don't exx)ect you to humour it. I want to correct it " " And I, too ! " said John. 232 THK POOR RELATIOITS STOEY. " Exactly so ! " cried I. "We both have tlie same end in view; and, lionourabty seeldng it, and fully trusting dno another, aqd having but one interest, ours will be a prcsperoue and happy partnership." " I am sure of it ! " returned John Spatter. And we shook hands most afFectionatel3\ I took John home to my Castle, and we had a very happy day. Our partnership throve well. ]\Iy Mend and partner supplied -what I wanted, as I had foreseen that he wovdd; and by improving both the business and myself, amply acknowledged any little rise in life to which I had helped him. I am not (said the poor relation, looking at the fire as he slowly rubbed his hands), very rich, for I never cared to be tiiat ; but I have enough, and am above all moderate wants and anxieties. My Castle is not a splendid place, but it is very comfortable, and it has a warm and cheerful air, and is quite a picture of Home. Our eldest girl, who is very like her mother, married John Spatter's eldest son. Our two families are closely united in other ties of attachment. It is very pleasant of an evening, when we are all assembled together — Avhich frequently hap- pens — and when John and I talk over old times, and the one interest there has alwaj's been between us. I really do not know, in my Castle, what loneliness is. Some of our childi-en or grandchildi-en are always about it, and the young voices of my descendants are dehghtful — O, how delightful I — to me to hear. My dearest and most devoted wife, ever faithful, ever loving, ever helpful and sustaining and consoling, is the priceless blessing of my house ; fiom whom all its other blessings spring. We are rather a musical family, and when Christiana sees mc, at any time, a little weary or depressed, she steals to the piano and sings a gentle air she used to sing when we were fii'st betrothed. So weak a man am I, that I cannot beai- to hear it from any other source. They played it once, at the Theatre, when I was there with little Frank ; and the child said wondering, " Cousin Michael, whose hot tears are these that have fallen on my hand I " Such is my Castle, and such are the real particulars of mj life therein preserved I often take Little Frank home there. THE POOR RELATION'S STORY. 2S3 He IS very w'eloome to my grandehildren, and thoy play together. At this time of the year — the Christmas and New Year time — I am seldom out of my Castle. For, the asso- cititions of the season seem to hold me there, and the precepts of the season seem to teach me that it is well to be there. "And the Castle is " obsei-ved a grave, kind voice among the company. " Yes. My Castle, '' said the poor relation, shaking his head as he still looked at the fire, "is in the Air. John our esteemed host suggests its situation accurately. My Castle is in the Air ! I have done "Will you be so good as to pass tho story.' THE CHILD'S STOKY. Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey. It was a masic journey, and was to seem very long when he began it, and very short when he got half way through. He travelled along a rather dark path for some litQe time, without meeting anything, until at List he came to a beautiful child. So he said to the child " AVTiat do you do here?" And the child said, " I am always at play. Come and play with me ! " So, he played with that child, the whole day locg, and they were ver}'- merry. The sky was so blue, the sun was so bright, the water was so sparkling, the leaves were so green, the flowers were so lovely, and they heard such singing-birds and saw so many butterflies, that everything was beautiful. This was in fine weather. When it rained, they loved to watch the falling drops, and to smell the fresh scents. When it blew, it was delightful to listen to the wind, and fancy what it said, as it came rushing from its home — where was that, they wondered ! — wliistling and howling, driving the clouds before it, bending the trees, rumbling in the chimneys, shaking the house, and making the sea roar in foiy. But, when it snowed, that was best of all ; for, they liked nothing so well as to look up at the white flakes falling fast and thick, like down from the breasts of millions of white birds ; and to see how smooth and deep the di'ift was ; and to listen to the hush upon the paths and roads. They had plenty of the finest toys in the world, and the most astonishing picture-books : all about scimitars and slippers and tiu-bans, and dwarfs and giants and genii and fairies, and blue-beards and bean-stalks and riches and caverns and forests and Valentines and Orsons : and all new and all true. THE CHILD'S STORY. 235 But, one day, of a sudden, the traveller lost the child. He called to him orer and over again, but got no answer. So, he went upon his road, and went on for a little while without meeting anything, until at last he came to a handsome boy. 00, he said to the boy, " Wliat do j-ou do here ?" And the boy said, " I am always learning. Come and learn with, me," So he learned with that boy about Jupiter and Juno, and the Greeks and the Ronians, and I don't know what, and learned more than I could teU — or he either, for he soon forgot a great deal of it. But, they were not always learning; they had the merriest games that ever were played. They rowed upon the river in summer, and skated on the ice in winter ; they were active afoot, and active on horseback ; at ci-icket, and aU games at ball; at prisoners' base, hare and hoimds, follow my leader, and more sports than I can tbink of ; nobody could beat them. They had holidays too, and Twelfth cckes, and parties where they danced tiU midnight, and real Theatres where they saw palaces of real gold and silver rise out of the real earth, and saw all the wonders of the world at once. As to friends, they had such dear fi-iends and so nany of them, that I want the time to reckon them up. They 5\-ere all young, like the handsome boy, and were never to be strange to one another aU their lives through. Still, one day, in the midst of all these pleasures, the traveller lost the boy as he had lost the child, and, after calling to him in vain, went on upon liis journey. So he went on for a little while without seeing anything, until at Vst he came to a young man. So, he said to the j'oung man, " "WTiat do you do here ? " And the young man said, " I am always in love. Come and love with me. So, he went away with that yoimg man, and presently they came to one of the prettiest girls that ever was seen — just like Fanny in the comer there — and she liad eyes like Fanny, and hair like Fanny, and dimples like Fanny's, and she laughed and coloured just as Fanny does while I am talking about her. So, the young man fell in love directly — ^just as Some- body I won't mention, the first time he came here, did Avith Fanny. Well ! He was teazed sometimes — ^just as Somebody used to be by Fanny ; and they quarrelled sometimes — ^just as Somebody and Fanu}' used to quarrel ; and they made it up, and sat in the dark, and wrote letters every day, and nevar £36 THE CHILD'S STOKY. were happy asunder, and were always looking out for one another and pretending not to, and were engaged at Cliristiuaa time, and sat close to one another by the fii'e, and were going to be married very soon — all exactly like Somebody I won't mention, and Fanny I But, the traveller lost them one day, as he had lost the rest of his friends, and, after calling to them to come back, which they never did, went on upon liis joiirney. So, he Avent on for a little while without seeing anything, vmtil at last he came to a middle-aged gentleman. So, he said to the gentleman, "What are you doing here?" And his answer was, " I am always busy. Come and be busy with me ! " So, he began to be very busy with that gentleman, and they went on through the wood together. The whole journey was through a wood, only it had been open and green at first, like a wood in spring ; and now began to be thick and dark, like a wood in Summer ; some of the little trees that had come out earliest, were even turning brown. The gentleman was not alone, but had a lady of about the same age with liiui, v.'ho was his AVife ; and they had childi-en, who were v,-iih. them too. So, they all went on together through the wood, cutting down the trees, and making a path through the branches and the fallen leaves, and carrying burdens, and working hard. Sometimes, they came to a long green avenue that opened into deeper woods. Then they woidd hear a very little distant voice crpng, " Father, father, I am another child ' Stop for me ! " And presently they woidd see a very little figure, growing larger as it came along, running to join them. When it came up, they all crowded round it, and kissed and welcomed it ; and then they all went on together. Sometimes, they came to several avenues at once, and then they aU stood still, and one of the children said, " Father, I am going to sea," and another said, "Father, I am going to India," and another, " Father, I am going to seek my for- tune where I can," and another, " Father, I am going to Heaven ! " So, with many tears at parting, they went, solitary, down those avenues, each child upon its way; and the child who went to Heaven, rose into the golden air and vanished. Whenever these partings happened, the traveller looked at ihe gentleman, and saw him glance up at the sky above the THE CHILD'S STORY. 23/ trees, where the day was beginning to decline, and the sunset to 'come on. He saw, too, that his hair was turning grey. But, they never could rest long, for they had their jom-ney to perform, and it was necessary for them to be always busy. At last, there had been so many partings that there were uo children left, and only the traveller, the gentleman, and the lady, went upon their way in company. And now the wood was yellow : and now brown ; and the leaves, even of the forest trees, began to fall. So, they came to an avenue that was darker than the rest, and were pressing forward on their journey without looking down it when the lady stopped. " My husband," said the lady. " I am called." They listened, and they heard a voice, a long way down the avenue, say, "Mother, mother!" It was the voice of the first child who had said, " I am going to Heaven ! " and the father said, " I pray not yet. The sunset is very near. I pray not yet ! " But, the voice cried " I^Iother, mother ! " without minding him, tliough his hair was now quite white, and tears were on his face. Then, the mother, who was ah-eady drawn into the shade of the dark avenue and moving away with her arms still round his neck, kissed him, and said " My dearest, I am summoned, and I go ! " And she was gone. And the traveller and he were left alone together. And they went on and on together, until they came to verj near the end of the wood : so near, that they could see the sunset shining red before them through the trees. Yet, once more, while he broke his way among the branches, the traveller lost his friend. He called and caUed, but there was no reply, and when he passed out of the wood, and saw the peaceful sun going do-\vn upon a wide pxirple prospect, he came to an old man sitting on a faUen tree. So, he said to the old man, "What do j-ou do Jiere?" And the old man said with a calm smile, " I am always remembering. Come ^nd remember with me ! " So the traveller sat down by the side of that old man, face lo face with the serene sunset ; and all his friends came softly back and stood around him. The beautiful child, the hand- some boy, the yoimg man in love, the father, motlier, and great globes were A\-hich were never used — and would there leproacb him with the various frauds and oppressions he had endured at his hands. At tlie close of his observations he would makt' a signal to a Prizefighter concealed in the passage, who would tlien appear and jutch into the Reverend till he was left insensible. Old Cheeseman would then make Jane a present of from five to ten pounds, and would leave the establishment in fiendish triumph. The President explained that against the parlour part, or the Jane part, of these arrangements he had nothing to say , but, on the part of the Society, he counselled deadly resistance. With this view he recommended that all available desks shoidd be filled with stones, and that the fii-st word of the complaint should be the signal to every fellow to let fly at Old Cheese- man. The bold advice put the Society in better spii-its, and was imanimously taken. A post about Old Cheeseman' s size was put up in the playground, and all oiu- fellows practised at it till it was dinted all over. When i'he day came, and Places were called, every fellow Bat down in a tremble. There had been much discussing and disputing as to how Old Cheeseman would come ; but it was the general opinion that he would appear in a sort of triumphal car drawn by four horses, with two livery servants in front, and the Prizefighter in disguise up behind. So, all our fellows sat listening for the sound of wheels. But no wheels were heard, for Old Cheeseman walked after all, and came into the Bchool without any preparation. Pretty much as he used to be, only dressed in black. " Gentlemen," said the Reverend, presenting him, " our so long respected friend and fellow-pilgrim in the pleasant plains of kno^\dedge, is desirous to offer a word or two. Attention, gentlemen, one and all . '^ Every fellow stole his hand into his desk and looked at the President. Tlie President was aU ready, and taking aim at Old Cheeseman with his eyes. AVliat did Old Cheeseman then, but walk up to his old desk, look roimd him with a queer smile as if there waa a tear in his eye, and begin in a quavering mild voice, " My dear companions and old friends ! " Every fellow's hand came out of liis desk, and the President suddenly began to cry. 246 THR SCHOOLBOY'S STOilY. '' My dear cojttpaiiicns and old friends," said Old Choese- man, " you have heard of my good fortune. I have passed BO many years under this roof — my entire life so far, I may say — that I hope you have been glad to hear of it for va^ Bake. I could never enjoy it without exchanging congratiJa- tions -with you. If we have ever misunderstood one another at all, pray my dear boys let us forgive and forget. I have a great tenderness for you, and I am sure you return it. I want in the fulness of a gratefid heart to shake hands with you every one. I have come back to do it, if you please, my dear boys." Since the President had l^egun to cry, several other fellows had broken out here and there : but now, when Old Cheese- man began with him as first boy, laid his left hand affec- tionately on his shoidder and gave him his right ; and when the President said " Indeed I don't deserve it, sir ; upon my honour I don't ; " there was sobbing and crying all over the school. Every other fellow said he didn't deserve it, m;ich in lUie same way ; but old Cheeseman, not minding that a bit, went cheerfidh'- round to every boy, and wound up with every oiaster ^finishing off the Reverend last. Then a snivelling littla chap in a corner, who was always under some pimisliment or other, set up a shrill cry of " Success to Old Cheeseman ! Hoorray I " The Pveverend glared upon him, and said, " Mr. Cheeseman, Sir." But, Old Cheeseman protesting that he liked his old name a great deal better than his ncAv one, all our fellows took up the cry ; and, for I don't know how many minutes, there was such a thun- dering of feet and hands, and sl^ch a roaring of Old Cheese- man, as never was heard. After that, there was a spread in the dining-room of the most magnificent kind. Fowls, tongues, preserves, fruits confectionaries, jellies, neguses, barley-sugar temples, ti'ifles, crackers — eat all you can and pocket what you like — all at Old Cheeseman's expense. After that, speeches, whole holi- day, double and treble sets of all manners of things for all manners of games, donkeys, pony-chaises and drive yoiirnelf, dinner for all the masters at the Seven Bells (twenty pounds a-head our fellows estimated it at), an annual holiday and feast fixed for that day every j'ear, and another on Old Cheese- man's birthday — Reverend bound down before the fellows to allow it, so that he could never back out — all at Old Cheefl©- man's expense. THE SCHOOLBOY'S SXOllY. 247 And didn't our fellows go down in a body and cheer outside ilie Seven Bells ? O no I But there 's something else besides. Don't look at the next story-teller, for there 's more yet. Next day, it was resolved that the Society should make it up vdth Jane, and then bo dissolved. What do you think of Jane being gone, though ' "What? Gone for ever ? " said our fellows, -ndth long faces. " Yes, to be sui-e," was all the answer they coidd get. None of the people about the house would say anj-thing more. At length, the fia-.st boy took upon himself to ask the Reverend whether our old friend Jane was really gone ? The Reverend (he has got a daughter at home — turn-up nose, and red) replied severely, " Yes, sir. Miss Pitt is gone." The idea of calling Jane, Miss Pitt ! Some said she had been sent away in disgrace for taking money fi'om Old Cheeseman ; others said she had gone into Old Cheeseman' s ser\'ice at a rise of ten pounds a year. All that our fellows knew, was, she was gone. It was two or three months afterwards, when, one after- noon, an open carriage stopped at the cricket field, just outside boimds, with a lady and gentleman in it, who looked at the game a long time and stood up to see it played. Nobody thought much about them, until the same little snivelling chap came in, against all rules, from the post where he was Scout, and said, " It's Jane!" Both Elevens forgot the game directly, and ran crowding round the carriage. It was Jane ! In such a bonnet I And if you 'U believe me, Jane was married to Old Cheeseman. It soon became quite a regular thing when our fellows were Lard at it in the playgroiind, to see a carriage at the low part of the wall where it joins the high part, and a lady and gen- tleman standing up in it, looking over. The gentleman was always Old Cheeseman, and the lady was always Jane. The first time I ever saw them, I saw them in that way. There had been a good many changes among our fellows then. and it had turned out that Bob Tarter' s father wasn't wortli Millions ! He wasn't worth an}ihing. Bob had gone for a soldier, and Old Cheeseman had purchased his discharge. But that 's not the carriage. The carriage stopped, and all ^ur fellows stopped as soon as it was seen. " So you have never sent me to Coventry after all ! " said the lady, laughing, as our fellows swarmed up the wall to shake hands with her. " .(Vre you never going to do it? " 248 THE SCHOOLBOY'S STORY. " Never ! never ! never ! " on all sides. I didn't understand what she meant then, but of coui'se I do now. I was very much pleased with her face though, and with her good way, and I couldn't help looking at her — and at him too — with all our fellows clustering so joyfully about them. They soon took notice of me as a new boy, so I thought 1 might as well swarm up the wall mj-self, and shake hands with them as the rest did. I was quite as glad to see them as the rest were, and was quite as familiar with them in a moment. "Only a fortnight now," said Old Cheeseman, "to the holidays. Who stops? Anybody?" A good many fingers pointed at me, and a good many voices cried, "He does!" For it was the year when you were all away ; and rather low I was about it, I can tell you. " Oh I " said Old Cheeseman. " But it 's solitary here in the holiday time. He had better come to us." So I went to their delightful house, and was as happy as 1 coidd possibly be. They understand how to conduct them- selves towards boys, they do. When they take a boy to the play, for instance, they do take him. They don't go in after it 's begun, or come out before it 's over. They know how to bring a boy up, too. Look at their own ! Though he ia very little as yet, what a capital boy he is ! V/hy, my next favourite to Mrs. Cheeseman and Old Cheeseman, is j-oung Cheeseman. So, now I have told you all I know about Old Ohseseman, And it's not rauch after all, I am afraid. Is it ? NOBODY'S STORY. He lived on the bank of a mighty river, broad and deep, tv'hich was always silently rolling- on to a vast undiscovered ocean. It had rolled on, ever since the world began. It had changed its course sometimes, and turned into new channels, leaving its old ways dry and barren ; but it had ever been upon the flow, and ever was to flow until Time should be no more. Against its strong, imfathomable stream, nothing made head. No living creatm-e, no flower, no leaf, no particle of animate or inanimate existence, ever strayed back from the undiscovered ocean. The tide of the river set resist- lessly towards it ; and the tide never stopped, any more than the earth stops in its circling round the sun. He lived in a busy place, and he worked very hard to live He had no hope of ever being rich enough to live a month without hard work, but he was quite content, God knows, ta labour with a cheerful wiU. He was one of an immense family, all of wliose sons and daughters gained their daily bread by daily work, prolonged from their rising up betimes until their lying down at niglit. Beyond this destiny he had no prospect, and he sought none. There was over-much drumming, trumpeting, and speech- makins:. in the neighbourhood where he dwelt ; but he had nothing to do with that. Such clash and uproar came from the Bigwig family, at the unaccountable proceedings of which race, he marvelled much. They set up the strangest statues, in iron, marble, bronze, and brass, before his door; and darkened his lious? with tlie legs and tails of uncouth images of horses. lie wor.dered what it aU meant, smiled in a rough good-humoured Avay he had, and kept at his hard Avork. The Bigwig family (composed of all the stateliest people thereabouts, and all the noisiest) had undertaken to savft lum the trouble of thinking for himself and to manage him 250 NOUODY'S STORY. and his affairs. " Why triJy," said he, " I have little time upon my liands ; and if you -n-ill be so good as to take care ol me, in return for the money I pay over" — for the BigAA-ig family were not above his money — " I shall be relieved and much obliged, considering that you know best." Hence the drumming, trumpeting, and speechmaking, and the ugly images of horses which he was expected to fall dov.n and worsliip. " I don't understand aU this," said he, rubbing hia furrowed brow confusedly. " But it has a meaning, maybe, ii I coidd find it out." "It means," returned the Big-wig family, suspecting some- thing of what he said, " honour and glory in the highest, to the highest merit." " Oh !" said he. And he was glad to hear that. But, when he looked among the images in iron, marble, bronze, and brass, he faUed to find a rather meritorious countr}Tnan of his, once the son of a WarAvickshire wool- dealer, or any single countrjTnan whomsoever of that kind. He coidd find none of the men whose knowledge had rescued him and his children from terrific and disfiguring disease, whose boldness had raised his forefathers from the condition of serfs, whose AN-ise fancy had opened a new and high existence to the humblest, whose skill had filled the working man's world with accumulated wonders. WT^iereas, he did find others whom he knew no good of, and even others whom he knew much iU of " Humph !" said he. " I don't quite understand it." So, he went home, and sat down by his fire-side to get it out of his mind. Now, his fire-side was a bare one, all hemmed in bj blackened streets ; but it was a precious place to him. The hands of his wife were hardened with toil, and she was old before her time; but she was dear to him. His children, stunted in their gro-«i;h, bore traces of unwholesome nurture ; but they had beauty in his sight. Above all other things, it was an earnest desu'e of this man's soul that his children eboidd be tai:ght. " If I am sometimes misled," said he, " fur want of knowledge, at least let them know better, and avoid my mistakes. If it is hard to me to reap the harvest of pleasure and instruction that is stored in books, let it be easier to them " NOBODY'S STORY. 251 But, the Bigwig family broke out into violent tamily quarrels concerning what it was lawful to teach to this man's childi-en. Some of the family insisted on such a thing being primary and indispensable above all other things ; and others of the famil}' insisted on such another thing being primary and indispensable above all other things ; and the Bigwig family, rent into factions, wrote pamplilets, held convocations, delivered charges, orations, and all varieties of discourses ; impounded one another in courts Lay and courts Ecclesi- astical ; threw dirt, exchanged pummelings, and fell together by the ears in unintelligible animosity. Meanwhile, this man, in his short evening snatches at his fire-side, saw the demon Ignorance arise there, and take his children to itself. He saw his daughter perverted into a heavy slatternly drudge ; he saw his son go moping down the ways of low sensuality, to brutality and crime ; he saw the dawning light of intelli- gence in the eyes of his babies so changing into cunning and suspicion, that he could have rather wished them idiots. " I don't understand this any the better," said he ; " but I think it cannot be right. Nay, by the clouded Heaven above me, I protest against this as my wrong ! " Becoming peaceable again (for his passion was usually short-lived, and his nature kind), he looked about him on his Sundays and holida3-s, and he saw how much monotony and weariness there was, and thence how drunkenness arose with all its train of ruin. Then he appealed to the Bigwig family, and said, " We are a labouring people, and I have a glimmer- ing suspicion in me that labouring people of whatever condition were made — by a higher intelligence than j-ours, as I poorly understand it — to be in need of mental refreshment and recreation. See what we fall into, when we rest ^^•ithout it. Come ! Amuse me harmlessh', show me something, give me an escape !" But, hero the Bigwig family fell into a state of uproar abso- lutely deafening. When some few voices were faintly heard, proposing to show him the wonders of the world, the greatness of creation, the mighty changes of tinie, tlie workings of natura and the beauties of art — to show him these things, that is to say, at any period of his life when he could look upon them — there arose among the BigM'igs such roaring and raving, such pulpiting and petitioning, such maundering and memorialising, Buch name-calling and dirt-throwing, such a shrill wind of 162 NOBODY'S STORY. parliainentaiy qiiestionlng and feeble replying — wliere ' 1 dare not" waited on '' I would" — that the poor fellow stood aghast, staring wildly around. " Have I provoked all this," said he, with his hands to his afii'ighted ears, "by what was meant to be an innocent request, plainly arising out of my familiar experience, and the common knowledge of all men aa'Iio choose to open their ejes ? I don't understand, and I am not understood. What is to come of such a state of things I" He was bending over his work, often asking himself the question, when the news began to spread tliat a pestilence had appeared among the labourers, and was slaying them by thousands. Going forth to look about him, he soon found this to be true. The dying and the dead were mingled in the close and tainted houses among which his life was passed. New poison was distilled into the always murky, always sickening air. The robust and the wealc, old age and infancy, the father and the mother, all were stricken down alike. "WHiat means of flight had he ? He remained there, where he was. and saw those who were dearest to him die. A kind preacher came to him, and would have said some prayers to soften his heart in his gloom, but he replied : " O what avails it, missionary, to come to me, a man con- demned to residence in this foetid place, where every sense bestowed upon me for my delight becomes a torment, and where eveiy minute of my numbered days is new mire added to the heap under which I lie oppressed ! But, give me ray first glimpse of Heaven, through a little of its light and air ; give me pure water ; help me to be clean ; lighten this heavy atmosphere and heavy life, in which our spirits sink, and wo become the indifferent and callous creatures you too often see us ; gently and kindly take the bodies of those who die among us, out of tho small room where we grow to be so familiar with the awful change that even its sanctity is lost to us; and. Teacher, then I will hear — none know better than you, how willingly — of Him whose thoughts were so much with the poor, and who had compassion for all liuman Borrow !" He was at his work again, solitary and sad, when hi& Master came and stood near to him dressed in black. He, also, had suffered heavily. His young wife, his beautiful and good young wife, was dead ; so, too, his only child. NOBODY'S STORY. 25S *• Master, 'tis liard to bear — I know it — but be comforted. [ would give 3'ou comfort, if I coiJd." The Master thanked him from his heart, but, said he, " () ynn labouring men ! The calamity began among you It you had but lived more healthily and decently, I shoidd not be the widowed and bereft mourner that I am tliis day." " Master," returned the other, shaking his head, " I have begun to understand a little that most calamities will come from us, as this one did, and that none will stop at oiu- poor doors, until we are united with that great squabbling family yonder, to do the things that are right. We cannot live healthily and decently, unless they who undertook to manage us provide the means. "We cannot be instructed unless they will teach us ; we cannot be rationally amused, unless they will amuse us ; we cannot but have some false gods of our ot\ti, while they set up so many of theirs in all the public places. The evil consequences of imperfect instruction, the evil con- sequences of pernicious neglect, the evil consequences of iinnatxiral restraint and the denial of humanising enjoj-ments, will all come from us, and none of them vrJl stop with us. They vrill spread far and wide. They always do ; the) always have done — just like the pestilence. I understand so much, I think, at last." But tlie .Master said again, " O you labouring men ! How seldom do we ever hear of you, except in connection with some trouble ! " "Master," he replied, " I am Nobody, and little likely to be heard of (nor yet much wanted to be heard of, perhaps), except when there is some trouble. But it never begijis vrith me, and it never can end with me. As sure as Death, it comes dcmi to me, and it goes up from me." There was so much reason in what he said, that the Bigwig family, getting wind of it, and being horribly frightened by the late desolation, resolved to unite with him to do the things that were right — at all events, so far as the said things were associated viiih the direct prevention, humanly speaking, of another pestilence. But, as their fear wore off, which it soon began to do. they resumed their falling out among themselves, and did nothing. Consequently the scourge appeared again — low down as before — and spread avengingly upward as before, and carried off vast numbers of the brawlers. But not a man among them ever admitted, if 254 NOBODY'S STORY. in the least degree he ever perceived, that he had anything to do with it. So Nobody lived and died in the old, jld, old Avay; and this, in the main, is the whole of Nobody's story. Had he no name, j'ou ask ? Perhaps it was Legion. It matters little what his name was. Let us call him Legion. If you were ever in the Belgian villages near the field of Waterloo, you will have seen, in some quiet little church, a monument erected by faithful companions in arms to the memory of Colonel A, Major B, Captains C, D and E, Lieu- tenants F and G, Ensigns H, I and J, seven non-commissioned officers, and one himdred and thirty rank and file, who fell in the discharge of their duty on the memorable daj'. The story of Nobod}' is the story of the rank and file of the earth. They bear their share of the battle ; they have their part in the victory ; they fall ; they leave no name but in the mass. The march of the proudest of us, leads to the du.sty way by which they go. O ! liCt us think of them this year at tke Christmas fire, and not forget them when it is burnt out. THE GPIOST OF ART. — ♦ — I AM a ])achelor, residing in i-ather a dreary set of cuambers in the Temple. They are situated in a square court of high houses, which would be a complete well, but for the want of water and the absence of a bucket. I live at the top of the house, among the tQes and sparrows. Like the little man in the nursery-story, I live by myself, and all the bread and cheese I get — which is not much — I put upon a shelf. I need scarcely add, perhaps, that I am in love, and that the father of my charming Julia objects to our union. I mention these little particulars as I might deliver a letter of introduction. The reader is no^v acquainted with me, and perhaps wiU condescend to listcTi to my n,._ . alive. I am naturally of a di'eamy turn ot mind ; and my abundant leisure — for I am called to the bar — coupled with much lonely listening to the twittering of sparrows, and the pattering of rain, has encouraged that disposition. In my " top set," I hear the wind howl, on a -nanter night, when the man on the ground floor believes it is perfectly still weather. The dim lamj)s with which our Honoui-able Society (sup- posed to be as yet unconscious of the new discovery called Gas) make the horrors of the staircase visible, deejjen the gloom which generally settles on my soul when I go home at night. I am in the Law, but not of it. I can't exactly make out what it means. I sit in Westminster Hall some- times (in character) from ten to four ; and when 1 go out of Court, I don't know whether I am standing on my wig or my boots. It appears to me (I mention this in confidence) as if there were too much tallc and too much law — as if son:e grains ol truth were started overboard into a tempestuous sea of chaff. AH Ihis may make me mystical. Still, I am confident tha* 25U THE GHOST OF ART. what I aui going to describe myself as having seen and heard. I actually did see and hear. It is necessary that I shoidd ohserve that I liave a great delight in pictures. I am no painter myself, but I have studied pictures and -written about them. I have seen all the most famous pictures in the world ; my education and reading have been sufficiently general to possess me beforehand with a knowledge of most of the subjects to which a Painter is likely to have recoiu-se ; and, although I might be in some doubt as to the rightful fashion of the scabbard of King Lear's sword, for instance, I think I should know King Lear tolerably well, if I happened to meet with Mm. I go to all the Modern Exliibitions every season, and of course I revere the Royal Academy. I stand by its forty Academical articles almost as firmly as I stand by the thirty- nine Articles of the Chiu'ch of England. I am convinced that in neither case could there be, by any rightful possibility, one article more or less. It is now exactly three years — tliree years ago, thif> very mouth — since I Avent from Westminster to the Temple, one Tluirsday afternoon, in a cheap steam-boat. The sky was black, when I imprudently wailced on board. It began to tliunder and ligliten immediately afterwards, and the rain poured down in torrents. The deck seeming to smoke with the wet, I went below ; but so many passengers were there, smoking too, that I came up again, and buttoning my pea- coat, and standing in the sliadow of the paddle-box, stood as upright as I could, and made the best of it. It was at tliis moment that I fii'st l)eheld the terrible Being, who is the subject of my present recollections. Standing against the funnel, apparently with the intention of drj'ing liimself by tlie heat as fast as he got wet, was a shabby man in tli read bare black, and "with his hands in his pockets, who fascinated me from the memorable instant when I caiight his eye. "Where had I caught that eye before ? ^Vllo was he ? Why did I connect him, all at once, with the Vicar of Wake- field, Alfred the Great, Gil Bias, Charles the Second, Joseph and his Brethren, the Fairy Queen, Tom Jones, the Deca- meron of Boccaccio, Tarn O'Shantcr, the Marriage of tlia Doge of Venice with the Adriatic, and the Great Plague of London ? Why, when he bent one leg, and placed one THE GHOST OF ART. 257 hand iipon llie back of the seat near him, did my mind associate him Mildly with the words, " Number one hundred and forty-tvro, Portrait of a gentleman ? " Could it be that I was going mad ? I looked at him again, and now I coidd have taken my alKdavit that he belonged to the Vicar of "Wakefield's family. "Whether he was the A'icar, or ^Nloses, or Mr. Burchill, or the Squire, or a conglomeration of all foui', I knoAv not ; but I was impelled to seize liim by the throat, and charge him with ' being, in some fell way, connected with the Primrose blood. He looked up at the rain, and then — oli Heaven ! — he became Saint John. He folded his arms, resigning himself to the weather, and I was fi-antically Inclined to address liim as the Spectator, and firmly demand to know what he had done with Sir Roger de Coverley. Tho frightfid suspicion that I was becoming deranged, returned upon me with redoubled force. Meantime, thia awfid stranger, inexplicably linked to my distress, stood drpng himself at the funnel ; and ever, as the steam rose from his clothes, diffusing a mist around him, I saw through the ghostly medium all the people I have mentioned, and a score more, sacred and profane. I am conscious of a dreadful inclination that stole upon me, as it thimdered and lightened, to grapple with this m.an, or demon, and plunge him over the side. But, I constrained myself — I know not how^ — to speak to him, and in a pause of the storm, I crossed the deck, and said : "AMiat are you?" He replied, hoarsely, "A Model." "A what?" said I. "A Model," he replied. "I sets to the profession for a bob a-hovu-." (All through this narrative I give his own words, which are indelibly imprinted on my memoiy.) The relief which this disclosure gave me, the exquisite delight of the restoration of my confidence in vnj ovm sanitj", I cannot describe. I shoidd have fallen on his neck, but for the consciousness of being observed by the man at the wheel. " You then," said I, shaking him so warmly by the hand, that T rung the rain out of his coat-cuff, " are the gentle- man whom I have so frequently contemplated, in connection with a high-backed chair with a red cushion, and a tabic with twisted legs." VOL. II. 1 B58 THE GHOST OF ART. '•I am that Model," lie rejoined moodily, 'and I wish 1 was anytliiug else." " Say not so," I retui-ned. " I have sten you in the society of many beautiful young women;" as in truth I had, and always (I now remember) in the act of making the most of his legs. " No doubt," said he. " And j-ou 've seen me along with warses of flowers, and any number of table -kivers, and antique, cabinets, and warious gammon." "Sir?" said I. " And warious gammon," he repeated, in a louder voice. ** You might have seen me in armour, too, if 3^011 had looked sharp. Blessed if I ha' n't stood in half the suits of armour as ever came out of Pratt's shop : and sat, for vreeks together, a eating nothing, out of half the gold and silver dishes as has ever been lent for the pm-pose out of Storrses, and Mor- timerses, or Garrardses, and Davenportseseses." Excited, as it apijeared, by a sense of injury, I thought he never A^oidd have found an end for the last word. But, at length it rolled sullenly away with the thimder. "Pardon me," said I, "you are a well-favoured, well- made man, and yet — forgive me — I find, on examining my mind, that I associate you with — that my recoUectiou in- distinctly makes you, in short — excuse me — a kind of power- ful monster." " It would be a wonder if it didn't." he said. " Do you know what my points are ? " " No," said I. " My tliroat and my legs," said he. " When I don't set for a head, I mostly sets for a throat and a pair of legs. Now, granted you was a painter, and was to work at my throat for a week together, I suppose you 'd see a lot ol lumps and bumps there, that would never be there at all, if you looked at me, complete, instead of only my throat. Wouldn't you?" "Probably," said I, surveying him. " WHiy, it stands to reason," said the Model. "Work another week at my legs, and it 'U be the same thing. You'll make 'cm out as knotty and as knobby, at last, as if they was the trunks of two old trees. Then, take and stick my legs and throat on to another man's body, and you 'U make a reg'lar mon<;ter. And that 's the way the public gets THE GHOST OF ART. 25S rtieir reg'lar monsters, every first Monday in May, when the lloyal Academy Exhibition opens." " You are a critic," said I, with an air of deference. " I 'm in an uncommon ill humour, if that 's it," rejoined the Model, -with great indignation. "As if it warn't bad enough for a bob a-hoiu', for a man to be mixing himself up with that there jolly old fiirniter that one 'ud think the public know'd the wery nails in by this time — or to be putting on greasy old ats and cloaks, and playing tambourines in the Bay o' Naples, with Wesuvius a smoldn' according to pattern in the backgroimd, and the wines a bearing -wonderful in the middle distance — or to be impolitely kicking up his legs among a lot o' gals, with no reason whatever in his mind, but to show 'em — as if this warn't bad enough, I 'm to go and be throAvn out of emplojTnent too ! " " Sm-ely no I " said I. "Surely yes," said the indignant Model. "But I 'll GEOW OXE." The gloomy and threatening manner in which he muttered the last words, can never be efi'aced from my remembrance. My blood ran cold. I asked of myself, -nhat was it that this desperate Being was resolved to grow ? My breast made no response. I ventured to implore him to explain his meaning. With a scornful laugh, he uttered tliis dark prophecy : "I'll grow one. And, mark my words, it shall haunt you i " We parted in the storm, after I had forced half-a-crown on his acceptance, with a trembling hand. I conclude that some- thing supernatural happened to the steam-boat, as it bore his reeking figiu-e dovni the river; but it never got into the papers. Two years elapsed, during which I followed my profession without any vicissitudes ; never holding so much as a motion, of course. At the expiration of that period, I found mj-seli making my way home to the Temple, one night, in precisely such another storm of thunder and lightning as that by which I had been overtaken on board the steam-boat — except that this storm, bursting over the town at midnight, was rendered much more awfid by the daikness and the hour. As I turned into my coiu-t, I really thought a thunderbolt would fall, and plough the pavement up. Every brick and stone in the place seemed to have an echo of its own for the wo THE GHOST OF ART. Uiunder. The water-spouts were overcliarged, and the rahj came tearing down from the liouse-topa as if tney had been mountain-tops. Mrs. Parkins, my laimdress — wife of Parkins the porter, then newly dead of a dropsy — had particular instructions to place a bedi'oom candle and a match under the staircase lamp on my landing, in order that I might light my candle there, whenever I came home. Mrs. Parkins invariably disregarding all instructions, they were never there. Thus it happened that on this occasion I groped niy way into my sitting-room to find the candle, and came out to light it. What were my emotions when, underneath the staircase lamp, shining with wet as if he had never been dry since our last meeting, stood the mysterious Being whom I had encountered on the steam-boat in a thunder-storm, two years before ! His prediction rushed upon my mind, and I tui'ned faint. " I said I 'd do it," he observed, in a hoUow voice, " and I have done it. May I come in ? " " ^Misguided creature, what have you done ? " I returned. " I 'U let you know,'' was his reply, " if you '11 let me in." Could it be murder that he had done ? And had he been so successful that he wanted to do it again, at my expense ? I hesitated. " May I come in ? " said he. I inclined my head, with as much presence of mind as I could command, and he followed me into my chambers. There, I saw that the lower part of his face was tied up, in what ia commonly called a Belcher handkerchief. He slowly removed this bandage, and exposed to view a long dark beard, curling over his upper lip, twisting about the corners of his mouth, and hanging down upon his breast. "What is this?" I exclaimed involuntarily, " atid what have you become ? " " I am the Ghost of Art ! " said he. Tlie effect of these words, slowly uttered in the thunder- storm at midnight, was appalling in the last degree More ilead than alive, I siu'veyed him in silence. " The German taste came up," said he, " and threw me tut of bread. I am ready for the taste now." He made his beard a little jagged with his hands, folded hifi arms, and said, THE GHOST OF ART. 261 * Seventy !" I shuddered. It was so severe. He made his beard flowing on his breast, and, leaning U)th hands on the staff of a carpet-broom which Mrs. Parkins had left among my books, said : " Benevolence." I stood ti-ansfixed. The change of sentiment was entirely in the beard. The man might have left his face alone, or had no face. The beard did ever3i:hing. He lay down, on his back, on my table, and with that action of his head threw up his beard at the chin, "That's death!" said he. He got off my tal jle and, looking up at the ceiling, cocked his beard a little awry : at the same time making it stick out before him. " Adoration, or a vow of vengeance," he observed. He turned his profile to me, making his upper lip very bulgy with the upper part of his beard. " Romantic character," said he. He looked sideways out of his beard, as if it were an ivy- buyh. "Jealousy," said he. He gave it an ingenious t^v^st in the air, and informed me that he was carousing. He made it shagg}' with his fingers — and it was Despair ; lank — and it was avarice ; tossed it all kinds of ways — and it was rage. The beard did everything. " I am the Ghost of Art," said he. " Two bob a-day now, and more when it's longer! Hair's the true expression. There is no other. I said I 'd grow it, and I 've gkown IT, AND IT SHALL HAUNT YOU ! " He may have tumbled down stairs in the dark, but he never walked do'mi or ran do^-n. I looked over the banisters, and I was alone with the thundei. Need I add more of my terrific fate ? It has haunted me ever since. It glares upon me from the walls of the Royal Academy, (except when Maclise subdues it to his genius,) it fills my soul with terror at the British Institution, it lui-es yoimg artists on to their destruction. Go Avhere I wiU, the Ghost of Art, eternally working the passions in hair, and expressing everything by beard, pursues me. The prediction > accomplished, and the victim has no rest. OUT OF TOWN. Sitting, on a bright September morning, among my bocka and papers at my open window on the cliff overhanging the Bea-beach, I have the sky and ocean framed before me like a beautiful pictiu-e. A beautiful picture, but with such move- ment in it, such changes of light upon the sails of ships and wake of steamboats, such dazzling gleams of silver far out at sea, such fresh touches on the crisp wave-tops as they break and roU towards me — a picture with such music in tlie billoAvy rush upon the shingle, the blowing of the morning wind through the corn-shea^'es where the farmers' wagons are busy, the singing of the larks, and the distant voices of children at play — such charms of sight and sound as all the Galleries on earth can but poorly suggest. So dreamy is the murmur of the sea below my window, that I may have been here, for anything I know, one hundred years. Not that I have gro-s\Ti old, for, daily on the neigli- bouring do-wns and grassy hill-sides, I find that I can still in reason walk any distance, jump over anj^iliing, and cKmb up anywhere ; but, that the sound of the ocean seems to have become so customary to my musings, and other realities seem so to have gone a-board ship and floated away over the horizon, that, for aught I will imdertake to the contrary, I am the enchanted son of the King my father, shut up in a tower on the sea-shore, for protection against an old she-gobHn who insisted on being my godmother, and who foresaw at the font — wonderfid creature ! — that I should get into a scrape before I was twenty-one. I remember to have been in a Citj' (my Royal parent's dominions, I suppose) and apparently not long ago either, that was in the dreariest condition. The principal inliabitants had all been changed into old newspapers, and in that form were preserving their window-blinds from dust, and WTnjjpiug all their smaller liousehold gods in curl-papers. I OUT OF TOWN. 263 walked tliroiigla gloomy stroets where eveiy houne was slmt up and newspapered, and where my solitary footsteps echoed on the deserted pavements. In the public rides there were no carriages, no liorses, no animated existence, but a few sleepy policemen, and a few adventui-ous boys taking advantage of the devastation to swarm up the lamp-posts. In the West- n-ard streets there was no traffic ; in the Westward shops, nc business. The water-patterns which the 'Prentices liad trickled out on the pavements early in the morning, remained uneffaced by human feet. At the comers of mews, Cochin-China fowls stalked gaimt and savage ; nobody being left in the deserted city (as it appeared to me), to feed them. Public Houses, where splendid footmen swinging their legs over gorgeous hammer-cloths beside wigged coachmen were wont to regale, were silent, and the unused pewter pots shone, too bright for lousiness, on the shelves. I beheld a Punch's Show leaning against a wall near Park Lane, as if it had fainted. It was deserted, and there were none to heed its desolation. In Belgrave Square I met the last man — an ostler — sitting on a post in a ragged red waistcoat, eating straw, and mildewing away. If I recollect the name of the little to-wn, on whose shore this sea is murmuring— but I am not just now, as I have premised, to be rched upon for anything — it is Pa-vilionstone. Within a quarter of a century, it was a little fishing town, and they do say, that the time was, when it was a little smuffffline: town. I have heard that it was rather famous in the hollands and brandy way, and that coevally Avith that reputation the lamplighter's was considered a bad life at the Assurance offices. It was observed that if he were not particular about ligliting up, he lived in ' leace ; but, that if he made the best of the oil-lamps in the steep and narrow streets, he usually fell over the cliff at an early age. Now, gas and electricity rim to the very water's edge, and the South Eastern Railway Compapy screech at us in the dead of night. But, the old little fishing and smuggling town remains, and is so temp'ting a place for the latter pm-pose, that I think of yoing out some night next week, in a fur cap and a pair of petticoat trousers, and running an empty tub, as a kind of archa3ological pursuit. Let nobody with corns come to Pavihonstone, or there are break-neck flights of ragged steps, connecting the principal streets by back-ways, wliich wiU 264 OUT OF TOWN cripple that visitor in half an hour. These are the ways hj which, when I run that tub, I shall escape. I shall make a Itermopyla^ of the corner of one of them, defend it with my cutlass against the coast-guard until my brave companiona have sheered off, then dive into tlie darkness, and regain my Susan's arms. In connection with these breakneck steps 1 observe some wooden cottages, with tumble-down out-hcuses, and back-yards three feet square, adorned with garlands of dried fish, in which (though the General Board of Health might object), my Susan dwells. The Soutli Eastern Company have brought Pavilionstone into such vogue, with their tidal trains and splendid steam- packets, that a new Pavilionstone is rising up. I am, myself, of New Pavilionstoue. We are a little mortary and limey at present, but we are getting on capitally. Indeed, we wero getting on so fast, at one time, that we rather overdid it, and built a street of shops, the business of Avhicli may be expected to arrive in about ten years. We are sensibly laid out in general; and with a little care and pains (by no means vranting, so far), shall become a very pretty place. We ought to be, for our situation is delightful, our air is delicious, and our breezj' hills and downs, carpeted with wdld thjTue, and decorated -ndth millions of wild flowers, are, on the faith of a pedestrian, perfect. In New Pavilionstone we are a little too mucli addicted to small windows with more bricks in them than glass, and we are not over-fanciful in the wa}'' of decorative architecture, and we get unexpected sea-views thi'ough cracks in the street-doors ; on the whole, however, we are very snug and comfortable, and well accommodated. But the Home Secretary (if there be such an officer) cannot too soon shut up the bui-ial-ground of the old parish church. It is in the midst of us, and Pavilionstone will get no good of it, if it be too long left alone. The lion of Pavilionstone is its Great Hotel. A dozen yeara ago, going over to Paris by South-Eastei-n Tidal Steamer, you used to be di-opj^ed upon the platform of the main line Pavilionstone Station (not a junction then), at eleven o'clock on a dark winter's night, in a roaring wind ; and in the nowling wilderness outside the station, was a short omnibus which brought you up by the forehead the instant you got in at the door ; and nobody cared about you, and you were alone in the world. You bumjied over infinite clialk until you OUT OF TOWN. 26& w^ere turned out at a strange building which had just left off being a barn -without having quite begun to be a house, where nobody expected your coming, or knew ■nliat to do with you when you ■\\'ere come, and where you were usually bloAvn about, until you happened to be blown against the cold beef, and finally into bed. At five in the morning you were blown out of bed, and after a di-eary breakfast, with crumpled com- pany, in the midst of confusion, were hustled on board a steamboat and lay wretched on deck imtil you saw France lunging and surging at you with great vehemence over the bowsprit. Nov.', you come down to Pavilionstone in a free and easy manner, an irresponsible agent, made over in trust to tlie South-Eastern Company, imtil you get out of the railway- carriage at high -water mark. If you are crossing by the boat at once, you have nothing to do but walk on board and be happy there if you can — I can't. If you are going to our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, the sprightliest porters under the sun, whose cheerful looks are a pleasant welcome, shoidder j-our luggage, di-ive it off in vans, bowl it away in trucks, and enjoy themselves in playing athletic games with it. If you are for public life at our great Pavilionstone Hotel, you walk into that establishment as if it were your club ; and find ready for you, your news-room, dining-room, smoking-room, billiard-room, music-room, public breakfast, public dinner twice a-day (one plain, one gorgeous), hot baths and cold baths. If you want to be bored, there are plenty of bores always ready for you, and from Saturday to Monday in particular, you can be bored (if \'ou like it) tlu-ough and through. Should you want to be private at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel, say but the word, look at the Kst of charges, choose your floor, name your figure • — there you are, established in yoijr castle, by the day, week, month, or year, innocent of all comers or goers, unless you have my fancy for walking early in the morning down tlio groves of boots and shoes, which so regularly flourish at all the chamber-doors before breakfiist, that it seems to me as if nobody ever got up or took them in. Are you going across the Alps, and would you like to air your Italian at our Great Pavilionstone Hotel ? Talk to the Manager^ — always conver- «ationa], accomplished, and polite. Do 3-0 ii want to be aided, abetted, comforted, or advised, at our (ircat Pavilion- Btone Hotel ? Send for the good landlord, and he is yom 266 OUT OF TOWN friend. Should you, or anyone belonging' to you ever be taken iU at our Great Parilionstone Hotel you will not soon forget him or his kind wife. And when you pay your bill at oui Great PaviKonstone Hotel, you will not be put out of humour by anything you find in it. A thoroughly good inn, in the days of coaching and posting, was a noble place. But, no such inn would have been equal to tlie reception of four or five hundred people, all of them wet through, and half of them dead sick, every day in the year. This is where we shine, in oiu" PaviUonstone Hotel. Again — who, coming and going, pitching end tossing, boating and training, hurrying in, and flying out, could ever have calcu- lated the fees to be paid at an old-fashioned house ? In our Favilionstone Hotel vocabulary, there is no such word as fee. Ever}i;hing is done for you ; every service is provided at a fixed and reasonable charge ; all the prices are hung up in all the rooms ; and you can make out your own bill beforehand, as well as the book-keeper. In the case of your being a pictorial artist, desirous of studying at small expense the physiognomies and beards of difierent nations, come, on receipt of this, to Pavilionstone. You shall find all the nations of the eartli, and all the styles of shaving and not shaving, hair-cutting and hair letting alone, for ever flowing through our hotel. Coiu'iers you shall see by hundi-eds ; fat leathern bags for five-franc pieces, closing with violent snaps, like discharges of fire-arms, by thousands ; more luggage in a morning than, fifty years ago, all Em-ope saw in a week. Looking at trains, steam- boats, sick travellers, and luggage, is om- great Pavilionstone recreation. AVe are not strong in other public amusements. We have a Literary and Scientific Institution, and wo have a Working Men's Institution — may it liold many gipsy holidays in summer fields, with the kettle boiling, the band of music playing, and the people dancing ; and may I be on the hill-side, looking on witli pleasm-e at a wholesome sight too rare in England I — and we have two or three chui-ches, and more chapels than I have yet added up. But public amusements are scarce M'ith us. If a poor theatrical manager iiomes with his company to give us, in a loft, Mary Ba.\, or the Murder on the Sand Hills, we don't care mucii for liiiu — starve him out, in fg,ct. We take more kindly to wax- work, especially if it moves ; in which case it keeps mud: OUT OF TOWN. 267 clearer of the second commandment tlian when it is stilL Cooke's Circus (iNIr. Cooke is my friend, and always leavea a good name behind him), gives us only a night in passing through. Nor does the travelling menagerie think us worth a longer visit. It gave us a look-in the other day, bringing with it the residentiary van with the stained glass windows, which Her Majesty kept ready-made at Windsor Castle, imtil she found a suitable opportunity^ of submitting it for the proprietor's acceptance. I brought away five wondennents from this exhibition. I have w'ondered ever since, "NMiether the beasts ever do get used to those small places of confine- ment : Whether the monkeys have that very horrible flavour in their free state ; Whether wild animals have a natural oar for time and tune, and therefore every four-footed creature began to howd in despair when the band began to play; Wliat the giraffe does with his neck when his cart is shut up ; and, AVhether the elephant feels ashamed of liimself Avhen he is brought out of his den to stand on his head in the presence of the whole Collection. We are a tidal harbor at PaviHonstone, as indeed I have implied abeady in my mention of tidal trains. At low water, we are a heap of mud, with an empty channel in it whei-e a couple of men in big boots alwaj's shovel and scoop : with what exact object, I am unable to say. At that time, all the stranded fishing-boats tura over on their sides, as if they were dead marine monsters ; the colliers and other shipping stick disconsolate in the mud ; the steamers look as if their white chimneys would never smoke more, and their red paddles never turn again ; the green sea-slime and weed upon the rough stones at the entrance, seem records of obsolete liigh tides never more to flow ; the flagstaff-halyards droop ; the very little wooden lighthouse shrinks in the idle glare of the sim. And here I may observe of the very little wooden light- house, that when it is lighted at night, — red and green, — it looks so like a medical man's, that several distracted husbands have at various times been found, on occasions of premature domestic anxiety, going round and romid it, trying to fijid the NightbeU. But, the moment the tide begins to make, the Pavilion- etone Harbor begins to revive. It feels tlio breeze of the rising water before tlie water comes, and begins to flutter and stir. When the little shallow waves creep in, barely over* 268 OUT OF TOWN. lapping one another, the vnnes at the mastlieads wake, aad become agitated. As the tide rises, the fishiug-boats get into good spirits and dance, the flagstaff hoists a bright red flag, the steamboat smokes, cranes creak, horses and carriagea dangle in the air, stray passengers and higgage appear Now, the shipping is afloat, and comes up buoyantly, to look at the wharf. Now, the carts that have come down for coals, load away as hard as they can load. Now, the steaTC.er smokee immensely, and occasionally blows at the paddle-boxes like a vaporous Avhale — greatly disturbing nervous loungers. Now, both the tide and the breeze have risen, and you are holding your hat on (if you -want to see how the ladies hold their hats on, with a stay, passing over the broad brim and down, the nose, come to Pa-v^ilionstone). Now, everything in the harbor splashes, dashes, and bobs. Now, the Do-rni Tidal Train is telegraphed, and you know (without knowing how you know), that two hundred and eighty-seven people are coming. Now, the fishing-boats that have been out, sail in at the top of the tide. Now, the bell goes, and the locomotive hisses and shrieks, and the train comes gliding in, and the two hundred and eighty-seven come scuffling out. Now, there is not only a tide of water, but a tide of people, and a tide of luggage — all tumbling and flowing and boxmcing about together. Now, after infinite bustle, the steamer steams out, and we (on the Pier) are aU delighted when she rolls as if she woidd roll her funnel out, and are all disappointed when she don't. Now, the other steamer is coming in, and the Custom-House prepares, and the wharf-labourers assemble, and the hawsers are made ready, and the Hotel Porters come Tattling do^Ti with van and truck, eager to begin more Ol^Tupic games with more luggage. And this is the way in \Aliich -we go on, doAvn at Pavilionstone, every tide. And, it you want to live a life of luggage, or to see it lived, or to bi-eathe sweet air which will send 3-011 to sleep at a moment's notice at any period of the day or night, or to disport your- self upon or in the sea, or to scamper about Kent, or to come out of town for the enjoyment of all or any of these pleasures flome to Pavilionstone. OUT OF THE SEASON. It Ml to my lot, this last bleak Spring, to find myself in a "watering-place out of the Season. A vicious north-east squaU blew me into it from foreign parts, and I tarried in it alone for three clays, resolved to be exceedingly busy. On the first day, I began business by looking for two hours at the sea, and staring the Foreign ISIilitia out of countenance. Having disposed of these important engage- ments, I sat down at one of the two windows of my room, intent on doing something desperate in the way of literaiy composition, and writing a chapter of unheard-of exceUence — Avith which the present essay has no connexion. It is a remarkable qualit}^ in a watering-place out of the season, that everything in it, will and must be looked at. I had no preTdous suspicion of this fatal truth ; but, the moment I sat cIomti to -write, I began to perceive it. I had scarcely fallen into my most promising attitude, and dipped my pen in the ink, when I found the clock upon the pier — a redfaced clock with a white rim — importuning me in a highly vexatious manner to consult my watch, and see how I was off for Greenwich time. Having no intention of making a voyage or taking an observation, I had not the least need of Greenwich time, and could have put up with watering-place time as a sufficiently accurate article. The pier-clock, how- ever, persisting, I felt it necessary to lay down, my pen, com- pare my watch with him, and fall into a grave solicitude about half-seconds. I had taken xip my pen again, and was about to commence that valuable chapter, -^'hen a Custom- house cutter imder the window requested that I would hold a naval reAaew of her, immediately. It was impossible, under the circumstances, for any mental resolution, merely human, to dismiss the Custom-house cutter, t)ecause the shadow of her topma*;t fell upon my paper, and 270 OUT OF THE SEASON. Mie vane pla}^ed on tlie masterly blank chaptsr. I -was there- fore under the necessity of going to the other Avindow ; sitting astride of the chair tliere, like Napoleon bivouacking in the print ; and inspecting the cutter as she lay, all that day, in the way of my chapter, O ! ohe was rigged to carry ?, quantity of canvas, but her hull was so very small that four giants aboard of her (tliree men and a boy) who were vigilantly scraping at her, aU together, inspired me with a terror lest they should scrape her away. A fifth giant, M'ho appeared to consider himself "below" — as indeed he was, from the waist downwards — meditated, in such close proximity with the little gusty chimney-pipe, that he seemed to be smoking it. Several boys looked on from the wharf, and. when the gigantic attention appeared to be fully occupied, one or other of these would fui'tively swing himself in mid- air over the Custom-house cutter, by means of a line pendant from her rigging, like a young spirit of tlie storm. Presently, a sixth hand brought down two little water-casks ; presently afterwards, a truck came, and delivered a hamper. I was now under an obligation to consider that the cutter was going on a cruise, and to wonder where she was going, and when she was going, and why she was going, and at what date she might be expected back, and who commanded her ? With these pressing questions I was fully occupied when the Packet, making ready to go across, and blowing off her spare steam, roared, "Look at me!" It became a positive duty to look at the Packet preparing to go across ; aboard of which, the people newly come down by the railroad were hurrying in a great fluster. The crew had got their tarry overalls on — and one loiew Avhat that meant — not to mention the white basins, ranged in neat little piles of a dozen each, behind the door of the after-cabiu. One lady as I looked, one resigning and far-seeing woman, took her basin from the store of crockery, as she might have .taken a refreshment-ticket, laid herself down on deck with tliat utensil at her eai', muffled her feet in one shawl, solemnly covered her countenance after the antique mannei with another, and on the completion of these preparations appeared by the strength of her volition to become insensible. The mail-bags (O that I myself had the sea-legs of a mail- bag !) were tumbled aboard ; the Packet left off roaring, warped out, and made at the white line upon the bar. One OUT OF THE SEASON. 271 dip, one roll, one break of the sea oyer her hows, and Moore's Almanack or the sage Rapliael could not have told me more of the state of tilings aboard, than I knew. The famous chapter was all but begun now, and would have been quite begun, but for the wind. It T\"as blowing BtifDiy from the east, and it rumbled in tho chimney and shook the house. That was not much ; but, looking out into the wind's grey eye for inspiration, I laid down my pen again to make the remark to myself, how emphatically everything by the sea declares that it has a great concern in the state of the wind . The trees blown all one way ; the defences of the harbor reared highest and strongest against the raging point ; the shingle flung up on the beach from the same direction ; the number of arrows pointed at the common enemy ; the sea tumbling in and rushing towards them as if it were inflamed by the sight. This put it in my head that I really ought to go out and take a walk in the wind ; so, I gave up the magnificent chapter for that day, entirely persuading myself that I was under a moral obligation to have a blow. I had a good one, and that on the high road — the very high road — on the top of the cliffs, where I met the stage- coach with all the outsides holding their hats on and them- selves too, and overtook a flock of sheep with the wool about their necks blown into such great ruffs that they looked like fleecy owls. The wind played upon the lightliouse a,s if it were a gi'eat whistle, the spray was driven over the sea in a cloud of haze, the ships rolled and pitched heavily, and at intervals long slants and flaws of light made mountain-steeps of communication between the ocean and the sky. A walk of ten miles brought me to a seaside town without a cliff, which, like the town I had come fi'om, was out of the season too. Half of the houses were shut up ; half of the other naif were to let ; the town might have done as much business as it was doing then, if it had been at the bottom of the sea. Nobody seemed to floui-ish save the attorney ; his clerk's pen was going in the bow-window of his wooden house ; his brass door-plate alone was free from salt, and had been polished up that morning. On the beach, among the rough luggers and capstans, grouj^s of storm-beaten boatmen, like a sort of marine monsters, watched under the lee of those objects, or jtood Ic'aning forward against the wind, looking out tlirough battered spy-glasses. TJie parlor bell in tlie Admir;il Benbow 272 OUT OF THE SEASOxV. had grovvii so flat with Leing out of the season, that neithei could I hear it rir-g wjien I pulled the handle for lunch, noi could the young woman in Llack stockings and strong slioes, ■who acted as Avaiter out of the season, until it had been tinkled three times. Admiral Benbow's cheese was out of the season, but hia home-made bread was good, and his beer Avas perfect. Deluded by some earlier spring day wliich had been warm and simny, the Admiral had cleared the fu-ing out of his parlor stove, and had put some flower-pots in — which was amiable and hopeful in the Admiral, but not j udicious : the room being, at that present visiting, transcendantly cold. I therefore took the liberty of peeping out across a little stone passage into the Admiral's kitchen, and, seeing a high settle with its back towards me drawn out in front of the Admiral's kitchen &re, I stroUed in, bread and cheese in hand, munching and looking about. One landsman and two boatmen were seated on the settle, smoking pipes and drinking beer out of thick pint crockery mugs— mugs peculiar to such places, with parti -coloured rings round them, and ornaments between the rings like frayed-out roots. The landsman was relating his experience, as yet only three nights' old, of a fearful running- down case in tlie Channel, and therein presented to my imagination a sound of music that it will not soon forget. " At that identical moment of time," said he (he was a prosy man by nature, who rose with his subject), " the night being light and calm, but with a grey mist upon the water that didn't seem to spread for more than two or three mile, 1 was Avallcing up and down the wooden causeway next the pier, off where it happened, along with a friend of mine, wliich uis name is Mr. Clocker. Mr. Clocker is a grocer over yonder." (From the direction in which he pointed the bowl of his pipe, I might have judged Mr. Clocker to be a Merman, established in the grocery trade in five-and-twenty fathoms of water.) "We were smoking our pipes, and walking up and down the causeway, talking of one thing and talking of another. We were quite alone there, except that a few hovellers " (the Kentish aiame for 'long-shore boatmen like his companions) "were hanging about their lugs, waiting while the tide made, as hovellers Avill." (One of the two boatnKMi, thoughtfully regarding me, shiit up one eye , this I understood to mean : first, that he took me into the convex- OUT OF THE SEASON. 273 eation : secoinllv , tliat lie confirmed the proxwsitioii : tliird]}', that he annoiuiced liimseJi as a hoveller.) " All of a sudden Mr. Clocker aud me stood rcoted to the spot, hy hearing a sound come through the stillness, right over the sea, like a yreat sorrowful flute or jEolian harp. We didn't in the least know what it was, and judge of our surprise when we aaw the hovellers, to a man, leap into the boats and tear about to hoist sail and get off, as if they had every one of 'em gone, in a moment, raving mad I But they knew it was the cry of distress from the sinking emigi-ant ship." When I got back to my watering-place out of the season, and had done my twenty miles in good style, I found that the celebrated Black ]\Iesmerist intended favoiu-ing the public that evening in the Hall of the Muses, which he had engaged for the pui-pose. After a good dinner, seated by the fire in an easy chair, I began to waver in a design I had formed of «-aitin2: on tlie Black Mesmerist, and to incline towards the expediency of remaining where I was. Indeed a point of gallantry was involved in my doing so, inasmuch as I had not left France alone, but had come from the prisons of St. Pelaarie with mv distinguished and unfortunate friend ]\Iadamo Roland (in two volumes which I bought for two fi-ancs each, at the book-stall in the Place de la Concorde, Paris, at the comer of the Rue Royale). Deciding to pass the evening t^te-a-tete Avith Madame Roland, I derived, as I always do, gi-eat pleasure from that spiritual woman's society, and the charms of her brave soid and engaging conversation. I must confess that if she had only some more faults, only a few more passionate failings of any kind, I might love her better ; but I am content to believe that the deficiency is in me, and not in her. We spent some sadly interesting hours together on this occasion, and she told me again of her cruel discharge from the Abbaye, and of her being re-arrested before her free feet had sprung lightly up half-a-dozen steps of her own staircase, and carried off to the prison which she only left for rhe guillotine. Madame Roland and I took leave of one another before mid nio-ht. and I went to bed full of vast intentions for next da\ in connexion with the imparaUeled chapter. To hear the foreign mail-steamers coming in at dawn of day, and to know !>hat I was not aboard or obHgod to get up, was very comfort- able ; so, 1 rose for the chapter in great force. VOL. II. X 274 OUT OF THE SEASON. 1 had advanced so far as to sit down at rny \\'indow again on my second morning, and to wTite the first lialf-line of the chapter and c-tr^ko it out, not liking it, when my conscience reproached me with not having surveyed the watering -phace out of the season, after all, yesterday, hut witl\ having gone utraight out of it at the rate of four miles and a half an hour. Obviously the best amends that I coidd make for this remiss- ness was to go and look at it without another moment's delay. So — altogether as a matter of duty — I gave up the magnificent chapter for another day, and sauntered out with my hands in ray pockets. All the houses and lodgings ever let to visitors, were to let that morning. It seemed to have snowed bills with To Let upon them. This put me upon thinking what the owners of all those apartments did, out of the season ; how thoy employed their time, and occupied their minds. They could not be alwaj's going to the INIethodist chapels, of Mdiich I passed one every other minute. They must have some other recreation. Whether they pretended to take one another's lodgings, and opened one another's tea-caddies in fun ? Whether they cut slices off their own beef and mutton, and made Ijelieve that it belonged to somebody else ? Whether they played little ch-amas of Jifo, as children do, and said, " I ought to come and loolc at your apartments, and you ought to ask two guineas a-week too much, and then I ought to say I must have the rest of the day to think of it, and then you ought to say that another lady and gentleman with no children in family had made an offer very close to yo\w own temis, and you had passed your word to give them a positive answer in half-an-hour, and indeed were just going to take the bill dowTi when you heard the knock, and then I ought to take them you know?" Twenty such specidations engaged my thoughts. Tlien, after passing, still clinging to tlie walls, defaced rags of the bills of last year's Circus, I came to a back field near a timber-j'ard where the Circus itself had been, and inhere there was yet a sort of monkish tonsure on the grass, indif'ating the spot where the j'oung lady had gore round upon her pet steed Firefly in her daring flight. Turning into the towTi again, I came among the shops, and they werfl emphatically out of the season. The chemist had no boxes ol pinger-beer powders, no beautifying sea- side soaps and washes, 00 attractive scents j nothing but his gi^cat goggle-ej-ed red OUT OF THE SEASON. 275 bottles, looking as if tbo •winds of winter and the drift of the salt- sea had inflamed tiicm. The grocers' hoi picldes, Harvey's Sauce, Doctor Kitchener's Zest, Anchovy Paste, Dundee Marmalade, and the vrholo stock of luxurious helps to appetite, were hybornating scmeAvhei'e under-ground. Tlio china-shop had no trifles from anywhere. The Bazaar had given in altogetlier, and presented a notice on the shutters that this estabhshment woidd re-open at Whitsuntide, and that the proprietor in the meantime might be heard of at Wild Lodge, East Cliff. At the Sea-bathing Estabhehment, a row of neat little wooden houses seven or eight feet high, I saiv the proprietor in bed in the shower-bath. As to the bathing- macliines, they Avere (how they got there, is not for me to say) at the top of a hill at least a mile and a half off. The librar}'-, which I had never seen otherwise than wide open, was tight shut ; and two peevish bald old gentlemen seemed to be hermetically sealed up inside, eternally reading the paper. That wonderful mystery, the music-shop, carried it off as usual (except that it had more cabinet pianos in stock), as if season or no season were all f^iie to it. It made the same prodigious display of bright brazen wind-instruments, horribly twisted, worth, as I shoxild cjnceive, some thousands of pounds, and which it is utterly impossible that anybody in any season can ever play or want to play. It had five triangles in the window, six pairs of castanets, and three harps ; likewise every pollca with a colored frontispiece that ever was published ; from the original one where a smooth male and female Pole of high rank are coming at the observer with their arms a-kimbo, to the Ratcatcher's Daughter. Astonishing establishment, amazing enigma ! Thi'ee other shops were pretty much out of the season, what they were used to be in it. First, the shop where they sell the sailors' watches, which had stiU the old collection of enormous timekeepe-'s, apparentlj' designed to break a fall from the masthead : with places to wind them up, like fire-plugs. Secondly, the shop where they sell the sailors' clothing, which displayed the old sou' -westers, and the old oily suits, and the old pea-jackets, and the old one cea-chest, with its handles like a pair of rope earrings. Thirdly, the unchangeable shop for the sale of literature that has been left behind. Here, Dr. Faustus was still going down to very red and yedow perdition, iin.der the superintendence of three green personages t2 276 OUT OF THE SEASON. of a scaly liumour, with excrescential serpents growing out of their blade-bones. Here, the Golden Dreamer, and tho Norwood Fortune Teller, were still on sale at sixpence each, with instructions for making the dumb cake, and reading destinies in tea-cups, and with a picture of a young woman •n'ith a liigli waist h'ing on a sofa in an attitude so uncom- fortable as almost to account for her dreaming at one and the same time of a conflagration, a shipwreck, an earthquake, a skeleton, a chui'ch-porch, liglitning, funerals perfonned, and a young man in a bright blue coat and canary pantaloons. Here, were Little Warblers and Fairbui-n's Comic Songsters, Here, too, were ballads on the old ballad paper and in the old confusion of types ; witli an old man in a cocked hat, and an arm-chair, for the illustration to Will Watch the bold Smuggler ; and the Friar of Orders Gre}-, represented by a little girl in a hoop, with a ship in the distance. All these as of yore, when they were infinite delights to me ! It took me so long fully to relish these many enjoATnenrs, that I liad not more than an hour before bedtime to devote to Madame Roland. We got on admirably together on the subject of her convent education, and I rose next morning with the fall conviction that the day for the great chapter wils at last arrived. It had fallen calm, however, in the night, and as I sat at breakfast I blushed to remember that I had not yet been on the Downs. I a wallvcr, and not yet on the Downs I Really, on so quiet and bright a morning this must be set right. As an essential part of the "\Miole Duty of Man, therefore, I left the chapter to itself — for the present — and went on the Downs. The}'' were wonderfully green and beautiful, and gave me a good deal to do. When I liad done Avith the free air and the view, I had to go dowTi into the valley and look after the hops (which I know nothing about), and to be equally solicitous as to the cherry orcliards. Then I took it on myself to cross-examine a tramping family in black (mother alleged, I have no doubt by herself in person, to have died last week), and to accompany eighteenpence which produced a gi'eat effect, with moral admonitions which produced none at all. Finally, it was late in the afternoon before I got back to the unpi'ccedented chapter, and then I determined that it was out jf the season, as the place was, and put it away. I went at night to the benefit of Mrs. B. Wedgington at OUT OF THE SEASON. 277 the Theatre, who had placarded the town with the admonition, •' Don't forget it ! '* I made the house, according to my calculation, four and ninepence to begin with, and it may have warmed up, in the course of the evening, to half a sovereign. There was nothing to offend any one, — the good Mr. Baines of Leeds excepted. INIrs. E. "NVedgington sang to a grand piano. Mr. B. Wedgington did the like, and alsc took off his coat, tucked up his trousers, and danced in clogs. Master B. Wedgington, aged ten months, was nui-sed by a shivering young person in the boxes, and the eye of !Mrs. E. Wedgington wandered that way more than once. Peace be with all the Wedgingtons fi-om A. to Z. May they find themselves in the Season somewhere ! A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT. — ♦ — I AM not used to \yriting for print. ^Vhat working-nmn tlicit never labours less (some Mondays, and Cliristmas Time and Easter Time excepted) than twelve or fourteen hour a day, is ? But I have been asked to put down, plain, what I have got to say ; and so I take pen-and-ink, and do it to the best of my power, hoping defects will find excuse. I was born, nigh London, but have worked in a shop at Birmingham (what you would call ]\Ianufactories, we call Shops), almost ever since I was out of my time. 1 served my apprenticeship at Deptford, nigh where I was born, and I am a smith by trade. My name is John. I have been called " Old John " ever since I was nineteen year of age, on account of not having much hair. I am fifty-six year of age at the present time, and I don't find myself with more hair, nor yet with less, to signify, than at nineteen year of age aforesaid. I have been married five and tliirty year, come next April. I was man-ied on All Fools' Day. Let them laugh that win. I won a good wife that day, and it was as sensible a day to me, as ever I had. We have had a matter of ten children, six whereof are living. My eldest son is engineer in the Italian steam-packet " Mezzo Giomo, plying between Marseilles and Naples, and calling at Genoa, Leghorn, and Civita Vecchia." He was a good workman. He invented a many usefid little things that brouglit him in — nothing. I have two sons doing well at Sydney, New South Wales — single, when last heard from, One of my sons (James) Avent wild and for a soldier, where he was shot in India, living six weeks in hospital with a inusket-ball lodged in his shoulder-blade, which he -n-rote \rith his own hand. He was the best looking. One of ray two daughters (Mary) is comfortable in her circvimstances, but water on the chest. TTie other (Charlotte), her husband A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT. 279 run away from her in the basest manner, and she and hei three children Kve with us. The youngest, six year old, has a tiu'n for mechanics. I am not a Chartist, and I never was. I don't mean to Bay but what I see a good many public jioints to complain of, still I don't think that 's the way to set them right. If I did think so, I should be a. Chartist. But I don't think so, and [ am not a Chartist. I read the ];)aper, and hear discussion, at what we call " a parlor " in Birmingham, and I know many good men and workmen who are Chartists. Note. Not Physical force. It Avou't be took as boastful in me, if I make the remark (for I can't put do^vn what I have got to say, without putting that down before going any further), that I. have always been of an Ingenious turn. I once got twenty pound by a screw, and it 's in use now. I have been twenty year, off and on, completing an Invention and perfecting it. I perfected of it, last Christmas Eve at ten o'clock at night. Me and my Avife stood and let some tears fall over the Model, when it was done and I brought her in to take a look at it. A friend of mine, by the name of William Butcher, is a Chartist. Moderate. He is a good speaker. He is \'ery animated. I have often heard him deliver that what is, at every turn, in the way of us working-men, is, that too many places have been made, in the course of time, to provide for people that never ought to have been provided for ; and that we have to obey forms and to pay fues to support those places when we shoiddn't ought. " True, " (delivers William Butcher), " all the public has to do this, but it falls heaviest on the working-man, because he has least to spare ; and like- wise because impediments shoiddn't be jjut in his way, when he wants redress of wrong, or fui'therance of right." Note. I have wTote down those words from William Butcher's own mouth. W. B. delivering them fresh for the aforesaid purpose. Now, to my Model again. There it was, perfected of, ou Christmas Eve, gone nigh a year, at ton o'clock at night. All the mouej- I could spare I had laid out upon the Model ; and when times was bad, or mj'- daughter Charlotte's children sickly, or both, it had stood stiU, months at a spoU. I had pulled it to pieces, and made it over again with improvements, I don't know how often. There it stood, at last, a, perfected Model as aforesiud. 280 A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT. William butcher and me had a long talk, Cliristmas Bay- respecting of the iSIodel. William is very sensible. But sometimes cranky. William said, " What will you do -with it, John?" I said, "Patent it." WiUiam said, '-How .Patent it, Jolin?" I said, "By taking out a Patent." WiUiani then delivered that the law of Patent was a cruel wi'ong. William said, " John, if you make your invention public, before you g-et a Patent, anyone luay rob you of the fruits of your hard work. You are put iu a cleft stick, John. Either you must di'ive a bargain very much against yourself, b}' getting a party to come forward beforehand with the great exi^)enses of the Patent ; or, you must be put about, from post to pillar, among so many parties, trying to make a better bargain for yoiu-self, and showing your invention, that your invention wiU be took from you over j'our head." I said, " WiUiam Butcher, are j-ou cranky ? You are sometimes cranky." William said, "No, Jolm, I tell you the truth;" NAhich he then deliveixjd more at length. I said to W. B. I woidd Patent the invention myself. !My wife's brother, George Bury of West Bromwich (his wWe unfortunately took to drinking, made away with ever}^- thiug, and seventeen times committed to Birmingham Jail before happy release in every point of view), left my wife, his sister, when he died, a legaey of one hundred and twenty- eight pound ten. Bank of England Stocks. Me and my wife had never broke into that money yet. Note. We might come to be old, and past our work. We now agreed to Patent the invention. We said we would make a hole in it — I mean in the aforesaid money — and Patent the invention. William Butcher wrote me a letter to Thomas Joy, in London. T. J. is a carpenter, six foot four in heiglit, and plays c[uoits well. He lives in Chelsea, London, by the church. I got leave froin the shop, to be took on again when I come back. I am u go(xl ^^•orkman. Not a Teetotaller ; but never di'unk. ^Vhen tlie Christmas holidays wei-e over, I went up to London by the Parliamentary Train, and hired a lodging for a week with Thomas Joy. He is married. He has one son gone to sea. Tliomas Joy delivered (from a book he had) that the first step to bo took, in Patenting the invention, was to prepare a petition unto Queen Victoria. William Butcher had delivered similar, and drawn it up. Note. AVilliam is a ready writer. A POOR MAITS TALE OF A PATENT. 281 A declaration before a Master iu Chancery was to bo added to it. That, we likewise di-ew up. After a deal of trouble I foimd out a Master, in Southampton Buildings, Chancer;^ Lane, nigh Temple Bar, where I made the declaration, and paid cighteenpence. I was told to take the declaration and petition to the Home Office, in Wliitehall, where I left it to be signed by the Home Secretary (after I had found the office out) and where I paid two pound, two, and sixpence. In six days he signed it, and I was told to take it to the Attorney- General's chambers, and leave it there for a report. I did so, and paid four pound, foiu'. Note. Nobody all through, ever thankfid for their money, but all uncivil. My lodging at Thomas Joy's was now hired for another week, whereof five da^ys were gone. The Attorney-General jxade what they called a Report-of-course (my invention being, as William Butcher had delivered before starting, unopposed), and I was sent bacJc with it to the Home Office. They made a Copy of it, which was called a Warrant. For this warrant. I paid seven pound, thii-teen, and six. It was sent to the Queen, to sign. Tlie Queen sent it back, signed. The Home Secretary signed it again. The gentleman throwed it at me when I called, and said, "Now take it to the Patent Office in Lincoln's Inn." I was then in m}' third week at Thomas Joy's, living very sparing, on account of fees. I found myself losino' heart. At the Patent Office in Lincoln's Inn, they made " a draft of the Queen's bill," of my invention, and a '• docket of tho bill." I paid five pound, ten, and six, for this. They "en- grossed two copies of the bill ; one for the Sig-net Office, and one for the Pri-\y-Seal Office." I paid one pound, seven, and six, for this. Stamp duty over and above, three pound. The Engrossing Clerk of the same office engi-ossed the Queen's bill for signature. I paid him one pound, one. Stamp-dutj-, again, one pound, ten. I was next to take the Queen's bill to the Attorney-General again, and get it signed again. I took it, and paid five pound more. I fetched it away, and took it to the Home Secretary again. He sent it to the Queen again. She signed it again. I j)aid seven pound, thirteen, and six, more, for this. I had been over a month at Thomae Joy's. I was cpiite wore out, patience and pocket. Thomas Joy delivered all this, as it went on, to WiUiam Butcher. WiUiam Butcher delivered It again to three Bir- 282 A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT. mingham Parlors, from ^vhicll it got to all the other Pailora, and was took, as I have been told since, right through all the shops in the North of England. Note. WiUiam Butcher delivered, at his Parlor, in a speech, that it was a Patent way of making Chartists. But I hadn't nigh done jet. Tlie Queen's bUl was to bo took to the Signet Office in Somerset House, Strand — where the stamp shop is. The Clerk of the Signet made " a Signet biU, for the Lord Keeper of the Privy Seal." I paid him four pound, seven. Tlie Clerk of the Lord Keeper of the Privj' Seal made " a Privj^-Seal bill for the Lord Chancellor." I paid him, four pound, two. The Pri^y-Seal bill was handed over to the Clerk of the Patents, who engrossed the aforesaid. I paid him five pound, seventeen, and eight; at the same time, I paid Stamp-duty for the Patent, in one lump, thirty poimd. I next paid for "boxes for the Patent," nine and sixpence. Note. Thomas Joy would have made the same at a profit for eighteen-pence. I next paid "fees to the Deputy, the Lord Chancellor's Purse-bearer," two pound, two. I next paid " fees to the Clerk of the Hanaper," seven pound, thii'teen. I next paid " fees to the Deputy Clerk of the Hanaper," ten shillings. I next paid, to the Lord Chancellor again, one pound, eleven, and six. Last of all, I paid "fees to the Deputy Sealer, and Deputy Chaff- wax," ten shillings and sixpence. I had lodged at Thomas Joy's over six weeks, and the iinopposed Patent for my invention, for England only, bad cost me ninety-six pound, seven, and eightpence. If I had taken it out for the United Kingdom, it would have cost me more than three liundi-ed pound. Now, teaching had not come up but very limited when J was yoimg. So much the worse for me you '11 say. I say the same. William Butcher is twenty year younger than me. He knows a hundred year more. If William Butcher had wanted to Patent an invention, he might have been sharper than myself when liustled backwards and forwards among all those offices, though I doubt if so patient. Note. William being sometimes cranky, and consider porters, messengers, and clerks. Thereby I say nothing of my being tired of my life, while I was Patenting my invention. But I put this : Is it reason- able to make a man feel as if, in inventing an ingeniouf improvement meant to do good, he had done somethinf^ A POOR MAN'S TALE OF A PATENT. 288 wrong- ? IIoTV else can a man feel, when he is met by such flifRciJties at every turn ? All inventors taking out a Patent MUST feel so. And look at the expense. How hard on me, and how hard on the country if there 's any merit in me (and my invention is took up now, I am thanldiil to say, and doing well), to put me to all that expense before I can move a fmgcr! Make the addition yourself, and it'll come to ninety- eix poiind, seven, and eightpence. No more, and no less. V\Tiat can I say against William Butcher, about places ? Look at the Home Secretary, the Attorney-General, the Patent Office, the Engrossing Z^lerk, the Lord Chancellor, the Privy Seal, the Clerk of the Patents, the Lord Chancellor's Purse- bearer, the Clerk of the Hanaper, the Deputy Clerk of the Hanaper, the Deputi' Sealer, and the Deputy Chaff-wax. No man in England coidd get a Patent for an India-rubber band, or an iron hoop, without feeing all of them. Some of them, over and over again. I went thi'ough thirty-five stages. I began with the Queen upon the Tlirone. I ended with the Deputy Chaff-wax. Note. I should like to see the Deputy Chafi-wax. Is it a man, or what is it ? What I had to tell, I have told. I have wrote it down. I hope it 's plain. Not so much in the hand-WTiting (though nothing to boast of there), as in the sense of it. I will now conclude with Thomas Joy. Thomas said to me, when we parted, "John, if the laws of this country were as honest as they ought to be, you would have come to London — registered an exact description and drawing of your inA-ention — paid half-a-crown or so for doing of it — and therein and thereby have got j'our Patent." My opinion is the same as Thomas Joy. Further. In William Butcher's delivering " that the whole gang of Hana- pcrs and Chaff- waxes must be done away with, and that Knglind has been chaffed and waxed sufficient," I agree. THE NOBLE SAVAGE. To come to the point at once, I beg to say that I have not the least belief in the Noble Savage. I consider him a pro- digions nuisance, and an enormous superstition. His calling rum fire-water, and me a pale face, wholly fail to reconcile me lo nim. I don't care what he calls me. I call him a savage, and I call a savage a something highly desirable to be civilised off the face of the earth. I tliink a mere gent (which I take to be the lowest form of civilisation) better than a howling, whistling, clucking, stamping, jumping, teai'ing savage. It is all one to me, v\'hether he sticks a fish-bone through his visage, or bits of trees tlirough the lobes of his ears, or birds' feathers in his head ; whether he flattens his hair between two boards, or spreads his nose over the breadth of his face, or drags his lower lip down by gi-eat weights, or blackens hia teeth, or knocks them out, or paints one cheek red and the other blue, or tattoos himself, or oils himself, or rubs his body with fat, or crimps it with knives. Yielding to whichsoever of these agreeable eccentricities, he is a savage — cruel, false, thievish, mau-derous ; addicted more or loss to grease, entrails, and beastly customs ; a wild animal with the questionable gift of boasting ; a conceited, tiresome, bloodthirsty, monotonous humbug. Yet it is extraordinary to observe how some jicople will talk about him, as they talk about the good old times ; how they A^ill regret his disappearance, in the course of this world's development, from such and such lands where his absence is a blessed relief and an indispensable preparation for the sowing of the very first seeds of any influence that can exalt humanitj' how, even with the evidence of himself before them, they wiU either be determined to believe, or will suffer themselves to b( persuaded into believing, that he is something which theij five seu>ses tell them he is not. THE NOBLE SAVAGE. 2M lliero was Mr. Catlin, some few years ago, with liis OjibLe- way Indians. Mr. Catlin was an energetic earnest man, who had lived among more tribes of Indians than I need reckon up here, and who had wi-itten a picturesque and gloAviug book about them. With his party of Indians squatting and S2)itting on the table before him, or dancing their miserable jigs after their own dreary manner, he called, in all good faith, upon his civihsed audience to take notice of their symmetry and grace, their perfect limbs, and the exquisite expression of their pantomime ; and his civilised audience, in all good fiiith, complied and admired. ^Vhereas, as mere animals, tliey were wretched creatures, very low in the scale and very poorly fonned; and as men and women possessing any power of truthful dramatic expression by means of action, they were no better than the chorus at an Italian Opera in England — and would have been worse if such a thing were possible. ]Mine are no new views of the noble savage. The greatest writers on natui-al history found him out long ago. Buffon knew what he was, and showed why he is the sidky t}Tant that he is to his women, and how it happens (Heaven be praised !) that his race is spare in numbers. For evidence of the quality of liis moral nature, pass himself for a moment and refer to his "faitliful dog." Has he ever improved a dog, or attached a dog, since his nobility first ran wild in woods, and was brought do^vn (at a very long shot) by Pope ? Or does the animal that is the friend >f man, always degenerate in his low society ? It is not the miserable nature of the noble savage that is the new thing ; it is the whimpering over him with maudlin admiration, and the affecting to regTot him, and the drawing of any comparison of advantage between the blemishes of civilisation and the tenor of his swinish life. There may have been a change now and then in those diseased absurdities, hid there is none in him. Think of the Bushmen. Think of the two men and the cwo women who have been exhibited about England for some years. Ai'e the majority of persons — who remember the horrid little leader of that party in Ids festering bundle of hides, with his filth and liis antipathy to water, and his straddled legs, and his odious eyes shadod by his brutal hand, and his cry of " Qu-u-u-u-aaa i ' ' (i^osjesman for somotliing desperately insulting I have no doubt) — conscious of an 286 THE NOBLE SAVAGE. affectionate yearning to'n'ards tliat noble savage, or is it idiosyncratic in me to abhor, detest, abominate, and abjiiro him ? I have no reserve on this subject, and -svill frankly state that, setting aside that stage of tlie entertainment when he cjunterfeited the death of some creature he had shot, by laying his head on his hand and shaking his left leg — at which time T think it would have been justifiable homicide to slay him — I have never seen that gi-oup sleeping, smoking, and expectorating round their brazier, but I have sincerely desired that something might happen to the charcofil smouldering therein, which woidd cause the immediate BufFocation of the whole of the noble strangers. Tliere is at present a party of Zulu Kaffirs exhibiting at the St. George's Gallery, Hyde Park Corner, London. These noble savages are represented in a most agreeable manner; they are seen in an elegant theatre, fitted with appropriate scenery of great beauty, and they are described in a very sensible and unpretending lecture, delivered with a modesty which is quite a pattern to all similar exponents. Though extremely ugly, they are much better shaped than such of their predecessors as I have referred to ; and they are rather picturesque to the eye, thougii far from odoriferous to the nose. What a visitor left to his o-mi interpretings and imaginings might suppose these noblemen to be about, when they give vent to that pantomimic expression which is quite settled to be the natural gift of the noble savage, I cannot possibly conceive ; for it is so much too luminous for my personal civilisation that it conveys no idea to my mind beyond a general stamping, ramping, and raving, remarkable (as everything in savage life is) for its dire uniformity. But let lis — with the interpreter's assistance, of which I for one stand so much in need — see what the noble savage does in Zulu Kafiirland. The noble savage sets a king to reign over him, to whom he submits his life and limbs without a murmur or question, and whose whole life is passed chin deep in a lake of blood ; but v.'lio, after killing incessantly, is in his turn killed by his relations and friends, the moment a gray hair appears on his head. All the noble savage's wars Avith his fellow-savages [and he takes no pleasure in anything else) are wars of exter- mination — which is the best thing I know of him, and the most comfortable to my mind when I look at him. He has THE NOBLE SAVAGE. 287 ho moral feelings of any kind, sort, or description; and hia " mission " may be summed up as simply diabolical. The ceremonies with which he faintly diversifies his life are, of course, of a kindred nature. If he wants a wife he appears before the kennel of tlie gentleman -whom he has selected foi his father-in-law, attended by a party of male friends of u very strong flavour, who screech and whistle and stamp an ofier of so many cows for the young lady's hand. The chosen father-in-law — also supported by a high-flavoured party ol male friends — screeches, whistles, and yells (being seated on the ground, he can't stamp) that there never was such a daughter in the market as his daughter, and that he must have six more cows. The son-in-law and his select circle of backers, screech, whistle, stamp, and yell in reply, that they wiU give three more cows. The father-in-law (an old deluder, overpaid at the beginning) accepts four, and rises to bind the bargain. The whole party, the young lady included, then falling into epileptic convulsions, and screeching, whistling, stamping, and yelling together — and nobody taking any notice of the young lady (whose charms are not to be thought of without a shudder) — the noble savage is considered married, and his friends make demoniacal leaps at liim by way of congratulation. W]ien the noble savage finds himself a little unwell, and mentions the circumstance to liis friends, it is immediately perceived that he is under the influence of witchcraft. A learned personage, called an Imyanger or Witch Doctor, ia immediately sent for to Nooker the Umtargartie, or smell out the witch. The male inhabitants of the kraal being seated on the ground, the learned doctor, got up like a grizzly bear, appears, and administers a dance of a most terrific nature, diu'ing the exhibition of which remedy he incessantly gnashes his teeth, and howls : — " I am the original physician to Nooker tho Umtargartie. Yow yow yow ! No connexion with any other establishment. Till till till ! All otlier Umtargarties are feigned Umtargarties, Boroo Boroo ! but J perceive here a genuine and real Umtargartie, Hoosh Ilbosb Hoosh ! in whose blood I, the original Imj-anger and Nookerer, Blizzerum Boo ! will wash these bear's claws of mine. ^ow yow yow ! " All this time the learned physician ifi looking out among the attentive faces for some unfortunate man who owes him a cow, or who has given liim any small 288 THE NOBLE SAVAGE. offence, or against wliom, without offence, he has oonceivecl a Bpite. Him he never fails to Nooker as the Umtargartie, and he is instantly Jvillcd. In the absence of such an individual, the usual practice is to Noolcer the quiet..'St and most gentle- manly person in company. But the nookering is invarialily followed on the spot hy the butchering. Some of the noble savages in whom Mr. Catlin was so strongly interested, and the diminution of whose numbers, by rum and small-pox, greatly affected him, had a custom not unlike this, though much more appalling and disgusting in its odious details. The women being at work in the fields, hoeing the Indian corn, and the noble savage being asleep in the shade, the chief has sometimes the condescension to come forth, and lighten the labor by looking at it. On these occasions, he seats himself in his own savage chair, and is attended by his shield-bearer : who holds over his head a shield of cowhide — in shape like an immense mur.sel shell — fearfully and wonder- fully, after the manner of a theatrical supernumerary. But lest the great man shoidd forgfit his greatness in the contem- plation of the humble works of agriculture, there suddenly rushes in a poet, retained for the purpose, called a Praiser. This literary gentleman wears a leopard's head over his own, and a dress of tiger's tails ; he has the appearance of haAang come express on his hind legs from the Zoological Gardens ; and he incontinently strikes up the chief's praises, plunging and tearing all the while. There is a frantic wickedness in tliis brute's manner of worrying the air, a,nd gnashing out, " Oh Avhat a delightful chief lie is ! O -^hat a delicious quantity of blood he sheds I O how majestically he laps it up ! O how charmingly cruel he is ! O how he tears the flesh of his enemies and crunches the bones ! O how like the tiger and the leopard and the wolf and the bear lie is ! O, row row row row, how fond I am of him ! " — \vhirh might tempt the Society of Friends to charge at a hand-gallop into the Swartz-Kop location and exterminate the whole kraal. "\^nicn war is afoot among the noble savages — which is always — the chief holds a council to ascertain whether it is the opinion of his brothers and friends in general tliat the anevay shall be exterminated. On this occasion, after the performance of an Umsebeuza, or war song, — which is exactly \ike oil the other songs, — the chief makes a speech to liis THE rfOBLE SAVAGE. - 286 brothers and friends, arranged in single file. No particiilal order is ohservc-d during tlie delivery of tliis address, Init every gentleman who finds himself excited by the siihjcct, instead of crying " Hear, hear! " as is the custom vrith. iis, iarts from the rank and tramples out the life, or crushes the skxul, or mashes the face, or scoops out the eyes, or break.s the limbs, or performs a whirlwind of atrocities on the body, iif an imaginary enemy. Several gentlemen becoming thus excited at once, and poimding away without the least regard to the orator, that illustrious person is rather in the position of an orator in an Irish House of Commons. But, several of these scenes of savage life bear a strong generic resemblance to an Irish election, and I think would be extremely well received and xmderstood at Cork. In all these ceremonies the noble savage holds forth to the utmost possible extent about liimself ; from which (to tiu-a him to some civilised account) we may learn, I think, that as egotism is one of the most offensive and contemptible little- nesses a civilised man can exhibit, so it is really incompatible with the interchange of ideas ; inasmuch as if we all talked about ourselves wo should soon have no listeners, and must be all yelling and screeching at once on our own separate accounts : making society hideous. It is my opinion that if we retained in us an3i;hiag of the noble savage, we could not get rid of it too soon. But the fiict is clearly otherwise. Upon the ■wife and dowr}' question, substituting coin for cows, we have assuredly nothing of the Zulu Kaffir left. The endurance of despotism is one great distinguishing mark of a savage always. The improving world has quite got the better of that too. In like manner, Paris is a civilised city, and the Theatre Fran^ais a highly civilised theatre ; and we shall never hear, and never have heard in these later days (of course) of the Praiser there. No, no, ci^•ilised poets have better work to do. As to Xookering Umtargarties, there are no pretended Umtargarties in Europe, and no Eirropean powers to Nooker them ; that would be mere spydom, sub- ornation, small malice, superstition, and false pretence. ^\jid as to private Umtargarties, are we not in the year eighteen hundred and fifty-tlu'ee, A\'ith spirits rapping at oiu' doors ? To conclude as I began. My position is, that if we have anything to learn fi-om the Noble Savage, it is wliat to avoid. His vii-tues are a fable ; his happiness in a delusion ; lus 290 THE NOBLE SAVAGE. nobility, nonsense. We liavo no greater justification for being cruel to the miserable object, than for being cruel to a W1LLIA.M Shakspeake or an Isaac Newton ; but ho passes away before an immeasurably better and higher pov/er than ever ran wdld in any earthly woods, and the world wlU b© aU *bia Letter when, his place knows him no more A FLIGHT. When Don Diego de — I forget his name — the inventor of the last new Flying Machines, price so many francs for ladies, so many more for gentlemen — when Don Diego, by permission of Deputy Chaff Wax and his noble band, shall have taken out a Patent for the Queen's dominions, and shall have opened a commodious Warehouse in an airy situation ; and when aU persons of any gentility wiU keep at least a pair of wings, and be seen skimming about in every direction ; I shall take a flight to Paris (as I soar round the world) in a cheap and independent manner. At present, my reliance is on the South Eastern Railway Company, in whose Express Train here I sit, at eiglit of the clock 'on a very hot morning, under the very hot roof of the Terminus at London Bridge, in danger of being " forced " like a cucumber or a melon, or a pine-apple — And talking of pine-apples, I suppose there never were so many pine-apples in a Train as there appear to be in this Train. \Vhew ! The hot-house air is faint with pine-apples. Every French citizen or citizeness is carrying pine-apples home. The compact little Enchantress in the corner of my carriage (French actress, to whom I yielded up my heart imder the auspices of that brave child, "Meat-chell," at the St. James's Theatre the night before last) has a pine-apple in her lap. Compact Enchantress's friend, confidante, mother, mystery, Heaven knows what, has two pine-apples in her lap, and a bundle of thcra under the seat. Tobacco-smoky Frenchmen in Algerine wrapper, ^ith peaked hood beliind, who might be Abd-el- Kader dyed rifle-green, and who seems to be dressed entirely in dirt and br.iid, carries pine-apples in a covered basket. Tall, grave, melancholy Frenchman, with black Vandyke beard, and hair close-cropped, witii expansive chest to waist- coat, and compressive waist to ttoat : saturnine as to hifi V 2 292 A FLIGHT. pantaloons, calm as to his feminine boots, precious as to his jewellery, smooth and white as to Lis linen : dark-eyed, high- f(ireheaded, hawk-nosed — got xxp, one thinks, like TiUcifer or Mephistopheles, or Zamiel, transformed into a highly genteel Parisian — has the green end of a pine-apple sticking cut of his neat valise. \Miew ! If I were to be kept here long, under this forcing- frame, I wonder what would become of me — whether I should bo forced into a giant, or should sprout or blow into some other phenomenon ! Compact Enchantress is not ruffled by the heat — she is always composed, always compact. O look at her little ribbons, frills, and edges, at her shawl, at her gloves, at her hah', at her bracelets, at her bonnet, at every- thing about her ! How is it accomplished ? What does she do to be so neat? How is it that every trifle she wears belongs to her, and cannot choose but be a pai-t of her ? And even Mystery, look at her ! A model. jNIysteiy is not young, not pretty, tliough still of an average candle-Hght passabilit}^ ; but she does such miracles in her own behalf, that, one of these days, when she dies, they '11 be amazed to find an old woman in her bed, distantly like her. She was an actress once, I shouldn't wonder, and had a Mystery attendant on herself. Perhaps, Compact Enchantress will live to be a Mystery, and to wait with a shawl at the side-scenes, and to sit opposite to Mademoiselle in railway carriages, and smile and talk subserviently, as INIystery does now. That 's hard to believe ! Two Englishmen, and now our carriage is full. First Englishman, in the monied interest — flushed, higiily respect- able — Stock Exchange, perhaps — City, certainly. Faculties of second Englishman entirely absorbed in hurry. Plunges into the carriage, bhnd. Calls out of ^\indow concerning Ids lu^'gage, deaf. Suffocates himself under pillows of great coats, for no reason, and in a demented manner. Will receive no assurance from any porter whatsoever. Is stout and hot, and wipes his head, and makes himself hotter by breathing so hard. Is totally incredulous respecting assurance of Col- lected Guard that ""there's no hurry." No hurry! And a flight to Paris in eleven hours ! It is all one to me in this drowsy corner, hurry or no hurry. Until Don Diego shall send home my wings, my flight is with the South Eastern Company T can fly A^-ith A FLIGHT. 293 the South Eastern, more lazily, at all events, thaa in the upper air. I have but to sit liere thinlving as icily as I i:)lease and be Tvliisked away. I am not accountable to anybody foi the idleness of my thoughts in such an idle summer flight ; my fligiit is provided for by the South Eastern and is no business of mine. The bell ! With all my heart. It does not requii-e me to do so much as even to flap my wings. Something snorts for me, something shrieks for me, something proclaims to every- thing else that it had better keep out of my way, — and away I go. Ah ! The fresh au- is pleasant after the forcing-frame, though it does blow over these internainable streets, and scatter the smoke of this vast wilderness of chimnej-s. Here we are — no, I mean there we were, for it has darted far into the rear — in Bermondsey where the tanners Hve. Flash ! The distant shipping in the Thames is gone. Whirr ! The little streets of new brick and red tile, with here and there a flagstaff growing like a tall weed out of the scarlet beans, and, everywhere, plenty of open sewer and ditch for the pro- motion of the pubHc health, have been fu-ed off in a volley. Whizz ! Dustheaps, market-gardens, and waste grounds. Rattle ! New Cross Station. Shock ! There we were at Croydon. Bur-r-r-r ! The tunnel. I wonder Avhy it is that wlien I shut my eyes in a tunnel I begin to feel as if I were going at an Express pace the other way. I am clearly going back to London now. Compact Enchantress must have forgotten something, and reversed the engine. No ! After long darloiess, pale fitfid streaks of light appear. I am still flying on for Folkestone. The streaks grow stronger — become continuous — become the ghost of day — become the living day — became I mean — the tunnel is miles and miles away, and here I fly tlirough smdight, all among tbe harvest and the Kentish hops. There is a dreamy pleasure in this flying. 1 wonder where it was, and when it was, that we exploded, blew into space somehow, a Parliamentary Train, with a crowd of heiids and faces looking at us out of cages, and some hats waving, Monied Interest says it was at Rcigate Station. F.x[;ouiuls to Mystery how Ileigate Station is so many miles from London, Avhich Mysteiy again develo])s to Comj)ii(.t Eii- Uiantress. There migiit be neither a Keigate nor a Loudoi 294 A FLIGHT. for me, as I fly away among' the Kentish, hops and harvest What do I care ! Bang ! We have let another Station off, and fly away rega/dless. Everything is flyin-g. The hop-gardens turn gri'acefiilly towards lue, presenting reg-'olar avenues of hops in rapid flight, then whirl away. So do the pools and rushes, ha3'stacks, sheep, clover in full bloom delicious to the sight and smell, corn -sheaves, cherrj' - orchards, apple -orchards, reapers, gleaners, hedges, gates, fields that taper off into little angidar corners, cottages, gardens, now and then a church. Bang, bang ! A double-barrelled Station ! Now a wood, now a bridge, now a landscape, now a cutting, now a Bang ! a single-barrelled Station — there was a cricket match some'where with two white tents, and then four flying cows, then turnips — -now the wires of the electric telegraph are all alive, and spin, and blurr theij." edges, and go up and down, and make the intervals between each other most irregular : contracting and expanding in the strangest manner. Now we slacken. With a screwing, and a grinding, and a smell of water thrown on ashes, now we stop ! Demented Traveller, who has been for two or three minutes watcliful, clutches liis great coats, plunges at the door, rattles it, cries "Hi!" eager to embark on board of impossible packets, far inland. Collected Guard appears. •' Are you for Tunbridge, sir?" " Tunbridge ? No. Paris." "Plenty of time, sir. No hurry. Five minutes here, sir, for refresh- ment." I am so blest (anticipating Zamiel, by half a second) as to procure a glass of water for Compact P^nchantress. Who would suppose we had been flying at such a rate, and shall take wing again directly ? Refi-eshment-room full, plat- form full, porter -".^'itli watering-pot deliberately cooling a hot wheel, another porter with equal deliberation helping the rest of the wheels bowntifully to ice cream. Monied Interest and J re-entering the carriage first, and being there alone, he inti- mates to me that the French are "no go" as a Nation. I ask why ? He says, that Reig-n of Terror of theirs was quite enough. I ventured to inquire wli ether he remembers any- thing that preceded said Reign of Terror ? He says not particularly. " Because," I remark, " the harvest that is reaped, has sometimes been sown." Monied Interest repeats, as quite enough for him, that tlie French are revolutionary " —-and always at it." A FLiaHT. 2M Bell. CompaL't Enchantress, helped in by Zamiel, (whom Iho stars confound !) gives us her charming little side-box look, and smites me to the core. INIystery eating sponge-cake Pine-apple atmosphere faintly tinged vrith suspicions of sherry. Demented Traveller flits past the carriage, looking for it. Is blind with agitation, and can't see it. Seems singled out by Destiny to be the only imhappy creature in the flight, who has any cause to hurry himself. Is nearly left behind. Is seized by Collected Guard after the Train is in motion, and bundled in. Still, has lingering suspicions that there must be a boat in the neighboui-hood, and will look wildly out of window for it. Flight resumed. Corn - sheaves, hop-gardens, reapers, gleaners, apple-orchards, cherry-orchards. Stations single and double-barrelled, Asliford. Compact Enchantress (constantly talking to ISIyster}'', in an exquisite manner) gives a lifrtle scream ; a soimd that seems to come from high up in her precious little head ; from behind her bright little eyebrows. " Great Heaven, my pine-apple ! My Angel ! It is lost ! " Mystery is desolated. A search made. It is not lost. Zamiel finds it. I curse him (flj-ing) in the Persian manner. May his face be tiu-ned upside down, and jackasses sit upon his uncle's grave ! Now fresher air, now glimpses of unenclosed Down-land with flapping crows flying over it whom we soon outfly, now the Sea, now Folkestone at a quarter after ten. " Tickets ready, gentlemen ! " Demented dashes at the door. " For Paris, Sir ? No hurr}%" Not the least. We are dropped slowly down to the Port, and sidle to and fro (the whole Train) before the insensible Royal George Hotel, for some ten minutes. The Royal George takes no more heed of us than its namesake under water at Spithead, or under earth at Windsor, does. The Royal George's dog lies winking and blinking at us, without taking the trouble to sit up ; and the Royal George's " wedding party " at the open window (who seem, I must say, rather tired of bliss) don't bestow a solitary glance upon us, flying thus to Paris in eleven hours. The first gentleman in Folke- stone is evidentl}'^ used up, on this subject. Meanwhile, Demented chafes. Conceives that every man's hand is against him, and exerting itself to prevent his getting to Paris. Refuses consolation Rattles door. Sees smoka £9^ A. FLIGHT. on the liorizon, and "knows" it's the hoat gone without him. Mouied Interest resentful!}' explains that he is going to Paris too. Demented signifies that if Monied Intei'est chooses to be left behind, ?ie don't. " Refresh nients in the Waiting- Room, ladies and gentle- men. No hurr}', ladies and gentlemen, for Paris. No hurry whatever ! " Twenty minutes' pause, by Follcestone clock, for looking at Enchantress while she eats a sandwich, and at Mystery Mhile shd eats of everything there that is eatable, from pork -pie, sausage, jam, and gooseberries, to lumps of sugar. All this time, there is a very waterfall of luggage, A^ith a spra}^ of dust, tumbling slantwise from the pier into the steamboat. Ail this time. Demented (who has no business with it) watches it with starting eyes, fiercely requiring to be shown his luggage. When it at last concludes the cataract, he rushes hotly to refresh — is shouted after, pursued, jostled, brought back, pitched into tlie departing steamer upside down, and caught by mariners disgracefully. A lovely liarvest day, a cloudless sky, a tranquil sea. The piston-rods of the engines so regularly coming up from below, to look (as well they may) at the bright weather, and so regularly almost knockiug their iron lieads against the cross feeam of the skyliglit, and never doing it ! Another Parisian actress is on board, attended by another Mystery. Compact Enchantress greets her sister artist- — Oh, the Compact One's pretty teeth ! — and Mystery greets ^Mystery. My Mystery soon ceases to be conversational — is taken poorly, in a "oord, having lunched too miscellaneously — and goes below. The remaining Mystery then smiles upon the sister artists (who, I am afraid, wouldn't greatly mind stabbing each other), and is upon the whole ravished. And now I find that all the French people on board begin to grow, and all the English people to shrink. The French are neariiig home, and shaking off a disadvantage, whereas we are sliaking it on. Zarniel is the same man, and Abd-el- Kader is the same man, but each seems to come into possession of an indescribable confidence that departs from lis — from Monied Interest, for instance, and from me. Just what they gain, we lose. Certain British "Gents" about the steersman, intellectually niu-tiu-ed at home on pai'ody of ever}i.hing and truth cf nothing, become subdued, and in a manner forlorn i A FLIGHT. 297 and \\-lien the steersman tells them (not nnexultiiigly) how he has " been upon this station now eight year, and never see the old town of Bitlium yet," one of them, with an imbecile reliance on a reed, asks him what he considers to he the best hotel in Paris? Now, I tread upon French ground, and am greeted by the three charming words. Liberty, Ei^uality, Fraternity, jiainted up (in letters a little too thin for their height) on the Custom- House wall — also by the sight of large cocked hats, without which demonstrative head-gear nothing of a public nature can be done upon this soil. All the rabid Hotel population of Boulogne howl and shi'iek outside a distant barrier, frantic to get at us. Demented, by some imlucky means peculiar to himself, is delivered over to their fury, and is presently seen struggling in a whirpool of Touters — is somehow understood to be going to Paris — is, with infinite noise, rescued by two cocked hats, and brought into Custom-House bondage with the rest of us. Here, I resign the active duties of life to an eager being, of preternatural sharpness, mth a shelving forehead and a shabby snuff-colored coat, who (from the wharf) brought me do^^^l with his eye before the boat came into port. He darts upon my luggage, on the floor where all the luggage is strewn like a A\Teck at the bottom of the great deep ; gets it proclaimed and weighed as the property of " Monsieur a traveller unknown;" pays certain francs for it, to a certain functionary behind a Pigeon Hole, like a pay-box at a Theatre (the arrangements in general are on a wholesale scale, half militaiy and half theatrical) ; and I suppose I shall find it when I come to Paris — he says I shall. I know nothing about it, except that I pay him his small fee, and pocket the ticket he gives me, and sit upon a counter, involved in the general distraction. Railwa}^ station. "Lunch or dinner, ladies and gentlemen. Plenty of time for Paris. Plenty of time ! " Large hall, long counter, long strips of dining-table, bottles of wine, plates of meat, roast chickens, little loaves of bread, basins of 80up, little caraffes of brandy, cakes, and fruit. Comfortably restored from these resources, I begin to fly again. I saw Zamiel (before I took wing) presented to Compact Enchantress and Sister Artist, by an officer in uniform, with a waist like a wasp's, and nantfdoons like two balloons. Thej 298 A FLIGHT, all got Into the uext carriage together, accompanied by the tvro iSIyateries. They laughed. I am alone in the carriage (for I don't consider Demented anybody) and alone iu the world. Fields, windmills, low grounds, pollard-trees, windmills, fields, fortifications, Abbeville, soldiering and drumming. 1 wonder where England is, and when I was there last — about two years ago, I should say. Flying in and out among these trenches and batteries, skimming the clattering drawbridges, looking do^Ti into the stagnant ditches, I become a prisoner of state, escaping. I am confined with a comrade in a fortress. Our room is in an upper story. We have tried to get up the chimney, but there 's an iron grating across it, imbedded in the masonry. After months of labour, we have worked the grating loose with the poker, and can lift it up. We have also made a hook, and twisted our rugs and blankets into ropes. Our plan is, to go up the chimney, liook our ropes to the top, descend hand over hand upon the roof of the guard- house far below, shake the hook loose, watch the opportunity of the sentinel's pacing away, hook again, drop into the ditch, swim across it, creep into the shelter of the wood. The time is come — a wild and stormy night. We are up the chimney, we are on the guard-house roof, we are swimming in the murky ditch, when lo ! "Qui v'la ? " a bugle, the alarm, a crash ! What is it ? Death ? No, Amiens. More fortifications, more soldiering and di'umming, more basins of soup, more little loaves of bread, more bottles of wine, more caraffes of brandy, more time for refreshment. Everything good, and everything ready. Bright, unsub- stantial-looking, scenic sort of station. People waiting. Houses, uniforms, beards, moustaches, some sabots, plenty/ of neat women, and a few old-visaged children. Unless it be a delusion bom of my giddy flight, tlie grown-up people and the children seem to change places in France. In general, the boys and girls are Kttle old men and women, and the men and women lively boys and girls. Bugle, shi-iek, flight resumed. Monied Interest has come into my carriage. Says the manner of refreshing is " not bad," but considers it French. Admits great dexterity and politeness in the attendants. Thinks a decimal currency may have something to do with their despatch in settling accounts, and don't know but what it 's sensible and convenient. Add^ A FLIGHT. 290 however, as a general protest, that they're a revolutionary people- — and always at it. Ramparts, canals, cathedral, river, soldiering and drumming, open country, river, earthenware manufactures, Crcil. Agatu ten minutes. Not even Demented in a hurry. Station, a drawing room with a verandah : like a planter's house. Monied Interest considers it a band-box, and not made to last. Little round tables in it, at one of wliich the Sister Artists and attendant ]\Iysteries are established with Wasp and Zamiel, as if they were going to stay a week. Anon, with no more trouble than before, I am flpng again, and lazily wondering as I fly. What has the South Eastern done with all the horrible little villages we used to pass through, in the Dili(jence '/ What have they done with all the summer dust, with all the winter mud, with all the di-eary avenues of little trees, with all the ramshackle postyards, with all the beggars (who used to turn out at night with bits of lighted candle, to look in at the coach windows), with aU the long-tailed horses who were always biting one another, with all the big postilions in jack-boots — with all the mouldy cafes that we used to stop at, where a long mildewed table- cloth, set forth with jovial bottles of vinegar and oil, and with a Siamese arrangement of pepper and salt, was never wanting ? Where are the grass-grown little towns, the wonderful little market-places all unconscious of markets, the shops that nobody kept, the streets that nobody trod, tlie churches that nobody went to, the bells that nobody rang, the tumble-down old buildings plastered with many-colored bills that nobod}' read ? Where are the two-and-twenty weary hoiu-s of long long day and night journey, sure to be either insupportably hot or insuj^portably cold ? '\\liere are the pains in my bones, where are the fidgets in my legs, where is the Frenchman with the nightcap who never would have llie Little coupe-window do'«Ti, and who always fell upon me when he went to sleep, and always slept all night snoring onions ? A voice breaks in with " Paris I Here we are ! " I have overflown myself, perhaps, but I can't believe it. I feel as if I were enchanted or bewitched. It is barely eight o'clock yet — it is nothing like half-past — when I have had my luggage examined at that briskest of Custom-Houses attached to the station, and am rattling over the pavement in a Ilacknej sabriolct. 300 A FLIGHT. Siu-elv, not the pavement of Paris ? Yes, I think it is, too I don't know any other place where there are all these high houses, all these haggard-looking' wine shops, aU these billiard tables, all these stocking-makers with flat red or yeUow legs of wood for signboard, all these fuel 8]^ops with, stacks o< billets painted outside, and real billets sawing in the gutter, all these dirtj' corners of streets, aU these cabinet pictures over dark doorways representing discreet matrons nursing oabies. i\jid yet this morning — I 'U tliink of it in a warm- bath. Very like a small room that I remember in the Chineso Baths upon tlie Boulevard, certainly ; and, though I see it tlirough the steam, I think that I might swear to that peculiar hot-Knen basket, like a large wicker hour-glass. When car it have been that I left home ? ^^^len was it that I paid "through to Paris" at London Bridge, and discharged myself of all responsibility, except the preservation of a voucher ruled into three divisions, of which the first was snipped ofi at Folkestone, tlie second aboard the boat, and the thii'd taken at my journey's end ? It seems to have been ages ago. Calculation is useless. I will go out for a walk. The crowds in the streets, the lights in the shops and balconies, the elegance, variety, and beauty of their decora- tions, the number of the theatres, the brilliant cafes with their windows thrown up high and their vivacious groups at little tables on the pavement, the liglit and glitter oi the houses turned as it were inside out, soon convince me that it is no dream ; that I am in Paris, iiowsoever I got here. I stroU dcwn to the sparkhng Palais Royal, up the Rue de Rivoli, to the Place Vendome. As I glance into a print- shop window, !Monied Interest, my late travelling companion, somes upon me, laughing with the highest relish of disdain. '•'Here's a people!" he says, pointing to Napoleon in the window and Napoleon on the column. " Only one idea all over Paris! A monomania ! " Humph! I think I have seen Napoleon's match? There was a statue, when I came away, at Hyde Park Comer, and another in the City, and a print or two in the shops. I walk up to the Barriere de I'Etoile, sufficiently dazed by iry flight to have a pleasant doubt of the reality of ever}i;hing ftbout me ; of the lively crowd the overhanging trees, the performing dog«, the hobby-horses, the beautiful perspectives A FLIdKT. 801 of shining lamps : the hundred and one inclosures, where the singing is, in gleaming orchestras of azure and gold, and where a star-eyed Houri comes round with a box for voluntary offerings. So, I pass to my hotel, enchanted ; sup, enchanted ; go to bed, enchanted ; pushing back this morning (if it really were this morning) into the remoteness of time, blessing tlie South Eastern Company for realising the Ai'abian Nights in these prose days, miu-mui'ing, as I wing ray idle flight into the land of dreams, " No hurry, ladies and gentlemen, goiug to Paris in eleven hours. It is so well done, that there n ally is no hurry!" ^ THE DETECTIVE POLICE. We are not by any means devout believers in the Old Bow Street Police. To say the truth, vre think there •was a vast amount of humbug about those worthies. Apart from many of them being men of very indifferent character, and far too much in the habit of consorting with thieves and the like, they never lost a pubhc occasion of jobbing and trading in mystery and making the most of themselves. Continually puffed besides by incompetent magistrates anxious to conceal their o^vn deficiencies, and hand-in-glove "with the penny-a- liners of that time, they became a sort of superstition. Although as a Preventive Police they were utterly ineffective, and as a Detective Police were very loose and uncertain in their operations, they remain with some people a superstition to the present day. On the other hand, the Detective Force organised since the establishment of the existing Police, is so well chosen and trained, proceeds so sj^stematically and Cjuieth", does its busi- ness in such a workman-like manner, and is always so calmly and steadily engaged in the service of the public, that the public reaUy do not know enough of it, to know a tithe of its usefulness. Impressed with this conviction, and interested in the men themselves, we represented to the authorities at Scotland Yard, that we should be glad, if there were no official objection, to have some talk witli the Detectives. A most obliging and ready permission being given, a certain evening was appointed with a certain Inspector for a social conference between ourselves and the Detectives, at The Household "Words Office in Wellington Street, Strand, London. In consequence of wliich appointment the party '•' came off," which we are about to describe. And we beg to repeat that, avoiding such topics as it might for obvious reasons bo injurious to the public, or disagreeable to respectable THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 303 individuals, to touch upon in print, oui- description is as exact as we can make it. The reader ■svill have the goodness to imagine the Sanctum Sanctorum of Household "Words. Anything tliat best suite the reader's fancy, will best represent that magnificent cham- ber. We merely stipulate for a round table in the middle, with some glasses and cigars arranged upou it ; and the editorial sofa elegantlj^ hemmed in between that stately piece of furniture and the wall. It is a sultry evening at dusk. The stones of Wellington Street are hot and gritty, and the watermen and hackney- coachmen at the Theatre opposite, are much flushed and aggravated. Carriages are constantly setting down the people who have come to Fairy-Land; and there is a mighty shouting and bellowing every now and then, deafening us for the moment, through the open windows. Just at dusk. Inspectors Wield and Stalker are announced ; but we do not imdertake to warrant the ortliography of any of the names here mentioned. Inspector Wield presents Inspector Stalker. Inspector Wield is a middle-aged man of a portly presence, wicti a large, moist, knowing eye, a husky voice, and a habit of emphasising his conversation by the aid of a corpu- lent fore-finger, which is constantly in juxta-position with his eyes or nose. Inspector Stalker is a slxrewd, hard-headed Scotchman — in appearance not at all unlike a very acute, thorouglily-traincd schoolmaster, from the Normal Establish- ment at Glasgow. Inspector Wield one might have kno'wn, perhaps, for what he is — Inspector Stallcer, never. The ceremonies of reception over. Inspectors Wield and Stalker observe that the}' have brought some sergeants with them. The sergeants are presented — five in number. Sergeant Domton, Sergeant Witchem, Sei-geant ^litii, Sergeant FendaD, and Sergeant Straw. We have the whole Detective Force from Scotland Yard, with one exception. They sit down in a semi-circle (the two Inspectors at the two ends) at a little distance from the round table, facing the editorial sofa. Every man of them, in a glance, immediately takes an inventory of the furniture and an acciirate sketch of the editorial presence. The Editor feels tliat any gentle aian in company could take him lip, if need should be, v.ithout the smaUe.st liesitation, twenty yt^ars hence. The whole pai'ty are in plain clothes. Sergeant DomtoD 304 THE DETECTIVE POLICE. about fifty years of age, with a ruddy face and a high nun- bui-nt forehead, has the air of one who has been a Sergeant in the army — he might have sat to WiLkie for the Soldier iu the Reading of the Will. He is famous for steadily pursuing the inductive process, and, from small beginnings, working on from clue to clue until he bags his man. Sergeant Witchem, shorter and thicker-set, and marked v»ith the small pox, has something of a reserved and thoughtfid air, as if he were engaged in deep arithmetical calculations. He is renowned for Jiis acquaintance with the swell mob. Sergeant Mith, a smooth- faced man with a fresh bright complexion, and a strange air of simplicity, is a dab at housebreakers. Sergeant Fendall, a light -haired, well-spoken, poKte person, is a prodigious hand at pursuing private inquiries of a delicate nature. Straw, a little vnrj Sergeant of meek demeanour and strong sense, would knock at a door and ask a series of questions in any mild character you choose to prescribe to him, from a charitj'- boy upwards, and seem as innocent as an infant. They are, one and all, respectable -looking men ; of perfectly good deportment and unusual intelligence ; with nothing lounging or slinking in their manners ; with an air of keen observation and quick perception when addressed ; and generally present- ing in their faces, traces more or less marked of habitually leading lives of strong mental excitement. They have all good eyes; and they all can, and they all do, look full at whomsoever they speak to. We light the cigars, and hand round the glasses (which are very temperately used indeed), and the conversation begins by a modest amateiu' reference on the Editorial part to the swell mob. Inspector Wield immediately removes his cigar from his lips, waves liis right hand, and says, ' ' Regarding the swell mob, sir, I can't do better than call upon Sergeant Witchem. Because the reason why ? J '11 tell you. Sergeant Witchem is better acquainted with the swell mob than any cffi^'er in London." Our heart leaping up when we beheld this rainbow in the sky, we tuna to Sergeant Witchem, who very concisely, and in well-chosen language, goes into the subject forthwith. Meantime, tlie Avhole of his brother officers are closely interested in attending to wliat he says, and ol)serving its effect. Presently tliey i)egin to strike in. one or two together when an opportunity otlbrs, and tlie conversation becomaj '^HE DETECTIVE POLICE. 306 general. But these brother ofRcers ouly ccme in to the assistance of each other — not to tlie contradiction — and a more amicable brotlierbood there coidd not be. From the sweU mob, we diverge to the kinch-ed topics of cracksmen fences, pubHc-hoiise dancers, area-sneaks, designing yoTing people who go out " gonophing," and otlier " schools." It is observable throughout these revelations, that Inspector Stalker, the Scotchman, is always exact and statistical, and that when any question of figures arises, everybody as by one consent pauses, and looks to him. When we have exhausted the various schools of Art — diu'ing whicli discussion the whole body have remained profoundly attentive, except when some imusual noise at the Theatre over the way has induced some gentleman to glance inquiringly towards the window in that direction, behind his next neigh- bour's back — we biu-row for information on such points as the following. Whether there really are any highway robberies in London, or whether some circumstances not convenient to be mentioned by the aggrieved party, usually precede the robberies complained of, under that head, which quite change their character ? Certainly the latter, almost always. Whether in the case of robberies in houses, where servants are necessariljr exposed to doubt, innocence under suspicion ever becomes so like guilt in appearance, that a good officer need be cautious how he judges it ? Undoubtedly. Nothing is so common or deceptive as such appearances at first. Whether in a place of public amusement, a thief knows an officer, and an officer knows a thief — supposing them, beforehand, strangers to each other — because each recognises in the other, under all dis- guise, an inattention to what is going on, and a purpose that is not the pui-pose of being entertained ? Yes. That 's the way exactly. Whether it is reasonable or ridiculous to trust to the alleged experiences of thieves as narrated by themselves, in prisons, or penitentiaries, or anywhere ? In general, nothing more absurd. Lviiie: is their habit and their trade ; and thev would rather lie — «^ven if they hadn't an interest in it, and didn't want to make themselves agreeable — than teU the truth. From these topics, we glide into a review of the most cele- brated and horrible of the great crimes that have been committed within the last fifteen or twenty years. The men engaged in the discovery of almost all of tliem, and in the VOL. ir. X BOO THK DETECTIVE POLICE. pxirsuit or apprehension of the murderers, are here, doAvn to the very last instance. One of onr guests gave chase to and boarded the emigrant ship, in which the murderess last hanged in London was supposed to have embarked. We learn from him that his errand was not announced to the passengers, ^'lio may have no idea of it to this hour. That he went below, with the captain, lamp in hand^it being dark, and the whole Bteerage abed and sea-sick — and engaged the ^Mrs. Manning who was on board, in a conversation about her luggage, until she was, with no small pains, induced to raise her head, and turn her face towards the light. Satisfied that she was not the object of his search, he quietly re-enibai-ked in the Government steamer alongside, and steamed home again with the intelligence. When we have exhausted these subjects, too, which occupy a considerable time in the discussion, two or three leave their chairs, whisper Sergeant Witchem, and resume their seats. Sergeant Witchem leaning forward a little, and placing a hand on each of his legs, then modestly speaks as follows : " My brother-officers wish me to relate a little account of my taking Tally-ho Thompson. A man oughtn't to tell what he has done himself ; but stiU, as nobody was with me, and, c^'onsequently, as nobody but myself can tell it, I '11 do it in the best way I can, if it should meet your approval." We assiu-e Sergeant Witchem that he will oblige us very much, and we all compose ourselves to listen with great interest and attention. "Tally-ho Thompson," says Sergeant Witchem, after merely wetting his lips with his brandy-and- water, " Tally-ho Thompson was a famous horse- stealer, couper, and magsman. Thompson, in conjunction with a pal that occasiunally worked with him, gammoned a countrjnnan out of a good round sum of money, under pretence of getting him a situation — -the regular old dodge — and was afterwards in the ' Hue and Cry ' for a horse — a horse that he stole, down in Hertfordshire. I had to look after Thompson, and I applied myself, of coiu'se, in the first instance, to discovering where he was. Now, lliompson's wife lived, along with a little daughter, at Chelsea. Knowing tliat fbompson was somewhere in tlie country, ] \vatclied the hoii^e — especially at ]>ost-time ii) the morning — • thiakini'' Thompson was pretty likely to writa to her. Siiro THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 80) Baongh, one "morning the postman comes up, and delivers a letter at Mrs. Thompson's door. Little girl opens the door, and takes it in. We 're not always sure of postmen, though the people at the post-ofEloes are clwa^-s very obhging. A postman may help us, or he may not, — ^just as it happens. However, I go across the road, and I say to the postman, after he has left the letter, ' Good morning ! how are you ? ' ' How are you ? ' says he. ' You 've just delivered a letter for Mrs. Thompson.' 'Yes, I have.' ' You didn't happen to remark what the post-mark was, perhaps ? ' ' No,' says he, * I didn't.' ' Come,' says I, *' I '11 be plain with you. I 'm in a small way of business, and I have given Thompson credit, and I can't afford to lose what he owes me. I know he 's got money, and I know he 's in the country, and if you coidd tell me what the post-mark was, I should be veiy much obliged to you, and you 'd do a service to a tradesman in a small way of business that can't afford a loss.' * Well, he said, ' I do assure you that I did not observe what the post-mark was ; all I know is, that there was money in the letter — I shoidd say a sovereign.' This was enough for me, because of course I knew that Thompson having sent his wife money, it was probable she 'd write to Thompson, by return of post, to acknowledge the receipt. So I said 'Thankee' to the postman, and I kept on the Avatch. In the afternoon I saAv the little girl come out. Of course I followed her. She went into a stationer's shop, and I needn't say to you that 1 looked in at the window. She bought some writing-paper and envelopes, and a pen. I think to myself, 'That'll do!' — watch her home again — and don't go away, you may be Bure, knowing that Mrs. Thompson was writing her letter to FaUy-ho, and that the letter would be posted presently. In iibout an hour or so, out came the little girl again, -nT.th the letter in her hand. I went up, and said something to the child, whatever it might have been ; but I couldn't see the direction of the letter, because she held it with the seal upwards. However, I observed that on the back of the letter there was what we call a kiss — a drop of wax by the side of the seal — and again, you understand, that was enough foy me. I saw her post the letter, waited till she vras gone, then went mto the shop, and asked to see the Master. When he came uut, I told him, ' Now, I 'm an Officer in the Detective Force ; there '^ a letter with a kiss been posted here just now. for » JOS THE DETECTIVE TOLICE. man Lhat I 'm in search of; and what I have to ask oF you, is, that you "rill let me look at the direction of that letter.' He was very civil — took a lot of letters from the box in the window — shook 'em out on the counter with the fiices down- wards — and there among 'em was the identical letter with tho kiss. It was directed, Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post Office, B , to be left 'till called for. Down I went to B (a hundred and twenty miles or so) that night. Earty next morning I went to the Post Office ; saw the gentleman in charge c.f that department ; told him who I was ; and that my object was to see, and track, the jiarty that should come for the letter for Mr. Thomas Pigeon. He was ver}^ polite, and said, ' You shall have every assistance we can give you ; you can wait inside the office ; and we 'U take care to let you know when anybody comes for the letter.' Well, I waited there three days, and began to think that nobody ever would come At last the clerk whispered to me, ' Here ! Detective ! Some- body 's come for the letter ! ' ' Keep him a minute,' said I, and I ran round to the outside of the office. There I saw a young chap with the appearance of an Ostler, holding a horse by the bridle — stretching the bridle across tlie pavement, while he waited at the Post Office Window for the letter. I bogan to pat the horse, and that ; and I said to the boy, ' Why, tliis is Mr. Jones's Mare ! ' 'No. It an't.' 'No?' said I. 'She's very like Mr. Jones's Mare!' 'She an't Mr. Jones's Mare, anyhow,' says he. ' It 's Mr. So and So's, of the Warwick Arms.' And up he jumped, and off he went — letter and all. i got a cab, followed on the box, and was so quick after him that I came into the stable-yard of the Warwick Arms, by one gate, just as he came in by another. I went into the bar, where there was a young woman serving, and called for a glass of brandy-and-water. He came in directly, and handed her the letter. She casually looked at it, without saying any- thing, and stuck it up behind the glass over the chimney- piece. What was to be done next ? " I turned it over in my mind while I di-ank my brandy- and-water (looking pretty sharp at the letter the while) but I couldn't see my way out of it at aU. I tried to get lodginga In the house, but there had been a horse-fair, or something oi that sort, and it was full. I was obHged to put up scme- where else, but I came backwards and forwards to the bar for a couple of days, and there was the letter always behind the THE DETEf!TTVE Pr,LICE. 30» glass. At last I tliouglit I 'd -nrite a letter to Mr. Pigew mj^self, and see wliat that would do. So I ^Arotc one, and posted it, but I purposely addressed it, Mr. Jolm Pigeon, instead of ]Mr. Thomas Pigeon, to see what that woidd do. In the morning (a ver)'- wet morning it was) I Avatched the postman down the street, and cut into the bar, just before he reached the Warwick Arms. In he came presently with my letter. ' Is there a Mr. John Pigeon staying here ? ' ' No ! — stop a bit though,' says the barmaid ; and she took down the letter behind the glass. ' No,' says she, ' it 's Thomas, and he is not staying here. Woidd you do me a favor, and post this for me, as it is so wet ? ' The postman said Yes ; she folded it in another envelope, directed it, and gaA^e it liim. He put it in his hat, and away he went. " I had no difficulty in finding' out the direction of that letter. It was addi'essed Mr. Thomas Pigeon, Post Office, R , Northamptonshire, to be left till called for. Off I started directly for II ; I said the same at the Post Office there, as I had said at B ; and again I waited three days before anybody came. At last another chap on horse- back came. ' Any letters for Mr. Thomas Pigeon ? ' ' Where do you come fi-om ? ' ' New Inn, near II .' He got the letter, and away he went at a canter. " I made my inqiuries about the New Inn, near R , and hearing it was a solitary sort of house, a little in the horse line, about a couple of miles from the statioji, I thouglit I 'd go and have a look at it. I found it what it had been described, and sauntered in, to look about me. The landlady was in the bar, and I was trjdng to get into conversation with her ; asked her how business was, and spoke about the wet weather, and so on ; when I saw, through an open door, three men sitting by the fire in a sort of parlor, or kitchen ; and one of those men, according to the description I had of bim, was Tally-ho Thompson ! '■' I went and sat clown among 'em, and tried to make things '.greeable ; but they were very shy — -wouldn't talk at all — iOoked at me, and at one another, in a way quite the reverse of sociable. I reckoned 'em up, and finding that they were all three bigger men tlian me, and considering that their fooks ■were ugly — that it was a lonely place — raih'oad station two miles off — and nigl.>t coming on — thought I couldn't do better than have a cb-op of brandy- and- water to keep my BIO THE DRTECTIVE POLICB. ooiu-age lip. So I called for my brandy- and- water ; and as ] was sitting' drinking it by the fire, Thompson got up and went out. " Now the difficulty of it wa3, that I wasn't sure it u\xs Thompson, because I had never set eyes on him before; and what I had wanted was to be quite certain of him. However, there was nothing for it now, but to follow, and put a bold face upon it. I found him talking, outside in the yard, with the landlady. It turned out afterwards that he was wanted by a Northampton officer for something else, and that, knowing that -(fficer to be pock-marked (as I am myself), he mistook me for him. As I have observed, I found him talking to the landlady, outside. I put my hand upon his shoulder — this way — and said, TaUy-ho Thompson, it's no use. I know you. I 'm an officer from London, and I take you into custody for felony ! ' ' That be d — d ! ' says Tally-ho Thompson. "We went back into the house, and the two Mends began to cut up rough, and their looks didn't please me at aU, I assure you. ' Let the man go. What are you going to do with him?' ' I '11 tell you what I 'm going to do with him. I'm going to take him to London to-night, as sure as I'm alive. I 'm not alone here, whatever you may think. You mind your owti business, and keep yourselves to yourselves. It'll be better for you, for I know you both very well.' I'd never seen or heard of 'em in all my life, but my bouncing cowed 'em a bit, and they kept off, while Thompson was making ready to go. I thought to myself, however, that they might he coming after me on the dark road, to rescue Thompson ; so I said to the landlady, ' What men have you got in the house, Missis?' 'We haven't got no men here,' she says, sulkily. ' You have got an ostler, I suppose ? ' * Yes, we've got an ostler.' ' Let me see him.' Presently he came, and a shaggy-headed young fellow he was. ' Now attend to me, young man,' says I ; ' I 'm a Detective Officer from London. This man's name is Thompson. I have taken him into custody for felony. I 'm going to take him to >he railroad station. I call upon you in the Queen's name to assist me ; and mind you, my friend, you 'U get yourself into more trouble than you know of, if you don't ! ' You never saw a person open his eyes so wide. ' Now, Thompson, oome along I' says I. But when I took out the handcuiis. THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 311 ITiompsou cries, ' No ! None of that I I won't stand them I I '11 go along- with you quiet, but I Avon't hear none of that !' 'Tally-ho Tlionipson,' I said, 'I'm willing to behave as a man to you, if you are willing to behave as a man to me. Give me your word that you '11 come peaceably along, and 1 don't want to handcuff _you.' ' I will,' says Thompson, 'but I'll have a glass of brandy first.' 'I doji't care if I've another,' said I. ' We '11 have t\A'o more, Missis,' said the fi'iends, ' and con-found you, Constable, you '11 give yom" man a drop, won't you?' I was agreeable to that, so we had it all roimd, and then nw man and I took Tally-ho Thompson safe to the railroad, and I carried him to London that night. He was afterwards acquitted, on account of a defect in the evidence ; and I understand he always praises me up to the skies, and says I 'm one of the best of men." This story coming to a termination amidst general applause, Inspector Wield, after a little grave smoking, fixes his eye on liis host, and thus delivers himself : " It wasn't a bad plant that of mine, on Fikey, the man accused of forging the Sou' Western Kail\\'ay debentures — it was only t' other day — because the reason why ? I '11 tell you. ^ " I had information that Fikey and his brother kept a factory over yonder there," — indicating any region on the SuiTey side of the rivei' — " where he bought second-hand carriages ; so after I 'd tried in vain to get hold of him by other means, I wrote him a letter in an assumed name, saying that I 'd got a horse and shay to dispose of, and would chive floMii next day that he might view the lot, and make an offer — very reasonable it was, 1 said — a reg'lar bargain. Straw and me then went off to a friend of mine that 's in the livery and job business, and hired a turn-out for the day, a precious smart tui-n-out it was — quite a slap-up thing ! Doaati we drove, accordingly, with a friend (who 's not in the Force himself) ; and leaving my friend in the shay near a public- house, to take care of the horse, we went to the factory, which was some little way off. In the factory, there was a number of strong fellows at work, and after reckoning 'em up, it was clear to me that it wouldn't do to try it on there. They were too many for us. We must get our man out of doors. * Mr. Fikey at home?' ' No, he ain't.' 'Expected home soon ? ' ' Wh}-, no, not soon.' ' Ah I is liis brother B12 THE DETECTIVE POLICE. here ? ' ' 7 'm his brother.' ' Oh ! Avell, this is an ill-coii' wenience, this is. I wTote him a letter yesterday, saying I 'd got a little turn-out to dispose of, and I 've took the trouble to bring the turn-out doAvn, a' pui-pose. and now he ain't in the way.' ' No, he ain't in the way. You couldn't make it convenient to call again, could you ? ' ' Why, no, I couldn't. I want to seU ; that 's the foct ; and I can't put it off. Could yoii find him anywheres ? ' At first he said No he couldn't, and then he wasn't sure about it, and then he 'd go and try. So, at last he went up-stairs, where there was a sort of loft, and presently down comes my man himself, in his shirt-sleeves. " ' Well,' he says, ' this seems to be rajiher a pressing matter of yours.' ' Yes,' I saj'S, ' it is rayther a pressing matter, and you '11 find it a bargain — dirt-cheap.' ' I ain't in particlder want of a bargain just now,' he says, 'but wliere is it ? ' ' Why,' I says, ' the tui-n-out 's just outside. Come and look at it.' lie hasn't any suspicions, and away we go. And the first thing that happens is, that the horse runs away with my friend (who knows no more of driving than a child) when he takes a little trot along the road to show his paces. You nevei^saw such a game in your life I " "Wlien the bolt is over, and the turn-out has come to a stand-still again, Fikey walks round and round it as grave as a judge — me too. 'There, sir!' I says. 'There's a neat thing I ' 'It ain't a bad style of thing,' he says. ' I believe you,' says I. 'And there 's a horse ! ' — for I saw him looking at it. ' Rising eight ! ' I says, rubbing his fore-legs. (Bless you, there ain't a man in the world knows less of horses than 1 do, but I 'd heard my friend at the Livery Stables say he was eight year old, so I saj's, as knowing as possible ' Rising Eight.') 'Rising eight, is he?' says he. 'Rising eight' says I. ' Well,' he says, ' what do you want for it ? ' ' ^^^^y, the first and last figiure for the Avhole concern is five-and- twenty pound!' 'That's very cheap!' he says, looking at me. 'Ain't it?' I says. 'I told you it was a bargain Now, without any higgling and haggling about it, what 1 want is to scU, and that 's my price. Further, I 'U make it easy to you, and take half the money doAvn, and you can do £ bit of stiff-' for the balance.' 'Well,' he says again, ' that'j * Give a biU THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 3ia rery cheap.' ' I believe }-ou/ says I ; ' get in and try it, antl you '11 buy it. Come ! take a trial ! ' '* Ecod, lie gets in, and Tve get in, rmd we drive along the road, to sho^\ him to one of the railway clerks that waa hid in the public-house -window to identify him. But the clerk -was bothered, and did'nt know -whether it -was him, or wasn't — because the reason why? I 'U teU you, — on account of his ha-nng ehaved his whiskers. ' It 's a clever little horse,' he says, ' and trots well ; and the shay runs light.' ' Not a doubt about it,' I says. ' And now, Mr. Fikey, I may as well make it all right, -without wasting any more of your time. The fact is, I'm Inspector Wield, and you're my prisoner.' ' You don't mean that ? ' he says. ' I do, indeed.' * Then burn my body,' says Fikey, ' if this ain't too bad ! ' " Perhaps you never saw a man so knocked over vni\\ sur- prise. * I biope you '11 let me have my coat ? ' he says. ' By aU means.' ' WeU, then, let 's drive to the factory.' ' Why, not exactly that, I think,' said I ; ' I 've been there, once before, to-day. Suppose we send for it.' He saw it was no go, so he sent for it, and put it on, and we drove him up to London, comfortable." This reminiscence is in the height of its success, when a general proposal is made to the fi-esh-complexioned, smooth- faced officer, with the strange air of simplicity, to tell the '' Butcher's stor3^" The fresh-complexioned, smooth-faced officer, -ndth the •strange air of sim])iicity, began, with a rustic smile, and in a soft, wheedling tone of voice, to relate the Butcher's Stoiy, thus : " It 's just about six years ago, now, since information was given at Scotland Yard of tliere being extensive robberies of lawns and silks going on, at some Avholesale houses in the City. Directions were given for the business being looked into ; and Straw, and Fendall, and me, we were all in it." "When yo\i received your instructions," said we, "you went away, aud held a soii of Cabinet Council together ! " The smooth-faced officer coaxingly replied, " Ye-es. Just so. We tm-ned it over among ourselves a good deal. It appeared, when we went into it, that the goods were sold by the receivers extraordinarily cheap — much cheaper than they coidd have been if they had been honestly come by. The receivers V7ere in the trade, and kept capital shops — establishments o\ 314 THE DETECTIVE POLICE. the first respectabilit)' — one of 'em at the West End, one down in Westminster. After a lot of "watching- and inquiry, and this and that among ourselves, vre foimd that the job "was managed, and the purchases of the stolen goods made, at a little public- house near Smithfield, do"mi by Saint Bartholome"\v's ; "f\'here the Warehouse Porters, "who "were the thieves, took 'em for that purpose, don't you see ? and made appointments to meet the people that "went between themselves and the receivers. This public-house "was principally used by journey- men butchers from the eountr}', out of place, and in want of situations ; so, what did we do, but — ha, ha, ha I — we agreed that I should be dressed up like a butcher myself, and go and live there ! " Never, surely, was a faculty of observation better brought to bear upon a purpose, than tliat which picked out this officer for tlie part. Nothing in all creation, could have suited him better. Even while he spoke, he became a greasy, sleepy, shy, good-natured, cliuckle-headed, unsuspicious, and confiding yoimg butcher. His very hair seemed to have suet in it, as he made it smooth upon his head, and his fresh com- plexion to be lubricated by large cpiantities of animal food. " So I — ha, ha, ha ! " (always "^ith the confiding snigger of tlie foolish young butcher} '*' so I dressed "myself in the regular way, made up a little bundle of clothes, and went to the pubhc-house, and asked if I could have a lodging there ? The}' says, ' }'es, you can have a lodging here,' and I got a bed-room, and settled myself do"wn in the tap. There was a number of people about the place, and coming back- wards and forwards to the house : and first one says, and then another says, * Are you fi'om the country, young man ? ' ' Yes, I says, ' I am. I 'm come out of Northamptonshire, and I 'm quite lonely here, for I don't know London at all, and it 'a such a mighty big to"wn?' 'It is a big town,' they says. ' Oh, it 's a very big town I ' I says. ' Really and truly I never was in such a town. It quite confuses of me ! ' — and all that, you know. " "When some of the Joui-ne\-men Butchers that used the house, found that I wanted a place, they says, ' Oli, we '11 get you a place I ' And they actually took me to a sight of places, in Newgate market, Newjiort Market, Clare, Camaby — I don't know where all. But the wages was — ha, ha, ha ! — "WM uot sufficient, and I never could suit myself, don't you seel THE DETECTIVE POLICE. 315 Some of tlie queer frequenters of the house, -^-ere a little suspicious of me at fu'st, and I was obliged to be very cautious indeed, hoAv I communicated with Straw or FendaU. Some- times, when I went out, pretending to stop and look into the shop-windows, and just casting my eye round, I used to see some of 'em following me ; but, being perhaps better accus- tomed than they thought for, to that sort of thing, I used to lead 'em on as far as I thought necessary or convenient — sometimes a long way — and then turn sharp round, and meet 'em, and say, ' Oh, dear, how glad I am to come upon you so fortunate ! This London 's such a place, I 'm blowed if I an't lost again ! ' And then we 'd go back all together, to the public-house, and — ha, ha, ha ! and smoke oiu' pipes, don't you see ? " They were very attentive to me, I am sure. It was a common thing, while I was living there, for some of 'em to take me out, and show me London. They showed me the Prisons — showed me Newgate — and when they showed me Newgate, I stops at the place where the Porters pitch their loads, and says, ' Oh dear, is this where they hang the men ! Oh Lor ! ' ' That I ' they says, ' what a simple cove he is ! That an't it ! ' And then, they pointed out which was it, and I says ' Lor ? ' and they says, ' Now you '11 know it agen, won't you ? ' And I said I thought I shoidd if I tried hard — and I assiu'e \o\x I kept a sharp look out for the City Police when we were out in this way, for if any of 'em had happened to know me, and had spoke to me, it would have been all up iu a minute. However, by good luck such a thing never happened, and aU went on quiet : though the dilficulties I had in communicating with my brother officers, were quite extra- ordinary. " The stolen goods that were brought to the public-house by the Warehouse Porters, were always disposed of in a back parlor. For a long time, I never could get into this parlor, or see what was done there. As I sat smoking my pipe, like an innocent young chap, by the tap-room fire, I 'd hear some of the parties to the robbery, as they came in and out, say softly to the landlord, ' Who 's that ? What does he do here ? ' ' Bless j'our soul,' says the landlord, ' He 's only a ' — ha, ha, na I — * he 's only a green young feUow fi'om the country', as ia looking for a butcher's sitiwation. Don't mind him '. ' So, ijQ coui'se of time, they were so convinced of my being greeu. 816 THE DETECTIVE POLICE. and got to be so accustomed to me, that I was as free of thvith a cousin of th« THREE "DETECTIVE" ANECDOTES. 825 unfortunate Eliza Grimwoods, and that, calling: to seo ihie cousin a day or two before the murder, lie left those glovea upon the table. Who shoidd come in, shortly afterwards, bi^ Eliza Grimwood I ' Vrhose gloves are these ? ' slie says, taking- 'em up. ' Those ai-e ^Mr. Trinlde's gloves,' says her cousin. ' Oh I ' says she, ' they are veiy dirty, and of no use to him, I am sure. I shall take 'em away for my giii to clean the stoves with.' And she put 'em in her pocket. The girl had used 'em to clean the stoves, and, I have no doubt, bad left 'em lying on the bed-room mantel-piece, or on the drawers, or somewhere ; and her mistress, looking round to Bee that tlie room was tidy, had caught 'em up and put 'em under the pillow where I found 'em. " That 's the story. Sir. II.— THE ARTFUL TOUCH. " One of the most beautiful tilings that ever was done, peihaps," said Inspector Wield, emphasising the adjective, as preparing us to expect dexterity or ingenuity rather than strong interest, " was a move of Sergeant Witchem's. It waa a lovely idea ! " Witchem and rne were do\ATi at Epsom one Derby Day, waitino: at the station for the SweU iSIob. As I mentioned, when we were talking about these things before, we are ready at the station when there 's races, or an Agricidtural Show, or a Chancellor sworn in for an university, or Jenny Lind, or any thing of that sort ; and as the SweU IMob come do^wn, we send 'em back again by the next train. But some of the SweU ;Mob, on the occasion of tliis Derby that I refer to, so far kiddied us as to hire a horse and shay ; start away from London by "NMiitechapel, and miles round; come into Epsom from the opposite direction ; and go to work, right and left, on the course, while we were waiting for 'em at the Rail. That, however, ain't the point of what I 'm going to teU you. "While Witchem and mte were waiting at the station, there comes up one Mr. Tatt ; a gentleman formerly in the public line, quite an amateur Detective in his way, and very much respected. ' IlaUoa, Charley Wield,' he says. ' What .ire you doing here ? On the look out for s(mio of your old friends ? * ' Yes, the old move, Air. Tatt.' ' Come along,' J2S THRE"? "DETECTIVE" ANECDOTES he says, ' you and Witchera, and have a glass of slieri-y ' ' We can't stir from the pLace,' says I, ' till the next train comes in ; hut after that, vre Avill with jileasure.' Mr. Tatl waits, and the train comes in, and then Witchem and me go off with iiim to the Hotel. l*Ir. Tatt he 's got up quite regardless of expense, for the occaHion ; and in his shirt-fi-ont there 's a beautiful diamond prop, cost him fifteen or twenty pound — a very handsome pin indeed. We drink our sherry at the bar, and have had our three or four glasses, when Witchem cries suddenly, ' Look out, Mr. Wield ! stand fast ! ' and a dash is made into the place by the swell mob — four of 'em — that have come down as I tell you, and in a moment ISIr. Tatt's prop is gone ! Witchem, he cuts 'em off at the door, I lay ahout me as hard as I can, Mr. Tatt shows fight like a good 'un, and there we are, all down together, heads and heels, knocking about on the floor of the bar — perhaps you never see sucli a scene of confusion ! However, we stick to OLir men (Mr. Tatt being as good as any officer), and we take 'em all, and carry 'em off to the station. Tlie station's full of people, who have been took on the course ; and it 's a precious piece of ^\•ork to get 'em secured. However, we do it at last, and we csearch 'em ; but nothing 's found upon 'em, and they 're locked up ; and a pretty state of heat we are in by that time, I assure you ! " I was very blank over it, myself, to tliink that the prop had been passed away ; and I said to Witchem, when we had set 'em to rights, and were cooling oxu-selves along with Mr. Tatt, 'we don't take much by tins move, anway, for nothing's found upon 'em, and it's only the braggadocia ** after all.' ' What do you mean, Mr. Wield,' says Witchem. ' Here 's the diamond pin ! ' and in the palm of his hand there it was, safe and sound ! ' Why, in the name of wonder,' says me and Mr. Tatt, in astonishment, 'how did you come by that?' 'I'U tell you how I come by it,' says he. ' I saw jv^liich of 'em took it ; and when we were all down on the floor together, knocking about, I just gave him a little touch on the back of his hand, as I knew his pal woidd ; and he thought it WAS ills pal ; and gave it me ! ' It was beautiful, beau-ti-ful ! " Even that was hardJy tlie best of the case, for that chaj • Thiee months' imiirisonment as reputed thieves. THREE "DETECTIVE* ANECDOTES. 8£7 was tried at the Quarter Sessions at Guildford. You kno^ «rliat Quarter Sessions are, sir. Well, if jou '11 believe mo, while them slow justices were looking over the Acts of Par- liament, to see what they could do to him, I 'm hlowed if he didn't cut out of the dock before their faces ! He cut out ol the dock, sir, then and there ; swam across a river ; and got up into a tree to diy himself. In the tree he was took — an old woman having seen liim climb up — and Witchein's artful touch transported him ! " III.— THE SOF.V. " WTiat young men will do, sometimes, to ruin themselvee and break their friends' hearts," said Sergeant Dornton, " it's ijurprising ! I had a case ut Saint Blank's Hospital which 5\^as of this sort. A bad case, indeed, with a bad end ! " The Secretary, and the House-Surgeon, and the Treasurer, of Saint Blank's Hospital, came to Scotland Yard to give information of numerous robberies having been committed on the students. The students could leave nothing in the pockets of their great-coats,- while the great-coats were hanging at the hospital, but it was almost certain to be stolen. Property of various descriptions was constantly being lost ; and the gen- demen were naturally uneasy about it, and anxious, for the credit of the institution, that the thief or thieves should be discovered. The case was entrusted to me, and I went to the liospital. '■' 'Now, gentlemen,' said I, after we had talked it over; * I im:derstand this property is usually lost from one room.' " Yes, they said. It was. . " ' I shoidd wish, if you please,' said I, ' to see the room.' "It was a good-sized bare room downstairs, with a few tables and forms in it, and a row of pegs, all round, for hats and coats. " ' Next, gentlemen,' said I, ' do 3'ou suspect anybody ? ' " Yes, they said. They did suspect somebody. They were eorry to say, they suspected one of the porters. " ' I should like,' said I, ' to have that man pointed out to mo, and to have a little time to look after him.' " He was pointed out, and I looked after him, and then I went back to the hospital, and said, 'Now, gentlemen, it'.* 328 THREE "DETECTIVE" ANECDOTES. not tho porter. He 's, luifortimately for himself, a little toe fond of drink^ but he 's nothing worse. My suspicion is, that these rohbei'ies are committed by one of the students; and if you '11 put me a sofa into that room where the pegs are — as there 's no closet — I think I shaU be able to detect the thief. I wish the sofa, if you please, to be covered with chintz, or something of that sort, so that I may lie on my chest, under- neath it, without being seen.' " The sofa was provided, and next day at eleven o'clock, before any of the students came, I went there, wdth those gentlemen, to get underneath it. It turned out to be one of those old-fashioned sofas with a great cross-beam at the bottom, that would have broken my back in no time if I could ever have got below it. We had quite a job to break all this away in the time ; however, I feU to work, and they fell to work, and we broke it out, and made a clear place for me. I got under the sofa, lay clown on my chest, took out my knife, and made a convenient hole in the chintz to look tlu-ough. It was then settled between me and the gentlemen that when the studeuts were all up in the wards, one of the gentlemen should come in, and liang up a great-coat on one of the pegs. And that that great-coat should have, in one of the pockets, a pocket-book containing marked money. " After I had been there some time, the students began to drop into the room, by ones, and t'NA'Os, and tlirees, and to talk about all sorts of tilings, little thinking there was any- body under the sofa — and then to go upstairs. At last there came in one who remained imtil he was alone in the room by himself. A taUish, good-looldng young man of one or two and twenty, -with a light whisker, lie went to a particular hat-peg, took off a good hat that was hanging there, tried it on, hung his own hat in its place, and hung that hat on anotlier peg, nearly opposite to me. I then felt quite certain that he was the thief, and would come back by-and-bye. " AVhen they were all upstairs, the gentleman came in with the great-coat. I showed him where to hang it, so that I might have a good view of it ; and he went away ; and I lay under the) sofa on my chest, for a couple of hoiu-s or so, waiting. " At lr:st, the same young man came down. He w^alked across the room, whistling — stopped and listened — took aiiother walk and wliistled — stopped again, and listened — THREE "DETECTIVE" ANECDOTES. 829 then began to gf) regularly rctmcl the pegs, feeling in the pockets of all tlie coats. "W^en he came to the gi'eat-coat, and felt the pocket-book, he Avas so eager and so hurried that he broke the strap in tearing it open. As he began to put the money in his pocket, I crawled out from under the sofa, and his eyes met mine. " My face, as you may perceive, is brown now, but it was pale at that time, my health not being good ; and looked as long as a horse's. Besides which, there was a gi-eat di'aught of air from the door, londemeath the sofa, and I had tied a handkerchief round my head; so what I looked like, alto- gerher, I don't laiow. He turned blue — literally blue — wlien he saw me crawling out, and I couldn't feel siu'prised at it. " ' I am an officer of the Detective Police,' said I, ' and have been lying here, since you first came in this morning. I regret, for the sake of yourself and your fiiends, that you should have done what you have ; but this case is complete. You have the pocket-book in your hand and the money upon you ; and I must take you into custody ! ' " It was impossible to make out any case in his behalf, and on his trial he pleaded guilty. How or when he got the means I don't know ; but while he was awaiting his sentence, he poisoned himself in Newgate." We inquired of this officer, on the* conclusion of the foregoing anecdote, whether the time appeared long, or short, when he lay in that constrained position imder the sofa ? "Why, you see, sir," he replied, "if he hadn't come in, the fii'&t time, and I had not been quite sure he was the thief, and would return, the time would have seemed long. But, as it was, I being dead-certain of my man. the time seemed pretty short." ON DUTY V/ITH INSPECTOR FIELD. How goes the night ? Saint Giles's clock is striking nine. The weather is dull and wet, and the long lines of street lanipa are blurred, as if we saw them tlu-ough tears. A damp wind blows and rakes the pieman 's fii-e out, when he opens the door of liis little furnace, carrying away an eddy of sparks. Saint Giles's clock strikes nine. We are punctual. "Where is Inspector Field ? Assistant Commissioner of Police is already here, enwrapped in oil- skin cloak, and standing in the shadow of Saint Giles's steeple. Detective Sergeant, weary of speaking French all day to foreigners unpacking at the Great Exhibition, is already here. Where is Inspector Field ? Inspector Field is, to-night, the guardian geniizs of the British Museum. He is bringing his shrewd eye to bear on every corner of its solitary galleries, before he reports "all right." Suspicious 6f the Elgin marbles, and not to be done by cat-faced Egj'ptian giants with their hands upon their knees. Inspector Field, sagacious, vigilant, lamp in hand, throwing monstrous shadows on the walls and ceiKngs, passes throug'h the spacious rooms. If a mummy trembled in an atom of its dusty covering. Inspector Field would say, " Come out of that, Tom Green. I knoAV you ! " If the smallest " Gonoph " about to-mi were crouching at the bottom of a classic bath. Inspector Field woidd nose him with a finer scent than the ogre's, vrhen adventurous Jack lay trembling in hia kitchen copper. But all is quiet, and Inspector Field goes warily on, making little outward show of attending to any- thing in pai'ticular, just recognising the Ichthyosaurus as a familiar acquaintance, and wondering, perhaps, how the detectives did it in the days before the Flood. Will Inspector Field be long about this work ? He may be half-an-hour longer. He sends his compliments b}' Police Constable, and proposes that we meet at St. Giles's Station ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. 33J House, across tlie road Good. It were as well to stand by the fire, there, as in the shadow of Saint Giles's steeple. Anything doing here to-night ? Not much. We are very quiet. A lost boy, extremely calm and small, sitting by the fire, whom we now confide to a constable to take home, foi the child says that if you show him Newgate Street, he can show you where he lives — a raving cbunken woman in the cells, who has screeched her voice away, and has hardly power enough left to declare, even with the passionate help of her feet and arms, that she is the daughter of a British officer, and, strike her blind and dead, but she '11 write a letter to the Queen ! but who is soothed with a drink of water — in another cell, a quiet woman with a child at her breast, for begging — - in another, her husband in a smock-fi'ock, with a basket of watercresses — in another a pickpocket — in another, a meek tremulous old pauper man who has been out for a holiday " and has took but a little di'op, but it has overcome him arter so many months in the house " — and that 's all as yet. Presently, a sensation at the Station House door. INIr Field, gentlemen ! Inspector Field comes in, wiping his forehead, for he is of a burly figm-e, and has come fast from the ores and metals of the deep mines of the earth, and fi-om the Parrot Gods of the South Sea Islands, and from the bu'ds and beetles of the troi)ics, and from the Arts of Greece and Rome, and from the Sciilptures of Nineveh, and from the traces of an elder world, when these were not. Is Rogers ready? Rogers is ready, strapped and great-coated, with a flaming eye in the middle of his waist, like a deformed Cyclops. Lead on, Rogers, to Rats' Castle ! How many people may there be in London, who, if wo had brought them deviously and blindfold, to this street, fifty paces from the Station House, and within call of Saint Giles's i-hurch, would know it for a not remote part of the city in which their lives are passed ? How many, who amidst this compound of sickening smells, these heaps of filth, theso tumbling houses, with all their vile contents, animate, and inanimate, slimily overflowing into the black road, would believe that they breathe this air ? How much Red Tape may there be, that coidd look round on the faces which now hem us in — for our appearance here has caused a itish from all Doints to a common centre — the lowering foreheads, the M2 • ON DUTY WITH IJJSPECTOR FIELD. sallow cheeks, the brutal eyes, the matted hair, tne iufocted, vermiu-haimted heaps of rags — and say " I have thought ol this. I have not dismissed the thing. I have neithel blustered it away, nor frozen it away, nor tied it up and put it away, nor smoothly said pooh, pooh ! to it, when it haa been shown to me " ? This is not what Rogers wants to know, however. • "What Rogers wants to know, is, whether you will clear the way here, some of you, cr whether you won't ; because if you don't do it right on end, he 'II lock you up ! What ! You are there, are you, Bob Miles ? You haven't had enough of it yet, haven't you? You want three months more, do you ? Come away fi-om that gentleman ! ^Vhat are you creeping round there for ? " ^\Tiat am I a doing, thinn, Mr. Rogers ? " says Bob Miles, appearing, villancus, at the end of a lane of hght, made by the lantern. '•'I'll let you know pretty quick, if you don't hook it. Will you hook it ? " A sycophantic murmur rises from the crowd. " Hook it, Bob, v.-hen ]Mr. Rogers and INIr. Field tells you ! "^^^ly don't you hook it, when you are told to ? " The most importunate of the voices strikes familiarly on Mr. Rogers's ear. He suddenly turns his lantern on the owner. " ^^^lat I You are there, are you. Mister Click? You hook it too — come ? " " What for ? '' says 'Mr. Click, discomfited. " You hook it, will you I " says Mr. Rogers with stem emphasis. Both CHck and Miles do " hook it," without another word, or, in plainer English, sneak away. " Close up there, my men ! " says Inspector Field to two constables on duty Avho have followed. " Keep together gentlemen ; we are going down here. Heads ! " Saint Giles's church strikes half-past ten. We stoop low, and creep down a precipitous flight of steps into a dark close cellar. There is a fire. There is a long deal table. There are benches. The cellar is full of compan}-, chiefly very young men in various conditions of dirt and raggedness. Some ai-e eating supper. There are no girls or women present. Welcome to Rats' Castle, gentlemen, and to this companj' ot rioted thieves ! ON DUTY WITH INSrECTOR FIELD. 333 " Well, my lads ! How are you, my lads ? What have you been, doing' to-day ? Here 's some company come to see you, my lads ! There 's a jilate of beefsteak, Sir, for the Bupper of a fine young man ! And there 's a moiith for a steak. Sir I Wh}', I should be too proud of such a mouth as that, if I had it myself I Stand up and show it, sii' ! Take off your cap. There 's a fine yoimg man for a nice littla part7, Sii-! An't he?" Inspector Field is the bustling speaker. Inspector Field's eyo is the roving eye that searches every corner of the cellar as he talks. Inspector Field's hand is the ■vvell-knowa hand that has collared half the people here, and motioned their brothers, sisters, fathers, mothers, male and female fi'iends, inexorably to New South Wales. Yet Inspector Field stands in this den, the Sultan of the place. Eveiy thief here, cowers before him, like a schoolboy before his schoolmaster. All watch him, all answer when addressed, all laugh at his jokes, all seek to propitiate him. This cellar-company alone — to say notliing of the crowd surrounding the entrance fi-om the street above, and making the steps shine with eyes — is strong enough to miu-der us all, and -filling enough to do it ; but, let Inspector Field have a mind to pick out one thief here, and take liim ; let him produce that ghostly truncheon from his pocket, and say, with his business-air, " My lad, I want you ! " and all Rats' Castle shall be stricken with paralysis, and not a finger move against him, as he fits the handcuffs on ! Wliere 's the Earl of Warwick ? — Here he is, Mr. Field I Here 's the Earl of Warwick, ]\Ir. Field ! — O there you are, my Lord. Come for'ard. There 's a chest, Sir, not to have a clean shirt on. An't it. Take your liat off, my Lord. Why, I should be ashamed if I was you — and an Earl, too — to show myself to a gentleman witli my hat on ! — The Earl of W^arwick laughs and uncovers. All the company •laugh. One pick- pocket, especially, laughs with great enthusiasm. O what £ joUy game it is, when Mr. Field comes down — and don't -^ant nobody I So, you are here, too, are you, 5'ou tall, grey, soldierly- U)oking, grave man, standing- by the fire ? — Yes, Sir. Good evening, Mr. Field ! — Let us see. You lived servant to a nobleman once ? — Yes, ^Ir. Field. — And what is it you do now; I forget? — Well, i\Ir. Field, I job about as well as I can. I left my emplo}Tnent on account of delicate health 334 ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. The family is still kind to me. Mr. Wix of Piccadilly is also very kind to me when I am hard up. Likewise Mr. Nix of Oxford Street. I get a triHe from them occasionally, and rub on as well as I can, JMr. Field. Mr. B'ield's eye rolls enjoy- ingly, for this man is a notorious begging-letter writer. — Good night, my lads ! — Good night, Mr. Field, and thank'ee Sir! Clear the street here, half a thousand of you ! Cut it, Mrs. Stalker — none of that — we don't want you ! Rogers of the flaming eye, lead on to the tramps' lodging-house ! A dream of balefid faces attends to the door. Now, stand back all of you! In the rear Detective Sergeant plants him- Belf, composedly whistling, with his strong right arm across the narrow passage. Mrs. Stalker, I am something'd that need not be written here, if you won't get yourself into trouble, in about half a minute, if I see that face of yours again ! Saint Giles's church clock, striking eleven, hums through our baud from the dilapidated door of a dark outhouse as we open it, and are stricken back by the pestilent breath that issues from within. Rogers to the front with the light, and let us look ! Ten, twenty, thirty — who can count them ! Men, women, children, for the most part naked, heaped upon the floor like maggots in a cheese! Ho! In that dark corner yonder! Does any body lie there ? Me Sir, Irish me, a widder, with six children. And yonder ? Me Sir, Irish me, with me wife and eight poor babes. And to the left there ? Me Sir, Irish me, along with two more Irish boys as is me friends. And to the right there ? Me Sir and the Murphy fam'ly, numbering five blessed souls. And what's this, coiling, now, about my foot? Another Irish me, pitifully in want of shaving, whom I have awakened from sleep — and across my other foot lies his wife — and by the shoes of Inspector Field lie their three eldest — and their three youngest are at present squeezed between the open door and the wall. And why is there no one on that little mat before the sullen iire ? Because O' Donovan, with his wife and daughter, is not come in from selling Lucifers! Nor on the bit of sucking in the nearest corner? Bad luck! Because that Irish family is late to night, a-cadging in the streets ! They are all awake now, the children excepted, and most of ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. 335 them sit up, to stare. 'WTieresoever Mr. Rogers turns the flaming 63-6, there is a spectral figure rising, unshrouded, fronj a grave of rags, "\\1io is the landlord here?- — -I am, iSIr. Field ! says a bundle of ribs and parchment against the wall, Bcratching itself. — Will you sj)end this money fairly, in the morning, to buy coffee for 'em all ? — Yes Sir, I will ! — O he '11 do it Sir, he '11 do it fair. He's honest ! cry the spectres. And with thanks and Good Night sink into their graves again. Thus,, we make oxir New Oxford Streets, and our other new streets, never heeding, never asking, where the wretches whom we clear out, crowd. With such scenes at our doors, with all the plagues of Egypt tied up with bits of cobweb in kennels so near oui* homes, we timorously make our Nuisance Bills and Boards of Health, nonentities, and think to keep away the Wolves of Crime and Filth, by our electioneering ducldng to little vestrymen and our gentlemanly handling of Red Tape ! Intelligence of the coffee money has got abroad. The yard is fuU, and Rogers of the flaming eye is beleaguered -s^ith entreaties to show other Lodging Houses. ISIine next ! Mine I Mine ! Rogers, military, obdui-ate, stiff-necked, immovable, replies not, but leads away; all falling back before him. Inspector Field follows. Detective Sergeant, with his barrier of arm across the little passage, deliberately waits to close the procession. He sees beliind him, without any effort, and exceedingly disturbs one individual far in the rear by coolly calling out, " It won't do Mr. Michael ! Don't try it ! " After council holden in the street, we enter other lodging houses, public-houses, many laii-s and holes ; all noisome and offensive ; none so filthy and so crowded as where Irish are. In one, The Ethiopian party are expected home presently — were in Oxford Street when last heard cf — shall be fetched, for oiu" delight, within ien minutes. In another, one of t}io two or three Professors who draw Napoleon Buonaparte and a I'ouple of mackarel, on the pavement, and then let the work of .trt out to a speculator, is refreshing after his labors. In another, the vested interest of the profitable nuisance has Oeen in one family for a hundi-ed years, and the landlord drives in comfortaldy from the country to his snug little ste\T in to'RTi. In all, Inspector Field is received with warmth Coiners and smashers di"00p before him ; pickpockets defer to 836 ON DUT^i WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. him ; the gentle sex (not very gentle here) smile upon him. Half drunlven hags check themselves in the midst of pots of beer, or pints of gin, to drink to 'Mv. Field, and pressingly to ask the honor of his finishinf): the di^aught. One beldame in rusty black has such admiration for him, that she runs a whole sti-eet's length to shake him by the hand ; tumbling into a heap of mud by the way, and still pressing her attentions when her very form has ceased to be distinguishable through it. Before the power of the law, the power of superior sense — for common thieves are fools beside these men — and tho power of a perfect mastery of their character, the garrison of Rats' Castle and the adjacent Fortresses make but a skulking show indeed when reviewed by Inspector Field. Saint Giles's clock says it will be midnight in half-an-hour, and Inspector Field says we must hurry to the Old Mint in the Borough. The cab-di'iver is low-spirited, and has a solemn sense of his responsibility. Now, what's your fare, my lad? — O you know, Inspector Field, what's the good of asking me ' Say, Parker, strapped and great-eoated, and waiting in dim Borough doorway by appointment, to replace the trusty Rogers whom we left deep in Saint Giles's, are you ready ? Ready, Inspector Field, and at a motion of my wrist behold my flaming eye. This narrow street, sir, is the chief part of tlie Old Mint, full of low lodging-houses, as you see by the transparent canvas-lamps and blinds, announcing beds for travellers ! But it is greatly changed, friend Field, from my former knowledge of it ; it is infinitely quieter and more subdued than when I was here last, some seven years ago ? O yes I Inspector Ha^Ties, a first-rate man, is on this station now and plan's the Devil with them ! Well, my lads ! How are jon to-night, my lads ! Playing cards here, eh ? Who wins ? — Why, Mr. Field, I, the siill^y gentleman with the damp flat side-curls, rubbing my bleared eye with the end of my neck-kercliief which is like a dirty eel-skin, am losing just at present, but I suppose I must take my pipe out of my mouth, and be submissive to you — I hope I see you well, jSIr. Field? — Aye, all right, my lad. Deputy, who have you got up-stairs ? Be pleased to show the rooms I Why Deputy, Inspector Field can't say. He only kaowa ON DUTY WITII INSrECTOR FIELD. 33? that the man who takes care of tlie heds and lodgers is always called so. Steady, O Deputy, with the flaring candle ia the blacking bottle, for this is a slushy back -yard, and the wooden staircase outside the house creaks and has holes in it. Again, in these confined intolerable rooms, burrowed out like the holes of rats or the nests of insect-vermin, but fuUer of intolerable emells, are crow^ds of sleepers, each on his foul truckle-bed coiled up beneath a rug. Halloa here ! Come ! Let us see you ! Show your foce ! Pilot Parker goes from bed to bed and turns theb slumbering heads towards us, as a Balesman might turn sheep. Some wake up with an e:fecration and a thi-eat. — ^Miat ! who spoke ? O ! If it 's the accursed glaring eye that fixes me, go where I will, I am helpless. Here ! I sit up to be looked at. Is it me you want ? — Not you, lie do-s^Ti again I — and I lie dowTi, with ca woeful growl. Wherever the tiu-ning lane of light becomes stationary for a moment, some sleeper appears at the end of it, submits him- self to be scrutinised, and fades away into the darkness. There should l^e strange dreams here. Deputy. They sleep soimd enough, says Deputy, taking the candle out of the blacking bottle, snuffing it v>^ith his fingers, throwing the snuff into the bottle, and corking it up with the candle ; that' a all I know, '\\1iat is the inscription, Deputy, on all the discolored sheets? A precaution against loss of linen. Deputy turns down the rug of an unoccupied bed and discloses it. Stop Thief '. To lie at night, wrapped in the legend of my slinking life ; to take the cry that pursues me, waking, to my breast in sleep ; to have it staring at me, and clamoui'ing for me, as soon as consciousness returns ; to have it for my first-foot on New- Year's day, my Valentine, my Birthday salute, my Christmas greeting, my parting w^ith the old year. Stop Thief ! And to know that I rrnut be stopped, come what will. To know that 1 am no match for this individual energy and keenness, or this organised and steady system ! Come across the street, here, and. entering by a littlo shop, and yard, Bxamine these intricate passages and doors, contrived for escape, flajiping and counter-flapping, like the lids of the nonjuror's boxes. But what avail they ? VTho gets in by a aod, and shows their secret working to us ? Inspector Field. Don't forget tlie old Farm House, Parker I Parker is not VOL. U, » 3S8 ON DOTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD the man to forg-et it. We are going- there, no-w. It is the old ]Manor-nouse of these parts, and stood in the country once. Then, perhaps, there was something, whicli was not the beastly street, to see from the sliattered low fronts of the overhanging wooden houses we are passing under — shut up now, pasted over with bills about the literatm-e and drama of the Mint, and mouldering away. This long paved yard was a paddock or a garden once, or a court in front of the Farm House. Perchance, with a dovecot in the centre, and fowls pecking about — with fair elm trees, then, where disciolored chimney-stacks and gables are now — noisy, then, with rooks which have yielded to a different sort of rookery. It 's likelier than not. Inspector Field thinks, as we turn into the common kitchen, which is in the yard, and many paces from the house. Well my lads and lasses, how are joxi all ! Where 'a Blackey, who has stood near Loudon Bridge these five-and- twenty years, with a painted skin to represent disease? — Here he is, Mr. Field ! — How are you, Blackey ? — JoUy, sa I — Not playing the fiddle to-night, Blackey ? — Not a night, sa ! — A sharp, smiling youth, the wit of the kitchen, interposes. He an't musical to-night, sir. I 've been giving him a moral lecture ; I 've been a talking to him about his latter end, 3^ou see. A good many of these are my pupils, sir. This here young man (smoothing down the hair of one near him, reading a Sunday paper) is a pupil of mine, I 'm a teaching of him to read, sir. He 's a promising cove, sir. He 's a smith, he is, and gets his living by the sweat of the brow, sir. So do I, myself, sir. This young woman is my sister, Mr. Field. She 's getting on very well too. I 've a deal of trouble with 'em, sii-, but I 'm richly rewarded, now I see 'em all a doing so well, and growing up so creditable. That 's a great comfort, that is, an't it, sir ? — In tlie midst of the kitchen (the whole kitchen is in ecstacies with this impromptu " eliaff ") sits a young, modest, gentle-looking creatm-e, Avith a beautiful child in her lap. She seem.s to belong to the oompany, but is so strangely unlike it. She has such u pretty, quiet face and voice, and is so proud to hear tlie cliild admired — thinks you would hardly believe that he is only nine months old ! Is she as bad as the rest, I wonder ? Inspectorial esperience does not engender a belief contra/- riwifie, but prompts the answer, Not a ha'porth of difference I ON DUTY AYITH INSPECTOR FIELP 33> I'liere is a piano going in the old Farm House as wo approach. It stops. Landlady appears. Has no objections, Mr. Field, to gentlemen being brought, but wishes it were at earlier hours, the lodgers complaining of ill-conwenience. Inspector Field is polite and soothing — knows his woman and the sex. Deputy (a girl in this case) shows the way up a heavy broad old staircase, kept very clean, into clean rooms where many sleepers are, and where painted panels of an oldui time look strangely on the truckle beds. The sight of white- wash and the smell of soap — two things we peem by this time to have parted from in infancy — make the old Farm House a phenomenon, and connect themselves 'with the so cui-iously misplaced picture of the pretty mother and child long after we have left it, — long after we have left, besides, the neigh- bouring nook with something of a rustic flavor in it yet, where once, beneath a low wooden colonnade still standing as of yore, the eminent Jack Sheppard condescended to regale himself, and where, now, two old bachelor brothers in broad hats (who are whispered in the INIint to have made a compact long ago that if either should ever marry, he must forfeit his share of the joint property) still keep a sequestered tavern, and sit o' nights smoking pipes in the bar, among ancient bottles and glasses, as our eyes behold them. How goes the night now ? Saint George of Soiithwark answers with twelve blows upon his bell. Parker, good night, for Williams is already waiting over in the region of Ratcliffe Highway, to show the houses where the sailors dance. I shoiild like to know where Inspector Field was born. In Ratcliffe Highway, I would have answered Avith confidence, but for his being equally at home wherever we go. He does not trouble his head as I do, about the river at night. He does not care for its creeping, black and silent, on our right there, rushing through sluice gates, lapping at piles and posts and iron rings, hiding strange things in its miid, running fiway with suicides and accidentally drowned bodies faster than midnight funeral shovdd, and acquiring such various experience between its cradle and its grave. It has no mystery for him. Is there not the Thames Police ! Accordingly, "Williams lead the way. We are a little late, for some of the houses are ah'eady closing. No matter. You show us plenty. Ml the landlords know Inspector Field. All pass him, freely and good-humouredly, wheresoever he wanis a2 840 ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. to go. So thorouglily are till these houses open to him and our local guide, that, granting that sailors must be enter- tained in their o^vn Avay — as I suppose tliey must, and have a right to be — I hardly know how such places coxdd be bettei regidated. Not that I call' the company very select, or the dancing very graceful — even so graceful as that of the German Sugar Bakers, whose assembh', by the Minories, we stopped to visit — but tliere is watchfid maintenance of order in every house, and swift expulsion where need is. Even in the midst of drunkenness, botli of the lethargic kind and the lively, there is sharp landlord supervision, and pockets are ia less peril than out of doors. These houses show, singularly, how much of the picturesf|ue and romantic there truly is in the sailor, requiring to be especially addressed. All the songs (sung in a hailstorm of halfpence, which are pitched at the singer without the least tenderness for the time or time — mostly from great rolls of copper carried for the purpose — and which he occasionally dodges like shot as they fly near his head) are of the sentimental sea sort. All the rooms are decorated with nautical subjects. Wrecks, engagements, ships on fire, ships passing lighthouses on iron-boimd. coasts, ships blowing up, sliips going down, ships running ashore, men lying out upon the main yard in a gale of wind, sailors and ships in every variety of pei-il, constitute the illustrations of fact. Nothing can be done in the fanciful yvay, without a thumping boy upon a scal}^ dolphin. How goes the night now ? Past one. Black and Green are Avaitiug in Whitechapel to unveil the mysteries of Went- ^vorth Street. Williams, the best of friends must part. Adieu ! Are not Black and Green ready at the appointed place ? O yes ! They glide out of shadow as we stop. Imperturbable Black opens the cab-door ; Impertm-babie Green takes a mental note of the 'driver. Both Green and Black then open, eatli his flaming eye, and marshal us the way that we are going. The lodging-house we want, is hidden in a maze of streets and courts. It is fast shut. We knock at the dooi, and etand hushed looking up for a light at one or other of the begrimed old lattice windows in its ugly front, when auotlier constable comes up — supposes that jve want " to see the echool." Detective Stirf^eaut meamvhile has got over a rail. ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD 341 opened a gate, dropped do-woi an area, overcome some othei little obstacles, and tapped at a window. Now returns. TLe landlord will send a deputy immediately. Deputy is lieard to stumLle out of Led. Deputy liglits a candle, draws back a bolt or two, and appears at the door. Deputy is a shivering shirt and trousers by no means clean, a yawning face, a shock head much confused externally and internally. We want to look for some one. You may go up with the light, and take 'em all, if you like, says Deputy, resigning it, and sitting down upon a bench in the kitchen with his ten fingers sleepily twisting in his hair. Halloa here ! Now then ! Show yourselves. That '11 do. It 's not you. Don't distiu-b yourself any more ! So on, through a labyrinth of airless rooms, each man responding, like a wild beast, to the keeper who has tamed him, and who goes into his cage. "What, you haven't found him, then ? Bays Deputy, when we came down. A woman mysteriously sitting up all night in the dark by the smouldering ashes of the kitchen fire, says it 's only tramps and cadgers here : it 's gonophs over the way. A man, mysteriously walking abou* t-lie kitchen all night in the dark, bids her hold her tongue. We come out. Deputy fastens the door and goes to bed again. Black and Green, you know Bark, lodging-house keeper and receiver of stolen goods ? — yes. Inspector Field. — Go to Bark's next. Bark sleeps in an inner wooden hutch, near his street-door. As we parley on the step with Bark's Deputy, Bark growls in his bed. We enter, and Bark flies out of bed. Bark is a red villain and a wrathful, with a sanguine tliroat that looks very much as if it were expressly made for hanging, as he stretches it out, in pale defiance, over the haK-door of his hutch. Bark's parts of speech are of an awfid sort — principally adjectives. I Avon't, says Bark, have no adjective police and adjective strangers in my adjective premises ! I won't, by adjective and substantive ! Give me my trousers, and I '11 send the whole adjective police to adjective and substantive ! Give me, says Bark, my adjective trousers ! I '11 put an adjective knife in the whole bileing of 'cm. I '11 punch theii adjective heads. I '11 rip up their adjective substantives. Give me my adjective ti-ousers ! says Bark, and I '11 spile the bileina of 'em ! 542 ON DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. Now, Bark, vrliat 's the use of tins ? Here 's Black and Green, Detective Sergeant, and Inspector Field. You loiow vce ■will come in. — I know you won't ! says Bark. Somebody g-ive me my adjective trousers ! Bark's trousers seem difficult to find. He calls for them, as Hercides might for his club. Give me my adjective trousers ! says Bark, and I 'U spHs the bileing of 'em ! Inspector Field holds that it 's all one whether Bark likes the visit or don't like it. He, Inspector Field, is an Inspector of the Detective Police, Detective Sergeant is Detective Ser- geant, Black and Green are constables in uniform. Don't you be a fool. Bark, or you know it will be the worse for you. — I don't care, says Bark. Give me my adjective trousers ! At two o'clock in the morning, we descend into Bark's low kitchen, leaving Bark to foam at the mouth above, and Im- perturbable Black and Green to look at him. Bark's kitchen IS crammed fiiU of thieves, holding a conversazione there by Lamp-light. It is by far the most dangerous assembly we liave seen yet. Stimulated by the ravings of Bark, above, their looks are sullen, but not a man speaks. We ascend again. Bark has got his trousers, and is in a state of mad- ness in the passage with his back against a door that shuts off the upper staircase. We observe, in other respects, a ferocious individuality in Bark. Instead of " Stop Thief I " on his linen, he prints " Stolen fkoji Bark's ! " Now Bark, we are going iip stairs ! — No, you ain't ! — You refuse admission to the Police, do you. Bark ? — Yes, I do ! I refuse it to all the adjective police and to all the adjective substantives. If the adjective coves in the kitchen was men, they 'd come up now, and do for 3'ou ! Shut me that there door ! says Bark, and suddenly we are enclosed in the passage. They'd come up and do for you ! cries Bark, and waits. Not a sound in the kitchen ! They 'd come up and do for you I tries Bark again, and waits. Not a sound in the kitchen I We are shut up, half-a-dozen of us, in Bark's house in the innermost recesses of the woi"st part of London, in the dead of the night — the house is crammed with notorious robbers and ruffians — and not a man stirs. No, Bark. They know the weight of the law, and they know Inspector Field and Co too well. We leave btdly Bark to subside at leisure out of his passion iind his trousers, and I dare say, to bo in(;onveniently GN DUTY WITH INSPECTOR FIELD. 343 reminded jf this little brush before long. Black and Green do ordinary duty here, and look serious. As to ^VTiite, who waits on Holborn Hill to show the courts that are eaten out of Rotten Gray's Inn Lane, where other lodging-houses are, and where (in one blind alle}') the Thieves' Kitchen and Seminary for the teaching of the art to children, is, the night has so worn away, being now almost at odds ivith morning, which is which, chat they are quiet, and no light shines through tlie ciiinks in the shutters. As undistinctive Death will come nere, one day, sleep comes now. The wicked cea^e ^om troubling Bometimes, even in this life. DOWN WITH THE TIDE. A y ERY dark night it was, and Litter cold ; the east wind blowing' bleak, and bringing with it stinging particles from, marsh, and moor, and fen — from the Great Desert and Old Egy])t, may be. Some of the component parts of the sharp- edged vapour that came flying up the Thames at London might be mummy-dust, dry atoms from the Temple at Jerusa- lem, camels' foot-prints, crocodiles' hatching places, loosened grains of expression from the visages of blunt-nosed sph;ynxes, waifs and strays from caravans of tiu-baued merchants, vegeta- tion from jungles, fi-ozen snow from the Himalayas. ! It v.^as very very dark u]Don the Thames, and it was bitter bitter cold. " And yet," said the voice witliin the great pea-coat at my side, " you '11 have seen a good many rivers too, I dare say?" " Truly," said I, " when I come to think of it, not a few. From the Niagara, do^^^lward to the mountain rivers of Italy, which are like the national spirit — very tame, or chafing suddenly and l^ursting bounds, only to dwindle away again. The Moselle, and the Rhine, and the Rhone ; and the Seine, and the Saone ; and the St. Lawrence, Mississippi, and Ohio ; and the Tiber, the Po, and the Arno ; and the " Peacoat coughing, as if he had had enough of that, I said no more. I could liave carried the catalogue on to a teazing length, though, if I liad been in tlic cruel mind. " And after all," said he, "this looks so dismal ? " " So awful," I returned, " at night. The Seine at Paris is very glcxjmy too, at such a time, and is probably the scene of far more crime and greater Avickedness ; but this river looks so broad and vast, co murky and silent, seems such an image of death in the midst of the great city's Hfe, that " That Peacoat couched again. Ho couhi not stand mj holding forth DOWN WITH THE TIDE. 345 Wo were in a four-oared Thames Police Galle}', lying on our oars in the deep shadou' of SnutliAvark Bridge — under the corner arch on the Sui-rey side — having come dowTi witt. the tide from Vauxhall. We were fam to hold on pretty tight tliough close in shoi'e, for the river AA-as swollen and the tide running down very strong. We were watching certain watsr- rats of human growth, and lay in tlie deep shade as quiet ai? mice ; our light hidden and our scraps of conversation carried on in whispers. Above us, the massive iron girders of the arch were faintly visible, and Itolow us its ponderous shadow seemed to sink down to the bottom of the stream. We had been lying here some half an hour. With our backs to the wind, it is true ; but the wind being in a deter- mined temper blew straight through us, and woidd not take the trouble to go round. I would have boarded a fireship *o get into action, and mildly suggested as mucli to my friend Pea. " No doubt," says he as patiently as possible ; " but shore- going tactics wouldn't do with us. lliver thieves can always get rid of stolen property in a moment by dropping it over- board. We want to take them tcith the property, so we liu-k about and come out upon 'em sharp. If they see us or hear us, over it goes." Pea's wisdom being indisputable, there was nothing for it but to sit there and be blown through, for another half hour. The water-rats thinking it wise to abscond at the end of that time without commission of felony, we shot out, disappointed, with the tide. " Grim they look, don't they ? " said Pea, seeing me glanca over my shoulder at the lights upon the bridge, and do\A-nward at their long crooked reflections in the river. " Very," said I, " and make one think with a shudder of Suicides. What a night for a dreadfid leap from that parapet ! " " Aye, but Waterloo 's the favoui-ite biidge for making holes in the water from," returned Pea. '•' By the hje — avast pulling lads I — woidd you like to speak to Waterloo on tlio subject ? " My face confessing a surpi'ised desire to have some friemlly conversation with Waterloo Bridge, and my friend Pea being the most obliging of men, we put about, pulled out of the ^rce of the stream, and in place of going at great speed vfitb 34(3 DOWN WITH THE TIDE. the tide, beg'an to strive ayainst it, close in shore again Every coloiu- l)ut black seemed to have departed from the world. The air was black, the water Avas black, the barges and hulks were black, the piles were black, the buildings were black, the shadows were only a deeper shade of black upon a black ground. Here and tlieie, a coal fii-e in an iron cresset blazed upon a wliarf; but, one knew that it too had been black a little while ago, and would be black again soon. Uncomfortable rushes of water suggestive of gurgling and drowning, ghostly rattlings of iron chains, dismal clankings of discordant engines, formed the music that accompanied tlie dip of our oars and their rattling in the rullocks. Even the noises had a black sound to me — as the trumpet sounded red to the blind man. Our dexterous boat's crew made nothing of the tide, and pulled us gallantly up to Waterloo Bridge. Here Pea and I ilisembarked, passed under the black stone a ?hway, and climbed the steep stone steps. Within a few -et of their .'iummit. Pea presented me to Waterloo (or an < niinent toll- taker representing that structure), muffled up to the eyes in a thif k shawl, and amply great-coated and fur-capped. Waterloo received us with cordiality, and observed of the xiight that it was "a Searcher." He had be.jn originally called the Strand Bridge, he informed us, but had. received his present name at the suggestion of the proprietors, when Par- liament had resolved to vote tlxree hundred thousand pound for the erection of a monument in honoiu' of the victory Parliament took the hint (said Waterloo, with the least flavour C'f misanthropy) and saved the mone}-. Of course the late Duke of Wellington was the fii'st passenger, and of coiu'se he paid his penny, and of course a noble lord preserved it i^vermore. The treadle and index at the toll -house (a most ingenious contrivance for rendering fraud impossible), wei'e invented by INIr. Lethbridge, then property-man at Driu-y Lane Theatre. Was it suicide, we wanted to know about ? said Waterloo Ha ! Well, he had seen a good deal of that -work, he did assure us. He had prevented some. ^Vliy, one day a woman, poorish looking, came in between the hatch, slapped down a penny, and wanted to go on -without the change ! Waterloo mspected this, and says to his mate, " give an eye to the tjat^," and bolted after her. She had got to the thii'd seal DOWN WITH THE TIDE, 34J between the piers, and was on the parapet just a going' over, when he caught her and gave her in charge. A.t the police office next morning, she said it was along of trouble and a bad husband. " Likely enough," observed Waterloo to Pea and myself, as he adjusted his chin in his shawl. " There 's a deal of trouble about, you see — and bad husbands too ! " Another time, a young woman at twelve o'clock in the open day, got through, darted along ; and, before Waterloo could come near her, jumped upon the parapet, and shot herself over sideways. Alarm given, watermen put off, lucky escape. — Clothes buoyed her up. " This is where it is," said Waterloo. " If people jump off straight forwards from the middle of the parapet of the bays of the bridge, they are seldom killed by drowning, but are smashed, poor things ; that 's what they are ; they dash them- selves upon ;the buttress of the bridge. But, you jump off," said Water} ro to me, putting his forefinger in a button hole of my great ;Coat; "you jump off from the side of the bay, and you '11 ■i:umble, true, into the stream under the arch. "\^'^lat 3'ou have got to do, is to mind how you jump in I There was poor Tom Steele from Dxiblin. Didn't dive ! Bless you, didn't dive at all ! Fell down so flat into the water, that he broke hisi breast-bone, and lived two days I " I asked Waterloo if there were a favorite side of his bridge for this di-eadful purpose ? lie reflected, and thought yes, there was. He should say the Surrey side. Three decent looking men went through one day, soberly and quietly, and M'ent on abreast for about a dozen yards : M'hen the middle one, he sung out, all of a sudden, " Here goes. Jack ! " and was over in a minute. Body found ? Well. Waterloo didn't rightly recollect about that. They were compositors, they wei'e. He considered it astonishing how quick people were I Why, there was a cab came up one Boxing-night, witli a yo\mg woman in it, who looked, according to Waterloo's opinion of her, a little the worse for liquor ; very handsome she was too — very handsome. She stopped the cab at the gate, and said she 'd pay the cabman then : which she did, though there was a little hankering about the fare, because at Grst she didn't seem quite to know where she wanted to be drove to. However she paid the man, and the toll too. and 848 DOWN WITH THE TIDE. lookiug' Wateiloo in the face (he t^-^nght she knew him, don'1 yoii see !) said, " I '11 finish it somehow ! " Well, the cab went off, leaAdng Waterloo a little doubtful in his mind, and while it was going on at full speed the young woman jumped out, never fell, hardly staggered, ran along the bridge pave- ment a little way, passing several people, and jumped ovei from the second opening. At the inquest it was giv' in evidence that she had been quarrelling at the Hero of Waterloo, and it was brought in jealousy. (One of the results of Waterloo's experience was, that there was a deal of jealousy about.) " Do we ever get madmen?" said Waterloo, in answer t\ an inquiry of mine. "Well, we do get madmen. Yes, we have had one or two ; escaped from 'Sylums, I suppose. One hadn't a halfpenny ; and because I woiddn't let him tlirough, he went back a little way, stooped down, took a run, and butted at the hatch like a ram. He smashed his hat rarely, but his head didn't seem no worse — in my opinion on account of his being ■m-ong in it afore. Sometimes people haven't got a halfpenny. If they are really tired and poor we give 'em one and let 'em through. Other people will leave things — pocket-handkerchiefs mostly. I hai-e taken cravats and gloves, pocket-knives, toothpicks, studs, shirt pins, rings (generally from young gents, early in the morning), but hand- kerchiefs is the general thing." " Regular customers ? " said Waterloo. '•' Lord, yes ! We h.'ive regidar customers. One, such a worn-out used-up old file as you can scarcely picter, comes from the Surrey side as i-egular as ten o'clock at night comes ; and goes over, 1 think, to some flash house on the Middlesex side. He comes back ho does, as reg'lar as the clock strikes three in the morning and then can hardly drag one of his old legs after the other. He always turns down the water-stairs, conies up again, and then goes on dov,-u the Waterloo Koad. He always does the same tiling, and never varies a minute. Does it every night —even Sundays." I asked Waterloo if he had given his mind to the possibility i>f this particular customer going do-sni the water-stairs at three o'clock somLO morning, and never coming up again ? He didn't think that of him, he replied. In fact, it was Waterloo's opinion, founded on his observation of that file, that he know'd a trick worth two of it. DOWN WITH THE TIDE. 349 " Thei -• 's another queer old customer," said Waterloo, "comes over, as punctual as the almanack, at eleven o'clock on the sixth of January, at eleven o'clock on the fifth of April, at eleven o'clock on tlie sixth of July, at eleven o'clock on the tenth of October. Di'ives a shaggy little, rougli poney, in a sort of a rattle-trap arm-chair sort of a thing. White hair he has, and white whiskers, and muttles himself up with all manner of shawls. He comes back again the same afternoon, and we never see more of him for three months. He is a captain in the navy — retired — wery old — wery odd — and served with Lord Nelson. He is particular about drawing his jDension at Somerset House afore the clock strikes twelve every quarter. I have heerd say that he thinks it wouldn't be according to the Act of Parliament, if he didn't draw it afore twelve." Having related these anecdotes in a natural manner, which was the best warranty in the world for their genuine nature, our friend Waterloo was sinking deep into his shawl again, as having exhausted his communicative powers and taken in enough east wind, when my other friend Pea in a moment brought him to the surface by asking whether he had not been occasionally the subject of assault and battery in the execution of his duty ? Waterloo recovering his spirits, instantly dashed into a new branch of his subject. We learnt how " both these teeth " — here he pointed to the places where two front teeth were not — were knocked out by an ugly customer who one night made a dash at him (Waterloo) while his (the ugly customer's) pal and coadjutor made a dash at the toll-taking a[)ron where the money-pockets were ; how Waterloo, letting the teeth go (to Blazes, he observed in- definitely) grappled with the apron-seizer, permitting the ugly one to run away ; and how he saved the bank, and captured his man, and consigned him to fine and imprison- ment. Also how, on another night, " a Cove " laid hold of Waterloo, then presiding at the horse gate of his bridge, and threw him unceremoniously over his knee, having first cut his head open with his whip. How Waterloo '■ got right," and started alter the Cove all down the Waterloo Road, through Stamford Street, and round to the foot of Blackfriars Bridge, where the Cove "cut into" a public house. How Waterloo cut in too ; but how au aider and abettor of the Cove's, who happened to be taking a promiscuous drain at the bar, 350 DO\YN WITH THE TIDE. stopped Waterloo ; and the Cove cut out again, ran acrws^ c/.rt road down Holland Street, and where not, and into a uecr- shop. How Waterloo breaking away from his detainei was close upon the Cove's heels, attended by no end of people who, seeing him running with the blood streaming down his face, thought something worse was '' up," and roared Fire ! and Murder ! on the hopeful chance of the matter in hand being one or both. How the Cove was ignominiously taken, in a shed where he had run to hide, and how at the Police Court they at first wanted to make a sessions job of it ; but eventually Waterloo was allowed to be "spoke to," and the Cove made it square with Waterloo by paying his doctor's bill (W. was laid up for a week) and giving him " Three, ten." Likewise we learnt what we had faintly suspected before, that your sporting amateur on the Derby day, albeit a captain, can be — " if he be," as Captain Bobadil observes, "so generously minded" — anything but a man of honor and a gentleman ; not sufficiently gratifying his nice sense of humor by the witty scattering of flour and rotten eggs on obtuse civilians, but requiring the further excitement of " bilking the toll," and " i)itching into " Waterloo, and "cutting him about the head with his wliip ;" finally being, when called upon to answer for the assault, what Waterloo described as " Minus," or, as I humbly conceived it, not to be found. Likewise did Waterloo inform us, in reply to my inquiries, admiringly and deferentially preferred through my friend Pea, that the takings at the Bridge had more than doubled in amount, since the reduction of the toll one half. And being asked if the aforesaid takings included much bad money, Waterloo responded, with a look far deeper than the deepest part of the river, he should think not ! — and so re- tired into his shawl for the rest of the nicjlit. Then did Pea and I once more embark in our four-oared galley, and glide swiftly down the river with the tide. And wliile the shrewd East rasped and notched us, as with jagged razors, did my friend Pea impart to me confidences of interest relating to the Thames Police ; we betweenwhiles finding " duty boats " hanging in dark corners under banks, like weeds — our own was a "supervision boat" — and they, as they reported " all right !" flashing their liidden light on us, and we flas]nn<; ours on them. These duty boats had one sitter in each : an Inspector ; and were rowed " Ran-dan.' DOWN WITH THE TIDE. 351 which — for the iiiforination of those who never gradup.tfc-], as I -was once proud to do, under a fireman-waterman and winner of Kean's Prize ^^^lprl7 : who, in the course of his tuition, took himdi'ed.s of gallons of rum and egg (at my expense^ at the various houses of note above and below bridge ; not by any means because he liked it, but to cure a weakness in his liver, for which the faculty had particularly recommended it — may bo explained as rowed by three men, two pulling an oar each, and one a pau* of scidls. Thus, floating down our black highway, sullenly frowned upon by the knitted brows of Blacldi-iars, Southwark, and London, each in his lowering tiu'u, I was shown by my friend Pea that there are, in the Thames Police Force, whose district extends from Battersea to Baj-king Creek, ninety-eight men, eight duty boats, and two supervision boats ; and that these go about so silently, and lie in Avait in such dark places, and so seem to be nowhere, and so may be am-where, that they have gradually become a police of prevention, keeping the river almost clear of any great crimes, even while the in- creased viffQance on shore has made it much harder than of yore to live by " thieving " in the streets. And as to the various kinds of water tliieves, said my friend Pea, there were the Tier-rangers, who silently dropped alongside the tiers of shipping in the Pool, by liight, and who, going to the companion-head, listened for two snores— snore number one, the skipper's; snore number two, the mate's — mates and skippers always snoring great guns, and being dead sxu*e to be hard at it if they had turned in and were asleep. Hearing tlie double fire, do'mi went the Rangers into the skippers' cabins; groped for the skippers' inexpressibles, which it" was the custom of those gentlemen to shake off, watch, money, braces, boots, and all together, on the floor ; and thcreAWth made off as silently as might be. Then there were the Lumpers, or labourers employed to unload vessels. They wore loose canvas jackets with a broad hem in the bottom, tiu-ned inside, so as to form a large circidar pocket in which they could conceal, like c1o\atis in pantomimes, packages oi Bui-prising sizes. A great deal of property was stolen in this manner (Pea confided to me) fi'om steamers ; first, because Bteamers carry a larger number of small packages than othei ships ; next, because of tlie exti-eme rapidity' with ^hich thoy aro obliged to be unladen for their return voyages. The 352 DO-WR WITH THE TIDE. Lumpers dispose of their booty easily to marine store dealers and tlie only remedy to be suggested is that marine stoi'e ehops should be licensed, and thus brought under the eye of the police as rigidly as public-houses. Lumpers also smuggle goods ashore for the crews of vessels. The smuggling of tobacco is so considerable, that it is well worth the wliile of the sellers of smuggled tobacco to use hydraulic presses, to squeeze a single pound into a package small enough to be contained in an ordinary pocket. Next, said my friend Pea, there were the Truckers — less thieves than smugglers, whose business it was to land more considerable parcels of goods than the Lumpers could manage. They sometimes sold articles of grocery, and so forth, to the crews, in order to cloak their real calling, and get aboard without suspicion. Many of them had boats of their own, and made money. Besides these, there were the Dredgennen, who, under pre- tence of di'edging up coals and such like from the bottom of the river, hung about barges and other undecked crafty and when they saw an opportunity, tlirew any property they could lay their hands on overboard : in order slyly to dredge it up when the vessel was gone. Sometimes, they dexterously used their dredges to whip away an}i;hing that might lie within reach. Some of them were mighty neat at this, and the accompKshment was calleOl dry dredging. Then, there was a vast deal of property, such as copper nails, sheatliing, hard- wood, &c., habitually brought away by shipwrights and other workmen from their employers' yards, and disposed of to marine store dealers, many of whom escaped detection through hard swearing, and their extraordinary artful Avays of account- ing for the possession of stolen property. Likewise, there were special-pleading practitioners, for whom barges " drifted away of their own selves " — they having no hand in it. except first cutting thom loose, and afterwards plundering them — innocents, meaning no harm, who had the misfortune to observe those foundlings wandering about the Thames. We were now going in and out, with little noise and great nicety, among the tiers of shipping, whose many hulls, lying close together, rose out of tlie water like black streets. Here and there, a Scotch, an Irish, or a foreign steamer, getting up her steam as tlie tide made, looked, with her great chimney and high sides, like a quiet factory among the common build- ing.s Now, the streets opened into (dearer spaces, now con- DOWK WITH THE TIDE. 3C3 tracted into alleys ; but the tiers were so like houses, in the dark, that I could almost liave believed myself in the narrowei bye-ways of Venice. Everji:hing was wonderfully still ; for, it wanted fuU three hours of flood, and nothing seemed awake but a dog here and there. So we took no Tier-rangers captive, nor any Lumpers, noi Truckers, nor Dredgermen, nor other e^^l- disposed person oi persons ; but went ashore at Wapping, where the old Tliames Police office is now a station-house, and Avhere the old Court, with its cabin windows looking on the river, is a quaint charge room : with notliing w^orse in it usually than a stuffed cat in a glass case, and a portrait, pleasant to behold, of a rare old Thames Police officer, INIr. Superintendent Evans, now succeeded by his son. We looked over the charge books, admirably kept, and ft)und the prevention so good, that there were not five hundred entries (including drimken and dis- orderly) in a whole year. Then, we looked into the store- room ; where there was an oakum smell, and a nautical seasoning of di-eadnought clothing, rope yarn, boat hooks, scidls and oars, spare stretchers, rudders, pistols, cutlasses, and the like. Then, into the cell, aired high up in the Avooden -oall through an opening like a kitchen plate-rack : wherein there was a drunken man, not at all warm, and very wishftd to know if it were morning yet. Then, into a better sort of watch and ward room, where there was a squadron of stone bottles dra^Ti up, ready to be filled with hot water and applied to any unfortunate creature who might be brought in apparently droT^-ned. Finally, we shook hands with our worthy friend Pea, and ran all the way to Tower Hill, luider strong Police suspicion occasionally, before we got warm. A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE. On a certain Sunday, I formed one of the congregation Resembled in the cliapel of a large metropolitan Workhouse. With the exception of the clergjTnan and clerk, and a very few officials, there were none but paupers present. The chil- dren sat in the galleries ; the women in the body of the chapel, and in one of the side aisles ; the men in the remain- ing aisle. The service was decorously performed, though the Bermon might have been much better adapted to the com- prehension and to the circumstances of the hearers. The usual supplications were offered, with more than the usual significancy in such a place, for the fatherless children and widows, for all sick persons and J'oung children, for all that were desolate and oppressed, for the comforting and helping of the weak-hearted, for the raising-up of them that ha-i fallen ; for all that were in danger, necessity, and tribulation. The prayers of the congregation were desired " for several persons in the various wards dangerously ill ; " and others who were recovering returned their thanks to Heaven. Among this congregation, were some evil-looking young women, and beetle-browed j'oung men ; but not many — perhaps that kind of characters kept away. Generally, tlie faces (those of the children excepted) were depressed and subdued, and wanted colour. Aged people were there, ia every variety. Mumbling, blear-eyed, spectacled, stupid, deaf lame ; vacantly -ndnking in the gleams of sun that now and then crept in through the open doors, from the paved yard ; shading their listening ears, or blinking eyes with their withered hands ; poring over their books, leering at nothing, going to sleep, croucliing and drooping in corners. Theie were weird old women, all skeleton within, all bonnet an^ cloak without, co:atinually wiping their eyes with dirty dusters of pocket handkerchiefs; and there were ugly old A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE. 856 CToncs, bolli male and female, with a ghastl}' kind of con- tentment upon tlieni wliicli was not at all comforting to «3*» Upon the whole, it was the dragon. Pauperism, in a vei-y weak and impotent condition ; tootliless, fangless, di-awing hia breath heavily enough, and hardly worth chaining up. When tlie service was over, I walked with the humane and conscientious gentleman whose duty it was to take that walk, that Sunday morning, through the little world of poverty enclosed Avitliin the workhouse walls. It was inhabited by a population of some fifteen hunch'ed or two thousand paupers, ranging from the infant newly bom or not yet come into the pauper world, to the old man dpng on his bed. In a room opening from a squalid yard, where a number of listless women were lounging to and fi'o, trying to get warm in the ineffectual simshine of the tardy May morning — in the " Itch Ward," not to compromise the truth — a woman such as. HoGAKTH has often ch-awn, was hiu'riedly getting on her gown before a dusty fire. She was the nurse, or wardswoman, of that insalubrious department — herself a pauper— flabby, raw-boned, untidy — unpromising and coarse of aspect as need be. But, on being spoken to about the i)atients whom slie had in charge, she turned round, with her shabby gown haK on, half off, and fell a crying v.'ith aU her might. Not for show, not querulously, not in any mavi-kish sentiment, but in the deep grief and affliction of her heart ; tiu-ning away her dishevelled head : sobbing most bitterly, wringing her hands, and letting fall abimdance of great tears, that choked her utterance. "WTiat was the matter with the nurse of the itch- ward ? Oh, "the dropped child" was dead ! Oh, the child that v.'as foiuid in the street, and she had brought up ever since, had died an hour ago, and see where the little creature lay, beneath this cloth I The dear, the pretty dear I Tlie dropped child seemed too small and poor a thing for Death to be in earnest with, but Death had taken it ; and already its diminutive foi-m was neatly washed, composed, and stretched as if in sleep upon a box. I thought I heard a c-oice fr-om Heaven sapng. It shall be well for thee, O nurse of the itch-ward, when some less gentle pauper does ivers of them had been there some long time. " Are they never going away? " was the natural enquiry. "Most of them are crippled, in some form or other," said the Wardsman, " and not fit for am-thing." They slunlv about, like dispirited wolves or hyeenas ; and made a poimce at their food when it was served out, much as those anirhals do. The big-headed idiot shuffling is feet along the pavement, in the sunlight outside, was a more agreeable object everjnvay. Groves of babies in orms ; groves of mothers and othei eick women in bed ; groves of lunatics ; jungles of men in Btone-paved down-stairs day -rooms, M-aiting for their dinners ; longer and longer groves of old people, in upstairs Infirmary wards, wearing out life, God knows how — this was the scenery through which the walk lay, for two hoiu-s. In some of these latter chambers, there were pictuxes stuck against the wall, ind a neat display of crockery and pewter on a kind of sido- 358 A WALK IN A WORKHntJSB. board; now and then it was a treat to see a plant or two ; in almost every ward there was a cat. In all of these I^ong Walks of aged and infirm, some old people were bed-ridden, and had been for a long time; some were sitting on their beds half-naked ; some dying in theii beds ; some out of bed, and sitting at a table near the fire. A sullen or lethargic indifference to what was asked, a blunted sensibility to everything but warmth and food, a moody absence of complaint as being of no use, a dogged silence and resentful desire to be loft alone again, I thought were generally apparent. On our walldng into the midst of one of these dreary perspectives of old men, nearly the following little dialogue took place, the nurse not being immediately at hand : " All well here ? " No answer. An old man in a Scotch cap sitting among others on a form at the table, eating out of a tin porringer, pushes back his cap a little to look at us, claps it do'UTi on his forehead again with the palm of his hand, and goes on eating. " All well here?" (repeated.) No answer. Another old man sitting on his bed, paralyli- oally peeling a boiled potato, lifts his head, and stares. ''Enough to eat?" No answer. Another old man, in bed, turns himself and coughs. " How are you to-day?" To the last old man. That old man says nothing; but another old man, a tall old man of very good address, speaking with perfect co^'rect- ness, conies forward from somewhere, and volunteers an answer. The reply almost always proceeds from a volunteer and not from the person looked at or spoken to, " We are very old, Sir," in a mild, distinct voice. " We can't expect to be well, most of lis." " Are vou comfortable 1' " " I Iiave no complaint to make, Sir." With a half shake of his head, a half shrug of his shoulders, and a kind oi apologetic smile. "Enough to eat?" '' Why, Sir, I have but a poor appetite," with the same »ir as before ; " and yet I get through my allowance very 3afilly." A WALK IN A Vv'ORf.HODSE. 359 " But," sliowing- a porringer with a Sunday dinner in it; " here is a portion of mutton, and three potatoes. You can't starve on that ?" " Oh dear no, Sir," with the same apologetic air. "Not starve." ""What do you want?" "We have very little bi-ead, Sir. It's an exceeding!' small quantity of bread." The nurse, who is nosv rubbing lier hands at the ti oner's elbow, interferes with, " It ain't much raly, k You see they 've only six oimces a day, and when they 'v^ took theu' breakfast, there can only be a little left for night, Sh\" Another eld man, hitherto invisible, rises out of his bed- clothes, as out of a grave, and looks on. "You have tea at night?" The questioner is still ad- dressing the well-spoken old man. " Yes, Sir, we have tea at night." " And 5'ou save what bread you can from the morning, to eat with it?" " Yes, Sir — if we can save any." " And you want more to eat with it ?" "Yes, Sir." With a very anxious face. The questioner, in the kindness of his heart, appears a little discomposed, and changes the subject. " "Wriiat has become of the old man who used to lie in that Led in the corner ? " The nurse don't remember Avhat old man is referred to. There has Ijeen such a many old men. The well-spoken old man is doubtful. The spectral old man who haa come to life in bed, says, " BiUy Stevens." Another old man who has previously had his head in the fire-place, pipes out, " Charley Walters." Something like a feeble interest is awakened. I suppose Charley W^'alters had conversation in him. " He b dead." says the i^iping old man. Another old man, with one eye screwed up, hastily dis' i>la.ces the piping old man, and says : " Yes ! Charley Walters died in that bed, and — and — " "Billy Stevens," persists the spectral old man. "No, no ! and Johnny Rogers died in that bed, and — axid 860 A WALK IN A WORKHOUSK — lliDV "re Loth on 'etn dead — ^and Sara'l Bowyer ; " this seems very extraordinary to kim ; "he went out ! " With this he subsides, and all the old men (having had quite enough of it) subside, and the spectral old man goes into his grave again, and takes the shade of BiUy Stevens with him. As we turn to go out at tlie door, another previously in- visible old man, a hoarse old man in a flannel gown, is standing there, as if he had just come up through the floor. "I beg yoiu- pardon. Sir, could I take the liberty of saying a word?" "Yes; what is it?" " I am greatly better in my health. Sir ; but what I want, to get me quite round," with his hand on his tlu-oat, "is a little fresh air. Sir. It has always done my complaint so much good. Sir. The regidar leave for going out, comes round so seldom, that if the gentlemen, next Friday, would give me leave to go oiit walking, now and then — for only an hour or so. Sir !— " Who could wonder, looldng through those weary vistas of bed and infirmity, that it should do him good to meet with some other scenes, and assure himself that there was some- thing else on earth ? Wlio could help wondering why the old men lived on as they did ; what grasp they had on life ; what crumbs of interest or occupation they coidd pick up from its bare board; whether Charley Walters had ever described to them the days when he kept company with some old pauper woman in the bud, or Billy Stevens ever told them vf the time when he was a dweller in the far-otf foreign land called Home ! The morsel of burnt child, Ijdng in another room, so patiently, in bed, wrapped in lint, and looking stedfastly at ua Avith his bright quiet eyes when we spoke to him kindly, looked as if the knowledge of these things, and of all the lender things there are to think about, might have been in his mind — as if he thought, with us, that there was a fellow- feeling in the pauper nvu-ses whicli appeared to make them more kind to their charges than the race of common niu'ses in the hospitals — as if he mused upon the Futui-e of some older childi-en lying around him in the same place, and thought it best, perhaps, all things considered, that he should die — as L ke kuew, without fear, of thosa many coITins, made and A WALK IN A WORKHOUSE. 861 unmade, piled xxp in the store below — and of his unknown tV'end, " the dropped child," calni upon the box-Kd covered with a cloth. But there was something wistful and appealing, too, in his tiny face, as if, in the midst of aU the hai'd neces- sities and incongruities he pondered on, he pleaded, in behalf of the helpless and the aged poor, for a little more liberty — •iiid a little more bread. PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE. Onctc tipon a time, and of course it was in the Golden Age, and I h''^i)e you ma}'- know when that was, for I am sure 1 don't, though I have tried hard to find out, there lived in a rich and fertile countr}', a powerfid Prince whose name was Bull. He had gone through a great deal of fighting, in his time, ahout all sorts of things, including nothing ; but, had gradually settled down to be a steady, peaceable, good-natured, corpulent, rather sleepy Prince. This Puissant Prince was married to a lovely Princess whose name was Fair Freedom. She had brought him a large fortime, and had borne him an immense number of chilflren, and had set them to spinning, and farming, and engineering, and soldiering, and sailoring, and doctoring, and la-nyering, and preaching, and all kinds of trades. The coffers of Prince Bidl were full of treasure, his cellars were crammed with delicious Mines from all parts of the world, the richest gold and silver plate that ever was seen adorned his side- boards, his sons were strong, his daughters were handsome, and in short you might have supposed that if there ever lived upon earth a fortunate and happy Prince, the name of that Prince, take him for all in all. was assuredly Prince Bull. But, appearances, as we all know, are not always to be trusted — far from it ; and if they had led you to this conclusion respecting Prince Bull, they woidd have led you Avr ng as they often have led me. For, this good Prince had two sharp thorns r:. Hs pillow, two hard knobs in his oro«Ti, two heav}' loads on his mint^, two unbridled nightmares in his sleep, two rocks ahead in his course. He could not by any means get servants to suit him, and he had a tjTannical old godmother whose name waa Tape. PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE. 3«3 She "u*as a Fairy, tliis Tape, and was a briglit red all over. She was disgustingly prim and formal, and could never bend herself a hair's breadth this way or tliat way, out of her naturally crooked shape. But, she was very potent in her wicked art. She could stop the fastest thing in the world, change the strongest thing into the weakest, and the most useful into the most useless. To do this she had only to put her cold hand upon it, and rej^eat her otsti name, Tape. Then it withered away. At the Court of Prince Bull — at least I don't mean Literally at his court, because he was a very genteel Prince, and readily pelded to his godmother when she always reserved that for his hereditary Lords and Ladies — in the dominions of Prince Bull, among the great mass of the community who were called in the language of that polite country the ]\Iobs and the Snobs, were a number of very ingenious men, who were always busy with some invention or other, for promoting the prosperity of the Prince's subjects, and augmenting the Prince's power. But, whenever they submitted their models for the Prince's approval, his godmother stepped forward, laid her hand upon them, and said " Tape." Hence it came to pass, that when any particidarl}^ good discovery was made, the discoverer usuall}' carried it off to some other Prince, in foreign ]Darts, who had no old godmother who said Tape. This was not on the whole an advantageous state of things for Prince Bull, to the best of my understanding. The worst of it, was, that Prince Bidl had in course of years lapsed into such a state of subjection to thus imlucky godmother, that he never made any serious effort to rid himself of her tjTanny. I have said this was the worst of it, but there I was A\Tcng, because there is a worse consequence still, behind. The Prince's numerous family became so down- right sick and tired of Tape, that when they shoidd have helped the Prince out of the difficulties into which that evil creature led him, they fell into a dangerous habit of moodily keeping away from him iu an impassive and indifferent manner, as though they had quite forgotten that no harm coidd happen to the Prince their father, without its inevitably afiFecting themselves. Such Avas the aspect of affairs at the court -^f Prince Bull, when this great Prince found it necessary to go to war with Prince Bear. He had been for some time very doubtful 0/ 864 PKINCE BULL. A FAIKY TALE. his servants, wlio, besides being indolent and addicted to enriching tlieir families at his expense, domineered over him dreadfully ; thi'eatening to discliarge tliemselves if th.ey wera foimd the least fault with, pretending that they had done a wonderful amount of work when they had done nothing, making the most unmeaning speeches that ever were heard in the Prince's name, and iiniformlv showing: themselves to be very inefficient indeed. Though, that some of them had excellent characters from previous situations is not to bo denied Well ; Prince BiJI called his servants together, and said to them one and all, " Send out my army against Prince Bear. Clothe it, arm it, feed it, provide it with all necessaries and contingencies, and I will pay the piper ! Do your duty by my brave troops," said the Prince, " and do it well, and I will pour my treasure out like water, to defray the cost. Who ever heard me complain of money well laid out I " Which indeed he had reason for sapng, inasmuch as he -nas well known to be a truly generous and munificent Prince. When the servants heard those words, they sent out the army again.st Prince Bear, and they set the army tailors to work, and tlie army provision merchants, and tlie makers of guns both great and small, and the g-unpowder makers, and the makers of ball, shell, and shot; and they bouglit up all manner of stores and shij)s, without troubling their heads about the price, and appeared to be so busy that the good Prince rubbed his hands, and (using a favoui-ite expression of his), said, " It 's all right ! " But, while they were thus employed, the Prince's godmother, who was a great favourite with those servants, looked in upon them continually aU day long, and whenever she popped in her head at the door, said, " How do you do, my cliildi-en ? Wiiat are you doing here?" "Official business, godmother." "Oho!" saya tliis wdcked Fairy. " — Tape!" And then the business all went wrong, whatever it was, and the servants' heads became so addled and muddled that they thought they were doing wonders. Now, this was very bad conduct on the part of the vicious old nuisance, and she ought to have been strangled, even if ehe had stopped here ; but, she didn't stop here, as j-ou shalJ learn. For, a number of the Prince's subjects, being very fond of the Prince's army who were the bravest of men, PRINCa BULL. A FAIRY TALE. 366 assembled together and provided all manner of eatables and di'inkables, and books to read, and clotlies to wear, and tobacco to smoke, and candles to burn, and nailed tbem up in great packing-cases, and put them aboard a great many ships, to be carried out to that brave army in the cold and inclement country where they were fighting Prince Bear. Then, up comes this wicked Fairy as tlie ships were weighing anchor, and says, " How do you do, my children ? "\\Tiat are you doing here? " — "We are going with all these conrforts to the anny, godmother." — " Oho ! " says she. " A pleasant voyage, my darlings. — Tape ! " And from that time forth, those enchanted sliips went sailing, against wind and tide and rhjnne and reason, round and round the world, and whenever they touched at any port were ordered off immediately, and could never deliver their cargoes anywhere. This, again, was very bad conduct on the part of the vicious old nuisance, and she ought to have been strangled for it if she had done nothing worse ; but, she did something worse still, as you shall learn. For, she got astride of an official broomstick, and muttered as a spell these two sentences " On Her Majesty's service," and " I have the honour to be, sir, your most obedient servant," and presently alighted in the cold and inclement country where the army of Prince Bull were encamped to fight the army of Prince Bear. On the seashore of that country, she foimd piled together, a number of houses for the army to live in, and a cpiantity of provisions for the aiTny to live upon, and a Cjuantity of clothes for the army to Avear : while, sitting in the mud gazing at them, were a group of officers as red to look at as the wicked old woman herself. So, she said to one of them, " \\'h.o are you, my darling, and how do you do ? " — " I am the Quarter- master General's Department, godmother, and I am pretty well." — Then she said to another, " "Who are you, my darlings and how do yrm do? " — ■" I am the Commi-ssariat Lepartmeut, godmother, and I am prettj'' well." Then she said to another, " "SMio are you, my darling, and how do you do ?"— " I am the Head of tlic ^ledical Lepartmcnt, godmother, and I am pretty vvell." Then, she said to some gentlemen scented with avender, who kept themselves at a great distance from the rest " And who are you, my pretty pets, and how do you do?" And they answered, " Wc-aw-arc-the-aw-Stafi-aw- Dopartment, godmother, and we are vsiy well indeed." — " I 356 PRIXCE BULL. A FAIRY TALE. am deligliteJ to yee you all, my beauties," says this wicked old Fairy, " — Tape!" Upon that, the houses, clothes, and pro- visions, all moiddered away ; and the soldiers who were sounds fell sick ; and the soldiers who were sick, died miserably ; and the noble army of Prince Bidl perished. AMien the dismal news of his great loss was carried to the Prince, he suspected his godmotiier very much indeed ; but, he know that his servants must have kept company with the mahcious beldame, and must have given way to her, and therefore he resolved to tiu-n those servants out of tlieir places. So, he called to him a Roebuck who had the gift of speech, and he said, " Good Roebuck, tell them they must go." So, the good Roebuck delivered his message, so like a man that you might have supposed him to be nothing but a man, and they were tiu-ned out — but, not without warning, for that they had had a long time. And now comes the most extraordinary part of the history of this Prince. "When he had tiu-ned out those servants, of course he wanted others. "\Miat was his astonishment to find that in all his dominions, which contained no less than twenty-seven millions of people, there were not above five-and- twenty servants altogether I They were so lofty about it, too, that instead of discussing whether they shoidd hii-e themselves as servants to Prince Bull, they turned things tops^'-turyv', and considered whether as a favour they should hire Prince Bid] to be their master ! "Wliile they were arguing this point among themselves quite at their leisure, the wicked old red Fairy was incessantly going up and down, loiocking at the do«rs of twelve of the oldest of the five-and-twenty, who were the oldest inhabitants in all that country, and whose united ages amounted to one thousand, sajdng, " "Willi/ow hire Prince Bidl for your master ? — AVill you hire Prince Bull for your master?" To which one answered, "I will if next door will; " and another, "I won't if over the way does;" and another, " I can't if he, she, or they, might, could, wouid, or ehoidd." A.nd all this time Prince Bull's affairs were going to rack and ruin. At last, Prince BuU in the height of his perplexity assumed ft thoughtfid face, as if he were struck by an nutii-ely new idea. The Adcked old Fair}', seeing this, was at his elbow directly, and said, " How do you do, my Prince, and what are you thinking off?" — "1 am tliinking, godmother," say? ho, PRINCE BULL. A FAIRY TALK 367 "that among all the seven-and-tn^enty millious of my stibjecta who have never been in service, there are men of intellect and business who have made me very famous both among my friends and enemies." — " Aye, truly ? " says the Fairy. — " Ayr, trill}'," says the Prince, — "And what then?" says the Fairy. — "Why, then," says he, "since the regular old class of servants do so ill, are so hard to get, and carry it ^vith so high a hand, perhaps I might try to make good servants of some of these." The words had no sooner passed his lips than she returned, chuckling, "You think so, do you? Indeed, my Prince? — Tape ! " Tliereui^on he directly forgot "what he vras thinking of, and cried out lamentably to the old servants, " O, do come and liire }-our poor old master ! Pray do ! On any terms I " And tliis, for the present, finishes the story of Prince Bull. I wish I coidd wind it iip by saj-ing that he aved happy ever afterwards, but I cannot in my conscience do so ; for, with Tape at his elbow, and his estranged children fatally repelled by her from coming near him, I do not, to tell you the plain truth, believe in the possibility of such an end to it. A PLATED ARTICLE. PcTTiNG up for tlie night in one of the cliiefest towns of StafFordsMre, I find it to be by no means a lively town. In fact it is as dull and dead a town as any one could desire not to see. It seems as if its whole population might be im- prisoned in its Railway Station. The Refreshment-Room at that Station is a vortex of dissipation compared with the extinct town-inn, the Dodo, in the dull High Street. Why High Street? Why not rather Low Sh:eet, Flat Street, Low-Spirited Street, Used-up Street? AST" re tlie people who belong to the High Street ? Can . H be dispersed over the face of the coimtry, seeking thee., ^.tunate Strolliug Manager who decamped from the nr -ildy little 1 heatre last week, in the beginning of his season (a^ his play- bills testify), repentantly resolved to bring him back, and feed him, and be entertained ? Or, can they all 'je gathered to their fathers in the two old churchyards near i^ ^he High Street — retirement into which churchyai'ds appe;ir3 to be a mere ceremony, there is so very Httle life outside clieir con- fines, and such small discernible difference betw "sen being buried alive in the town, and buried dead in the town tombs? Over the way, opposite to the staring blank bow windows of the Dodo, are a little ironmonger's shop, a little tailor's shop (with a picture of the Fashions in the small window and a bandy-legged baby on the pavement staring at it) — a watch- maker's shop, where all the clocks and watches must be stopped, I am sure, for they could never have the coui-age to go, with the town in general, and the Dodo in particular, looking at them. Shade of Miss Linwood, erst of Leicester Square, London, thou art welcome here, and thy refreat is fitly chosen ! I myself was one of the last visitors lo that awful storehouse of thy life's work, where an anchori , old man and woman took my shilling with a solemn wonder, and A PLATED ARTICLE. 369 conducting me to a gloom}- sepnlclire of needle ^^•ork dropiiing to pieces with dust and age and shrouded in twilight at high noon, left me there, chilled, frightened, and alone. And now, in ghostly letters on all the dead walls of this dead to^Ti, I read thy honored name, and fuid that thy Last Supper, worked in Berlin Wool, invites inspection as a powerful excitement ! AVhere are the people who are bidden with so much cry to this feast of little wool ? Wli^re are they ? WHio are they ? They are not the bandy-legged baby studying the fashions in the tailor's window. They are not the two earthy ploughmen lounging outside the saddler's shop, in the stiff square where the Town Hall stands, like a brick and mortar private on parade. They are not the landlady of the Dodo in the empty bar, whose eye had trouble in it and no welcome, when I asked for dinner. They are not the turnkeys of the Town Jail, looking out of the gateway in their uniforms, as if they had locked ap all the balance (as my American friends would say) of the -inhabitants, and could now rest a little. They are not the T'Asty millers in the white mill down by the river, wher*- 'eat water-wheel goes heavily round and round, like tiio .otonous days and nights in this forgotten place. Then wharoire they, for there is no one else ? No ; this deponent laaketh oath and saith that there is no one else, save and except- 'he waiter at the Dodo, now laying the cloth. I have paced ihe streets, and stared at the houses, and am come back to f^piidank bow window of the Dodo ; and the town clocks st.'SKj® seven, and the reluctant echoes seem to cry, "Don't -vdfefie us!" and the bandy-legged baby has gone home to bed. ) If the Dodo were only a gregarious bird — if it had only some confused idea of making a comfortable nest — I could hope to get through the hours between this and bed-time, without being consximed by devouring melancholy. But, the Dodo's habits are all wrong. It provides me with a trackless desert )f sitting-room, with a chair for every day in the year, a table for every month, and a waste of sideboard where a lonely China vase pines in a corner for its mate long departed, and will never make a match v.ith the candlestick in the opposite corner if it live tiH Doomsday. The Dodo has nothiog^ in the larder. Even now, I behold the boots return- ing -eitli my sole in a piece of paper; and with that portion of my dinner, the Boots, perceiving me at the blank bow VOL. n. B B 870 A PLATED ARTICLE. window, slaps his leg as he comes across the road, pretending it is something else. The Dodo excludes the outer air. "When I mount up to my bed-room, a smell of closeness and flue gets lazily up my nose like sleepy snuff. The loose littlo bits of carpet ^Tithe under my tread, and take wormy shapes I don't know the ridiculous man in the looking-glass, beyond having met him once or twice in a dish-cover — and I can never shave him to-morrow morning ! The Dodo is narrow- minded as to towels ; expects me to wash on a freemason's apron without the trimming : when I ask for soap, gives me a stony-hearted something white, with no more lather in it than the Elgin marbles. The Dodo has seen better days, and possesses interminable stables at the back — silent, grass- grown, brolien- windowed, horseless. This mournful bird can fry a sole, however, which is much Can cook a steak, too, which is more. I wonder where it gets its Sherry ! If I were to send my pint of wine to some famous chemist to be analysed, what woidd it turn out to be made of? It tastes of pepper, sugar, bitter almonds, vinegar, warm knives, any flat drink, and a little brandy. Woidd it unman a Spanish exile by reminding him of his native land at all ? I think not. If tliere really be any townspeople out of the churchyards, and if a caravan of them ever do dine, with a bottle of wine per man, in this desert of the Dodo, it must make good for the doctor next day ! \\Tiere was the Avaiter born? How did he come here? Has he any hope of getting away from here ? Does he evef receive a letter, or take a ride upon the railway, or see any- thing but "the Dodo ? Perhaps he has seen tlie Berlin Wool. He appears to liave a silent sorrow on him, and it may be that. He clears the table ; draws the dingy curtains of tlie great bow window, which so tmwillingly consent to meet, that they must be pinned together ; leaves me by the fire with my pint dacanter, and a little thin funnel-shaped wine-glass, and a piato of pale biscuits — in themselves engendering desperation. No book, no newspaper ! I left the Arabian Nights in the railway carriage, and have nothing to read but Bradshaw, and "that way madness lies." Remembering what prisoners and shipwrecked mariners have doce to exercise their minda iu solitude, I repeat the multiplication table, the pence table, and the shilling table : wliich are all the tables I liappen to kuow. What if I write something? The Dodo keeps no A PLATED ARTICLE. 371 pens but steel pens ; and tliose I always stick tlirough the paper, and can tiu'n to no other account. Wliat am I to do ? Even if I could have the bandy-legged baby knocked up and brought here, I conld offer him nothing but sherry, and that would be the death of him. He would never hold up his head again if he touched it. I can't go to bed, because I have conceived a mortal hatred for my bed- room; and I can't go away, because there is no train for my place of destination until morning. To burn the biscuits will be but a fleeting joy; still it is a temporary reKef, and here they go on the fire ! Shall I break the plate ? First let me look at the back, and see who made it. Copeland. Copeland ! Stop a moment. Was it yesterday I visited Copeland's Avorks, and saw them making plates ? In the confusion of travelling about, it might be yesterday or it might be yesterday month ; but I think it was yesterday. I appeal to the plate. The plate says, decidedly, yesterday. I find the plate, as I look at it, growing into a companion. Don't you remember (says the plate) how you steamed away, yesterday morning, in the bright sim and the east wind, along the valley of the sparkling Trent ? Don't you recollect how many kihis you flew past, looking like the bowls of gigantic tobacco pipes, cut short off" from the stem and tui'ned upside down ? And the fires — and the smoke — and the roads made with bits of crockery, as if all the plates and dishes in the civilised world had been Macadamised, expressly for the laming of all the horses ? Of comse I do ! And don't j-ou remember (says the plate) how you alighted at Stoke — a picturesque heap of houses, kilns, smoke, wharfs, canals, and river, l}dng (as was most appropriate) in a basin — and» before you, sitting, with his attendant woiuau, at his potter's wheel— a disc about the size of a dinner plate, revolving on two di-uins slowly or quickly as he wills — who made you a complete breakfast set for a bachelor, as a good-humoured little ofF-hand joke? You remembei how he took up as much dough as he wanted, and, tlirowing It on his wheel, in a moment fashioned it into a teacup — caught up more clay and made a saucer — a larger dab and A PLATED ARTICLE. 873 whirled it into a teapot — Tdiikccl at a smaller dab and con- verted it into the lid of the teapot, accurately fitting by tha measurouient of his eye alone — coaxed a middle-sized dab for two seconds, broke it, tiu-ned it over at the rim, and made a milkpot — laughed, and turned out a slop-basin — coughed, and provided for the sugar ? Neither, I think, are you oblivious of the ne-\ver mode of making various articles, but especially basins, according to which improvement a mould revolves instead of a disc ? For you must remember (says the plate; how you saw the mould of a little basin spinning roimd and round, and how the workman smoothed and pressed a handfid of dough upon it, and how A^dth an instrument called a profile (a piece of wood, representing the profile of a basin's foot) he cleverly scraped and carved the ring which makes the base of any such basin, and then took the basin off the lathe like a doughey skull-cap to be di'ied, and afterwards (in what is called a green state) to be put into a second lathe, there to be finished and burnished with a steel burnisher? And as to moulding in general (says the plate), it can't be necessary for me to remind you that all ornamental articles, and indeed all articles not quite circular, are made in moxdds. For you must remember how you saw the vegetable dishes, for example, being made in moulds; and how the handles of teacups, and the spouts of teapots, and the feet of tureens, and BO forth, are' all made in little separate moulds, and are each stuck on to the body corporate, of which it is destined to form apart, with a stuff called "slag," as quickly as you can recollect it. Further, you learnt — you know you did — in the same visit, how the beautiful sculptiu-es in the delicate new material called Parian, are all constructed in moidds ; how, into that material, animal bones are groimd up, because the phosphate of lime contained in bones makes it translucent ; how everj-thing is moulded, before going into the fire, one- foiu'th larger than it is intended to come out of the fire, because it slirinks in that proportion in the intense heat ; how, when a figure shrinks unequally, it is spoiled — emerging from the furnace a mis-shapen birth ; a big head and a little body, or a little head and a big body, or a Quasimodo with long arms and short legs, or a Miss Biffin with neither legs nor arms worth mentioidng. And as to the Kilns, in which the fii-ing takes place, and if wliich some of the more precious articles are burnt repeatedly, 874 A PLATED ARTICLE. in various stages of their process towards compJetion, — as to the Kilns (says the plate, warming' with the recollection), ij you don't remember thesi with a horrible interest, what did you ever go to Copcland's for ? "When you stood inside of one of those inverted bowls of a Pre-Adamite tobacco-pipe, looking up at the blue sky through the open top far off, as you might have looked up from a well, simk under the centre of the pavement of the Pantheon at Rome, had you the least idea where you were ? And when you found yourself surrounded, in that dome-shaped cavern, by innumerable columns of an unearthly order of architecture, supporting nothing, and squeezed close together as if a Pre-Adamite Samson had taken a vast Plall in his arms and crushed it into the smallest possible space, had you the least idea what they were ? No (says the plate), of course not I And when 3'ou foimd that each of those pillars was a pile of ingeniously made vessels of coarse clay — called Saggers — looking, Avhen separate, like raised-pies for the table of the mighty Giant Blunderbore, and now all fiJl of various articles of pottery ranged in them in baking order, the bottom of each vessel serving for the cover of the one below, and the whole Kiln rapidly filling with these, tier upon tier, until the last workman should have barely room to crawl out, before the closing of the jagged aperture in the M-all and the kindling of the gradual fire ; did you not stand amazed to think that all the year round these di-ead chambers are heating, white hot — and cooling — and filling- — and empt^'ing —and being bricked up — and broken open — humanly spealdng, for ever and ever ? To be sui-e you did ! And standing in one of those Kilns nearly full, and seeing a free crow shoot across the aperture a-top, and learning how the fire would wax hotter and hotter by slow degrees, and woidd cool similarly through a space of from forty to sixty hours, did no remembrance of the days when human clay was burnt oppress you ? Yes, I think so ! I suspect that some fancy of a fiery haze and a shortening breath, and a growing heat, and a gasping prayer; and a figure in black interposing between you and the sky (as figures in black are very apt to do), and looking do^\Ti, before it grew too hot to look and live, upon tlie Heretic in Ids edifying agony — I say I suspect (says the plate) that some such fancy was pretty strong upon you when you went out into the air, and blessed God for the bright epring day and the degenerate times ! A PLATED ARTICLE. 878 After that, I needn't remind you vrhat a relief it ■n'as to see the simplest process of ornamenting: tliis "biscuit" (as it is palled wlien baked) ^vith bro-mi cii-eles and blue trees — con- rertini? it into tlie comn-ion crockery- ware that is exported to Afi-ica, and used ia cottages at home. For (says the plate) I am -well persuaded that you bear in mind how those par- ticular jugs and mugs were once more set upon a lathe ar.d put in motion ; ond hoAV a man blew the bro^m color (ha^dng a strong natiu-al affinity with the material in that condition) on them from a blow-pipe as they twirled; and how hia daughter, with a common brush, dropped blotches of blue upon them in the right places ; and how, tilting the blotches upside down, she made them run into rude images of trees, and there an end. And didn't you see (says the plate) planted upon my own brother that astounding blue willow, with knobbed and gnarled trunk, and foKage of blue ostrich feathers, which gives our family the title of " \^•illow pattern ? " And didn't you observe, transferred upon him at the same time, that blue bridge wliich spans notliing, growing out from the roots of the willow ; and the three blue Chinese going over it into a blue temple, which has a fine crop of blue bushes sprouting out of the roof; and a blue boat sailing above them, the mast of which is burglariously sticking itself into the foundations of a blue villa, suspended sky-high, surmounted by a lump of blue rock, sky-higher, and a couple of billing blue birds, sky- highest — together with the rest of that amusing blue land- scape, which has, in deference to our revered ancestors of the Cerulean Empire, and in defiance of every known law of perspective, adorned millions of om- family ever since the days of platters? Didn't you inspect the copper-plate on which my pattern was deeply engraved? Didn't you perceive an impression of it taken in cobalt coloiu- at a cylindrical press, upon a leaf of thin paper, streaming from a plunge-bath of soap and Avater? Wasn't the paper imjn-ession daintily spread, by a light-fingered damsel (you knoiv you admired her !), over the sm-face of the plate, and the back of the paper rubbed prodigiously hard — with a long tight roU of flannel, tied up like a roimd of hung beef — without so much as ruflaing the paper, wet as it Avas ? Then (says the plate), was liot the paper washed away with a sponge, and. didn't there fcjpear, set off upon the plate, thU identical piece of Pre- 876 A PLATED ARTICLE. Rapliaellte blue distemper which you now hehold ? Not to La denied ! I had seen all this — and more. I had Leen sliown, at Copeland's, patterns of beautiful design, in faultless per- spective, which are causing the ugly old willow to wither out of public flivour ; and Avhich, being quite as cheap, insinuate good wholesome natm-al art into the Inimblest households. When Mr. and Mrs. Sprat have satisfied their material tastes by that equal division of fat and lean which has made their menage immortal ; and have, after the elegant tradition, "licked the j)l?-hat he meant then, and what he means now ; and when he said he didn't mean it then, he did in fact say, that he meana it now. And if yon mean to say that you did not then, and do not now, know what he did mean then, or does mean now, oiu' honorable fi-iend will be glad to receive an explicit declaration from you whether you are prepared to destroy the sacred bulwarks of our nationality. Our honorable friend, the member for Verbosity, has this great attribute, that he always means something, and always means the same thing. "WTien he came down to that House and mournfully boasted in his place, as an individual member of the assembled Commons of this great and happy country, that he could lay his hand upon his heart, and solemnly declare that no consideration on earth should induce him, at any time or under any circumstances, to go as far north as Ber^\ick-upon•T^\•eed ; and when he nevertheless, next year, did go to Berwick-upon-Tweed, and even beyond it, to Edinbm-gh ; he had one single meaning, one and indivisible. And God forbid (our honorable friend says) that he should waste another argument upon the man who professes that he cannot understand it! "I do not, gentlemen," said our honorable friend, with indignant emphasis and amid great cheering, on one such public occasion. " I do not, gentle- men, I am free to confess, envy the feelings of that man whose mind is so constituted as that he can hold suob language to me, and yet lay his head upon his piUow, claimin!^ to be a native of that land. Whose marcli is o'er the mountain-wave, Whose home is on the deep ! (Vehement cheering, and man expeUed.) "\Mien our honorable fiiend issued his preliminary address to the constituent body of Verbosity on the occasion of one particular glorious triumph, it was supposed by some of hia enemies, that even he would be placed in a situation of difRculty by (he following comparatively trifling conjunction of circumstances. The dozen noblemen and gentlemen whom our honorable fi-iend supported, had " como in," expressly Ui iiO OUli HONORABLE FRIEND. do a certain thing. Not^, four of the dozen said, at a certain place, tliat thoy didn't mean to do that thing, and had never meant to do it ; another four of the dozen said, at another certain place, that they did mean to do that thing, and had al^yays meant to do it ; two of the remaining four said, at two other certain places, that they meant to do half of that thing (but differed about which half), and to do a variety of name- less wonders instead of the other half ; and one of the remaining two declared that the thing itself was dead and buried, while the other as strenuously protested that i^ Tfas alive and kicking. It was admitted that the parliamentary genius oa our honorable fi-iend would be quite able to reconcile such small discrepancies as these ; but, there remained the additional difiicidty that each of the twelve made entirely different statements at different places, and that all the twelve called everytlung visible and in\dsible, sacred and profane, to witness, that they were a j^erfectly impregnable phalanx of imanimity. Tliis, it was apprehended, woidd be a stumbling- block to our honorable friend. The dilSculty came before our honorable fi-iend, in this way. He went do^vn to Verbosity to meet his free and independent constituents, and to render an account (as he informed them in the local papers) of the trust they had confided to his hands — that trust which it was one of the proudest privileges of an Englishman to possess — that trust which it was the proudest privilege of an Englishman to hold. It may be mentioned as a proof of the great general interest attaching to the contest, that a Lunatic whom nobody em- ployed or knew, went down to Verbosity with several thousand pounds in gold, determined to give the -n'hole away — which lie actually did ; and that all the publicans opened their houses for nothing. Likewise, several fighting men, and a patriotic group of burglars sportively armed with life- preserveps, proceeded (in barouches and very drimk) to the scone of action at their own expense ; these children of nature having conceived a warm attachment to our honorable friend, and intending, in their artless manner, to testify it by knock- ing the voters in the opposite interest on the head. Our honorable friend being come into the presence of hia constituents, and having professed witli great suavity that lie was delighted to see his good friend Tipkisson there, in his working dress — his good fi-iend Tipkisson being an inveterate OUR HONORABLE FJUliXD. 881 saddler, who always opposes him, and for whom he has a mortal hatred — made them a brisk, ginger-beery sort of Bpeech, in which he showed them how the dozen noblemen and gentlemen had (in exactly ten daj's from their coming m) exercised a surprisingly beneficial effect on the whole financial condition of Eujope, had altered tlie state of the exjjorts and imports for the current half-year, had prevented the drain of gold, had made aU that matter right ab(mt the glut of the raw material, and luid restored all sorts of balances with which the superseded noblemen and gentlemen had played the deuce — and all this, with wheat at so much a quarter, gold at bO much an oimce, and the Bank of P^ngland discoimting good bills at so much per cent ! He might be asked, lie observed in a peroration of great power, what were hia principles ? His principles were what they always had been. His principles were wi-itten in the countenances of the lion and unicorn ; were stamped indelibly upon the royal shield which those gi-and animals supported, and upon the free ■words of fire which that shield bore. His principles were, Britannia and her sea-king trident ! His principles, were, commercial prosperity co-existently with perfect and profound agricultural contentment : but shoit of this he would never stop. His principles were, these, — with the addition of hia colors nailed to the mast, every maii's heart in the right place, every man's eye open, eveiy man's liand ready, every man's mind on the alert. His principles were these, conciu-rently with a general revision of something — speaking generally — and a possible re-adjustment of sometliing else, not to be mentioned more particularly. His principles, to sum up all in a word were. Hearths and Altars, Labor and Capital, Cro-mi and Sceptre, Elephant and Castle. And now, if his good friend Tipkisson rec(uii'ed any fui-ther explanation from him he (oiu- honorable friend) Avas there, willing and ready to give it. Tipkisson, who all this time had stood conspicuous in the crowd, witli his arms folded and his eyes intently fastened on our honorable friend : Tipkisson, who throughout oiir honor- able friend's address had not relaxed a muscle of his visage, but had stood tliere, -wholly unaffected by the torrent of eloquence : an object of contempt and scorn to mankind (by which we mean, of coiu-se, to the supporters of our honorable Criend) ; Tipkisson now said that he was a plain man (Cries 682 OUR HONORABLE FRIEND. of " You are indeed ! "), and that what he wanted to knov was, what our honorable friend and the dozen noblemen and gentlemen were cb-iving at ? Our honorable friend immediately replied, "At tlie illimit- able perspective." It was considered by the whole assembly that this happy statement of oiir honorable friend's political views ought, immediately, to have settled Tipkisson's business and covered bim with confusion ; but, that implacable person, regardless of the execrations that were heaped upon him from all sides (by which W8 mean, of course, from oiu- honorable friend's side), persisted in retaining an unmoved countenance, and obstinately retorted that if our honorable friend meant that, he wished to know what that meant ? It was in repelling this most objectionable and indecent opposition, that our honorable friend displayed his highest qixalifications for the representation of Verbosity. Ilia warmest supporters present, and those wlio were best ac- quainted with hid generalship, supposed tliat the moment was come when he would fall back upon tlie sacred bulwarks of our nationality. No such thing. lie replied thus : "My good fi'iend Tipkisson, gentlemen, wishes to know what I mean when he asks me what ^ve are driving at, and when I candidly tell him, at the illimitable perspective. He wishes (if I understand him) to know what I mean?" "I do!" says Tipkisson, amid cries of "Shame" and "Down with him." " Gentlemen," says our honorable friend, " I will indulge my good friend Tipkisson, by telling him, both what I mean and what I don't mean. (Cheers and cries of " Give it him I " ) Be it kno^\Ti to him then, and to all whom it may concern, that I do mean altars, lieartlis, and homes, and that I don't mean mo.sques and Mahommedanism ! " The effect of this home-thrust was terrific. Tipkisson (who is a Baptist) was booted down and hustled out, and has ever since been regarded as a Tiu-kish Renegade who contemplates aii early pilgi'image to INIecca. Nor was he the only discomfited man. The charge, while it stuck to him, v/as magically transferred to our honorable friend's opponent, wlio was re- presented in an immense variety of placards as a fii'm believer in ]\Iahomet ; and the men of Verbosity were asked to choose between our honorable friend and the Bibla and our honorable friend's opponent and the Koran. They OUR HONORABLE FRIEND. 883 decided for our honorable friend, and rallied round the illimitable perspective. It has been claimed for our honorable friend, with much appearance of reason, that he was the first to bend sacred matters to electioneering tactics. However this may be, the line precedent was undoubtedly set in a Verbosity election : and it is certain that our honorable friend (who was a disciple of Brahma in his youth, and was a Buddhist when he had the honor of travelling with him a few years ago,) always professes in public more anxiety than the whole B<^Tioh of Bishops, regarding the theological and doxological opinions of every man, woman, and child, in the United Kingdom. As we began by saying that oxir honorable friend has got in again at this last election, and that Ave are delighted to find that he has got in, so we will conclude. Our honorable friend cannot come in for Verbosity too often. It is a good sign ; it is a great example. It is to men like our honorable friend, end to contests like those from which he comes triumphant, that we are mainly indebted for that ready interest in politics, that fresh enthusiasm in the discharge of the duties of citizen - chip, that ardent desire to rush to the poll, at present so manifest tliroughout England. ^Vhen the contest lies (as it Bometimes does) between two such men as our honorable fi'iend, it stimulates the finest emotions of our nature, and awakens the highest admiration of which our heads and hearts are capable. It is not too much to predict that our honorable friend will be always at his post in the ensuing session. Whatever the question be, or whatever the form of its discussion ; address to the crown, election-petition, expenditure of the public money, extension of tlie public sufii'age, education, crime ; in the whole house, in committee of the whole house, in select committee ; in every parHamentary discussion of every subject, everyA^here : the Honorable Member for Verbosity will most certainly be found. OUR SCHOOL. "We wont to look at it, only this last Midsummer, and found that tlie Railway had cut it up root and branch. A great trunk-line had swallowed the play-ground, sliced away the schoolroom, and pared off the corner of the house : "which, tlius curtailed of its proportions, presented itself, in a green stage of stucco, profilewise towards the road, liJce a forlorn flat-iron without a handle, standing on end. It seems as if our schools were doomed to be the sport of change. We have faint recollections of a Preparatory Day- School, which we have sought in vain, and which must have been pulled do-uTi to make a new street, ages ago. We have dim impressions, scarcely amounting to a belief, that it was over a dyer's shop. We know tliat you went uj) steps to it ; that you frequently grazed yoiu' knees in doing so ; that you generally got your leg over the scraper, in trying to scrape the mud off a very xmsteady little shoo. The mistress of the Establishment holds no place in our memory; but, rampant on one eternal door-mat, in an eternal entry long and narrow, is a puffy pug-dog, with a personal animosity towards us, who triumplis over Time. The bark of that baleful Pug, a certain radiating way he had of snapping at our undefended legs, the ghastly grinning of his moist black muzzle and white teeth, and tlie insolence of his crisp tail curled like a pastoral crook, all live and flourisli. From an otherwise unaccountable association of him with a fiddle, we conclude that he was of French extraction, and his name Fideie. He belonged to some female, chiefly inhabiting a back-parlour whoso life appears to us to have been consumed in snifTmg and in wearing a brown beaver bonnet. For her, he woidd sit up and balance cake upon liis nose, and not eat it imtil twenty had been coimted. To the best of our belief we were vnco " called in to witness this performance ; when, unable, OUR SCHOOL. 3S5 eren in hia milder moments, to endure our presence, lie instantly made at us, cake and all. Wliy a something in moiu-ning, called " Miss Frost," should still connect itself -with our preparatory school, we are unable to say. We retain no impression of the beauty of Miss Frost — if she were beautiful ; or of the mental fascinations of Miss Frost— if she were accomplished ; yet her name and her black dress hold an enduring place in our remembrance. An equally impersonal boy, whose name has long since shaped itself unalterably into " Master Mawls," is not to be dislodged from our brain. Retaining no vindictive feeling towards Mawls — no feeling whatever, indeed — we infer that neither he nor we can have loved Miss Frost. Oiu* first impression of Death and Burial is associated with this formless pair. We all three nestled awfully in a corner one wintry day, Avhen the wind was blowing shrill, with Miss Frost's pinafore over our heads ; and !Miss Frost told us in a wldsper about somebody being " screwed down." It is the only distinct recollection we preserve of these impalpable creatiu-es, except a suspicion that the manners of IMaster Mawls were susceptible of much improvement. General!}' speaking, we may observe that whenever we see a child intently occupied with its nose, to the exclusion of all other subjects of interest, our mind reverts, in a flash to Master Mawls. But, the School that was Oiu- School before the Railroad came and overthrew it, was quite another sort of place. We were old enough to be put into Virgil when we went there, and to get Prizes for a variety of polishing on which the rust has long accumulated. It Avas a School of some celebrity in its neighboiu'hood — nobody coiJd ha\"e said why — and we had the honour to attain and hold the eminent position of first boy. The master was supposed among us to know nothing, and one of the ushers was supposed to know everything. We are still inclined to think the fi.rst-named supposition perfectly correct. We have a general idea that its subject had been in the Leather trade, and had bought us — meaning Our Scliool — of another proprietor, who was immensely learned. Whether this belief had hny real foundation, we are not likely ever to know now. The only branches of education with which he showed the least acquaintance, were, ruling and corporally punishing. He was always ruling cipliering-books with a VOL. II. 386 OUR SCHOOL. bloated mahogany ruler, or smiting the palms of offenders with the same diabolical instrument, or viciouvsly drawing a pair of pantaloons tight with one of liis large hands, and caning the wearer with the other. We have no doubt whatever that this occupation was the principal solace of his existence. A profound respect for money pervaded Our School, which was of coui'se, derived from its Chief. We remember an idiotic goggled-eyed boy, Avith a big head and half-crowns without end, who suddenly appeared as a parlor-boarder, and was rumoured to have come by sea from some mysterious part of the earth where his parents roUed in gold. He was usually called " Mr." by the Chief, and was said to feed in the parlor on steaks and gravy ; likewise to drink currant wine. And he openly stated that if rolls and coifee were ever denied him at breakfast, he woidd write home to that unknown part of the globe from which he had come, and cause himself to be recalled to the regions of gold. He was put into no form or class, but learnt alone, as little as he liked — and he liked very little — and there was a belief among us that this was becauso he was too wealthy to be "taken dowTi." His special treat- ment, and oui' vague association of him with the sea, and with storms, and sharks, and Coral Reefs occasioned the wildest legends to be circulated as his history. A tragedy in blank verse was written on tlie subject — if our memory does not deceive us, by the hand that now chi-onicles these recollections - — in which his father figured as a Pirate, and was shot for a voluminous catalogue of atrocities : first imparting to his wife the secret of the cave in which his wealth was stored, and from which his only son's half-crowns now issued. Dumbledon (the boy's name) was represented as "yet unborn" when his brave father met his fate ; and the despair and grief of Mrs. Dumbledon at that calamity was movingly shadowed forth as having weakened the parlor-boarder's mind. This production was received with great favor, and was twice performed with closed doors in the dining-room. But, it got wind, and was seized as libellous, and brought the unlucky poet into severe affliction. Some two years afterwards, all of a sudden one day, Dumbledon vanished. It was whispered that the Chief himself had taken him down to the Docks, and re-shipped him for the Spanish Main ; but nothing certain was ever known about his disappearance. At this hour, we cannot thoroughly disconnect him from California. OUR SCHOOL. 387 Our School was ratlier famons for mysterious pupils There was another — a heavy young man, with a larg-e double- cased silver watch, and a fat knife the handle of which was a perfect tool-box — who unaccountably appeared one day at 9 special desk of liis ovm, erected close to that of the Chief, with whom he held familiar converse. He lived in the parlor, and went out for walks, and never took the least notice of us — even of us, the first boy — unless to g-ive us a depreciatory kick, or grimly to take our hat off and throw it away, when he encountered us out of doors, which unpleasant ceremony he always performed as he passed — not even condescending to stop for the purpose. Some of us believed that the classical attainments of this phenomenon were terrific, but that his penmanship and arithmetic were defective, and he had come there to mend them ; others, that he was going to set up a school, and had paid the Chief "twenty-five pound down," for leave to see Our School at work. The gloomier spirits even said that he was going to buy us; against which con- tingency, conspiracies were set on foot for a general defection and running away. However, he never did that. After stajdng for a quarter, during which fieriod, though closely observed, he was never seen to do anything but make pens out of quills, write small-hand in a secret portfolio, and pimch the point of the sharpest blade in his knife into his desk all over it, he too disappeared, and his place knew him no more. There was another boy, a fair, meek boy, with a delicate complexion and rich curling hair, who, we fotmd out, or thought we foimd out (we have no idea now, and probably had none then, on what grounds, but it was confidentially revealed from mouth to mouth), was the son of a Viscount who had deserted his lovely mother. It was imderstood that if he had his rights, he would be worth twenty thousand a year. Aad that if his mother ever met his father, she would shoot him ^vith a silver pistol, which she carried, always loaded to the muzzle, for that purpose. He was a very cuggestivo topic. So was a yoimg ^Mulatto, who was alwa3'8 believed (though very amiable) to have a dagger about him somewhere. But, we think they were both outshone, upon the whole, by another boy who claimed to have been born on the twenty-nintli of February, and to have only one birthday in five years. 'We suspect this to have been a fiction — but he liTsd upon it aU the time he was at Our School. oo2 8«8 OCR SCHOOL. The principal ciu'rency of Oar Scliool a ".s slate-pencil, ll had some inexplicable value, that Avas nev . ascertained, never reduced to a standard. To have a great; hoard of it, was somehow to be rich. We used to bestow it in charity, and confer it as a precious boon upon our chosen friends. "\Mien the holidays were coming, contributions were solicited for certain boys whose relatives were in India, and who were appealed for under the generic name of " Holiday-stoppers," — appropriate marks of remembrance that should enliven and cheer them in their homeless state. Personally, we always contributed these tokens of sjanpathy in the form of slate- pencil, and always felt that it would be a comfort and a treasure to them. Our School was remarkable for white mice Red-polls, linnets, and even canaries, were kept in desks, wers, hat- boxes, and other strange refuges for birds ; bu' vhite mice were the favourite stock. The boys trained the ice, much better than the masters trained the bo3's. W -ecall one white mouse, who lived in the cover of a Latir ctionr ;y, who ran up ladders, drew Roman chariots, louldeved muskets, turned wheels, and even made a ver -editable appearance on the stage as the Dog of Montargis. ^ might have achieved gi-eater things, but for having the ':>rtune to mistake his way in a triumjjhal procession to tj Ca«itol, when he fell into a deej) inkstand, and was dj'ed b^xck and di'owned. The mice were the occasion of some most ingenious engineering, in the construction of their houses and instru- ments of performance. The famous one belonged to a Company of ^jroprietors, some of whom have since made Railroads, Engines, and Telegraphs ; the chairman has erected mills and bridges in New Zealand. The usher at Our School, who was considered to know every- thing as opposed to the Chief, Avho was considered to know nothing, was a uon}', gentle-faced, clerical-looking young man jn rustj- black. It was whispered that he was sweet upon one of Maxby's sisters (Maxby lived close by, and was a day pupil), and fui'ther that he "favoured Maxby." Aa we remember, he taught Italian to JMaxby's sisters on Jialf- Uolidaj-s. He once went to the play with thfrn, and wore a white waistcoat and a rose : which was considered anions: ua equivalent to a declaration. We were of opinion on that occasion, that to the last moment he expected Maxby's fathet Otrr. SCHOOL. 389 to ask him to dinner at five o'clock, and therefore neglected nis o-^vn dinner at '/'ilf-past one, and finally got none. We exaggerated in ».• \r' imaginations the extent to which he punished Maxbys father's cold meat at supper; and wo agreed to believe that he was elevated with wine and water when ho came home. But, we aU Kked him ; for he had a good knowledge of boys, and would have made it a much better school if he had had more power. He was writing- master, mathematical master, English master, made out the bills, mended the pens, and did aU sorts of things. He divided the little boys with the Latin master (they were smuggled through their rudimentary books, at odd times when there v as nothing else to do), and he always called at parents' ho i^es to inquire after sick boys, because he had gentleman]; lanners. He was rather musical, and on some remote qua ur-day had bought an old trombone ; but a bit of it was lost iid it made the most extraordinary sounds when he sometiL i tried to play it of an evening. His holidays never be^ i'^\on account of the bills) until long after ovu-s ; bu;^ in \, ' summer vacations he iised to take pedestrian exciirsioi' ith aloiapsack; and at Christmas-time, he went to see li.' ^her at Chipping Norton, who we all said (on no author]"' -as a dairy-fed-pork-butcher. Poor fellow ! He was ;,L ,\v all day on Maxby's sister's wedding-day, and after-^-arajj' was thought to favor Maxby more than ever, though 'ui had been expected to spite him. He has beer dead these twenty years. Poor fellow ! Our remembrance of Our School, presents the Latin master as a colorless doubled-up near-sighted man with a crutch, Avho v\'as always cold, and always putting onions into his ears for deafness, and always disclosing ends of flannel under all his garments, and almost always applying a ball of pocket-hand- kerchief to some part of liis face with a screwing action round and round. He was a very good scholar, and took great pams where he saw intelligence and a desire to learn : other- wise, perhaps not. Our memoiy presents him (unless teased into a passion) with as little energy as color — as having been wori;led and tormented into monotonous feebleness — as having had ■ the best part of his life ground out of him in a MiU of boys. We remember with terror how he fell asleep ono sultry afternoon with the little smuggled class before him, and awoke not when the footstep of tho Chief fell heavy oc 890 OUR SCHOOL. the floor ; liow tlie Chief aroused him, in the midst of a di-ead Bilence, and said, "Mr. Blinkins, are you ill, sir?" how he blushingly replied, " Sir, rather so " ; how the Chief retorted svith severity, " Mr. Blinkins, this is no place to he ill in " (which was very, very true), and walked hack, solemn as the ^host in Hamlet, until, catching a wandering eye, he caned ihat hoy for inattention, and happily expressed his feelings towards the Latin master through the medium of a substitute. There was a fat little dancing-master who used to come in i;i gig, and taught the more advanced among us hornpipes (as nn accomplishment in great social demand in after-Kfe) ; and there was a brisk little French master who used to come in the sunniest weather, with a handleless umbrella, and to whom the Chief was always polite, because (as we believed), if the Chief offended him, he would instantly address the Chief in French, and for ever confound him l^efore the boys with his inability to understand or reply. There was besides, a seiwing man, whose name was Phil. Our retrospective glance presents Phil as a ship^vrecked carpenter, cast away upon the desert island of a school, and carrying into practice an ingenious inlding of many ti-ades. He mended whatever was broken, and made whatever was wanted. He was general glazier, among other things, and mended all the broken windows — at the prime cost (as was darkly rumoured among us) of ninepence, for every square charged tkwe-find-six to parents. We had a high opinion ojf his mechanical genius, and generally held that the Chief "knew somettiiiig bad of him," and on pain of divulgence enforced Phil to be his bondsman. We particularly remember that Phil had a sovereign contempt for learning : which en- genders in us a resptsct for his sagacity, as it implies his accurate observation ol the relative positions of the Chief and the ushers. He was an impenetrable man, who waited at table l)etween whiles, and throughout "the half" kept the boxes in severe custody. He was morose, even to the Chief, and never smiled, except at breaking up, when, in a' * ••' *•' to represent Yor rx THE Vestry? Your consideration of these questions is recommended to A Fellow Parishioner. It was to this important public document that one of our fii'st orators, Mr. Magg (of Little Winkling Street), adverted, when he opened the great debate of the foiu-teenth of November by saying, " Sir, I hold in my hand an anonpnous slander " — and when the interruption, with which he was at that point assailed by the opposite faction, gave rise to that memorable discussion on a point of order which wiU ever be remembered with interest by constitutional assemblies. lu the animated debate to which we refer, no fewer than thii-tj^- eeven gentlemen, many of them of great eminence, including Mr. Wigsby (of Chumbledon Square), were seen upon theii legs at one time ; and it was on the same great occasion that DoGGiNSON — regarded in our Vestry as "a regular John Bull : " we believe, in consequence of his having always made up his mind on every subject without knowing anything about it — inlbrmed another gentleman of similar principles on the opposite side, that if he " cheek' d him," he woidd resort to rhe extreme measure of knocking his blessed head off. Tliis was a great occasion. But, oiu' Vestiy shines habitu- ally. In asserting its own pre-eminence, for instance, it is reiy strong. On the least provocation, or on none, it will be clamorous to know whether it is to be " dictated to," or " trampled on," or " ridden over rough-shod." Its great watchword is Self-government. That is to say, supposing our Vestry to favour any little hainiless disorder like TjijIius 894 OUR VESTRY, Fevev, and supposing tlie Government of the countiy to be bj any accident, in such ridicidous hands, as that any of its authorities should consider it a duty to object to Tj'phus Fever — obviously an unconstitutional objection — then, our Vestry cuts in with a terrible manifesto about Self-govern- ment, and claims its independent right to have as much T^-phus Fever as pleases itself. Some absurd and dangeroua persons have represented, on the otlier hand, that though, our Vestry may be able to "beat the bounds" of its own parish, it may not be able to beat the bounds of its own diseases ; which (say tliey) spread over the whole land, in an ever- expanding circle of waste, and misery, and death, and widow- hood, and orphanage, and desolation. But, our Vestry makes short work of any such fellows as these. It was our Vestry — pink of Vestries as it is — that in support of its favourite princij^le took the celebrated ground of denying the existence of the last pestilence that raged in England, when the pestilence was ragiLf the Morgue going about with a fading lantern, busy Ln the arrangement of his terrible waxwork for another suimy lay. tl2 A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. The sun was up, and shining merrily when tlio butchers and I announcing oxw departure with an engine- shriek to sleepy Paris, rattled away for the Cattle Market. Across the country, over the Seine, among a forest of scrubby trees — the hoar frost l3'ing cold in shady places, and glittering in the light — and here we are at Poissy ! Out leap the butchers who have been chattering all the way like madmen, and off the;y straggle for the Cattle Market (still chattering, of course, incessantly), in hats and caps of all shapes, in coats and blouses, in calf-skins, cow-skins, horse-skins, furs, shaggy mantles, hairy coats, sacking, baize, oil-skin, am'thing you please that will keep a man and a butcher warm, upon a frosty morning. Many a French town have I seen, between tliis spot of ground and Strasburgh or Marseilles, that might sit for your picture, little Poissy ! Barring the details of your oki church, I Icnow you well, albeit -w^e make acquaintance, now, for the first time. I Icnow youi' narrow, straggling, winding streets, with a kennel in the midst, and lamps slung across. I know your picturesque street-corners, A\'inding up-hill Heaven knows why or where ! I know your trades- men's inscriptions, in letters not qtiite fat enough ; your barber's brazen basins dangling over little shops ; your Cafes and Estaminets, ^dth cloudy bottles of stale syrup in the windows, and pictui'es of crossed billiard-cues outside. I know this identical grey horse with his tail rolled up in a knot like the "back hair" of an untidy woman, who won't be shod, and who makes himself heraldic by clattering across the street on his hind legs, while twenty voices shriek and growl at him as a Brigand, an acciu'sed Robber, and an everlastingly-doomed Pig. I know your si^arkling town- fountain too, my Poissy, and am glad to see it near a cattle- market, gushing so freshly, luider the auspices of a gallant little sublimated Frenchman wrought in metal, perched upou 'he top. Through all the land of France I know this un- swept room at the Glory, M-itli its peculiar smell of beans and coffee, where the butchers crowd about the stove, drinlcing the tliinnest of wine from the smallest of tumblers ; where the thickest of coffee-cups mingle with the longest of loaves, And the weakest of lump sugar ; v/here Madame at tho counter easily acknowledges the homage of aU entering and departing butchers ; where the billiard-table is covered up A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. 418 ill the midrft like a great bird-cage — but the bird may sing by-and-by ! A bell ! The Calf Market ! Polite departure of butchers. Hasty pa3Tiient and departiu-e on the part of amateur Visitor. Madame reproaches Ma'amselle for too fine a susceptibility in reference to the devotion of a Butcher in a bear-skin. Monsieur, the landlord of The Glory, counts a double handful of sous, without an unobliterated inscription, or an undamaged cro\vned head, among them. There is little noise without, abundant space, and no confusion. The open area devoted to the market, is divided Into three portions : the Calf Market, the Cattle Market, the Sheep ]\Iarket. Calves at eight, cattle at ten, sheep at mid- day. All is very clean. The Calf Market is a raised platform of stone, some three or four feet high, open on aU sides, with a lofty over-spreading roof, supported on stone columns, which givij it the appearance of a sort of vineyard from Nothern Italy. Here, on the raised pavement, lie innumerable calves, all bound hind-legs and fore-legs together, and all trembling violently — perhaps with cold, perhaps with fear, perhaps with pain ; for, this mode of tj'ing, A^•hich seems to be an absolute superstition with the peasantry, can hardly fail to cause great suffering. Here, they lie, patiently in rows, among the straw, with their stolid faces and inexpressive eyes, superintended by men and women, boys and girls ; here they are inspected by our friends, the butcher."?, bargained for, and bought. Plenty of time ; plenty of room: plenty of good humom*. "Monsieur Francois in the bear-skin, how do jou do, my friend ? You come from Paris by the train ? The fresh air does 3-ou good. If you are in want of three or four fine calves this market-morning, my angel, I Madame Doche, shall be happy to deal with you. Behold these calves, Monsieur Francois ! Great Heaven, you are doubtfid ! Well, sir, walk round and look about you. If you find better for the money, buy them. If not, come to me ! " Monsieur Francois goes his way leisiu-ely, and keepp a waiy eye upon the stock. No otlier butcher jostles Monsieur Francois ; i\Ionsieur Francois jostles no otha- butcher. Nobody? is flustered and aggi-avated. Nobody is savage. In the midst of the country blue fi'ocks and red liandkerchiefs, and the butchers' coats, shaggy, furry, and hairy : of calf-skin, cow- skin, horse -skin, and bear-skin : towers a cocked hat and a 414 A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. blue cloak. Slavery ! For our Police wear great coats and glazed hats. But uow the bartering is over, and the calves are sold *' Ho ! Gregorie, Antoine, Jean, Louis I Bring up the carts, my children ! Quick, brave infants I Hola I Hi I" The carts, well littered with straw, are backed up to the edge of the raised pavement, and various hot infants carry calves upon their heads, and dexterously pitch them in, while other hot infants, standing in the carts, arrange the calves, and pack them carefully in straw. Here is a promising young calf, not sold, whom Madame Doche imbinds. Pardon me, Madame Doche, but I fear this mode of tj-ing the four legs of a quadi'uped together, though sti-ictly a la mode, is not quite right. You observe, ISIadame Doche, that the cord leaves deep indentations in the skin, and that the animal is so cramped at fii-st as not to know, or even remoteh' suspect, that he is imbound, imtil you are so obliging as to kick him, in 3-our delicate little way, and pull his tail like a bell-rope. Then, he staggers to his knees, not being able to stand, and stumbles about like a drunlven calf, or the horse at Franconi's, whom you may have seen, jNIadame Doche, who is supposed to have been mortally wounded in battle. But, what is this rubbing against me, as I apostrophise Madame Doche ? It is another heated infant with a calf upon his head. •' Pardon, Monsieiu', but will 3'ou have the politeness to allow me to pass?" "Ah, Sir, willingly. I am vexed to obstruct the way." On he staggers, calf and all, and mtikes no allusion whatever either to my eyes or limbs. Now, the carts are all full. More straw, my Antoine, to shake over these top rows ; then, off we will clatter, rumble, jolt, and rattle, a long row of us, out of the first town-gate, and out at the second town-gate, and past the empty sentry- box, and the little thin square bandbox of a guardhouse, where no'oody seems to live ; and away for Paris, by the paved road, lying, a straight straight line, in the long long avenue of trees. We can neither choose our road, nor our pace, for that is all prescribed to us. The public convenience demands that our carts should get to Paris by such a route, und no other (Xapoleon had leisure to find that out, while he had a little war with the world upon his hands), and Avoe betide us if we infringe orders. DrOTes of oxen stand in the Cattle Market, tied to iron bar* A MONUMENT OP FRENCH FOLLY. 415 fixed into posts of granite. Other droves advance slowh do-«Ti the long avenue, past the second town-gate, and the first town-gate, and the sentiy-box, and the bandbox, thawing the morning with their smoky breath as they come along. Plenty of room; plenty of time. Neither man nor beast is driven out of his wits bv coaches, carts, wajrcrons, omnibuses, gigs, chaises, phaetons, cabs, trucks, boys, whoopings, roar- ings, and multitudes. No tail-twisting is necessary — no iron pronging is necessary. There are no iron prongs here. The m.arket for cattle is held as quietly as the market for calves. In due time, off the cattle go to Paris ; the di'overs can no more choose their road, nor their time, nor the numbers they shall drive, than the}^ can choose their hour for dying in the course of nature. Sheep next. The Sheep-pens are up here, past the Branch Bank of Paris established for the convenience of the butchers, and behind the two pretty fountains they are making in the Market. My name is Bull : j^et I think I should like to see as good twin fountains — not to say in Smithfield, but in England anj^vhere. Plenty of room ; plenty of time. And here are sheep-dogs, sensible as ever, but with a certain French air about them — not without a suspicion of dominoes — with a kind of flavour of moustache and beard — demonstrative dogs, shaggy and loose where an English dog woidd be tight and close — not so troubled with business calculations as our English drovers' dogs, who have always got their sheep upon their minds, and think about their work, even resting, as you may see by their faces ; but, dashing, show}', rather unreliable dogs : who might worry me instead of theii' legitimate charges if they saw occasion — and might see it somewhat suddenly. The market for sheep passes off like the other two ; and away they go, by their allotted road to Paris. My way being the Railway, I make the best of it at twenty miles an hour; wlurling through the now high-lighted landscape; thinking tliat the inexperienced green buds will be wishing before long, they had not been tempted to come out so soon ; and wonder- ing who lives in this or that clitlteau, all window and lattice, and what the family may have for breakfast this sharp taoming. After the Market comes the Abattoir. What abattoir shall I visit first? Montmartre is the largest. So, I wiJJ go there. 41G A AlUxN'UMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. The abattoirs are all w'ithin the Avails of Paris, with an eye to the receipt of the octroi duty ; but, they stand in open places in the suburbs, removed from the press and bustle of tlie city. They are managed by the Sjiidicat or Guild of Butchers, under the inspection of the Police. Certain smaller items of the revenue derived from them are in part retained by the Guild for the payment of their expenses, and in part devoted by it to charitable purposes in connexion with the trade. They cost six hundred and eighty thousand pounds ; and they return to the city of Paris an interest on that outlay, amounting to nearly six and a-half per cent. Here, in a sufficiently dismantled space is the Abattoir of Montmartre, covering nearly nine acres of ground, surrounded by a higii wall, and looking from the outside like a cavah-y barrack. At tbe iron gates is a small functionary in a large cocked liat. "Monsieur desu-es to see the abattoir? Most certainly." State being inconvenient in private transactions, and iMonsieur being already aware of the cocked hat, the functionary puts it into a little official bureau which it almost fills, and accompanies me in the modest attire— as to his head — of ordinary life. jSIany of the animals from Poissy have come here. On the an-ival of each drove, it v/as turned into yonder ample space, where each butcher who had bought, selected his own purchases. Some, wo see now, in these long perspectives of stalls with a high ovei'hanging roof of wood and open tiles rising above the walls. While they rest here, before being slaughtered, they are required to be fed and watered, and the stalls must bo kept clean. A stated amount of fodder must always be ready in tlie loft above ; and the supervision is of the strictest kind. The same regulations apply to sheep and calves ; for which, portions of those perspectives are strongly railed off. All the buildings are of the strongest and most soHd description. After traversing these lairs, through which, besides the upper provision for ventilation just mentioned, there may be a thorough cur-rent of air from opposite windows in the side walls, and n-om doors at either end, we traverse the broad, paved, court-yard until we come to the slaughter-houses They are all exactly alike, and adjoin each other, to the number of eight or nine together, in blocks of solid building Let us walk into the first. A MONUMENT OF FRENCH FOLLY. 417 It is firmly liuilt and paved with stone. It is ^-ell lighted, kliorougiily aired, and lavishly provided with fresh water. It has two doors opposite each other; the first, the door by which 1 entered from the main yard ; the second, which is opposite, opening on another smaller yard, where the sheep and calves are killed on tenches. The pavement of that yard_ I see, slopes do'miward to a gutter, for its being more easily cleansed. The slaughter-house is fifteen feet high, sixteen feet and a-half wide, and thirty-tliree feet long. It is fitted with a powerful windlass, by which one man at the handle can bring the head of an ox down to the ground to receivp the blow from the pole-axe that is to fell him — with the means of raising the carcass and keeping it suspended during the after-operation of dressing — and with hooks on which carcasses can hang, when completely prepared, without touch- ing the walls. Upon the pavement of this fu-st stone chamber, lies an ox scarcely dead. If I except the blood draining from him, into a little stone well in a comer of the pavement, the place is free from offence as the Place de la Concorde. It is infinitely purer and cleaner, I know, my friend the functionary, than the Cathedral of Notre Dame. Ha, ha ! Monsieur is pleasant, but, truly, there is reason, too, in what he says. I look into another of these slaughter-houses. " Pray enter," says a gentleman in bloody boots. " This is a calf 1 have killed this morning. Having a little time upon my hands, I have cut and punctured this lace pattern in the coats of his stomach. It is pretty enough. I did it to divert myself." — " It is beautifid, iMonsicur, the slaughterer ! " He tells me I have the gentility to say so. I look into rows of slaughter-houses. In. many, retail dealers, who have come here for the piu-pose, are making bargains for meat. There is killing enough, certainly, to satiate an imused eye ; and there are steaming carcasses enough, to suggest the expediency of a fowl and salad for dinner; but, eveiy where, there is an orderly, clean, well- S3'stcmatised routine of Mork in progress — horrible work at the best, if you please ; but, so much the greater reason why it should be made the best of. I don't know (I think I have observed, my name is Bull) that a Parisian of tho lowest order is particularly delicate, or that his nature is roraai-kabl« for an infinitesimal infusion of ferocity ■, but, I do know, mj VOL. II. KB 418 A MONUMENT OF FRENCxI FOLLY. potent, grave, and common counselling Signors, that lie in forced, when at this ■work, to submit himself to a thoroughly good system, and to make an Englishman very heartily ashamed of you. Here, -within the -walls of the same abattoir, in other roomy and commodious buildings, are a place for converting the fat into tallow and packing it for market — a placo for cleansing and scalding calves' heads and sheeps' feet — a place for preparing tripe — stables and coach-houses for the butchers ■ — innumerable conveniences, aiding in the diminution of ofFensiveness to its lo-west possible point, and the raising of cleanliness and super-vision to their highest. Hence, all the meat that goes out of the gate is sent a-way in clean covered carts. And if every trade connected -with the slaughtering of animals -were obliged by law to be carried on in the same place, I doubt, my friend, no-w reinstated in the cocked hat (whose civility these two francs imperfectly acknowledge, but appear munificently to repay), whether there could be better regulations than those which are carried out at the Abattoir of Montmartre. Adieu, my friend, for I am away to the other side of Paris, to the Abattoir of Grenelle ! And there, I find exactly tlie same thing on a smaller scale, with the addition of a magnificent Artesian well, and a different sort of con- ductor, in the person of a neat little woman with neat little eyes, and a neat little voice, who picks her neat little way among the bullocks in a very neat little pair of shoes and etockings. Such is the Monument of French Folly which a foreigneering people have erected, in a national hatred and antipathy for common counsellinjr wisdom. That wisdom, assembled in the City of London, having distinctly refused, after a debate tliree days long, and by a majority of nearty seven to one, to asso- ciate itself with any Metropolitan Cattle-Market imless it be held in the midst of the Citv, it follows that we shall lose the inestimable advantages of common counselling protection, and be tllro^^^l, for a market, on our o-wn wretched resources. In all human probability we shall thus come, at last, to erect a monument of folly very like this French monument. If that be done, the consequences are obvious. The leather trade -will be ruined, by the introduction of American timber, to be manufactured into shoes fcr the fallen English; the Lord A. MONUMENT OF FRENCH POLLY. 41£ Mayor will be required, by the popular voice, to live entirely on fi-og-s ; and both these changes will (how, is not at present quite clear, but certainly somehow or other) fall on that un- hap]>y landed interest which is always being killed, yet is alvraye found to be alive — and kicking. A CHRISTMAS TREE. I HATE Leen looking on, this evening, at a merry company of cliilclren assembled round that pretty German toy, a Chi-istmas Tree. The tree was planted in the middle of a great round table, and towered high above their heads. It was brilliantly lighted by a multitude of little tapers ; and everywhere sparkled and glittered with bright objects. There were rosy-cheeked dolls, hiding behind the green leaves; there were real watches (with movable hands, at least, and an end- less capacity of being wound up) dangling from innumerablo twigs ; there were French-polished tables, chairs, bedsteads, wardrobes, eight-day clocks, and various other articles of domestic furniture (wonderfully made, in tin, at Wolver- hampton), perched among the boughs, as if in preparation for some fairy housekeeping ; there were jolly, broad-faced little men, much more agreeable in appearance than many real men — and no wonder, for their heads took off, and showed them to be full of sugar-plums; there were fiddles and drums; there were tambourines, books, work-boxes, paint-boxes, sweetmeat-boxes, peeji-show boxes, aU kinds of boxes ; there were trinkets for the older girls, far brighter than any grown- up gold and jewels ; there were baskets and pincushions in all devices ; there were guns, swords, and banners ; there were witches standing in enchanted rings of pasteboard, to teU fortunes ; there were teetotums, humming-tops, needle-cases, pen-Avipers, smelling-bottles, conversation - cards, bouquet- holders ; real fruit, made artificially dazzling with gold leaf ■ imitation ap2)les, pears, and walnuts, crammed with sui-prises in short as a pretty child, before me, delightedly wliispered to another pretty child, lier bosom friend, "There was every thing, and more." This motley collection of odd objects clustering on the tree like magic fruit, and flashing back the bright looks dii-ected towards it from every side — some A CHRISTMAS TREE. 421 of die diamond-eves admirinG: it were hardlv on a level with the table, and a few were languishing in timid wonder on the bosoms of pretty mothers, aunts, and nurses — made a lively realisation of the fancies of childhood ; and set me thinking how all the trees that grow and all the things that come into existence on the earth, have their w.U.d adornments at that weU-remembered time. Being now at home again, and alone, the only person in the house awake, my thoughts are drawn back, by a ftiscina- tion which I do not care to resist, to my own childhood. I begin to consider, what do we all remember best upon the branches of the Clu-istmas Tree of our oyni young Christmas days, by which we climbed to real life. Straight, in the middle of the room, cramped in the freedom of its growth by no encircling walls or soon-reached ceiling, a shadowj^ tree arises; and, looking up into the dream}' bright- ness of its top — for I observe, in this tree the singular property that it appears to grow downward towards the eai'th — I look into my youngest Christmas recollections ! All toys at first, I find. Up yonder, among the green holly and red berries, is the Tumbler with his hands in hi- pockets, who woiddn't lie down, but whenever he was put upon the floor, persisted in rolling his fat body about, until he rolled himself still, and brought those lobster eyes of his to bear upon me — when I affected to laugh very much, but in my heart of hearts was extremely doubtful of him. Close beside him is that infernal snuff-box, out of which there sprang a demoniacal Counsellor in a black gown, A\-ith an obnoxious head of haii-, and a red cloth mouth, wide open, who was not to be endured on any terms, but could not be put away either; for he used suddenly, in a highly magnified state, to fly out of Mammoth Snuff-boxes in dreams, when least expected. Nor is the frog with cobbler's wax on his tail, far off; for there was no kno^^•ing where he wouldn't jump ; and when he flew over the candle, and came upon one's hand with that sjiotted back — red on a green groimd — he was horrilile. Tlie card- board lady in a blue-silk skirt, who was stood up against the candlestick to dance, and whom I see on the same branch, was milder, and was beautifiJ ; but I can't say as much for the larger card-board man, wlio used to be hung against the wall and pulled by a string ; there was a sinistei expression in that nose of his ; and wlien he got his legs round his neck 122 A CHRISTJIAS TREE. (whicli he veiv ofteu did), be was ghastly, and not a creature to be alone ■n'ith. "\Mieu did that dreadful Mask first look at me ? \Mio put it on, and why was I so frightened that the sight of it is an era in my life ? It is not a liideous visage in itself; it is even meant to be di-oU ; why then v^-ere its stolid features so in- tolerable ? Surely not because it hid the wearer's face. An apron would have done as much ; and though I shoidd have preferred even the apron away, it would not have been absolutely insupportable, like the mask? "Was it the immova- bility of the mask? The doll's face was immovable, but I was not afraid of her. Perhaps that fitted and set change coming over a real face, infused into my quickened heart some remote suggestion and dread of the universal change that ia to come on everv face, and malie it still? Nothing reconciled me to it. No drummers, from whom proceeded a melanclioly chirping on the tiu-ning of a handle ; no regiment of soldiers, with a mute band, taken out of a box, and fitted, one by one, upon a stiff and lazy little set of lazy-tongs ; no old woman, made of wires and a bro-mi-paper composition, cutting up a pie for two small cliildi-en; coidd give me a permanent comfort, for a long time. Nor was it anv satisfaction to be shown the Mask, and see that it was made of paper, or to have it locked up and be assured that no one wore it. The mem recollection of that fixed face, the mere knowledge of its existence an}-where, was sufficient to awake me in the night all perspiration and horror, with, "01 know it 's coming ! O the mask ! " I never wondered what the dear old donkey with the panniers — there he is I — was made of, then ! His hide was real to the touch, I recollect. And the gi-eat black horse -vWth roimd red spots all over him — the horse that I could even get upon — I never wondered what had brought him to that strange condition, or thought that such a horse was not commonly seen at Xe^vmarket. The four horses of no coloiu, next to him, that went into the waggon of cheeses, and could be taken out and stabled imder the piano, ai:)pear to have bits of fur-tippet for their tails, and other bits for their manes, and to stand on pegs instead of legs, but it was not so wlien they were brought home for a Christmas present. They were aU riglit, then ; neither was their harness unceremoniously nailed into their che-sts, as appears to be the case now. Th« A CHRISTMAS TREE, 428 tinkling worka of tho rausic-cart, I did find out, to be made of quill too+.ii-picks and wire ; and I always tliought that littlo tumbler in liia sbirt sleeves, perpetually swarrm'Tig up one side of a wooden frame, and coming down, head foremost, on the other, rather a weak-minded person — though gocd- natured ; but the Jjicob's Laddei", next him, made of little squares of red wood, that went flapping and clattering over one another, each developing a dilferent picture, and the whole enlivened by small beKs, was a mighty marvel and a great delight. Ah ! The Doll's house ! — of which I was not proprietor, but where I visited. I don't admire the Houses of Parliament half so much as that stone-fronted mansion Avith real glass windows, and door-steps, and a real balcony — greener than I ever see now, except at watering-places ; and even they afford but a poor imitation. And though it did open all at once, the entire house-front (which was a blow, I admit, as cancelling the fiction of a staircase), it was but to shut it up again, and I could believe. Even open, there were three distinct rooms In it : a sitting-room and bedroom, elegantly furnished, and, best of all, a kitchen, with imcommonly soft fire-irons, a plentiful assortment of diminutive utensils — oh, the warming- pan ! — and a tin man-cook in profile, who was always going to fry two fish. "WTiat Barmecide justice have I done to the noble feasts wherein the set of wooden platters figui-ed, each with its own pecidiar delicacy, as a ham or tiu-key, glued tight on to it, and garnished with something green, which I recollect as moss ! Coidd all the Temperance Societies of these later days, united, give me such a tea-drinking as I have had through the means of yonder little set of blue crockery, which really woidd hold liquid (it ran out of the small wooden cask, I recoRect, and tasted of matches), and which made tea, nectar. And if the two legs of the ineffectual little sugar-tongs did tumble over one another, and want pui'pose, like Punch's hands, what does it matter ? And if I did once shriek out, as a poisoned child, and strike the fasliion- able company with consternation, by reason of having druulc a little teaspoon, inadvertently dissolved in too hot tea, I was never the worse for it, except by a powder I Upon tho next branches of the tree, lower down, hard by the green roller and miniature gardening-tools, how thick the books begin to hang. Thin books, in themselves, at fij'st. but 424 A CHRISTMAS TRElil. many of them, and with delicioiisly smootli covers of bright red or green. What fat black letters to begin with! ''A waa an anhei', and shot at a frog." Of coiu-se he was. He wa? an apple-pie also, and there he is ! He was a good many things in his time, was A, and so were most of his friends, except X, who had so little versatility, that I never knew him to get beyond Xerxes or Xantippe — like Y, who was always confined to a Yacht or a Yew Tree ; and Z condemned for •dver to be a Zebra or a Zany. But, now, the very tree itself changes, and becomes a bean-stalk — -the marvellous bean-stalk up which Jack climbed to the Giant's house ! And now, those dreadfully interesting, double-headed giants, with their clubs over their shoiJders, begin to stride along the boughs in a perfect throng, dragging knights and ladies home for dinner by the hair of their heads. And Jack — how noble, with his sword of sharpness, and his shoes of swiftness ! Again those old meditations come upon me as I gaze up at him ; and I deT>ate within myself whether there Avas more than one Jack (wliich I am loth to believe possible), or only one genuine original admirable Jack, who achieved all the recorded exploits. Good for Christmas time is the ruddy color of the cloak, in which — the tree making a forest of itself for her to trip through, with her basket — Little Red Riding-Hood comes to me one Christmas Eve to give me information of the cruelty and treachery' of that dissembbng Wolf who ate her gi-and- mother, without making any impression on his appetite, and then ate her, after making that ferocious joke about his teeth. She was my first love. I felt that if I coidd have married Little Red Riding-Hood, I should have known perfect bliss. But, it was not to be ; and there was nothing for it but to look out the Wolf in the Noah's Ark there, and put him late in the procession on the table, as a monster who was to be degraded. O the wonderful Noah's Ark ! It was not found seaworthy when put in a washing-tub, and the animals were crammed in at the roof, and needed to have their legs well shaken down before they coidd be got in, even there — and then, ten to one lait they began to tumble out at the door, which was but imperfectly fastened with a wire latch— but what was that against it ! Consider the noble fly, a size or two smaUer than the elephant : the lady-bird, the butterfly — all triumphs of art ! Consider the goose, whose feet were so small, and whose balance was so indiff'orent, that he usually tumbled k CHRISTMAS TREE. 425 forward, and knocked, down all the animal creation. Consider Noah and his family, like idiotic tobacco-stopper& ; and how the leopard stuck to wann little fingers ; and how the tails of the larger animals used gradually to resolve themselves into frayed bits of string ! Hush! ^gain a forest, and somebody up in a tree — not Robin Hood, not Valentine, not the Yellow Dwarf (I have passed him and all Mother Bunch's wonders, without mention), but an Eastern King with a glittering scimitar and tiu'ban. By Allah ! two Eastern Kings, for I see another, looking over his shoulder ! Down upon the grass, at the tree's foot, lies the full length of a coal-black Giant, stretched asleep, with his head in a lady's lap ; and near them is a glass box, fastened with four locks of shining steel, in which he keeps the lady prisoner when he is awake. I see the four keja at his girdle now. The lady makes signs to the two kings in the tree, who softly descend. It is the setting-in of the bright Arabian Nights. Oh, now all common things become uncommon and enchanted to me ! All lamps are wonderful ; all rings are talismans. Common flower-pots are full of treasure, with a little earth scattered on the top ; trees are for Ali Baba to hide in ; beef- steaks are to throw down into the Valley of Diamonds, that the precious stones may stick to them, and be carried by the eagles to their nests, whence the traders, with loud cries, will scare them. Tarts are made, according to the recipe of the Vizier's son of Bussorah, who turned pastrycook after he was set down in his drawers at the gate of Damascus; cobblers are all INIustaphas, and in the habit of sewing up people cut into four pieces, to "sdiom they are taken blindfold. Any iron ring let into stone is the entrance to a cave which only waits for the magician, and the little fire, and the necro- mancy, that will make the earth shake. All the dates imported come from the same tree as that xmlucky date, with whose shell the merchant knocked out the eye of the genie's invisible son. All olives are of the stock of that fresh fi'uit, couceniiug which the Commander of the Faitliful overheard the boy conduct the fictitious trial of the fraudulent olive merchant ; all apples are akin to the apple purchased (with two othei's) from the Sidtan's gardener for three sequins, and which the tall black slave stole from the child. All dogs are ajBSOciatod udth the dog, really a transformed man, who 426 A CHRISTMAS TREE. jumped upoji the baker's counter, and put his paw on the piece of bad money. All rice recalls the rice which the awfiil lady, -who was a ghoule, coidd only peck by grains, because ol her nightly feasts in the burial-place. INIy very rocking-horse, — there he is, with his nostrils turned completely inside-out, indicative of Blood ! — should have a peg in his neck, by virtue tliereof to fly away with me, as the wooden horse did with the Prince of Persia, in the sight of all his father's Court. Yos, on every object that I recognise among those uppei branches of my Christmas Tree, I see this fairy light ! When I wake in bed, at daybreak, on the cold dark winter mornings, the white snow dimly beheld, otifcside, through the frost on the window-pane, I hear Dinarzade. '' Sister, sister, if you are yet awake, I pray 3'ou finish the history of the Young King of the Black Islands." Scheherazade replies, " If my lord the Sultan will suiier me to live another day, sister, I wiU not only finish that, but tell jovl a more wonderful story yet." Then, the gracious Sultan goes out, giving no orders for the execution, and we all tliree breathe again. At this height of my tree I begin to see, cowering among the leaves — it may be born of turkey, or of pudding, or mince pie, or of these many fancies, junil)led with Robinson Crusoe on his desert island, Philip Qiiarll among the monkeys, Sandford and Merton with Mi-. Barlow, Mother Bunch, and the INIask — or it may be the result of indigestion, assisted by imagination and over-doctoring — a prodigious nightmare. It is so exceedingly indistinct, that I don't know why it's frightful — but I know it is. I can only make out that it is an immense array of shapeless things which appear to be planted on a vast exaggeration of the lazy tongs that used to bear the toy soldiers, and to be slowly coming close to my eyes, and receding to an immeasurable distance. When it comes closest, it is worst. In connection with it I descry remembrances of winter nights incredibly long ; of being sent early to bed, as a punishment for some small offence, and waking in two hours, with a sensation of having been asleep two nights ; of the laden hopelessness of morning ever dawning ; and the oppression of a weight of remorse. And now, I see a wonderful row of little lights rise smoothly out of the ground, before a vast green curtain. Now, a bell rings — a magic bell, which still sounds in my ears unlike all other bells — and music plays, amidst a buzz of voices, and » A CHRISTMAS TREE. 427 fragrant smell of orange-peel and oil. Anon, tlie magic bell commands tLe music to cease, and the gi'eat green curtain rolls itself up majestically, and The Play begins ! The devoted dog of Montargis avenges the death of his master, foully miu'dered in the Forest of Bondy ; and a liumorous Peasant «ith a red nose and a very little hat, whom I take from this hour forth to my bosom as a friend (I think he was a Waiter or an Hostler at a village Inn, but many years have passed since he and I have met), remarks that the sassigassity of that dog is indeed surprising; and evermore this jocular conceit wiU Kve in my remembrance fresh and unfading, overtopping aU possible jokes, imto the end of time. Or now, I learn with bitter tears how poor Jane Shore, dressed all in white, and with her brown hair hanging down, went starving through the streets; or how George BamweU killed the worthiest imcle that ever man had, and was afterwards so Sony for it that he ought to have been let off. Comes swift to comfort me, the Pantomime — stupendous Phenomenon ! — when Clo"mis are shot from loaded mortars into the gi-eat chandelier, bright constellation that it is ; when Harlequins, covered all over with scales of pui-e gold, t\\'ist and sparkle, like amazing fish ; when Pantaloon (whom I deem it no irreverence to compare in my own mind to my grandfather) puts red-hot pokers in his pocket, and cries "Here's some- body coming ! " or taxes the Clo^vn with petty larceny, by saying "Now, I sawed you do it!" when Everj-thing is capable, with the greatest ease, of being changed into Any- thing; and "Nothing is, but thinking makes it so." Now, too, I perceive my fii-st experience of the dreary sensation — often to return in after-Kfe — of being unable, next day, to get back to the dull, settled world ; of wanting to live for ever in the bright atmosphere I have quitted ; of doting on the little Faiiy, with the wand like a celestial Barber's Pole, and pining for a Fauy immortality along -wdth her. Ah she comes back, in many shapes, as my eye wanders down the branches of my Christmas Tree, and goes as often, and has never yet stayed by me ! Out of this delight springs the toy-theatre, — there it is, with its familiar proscenium, and ladies in feathers, in the boxes ! — and all its attendant occupation with paste and glue, and gum. and water colors, in the getting-up of The MiUer and his Men, and Elizabeth, or the Exile of Siberia. In 128 A CHRISTMAS TREE. spite of a few "besetting accidents and failures (particularly an unreasonable disposition in the respectable Kelmar, and some otliers, to become faint in the legs, and double up, at exciting points of the drama), a teeming world of fancies so suggestive and all-embracing, that, far below it on my Christmas Tree, I see dark, dirty, real Theatres in the day-time, adorned with these associations as with the freshest garlands of the rarest flowers, and charming me yet. But hark ! The Waits are playing, and they break my childish sleep ! What images do I associate with the Cbxist* mas music as I see them set forth on the Christinas Tree? Known before all the others, keeping far apart from all the* others, they gather round my little bed. An angel, speaking to a group of shepherds in a field ; some travellers, with eyes iiphfted, following a star ; a baby in a manger ; a child in a spacious temple, talking with grave men ; a solemn figure, with a mild and beautiful face, raising a dead girl by the hand; again, near a city gate, calling back the son of a widow, on his bier, to life ; a crowd of people looking tln-ough the opened roof of a chamber where he sits, and letting do^vn a sick person on a bed, with ropes ; the same, in a tempest, walking on the water to a ship ; again, on a sea-shore, teach- ing a great multitude ; again, with a child upon his knee, and other children round ; again, restoring sight to the blind, speech to the dumb, hearing to the deaf, health to the sick, strength to the lame, knowledge to the ignorant ; again, dying upon a Cross, watched by armed soldiers, a thick darkness coming on, the earth beginning to shake, and only one voice heard. " Forgive them, for they know not what they do ! " Still, on the lower and maturer branches of the Tree. Christmas associations cluster thick. School-books shut up ; Dvid and Vii'gil silenced ; the Rule of Three, with its cool .mpertinent enquiries, long disposed of; Terence and Plautus acted no more, in an arena of huddled desks and forms, all chipped, and notched, and inked; cricket-bats, stumps, and balls, left higher up, with the smeU of trodden grass and the softened noise of shouts in the evening air; the tree is still fresh, still gay. If I no more come home at Christmas time, there will be girls and boys (thank Heaven ! ) while the World lasts ; and they do ! Yonder they dance and play upon the branches of my Tree, God bless them, merrily, and my heart dances and jjlays too 1 A CHRISTMAS TREE. 429 Aufl 1 do come home at Christmas. We all do, or we all should. We all come home, or ought to come home, for a Bhort holiday — the longer, the better — from the great board- ing-school, where we are for ever working at our arithmetical slates, to take, and give a rest. As to going a visiting, where can we not go, if we will ; where ha.vc we not been, when we would ; starting oui- fancy from our Christmas Tree ! Away into the winter prospect. There are many such Tipon the tree ! On, by low-lying misty grounds, through fens and fogs, up long hills, winding dark as caverns between thick plantations, almost shutting out the sparkling stars; fio, out on broad heights, vmtil we stop at last, with sudden silence, at an avenue. The gate-bell has a deep, half-awful sound in the frostj^ air ; the gate swings open on its hinges ; and, as we drive up to a great house, the glancing lights grow larger in the windows, and the opposing rows of trees seem to fall solemnly back on either side, to give us place. At intervals, all day, a frightened hare has shot across this whitened turf; or the distant clatter of a herd of deer trampling the hard frost, has, for the minute, crushed the silence too. Their watchful eyes beneath the fern may be shining now, if we coidd see them, like the icy dewdrops on the leaves ; but they are still, and all is still. And so, the lights growing larger, and the trees falling back before us, and closing up again behind us, as if to forbid retreat, we come to the house. There is probably a smell of roasted chestnuts and other good comfortable things all the time, for we are telling Winter Stories — Ghost Stories, or more shame for us — round the Christmas fixe ; and we have never stirred, except to draw a little nearer to it. But, no matter for that. We came to the house, and it is an old house, full of great chimneys -nhei-e wood is burnt on ancient dogs upon the hearth, and grim portraits (some of them with grim legends, too) lower dis trustfully from the oaken panels of the walls. We are a middle-aged nobleman, and we make a generous siipper with our host and hostess and their guests — it being Christmas- time, and the old house full of company — and then wo go to bed. Our room is a very old room. It is hung with tapestry. We. don't like the portrait of a cavalier in green, over the fireplace. There are great black beams in tlie ceiling, and ♦here is a g^eat black bedstead, supportea at the foot by two *30 A CHRISTMAS TREE. ^eat black fig-iires, who seem to have come off a couple of tombs ill the old baronial church in the park, for our par- ticular accommodation. But, we are not a superstitious nobleman, and we don't mind. Well ! we dismiss our servant, lock tlie door, and sit before the fire in our dressing- gown, musing about a great many things. At length we gc to bed. Well ! we can't sleep. We toss and tumble, and can't sleep. Tlie embers on the hearth burn fitfully and make the room look ghostly. We can't help peeping out over the counterpane, at the two black figures and the cavalier — that wicked-looking cavalier — in green. In the flickering light, they seem to advance and retire : which, though we are not by any means a superstitious nobleman, is not agree- able. Well ! we get nervous — more and more nervous. We say " This is very foolish, but we can't stand this; we '11 pre- tend to be iU, and knock up somebody." Well ! we are just going to do it, when the locked door opens, and there comea in a young woman, deadly pale, and with long fair hair, who glides to the fire, and sits down in the chair we have left there, wringing her hands. Then, we notice that her clothes are wet. Our tongue cleaves to the roof of our mouth, and we can't speak ; but, we observe her accurately. Her clotlies are wet ; her long hair is dabbled witli moist mud ; she is dressed in the fashion of two hundred years ago ; and she has at her girdle a bunch of rusty keys. Well ! there she sits, and we can't even faint, we are in such a state about it. Presently .she gets up, and trys all the locks in the room with the rusty keys, which won't fit one of them ; then, she fixes her eyes on the portrait of the cavalier in green, and says, in a low, terrible voice, " The stags know it ! " After that, she wrings her hands again, passes the bedside, and goes out at the door. We luiriy on our dressing-gown, seize our pistols (we always travel with pistols), and are following, when we find the door locked. We tui'n the key, look out into the dark gallery ; no one there. We wander away, and try to find our servant. Can't be done. We pace the gallery tiU daybreak ; then return to our deserted room, fall asleep, and are awakened by our servant (nothing ever haunts him) and the shining sun. Well ! we make a wretched breakfast, and all the company say we look queer. After breakfast, we go over the house with our host, and then we take him to the portrait of the cavalier in green, and then it aU comes out A CHRISTMAS TREE. 431 He was false to a young' housekeeper once attached to that famiJy, and famous for her beauty, who drowned herself in a pond, and whose body was discovered, after a long- time, because the stags refused to drink of the water. Since which, it has been whispered that she traverses the house at mid- night (but goes especially to that room where the cava,lier in green was wont to sleep), trying the old locks with the rusty keys. Well ! we tell oiu' host of what we have seen, and a shade comes over his features, and he begs it may bo hushed up ; and so it is. But, it 's all true ; and we said so, before we died (we are dead now) to many responsible people. There is no end to the old houses, vrith. resounding galleries, and dismal state-bed-chambers, and haunted wings shut up for many years, through which we may ramble, with an agreeable creeping up oiu- back, and encounter any number of ghosts, but (it is worthy of remark perhaps) reducible to a very few general types and classes ; for, ghosts have little originality, and " walk " in a beaten track. Thus, it comes to pass, that a certain room in a certain old hall, where a certain bad lord, baronet, knight, or gentleman, shot himself, has certain planks in the floor from which the blood icill not be taken out. You may scrape and scrape, as the present owner has done, or plane and plane, as his father did, or scrub and scrub, as his grandfather did, or biu-n and burn with strong acids, as his gi-eat-grandfather did, but, there the blood will still be — no redder and no paler — no more and no less — always just the same. Thus, in such another house there is a haunted door, that never will keep open ; or another door that never will keep shut ; or a haimted soimd of a spinning-wheel, or a hammer, or a footstep, or a cry, or a sigh, or a horse's tramp, or the ratthng of a chain. Or else, there is a turret-clock, which, at the midnight hour, strikes thirteen when the head of the family is going to die ; or a shadowy, immovable black carriage which at such a time is always seen by somebody, A\-aitiug near the great gates iu the stable-yard. Or thus, it came to pass how I^ady Mary went to pay a visit at a large wild house in the Scottish Highlands, and, being fatigued with her long journey, retired to bed early, and innocently said, next morning, at the break- fast-table, •' How odd, to have so late a party last night, in this remote place, and not to tell me of it, before I went to bed! " Then, every one asked Lady Mary what she meant I 432 A CHRISTMAS TREE. TLen, Lady Mary replied, "WTiy, all niglit long, the carriages wove di-iving round and round the terrace, underneath my •window I " Then, the owner of the house turned pale, and sc did liis Lady, and Charles Macdoodle of !Macdoodle signed to Lad}"- Mary to say no more, and ofrory one was silent. After breakfast, Charles Macdoodle told Lady Mary that it was a tradition in the family that those rumbling carriages on the terrace betokened death. And so it proved, for, two months afterwards, the Lady of the mansion died. And Lady Mary, who was a Maid of Honour at Coiu-t, often told this storv- to the old Queen Charlotte ; by this token that the old King always said, "Eh, eh? What, what? Ghosts, ghosts? No such thing, no such thing ! " And never left off saying so, imtU he went to bed. Or, a friend of somebody's, whom most of us know, when he was a j'Oimg man at college, had a particular friend, with whom he made the compact that, if it were possible for the Spirit to return to this earth after its separation from the body, he of the twain who first died, should reappear to the other. In course of time, tliis compact was forgotten by our friend ; the two young men having progressed in life, and taken diverging paths that were wide asunder. But, one night, many years afterwards, our friend being in the North of England, and staying for the night in an inn, on the York- shire jSIoors, happened to look out of bed ; and there, in the moonlight, leaning on a bureau near the -window, stedfastly regarding him, saw his old college friend ! The appearance being solemnly addressed, replied, in a land of whisper, but very audibly, " Do not come near me. I am dead. I am here to redeem my promise. I come from another world, but may not disclose its secrets ! " Then, the whole form becoming paler, melted, as it were, into the moonlight, and faded away. Or, there was the daughter of the fii'st occupier of the picturesque Elizabethan house, so famous in our neighbour- aood. You have heard about her ? No ! Why, She went out one summer evening, at twilight, when she was a beautiful girl, just seventeen years of age, to gather flowers in the garden ; and presently came running, terrified, into the hall to her father, saying, " Oh, dear father, I have met myself!" He took her in his arms, and told her it was fancy, but she said " Oh no ! I met myself in the broad walk, A CHRISTMAS TREE. 438 and I was pale and gathering -^^tliered flowers, and I turned my head, and held tliem up I " And, that night, she died- and a pictui-e of her story was begun, though never finished, and they say it is somewhere in the house to this day, with its face to the wall. Or, the uncle of my brother's wife was riding home on horseback, one mellow evening at sunset, when, in a green lane close to his o^vn house, he saw a man standing before him, in the very centre of the narrow way. ' ' Why does that man in the cloak stand there ! " he thought. " Does he want me to ride over him ? " But the figure never moved. He felt a strange sensation at seeing it so still, but slackened his trot and rode forward. When he was so close to it, as almost to touch it with his stirrup, his horse sliied, and the figure glided up the bank, in a cui'ious, unearthly manner — back- ward, and without seeming to use its feet — and was gone. The uncle of my brother's wife, exclaiming, " Good Heaven ' It 's my cousin Harry, from Bombay ! " put spurs to his horse, which was suddenly in a profuse sweat, and, wondering at such strange behaviour, dashed round to the front of his house. There, he saw the same figure, just passing in at the long french window of the drawing-room, opening on the ground. He threw his bridle to a servant, and hastened in after it. His sister was sitting there, alone. " Alice, where 'a my cousin Harry ? " " Your cousin Harry, John ? " " Yes. From Bombay. I met him in the lane just now, and saw him enter here, this instant." Not a creature had been seen by any one ; and in that hour and minute, as it afterwards appeared, this cousin died in India. Or, it was a certain sensible old maiden ladj', who died at ninety-nine, and retained her faculties to the last, who really did see the Orphan Boy ; a atoiy which has often been incorrectly told, but, of which the real truth is this — because it is, in fact, a story belonging to our family — and she was a comiexion of our family. When she was about forty years of age, and still an uncommonly fine woman (her lover died young, which was the reason why she never married, though she had many ofi'ers), she went to stay at a place in Kent, which her brotlier, an Indian-Merchant, had newly bought. There was a story that this place had once been held in trust, Dy the guardian of a young boy ; who was hiaisclf the ne.xt heir, W)d who killed tlie young boy by ]>a]'sh and cruel treatment VOL. n. r n 434 A CHRISTArAS TREE. She knew notliing of that. It has been said that there \ras a Cage in her bed-room in which the guardian used to put the boy. There vras no such thing. There was only a closet. She went to bed, made no alarm whatever in the night, and in the morning said composedly to her maid when she came in, "Who is the pretty forlorn -looking child who has been peeping out of that closet all night?" The maid replied by giving a loud scream, and instantly decamping. She vi'as surprised; but, she was a woman of remarkable strength of mind, and she dressed herself and went down stairs, and closeted herself Avith her brother. "Nov,', Walter," she said, " I have been disturbed aU. night by a pretty, forlorn-looking boy, who has been constantly peeping out of that closet in my room, which I can't open. This is some trick." " I am afi-aid not, Charlotte," said he, "for it is the legend of the house. It is the Orphan Boy. What did he do?" "He opened the door softly," said she, "and peeped out. Some- times, he came a step or two into the room. Then, I called to him, to encourage him, and he shrunk, and shuddered, and crept in again, and shut the door." "The closet has no communication, Charlotte," said her brother, "with any other part of the house, and it 's nailed up." This was undeniably true, and it took two carpenters a whole forenoon to get it open, for examination. Then, she was satisfied that she had seen the Orphan Boy. But, the wild and terrible part of the story is, that he was also seen by three of her brother's sons, in succession, who all died young. On the occasion of each child being taken ill, he came home in a heat, twelve hours before, and said. Oh, Mamma, he had been playing under a particular oak tree, in a certain meadow, with a strange boy — a pretty, forlorn-looking boy, who was very timid, and made Bigns ! From fatal exi^erience, the parents came to know that this was the Orphan Boy, and that the course of that child whom he chose for his little plaj-mate was sui-ely run. Legion is the name of the German castles, where we sit up alone to wait for the Spectre — where we are sho-mi into a room, made comparatively cheerful for our reception — where we glance round at the shadows, thrown on the blank walla by the crackling fii-e — where we feel veiy lonely when the village innkeeper and his pretty daughter have retired, after laying down a fresh store of wood upon the hearth, and jfotting forth on the small table such supper-cheer as a cold A CHRISTMAS TREE. 486 roast capon, bread, grapes, and a flask of old Rhine wine — where the reverberating doors close on their retreat, one aftei another, like so man}' peals of sullen thunder — and where, about the small houi's of tlie night, we come into the know- ledge of divers supernatural mysteries. Legion is the name of the haunted German students, in whose society we draw yet nearer to tlie fire, while the schoolboy in the comer opens his eyes wide and round, and flies ofl' the footstool he has chosen for his seat, when the door accidentally blows open. Vast is the crop of such fruit, shining on our Christmas Tree ; in blossom, almost at tlie very top ; ripening aU down the boughs ! Among the later toys and fancies hanging there — as idle often and less pure — be the images once associated with the aweet old Waits, the softened music in the night, ever im- dlterable ! Encii-cled by the social thoughts of Christmas time, still let the benignant figvire of my cliildhood stand un- changed ! In every cheerful image and suggestion that the season brings, may the bright star that rested above the poor roof, be the star of all the Christian world ! A moment's pause, O vanishing tree, of which the lower boughs are dark to me as yet, and let me look once more ! I know there are blank spaces on thy branches, where eyes that I have loved, have shone and smiled ; from which they are departed. But, far above, I see the raiser of the dead giid, and the Widow's Son ; and God is good ! If Age be hiding for me in the un- seen portion of thy downward growth, O may I, with a grey head, tiirn a cliild's heart to that figure yet, and a child's trustfulness and confidence ! Now, the tree is decorated with bright merriment, and song, and dance, and cheerfulness. And they are welcome. Innocent and welcome be they ever held, beneath the branches of the Christmas Tree, which cast no gloomy shadow ! But, as it sinks into the ground, I hear a whisper going through the leaves. " This, in commemoration of the law of love and kindness, mercy and compassion. This, in remembrauo« :,f Mo ' " 6 4 3 8 4 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY Los Angeles This book is DUE on the last date stamped below. 7rp-- IQ-URG A Lib 1 6 IJ'-^''' )rm L!t— Scries 444 \:; UJ' ,. _^ d? 1 ' 3 1158 00812 5154 ] UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000 366 412 5 V UFORNU